So, we're having outdoor sex, me bent over the picnic table in the country park, naked, the night air kissing my skin, thrilling at first, but then a bit nippy, even though it's supposed to be summer, al fresco fuck, your car parked down the lane under the trees, (were we seen? followed? is this a dogging hotspot?) and I change position, my bare feet on grass (what might I be treading in? are there ants?) hoping to avoid becoming a feast for that neighbouring cloud of mosquitos and I never really liked outdoor sex, too messy, uncomfortable, I prefer a nice Queen-sized bed, and now my right leg is up on the bench for deeper penetration (that's too fucking deep!), then on my back, wooden table rough and scratchy on my bum, staring at the sky, the stars, and I wonder why most gynaecologists are male, I'd never yet met a female version, which is perplexing, and
are you nearly there?
as you thrust and pump, more frantic, desperate, a different kind of urgency, this has become a challenge, I'm a challenge, a job to be done, a task requiring completion, a mountain to scale, a problem to be solved, a mission to fulfill, drilling down, deeper, deeper and I recall an ex-lover with a massive ego who pissed me off, so I invited him over for a surprise midnight shag, knowing I wouldn't let myself come to spite him, and he was puzzled, unable to understand why his performance wasn't getting gold stars, and I said kindly, it doesn't matter, these things happen, and it was my punishment, to emasculate him, to teach him a lesson, but after he'd left, I felt empty, and perhaps I'd hurt myself more and I whisper
and you are using fingers, so I can tell you're flagging, how long now? twenty minutes? thirty? an hour? and I admire your stamina (and mine) we're both getting frustrated, sore, irritable, and why is it taking so long? and the more I want that sugar-rush, willing it, the more it resists, eludes, my muscles clenched, tight, gripping and
are you nearly there?
I'm on the edge, a ledge, a precipice, I want to piss, and whose fucking idea was this? (excuse the pun, or my French as they say), and a splitting pain flashes across my temples, and the more I try, the more pain in my head and my nipples are hard from the cold and sweat dribbles down your chin onto my face and I taste it, salty on my lips and this should be more erotic, shouldn't it? and was that a rustle by the trees? is someone watching us? and I realise I don't care, just want this to be over before a police car shows up and we get arrested for gross indecency or something, and I fancy a nice strong coffee, and
are you coming yet?
so I say gently, it doesn't matter, really it doesn't, coming isn't important and I totally mean it, coming has never been the be all and end all, it's the intimacy that matters, but this matters to you, a lot, and you push harder and I respect your desire to make me happy although I suspect this is about you now and feel like it's my fault because your wife would have come by now, (it's ok, she knows about us, you have an open marriage) and most women would agree you are an excellent lover and would have come by now so why not me? and you must be thinking the same because
is there something wrong with you?
and I recall a short-lived boyfriend who ditched me by text because I never made him come and I was devastated before realising it wasn't my responsibility in the same way it wasn't his responsibility to make me come and perhaps we expect too much from relationships and this stopped being fun ages ago and I know I'm not coming so, here's the dilemma, should I fake it? because that would make us both happy, and I want to make you feel good, to be rewarded for all the effort you put in, because you really went the extra mile so I groan and moan and wriggle and scream and job done.