Twenty Orgasms For Beginners

"Are we going to your place then?"

"We are AT my place"

O needed sobering up a little. I went to the kitchen while he was using
the loo and put the kettle on, thinking, as is my habit.

There's a question they often ask and I have learnt to take my time in
answering. It's more a question of etiquette than honesty. What is the
correct answer when a man asks a woman how many sexual partners she's
had ?

There's something more involved than an interest in figures I expect.
Honesty. Can I still respect a person who is prepared to tell me the
truth? Can I trust someone who doesn't want to drag the truth out of
me?

At first I used to try and give a fair estimate. I remember at one
point the answer was 4053. I hadn't at the time ever sat down and made
a list. So I might have doubled up on a lot of them. It's not as if I
am loose.

I guessed that O was reading in the toilet. It's a pleasant room,
painted ballerina pink.
There's a small bookcase by the pedestal, stocked with unread
paperbacks which will give a good impression of me to anyone sitting
there. I change the display weekly.

The kettle boiled and I spooned instant coffee into a couple of mugs.
Then I changed my mind and rinsed out the bodum, idly wondering if he
would be reading my latest self-help book which is entitled '20 Orgasms
for Beginners'

He stumbled in at last, pasteing down his hair in a way I didn't
particularly like.

"Are you OK?" I asked, trying not to sound matter of fact and offering
him a small cup of lukewarm espresso.

"I read your book. " He shrugged, "They're all the same to me!"

"Books? oh.........orgasms."
I smiled, "well perhaps its different for men. My book was aimed at
women."

"No........... I mean vampires. Different species of vampires."

"I didnt write that one."
"I never said you did."

An awkward customer , or maybe not in the mood for analytical
conversation.

I would like to say at this point that I have never felt the desire to
sink my teeth below the surface of a warm neck and I do not understand
anyone who does. It is pleasurable enough to skim the edges of your
teeth along someone's adams apple, without making any incision. And
this is why I don't understand people's fascination with vampires. But
then if the truth be known, I don't know what the hell is an orgasm
either.

I keep on trying to define it. I listen to music sometimes without
thinking. I get on buses trying to rekindle a childhood pleasure for
rides and journeys. I get presents gift-wrapped. I practise saying
thankyou for presents even though I prefer to open them in private. I
squirt eau de cologne on envelopes.

I pick up men like O, who are easily flattered, egotistic and sparing
with the compliments. Not because I am selective ; but these are the
type who fall into my hands. I pick up at random but the putty gets
under my fingernails.

Is it a subconscious desire for adrenalin? I felt an insatiable
romantic interest in an activity I hoped O was about to initiate at
some point . I hoped he wouldn't object to my keeping all my clothes
on, because you know I was determined that he should enjoy it
also.

Like many mentally lazy boys, O possessed refinement in the art of
making love. I knew I was not going to be disappointed from the moment
he filled up the ice
cube tray with watered down sun-dried tomato and basil sauce and popped
it into the freezer.
"For later" he winked.

"Direction of bedroom?" and slung me over his shoulder.
"but you havent kissed me yet - we can't possibly go straight on to
that stage. Can we?"

He grasped both my ears till I yelped, and still holding them out stuck
a tongue in my mouth for a couple of seconds. I must have looked
ridiculous.

"You call that a kiss?" I was almost fainting with excitement.

"Don't say anything" he pressed me down diagonally across the stairs,
and began to pummel my stomach firmly with his erect elbows. His tongue
lolled out in concentration and he no longer looked anything like the
handsome man I had noticed looking puzzled behind the till in the
supermarket garage .

"Crawl to the top step and sit?" he commanded, giving me a shove . This
I did and sat smiling down at him, amused and turned on by the camp way
he rested one hand on a hip and casually picked his nose with the
other. I have encountered the dominant type before and I am skilled at
turning the tables. It is just a matter of timing.

Particular friends had often told me how dangerous it is to bring back
strangers to my home. They were thinking of course about robbery and
murder, not emotional danger. It would seem, listening to them that
they are always correct. And that I am sinfull. I wrote my book about
orgasms for they who never mouth the word .

I put him in the spare room. I waited till he got to the top of the
stairs . Then I cupped my hands gently under his elbows and led him
along the corridor. The bed was already made up. I thought of
undressing him but he had become too familiar. Instead I opened a
window and let the early morning flow in.

I don't look at him as I leave the room. His eyelids are closed, but I
think about sound and secrecy. I don't want him to even hear me looking
at him.

When I climb into bed I smile, thinking about the threshold of sleep.
Birds make their noise already, some people call this singing. It's
nice to think a bird might sing. The fact is they open their beak and
notes come out. The human mind, poisoned by romance, can easily read
this as a tune. And so on.