“Do you think you can do that?” he asks. It’s the most uncomfortable, non-sexy conversation ever. I’m crying. He’s frustrated. The phone is burning a hole in my ear.

I feel upset and put-out. Nothing feels right, nothing is going right, everything is crashing down around me and I’m not sure why. I’m grouchy that he’s trying to come up with solutions while what I really need is a hug. A hug that isn’t coming because it can’t bridge half the Pacific Ocean. So I come back with a non-committal.

“Yeah, I can try.” whatever

“I want a yes.”

Oh. Right.

“Yes.” It comes out all by itself and I’ve agreed to do it all. That feels so much better.

…Sometimes my choice to submit surprises me. But it’s a good surprise.

Over the past few days I have had the opportunity to compare the taste of two substances that have a notorious reputation.

Cum and Cough Syrup.

I have been conducting my own, informal, study on the taste of these two liquids and have come to the following conclusions.

Cum is better after fruit.
Cum is worse after Guiness.
Cum always tastes better in larger spurts.

Cough Syrup is ALWAYS worse than Cum. Hands down. All the time.

You would think with all that money the pharmaceutical companies throw around they could come up with a product that tastes better than cum. Seriously, when are they going to work on that?

There’s been a dry spell.

Literally.

We’ve had the groping, kissing, hugging, pinching, grabbing, caressing, grinding…but when push came to -er- shove it just didn’t work.  Even a liberal helping of lube got us no where.  It got so bad that he took to talking to her.

“Come out?  Want to play?”

Nothing.  The Sahara desert had moved in between my legs.  Night after night me and my girl would roll over to sleep and D. would be stuck with a towel.  Occasionally I’d try to help – but my heart wasn’t in it.  My libido had shriveled up in the drought.  

Then it rained…really.  In the middle of another hot and humid day the heavens opened up for just a few minutes and the air filled with the smell of cool rain on hot stones.  The trees perked up, birds started to sing, and she finally woke up.  Outside the asphalt was beginning to color darker with each drop, inside my clothes colored too.

As the air cooled I heated up.  I had missed her.  She’d been gone for so long and now…here she was…awake and ready for action.  I gave it to her in spades, coloring the pitter-patter of rain drops with my own small moans of joy.  I basked in the completion of that much needed orgasm until the rain stopped and it seemed that she had been sated.  Dormant again but -thankfully- not dead.

Then, as I walked into the shower, she opened up again.  Calling for my attention and responding with avengence when she got it.  Forget the Sahara this was the Amazon.  And I was an Amazon warrior tasked with taming nature.  

So I finally got her down, with a little more work and a lot more moaning, and she napped fitfully.  The work of the day went slowly as I stopped to adjust every so often, but, finally, I was set.

Then he came home.  In that black t-shirt.  Looking the way he…well…looks.  There was no quieting her.  We tried hard to let him read his email.  Eat some dinner.  Come down from the day of work.  But then it was too much as soon as he jumped into bed we both jumped him.

“What?  You’re frisky?” he asked, not without a little incredulity.

Yes, yes, yes! she screamed out.

“I’m really tired, and I have that thing tomorrow morning, and you know…I already masturbated today.”

“So did I!”

“Tomorrow maybe.”

I couldn’t blame him…it was late.  But there was no shutting her up with him lying there in the bed.

So, here I am, in the middle of a monsoon.  Fjording the river.  Floating up the creek.

Without a paddle.

As I was crawling into bed I noticed that the sheets have a certain distinctive smell.  A sweet, salty, tangy scent that is faint, until I’ve snuggling down into the pillow and feel a certain flutter of my heart.

My sheets smell like sex.  

They smell like sweat dripping off undulating backs.  They smell of tangy, sticky cum.  They smell sweet like lube and sour like bodies that have spent too long in the summer sun.  There are traces of lingering soap, oils and perfume.  Patchouli, toothpaste, shampoo – pheromones.  

My bed smells like him.  And me.  It smells like ecstasy and despair.  It’s primal and primitive.  It’s pretty and sophisticated.  My mattress smells like my cries and his groans.  It smells like dirty words pushed out through clenched teeth: cunt, slut, fuck, hard, dick.  And it smells like whispered words of love, soft kisses, long caresses.

It smells the same way that torrid little bedroom with the air mattress smelled when this all began.  All those fervent kisses and desperate clutchings.  The feeling that we would never have enough time with one another if we lived forever.

My bed smells good.