We had met through work and ended up at my place where we began snogging furiously; it didn’t take long for our clothing to be removed. I was horny as hell and dying to fuck him. As I made my way down his body, slipping my finger under the waistband of his underwear with the intention of pulling them off with my teeth, I caught a whiff of something. Of him, to be exact. It wasn’t a fresh male aroma – it didn’t smell of clean sweat or delicious sexual arousal – it was pungent, acrid, dirt: calling it rancid would have been an understatement. He reeked; and I almost gagged.
Now, at this point my fingers were actually around his cock, and I found myself in a difficult position. Do I continue what I was doing and – risking projectile vomiting – slide his smelly cock into my mouth? Perhaps it would it be best to just politely toss him off inside his pants in the hope of avoiding the dreadful stench coming from his groin? Or, should I show my disgust, stop groping his penis, and tell him to go and wash it pronto?
I did none of the above. It gives me little pride to describe what I did next: I promptly removed my hand from his underwear, pushed him onto his back, sat on top of him, and dry-humped his pants-covered erection until I had an orgasm.
And then I threw him out my flat; yes, erection and all.
Selfish, I might be, but if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who lacks skills in the personal hygiene department: there are no excuses for a bloke who can’t keep his cock clean. If a guy thinks his stinky schlong is going to be getting some action with this girl, he’s got another thing coming.