guess. I do some math in my head, not one of my fortes, so it takes a minute. Jonathon will be in his sixties. I strum my fingers against my lips. Kind of old for this kind of thing… I strum my lips again. At exactly what point in my life did I start to think that age has anything to do with sex? I’ve almost completely disassociated the two; as if once you reach a certain age you can’t have sex anymore. Have I reached that age? Now that’s just pitiful , Vagina chirps in, making fun of my imaginary rules.
As the afternoon pans by, I nervously await the call from Patty. I feel like a sorority girl waiting on Bid Day, and I pace, dust, and fidget. But as I wander about the house, Vagina starts discussing orgasms. Funny how she starts up conversations but rarely allows anyone else to talk. But as she talks she begins twitching again. I stop at the top of the stairs, with my microfiber duster in hand, and speak to her, “Why do you keep doing that?”
Doing what? She answers innocently. Though we all know she’s far from that.
“Twitching!” I respond annoyed that I’m standing in my upstairs foyer speaking out loud to my Vagina.
Exercising! Don’t you think we should get in shape for this?
Oh for Pete’s sake I can’t believe this. “Well cut it out!” I speak to her as though she’s one of my rebellious children.
No, and she keeps twitching.
“I said cut it out.” I demand now because her constant ‘exercises’ are making it hard for me to think anymore and lust is moving through my veins.
And I said no, she responds with an air of complete defiance. But she manages to push a thought upwards into my mind. There is a box, stored somewhere in the attic, that still holds a plastic vibrator that Simmons bought me sometime between Jennifer and Simmons Junior; a feeble effort to renew my interest back then. I guess when it didn’t serve any purpose it was relegated to storage, but I think of it now. With Vagina in control, I climb the stairs to the media room that has been nearly forgotten since the kids moved out. Sliding the sofa forward, I open the small doorway to the attic storage space. The box isn’t hidden; it just says ‘Master bedroom’ in black sharpie marker on the side. I pull it forward and dig through it in search of the antique dildo, and I’m rewarded when my hand finds its hard outer shell right away.
Within moments it’s been washed with antibacterial soap from the sink at the bar and is wearing brand new batteries, formerly owned by the remote. On the couch I sense Vagina moaning already; she’s like a jaguar spotting a wild boar stalling by the stream. I swear she’s drooling. So I turn on the toy and press it against her mute sister Clitoris. They are twins, but you’d never know it; one’s a chatter box while the other sits politely until she’s asked a question. I respect that. Though deaf, she responds to vibrations extremely well. My nipples perk as she spreads her joy to all other parts of me. Yet as I lean back on the sofa to enjoy the sensations she shares with me, Vagina begins her uproar, and she’s getting more and more pissed by the second. She wants her twin’s toy and she wants it now. What am I to do? I only have this one toy? On the couch next to me is the forgotten duster, I grab it and ignoring what germs the handle must contain I shove it in her mouth. It’s instinct, a bad one no doubt, but it quiets her like a pacifier while her twin Clitoris enjoys a bit of time with ‘Mr. Vibrator.’ Of course within no time Vagina is at it again, asking to push her toy deeper, deeper, she demands. I comply like a brow beaten mother, plunging myself with the duster while Clitoris and her toy send me into orgasm after orgasm until I collapse into the thick cushions of the sofa. Relaxation finally finds me and I sit silently with the duster in one hand and the buzzing vibrator in the
As the afternoon pans by, I nervously await the call from Patty. I feel like a sorority girl waiting on Bid Day, and I pace, dust, and fidget. But as I wander about the house, Vagina starts discussing orgasms. Funny how she starts up conversations but rarely allows anyone else to talk. But as she talks she begins twitching again. I stop at the top of the stairs, with my microfiber duster in hand, and speak to her, “Why do you keep doing that?”
Doing what? She answers innocently. Though we all know she’s far from that.
“Twitching!” I respond annoyed that I’m standing in my upstairs foyer speaking out loud to my Vagina.
Exercising! Don’t you think we should get in shape for this?
Oh for Pete’s sake I can’t believe this. “Well cut it out!” I speak to her as though she’s one of my rebellious children.
No, and she keeps twitching.
“I said cut it out.” I demand now because her constant ‘exercises’ are making it hard for me to think anymore and lust is moving through my veins.
And I said no, she responds with an air of complete defiance. But she manages to push a thought upwards into my mind. There is a box, stored somewhere in the attic, that still holds a plastic vibrator that Simmons bought me sometime between Jennifer and Simmons Junior; a feeble effort to renew my interest back then. I guess when it didn’t serve any purpose it was relegated to storage, but I think of it now. With Vagina in control, I climb the stairs to the media room that has been nearly forgotten since the kids moved out. Sliding the sofa forward, I open the small doorway to the attic storage space. The box isn’t hidden; it just says ‘Master bedroom’ in black sharpie marker on the side. I pull it forward and dig through it in search of the antique dildo, and I’m rewarded when my hand finds its hard outer shell right away.
Within moments it’s been washed with antibacterial soap from the sink at the bar and is wearing brand new batteries, formerly owned by the remote. On the couch I sense Vagina moaning already; she’s like a jaguar spotting a wild boar stalling by the stream. I swear she’s drooling. So I turn on the toy and press it against her mute sister Clitoris. They are twins, but you’d never know it; one’s a chatter box while the other sits politely until she’s asked a question. I respect that. Though deaf, she responds to vibrations extremely well. My nipples perk as she spreads her joy to all other parts of me. Yet as I lean back on the sofa to enjoy the sensations she shares with me, Vagina begins her uproar, and she’s getting more and more pissed by the second. She wants her twin’s toy and she wants it now. What am I to do? I only have this one toy? On the couch next to me is the forgotten duster, I grab it and ignoring what germs the handle must contain I shove it in her mouth. It’s instinct, a bad one no doubt, but it quiets her like a pacifier while her twin Clitoris enjoys a bit of time with ‘Mr. Vibrator.’ Of course within no time Vagina is at it again, asking to push her toy deeper, deeper, she demands. I comply like a brow beaten mother, plunging myself with the duster while Clitoris and her toy send me into orgasm after orgasm until I collapse into the thick cushions of the sofa. Relaxation finally finds me and I sit silently with the duster in one hand and the buzzing vibrator in the
Similar Books
