Rod Roddenberg, The World’s Worst Erotica Writer

An excerpt from You Make Me So Hard, Hard­er than AP Physics, from Rod Rod­den­berg, The World’s Worst Erot­i­ca Writer

We lay on the couch, and I began by whis­per­ing “fal­lop­i­an tube, fal­lop­i­an tube” into her ear.

“Aur­al sex,” she yam­mered.

“I hope you don’t get hear­ing AIDS,” I yam­mered back.

Her body was an instrument—a syn­the­siz­er from the Thomp­son Twins’ “Hold Me Know” video—and I played it like a syn­the­siz­er play­er, hit­ting the notes that made her body twitch, like a rab­bit recent­ly hit by a dis­tract­ed dri­ver.

“How about you play the organ?” I said, seduc­tive­ly.

“How about I don’t?” she answered reluc­tant­ly.

We lay togeth­er, spoon­ing you might call it, but it was more sexy than that. Fork­ing. I kept say­ing “How about if you do?” and she, in rhythm with my urgency, respond­ed each time, “How about if I don’t?” I nev­er felt more alive.

An hour lat­er, she took off her sweater. Only four lay­ers to go. 

“My engorged mem­ber!” I said, tak­ing both of us off guard.

She ban­daged my injured thumb, and we returned to our sexy busi­ness, one that didn’t require open­ing a brief case but instead involved tak­ing off briefs, mean­ing our under­wear. But we were far from that point in the pro­ceed­ings.

“Bite me,” she said.

“Sit on this,” I answered, “and rotate.”

We sound­ed like Pot­sy and Ralph Malph from Hap­py Days, that’s how close we’d become. 

Final­ly, we began to grind against each oth­er, two parts of a garbage dis­pos­al when a cher­ry pit gets in between the blades. 

She moaned, and I met each moan with a moan of my own.

Her breath­ing got very fast, her hot exhales burn­ing against me, like the warm wind of a hot vol­cano. And my lava was get­ting molten, too.

Her body trem­bled against mine, taut then not.

“I faked it,” she said. 

“Me, too,” I answered, col­laps­ing next to her. “Me too.”