Bittersweet sex is better than no sex at all. It’s painful and difficult to end an intimate relationship, and sex can ease the transition. At least it did in my case. Granted, Alan and I would soon no longer be a couple, but it was reassuring to know I was still desirable to him on a sexual level. And when someone’s leaving you, you question your desirability on every level. By remaining sexually active with your partner-not-to-be, you think: He wants me—but he doesn’t want me. Confusion and ambivalence are fine buffers against flat-out rejection.
So it seems that end-of-the-road sex can be many things: It’s terrible and terrific, sometimes both in the same evening. It’s a way to communicate when other channels are closed. And, finally, it’s a message that reads “I love you”—but not necessarily happily ever after.
SEX DURING DIVORCE
I felt skittish and scared and very much like a virgin as my wife led me by the hand to the bedroom of her new apartment. This was our first time together since our marriage had fallen apart seven months ago. And it had been years since either of us had enjoyed any of our lovemaking sessions.
Earlier in the evening, my new girlfriend, Roxanne, had kissed me goodbye and said, “It’s okay if you go to bed with your wife. I know you want to.” Her intuition proved correct. Up until now I was not sure whether I wanted to risk making love to my wife—to take the chance of being rejected as a lover as she had rejected the eleven years of our marriage. I was even more afraid to discover what new ways of lovemaking she had learned from new men.
But my dinner date with Corinne and the dancing afterward had been a ritual of reconciliation. Both of us were at that point in a separation where we wanted the other’s approval. We made sweet talk, remembering only the good times, and slow-danced like high-schoolers. When we drove back to her apartment, which she shared with a graduate student, I did not have the nerve to hint at sex. We were kissing goodnight at the door when Corinne—honest and forthright as always—pressed her long body against me in a slow, sweet grind. Mentally I thanked Roxanne for giving her blessing to whatever would happen in the upstairs bedroom.
Corinne’s bed consisted of a mattress on the floor piled with pillows and our old Sears set of Noah’s Ark animals. The Japanese seascape etchings she had had since college were propped against the walls. Copies of My Mother, My Self and How to Be Your Own Best Friend lay nearby. Kneeling, she turned on the light.
Then she approached me, looking seductive in her Chinese print silk dress. She was wearing more makeup these days, and the dim lamplight made her face shadowy and mysterious. We played at kissing as my hands slid down on her full behind and she slanted her newly flat belly hard against my stomach. Mired in an unhappy marriage, I had seen her only as the source of all my troubles. Now making love to her on an unfamiliar bed was like coming in from the cold; it was like coming home to an exciting stranger.
When our marriage was going to hell, we talked a lot about “fixing” our sex life. But we never did anything about it. Our lethargy regarding careers and finances and plans for travel and children extended to lovemaking as well. Corinne had suggested long ago that I oil her body, then massage and eat her a long time with no thought of my orgasm. But we never did it. In turn, I wanted the contrasting excitement of her voluptuous dark-haired beauty and that of her petite blonde photographer’s assistant. But we never set that up either.
We talked about keeping sex alive, but as time passed our lovemaking became an empty ritual—a way of scratching our libidinal itch. Then Corinne began asking for tenderness more than sex itself. When she did not get it, her desire waned and she took to eating cheesecake by the refrigerator at midnight. I started fantasizing about new lovers and kinky scenes from the bottom of a gin bottle. She got plumper and I got drunker. And even though she remained quite attractive—I think some men were turned on by her very abundance—and I never reached the pink-elephant stage of boozing, sex slowly deteriorated into a rare, awkward and lonesome thing for us.
“You know,” Corinne said, unsnapping my pants to let my penis spring out, “it’s so nice to be together like this. It’s like the best of both worlds—to be like new lovers and at the same time to know each other better than anyone else.”
“My God, you’re stunning,” I confessed, with just a tinge of resentment that she had gotten back into such sexy shape only after leaving me. She was wearing nothing but black panties now and I was amazed that, at twenty-nine, she still was the same incredible Amazon I had fallen in love with so many years ago. With her thin waist, ample breasts and long legs, she looked almost too good to be true. I just stared and stared.
