Love Doesn't Work by Henning Koch Page B

about ten minutes, then put her hand on my crotch.
    “Archie. This is not working for me,” I said.
    She gave me a murderous look, slid down on the floor, unzipped me and parted my legs, then fellated me until it became necessary for me to issue a little cautionary note, which she ignored, keeping her eyes firmly drilled into mine throughout the whole ghastly experience.
    She rolled onto the sofa, sighed with relief and rested her head in my lap. “That was the first part,” she said. “I can file that away now. For later use.”
    I was still hyperventilating. “Mental sex?”
    “Correct.” She looked at me. “I may never need to suck cock again for as long as I live.”
    I smiled, finding myself a little more at ease with her, and the situation. “What would Jimmy have to say about that?”
    “Oh let’s not talk about him.”
    After a few minutes she started peeling off her clothes. She was every bit as exquisite as I had thought. Her dun skin was velvety, and down below, her dark hair had been carefully shaved to reveal a dusky, sensitized ridge.
    Before long she was straddling me, revolving her powerful haunches and grinding herself against me. Surprisingly, I revived instantly. I felt her pubic bone, her sharpness against my crotch, as we contracted and pulsed together.
    I was a man of forty-four, but never in my whole life had I had such a powerful erotic experience. Yet however hard I worked, Archie never seemed quite satisfied. She would roll onto her back, parting her legs as if to cool the super-heated gates to her musk-scented kingdom.
    At one point when I was brazen enough to suggest we might take a coffee-break, maybe with a few biscuits or a leg of lamb or something, she grinned at me and said, “Fine, but first I could go for another go.”
    I felt myself glaring at her, in disbelief. “Don’t you ever get tired?”
    “What do you want me to do? I like fucking. I like fucking with you. Amazing, isn’t it? Poor old Scrooge, he can’t accept the good things life offers him.” Her gorgeous amber-hued eyes glowed at me. I felt I had never seen anything quite so beautiful in all my life. I inclined my head and pressed my lips reverentially to her hand.
    These antics continued for several days, all heady and new. I didn’t need any encouragement, almost felt I was receiving an education. I found myself confronting a sort of prurience in myself, confirming something I had always known: I am no sexual explorer. For instance, it gave me no great pleasure to have to penetrate her from behind, whilst she straddled the floor like a dog and exposed her odoriferous rump. Call me a prude, but I have no great regard for such practices.
    In the evenings, after these sexual marathons, we ate plenty of beef and seafood and salad, then slept like Trojans.
    After a week I was exhausted. By the seventh day, the mere sight of her made me feel like a galleon slave at the approach of the Empress.
     
    VIII
    Finally, we had the post-mortem.
    “I think your feelings for me have abated somewhat,” she said.
    “I’m tired, I suppose.”
    “It’s so much more than that, Chuck. Isn’t it?”
    “It’s exhaustion.”
    “No. It’s matter.”
    I looked at her, interested in spite of myself. “What do you mean by that?”
    “The inherent imperfection of matter.” She flashed a sudden smile. “The old dualist problem. The body is the abode of the incarcerated soul, doomed to wait for its release. Every sexual act, even within the bonds of marriage, is a spiritual transgression.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “The way I see sex is, it’s a degrading act between two people looking for misplaced ecstasy. In the end, the unfortunate by-product of sex is another imprisoned soul subject to the very same pull of Lucifer; and so the world of matter prolongs itself, like an alcoholic who can’t stop drinking.”
    “Does sex really have to be so very degrading? I mean, are you sure you’re not exaggerating all this. Is it