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.”