“You look great, too,” she said. “Trim, athletic. Well, we’re both back on the meat rack now.”
“How true,” I admitted. For I, too, had immediately started shaping up for my own reentry into the competitive singles world, of course.
I straddled her waist and let my balls and cock rest snugly against her breasts, while leaning over to take her face in my hands and give her a deep kiss. This was going to be a fuck of high desire with a wife who was no longer mine. That dangerous excitement I felt was the same as if I were making love to another man’s woman.
“What do you want me to do now?” I asked.
“Guess.”
Fortunately, I had always had a good sense of what Corinne wanted, though the stress of our mundane life together usually short-circuited my willingness to give it. But now I had energy and will to spare.
Just before I went down on her, however, I did something for myself. I hunched my body down between her thighs and slipped my cock into her while her panties were still on. Dreamy memories of teenage car fucking came as I enjoyed the contrast of the black fabric pushed aside by my white cock. I pushed all the way into her, lifting her legs onto my shoulders. Then I rolled her panties down; she opened her legs for me and let her head fall back. Closing her eyes and clasping her hands behind her, she received me.
As I was kissing her cunt and moving my tongue slowly up and down her outer lips, my fingers squeezed and pinched her nipples, which I could feel swelling. She made a wordless, throaty sound as my tongue thrust deeply into her vagina. The taste and smell and feel of her were so familiar. I remembered that she did not like direct pressure on her clit, so I gently whipsawed two fingers alongside the hood instead.
Corinne’s face was taut with pleasure—a look I had seldom seen in the last months of our marriage. She groaned happily as I put two fingers into her vagina and pushed deep, while my tongue continued its friendly circling of her clit. Steadily and slowly, forcefully but not too roughly, I finger-fucked her. She put one hand against her forehead and with the other hand swiftly brought herself to climax.
A moment later, as we lay side by side with her fingers wrapped around my erect cock, she said, “One thing I do thank you for is teaching me to want a man who really likes sex. Someone horny. Like you with your eighteen-year-old’s erection.”
“Is Jeff horny? What’s it like when you’re in bed with him, Corinne?”
“He thinks I’m the best kisser he’s ever known. And he likes to eat me a lot.”
I added a finger; now she was stuffed with four. I said, “Do you fuck a lot?”
They spent long evenings making love, she said. Jeff could stay hard indefinitely, even after he came. Once while driving around downtown, they pulled into the parking lot of the town library and made love on the front seat of his Mercedes.
I asked if he were well-hung and she said, “Actually, it’s phenomenal how fat and long he is.” I shoved my own cock as deep as I could into my wife’s cunt and she sighed, “Oh, honey, that’s just so-o-o-o good. Give me more.” I quickly did so.
Later, I told Corinne about Roxanne. Our sex life was wonderful, I said, though no better than it had once been with Corinne, only different. I liked to pick her up, because she was short and curvy, and screw her against the wall with my hands supporting her bottom. Unlike Corinne, Roxanne was self-conscious about my g
oing down on her. On the other hand, she loved me to enter her from behind.
“Will you put a finger—just one, and be careful—up me?” Corinne said at one point. I probed gently and slid my middle finger up her tight passage. Somehow, as we talked about Jeff and Roxanne, my wife and I had lapsed back into calm, almost meditative lovemaking. I tried to see Jeff in her eyes. Was she thinking of him as she pulled my hips deeper and harder into her? The thought that I would be back in bed that night with my new lover, and that my wife would soon lie with Jeff, gave me a sharp rush of desire, and I thrust into her with long, fast strokes. It was so good to bury myself in that place where so much of the joy and sorrow of our marriage had resided. And each pinch of her fingers on my nipples and the familiar rippling contractions of her cunt were tightening my balls and bringing the moment of release closer and closer.
