I wish it could feel as good as it does when I am going to come, after I come, but the better it is, the shorter it is. By the time 1 get to feeling really good, there’s not much time to enjoy it.
HUSBAND
“I know when he says he’s coming, that’s about the time he’ll be going.” The wife frowned as she expressed her marriage-long frustration with her sexual relationship. Her husband busied himself straightening the books on the table next to his chair, as if looking for some quick retort to save his self-esteem.
The wife continued, gaining momentum from her newfound freedom to express her concerns openly. “He seems to be trying to get something accomplished. I call him pelvically hyperactive. When they talk about going all the way, I’d really love to, but it’s just that I don’t think he can last long enough to go even halfway.”
The husband laughed at his wife’s sarcasm, but his smile masked the pain evident in his clenched fist. He shuffled his feet on the floor, much as a little boy caught stealing cookies once too often. He smiled at me awkwardly, as if appealing for some form of universal male empathy for our failure to explain to the opposite gender the nature of our sexual enigma. Why does it seem that the better it feels, the sooner it’s over? If we are not coming too soon, we are having trouble coming at all. Why does it seem that we enjoy so little of what we talk about so much? When we come, it sometimes feels that we haven’t been very far at all, not really been anywhere.
*115\97\8*
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