p id=“paragraph-1”>So you’re just about to exit the plateau phase and it feels like your whole body is about to sneeze just like the sex-ed books had described it all those years ago and there’s just enough sweat for lubrication between your bodies and your whole torso is a clenched fist of determination when her phone rings.
What do you expect her to do? Carry on serenading you with her moans all the way to Arcadia? Carry on like it couldn’t be important? Like it couldn’t be the pathologist with news that the lower third vertebra was not in fact dislocated from traumatic impact but malformed from an inheritable condition so her foul-play theory is that much less plausible and slamming her badge and her gun on the commissioner’s desk yesterday is going to look that much more adolescent now. Is your orgasm really that important? More important than her hunch that prominent businessmen and minor politicians have been covering up for someone out there who’s been mutilating so many teenagers, across so many jurisdictions, for so many years, that it’s a wonder your country can still get a beach-volleyball team together? What’s the matter with you? You’re blocked from Pornhub? You’re a three-dimensional character with a life of your own. You’re an emancipated, Scandinavian stay-at-home father. Finish yourself off!
Are you going to sulk for days now? Are you going to tell her you never signed up for this? What did you think it would be like? Did you think those days when she handcuffed you to the bedpost while she bounced on top of you and you both giggled at the police radio insistently summoning her to the abandoned industrial area would last forever? She was still in uniform then.