She was bracing herself on her heels and arching her cunt, going for her orgasm. I felt my own start to generate from the base of my spine—and from my mind, where the hottest thought of all was that of coming together with my wife. It was exciting and also sad, because this endless fuck was entirely dependent on the fact that my wife and I were no longer a couple. Freed from the constraints of marriage, we could talk honestly about our other loves and ask for sex without hurting the other. Now it had come down to this moment of mutual orgasm, and we went for it.
After the sensations receded we lay together, letting our cock and cunt remain joined. We did not speak. We were at peace.
MORNING BECOMES ERECTION
During my sophomore year at a small liberal arts college in upstate New York, I found myself sharing a bed with a very cute blonde from my English Lit. seminar. We had made violent love following our Chaucer mid-term, and fell into deep slumber on a frigid winter evening. As the morning sunlight crept into her tiny apartment hours later, I awoke and watched admiringly for a few moments as her small, perfectly formed breasts rose and fell softly with each breath.
I felt the old familiar wellings and knew I had to have sex immediately. We had dated sporadically for two years, and I knew her tastes were not against a.m. couplings. So I didn’t think it untoward at all to pull the covers back from her beautiful torso and place my face at the entrance of her pleasure center.
I began to lick her vaginal lips slowly, and then more intensely, almost hearing the yet unuttered moans of pleasure that always signaled my arrival at her erotic gates. Instead, this unpredictable co-ed opened her eyes wide, clamped her legs together and began to kick violently about my upper body. She shrieked hysterically: “You fucking pig. What the hell do you think you’re doing? You fucking animal.”
Never surprised at the capacity of the female to confound, I stayed calm while explaining: “I was engaged in the act of cunnilingus—something you urged me to perform for what seemed like hours last night.”
“This is different. . . . It’s like necrophilia,” she screamed, grabbing the blankets and retreating to the living room.
Such are the pitfalls of the delicate art of morning sex—an erotic variant that I’ve been especially drawn to since coming of age.
Unlike most people I know, my introduction to sex came in the daylight. Whereas high school classmates boasted of losing their innocence in the back seats of cars bathed in moonbeams or in incense-filled bedrooms illuminated only by the flickering image of Johnny Carson, my manhood began as the sun rose over a lake in New England woods.
Kate and I met at a Boston rock concert less than twenty-four hours earlier. Fondling and French-kissing consumed us for the late night hours. Consciously or unconsciously, I can no longer remember, we saved the lovemaking for sunrise. In a sleeping bag dripping with early morning dew, we embraced—each naked from the waist down. Between kisses, we could see the vapors of our short breaths reflected in the dim light. When I climbed on top of the nubile eighteen-year-old and entered her, the sun broke through the trees. As I climaxed—all too quickly—I arched my head back and stared up at the blue sky and the clouds.
My first love laughed out loud when we finally exhausted all our youthful passions an hour or so later: “What a way to start the day,” she giggled.
I couldn’t agree more. There’s nothing quite like licking breasts before breakfast or having coitus before coffee. Fortunately my lovers, by and large, have shared my taste in this regard. Yes, one does make concessions to the hour. For example, I never force tongue kissing in the a.m.
In fact, if a woman grabs my head, presses her lips to mine and sticks her tongue inside before we brush our teeth, well, that’s exciting. The woman who ignores bacteria because she must have me then and there is a she-devil in my book.
My current wife is unpredictable on this score. And this can sometimes cause confusion. Some mornings I awake earlier than she and begin stroking her naked body. She sleeps on her stomach, so I begin with a light massage on the shoulders, move my fingers down her lower back, stroke her buttocks and move my fingers into the even wore sensitive nether regions. If the Missus is in deep slumber, she usually remains oblivious to all this. But often my amorous maneuvers will prompt her to roll upon her back, open her eyes a crack and laugh wickedly. “Aren’t you supposed to be out jogging now?” she will ask.
