Tweet
Lennox and me
My relationship with Lennox Lewis was a complex one. Initially I hadn't been interested in sleeping with him, and he'd described me as just another shag to complete his "bumming legacy", and I didn't want to be a notch on anyone's belt.
His bumming career had also caused me some consternation. I'd heard a rumour that he'd been held down and bummed one evening by Oliver "The Atomic Crack Bull" McCall, and that he'd returned the favour by jumping Oliver some years later when he was having a nervous breakdown. Although McCall hadn't cum, and appeared capable of taking the full length of Lennox's girth without any issues, McCall had quit through disinterest, and Lennox had gone on record as saying it "avenged the bumming". I wasn't entirely convinced it equalled the feat, but Lennox has a lot of British fans and I didn't want to anger them by debating it too strongly.
However, I'd seen other examples of Lennox's bravado covering up what was, to all intents and purposes, below standard sodomisation. I once got to watch him at a bukkake party, and was surprised by how little ejaculate the overweight Jamaican managed to produce. As it was his turn for the money shot, he came within seconds, crying out "big up Jamaica!" at the point of climax. Sadly, the reality was inverse to the size of his exclamation: he produced a small teaspoonful, if that, barely enough to fill your eyes and nostrils. I mentioned this to him later, but he insisted that the party goer in question was nearly drowning in his love syrup: "he was LUCKY they stopped that bukkake party... look at the state of his face." I didn't agree, but Lennox wasn't going to truck dissent, so I held back the sharpness of my tongue as a matter of gentlemanly conduct.
Later we got back to my house, and I cleared away the fifteen condoms left on the floor by Floyd Mayweather... the odd thing was, I hadn't wanted a sexual congress with Floyd, but his instincts took over anyway.
Within five minutes Lennox had entered me, and the experience was a strange one. He was slow, methodical and bordering on soporific. His thrusts were quite hard, but very predictable, and every time I began to enjoy it and wriggled in the bed he would lean forward and hold me, only breaking when he was sure I was back under control.
"Talk dirty to me, Lennox", I urged, growing tired of the slowness of his head tapping my perineum.
Lennox thought long and hard. "Uhmmmmmmmmmmmm..." he finally said "I'm uhmmmmmmmmmmmmm... jabbing your arsehole with my ****....... uhmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... definitely, you know."
It was at this part that a part of me died, and not just the heavy dinner I'd had that morning which Lennox had unwittingly fished out. Here I was, being tediously buggered by the self-proclaimed "greatest heavyweight on the planet", and my sole reaction to it had been to let my lower colon give out and produce a deluge of waste matter on the end of his phallus.
He pulled out, and began to smell the unholy stench on the end of his ramrod cock. "You've... uhmmmmmmmmmmm..... definitely shat on my bell end" he whined.
"Lennox," I said, "this isn't quite working out for me. I can appreciate you do the job in a proficient manner and, indeed, over a period of time I may in fact cum. But there's little spontaneity in your work, and, when you just tickled my left kidney, I felt like it was the kind of kidney tickle I'd seen you perform many, many times before. There was no heart in your bumming."
Well, I saw Lennox cry for the first time and my heart did break a little at the sight. "Me can't believe it, mon. No guy can test me and my bumming."
I pulled my pants back up - the layers of fresh excrement dripping down the backs of my legs perhaps not affording the act the dignity it deserved - and handed Lennox his things.
"I think maybe you'd better just leave," I said.
My words hung in the air for some time after he'd left, though not as much as the stench from my own prolapsed anus.
His bumming career had also caused me some consternation. I'd heard a rumour that he'd been held down and bummed one evening by Oliver "The Atomic Crack Bull" McCall, and that he'd returned the favour by jumping Oliver some years later when he was having a nervous breakdown. Although McCall hadn't cum, and appeared capable of taking the full length of Lennox's girth without any issues, McCall had quit through disinterest, and Lennox had gone on record as saying it "avenged the bumming". I wasn't entirely convinced it equalled the feat, but Lennox has a lot of British fans and I didn't want to anger them by debating it too strongly.
However, I'd seen other examples of Lennox's bravado covering up what was, to all intents and purposes, below standard sodomisation. I once got to watch him at a bukkake party, and was surprised by how little ejaculate the overweight Jamaican managed to produce. As it was his turn for the money shot, he came within seconds, crying out "big up Jamaica!" at the point of climax. Sadly, the reality was inverse to the size of his exclamation: he produced a small teaspoonful, if that, barely enough to fill your eyes and nostrils. I mentioned this to him later, but he insisted that the party goer in question was nearly drowning in his love syrup: "he was LUCKY they stopped that bukkake party... look at the state of his face." I didn't agree, but Lennox wasn't going to truck dissent, so I held back the sharpness of my tongue as a matter of gentlemanly conduct.
Later we got back to my house, and I cleared away the fifteen condoms left on the floor by Floyd Mayweather... the odd thing was, I hadn't wanted a sexual congress with Floyd, but his instincts took over anyway.
Within five minutes Lennox had entered me, and the experience was a strange one. He was slow, methodical and bordering on soporific. His thrusts were quite hard, but very predictable, and every time I began to enjoy it and wriggled in the bed he would lean forward and hold me, only breaking when he was sure I was back under control.
"Talk dirty to me, Lennox", I urged, growing tired of the slowness of his head tapping my perineum.
Lennox thought long and hard. "Uhmmmmmmmmmmmm..." he finally said "I'm uhmmmmmmmmmmmmm... jabbing your arsehole with my ****....... uhmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... definitely, you know."
It was at this part that a part of me died, and not just the heavy dinner I'd had that morning which Lennox had unwittingly fished out. Here I was, being tediously buggered by the self-proclaimed "greatest heavyweight on the planet", and my sole reaction to it had been to let my lower colon give out and produce a deluge of waste matter on the end of his phallus.
He pulled out, and began to smell the unholy stench on the end of his ramrod cock. "You've... uhmmmmmmmmmmm..... definitely shat on my bell end" he whined.
"Lennox," I said, "this isn't quite working out for me. I can appreciate you do the job in a proficient manner and, indeed, over a period of time I may in fact cum. But there's little spontaneity in your work, and, when you just tickled my left kidney, I felt like it was the kind of kidney tickle I'd seen you perform many, many times before. There was no heart in your bumming."
Well, I saw Lennox cry for the first time and my heart did break a little at the sight. "Me can't believe it, mon. No guy can test me and my bumming."
I pulled my pants back up - the layers of fresh excrement dripping down the backs of my legs perhaps not affording the act the dignity it deserved - and handed Lennox his things.
"I think maybe you'd better just leave," I said.
My words hung in the air for some time after he'd left, though not as much as the stench from my own prolapsed anus.
Comment