Friday, November 12, 2010


Hovering in front of the open fridge, distracted by the eternal question of what’s for lunch, mentally pondering if there was something that was supposed to be in the work bag that one might have forgotten, if the bus pass in still in the gym bag, and wondering if it wouldn’t just be easier to use the gym bag as lunch would fit better, one absently answered the innocent question of have you got a minute with a distracted yes, sort of. Before one has time to add an assortment of qualifiers one was unceremoniously frog marched into the bedroom and thrown on the bed.

Now women are strange creatures. We are not the walk up starts that many men are. We like to be in the mood, the head space, the... right frame of mind. Damn it we want to be wooed. Well at least have more than 15 minutes before we have to scuttle out a door. To be blunt we want a chance of having an orgasm... well two would be better if one is going to be completely honest. Then there are the added complications of whether you are actually going to get permission to come, or for that matter whether you are even going to enjoy it at all... sighs it’s complicated.

So you can imagine one’s delight when He dove in tongue first. Just for the record everyone has some special talent in bed... well they should if they are ever going to get another chance... and then there are the truly gifted. Just like some people can dance with grace, rhythm and an innate ability to sync up to a beat so some can do oral. As one abandoned oneself to the music it seemed pertinent to ask if one was actually allowed to come. Hell at that stage one would have almost begged. A muffled no is the reply, to which one hurls timeframes and obscenities and tries to get away. He laughs and grabs hold of a nipple, tugging and pinching viciously.

Now the nipples and the vagina have always had an odd relationship. One of mutual convenience, pleasure and, one deeply suspects, shared nerve endings. Apply pressure to one and pinch the other and there is no sitting on the edge, there is no build up... you just crash over the other side in a screaming orgasmic heap. Not elegant, but very efficient. As one lays there in that floating surreal state, where there is no thought or feelings of pain, He loops the legs over his shoulders, pins one against the bed and dives in with long brisk strokes. And one falls over the cliff again.

Laying there afterwards, as reality returns and one can work out which way is actually up, it suddenly occurs one of us has to get up and go to work. Bruised, bleeding and feeling less inclined to be nice to people than usual, one scrambles to get ready while screaming on the inside- I’m late, I’m late. A manoeuvre one performs most mornings, referred to as doing the white rabbit. He on the other hand will be going to bed, curling up and watching TV and going to sleep.

Again one says- Bastard!

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