Ten Reasons Why Don's a Dick

10.

His snakes. I love snakes ? the way they coil in your hands, a flex of hard muscle ? the sleek skin, the coolness. Caligula ? four feet of yellow-barred black kingsnake, lithe, seeking, friendly as hell ? he'd slither right up your arm, squeeze it politely, and chuck his head under your chin. Leopold was wilder ? he came in after ? but another king, cool and regal. Gladys, well ? I wasn't a big fan. A ball python. She was just ... diminished next to those two royal bad boys. But they were good snakes ?friendly, inquisitive questing coils.

But a snake has a brain like what, the size of a pea?

All them bit him. None of them bit me.

9.

Just a word of advice - trust no man who has a list of cute pet names for every part of the female anatomy and physical action involving it. Can you have a rational conversation with a man who can't just call a spade a fucking spade? He was so afraid of licking cunt that he had four different and equally stupid names for something he hardly ever managed anyway.

Welcome to the interpretation of signs. Names are control.

8.

The statistics. Fucking hell, the endless statistics. When you see this in anyone, run like fuck.

His IQ. Some moron made the mistake of telling him, at an early age, that he had an IQ "a few points short of genius." Of course he also told me at another time that it was 152, 153, something like that ? well short of the magic 180 me darlin'. But hell, why play this by his rules? The deal is, the number was the thing to him. He'd been measured and found brilliant. And from that point forward adoration was a divine right. Whether he was 153, 180, or 227, he kept this vision of himself as he bombed two semesters in a row with a 0.0 GPA (absolutely gospel truth), chain-smoked his way through ignoring a family history of emphysema, and worked his way to what would be ? ah, the joys gaziantep escort ilanları of several years' hindsight now ? a career position amongst the floor staff at Denny's.

The key thing to remember, of course, is the dedication and intent sophistry with which he explained to me, earnestly and at length, and certainly as frequently as could well be managed, how much more intelligent he was than I. It's all there in the number.

Oh, and his dick. Why not get this out in the open? Yes, the magic 8.0 had been achieved, and as with so many other things, the numbers spoke for themselves. Free pass. No payment required. Here is my magic wand, come kiss the rod of rulership.

Honestly? It was a fucking ugly piece of meat. Less is occasionally more.

7.

Oh, we're still on statistics. Because how can one forget the scorecards? How many. How often. How many at once. I never met anyone with such a total, numerical, and instantaneous recall of how many people he'd fucked, where when and how. I would not have been in the least surprised to hear that he knew exactly and precisely how often with every one of them. I was only surprised that when you turned him over, there wasn't a counter ticking away at the base of his skull. Ding!

Comparisons are odious. Inevitable. How often had I? How often had she? How many times did he get what he wanted? Wasn't he giving me that full 8 inches? Multiplied by precisely 123 times since April the first (I shit you not, a little joke from the heavens; lost it all on April Fool's Day) equals you owe me 984 inches times an average thrusting rate of once per second over a typical duration of two and half minutes minus whatever time I spent in your mouth convert to minutes spent in acceding to my own particular demands. Yeah. It was a lot like that.

6.

Orgasms also carefully weighed, measured, counted, and found wanting. Thanks for teaching me to fake it.

5.

His love of Sam Kinnison. A fat, annoying, misogynistic bastard whose idea of oral technique was the letters of alphabet (one size fits all!) and who believed that his "discovery" was an observation on which he might justifiably plume his ego. God, were they made for each other.

4.

Pressure, pressure, pressure. Who can resist a naïve 19 on her first love anyway? Or rather, who can resist how little she can resist? It's a mark of the nature of young love (stupid, stupid, stupid) that even when my head screamed at actually hearing the words "if you loved me, you would," my stupidity managed to hit the override switch and say quite soberly, "maybe he's right."

Hey, thanks for always asking when we'd just fucked. (Ahahahaha I used to call it "making love." Isn't that cute?)

3.

The constant hurry. What was the freaking hurry? Hell, I was young and stupid; I would have balled you from dusk to dawn and sat there looking all gooey-eyed and adoring when it was done. But always the frigging hurry. (And oh yeah, I'm talking to you now, Don boy. Very long time no viddy.)

Thanks for that great line, by the way. You know. Oh, come on big boy, sure you do. That first time? When I asked you to stop? And you said "it's too late," like your cock was suddenly irrevocable? Fabulous.

But when you finally did get what you wanted ? sort of what you wanted, because you wanted her to want you, and she wasn't there for you, was she? ? well, maybe you were right to hurry then. Wouldn't want me to think too long about it. Wouldn't want me to think too much about her. Frankly, baby, it was wise not to give me too long to ponder what was really bothering me ? the soft scent of her tender cunt, or your dick prodding at me while I tried to get to grips with it all. Because her nipples were these delicate dark aching blossoms, hard and tight and sweet. God, they were good. And her breasts ? smooth, white, full, so much riper than I would have thought, and I wanted to suck them all night. She was little, tiny compared to me. I still remember walking her back to her dorm across campus, laughing when she asked if I wasn't afraid to walk alone with a dyke. We had the same name. I could have broken her in my hand. She always fancied me.

Why the fuck did it take you, you smug, self-worshipping prick, to get me with her? Why didn't I listen when she said gently, over and over, that maybe it would be better if you stepped into another room for a little. Maybe we'd all enjoy it more.

Christ, two of us would have.

2.

Making me into you. You son of a bitch. Even when I was laying between her legs, drowning in the touch of her soft white thighs and the brush of her breasts against my head, tasting her and loving it ? God, loving it ? I was making the letters of the fucking alphabet. I am such a worthless piece of shit. She was beautiful. Curling hair, little white hands that tried to coax me up, eyes that were tender and sorry for me. It was her eyes that were beautiful, not that you've got the fucking ghost of an idea what that means. You were sitting right on the bed watching, and like every shade and description of fucking idiot I gave a shit about what you thought, and not about her. Lily. Let me go back to you. Give me that moment again. I will put my head in your guiding hands, forget his stupid, stupid lessons, and give you my humility and what little I have left of the sweetness, I swear, I was born with.

1.

I wish there'd been more. That I'd given you more. I wish. But ? with him, I think of you. That much I still have for myself: the taste of you, and your eyes a day later when you told me that if he loved me, he wouldn't. And that you. Wouldn't. Not again. Not like that. Not until it was only us. Alone.

Should have done it, Lily. Should have done.