One Hundred Hours of Servitude.

Be very careful what you wish for.

Following Rusty Brand’s failure to launch last week, on Tuesday I was confronted with a somewhat different problem. Failure to finish.

That night I went to a gig with a friend of mine, let’s call him Sam. We met up in the afternoon and began a slow descent into drunkenness. There was some flirting... Sam and I have been friends for a while, but he’s recently split up with his girlfriend and is therefore suddenly, and rather uncomfortably, available. The how/where/why isn’t that interesting, but the point is one thing lead to another and then we were in bed.

The thing about Sam that he’s mastered is talking to you like he’s thinking about fucking your brains out. All the time. And no matter what the topic. You could be discussing taking out the rubbish and he would still conduct the entire conversation with the air of a man who would like nothing more than to throw you down amongst the wheelie bins and give you a bloody good seeing to. Mostly it’s quite fun, but faced with it in the bedroom, it was... exhausting. Sam is one of those rare men who actually worship women. I’ve slept with a couple of them in my life and such is their unadulterated praise of everything from my hair to my toes and everything in between, I’m always slightly taken aback to look down during sex and see my own body attached to my neck. “Hang on! This isn’t right! I’ve got the wrong body on! You were describing the body of an angel – this one’s a bit soft round the edges, and the skin colour is dangerously close to Magnolia.”

So he was taking his worshipful time and undressing me very, very slowly. He smelled the back of my knees, kissed the insides of my elbows, bit my neck and traced concentric circles around my belly button with his tongue. He was moaning with pleasure just touching me. Now don’t get me wrong – this is all incredibly hot. I’m all for extended foreplay. But. After last week’s penetrative let-down with Jim, what I really wanted Sam to do was get on with it. Especially as... hangonaminute... I’ve just noticed that he’s got an amazing cock...

Now, on what may appear to be a topical detour, I should inform you that for some time now Sam’s been on medication which – amongst other side effects – delays ejaculation. Brilliant, you’re thinking. (Well, that’s what I was thinking, when he oh so subtly dropped it into conversation at the pub. I’m a sucker for this kind of suggestive comment; I’ve got a very male brain.).

8 hours after falling into bed and the delayed ejaculation is no longer my friend. All I want in the whole wide world is for Sam to come, and I want him to do it now. He looks like he might actually drop dead if he doesn’t orgasm soon, and I am experiencing genuine guilt for having done so already myself. In penance I have been a slave to Sam’s erection for what feels like days. I’m surprised to find it’s only Wednesday morning. I feel like I’ve lost a week. I’ve got lockjaw and cramp in both my wrists, and frankly I just want to go to sleep.

Finally the hard work pays off in the form of (by the looks of it) a pretty life-altering orgasm – but by that point we’ve both basically lost interest. I could have slept for a week.

My mobile phone has just gone off (not a word of a lie, I deplore narrative devices), with the seventh message of the day from Sam asking me to hang out with him in the next 24 hours. Oh. Good. God. This is the more pressing problem. Forget delayed ejaculation. Wrist-strain and a clicking jaw are really no longer the issue – mostly because despite my love of Sam as a friend, I viewed my epic battle with his limbic system as very much a one-off. The issue now is that Sam got needy. And I don’t mean to be unfair... Yes, the messages are very light-hearted and casual. No-one’s saying Sam has turned into a gas mark 6 bunny boiler after one night of incredibly drawn-out passion. But now it’s out there – he’s demanding my company.

(This last text in particular is noteworthy. It begins: “I’m going to kidnap you and force you to eat lunch with me tomorrow”... I am honestly not joking. Does he think this is cute? Does he?! *Sigh* When will they learn? Less is more when it comes to forcing people into your company. Remember, people: Less. Is. More.)

It’s not his fault. It’s because I broke two of the Golden Rules. 1) Never sleep with your friends and 2) Never get them on the rebound. Sam is both a friend and recently unattached, making him high on the list of don’t-go-theres. But I went there, and now all I’m left with is a slightly shaky approximation of our friendship pre-Tuesday night, and an overwhelming feeling that hindsight is a bitch.

Must find more appropriate sexual partners.

On which note (perhaps), and in case you were wondering about Jim... It took the skinny-jeaned-one a week to text me after our first date fiasco. Date two, coming right up. I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