Moaningful Confessions | What's a 'Slippery Gecko?'

Moaningful Confessions | What's a 'Slippery Gecko?'

So there I was, a high achiever in my hall, having just been presented a certificate proudly showing my theatrical abilities. It was the first ‘proper’ award I’d ever won and my god was it sitting on my desk proudly. Had my name engraved in the trophy and everything, but that certificate hung prouder than a rugby lad getting his cock out with the boys. Cue the Saturday night after the presentation, and I’m sitting in McDonalds more horsed than a stable when I see a younger lass from my hall.

Now, I tend not to be a cradle snatcher, but me and this first year from my hall just absolutely hit it off. I wouldn’t consider myself much of a looker but she said she had a massive thing for white boys, so one thing led to another and we ended up stumbling home together.

First time round as soon as we got home, the Mavs had travelled south and the cocktail prawn wasn’t performing. Imagine trying to play pool with a piece of string, or pick a lock with a marshmallow, and you’ve got a pretty solid (unlike me) idea of how that started off.

We both fell asleep pretty much immediately, but then for some reason we both woke up around 4am for a kickon hoon. Now, morning wood can be a blessing and a curse, but 4am wood is something only whispered in scriptures, a once in a lifetime occurrence; a sign, if you will. Then came the steamy stuff.

She was a proper freak in the sack, especially for 4am. I’m talking the most ludicrously out of the world sex; legs behind the head, dirty talking, tearing my back up, hair pulling, choking, doggy, missionary, back to doggy, quivering orgasm, slippery gecko, Gluck Gluck 9000 you’ve ever seen. She could tell I was getting closer to finishing and started begging me to cum inside her or in her mouth, but if health sci had taught me anything it was how to expertly maneuvre the old coitus interruptus.

This is where it went pear shaped. As I pull out from clapping cheeks, I’m caught up in the heat of it all, so caught up that, momentarily, I forgot about where my certificate was: on my desk, right beside my pillow, directly where my dick was pointing (#leftcurvegang). As I nut, the first thread lands right on her ass, all good, however, the second, third, and fourth bursts all seem to have a bit more oomph behind them. My eyes are closed, she’s moaning, it’s a sensory overload, and only when I open them do I see what I’ve just done. A reproductive reproduction of a Jackson Pollock, a baby batter splatter, the cūm dē la crē (and some in her hair whoops sorry). I saw that she was staring in horror as well as I was, thinking I had just had the most egotistical nut over my own achievements ever. We ended up laughing about it while I quietly died inside trying to figure out if I could still frame it or not, but hey, cum happens. Did I regret it? Absolutely not. Was I ever planning on telling anyone? Fuck no. Would I do it again? Of course. Hotel? Trivago.

This article first appeared in Issue 16, 2020.
Posted 8:09pm Thursday 27th August 2020 by Critic.