The Cube People by Christian McPherson Page B

tone. I recognize she hasn’t been feeling well and our infertility issues always seem to be at the forefront of her mind. Still, if we’re going to do it, then she could at least pretend she’s interested, no? Somehow she seems to have sensed what I was thinking, or maybe she hadn’t asked as coldly as I first thought, because she smiles a naughty smile and saunters over to me ever so slowly, undoing the buttons on her blouse. When she reaches me standing in the living room, she cups my crotch in her hand and bites me lightly on the neck. I feel Marvin fill with blood. I smell Sarah’s hair and I become rock hard. She undoes my pants, pulls down my underwear, and pushes me backward onto the couch. She peels off her own panties, but leaves her skirt on, just hikes it a bit as she straddles me. Her shirt is open but her bra is still on. I play with her nipple through the black fabric. She throws her head back, mouth slack, moaning. Sadly after only a few minutes of this I can’t take any more – it’s been a few weeks since we made love. “Sorry honey, but I have to cum,” I whisper to her.
    Her eyes widen and she becomes focused, as if she’s been faking it the whole time. “Quick, turn over, let me be on bottom,” she says, getting off me. I do as she asks, then quickly get back in. The position change slows me down. “Aren’t you going to cum?” she asks.
    â€œJust give me a minute, will you?” She bites my ear. She knows I enjoy this. I cum.
    â€œWait,” she says grabbing my ass, “don’t pull out yet. Stay inside a little longer. Make sure you get everything out.”
    So I do. “Are we good now?” I ask after a minute has elapsed.
    â€œYes, but pull out slowly, try not to suck any sperm back out.”
    â€œIt’s a penis, not a vacuum cleaner.” She doesn’t respond to this. As soon as I’m out, she kicks her legs high and braces her bum into the air with her hands on her hips, elbows and shoulders on the couch in a bicycle gym exercise form.
    She turns her head to me, “Good work baby. I don’t want to let any fall out. If you want, you can grab me by the legs and try to shake it down,” she offers, bouncing her bum ever so slightly, trying to do just that, shake it down.
    â€œI think you’re probably good,” I wheeze, pulling up my underwear and flopping back on one of the living room chairs.
    â€œIs Dateline on tonight?” she asks me, legs still high in the air.
    Day 12
    After work we meet up at her favourite Italian restaurant in the Market, Mamma Grazzi’s. After the first glass of wine, the stress of work leaves my body. “I fucking hate my job,” I tell Sarah.
    â€œI know baby. Why don’t you look for something else?”
    â€œI want to be a writer.”
    â€œI know honey. Why don’t you try working for a newspaper or something?”
    â€œBecause I took computer science, not journalism.”
    â€œWhy don’t you write about computers for a computer magazine?”
    â€œI’m sick to death of computers. I can’t stand them. When you have to do something, it takes the joy right out of it.”
    At that moment the waiter comes by with our appetizer. When he leaves she asks me, “How’s the new book coming along?”
    â€œFine, I guess.”
    â€œWhy don’t you write something different? A work of science fiction has never won the Giller.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œMaggie Woodland would never write a book like that.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? She wrote The Cranky Ox and The Latte Maid’s Hand – they’re both science fiction.”
    â€œYeah, but they definitely weren’t her best. She’d never write something so, well, trashy.”
    I pour myself another big glass of wine. “Thanks for that.”
    â€œOh, don’t be mad, honey. I didn’t