As I neared the end of the workday, I realized I had an open window of time before I was to meet up with friends later that evening. It being frigid outside, what better way to kill an hour than with what the words of my smoldering middle school health teacher, Mr. Veit, called “sexual intercourse”? (Though I don’t necessarily recall him including “with strangers” at the end.)

I checked the list of my good friend Craig, and started to play e-mail tag with a particularly handsome gentleman with an ass so taut, it might as well have been made of two bulbous light bulbs. After visually verifying that he had the same commanding body and facial structure as a young, crisply tanned Armand Assante, my penis and I agreed that “B” was our guy.

Upon arriving at his apartment in Chelsea, it didn’t take me long for me to realize that I had entered a den of Eurotrash. Between the orb-chairs and curtain of discs that showered southward from the ceiling, the sex room had quickly come to resemble a sexy space from the future! (And furnished exclusively by Ikea.)

And the furniture most definitely matched its owner. B was a hulking, raven-haired stunner. His jet black muscle shirt, covered in ambiguously douchey European smatterings, perfectly encased his bustling pecs and golden, Roman arms. He had a mildly receding hairline and Fes-like lisp, imperfections that served to only make him more attractive. Every overpronounced “S” that escaped his lips as his possibly-Italian dumb-dumb accent overshadowed his casual, informal sexless introduction.

What followed was the infamous pregnant pause - expectant dead air that often accompanies the period between handshakes and foreplay during the first few moments of an Internet hookup. Although there is an elephant in the room about which neither of us necessarily wanted to speak, we were both ready to kill said creature if it dared get in the way of our dirty sex-making.

After B fumbled to start playing a porno on his DVD (ugh, European dudes who clearly find being plowed in the butt about as stimulating as shopping for gum - sexy!), we engaged in the awkward exercise of rubbing each other’s junk (fully clothed, mind you), like bi-curious toddlers in a sandbox.

This quickly led to our disrobing and my wide eyed disbelief at the fact that his body was perfect, so much so that it was almost unattractive. As someone whose genitals most often dance for guys suffering from rosacea and dental quandaries, “having” B’s towering figure on me was going to be a surrealistic pleasure I would likely cherish for a long time. Fully tanned and perfectly proportioned, he was - without a doubt - the closest I’d ever get to hooking up with someone who could plausibly appear in a Village Voice ad for a “personal masseuse.”

B quickly got to eating my dick like a Ring Pop. (Although, for the sake of both yours and my peace of mind, I should note that I am the proud owner of an extra large, girth-y piece that exes have even called “gorgeous” - so, no, it doesn’t look like a Ring Pop. I swear.) Incidentally, I’ve grown to enjoy - no, appreciate - blow jobs more in the last year than ever before. Of course, if one administers it as carefully as B - beware of teeth, do not underestimate the lips, remember your hands! - beej and beej alone could easily me to home base, no questions asked. And B was getting there, so much so that I even had to stop him momentarily before I would have unintentionally cut our time short with “an early delivery from the milk truck” (ejaculated).

Not after long, he got right back on the horse and continued to swallow my nethers whole.

Then, all of a sudden, he stopped [cue: car crash SFX].

“I’m sorry!” he exclaimed.

Oh shit, I thought, he realized that I look like Nathan Lane! (I don’t, but this is consistently the first natural thought that pops into my mind as a defense mechanism against physical rejection.)

He kept repeating himself apologetically, head lowered in shame. “I’m so sorry, I just can no [sic] do it,” he sputtered in an accent cuter than a bathtub filled with puppies.

“It’s…okay,” I said. But how am I going to walk around with a giant boner (and, fellas, we all know that turning it upright, snuggled between your stomach and pants somehow feels awesome, thereby proving it a pointless effort)?

“My friend from Italy just call me before you come [again, sic] and was crying and crying. His boyfriend just died of the AIDS, so he on the phone with me, crying and crying. I just can no do this right now, you know? I got so much on my mind.”

And just like that, the boner issue was no more!

Because I’m The Worst Person In The World, I considered asking if I could “finish,” but then realized that such a move would not only be insulting to B, but the idea of jerking off on his bed while watching bad porn as he consoled someone over the phone didn’t necessarily help get my rocks off.

“Another time, another time,” he insisted. “You got a nice cock.”

Although we haven’t spoken since, it’s nice to know that somewhere out there, there’s a burly Euromutt who may have set the record for discussing death by AIDS and complimenting one’s dick size in a matter of seconds. Bellissimo!

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