The meme has spread like oil on water: "If there is someone you want to hold a twelve-hour fuckathon with, post this sentence in your journal." And I've seen a couple of people wondering: "Has anyone really had a twelve-hour fuckathon? It sounds like hype. Nobody really wants to fuck for twelve hours straight."
But lemme tell you: I once fucked a girl for eight hours straight, from midnight to eight a.m. This is my story.
Yet it is not a proud story.
First, let me explain that "fucking for eight hours straight" is entirely different from "having sex multiple times over the course of eight hours." There is a lot of fun when you're sitting down with a partner, having sex, finishing, and then cuddling and giggling until until you're so turned on again that you burst into a frenzy of copulation. You can do that for days.
(My personal record is thirty-two times* over the course of a seventy-two-hour weekend, after which Gini married me on the spot.**)
But we're not talking about several bursts of lovemaking, followed by a regeneration period. We're talking, "I entered a woman's vagina, and stayed there for pretty much the entire time until the next morning."
How did I do this? Was it Viagra? Cialis? The amazing herbal essence alternative to Viagra? No, it was that old standby, two yards of Guinness beer.
For those not in the know, a "yard" is a special glass which is - as you would expect - a yard long. It is thinner than a normal glass, but fluted on the ends, and you are expected to chug it in one swig. Doing so is very difficult, and involves a specialized approach, because the fluids in the glass all want to gurgle out in one huge flood and soak your face.
No, to drink a yard without wasting any, you have to swirl it a little bit, providing an impromptu coriolis effect that helps to funnel the liquids smoothly into your mouth. I myself had only intended to drink one, just to show that I could... But then my friends all got into it, and several ruined T-shirts later I was called upon to demonstrate the proper method of yard funnelling.
Oh, sure, I could have drunk a lite beer the second time round, but I was out to impress the ladies.
My girlfriend drove me home, at which point I was seized with satyrisis. I had to get laid there - and fortunately, she was also lubricated with a couple of beers of her own, and she agreed. We snuck up to my room, avoiding my parents, and set to.
But there's an interesting fact about alcohol. It's well-known that too much alcohol leads to impotency, but it's lesser-known that just enough alcohol leaves you ragingly horny but unable to climax. I was pounding away at my girlfriend from every angle, but my penis felt as if it had been novocained. There was some limited sensation, a light tingle, but my body was urging me on like a crowd at a bullfight: "Come on, Ferrett! See that finish line just over the horizon! Man, you gotta get there, 'cause it's awesome!"
So I kept pounding.
Bari loved it at first, since I was unstoppable, a machine that provided raging climax after raging climax.... But after an hour, the climaxes were beginning to fade and her knees were beginning to go. She called over her shoulder and asked the words a man never wants to hear:
"Are you done yet?"
Had I not still been ragingly snookered, I probably would have taken the hint and quit. But by now, I was committed; I'd been doing this for almost ninety minutes now, and I was no closer to finishing than I was when I started. And yet my body was eager to get to the finish line; I didn't have the usual sodden, "balloon-two-days-after-the-party" erection, but a massive whanger that vibrated with enthusiasm. You could have cracked walnuts on the shaft. And my guts had that peculiar quivering sensation that I sometimes get - the weird, weightless sensation that tells me, "This climax is going to be so strong, you're going to punch a hole in her ovaries."
And so, rather than quitting and passing out like any rational person would, instead I said, "Hang on."
However, I did admit that I was a bit thirsty after all of this activity, so I looked for refreshment. There was a six-pack of warm beer by the bed, so I drank another couple of beers while I pounded away, resting the can on Bari's spine.
Unfortunately, the way to finish was not more alcohol. But I was thirsty, so I kept my buzz on by polishing off several tall boys, continually gyrating the hips back and forth deeply into Bari.
Rug burns formed on my knees, angry scarlet welts that looked as if someone had sandpapered my skin. Still I kept pounding.
Bari cried out, saying, "Come on, can't you finish?" I made drunken excuses, and she was too sloshed herself to argue effectively. Still I kept pounding.
My penis became utterly numb, devoid of sensation, but it retained as hard as granite. Still I kept pounding.
The rug burns blossomed into actual blisters as I rubbed the last of my skin off of my knees, leaving two equidistant spaces of blood and pus embedded in the shag rug we made love on. And still I kept pounding.
I drank another beer. And still I kept pounding.
The clock flickered past 5:00, and some part of my reptilian brain slumbered long enough for me to think, Gee, I've been doing this for five hours now. It had become a sahdi's trance, just moving the hips, moving the hips, moving the hips. My penis was becoming hot and dry now, encountering more friction and heating up like a stick rubbed between two palms. There were red spots where blisters were beginning to form on the foreskin, but fortunately I was unable to feel them. All I knew was that I had to get to climax, I'd invested five goddamn hours into this, and stopping now would be foolish when that glorious liquid release was just around the corner! And still I kept pounding.
Bari passed out, drooling into the floor, propped up like a camera tripod. I didn't notice. And still I kept pounding.
In a trance, my entire being focused on the void of sensation at my crotch, chasing the elusive orgasm like a wolf methodically stalks its prey, I kept pounding.
Finally, the daylight broke, which roused Bari from her fitful slumber, and I imagine she was quite surprised to awake, only to find herself still in mid-coitus. She turned around.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, will you stop?!?" she cried, pulling her bruised pussy away. I made a feeble grab, but at this point I was tired.
"But I'm so close," I whined.
"You're close to never getting this again," she mumbled, then stumbled into bed. "Just fucking sleep."
And so I did. I never did finish.
The next day, I could barely walk. My hips felt disjointed, and every time my penis - which had been stripped of the top three layers of skin, and was red and raw as if it had been sunburned - brushed against my underwear, I nearly screamed. I tried to pull it the next morning to release that long-pent orgasm, but the slightest touch felt like someone was brushing jalapeno sauce across my skin. My knees were a scabrous ruin, looking somewhat like an archaeological dig; you could see the layers of skin eroded around the edge, several separate moist circles as I scrubbed my epidermis down to the muscle.
The experience was thoroughly unpleasant. Neither of us really enjoyed it, and we didn't talk about it much afterwards. But still, there is a certain bitter pride that comes from being able to say, "Yes, I fucked for eight straight hours," which sounds very masculine if you don't mention the fact that the girl was unconscious for three of them.
Still, it was my most masculine moment: Drunk off my ass, completely self-absorbed, and not caring a whit for the pleasure of my partner. Arnold Schwarzenegger would have been proud.
* - "A bout of sex" is, sadly, defined as "When I came." I'd love to define sex as "When my partner climaxes," but I am heterosexual and women aren't conveniently wired to produce a token on demand whenever they orgasm. Also, men tend to stop after orgasming, which puts a damper on future activities.
It's horribly unfair that sex's beginnings and ends are defined by our beginnings and ends, but until you chicks work out some better system - I suggest a plastic thing that pops up when you're finished, like the roasting thermometers embedded in turkeys - we're stuck with this.
** - We married on the horrid spot in the bed. I tipped the maid a lot that weekend.
