One fateful night in 2025, I had the worst sex of my life.
I was just beginning my third year of uni (my first one single), and had finally decided I was ready to get back out there. I’d been snapping this guy from Tinder for a few weeks, and was out in town when he messaged me asking to meet up. “Today’s the day,” I thought. “I’m going to have my first uni one night stand!”
He found me in town and I was pleased by the first impression – cybersigil jeans, black crop top, studded belt, plenty of piercings, and hands crammed full of rings. An alty man is just my type. We bonded over both having navel piercings, he bought me a drink and we started making out. The kissing was… fine. Not great, not terrible, just fine – until he picked me up (with ease), which was hot. We made out with my legs around his waist at the back of the dancefloor for a bit, then danced until we had finished our drinks. “Do you want to come back to mine?” he asked, a sly look in his eye. When I looked down at his open phone, I could see the Uber was already booked. I, of course, said yes. This was my first mistake.
When we arrived at his place, it was straight to the bedroom for about two minutes of awkward small talk, before getting busy. Lips were locked and clothes were off in record time. The kissing had not improved, but I was already there, and I hadn’t slept with anyone since my breakup – so I was going to stick it out. This was my second mistake.
The second I took my top off, I noticed something was different about him, he didn’t lunge for my tits. He just stared, before reaching out, pinching my nipples – hard – and commenting, “You have nipple piercings! That’s so cool!” A fairly normal statement, sure, but that was the last time he touched (or even acknowledged) my boobs for the rest of the night.
Not soon after, my pants were off and he was getting to work with his hands. I didn’t think he even thought to look for the clit, instead just jackhammered his hand into me like a fucking massage gun (not the good kind). I was so relieved when he stopped to take his pants off, thinking oh finally, we can just fuck and get it over with. I’ll be out of here in the next hour. WRONG.
He slid his pants off, and I had to fight to conceal my disappointment – I couldn’t justify leaving because his dick was tiny, that felt too mean for something the guy can’t control. Sticking it out, I let him fuck me. The position of his choice was to start in missionary and then put my legs up by my head – “Oh, you’re flexible,” he said. He was putting in the effort, I’ll give him that, but you can’t even buy dildos that small for a reason, you know? Not only could I barely feel a thing, but in total, we were fucking for – brace yourself – three whole hours. In that same position. I’ve been to shifts at work shorter than that. Unfortunately, this was not the worst part.
During all the action he started playing a bunch of System of a Down songs, which is not really my thing, but if it gets you going, all power to you. I was fine with it, until he started singing the lyrics mid thrust. I’m lying there, legs by my head, barely feeling a thing, with this guy literally singing to me while he fucks me.
But wait, there’s more. Whenever he would get tired, he would take a break and go back to the jabby fingering. At one point, he was doing his finger thing, and stopped very suddenly. I asked what was up, and he said “there’s something in there.” I’m sorry, what?! “There’s something in there, do you want me to fish it out?” I was gagged. What could possibly be in me right now? And why is he fishing it out? I told him to pull it out, and what emerged in his grip was – to my horror – the condom we had just been using.
How he didn’t notice it come off, I’ll never know. We sat there in silence for a second and he informed me that he was clean, because he’d been tested (slay). Slightly dumfounded, he just grabbed another condom and went back to it. After the three hours of extremely unsuccessful sex, no one came, my legs were shaking from being up by my fucking head the whole time, and I was so bored I had just been staring at the wall waiting for it to be over. He then kneels down to give me head, but he starts licking me like a fucking cat. Because I had already had too many jarring experiences with this man, I gave him two minutes of cat time. Then, I sat up, said “I’m going to head out”, booked my Uber, and left.
Getting home, I wasn’t sure if I was hungover or still drunk. But my adventure didn't stop there. I then had to go to the airport at 8am (on no sleep), and try not to throw up on the plane. My legs were sore for three days after, and my pelvis was literally bruised from the fingering. It hurt to walk, it hurt to sit down – but not even for a good reason.
Now all my friends know the legend of my night with Emo Boy, and I am constantly reminded of it. Not by them, but by the fact that this man is EVERYWHERE. I see him in the club, I see him on campus, I see him on the street. He may be haunting me, as a constant reminder of the three hour root that was so bad that I went celibate for six months after. All because I didn’t want to experience sex that bad again.
