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FICTION on the WEB short stories by Charlie Fish

Less Than A Bump and A Grind
by Delaine Wiszniak

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Prior to that night, I'd met him three times for dinner. And even though mentally and physically he charged all my cylinders, I kept my foot on the brakes; I wasn't just looking for 'any' lover, I wanted an 'alpha' lover - a man who was strong, passionate, and very much in control, both inwardly and outwardly. At 37 years old, I knew what I liked, and I wanted to step into my sexuality in deeper, wilder ways.

I tested him intermittently on our previous dates: teased him, challenged him, played with his mind. What're you made of honey? I wondered. At 39, have you really begun to understand and appreciate the complexities of a woman's mind and body? Can you handle me, enthrall me, and devour every ounce of my sexual being?

He looked me, many times, directly in the eyes - calm, composed, giving me the statements and answers I wanted, hoped for, yearned for... Yes, I finally decided, eyes down, during dessert. Next time we meet, I will take him as my lover.

Tonight, as he walked through my front door, he could see me in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, wearing black leather boots, a dynamite gartered teddy, and the electric air of a Woman Entitled. I wasn't going to pretend or apologize.

"Wow," he said under his breath, tongue flicking, eyes darting. "You look incredible."

"Thanks." I leaned back seductively and waited - tick-tock, tick-tock. Finally I clenched his hand and pulled it behind my back.

Down the hall we stumbled and kissed, my hands greedily grabbing, touching, demanding. Why is his hand so limp on my back? I thought. C'mon hun, I willed him through my fingers. Give me what I want.

Fumbling, awkwardness - Oops sorry, he said, then his pants were off. Condom open, Darn, which way? He lunged on top of me, into me...

I couldn't help it - my eyebrows lifted: Oh! Not too big eh? Still, I closed my eyes. It feels good...

Suddenly, he pancaked me with his full weight, breathing hard. My eyes flew open: What the...?

"That was so hot," he panted in my ear. "God! You were unbelievable!"


He got to his feet and began dressing. "Let's do this again tomorrow OK? And the next day and the next day and the day after that!" He laughed.

Do what? I glanced from side to side. I'm hardly even warmed-up!

I stood up from the bed and he seized me into a bear hug. "Man!" he clucked over my shoulder. "Soooo hot." I patted his back, wide-eyed; there... there? I couldn't even look at him as he made his way out.

Perhaps you, like me, are already coming up with excuses as to his awful performance - maybe he was nervous, inexperienced, intimidated, or tired. But I wonder: if the tables were turned, do you think he'd be making excuses for me?

For the sake of his next lover, perhaps even womankind, I should have tactfully or not-so-tactfully said something; most bad lovers remain bad lovers because women are too polite to say or 'teach' otherwise, right? But at the time, I was too shocked and annoyed to even speak - that was worse than an adolescent romp in the back seat of the car.

How could a man of his age not know this? I fumed. Doesn't a man, at some point before thirty-five, become experienced enough, aware enough, to know that his ultimate sexual pleasure is derived through satisfying the woman?

No - instead of being masterfully consumed by an alpha lover, I found myself standing in my bedroom, one hand on my hip, the other hand gesturing in exasperation at a candlelit wall. It's been three months since I've had sex, I thought as I unzipped by boots. And as far as I'm concerned, I'm still counting.

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