Uhhh, I just dug up my infamous “first novel.” Sorry I have to do this to you, but I really, really do. Laughing at yourself with yourself by yourself is not as satisfying as it should be.
I have sex with Sam and as far as sex goes it’s basically standard. The kissing-with-intent, the self consciously consuming passion, the first genital contact alien and formal as a UN handshake, but far from bad, it’s just not anything except sex. The usual series of sophomoric writhings, little breathless whimpers, my weak almost-an-almost-an-orgasm achieved during the dry hump phase, his premature ejaculation, the post-premature-ejaculation-apologies, noncommitally tender caresses, spooning, faux-sleep, real sleep. Sex, sex, sex, blah, blah, blah. I’ve had better times with my hand and PJ Harvey.
Oh, Sam. I’ve betrayed you at the last like you always knew I would. I think of your free espressos and shiny smiles and clean shirts and heartless manipulation and unreturned phone calls and casual sex with hippie girls and contort motionlessly in an agonized pathos between these itchy motel sheets because none of it helped, Sam, and I suspect you must be heartbroken. But I don’t really. I don’t even get that much out of it.
Sweet dreams, internet! I’ll be over here, contorting motionlessly in an agonized pathos.
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