Four days

I rarely write posts directly in the squinky little wordpress editing rectangle.  I write them somewhere more comfortable, then cut and paste the whole thing.  But this is a quickie so I’m making an exception.  At least it’s meant to be a quickie, but it might not be.  Kind of like fucking.

River has turned me down the past three nights.  “It hasn’t been three nights.”  “Yes it has.”  I manage to convince her, which is not usually so easy, and usually involves more counting on my fingers.  Sometimes I think she can only count to one.

Just kidding.  She can count to two.

Ok, still kidding.  See, this is already not quite the quickie I had in mind.  I can’t help it.  I’m having fun.  Kind of like fucking.

And now I have to explain to new readers that I reach a peak of horniness on the third day.  Kind of like Jesus did.

And now I’m counting on my fingers (not so easy when I’m also typing with them) and see that if she’s turned me down three nights, then this is the fourth day.  Ouch.  At least I’ve never run out of fingers since our restart in what was it, 2008?  So many fucks ago.  Every one different.

Now I have to work hard if I want to make this a quickie.  Have to make everything count.  No wasted effort.

How quick is a quickie anyway?  For one couple I know it’s 30 minutes, but he has delayed ejaculation, which is what my SSRI often gives me.  Sometimes delayed for a couple days in my case.  But worth waiting for.  For us a quickie is 5 to 10 minutes.  We can do it faster, maybe a minute, SSRI permitting, but those are speed record fucks, not mere quickies.  Kind of fun in a strange way.

Now I can feel the end of this post coming on.  That’s a good sign. Gotta make it happen now.  River is sitting right over there while I’m writing this.  She probably thinks I’m emailing or something.

River is in the shower.  I sit on the edge of the tub.  Watching.  Watching her breasts lift and perk as she washes her hair.  Watching the shampoo rinse in a line down her back and meander over her the crack of her ass.  Watching her soap up her bush, then slip a hand down to wash her parts.  I’ve got a front row seat for the River show.  Best seat in the house.

“You’re nice to look at.”  “Thank you.  My poor abused body.”  Now she’s kidding.  I don’t abuse her body.  Or her mind.  Neither does she.  Except maybe for that half-marathon she ran.

As she dries off I’m thinking.  I gotta bang her tonight.  “Bang” is the word I’ve used the past three nights, and it’s the word I’m going to keep using until she says “yes”.  Now, how to tell her what I’m thinking . . . something tactful, assertive but not aggressive.  Something that makes it seem like she’s in control.  Something comically sexy.  Something a little self-referential, perhaps.  “There’s something that looking at you makes me want to do.  But I should ask first.  Could I bang you tonight?”  “I thought that was the plan.”  Huh.  We’ve had some good emotional warm up today, but I don’t remember anything about a plan.  I’m so out of the loop.

Times up.  Where’s a good premature ejaculation when I need one?

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