"Think we can each have orgasms in less than ten minutes?" Amy asked. I promised. This would have to be shorter than Friday night, which had put us both at a point of major exhaustion for the rest of the weekend.
So in the name of brevity — and in keeping with my personal vow to make sure she got "Ye Olde Big O" this time (no more of that feinting orgasm bullshit) — I quickly established a good, rhythmic melody on her clit with my tongue. It's empowering to me that, when I want to, I can bring Amy off very quickly. Sure enough, in very little time, her right hand was down by my face, her middle and ring fingers rubbing against her pubic bone in quick circles, not unlike my tongue. There was no equivocation this time when she went up and over the top: Her whole body shuddered, and she "tossed" my head with her involuntary hip thrusts. My neck was gonna be a little sore the next morning. I'll take it, thanks.
I came up and kissed her. She was feeling too tired to go down on me, so she suggested we fuck. "But be warned, my sexual energy isn't very high right now."
"Maybe we shouldn't?" I asked. If she's not gonna be into it...
"No, it's okay," she insisted. "Just ... I need to move down. I'm tired of my head hitting the top of the bed."
I did her one better: I stood up next to the bed, grabbed her legs, and yanked her all the way across, until her hips were on the mattress edge. Her legs up in the air, my cock pushed into her.
"Easy, easy," she coaxed. I was a little excited ... carrying enough sexual energy for the both of us, I suppose. The position was great, because two feet behind me was a wall. I could brace my feet against that, giving me fantastic leverage as I fucked her.
And then I found ... The Angle. That one slight tweak to my position that sent my cock up and against her g-spot. I had flipped a switch: She was ON now, fucking me back. Even throwing in a few "Oh-yes-yes" breaths along the way. This ride had suddenly gotten good and bumpy and a helluva lot of fun.
Shortly, my legs locked, my butt stiffened, and it was my turn to shudder, a rock thrown in the middle of me, rippling outward until even my toes and fingertips were tingling.
Short, but very intense.
"That was ..." she started.
"Nice," I said.
"Yeah, that works...."
The next night: Amy is lying on top of me, on the couch. We're watching an episode of The Black Donnellys and waiting for our caffeine fix out in the kitchen to finish steeping.
"The only problem with the IUD," she says, apropos of nothing, "is that with you not wearing a condom ... You're all free and everything, and coming everywhere. And for the rest of that night, and all the next day, I'm ..."
Oh God, I thought. She's not going to discuss this out loud, is she? We can usually talk about anything, but this kind of thing ... Well, it kind of kills the romance. Ya know? An ex-girlfriend — the one that introduced me to Amy, as a matter of fact — would talk quite openly about bodily functions and fluids, even sometimes in the midst of sex. This is the definition of buzzkill — look it up in the dictionary. I guess I should be grateful that at least Amy had the wherewithal to wait 24 hours or so before bringing up "the juice."
Still, I had to head her off. While she lingered to find just the right word to finish her thought, I offered up something innocuous:
"You're ... dabbing?" I suggested.
"Yeah!" she agreed.
Okay. We avoided that one. Now, moving on....
Well, no. She kept going.
"I'm walking around, and I'm just ... all soupy."
This conversation isn't happening. This conversation isn't happening. I'm not here.
"I wish there was a way to get all this out ..."
Think happy thoughts. Ummmmm ... Baseball season is almost here! ... Ummmmm ...
"What I need," she continues, "is some ... post-coital ... soup ..."
Aw, hell. I can't resist: "... Removal?"
"Yes!" she exclaims. "Someone should invent a way to remove it."
Really, where is this going?
"We could start a business!" She's on a roll now. "Post-coital soup removal!"
"We'd make millions!"
I don't want to encourage this. Really. And she senses my ambivalence.
"Well," she says, sensing my ambivalence (transmitted through my uninterrupted focus on the television screen — though for the life of me, I have no idea what I was looking at, I was just trying to make this conversation go away), "at least it'd be a great band name."
"Now, that is a great idea!" I concede. And what we do is just call ourselves 'PCSR' —and let everyone try to figure out what it stands for."
So, there you go. Maybe we can get Hole to open for us.