classically,
concentrating,
hosted,
central,
splinter,
elevated,
extended,
generate,
transatlantic,
legalization

classically,
concentrating,
hosted,
central,
splinter,
elevated,
extended,
generate,
transatlantic,
legalization

classically,
concentrating,
hosted,
central,
splinter,
elevated,
extended,
generate,
transatlantic,
legalization

classically,
concentrating,
hosted,
central,
splinter,
elevated,
extended,
generate,
transatlantic,
legalization

classically,
concentrating,
hosted,
central,
splinter,
elevated,
extended,
generate,
transatlantic,
legalization

classically,
concentrating,
hosted,
central,
splinter,
elevated,
extended,
generate,
transatlantic,
legalization

classically,
concentrating,
hosted,
central,
splinter,
elevated,
extended,
generate,
transatlantic,
legalization

classically,
concentrating,
hosted,
central,
splinter,
elevated,
extended,
generate,
transatlantic,
legalization

We had, as they say in Hollywood, met cute. Three months before, I’d been waiting in line at the local Hyundai (don’t ask) service department. Lines at Hyundai service departments tend to be long, and to generate waves of mutually reinforcing ill will. Some of the other drivers and I were standing around trading horror stories about our adventures with the cream of Korean automotive engineering.

She came out of the salesroom, escorted by a lizard who was born to the occupation. The lizard was talking and steering her toward the new car lot. She was clearly concentrating closely on what he said.

She glanced my way and, without thinking, I shouted, "You’re about to make a really expensive mistake!"

The lizard’s jaw dropped. She stopped walking and considered me, and what I’d just said. Then she started laughing. She said something to the lizard, who slinked back into the showroom.

She came over. With a twinkle in her eye: "Just what do you think you’re doing?" Petite, proportioned, pale, with waist length black hair that she wore straight and down.

"Trying to save you some money."

She looked away, as if considering whether this were worth pursuing. Apparently having decided, she looked back. "Maybe you did. That’s my brother. We were going to the snack bar so he could explain to me why I should lend him five hundred dollars."

It was my jaw’s turn. I felt the blush. I started to stammer an apology.

"Not the first time. But he’s my elder brother. I’ve looked up to him all my life. He asks. I give." She looked thoughtful, opened her small purse, took out a name card, and gave it to me. "Call me."

She walked away to a round of applause from the circle of aggrieved Hyundai drivers who’d been our audience.

. . .

Meant to be? Who knows. I called, and we quickly realized we fit together like any linking cliché you might think of: lock and key, hand and glove, car and driver.

Now, um, we’re edging in the direction of the punchline which, as with all stories, is the raison d’être behind this story. Though some stories have their punchline in the middle (think "Hamlet"), this one is definitely at the end. And I’m definitely steering us, pedal on metal, in that direction.

Perfect fit. No love. Perfect fit. Some affection? Yes, of course. Passion? Well, a lot of that if you call hormonal hurricanes "passion."

How to put this? When I say "perfect fit" what I mean is, sex with her was like masturbation with somebody else’s hand except that hand understands you perfectly, knows what/where/when/how/how long/how firmly to touch every time, all the time.

You know how it seems some actors are born to play certain roles? It seemed we were born to have sex together. The first few weeks our pursuit of orgasm was not just central to our lives. It was our lives. Was it great sex then? No. That came later. Great sex, like great Zen, requires completely attentive inattentiveness (ho-ho, gotcha!). The early stuff was just us eagerly scrambling to get the old rocks off in all classically recommended positions.

Then she started in on her own agenda with me. For the longest time, I didn’t see what was happening. We were still pulling a lot of all nighters, but the number of actual orgasms was decreasing. She’d get us to the point, right to the moment, then back off, pause, begin again, get really close, pause, back off. And so on. To cum, then, finally, after an hour, two hours, three hours, to cum then was an exercise in extended ecstasy.

Pull out all the old pulp fiction descriptions of sex, dig up Henry Miller, take another look at the blue ball sublimated stuff in Shakespeare’s sonnets: None of that comes close to what she taught me to experience. I’d finally cum and, and, and, I, my self exploded. Shards of me, I imagined went transatlantic, transpacific, trans-earth, trans-solar system. And roar? Oh, I’d roar, not with pain or joy, just the sound of energy pouring out, like Niagara.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to get into the literary mode like that, but the memories, the memories do stir other memories.

Where did it come from, sex like this? How did we know to do it this way? She never talked much about her past. There was apparently an extended liaison with an Indian hawking trinkets outside Macchu Picchu, who may’ve taught her things undreamt of in American suburbia. And for my own part, there had been one particular vacation encounter with Siroticeth, a remarkable lady boy in Bangkok whose tricks of the trade were, in several ways, encyclopedic. Plus various information gleaned from web sites hosted apparently by very well-read, precocious cub scouts, along with the usual, usually misunderstood Tantric texts.

With practice came near-perfection. The frantic pursuit of frequent fast cumming changed to the cool, professional pursuit of the Good, True, and Beautiful Orgasm. Though we never discussed it, once a week soon seemed about right for both of us, and our schedules were such that Saturday night was it.

. . .

Which gets us back to the night where we started: the last Saturday night. Yes, it’s true. This story has an abrupt ending—but not sad! Stay with me.

As I said at the beginning, we’d been going out at for several hours that Saturday night, all over her room, up, down, rightside up, upside down, every which way.

