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We got to my apartment with its poor, second-hand furniture, and the books on the floor. I don't have a couch, only chairs since I'm a stunted person, and so we lay on my bed and kissed for a while, until I undressed her and then me. And I was standing by the bed, having just removed my pants, and she got off the bed and kneeled on my pants and took me in her mouth. She luxuriated in it, rubbing it against her face when it was wet and slick. She was moaning, but I started feeling selfish, so I lifted her onto the bed and sucked on her breasts. She was almost all nipple and I loved it.
Then I kissed her stomach and kept on kissing, until I put my tongue in her and there wasn't much taste but enough, salty and maddening. I put a finger inside her and felt some kind of birth-control object. I didn't want to jar it, so I took my finger out. At some point she shifted to her side and my head was encased between her legs and I stayed there and she came twice.
She pulled me up to kiss her and she started guiding me into her and I said, "I have condoms," and she said, "I have a thing," and I didn't tell her I knew, I didn't know if it was bad etiquette to say I had felt it, and so she guided me into her and it had been years since I'd had sex
I'm not one of those guys who's against condoms, I don't mind them too much, twenty minutes is more than enough, but this sex without the condom was like heaven. |
without a condom and it was a revelation. With a condom, after about fifteen or twenty minutes, it's like my cock goes numb, the base of the condom like a tourniquet, so I have to come at that point or suffer the mortal embarrassment of losing my erection. That said, I'm not one of those guys who's against condoms, I don't mind them too much, twenty minutes is more than enough, but this sex without the condom was like heaven.
We went at it slow. Sometimes hard. I would stop and go down on her some more. We might just lie there for a bit, holding one another and kissing, and then start the fucking again. Missionary position, she would bury her face in my shoulder and whimper quietly — she wasn't a woman who screamed, except at the end when she would come. She was very flexible and we put her legs — her knees — all the way by her head, and I went in her so deep and leaned down and kissed her deep, too. She was beautiful and vulnerable.
She got on her belly and put her incredible full ass into the air and I took her that way. She got on top of me and her hair fell across her breasts, and I sat up and moved the hair and sucked on her fat nipples. She'd looked at me, grinding against me, impaled on me, and her eyes seemed to say, "I will never know you," but all eyes say that, if I think about it.
We just kept doing it and she kept coming, and oddly I never felt that thing inside her, though I had touched it with my finger. Anyway, the whole thing was astounding to me because I just kept going. Ever since I turned forty, some kind of switch went off or on, and so the gods only give me one hard-on in an evening, maybe two, whereas when I was younger I could come three or four and sometimes five times in a night, so I've learned to make the one bullet I'm given last, but this night with the journalist was something beyond extraordinary. We had started in a dim yellow light in my room, the last bit of sun coming through the curtains, until we were in a silvery darkness, the metallic light from the street lamps allowing me to still see her beautiful body. So we had begun making love around seven and didn't stop until almost eleven, when she told me to come in her mouth, something I usually don't like to do — I feel bad for the woman — but she wanted it and I allowed myself to believe it was okay and so then we were done, and we lay there, both of us rather unbelieving.
Then she started laughing, her laugh was husky like her voice, and she said, "Now let's talk about your cock." |
Then she started laughing — her laugh was husky like her voice — and she said, "Now let's talk about your cock." And cock sounded like cawk, and it was all so bawdy in the most appealing way, just her saying the word cock, and so I said, "What about it?" "I love it," she said, and love was loave, and, of course, as a preening male, I was deeply pleased.
She didn't spend the night. She had a roommate from her country who knew her boyfriend back home, so she couldn't possibly return to her apartment in the morning. The roommate might say something. This came out at the end. A boyfriend back home.
So I called a car for her. I saw her again a week later, and we were both aware of making it as good as that first night but it wasn't. A week after that, we tried again, and once more it fell short. Each time we seemed to grow more shy with each other. Then she left New York. Her article ran and was sent to me by my publisher. But I don't speak a word of her language, so I have no idea what she said.
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| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Jonathan Ames is the author of six books, including Wake Up, Sir! and
What's Not to Love? He is the winner of a Guggenheim Fellowship and
the loser of an amateur boxing match in which he fought as The Herring
Wonder. To see more of his work, visit www.jonathanames.com.
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©2007 Jonathan Ames and Nerve.com.
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