Cockblocked from across the ocean

So I somehow managed to be cockblocked by a guy that was halfway around the world!

He (not the cockblocker, but the guy I was into) was in a hotel by the airport.  He flew over from the UK and posted an ad on craigslist immediately upon arrival. I answered his ad looking for a stroke buddy since I was kinda horned up and wanted a quick release after work. He answered the door in the hotel robe, a handsome kid about a decade younger than me with fine, light brown hair swooped across his forehead. If he were older, I'd think it was a bad combover but instead, it just looked as endearingly awkward like a fidgety penguin. Pale, translucent skin with matching blue eyes that made me drown in depth from it's clarity, like falling into the ocean as you peer through the clear waters to the ocean floor. Just an inch shorter than me, but enough to make me want to immediately swoop him into my arms and coddle him... before I manipulate him into compromising positions.

He just stood there though... fidgety, like a gal on her first date.

"Come on in." And a short, pregnant pause that labored for a long millisecond. "So, how do we do this?"

I answered with a little kiss. Short, but intimate. Deep.

And we broke with a smile. I could tell he didn't hook up often. To put him at ease, I casually laid out the usual friendly banter of two people trying to pass the time. Polite inquiries that open up opportunities to connect, threads that dangle and sometime weave together in common interests. His guard soon dropped and he warmly let me in before I started to undress and flopped over the bed as if I were the weary traveler instead of he.

The next few minutes were a crescendo of heat, from a light stroke of the hand across his chest to limbs flying in all directions and landing in unintended positions in the bed, neatly pressed hotel sheets twisted and strained from two men attacking each other with need. From soft, tentative kisses to firm and assertive silent direction. From seeking to fully found.

The climax was abrupt and without orgasm. Instead, a distant gaze inverted upon himself that went for miles back to the UK. And his rapidly dying erection, a reflection of his waning attention, that I fought hard to resurrect indirectly.  But I was playing a losing game of memory where each card I turned over didn't match. The cards I played where his body responded before, it didn't now. Pleasure spots I previously found were masoned over with an impenetrable wall and I felt woefully incongruent.

He wasn't running to a trip of decadence and debauchery in LA, but instead running from a convoluted mess of international emotional entanglement, complete with live-in exes and budding long distance relationships that all fell on the floor like a big pot of spaghetti. With bolognese sauce. And meatballs. And sausage. And the splash scalding his legs.

We parted after a chat in which I stroked his back with his head on my chest listening to my breathing, waves he rode to recall home.  And I, myself, made my way home shortly after to beat off and stare the resulting thick load as it started to run thin and find paths down the sides of my stomach, hoping that the little distance and the little experience gave him a little more clarity.

Just for a second, though. My own head soon cleared and I was off and running for dinner. 'Cause like I said, woefully incongruent.