Music has the ability to bring people together. So do taxidermied moa. And blowjobs. As it turns out, all of the above can also tear people apart and sow weeks of exasperated sighs into your everyday life. Let me explain:
It was midnight on a Friday. I was single and “ethically” non-monogamous, which meant that I was sending the same snaps to my current top 5 Tinder matches. “Caleb” was one of them, though slightly lower in the ranks. He was attractive and we had good chemistry, but he was a musician and had the ego that comes with it. I can’t name the band, but they’re very popular in their niche genre here and have international acclaim. I hadn’t heard of them, and didn’t really give a shit either way. I told Caleb, the frontman, that I gave them a listen but had to skip through the boring parts. He seemed into it.
We had no real plans to hook up as he lived up north and was always on tour. And then he snapped me: “I’m playing a private gig in your town. It’s at this random rich lady’s house and she’s hosting us after. U should come thru.” I replied: “Can’t. Work tomorrow.” But then he hit me with the: “She’s got a really nice house. Some kind of collector. It’s like a museum in here. There’s a moa.”
“Wtf fr?” I say. “It’ll be like a $50 Uber tho so mb ceebs. Send proof of moa” Caleb replied with a selfie of him in front of a wholeass taxidermied moa. It was well over 5’ tall and displayed in a glass cabinet. In the background I could see rows upon rows of curated glass display cabinets. I was immediately soaking wet. To top it off, he sent me $50 for the Uber. I had a moment where I thought to myself, “Am I really gonna ho myself out for $50 and a moa?” And then I got in the Uber.
He was staying in the guest wing of this lady’s house–some kind of rich super-fan–and sure enough, there was a moa. I took a moment to stare into its glass eyes and take in every detail. It was beautiful. I could get up close and breathe all over the glass and no one could stop me. I took a shitload of pics. It was so magnificent that I almost forgot I was horny. Almost.
Caleb takes me to the bedroom, and I have to stop thinking about massive chooks and start thinking about regular-sized cocks. We chat, make out, he goes down on me, and I go to return the favour and… he cums almost immediately. It took me by surprise a little, but I suck it up (literally, sorry) and tell him that it’s all good. Caleb seemed relieved, but a bit defensive. “Oh, it’s probably because I haven’t smoked weed in ages,” he said. Aight, dude.
After a bit more small talk, he seems ready to go again. I blow him to get started, but don’t bust out the power moves. I ask him to go down on me, and he does, but he seems to think he’s way more skilled than he is. Doing all that overly-complicated tongue stuff, button-mashing like he’s playing Street Fighter. I get a bit sick of it, and coyly tell him I want him to fuck me. He puts the condom on, shoves my legs back behind my head, we finally get to it. He lasts for eight strokes, max. Again, he blames it on weed. I joke that I just have god-tier pussy and I’m flattered if anything. He goes on about all the drugs he’s tried. Cool, bro.
This played out several more times throughout the night. Each time he got more and more defensive, and each time I got a little less sympathetic. He’d bust early, and then almost immediately feel the need to talk about all the strippers he fucks, or the groupies he had an LSD orgy with in Amsterdam, or how he fucked this one girl that could do this or that–the entire time I’m just lying there, cleaning cum off of wherever, occasionally saying “Oh, okay, cool” or “Damn, that’s crazy.”
I silently finished myself off a few times (he made no offer), but the scoreboard for the night was him at about 5 orgasms and me at 3. I was there until about 4am, and we had maybe 10 minutes of intercourse over several occasions. The chemistry we had to begin with completely evaporated, as we both got bored and frustrated. I left, but not as soon as I should’ve.
The only thing about having a bad sex story with a semi-public figure is that it’s really easy to find pictures of him. Which my flatmates did. In abundance. They printed out hundreds of tiny photos of Caleb and hid them around the flat. For the next month I’d find them stuck to the microwave, in the cutlery drawer, on the back of the TV–and every time, without fail, I would be disappointed all over again. He kept trying to hit me up for a while, too, but I’d tell him to bring me a moa or fuck off.