I Do Already

BECAUSE THERE’S JUST NOT ENOUGH SEX ON THE INTERNET, HeSaid and SheSaid try their hand at writing erotica.  But this ain’t your everyday smut - this is niche, guys.  This is special.  Frankly, this is where none of your fantasies come true…

                                                   SEX AND THE PITY

… She looked at the underwear that barely encased his soft, white belly, and remembered the first time she saw them.  How long ago was that?  Six, maybe seven years ago.  Back then, they were his “getting laid” underwear.  New and sexy.  But the years had made them as faded and threadbare as a hillbilly’s prom dress.  As she stared at these pitiful gaunch, a single ball popped out as if to say, “I’m on your side.  Something has to be done.”

“Take those off,” she complained.  Or was it begged?  It was probably nagged.

This was the opening he was looking for, the delectable invitation to see him naked.  And, no, not “wife naked” where he could stand in front of her completely nude and the only reaction he’d provoke was,  ”Is that a rash on your thigh?  You should get some cream for that.”  But the kind of nudity where you forget you’ve see each other in this state so often, you’re like sexless National Geographic bush people, and you actually get turned on by your partner.

“Does this mean you want to…?” he said with hope so raw and needy, it could’ve posed on the cover of US magazine and gushed about its refusal to let rejection and loneliness get it down.

“Why not, I need to do the sheets anyway,” she replied as she kicked off her sweat pants and panties in one swift motion.  He always admired that about her.  She could go from clothed to naked in three seconds flat.  Unfortunately, she could also go from naked to frump in four seconds flat.

Now, the two lovers stood in front of each other, trying to recall what happened next.  “Hey, let’s do it on the chair like that movie we saw with… oh, I never remember his name.  Remind me later to check IMDb.” 

“No, I don’t want to do it that way.  It makes rolls in my stomach.  Let’s do it on my back with my head over the bed.  My boobs look killer that way.”

He was not sure how she knew this, but he did not care.  “Fine by me.”

And so they started.  He was slow at first, then faster and faster.  She looked accusingly at his crazed eyes.  “You better not be thinking I’m somebody else!”  ”No,” he assured her, “you’re still you. I’m somebody else.  Is that cool?”  

She shrugged.  ”Wayne Gretzky, right?  From when he was on the Oilers.  Sure, you’re the Great One.”  Inwardly, she rolled her eyes.  He was always Wayne Gretzky.  If he had to be an athlete, why couldn’t he pick Tim Riggins?  

She looked into his eyes.  “If you want, you can pull my hair.  I need to wash it today, anyway.”  That was all the dirty talk he needed.  “Oh, no… I can’t hold back any longer!”  He slumped over her, like a short distance runner who’d pulled a hamstring yards away from the finish line.  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“That’s okay, babe.”  She patted his butt.  ”The Bachelorette is almost on.”  And with that they said in unison those three special words:

“Where’s the remote?”