Well, let me fill you in on what’s been going down.
The above-listed qualities are all born on the night that Teresa Davenport invites me back to her room on our last night in Whitby, saying she has something to show me. You’ve got to be ahead of me here, because what she shows me – and oh, so expertly – is what I’ve been wanting a woman to show me for longer than I can remember and show me she surely does. She takes off my clothes, piece by piece and then she takes me in hand, so to speak.
And then it happens and it is actually, amazingly, better than I had ever imagined – and I’ve done a lot of imagining. She can be quite dominating, I’m thinking, as I lie on my back and stare up in wonder at her small yet beautifully formed breasts bouncing quickly up and down while she fucks me – she’s actually fucking me, I’m having SEX! – but she’s dominating in – a – really – really – nice – way. And I’m trying to think of anything, anything at all, which will stop – me – from – coming – too – soon – as – I – want – this – to – last – for – ever.
Teresa continues to bounce up and down.
I start thinking of all the stupid, fun stuff the Four Horsemen have done together, about Prom night, when Diesel got Lauren pregnant, about The Party to End All Parties, about weirdly Gothic Whitby and the road trip which might now actually happen and I’m thinking of how Teresa looked at me just now, when she pulled off my Spiderman pants and dropped them onto the floor and how she didn’t appear to think that I had a small cock at all, an idea borne out by the low moan she made as she sank herself down upon me. She didn’t actually stop what she was doing and say, ‘Oh My God, that is HUGE’, which I must admit, I would have rather liked, but just got on with what we were about to do like she hadn’t even noticed how big or how small it was.
It’s enough to make me wonder if I hadn’t got this thing out of proportion. Could it be that I’m not spectacularly big or minis-culely small but boringly average? And is that something I should worry about too? And another thing I’m wondering is how I could possibly have wasted so much time chasing the wrong girl when any idiot could have seen immediately that Teresa Davenport is much smarter, far prettier and so much sexier than Rosalind Chandler. Teresa must be much better in bed too. Because surely, I’m thinking, as Teresa groans and squeezes me and tells me I’m giving her just what she wants – and I can’t take it one second longer and we climax together, noisily, warmly, wetly on our very first time – it can’t get any better than this? Can it?
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Losing It Page 26
