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Originally written 12/04/2004

After a rather vigorous bout of lovemaking he turned to her and said, “I can always tell when you’re not faking it. All of your vaginal muscles contract and I get simultanelously crushed and squeezed out by this wonderful vice.”

The evening had been going well with a stroll in the park and a light dinner. The drinks at his place and then the sex. She had been feeling pretty good about things, great in fact and had begun to believe that this relationship was worth salvaging after all. She was wtill catching her breath so she didn’t respond right away getting her bearings as it were, but as his works melted and spread across her consciousness, they stung a little bit. “I don’t fake it,” she said, a little indignant.

“Not anymore,” he said, “but before your coarsework, you would be like, oh-oh-oh, hands all fluttering – hey can you refill my drink.”

Okay, she thought, he has me there, and she wasn’t afrid to admit it, but she countered, “Doesn’t faking it just reward poor performance?” It was an academic question, but once the words left her mouth she realized the deeper implications. She smiled on the inside, that secret one that no one ever sees.

“Completely,” he agreed, and she could tell by the sudden hardset of his eyes that she caught the unintentional but nonetheless underlying meaning as well – if she had to fake it, he was guilty of phoning in his performance. He let the subject drop.

She didn’t need to fake it, hadn’t had to in years. Her imagination was so fertile, even the most banal and mundane of sexual actions could turn it into the Chinease basket maneuver, complete with acrobats spinning silk and a fire-breathing dragon.

Once, before him and the him before him, her body had begun to come alive and sex became something to look forward to, instead of a chore like the dishes or laundry. There was the briefest of relationships lasting in total about an hour and a half. A coffee, a kiss, and suddenly both were naked. His body showed promise in the beginning and he was nicely shaped and longer than she was used to, but he lacked flair. She knew sex with him would be like driving a ’69 Mustang at a painfully 35 miles-per-hour. She caught herself slipping into the old mode of “hmmm, sex, wonder what’s on Oprah.” She needed that ride over with and soon.

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Just this fox. I'm a writer of horror and dark fantasy. I totally don't brag about it. The latter statement is an utter lie.
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