Page 15 of The Couch Where It Happens

His eyes went even wider, and his mouth opened. And then I sank onto his cock and wiggled and slowed, because he was that huge, he really was, and then I sank again, until I felt him hit deep. We hung like that for a long time, locked in each other’s gazes while our bodies locked together. But then instinct overwhelmed us. I started to rise, but his hands squeezed my rib cage, pulling me down at the same time he pushed up. That massive cock went deeper, so fucking deep I thought he must have reached my throat, because he stole my voice.

Suddenly, we were pounding at each other and making all the groans, all the skin-slapping noises, the couch creaks and oxygen-seeking gasps, all of it. I was loud, and I urged him to go faster. The friction, the pressure, the fullness, all of it made me keep shouting for him to fuck me harder. When he shoutedyes, YES, like a front-row fan, that’s when my brain and lungs and heart all squeezed to my pussy until I didn’t think anything remained for basic life functions. But I do remember seeing him when he pushed up hardest into me, shuddered, and froze. I didn’t know a man’s neck muscles could bulge that far, that a pulse in a forehead could look that visible, or that a man bitinghis own lip could be the sexiest face in the universe. I will never forget that sight. His teeth digging into his lower lip. Damaging himself at the same time his cock was pinning me.

And then I watched all that tension wash away as his body sank into the cushions.

This was amazing.

He was amazing.

I woke up in an empty bed long after the early morning birds had moved on to their busy chirping day and the sun had risen too high to slant through my windows. Last night was a memoir written with whisker scratches on my chest and printed on the tenderness between my legs. The scent of sex filled my bedroom, but the apartment felt quiet. At least a coffee aroma lingered at the edges.

While I had been insensate, he’d made a pot of coffee, tucked a piece of paper under the edge of the machine, and left. The only part of the note I truly remember is his signature—Eric. I felt oddly uncomfortable that I hadn’t known his name, odder when I realized he still didn’t know mine.

He wrote that he was in Manhattan for another few days and left a phone number, but said he didn’t know what his dorm phone would be in the fall. If I wanted to call him, it should be before Monday.

The phone on the kitchen wall rang, spoiling my next sip of coffee. I set Eric’s note on the counter and picked up the handset.

“Hello?” A tiny thread of excitement in my chest told me I hoped it was Eric.

“Oh, baby girl, you sound congested. Did you get a summer cold? Those are terrible, terrible. Do I need to bring you my special soup? I can catch the ferry.”

My mother. “No, no, I don’t have a cold. I just got up.”

“It’s after nine! I thought you had to work over at that mansion of yours.” I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder and moved toward the refrigerator for the milk while she segued into a monologue about one of my brothers.

I still don’t know exactly how it happened, even though I can see the slow-motion replay, see the spiral cord from the phone snag the handle of the coffee carafe, see the machine shift on the counter when I took another step. I froze, and tried to reach for it, but it was too tangled, or maybe I was. Before I could get there, the whole apparatus fell forward.

The piece of paper fluttered after it.

“Shit!”

“What was that?” My mother screeched. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

The dark liquid started to seep through Eric’s note. I wanted to rush over and grab it, but glass shards were strewn everywhere, and I had bare feet.

“Ma, the coffee pot fell.” The paper was fully soaked. “Gotta go. I have to clean up.”

By the time I was able to fish the note out of the puddle, it was illegible brown pulp.

That’s the reason I’m writing for advice about my poetry-reading, football-playing, thermodynamic sex machine. In a few weeks, we’ll both return to the same small university in New Jersey. Part of me wants to straddle that Pacific Coast boy and compose shitty couplets about crashing waves instead of seeking deeper connection with the writings of Daniel Defoe. I could take him to a dark corner of The Annex for a beer, I could lock us in a library study carrel, I could meet him at the Allosaurus skeleton in Guyot Hall and order him to bone me. There’s a lot I can think of to do with him and that giant cock during a full academic year.

But I tipped over the fucking coffee and can’t read his phone number.

Here’s my question for theHot ShortzReaders: should I wait for fall semester and check out the football roster? Or should I call over to Dickwad Next Door’s house and ask for the Manhattan phone number of the Exeter guy who has a subletter from Princeton?

Even writing those words makes me shudder. I need fast advice!

Signed,

Brooke in the Hamptons

Chapter 4

The good underwear

Emma flipped the magazinepage. Despite the apparent ending, the letter felt incomplete. No, that was wrong.Shefelt incomplete, like someone took a KitchenAid whisk attachment and put air and a shit-ton of sugar in her egg whites and jiggled her for far too long, but never cranked on the oven, and she’d become a puddle of meringue waiting to deflate. De-fucking-flate.

She spread her palm and fingers across her chest, below her throat, trying to determine whether her heart was pounding as much as she suspected, but because of her T-shirt, she could only establish that her chest was rising and falling more rapidly than she’d expected. That, and her lips were dry, and she really wanted a glass of water.

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