Thereupon I dive down upon her mouth and start caressing the nipples of her breasts. She’ll raise her head to meet my kisses and fold her arms tightly around my neck. Off we go.
Yet other times, she’ll move her head violently to the side as my lips near hers, and she’ll bury half her face into a pillow, mumbling something about the clam sauce on last night’s linguine. I usually ignore the rebuff, adroitly turning it into a rape fantasy scenario—grabbing her arms, pinning her wrists to the pillow, and fucking her while blowing in her face as she squirms. Such kissless passion has its own unique rewards.
My fondness for early morning eroticism stems in part no doubt from the fact that I almost always get up with an erection—a male physiological quirk that is unparalleled in the female erogenous zones. The boner is coupled with the need to relieve myself and the desire to have sex. This combination leads to intense internal deliberations. Dare I run to the commode, maybe wake the baby in the next room and lose the moment? Or do I grit my teeth, surrender to passion and get the ball rolling? To be honest, I usually go for broke.
But what about bed mates? Women with full bladders rarely enjoy horizontal folk dancing. Some have told me this after the fact: “Jeez, I’m glad that’s over with. Excuse me for a moment, will you?” It’s the rare woman, I’ve found, who will dive in despite urinary imperatives. I don’t mind if they excuse themselves. I just wait patiently and pray that passions aren’t doused by cold bathroom tiles.
Morning sex is risky business. I’ve had trysts ruined by Con Ed representatives wanting to read my meter; phone calls from friends who want to catch me before I’ve left for the office; and the incredibly antiaphrodisiac drone of giant concrete mixers working on the luxury condominiums next door.
I usually enjoy being the aggressor in sex—morning or night. But I’ve come to realize that perhaps no joy is greater than the startling realization that a lover is licking your penis while urging it and you to “wake up.” I always follow that command.
Yet I’ve found some women who are quite inattentive to early passion. I went down on one lover as the bedside alarm clock radio switched on the all-news station at 6:45. After the headlines, weather, sports, an editorial on toxic waste removal, tips on how to beat the flu and the stock market report, my snoring beauty had yet to stir. Upset by her corpse-like responsiveness, I stormed into the shower. As I was towelling myself dry, she entered the bathroom. “Shit, it’s after 7:30. Why didn’t you wake me? I’ll be late for work.”
One has to be especially vigilant on the birth control watch in the morning. And it can be a pain. Women on the pill, for obvious reasons, pose the least hassle. Females with diaphragms—unless they are very much into it—don’t relish all the rigamarole involved in preparing for a
nother spermicidal assault. I don’t mind sheathing my erection with a condom in the morning. It’s better than the messy withdrawal method. But my experience has shown where there’s a will, there’s a way. No matter what the obstacles.
On one camping trip, for instance, the lovesongs of sparrows awoke me. I stared over at my lover huddled against my body in the sleeping bag in our tiny two-person tent. I began to rub my groin against hers, and she stirred appropriately, moaning with more than a little desire. “Let’s make love,” I said, putting my cards on the table.
“Okay, but I’ve got to get some spermicide. Hand me the tube over by my socks near the inside flap, will you, baby?” she purred gently.
As one who believes contraception is a shared responsibility, I gladly reached to the backside of the tent, grabbed a half-empty tube and laid it lovingly in her hands. She removed the cap with one hand, massaging my manhood with the other. While squeezing both tubes simultaneously, she began to laugh loudly: I had handed her the Crest. The sperm-killer was in our parked car on the other side of the extinguished campfire. Should she get out of the tent and retrieve it (the morning air in our Canadian campsite was so cold, a sheet of ice had formed on the tent)? Thank God, she said “No,” preferring to impale her throat cavity upon my penis. As other campers fetched wood and water for coffee, they heard me yelling from the tent, “It feels so good, soo goood, sooo goodd. Sooo damn good.” We received a lot of leers a half hour later when, passion spent, we arose, pumped up the Coleman propane stove and cooked flapjacks.
Penthouse Uncensored VI Page 4
