I was faced with a conundrum. Either I could 1) break my number one rule of disease protection and try to get him hard enough to put on a condom with an unprotected blowjob or 2) I could just give it up. Jeff seemed to have finally noticed that something was wrong too and began apologizing profusely. This didn’t help matters and I decided that, unless there were any obvious indicators of disease, I should just go for the blowjob.
Somewhat against my better judgment I proceeded with the strangest, most unpleasant blowjob I have ever given. I’m not entirely sure ‘blowjob’ is the correct word for an act of fellatio in which the receiving partner remains completely flaccid, but unless ‘sucking a miniature elephant’s trunk’ is a real euphemism, ‘blowjob’ is the word I have to use. After the first five minutes, it was obvious to me that the mixture of nervousness and alcohol running through Jeff’s bloodstream were conspiring to make my efforts completely futile. It took about ten minutes for Jeff to come to the same conclusion.
He sat up on the bed, “I’m sorry,” he said, “I think I drank too much, it isn’t your fault, you’re wonderful, but this isn’t going to happen.”
I had no idea what to do. I had only encountered erectile dysfunction once before: with an almost-boyfriend and after so much whiskey that we were both too drunk to fuck. There were no real expectations and certainly no money changing hands. We laughed about it and lulled each other to sleep with a slurred rendition of the Dead Kennedys song.
Now, however, laughing and impersonating Jello Biafra didn’t seem like a good solution.
I wasn’t about to insist that we keep trying and I didn’t know how to handle the situation gracefully, so I ended up mumbling “it’s okay” and trying not to seem too relieved that he’d given up. Or too concerned that he’d ask for a refund.