CLAYTON'S DESPAIR: COMPARE/CONTRAST

Clayton paused to catch his breath. Panting, he supported himself by means of his shaking hands, transferring the bulk of his weight's burden onto Christine's hips which he observed twitching, slowly inscribing two overlapping figure eights of anticipation by means of her luxurious rump - dotted with sweat and red from the repeated contact of its skin against forceful thrusts and slaps of his - further transferring pressure through her toned thighs to her knees, which delegate their responsibilities to the dingy stained futon mattress on the dirty dank floor, which distribute the weight through joists and beams to the foundation of the apartment building, laid in 1927 and distributing the weight of those getting laid there ever since. The figure eights - to be completely honest, they struck Clayton as instead infinity symbols, her ass seductively promising that the bliss of adrenaline and endorphins and sweat and skin and breasts and lips and moans could be his forever, that this time it wouldn't end with a cigarette and a sunrise, a nap, a goodbye kiss and an erection in the morning that he'd have to take care of himself in a much less erotic encounter. An eternity greatly to be desired.

Clayton shrugged away this thought, and resumed fucking this nearly impeccable specimen of female beauty and seductiveness briefly, his hands grasping her rosy mountains of upturned flesh, but paused again. Another thought had entered his head unannounced, and somehow he would have to uncover its full nature despite Christine's mewing for a renewal of their depravations. Still inside her, he inclined forward, accomplishing a multitude of actions in a simultaneity that narrative structure seems ill-equipped to handle, but so at once he reached with one hand - his right - for his beer on the foot locker-cum-nightstand while allowing his left to slip first laterally across Christine's ass, down across her hips, and then following the groove her belly, hip, thigh and pubic mound formed, that seductive "V" whose point is orgasmic. Rotating his left middle distal phalanx as if either describing the orbits of the planets around the sun, or perhaps coaxing a tone out of a crystal goblet 1cm in diameter, his right was able to bring the beer to his lips and so quench his parched throat's thirst. She moaned, loudly vocalizing a formant tone and not much else, A-flat above middle C.

He set the beer down, playfully slapped her quivering cheek and let out a chuckle; as she turned her head to look at him he flashed her a sly half grin, lower lip held in place on the left between his teeth, the right rising enough to cause his eye to narrow, eyes filled with perverse thoughts only appropriate in a situation such as this. Clayton swears he can literally FEEL a glimmer arise in them sometimes. As he glides his left palm now upwards, brushing past her left breast, its nipple a thick pink stalactite, he caresses her face gently and keeps grinning as she seductively begins to lick her own come off his finger.

The thought is back. This time he knows exactly what it is, and knows exactly what he has to do. Clayton grabs her breast tightly with one hand, her long dark hair nearly at the scalp as if he was going to smash her face into a concrete wall. Forcefully. In CPR classes you are taught that the mouth naturally opens when the head is bent toward the back. And but so while "yank" is probably a better word than "bend" in this situation, the effect is achieved. Clayton again leans forward towards her this time leaning enough that his head reaches hers and they kiss. As he nibbles her earlobe and whispers to her his love for her, he realizes he has no clue what that means.

********************************

Clayton reclined his head back so that he could watch Seinfeld, and cursed his father for killing himself before teaching Clayton about baseball. Millions of men all over North America have used the recall of memorized facts about baseball to delay ejaculation, but Clayton can't remember enough of them to grant himself an extra fifteen seconds in the sack. Instead, he watches TV.

Clayton, a self-absorbed misogynist if there ever was one, somehow made it through puberty and his sexual awakening not as an uncaring lover: he rarely rolled over to sleep after sex, unless he was very drunk; he usually offered oral services to his partner at some point during an encounter, understanding that the vast majority of women cannot come without it; while not harboring any serious fetishes or kinks himself(1), he always considered himself to be open minded about them, and certainly would not begrudge another theirs, and, barring anything that might cause him bodily injury or more-than-minor discomfort, was more than willing to indulge his partner's predilections. So why then, was Clayton paying more attention to Seinfeld than to the Hoover vacuum of a girl currently attached to his flaccid cock?

Clayton racked his brain on this. Certainly an odd position for a borderline sex-addict to be in, actively trying to stay limp so that he wouldn't have to fuck. He had just had sex with her not 10 minutes ago, and suddenly he understood all the complaints his ex-girlfriends made about his insatiable appetite. He wanted to send some of them whom he was now discovering he had seriously transgressed against a nice handwritten note of apology.

Dear Heather Lee,


I know that you would be most delighted in your life if I never was a part of it again, as you made more than passing mention to the effect of some three years ago, however a great and onerous burden has been placed on my heart and I knew that to clear mmyself of it I would have to contact you, and, seeing as how this is a note of apology, I apologize for that as well as for the reasons which I will elucidate below. Think of it as working the eighth step, if you have to.



I have come to the realization that my persistance in pestering you for sexual favors multiple times during the day and often soon after one had already been given was rude, inconsiderate, and most supremely annoying. I apologize for my behavior and humbly wish to offer my recompense if any restitution can be made to right this wrong.



Sincerely

Clayton



PS: you are still a fucking cunt whore and i still hope you rot in hell after a life of utter misery.

Still, though. Usually Clayton was the one begging for another round. It's not that she was unattractive; she wasn't his usual type, and wasn't nearly the arm-candy he generally went after, but he'd done worse before without any sort of dreading of the sexual act. The sex itself wasn't bad, either. Nothing mind-blowing or earth-shattering about it, but that was rare even with the best of his conquests. Even Christine couldn't promise a touch-the-face-of-God orgasm every time. She(the one fellating Clayton as he thinks) was a good friend and Clayton appreciated her for that. What was it? Something was missing, and he just couldn't put his finger on it.

************
NOTES & ERRATA

(1) Emphasis on "serious". Glasses, facial piercings, French maid-style dresses, thigh-high stockings or socks (especially with patterns like paisley or plaid, fishnets not so much), the clichéd Catholic schoolgirl uniform which Clayton excuses himself by explaining that he DID attend Catholic school so it's more of a nostalgia for a time when hormones flared their most firery than some sordid desire to fuck postpubescent teenage minors, small breasts, short women, female ejaculation, orgasm delay/denial, hot wax, corsets, hair pulling, biting/scratching, light bondage, etc. Point is, he can get off just fine without them, and so they can't be that serious.