Reading "The year of fucking badly"
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Reading: The mammoth book of quick and dirty erotica - part 13 "The year of fucking badly" Whilst: Up in the attic This is a series of reading erotica books whilst being in the nude. Today, I read in candlelight in the nude.
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The Year of Fucking Badly
There is no such thing as bad sex.
I say to no one in particular.
We're at the big oval table at the Empress Gardens
eating dim sum to celebrate the Chinese New Year when it all begins.
It's the beginning of the year of the ox.
A year that is supposed to bring the promise of new discoveries or maybe fertility.
I forget.
"Of course, there is Kenner, my friend," Bill replies.
"Bad sex."
"Bill, most anything that moves," to put it mildly,
"what exactly would you do to show me bad sex?
Take me home and fuck me for five minutes?"
In the missionary position and then roll over and say goodnight.
I don't talk this way around work, of course.
Where I wear my wavy red hair up in a bun,
skip the leather and leave the contacts home for my everyday glasses.
Bill offers to **** me if I want, which hurts my brain to think about.
Everybody knows **** is not about sex.
If I let him ******?
It seems to supply bare bones details.
It gasps and then trails off into, and it was so awful.
I'm racking my brain for a story of my own.
As my turn arrives, I think about the worst situation I can remember.
The guy I married when I was 18, my manic depressive young husband.
I remember getting divorced from him at 20.
I remember the angry words, the suicidal threats.
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