When Dirty Talk Goes Bad

When Dirty Talk Goes Bad

Barry was a bobble-head.  He was tall and lean with a cranium the size of a watermelon.  Luckily for him, it was his other head that I was most interested in.  I wasn’t looking for a date to the prom.  His looks were of no concern to me.  As long as he didn’t make babies cry and had a penis, I was game.

I had been showered with promises of stamina, length and girth.  Serious sexy time with someone that knew how to please a woman.  And he was a fireman.  I was looking forward to him using his hose to put my fire out.

I met Barry through Craigslist.  He was responding to my personal ad titled “Grass, gas or ass. Nobody rides for free.”

Hi, how’s it going?   I’m 6’1″, athletic, naturally tan, half italian half persian, passionate, honest.  I am college educated, work as a fireman now, might end up in law school, you never know!  I love to go surfing, BBQ’s, partying, movies, I like to cook, love music and concerts etc etc.  I attached a picture of myself and would like to hear from you…take care.


What he didn’t include in his introductory bio was his love of dirty talk, the naked female form and all things boobs.  His pictures were equally deceiving, leaving out the part about the massive cabeza atop his narrow shoulders.  Of course, these were all things I wouldn’t find out until he was standing in the foyer of my apartment building.

“Come on up.  I hope you like vodka.”

“You’ve got a great ass.”

“My apartment is just down the hall.  My roommate’s working tonight so we have the place all to ourselves.”

“Good.  Are you a moaner?  Do you make a lot of noise?”

“Come on in.  Have a seat.  I’ll make you a drink.”

“Nice tits.”

Barry had an uncanny knack for being able to weave sexual innuendos into even the most mundane of conversations.  It’s dark outside?  So is his penis.  You like the Dodgers?  You should see his bat.  What were his thoughts on the global economic crisis?  He knows how to make money.  Just bend over and he’ll show you.  The college educated fireman contemplating law school that liked surfing, cooking and music was really just a Basset Hound with a limited vocabulary.  Any preconceived notions of what I thought a true fireman was supposed to look and act like had been thrown out the window along with any hopes for a somewhat intelligent conversation.

Barry hadn’t come empty handed.  He had brought supplies.  While working on round two of our drinks I asked if he had picked up cigarettes on his way.  Surveying the contents of “the bag” I found a few other goodies.  Condoms, check. Lube, check. Cock-ring, che….wait, what was this?  No cigarettes?  The guy was nothing if not ballsy.

Realizing any attempts at trying to solve global warming were futile I decided it best we be on our way to my love den.

The curvature of his penis was hardly noticeable.  The crap that spewed from his mouth was.

“How do you like my big brown cock?”, “How do you like this big brown, half Persian, half Italian cock?”

If I had wanted him to recite his dissertation I would have had him do it before we got naked.  Coming from Mr. Potato Head his attempt at dirty talk was just plain comical.  I resisted the urge to ask him how he felt about my quarter English, quarter French, half Slavic, American pink pussy not wanting to get into a conversation about ethnicity and heritage.

Fantasizing about the fireman representing March in the calendar that hung from the bedroom wall, my reverie was suddenly interrupted by a loud “SLAP!”  Barry had bent my leg so that my foot was now behind my ass and beside his hip and with the back of his hand had shown the poor arch of my foot who was boss.  This was no foot fetish.  This was an all out assault on the sole of my left foot.  He didn’t even have the decency to switch feet. I’m not sure what my foot did to deserve such a beating but Barry seemed to feel it necessary.

“This is the biggest cock you’ve ever had, isn’t it?”


Finally, he shut up.

After round one, the fireman got called into work and I was spared from being subjected to three hours of dirty talk about his half breed penis.  Since then he’s made several attempts at trying to get together again but unless he has laryngitis and his arm is in a sling I’m not interested.  I still get the occasional, out of the blue, random text asking “you don’t want a big throbbing cock pounding?”  He should probably think about getting that looked at.  I’m sure a doctor can prescribe some penicillin for that sort of thing.

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