in the water, so Emerson’s seemed like the perfect location. Guy simply said that it didn’t matter to him because his couch would be just fine, that it even “folded out.” I still had a hint of sense about me, and I knew that meeting up at a designated place would be safer, so I offered to pay for the room.
“Sure, if you’re gonna pay, why not?” he replied. “I haven’t had a fancy date in a while.”

I could hardly contain my excitement over the two things I most wanted: to meet a new man and to have a romantic yet sensual night at Emerson’s Bed & Breakfast. Like with most things in my life, I had high expectations of my night and morning with Guy. It was all I could think about at work and at home, but I refused to touch myself. I wanted that experience to match my first one, and I didn’t want to waste any come before meeting Guy. I secretly wanted to cover him with my seed from his head to his toes and then lick every inch of his body, every measure of his muscles, until my tongue had wiped him completely clean. That image settled into my mind and refused to leave all week. I anticipated that amazing things would happen last night, but alas they did not.

I arrived at Emerson’s at about eight o’clock last night. We were supposed to meet at nine, but I wanted to spend a little time getting used to the house and the room, as well as a short swim. While in the pool, I’d had a nice chat with a hottie about swimming. He had also swum for his college, and we discussed the various techniques that we used in the water. He was absolute eye candy, and it took the effort of every cell in my body to keep from getting hard while he swam with such perfect arm and leg movements. Lucky for me, I thought at the time, that I had someone to let out that frustration on later.

I sat waiting in our room, the Garden Room, until ten. It was around that time that I finally heard a tap on the door.

“Come in,” I said, trying my best to sound sexy.

Everything that I had imagined Guy to be, every fantasy that I had had involving him, came crashing down to a sudden and undeniable reality, like a dropped set of china. At that point I realized that he had either lied to me, or lied to himself everyday and thought of himself as a gift to the male race.

The image I had held of Guy was incredibly different from the corporeal entity standing before me last night. I had envisioned—with the guidance of his self-descriptions—a tall and handsome man with curly brown hair, chubby cheeks, a well-built body, and impeccable taste in clothing. Instead, I let in a man whose first words in person to me where, “You’re the guy, right?”
“Yeah, I’m Brandon,” I replied to him apprehensively. Unlike my preconceived image, Guy was not tall, but short; not handsome, but homely; not a gentlemen, but rude and unimaginably horny. His hair hung from the top of his head like a mop does on a stick. It was long, dark,