The summer after my 1L year at GULC was a disaster before it even started. I’d sent my resume to every Vault 100 firm, imagining myself in a crisp suit, billing hours and sipping overpriced coffee. Instead, I got nothing but silence or form rejections that stung like paper cuts. Dejected, I signed up for a non-profit trip to northern Tanzania. The flyer promised “cultural immersion,” but the organization’s vague governmental vibe screamed CIA front. Whatever. It beat sulking in my D.C. apartment, rereading Marbury v. Madison to feel something.

Tanzania’s bush was stunning -- golden plains, endless clear skies -- but I couldn’t shake the black cloud over my head. Every swaying acacia mocked my failure. I was on some half-assed community project when I wandered off, needing a break from the do-gooder chatter. That’s when he appeared: a Hadza tribesman, one of the last hunter-gatherers, stepping out of the trees like a living shadow. His skin was so dark it seemed to drink the sunlight, a stark contrast to my pasty law-student pallor after two months hiding away in a library downing 90mg of Adderall every day. He was stunning -- lean, confident, untouched by the bullshit of my world. He smiled, curious, and despite the language gap, we clicked through nods and gestures.

I wasn’t gay. I’d never even thought about dick beyond my own. But something about him, his rawness, maybe, pulled me in. Before I knew it, we were hidden in the bush, my hands on his chest, his breath hot against my face. My fingers roamed his body, all sinew and heat, until they found his groin. I froze. His penis was small-- shockingly so -- but fuck, it was dark as midnight and stiff as a judges gavel. Rigid, unyielding, a tiny titan of flesh.

I dropped to my knees. Why? I don’t know. I took him in my mouth, the texture rough and warm, the size almost comical but the hardness undeniable. My tongue traced its contours, tasting salt and something primal. He moaned, soft and rhythmic, like a chant older than any statute. I sucked harder, my head bobbing, feeling the absurdity of it all: a BigLaw reject blowing a tribesman in the African wild. His hips bucked, and when he came, it was a quick, shuddering burst -- bitter, sharp, a taste I’d never forget. I swallowed, looked up, and saw him grin, satisfied.

Standing there, wiping dirt off my khakis, I laughed a dark, cynical bark. This was my summer associate gig: no billable hours, just a mouthful of metaphor. That small, stiff cock? It was the legal world in miniature. You think you’re chasing something big -- prestige, power, a corner office -- but it’s smaller than you expect, harder to handle, and leaves you questioning everything. Giving that blowjob, was like law school itself: stepping into the unknown, choking down pride, sucking up to survive. The tribesman didn’t care about my GPA or my networking skills, just like the Vault 100 didn’t care about my dreams. It was raw, unfiltered, and over too fast -- much like the fleeting highs of a legal career.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5688451&forum_id=2Elisa#48711437)