Taking The Mickey

Do you think you’re shaped by your name?  My name is a very common one, particularly around this area (there were three girls in my school with the same Christian name and surname, one in the same year as me).  The good news is that I rarely have to spell my name out; the bad news is that if someone tries to friend me on facebook they will never find me on my name alone.  Or is that more good news for me?  Bad news for them, obviously, since I’m funny as fuck on the socials.  Anyway, I’ve often wondered if I’d be a different person had my parents named me differently.  Like Homer Simpson when he changed his name to Max Power; would previously undiscovered facets of my personality come to the forefront?  Does your name influence who you are?

I’ve met three men christened Michael, going by a variation of the name.  All have been unforgettable for a variety of reasons, but all have given me a wariness about meeting further Mikes, Micks or Mickeys.  Is it their name or is it something more?  I was always taught than one is a statistical anomaly, two is a coincidence but three is a legitimate pattern.  You be the judge.

Michael number one was a sweet young man with the most impressive manhood I’ve ever seen.  He arrived in my flat all youthful arrogance and tight jeans, manbag slung across his body.  He was certainly well-equipped but lacked the know-how to be able to really use what nature had given him.  Thankfully I’m easily pleased, so even the most rudimentary of jack-hammerers will still achieve the desired goal.

After I’d had a couple of orgasms we were lying next to each other, his impressive appendage lying on his stomach, me trying desperately to catch my breath and quieten down the aftershocks, when he turned towards me and whispered “you can play with it if you’d like”.  Now I know my talents and I know my deficiencies, and while I give great head and do so enthusiastically, my hand jobs are very poor indeed.  I’m too tentative, don’t take a tight enough grip and struggle to get a decent rhythm going.  However, I’d just had a couple of crashing orgasms, was feeling fairly benevolent and thought I should try to humour him.

As I wrapped my fingers as far around the shaft as I could manage with one hand I cupped his balls with the other, only for him to give a very high pitched girlish squeal and kick one leg out.  Apparently his balls were always very ticklish, but since they were freshly shaved they were even more sensitive than normal; my cupping them made him wriggle about in an entirely unintended way and he hadn’t liked to mention it but please could I not do that again.

Eventually he calmed down amid multiple promises that my hands wouldn’t stray anywhere close again.  In due course we resumed the good hard pounding that I’d met him for, and each reached an equally satisfactory conclusion.

All was going well and with him living around ten miles away from me I was just congratulating myself on finding a regularish playmate, when he told me he’d missed his bus and needed a lift to his mum’s.  His mum was two years younger than I, and he still lived at home.

There was a slamming noise heard for miles around as my vagina sealed itself closed.  I knew he was young, and in theory I knew exactly how young he was, but there was a difference between knowing the number and understanding the implications of it.

Michael number two was someone I’ve chatted to on and off for almost a decade.  We met on a porn forum and chatted for a number of years with no plans to meet, just enjoying the laughs and a sense of shared otherness as two northerners on a largely American forum.

While his forum persona is a rather sleazy “let daddy spank you” type, he opened up to me about his sissy fantasies and his enjoyment of wearing women’s underwear.  He would occasionally phone me, his booming voice and broad Rochdale accent making me laugh but rarely arousing me.  He used Baby the way that I use Babe – as endearment, warning, expression of empathy, encouragement or annoyance, and the broad northern tones turned it into a word unique to him.

Things carried on for quite some time with no intention of taking it further.  We were, however, both in roles that required some travel, so eventually we found ourselves in the same town, in the same hotel in fact, for one night.

We met up in the restaurant and I’m not sure how I’d pictured him, but he was incredibly tall and quite well built, wearing shorts and sliders in spite of the weather.  His voice was every bit as booming in real life as via phone calls, and he told the most explicit stories in great detail over dinner to the amusement of the waitress and a couple of other nearby diners.

Eventually we’d finished our meal, had more than a couple of glasses of wine and went back to his room where the fireworks turned out to be damp squibs.  A surfeit of weed and booze doesn’t make for the best performance ever, and with both of us being bottoms it was difficult to drive things forward anyway.  Add performance issues to the mix and it was all quite awkward.

I left a pair of silk knickers for him when I went back to my room.  Me being very fat indeed they fit him, and I hope he wore them with pleasure (they were pure silk which was lovely, but not the most attractive pattern and the bra to match them had been trashed a good while earlier, so they were no great loss to me in fairness).

He does still phone me periodically, but always when he’s smoked too much and drunk too much and is in a maudlin mood.  He has a tendency to talk right over the top of anything you’re saying and rarely makes a huge amount of sense in his pissed and high state, but he does occasionally make me laugh and I get a glimpse of who he could be sober.  The calls tend to last ten to fifteen minutes before my patience expires and I hang up.

Michael number 3 was an interesting one.  A member of the police force, we met on a hookup site where discretion was stressed over and over again (and yes, he was probably married and playing away, I do realise that).

We met in a coffee shop very close to my flat, and I thought him a little pompous but nothing I couldn’t cope with, my standards fluctuating in direct relation to length of time since I last got laid (and it had been a long few months when we met).  A little conversation and a little flirting later we were in my flat and in my bed.  That’s when the fun really started.

In spite of my being very up-front about condom use (only required if you intend to use your penis) this intelligent man in his mid-50s claimed to have no idea how a condom worked.  I offered to put it on for him, but he insisted on doing it himself, managing to ping three or four condoms around the room like elastic bands before saying maybe he was too large to use one.

I’m not a size queen, I’m truly not, but honestly?  He certainly needn’t have worried about that.  Even had he been more blessed in girth I have before now stretched a condom over my head down to my nose (don’t try this at home kids), so I’m well aware of just how stretchy they are.  I am also aware that for the truly well-endowed gent, having a normal sized condom can be incredibly uncomfortable, and that’s why every abundantly-penised lover I’ve met has chosen to bring his own preferred brand with him.

I’m not sure what the expectation was (a complete lie, I’m absolutely certain what the expectation was), but I wasn’t about to let him waste my entire box of condoms in the same way.  He didn’t get sex, we masturbated and then he got dressed and left.  I found the whole thing excruciating, but he followed up with a message about how much fun he’d had and how much he’d enjoy a follow-up.  Several years later he contacted me on another site and I had no idea who he was.  Even when he told me his name I had a list of potential candidates.  Eventually he gave me enough detail where I realised, and confirmed with him “the guy who couldn’t use a condom?”.  Unbelievably he said yes, and asked whether I wanted to meet him again.

I believe my delete and block answered the question.

So, what’s in a name?  Will I ever meet a Michael who will rock my world or am I just incompatible with all Michaels everywhere?