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Later, she took hold of me and teased me for a long minute with her mouth, then slid me deeper than I'd gone before and got hold of my balls (I watched all this from above, teary with gratitude). She drew me out dripping and rasped, "Here, here!" and together we followed the ecstatic, ribboned path, across her brazen lips, her blazing cheeks. "Lick it off," she said, and with her help I did.
Like I said, cooking.
So — how bad could this get? Penetration was ideal, but not necessary. There were other means at our disposal.
"I don't think you get it," Sienna said, the next time she came over. "No oral, no handjobs."
"Be reasonable," I said, reaching for her haunch. "Even virgins get to suck."
"Not this one." Sienna flung herself off my couch. "I'm serious, Dinkins."
"Okay," I said, "we'll watch the movie. No problem."
"I knew this was a bad idea." Sienna was toying with the doorknob. "David told me to give it a week."
"Who the hell is David?" I said.
"My spiritual advisor. Don't fucking laugh, Dinkins. You laugh again, I'm out of here."
Bramble laughed, too. "Oh man," he said. "She's got the Godhead up her ass. You are truly fucked, Dink. Unfucked, I guess."
"You're funny," I said. "You should go to Vegas."
Bramble killed another beer. "You know what this means," he said. "You're gonna have to break up with her."
"That's what she wants," I said.
"I just want to re-stablish who I am," she said. "Other than a body."
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"Probably. Shit, she makes more money than you."
"She's better looking than me."
"Way better looking." Bramble belched.
"I don't want to break up with her," I said. "That's bullshit. I just want her to be reasonable."
Bramble puffed his cheeks, so as to suggest the cosmic futility of that wish. He'd been a lady's man once, way back in grad school. Now he was a Rogaine refugee with a faintly blue scalp. "Your other choice is to propose to her."
I broke up with her. I invited her over to my place and told her in a very solemn tone that she was disrespecting the thing we had built together and trying to turn something holy into something dirty and letting shame conquer pleasure and that I was sorry, but it felt like a giant manipulation to me, and I wasn't going to take it.
Sienna started laughing. She was wearing these powder-blue velour sweatpants, real butt-huggers.
"I'm not kidding," I said.
"Right," she said.
"Because it's really not that funny."
"I know," she said. "It's just that David warned me this might happen."
"Oh did he?" I said.
"He said you'd assume this was just some way of trying to control the relationship and you'd get all pissed and 'break up' because that's the masculine way of dealing with your own angry dependence."
"Very interesting," I said, as calmly as I could. "What else did David Christ Superstar have to say?"
"He said if the breakup thing didn't work, you'd propose to me."
"That is so fucking lame," I said. "Who is this guy? Does he charge a fee for his invaluable insight into the character of someone he doesn't even fucking know? Does he ask you to pray with your shirt on or off? Or maybe he has you sit on his face to gauge your spiritual equilibrium?"
"You're shouting," Sienna pointed out. "There's no need to shout."
"I'm speaking emphatically," I said quietly. She looked so hot I wanted to punch her in the tit.
"I didn't come over to argue," Sienna said. "I just want time to step away from the corporeal and re-establish who I am as something other than a body." Sienna walked towards me and took one of my hands in hers. "Don't get all bitchy, Dink."
"I'm not," I said.
"Good, then let's go eat somewhere. Leaving the house helps. It eliminates unnecessary temptation.
"
So this was our life for the next few weeks, all very sweet, very low-grade romantic comedy. We held hands and laughed together and ate nachos and got happily bothered at goodnight kiss time. I started whacking off again.
I'd never stopped, obviously. (We never stop, ladies). Only now, it was constant. I belonged in a Rocky montage, courageously spanking on a mountaintop, a deserted beach, the gym shower, my cubicle, the stoop outside Sienna's apartment, while a cheese-rock anthem pounded in the background, emphasizing the heroism of my super-pumped forearm and cock veins. It was my way of trying to drain libidinal excess.
I started whacking off again.
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But it didn't work. The more I spanked, the more I needed to spank. There were chafing issues, disposal issues, what-if-I-simply-run-out-of-juice-and-injure-my-vas-deferens issues. And yes, co-workers were starting to say things. Things such as "Stop milking the bull at work, Dinkins."
And then Sienna herself, looking as she did, smelling as she did, and me knowing what was under her clothes and not being able to get at it. The sight of her bare armpit would send me scurrying for my junk.
"Disco bowling!" she'd say.
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