Better and better. If you’ve never done this (and I am certain from the wild, destructive insanity that still fills the world, very few people have), you get to a place, a kind of high, slick plateau of sliding pleasure. Your cock, not permanently hard, is your body and your body is your cock. A touch anywhere is a touch everywhere. And a few more touches will take you right over the edge. Boundaries cease to exist. It first becomes difficult to say where your body stops and your partner’s body starts. After another hour or so, the very limit of your skin dissolves and the inanimate world, the objects around you become part of the great wave of pleasure on which your are surfing.

That’s where we’d got to that night. The only unusual thing about the evening—except what was about to happen—that I recall was a brief interlude when we actually talked (usually there was almost no talk). Catching her breath, she commented, I remember, that what we were actually doing was sort of forming a two person guerrilla movement to promote the legalization of sex. Not the fake commercial sex of capitalism, not the hokey gooey sex of pop culture glop, not the fake, lost poets' dreams of paradise enow, but this, the Real Thing. Legalize this, she said, and the world changes.

Well. Yes, and no, as we were about to find out. Or at least, I was about to find out.

After that little pause, we got back to it. And along about 5 a.m., things were humming along nicely. We were back in bed or half in bed anyway, for a change, in an easy arrangement. Her legs on my shoulders, she on the edge of the bed. Me crouched on the floor. Joined. The least movement, the tiniest shift, the smallest muscle twitch, produced paroxysms of pleasure in both of us. Mostly we were still, very still. Every few minutes one of us would do something very small, and we would both moan. The only other sounds were our breathing, and a slight squish from our bodies’ abundant lubricants when we moved.

To maintain the closeness of contact, the deep joining, I was doing a slight push, with my bare feet pressed against the floor.

That, my friends, was the situation when her mother, who was not due home for another couple of hours (the hospital shift changed at 7 a.m.), walked into the apartment.

I heard the front door, immediately knew what was happening. Discovery was not in prospect. Her mother would have no reason to come into her room at this hour.

The problem was, um, release. Disengagement.

We heard her mother in the living room, then in her own, adjacent bedroom, just the other side of a paper thin wall. We heard the preparations for bed, ablutions in the bathroom, the click of the light switch, bed creaking, arranging of covers. And silence.

And this, please remember, while we were both still very much on that high, high plain of intense pleasure, moments, milliseconds, nanoseconds away from the Really Big O. Believe me, when you build to it like this, there’s no backing away. No "Let’s just wait a few minutes and then we quietly disengage and get on with our lives." You get to this point and there is no retreat, no reverse gear. There is only Forward. If you want to go, you got to cum first.

We were no doubt exchanging volumes of information silently, with our eyes, though I have no memory of that. Because, as we listened to her mother make her inexcusably slow preparations for bed, I had become aware that my left foot, my left big toe to be exact, had come in close contact with a splinter on the floor. The splinter was oriented such that the pressure I was using to maintain total intromission was dangerously close to causing the splinter to in fact penetrate the old very real, nerve-filled skin boundary in the most basic, painful, physical way.

Yet, if I moved my foot, which would require moving my leg, that, I knew, would be quite enough to send us both over the edge into the maelstrom which, by clock time, would last a good five or ten minutes.

Five or ten minutes punctuated (I remind you) by the 120-decibel roarings of both parties.

No matter how exhausted Mom might be, no matter how fast asleep she already was, she would quickly be not asleep at all but on her way in to see what was up (indeed) in daughter’s bedroom.

Trapped.

If I moved, off we’d both go. If I didn’t move, Mr. Splinter and I were going to become one. Were, in fact, already becoming one, with excruciating slowness.

It hurt. It really hurt. And the pain flowed up from my big toe, through my foot, up my leg and somehow made its way right into Mr. Big himself, all red, engorged, proudly ready to do what he was designed to do. Some kind of mix that I had never experienced was happening, some pain-pleasure thing?

Couldn’t take it. I had to move my foot.

I did, and I slipped. Foot went the wrong way. Splinter entered toe. Penis-vagina, body and body went critical and then beyond critical real fast.

Roaring, moaning, thrashing, jism fountain, vagina clinch, more roaring, more moaning. Door opening, Mom coming in, screaming.

The cumming, like I say, once it starts, it doesn’t stop.

Mom screams a while, then figures out her screaming is not having any effect. She stops screaming and stares. We’re still busy cumming away, as if she’s not there. Mom backs out, goes into another room.

Finally the Big Surf begins to subside. Down, down, down.

We disengage, avoiding each other’s eyes. I look down. My toe is a bloody mess and hurts like hell.

We get dressed. I flee out the front door.

. . .

Next day, I called. The number was disconnected. Went to the apartment. They’d moved out. Monday I called her job. She was gone.

My toe got better. I didn’t. Because (how to say this), something shifted that night.

I was impotent. Completely, 100% limp. Not even a pee hard on when I woke up mornings. Some trauma, huh? I was still horny, hornier than ever in a way, but my body wouldn’t let me do anything about it.

What a mess. Life went on, dully, boringly, but it did go on.

Then the middle of the night I was stumbling back to bed after peeing I stubbed my toe on my coffee table. Yes, that toe. Right big toe collided hard with wooden coffee table leg.

Hurt like hell. For maybe half a second. Then Mr. Big suddenly lived up to his nickname, SPROING!, and he was ready to play. Toe throbbed. He throbbed. I stroked. We throbbed. We came. Very nicely.

Thus my new life: wood, toe, pain, and one happy Mr. Big. It can be plain wood, or sharp wood (toothpicks, I learned, work really well). Any wood will do as long as it comes in sudden contact with old toe, and then I’m there, with no worries about partner, or partner’s mom.

Except for this recounting, my secret will die with me. Maybe there are others? Why should I look. Who can possibly do for me what this one little splinter I’m holding will do for me as soon as I stop writing and press it hard into my right big toe?

END

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