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" Some women find this cute at first - until they realize I can keep this up for hours.
"Wow, there's a naked woman in my bed! PUSSSSYYYY! Dismount. "Wow, there's a naked woman in my bed!..."
Fuck the Crockpot
I'm sure you've heard the analogy: Men are microwaves. Women are crockpots. Well, what my "affliction" has taught me is that this
crockpot business is all bullshit. If a woman really needs to get off, it takes less than five minutes. So why is it taking women
so long to get "there?" It's those damn voices in their heads.
"Does he think my ass is fat?"
"My cellulite must make him want to gag?"
"Lord, please don't let him ask me to take off my bra."
"He doesn't really like doing that. He's just trying to win points."
"Did I lock the back door?"
The sole purpose of The Show is to frustrate a woman until the loudest voice in her head is the one shouting, "I NEED TO GET
OFF!"
ONCE MORE, BACK AT THE B&B
About an hour and fifteen minutes into The Show I guess Lisa was frustrated enough to catch on. When my face reached her crotch... again, she
grapped the back of my head and in less than a minute...
"Whoa!Whoa!Whoa!" It sounded like she had something hot on her tongue that she couldn't spit out. Then there was a whole lotta
shaking goin' on. See? All it took was a little focus.
Three "Whoa!Whoa!Whoa!'s" later Lisa finally realized what it would take the close The Show. Her orgasms weren't going to do it. The Show goes
on no matter how many orgasms a woman has, real or not. The only thing stopping The Show is MY orgasm. So, Lisa wrapped her legs
around me and held me there until I brought down the curtain.
Pillow Talk
We layed there post coitus for what seemed like an hour. Finally...
"I sorry it took so long. After three children I'm about as wide as the Grand Canyon. I'm thinking about vaginal rejuvenation."
There you have it. We all have our fears and insecurities when it comes to sex. This was Lisa's. I'm sure she has nightmares of
guys just pumping away and whining, "I can't feel nothing!" Her wise crack about the Grand Canyon was just a feeble attempt at
self-deprecation. Better that it came out of her mouth than mine. It was also a trap. I had to tread lightly here. Some poor dolt
could easily step right into the snare thinking he was paying her a compliment.
"No, you're fine. Really snug." She'd never believe another word he said after that. Or if he was outright clueless...
"No, it was nice being with a real woman for a change and not have to worry about being too big." He might as well put his clothes back on.
"Hey," I said waiting for Lisa's eyes to meet mine. "Your body has changed. It's going to keep on changing. You're mourning a body
I never met. I don't give a damn about that body! This is the body giving me hard-ons. And I'm getting another one right now just thinking
about it."
I pulled her legs apart and entered her. Before I was five strokes along, she had flipped me on my back. The timid Lisa was gone, maybe
floating out to sea. This Lisa liked being on top. She kissed and nibbled my neck as she ground her wet, sloppy pussy all over my crotch.
Lisa may have wanted a tighter pussy, but what she needed was to lose herself in the power of her own sexuality, which she did.
And she wallowed in it like a pig in slop the rest of the afternoon.
Home Life
After the B&B, Lisa and I were officially "dating." But she was different. She updated her wardrobe with tight, form fitting blouses and
skirts. Her walk was different too - head back breast out, confident strides. I have a theory about this change in women. I call it the
Glass Cage Effect. When our family went on road trips when I was a kid, there were still roadside diners with rattlesnakes in glass cages.
The dare was to keep your hand pressed against the glass when the snake lunged at it. The reasoning part of your brain said this was safe,
there's thick glass between you and snake. But when you press your hand against the glass, the part of your brain that deals with survival
screams, "That creature is deadly!" Your heat rate soars and palms sweat as you wait for the snake to strike. You're being thrilled
by a paradox: safely living life on the edge. I was now the glass cage, and Lisa had her hand pressed firmly against the glass. She could
revel in her vibrant sexuality in room full of vipers. It was practically public masturbation. She was safely living life on the edge.
None of this bothered me in the least as long as I was the "lover." It was when she tried turning me into the "husband" that we butted
heads. Husbands get fucked every other month, blowjobs on their birthdays. Lovers get more sex than they can handle. Husbands have to earn sex. Lovers get it freely. I was upfront with Lisa from the start and was consistant about it. If I came over, there was going to be at least
five minutes of fucking. She was going to blow me for two and half minutes and then I was going to eat her pussy for two and half minutes
(I have a pretty good clock in my head). Then I'd go jerk off while her smell was still fresh on my face. I didn't care if she had a long or
hard day. I'm getting my five minutes or I'm going home. Need help with the kids, fine, as long as I get my five minutes. Need some empathy,
sympathy or just someone to talk to, you got it, as long as I get my five minutes. Now, to you more enlightened nimrods out there who think
such behavior is boorish, I'll see you on the Celebrity Bulletin. For those who don't know what the Celebrity Bulletin is, it's a public posting
of pictures of some of the communities more upstanding citizens by the Sheriff's Department. It seems every so often certain sections of some
of our finest cities are so overwhelmed by the business of prostitution, that it's nessessary to shame some of our otherwise more law-abiding
citizens into abstaining from the practice. You know, the ones ghetto shopping with the kid car seats in the back. Men who so respected
and cherished their wives that they wouldn't dream of demanding more sex from their already overburdened soul mates.
I'm not Bulletin material. Lisa and I had our fights and shouting matches. And I've walked out enough to be called just about every name you
can think of. Lisa may have been a little slow on the uptake but she eventually got it: Life is better when Cyrano gets his five minutes.
I didn't care if she saw it as a chore. Just add me to the list:
Put gas in the car.
Pick up Dry Cleaning
Grocery shop for dinner
Blow Cyrano
Cook dinner
Do laundry
I'll let you in on something those five minute sessions taught me: Orgasms are as involuntary as sneezes. There were days when I knew Lisa's
mind was elsewhere until she grabbed the back of my head just as I was about to pull away. Ding Ding Ding. You've just won five more minutes
ma'am. And then... aaaaaaaaachooo! Bless you. It was just her body telling her, instead of the other way around, that she needed a release.
A sneeze is the same. Your body is telling you it needs to expel a foreign object. Sometimes the five minutes had a delayed effect. Sex may have
been the farthest thing from Lisa's mind during those five minutes, but as she went about her chores, her lubricating pussy, and dampening
panties were forcing sex into her consciousness. On nights like that, the kids got sent to bed early and the rodeo came to town.
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