“Will any brave man volunteer to fuck my friend?” (29f) [MF]

Weighed down by the crushing inevitably of entropy, I turned a year older last week. Under normal circumstances such an event barely registers, and is used primarily as a thinly veiled excuse for drinking to glorious excess, such being the sole purpose of birthdays when one is in one’s twenties.

But this year was different.

Because this year represented the inexorable first step toward the end of my twenties altogether. The beginning of the end, relatively speaking.

Last week, dear reader, I turned twenty-nine. Which meant the countdown to my thirties had begun.

Growing up, thirty had always struck me as the age when you become an ‘adult’. Your twenties are for having fun, but your thirties are when life becomes serious. Now, I ought to clarify that I don’t *actually* believe this. But as I sit on the cusp of switching to the big three-o, it’s a concept I’ve spent a great amount of time riffing on, playing up that this next year is, ultimately, the last year in which I’m allowed to pretend to be a careless youth and have fun.

This perspective has been somewhat heightened thanks to the fact that 2020 was something of a write off. It was also an exceptionally poor year to find myself single. The very fact that I can count the number of sexual encounters over the duration on just the one hand would be unfortunate enough, but *also* having to endure the longest ‘dry spell’ of my life thus far proved to be the icing on the very disappointing erotic cake. Which is to say that it quite literally lacked enough filling.

With lockdown restrictions – the primary cause for my lack of adventure – now finally easing, I was already intending to embark upon something of a sexual renaissance. Which is a polite way of saying that I vaguely planned to embark on escapades that will make even my eighteen year old rampant freshers week self blush.

This was the very discussion I was having with several of my close friends whilst drinking to glorious excess in a quaint but cold beer garden. A discussion that lead directly to one of my aforementioned friends jumping up and standing on the picnic-bench style uncomfortable seating on which we found ourselves and proclaiming at the top of her voice to the several dozen fellow ‘we don’t care if it’s cold, we’re socialising at last’ revellers:

“It’s my friend’s birthday and she’s getting old and past it. Soon she’ll be too far gone to function. Oh please, will any brave man volunteer to fuck my friend before it’s too late?”

My friend has a loud voice and she’s very good at making herself heard. There was not a single individual present in either our establishment or indeed the one next door, who did not very clearly hear her plea for the desperate. And, as all eyes turned her way, she pointed down to me so there could be no doubt as to who she was referring.

“She’ll accept all offers, lads. She’s too old to risk turning anyone down.”

Cruel words from a friend four and a half months *older* than me.

Happy to have caused a scene, she jumped back down off the table – sending only one empty bottle flying – and sat down beside me.

‘Let’s see what you get!’ she said, grinning with an ill earned sense of warmth and genuine generosity.

Now I’m notoriously difficult to embarrass and, in all honesty, whilst this situation was certainly awkward, I didn’t find it especially embarrassing. The ludicrous amount of alcohol that pumped through my system almost certainly contributed to this – it very much contributed to the fact that I even offered a little wave to the onlookers as my friend got herself back down to the table – but I reflected that ultimately I’d had less pleasant things said about me in more public venues, and that at least this had been delivered with a lightness of spirit that it could all be very easily written off as a joke…

No, the embarrassing part came nearly forty minutes later when, in my then *even more* inebriated state, I all but threw myself on a guy who approached – having clearly been somewhat bullied into doing so by his own gaggle of friends – in order to ‘volunteer’.

My memory as to the exact sequence of events which followed is hazy at best, so the following is a vague reconstruction pieced together from the shards of recollection that survived the ensuing hangover.

The guy – who I know confusingly only as ‘Bar Arms Guy’ as that’s what I labelled as his number in my phone, such was my level of insight – had a drink while squished in among us at our picnic table. During this time my friends did their level best to put him off me, relating all manner of anecdotes for which I will one day reap a terrible revenge upon them all.

Somehow he endured this relentless assault on my character and still seemed somewhat interested. This may or may not have had something to do with the fact that whilst my friends bombarded him with the multitude of reasons why I was a poor choice to go home with, I had my hand atop his leg; initially by his knee but soon making it up to his inner thigh. I was apparently sufficiently unsubtle with my movements to provoke a response, even through his jeans.

Worried that, if forced to withstand another assault on my character he may consider, I apparently deemed it time to make my move.

In my mind I was aiming for subtle. In actuality I missed by quite some margin.

“Want to be my birthday fuck?”

(Full disclosure, I don’t recall saying this at all. However three friends have independently corroborated that these were my exact words.)

To fully illustrate the state of my inebriation at this point of the evening; during our taxi journey back to my flat I attempted to kiss Bar Arms Guy.

With my *mask* on.

*Twice*.

Incredibly drunken sex can fall into one of three categories in my experience:

Shit and not worth either party’s time.

Wildly inventive and experimental as every ludicrous ‘Shall we try this?!’ suggestion is greeted with a ‘Why the fuck not?!’ attitude.

Or absolutely by the numbers, get the job done and fall asleep.

This very much fell into the latter category.

Which isn’t to say it wasn’t good. It was. We both had fun and we both came. It’s simply that it wasn’t particularly anecdote worthy. It had all the ingredients of a good sexual session; fingering, blowjob, lots of kissing, riding, doggy, a messy finish.

But we were drunk and tired. So much so that I seemingly fell asleep so promptly after we finished that I didn’t even pause to clean up first. The crusty mess still resplendant on my chest the following morning a waking testament to the previous night’s activities.

We had a little fun again in the shower whilst i endeavoured to wash the previous night’s fun off but, in all honesty, my heart wasn’t really in it.

Or, to be more accurate, my head wasn’t. It seems the road to thirty is paved with far crueller hangovers than my poor formally mid-twenties mind could cope with.

In a year that I still hope will represent my sexual renaissance, ironically the first night out very nearly Baroque me.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/nena4y/will_any_brave_man_volunteer_to_fuck_my_friend