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I am the kind of person who insists on finishing something once he's started it. Whether I give a damn about the project at hand or not, it will gnaw at my brain until it's finished. Take, for example, the stack of 'Thank You' cards from my college graduation last May that I have yet to send out. My guilt complex is consuming me, yet I still keep forgetting to buy stamps...

Anyway, as you may imagine, when it comes to sex, I am all about the climax.

When I was 19, I remember fooling around with an older friend on a hot summer night. My pants came off, as they are want to do, and my companion gave me a very lovely blowjob. Since getting head is possibly my favorite thing in the world, it got me off rather quickly. Of course, once I came down again, I was feeling incredibly lazy and was in no mood to return the favor. To my surprise, my lover wiped me off and cuddled up beside me as if to go to sleep.

"Um...don't you want me to get you off?"
"No, I'm fine."
"Really? Are you sure? I just feel kinda guilty..."
"Why? I wouldn't even think twice about it."

So we slept. But I couldn't even fathom the idea of getting aroused and not quenching the fire.

Cut to now: I've been out of a relationship for just over a month. My latest boyfriend was a top, like myself, which is possibly the most frustrating experience on the planet. Finally, I now have the opportunity to fuck a lovely ass...

And, I did so with grace. I'm pounding, he's moaning, and everything is peachy keen. Out of nowhere, I deflate. That's no fun for anybody. I'm 23 years old. I'm too young for any sort of erectile issues. Hell, my problem should be keeping it down, not up! I couldn't decide whether I wanted to blame it on being tired, the poppers we were using, or the three alcoholic beverages I had consumed earlier.

Eventually, I am able to conjure something resembling a full hard-on, and am able to continue on...to a certain degree. I manage to bring my partner to orgasm, yet I can't seem to muster one up myself. I pull out. I try to finish myself off. No luck. He goes to hose himself off in the shower and I'm left on his bed, a pile of wounded pride. He didn't seem phased by my lack of ejaculation (easy for him to say; he got off!), but somehow I wasn't cheered up much. The sex had been the best I'd had in months, and I wanted to send it off with a grand finale.

A little later, as I set off on my Walk of Shame to the subway, I check in with myself physically. No blue balls. No discomfort in any vital regions, save for the rope burns on my shoulders (I'll save that part for another day). I actually feel quite satisfied. I feel no different than I would have if I had cum. I decide to count my blessings. The number of men who let me fuck them in the ass is slim, and the number of those that get off from this action is even slimmer. Normally, I'm the first one to cum, which gets annoying when they want to come with you inside them and you have to keep working with a full condom and a sore phallus. I thought the obvious fact to myself: "I made him cum. He had an orgasm because of me. That's fuckin' hot."

And I had a very nice orgasm the next morning.

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