Richard Sharon - Diary of a Lover

Only once did I get upset, when the tenor sax man, who I didn't even know, kept referring to me as "Junior" in an effort to put me down in front of Mora. I told him softly that if he called me "Junior" once more they would carry him out of there in about twenty different pieces. I must have looked like I meant it, because he backed down, and Mora squeezed my hand, her eyes holding mine and sending strange messages to me. She had let them all know, in no uncertain terms, that she was with me and that she wasn't interested in another man, not even just to dance with.

By this time I thought I was hopelessly in love with her.

The dance was over at one; we were home and in bed by one-thirty. Mora was exhausted and I was.horny. I kissed her and ran my hand down her belly, but she turned onto me, cuddling in comfort.

"This is my second night in your bed and I still haven't made love to you," I said.

"Glad you mentioned it," she purred sleepily. "One of the most important things you'll ever learn about women and love is when not to."

She paused, thinking. "It's the one thing that ruins most marriages and destroys most relationships, this business of a sexy man who has to get screwed right away or he'll simply die.

"Take the average husband, he comes home from work tired, has a nice dinner, and relaxes all evening, while old wifey, who has probably been running like hell all day doing household work, does the dishes, puts the kids to bed, and God knows what else. So come bedtime, he's got a hard-on and she's dead on her feet, or ass, as the case may he. If he's like the average boob, he'll just push open her legs, give a couple of quick kisses, and if she's not wet enough he may even be a good guy and run fast for the Vaseline jar before he climbs on. Then he'll shove it in, and after a few minutes of jumping around he'll squirt his little seed, roll over, and go to sleep, probably snoring like a buzzsaw, while his poor wife lies there wondering what ever happened to the lover she married.

"Or like those American Legion guys at the stag show you told me about. How many of those, do you suppose, who didn't get laid at the stag ran home and worked their old ladies out of a sound sleep with a 'Hey, Betsy, how's about?' and a slap on the ass? And after his two-minute marathon he'll congratulate himself on really giving the old lady a good fuck.

"I mean, we girls have wants and desires, too, at least if we're halfway normal. But nothing will turn you off like a hot, grubby body poking at you when you're tired, or groping, clumsy hands when you don't feel like groping, clumsy hands, or to be awakened only to service a hard-on.

"I don't want your wife one day to say over the back fence to some nosy neighbor lady, 'Oh, my Dickie, he bothers me every night, I just don't know what to do with him.' And she thinks she's bragging about your sexual prowess by complaining of what a pain hi the ass you are in bed."

I laughed.

"Don't laugh, I'm very serious. Most men think of a woman's vagina as nothing more than a soft place to rub it and come, but it's so much more than that. The trouble is that men are so hung up on masturbation and self-pleasure that when they finally have a woman, all they really do is jack off into her. Hell, they might as well use their hands, for all the difference it makes."

"You made the point," I told her, stroking her hair.

"I want you to be that rare man," she continued," that rare man with real feelings for a woman. The kind of a man who can ignore his own hard-on and simply hold his woman in his arms all night, if he knows she's tired, or out of sorts. The kind of a man who can feel when the time is right for making love, and when it isn't. Because it's only good when you both want to. The kind of man who enjoys making love, not just fucking, and there's a big difference, who enjoys and gains fulfillment from satisfying his woman, and doesn't just want to get screwed and go to sleep. The kind of man who would never dream of waking his girl just so he could have something to stick it into. The kind of man who doesn't paw, and who isn't all hands and hot breath and horniness, who says in his manner of looking at a woman, of talking to her, that he is a man like this, because a real female woman can sense it."

Lying there, watching the twin beams atop the Golden Gate Bridge rotate endlessly against the black sky, I told her of my fears, my frustrations at lovemaking, my preoccupation with failure. I don't know why, but when I confessed these things to her it was a relief. Somehow, I knew she could make everything right. She seemed to have all the answers. She was so sure, so supremely confident.

Mora tightened her arms around me. "We're just animals, you know," she said. "Did you ever see a bull or a horse or a dog fuck for an hour?"

"Not recently," I laughed.

"The only difference, sexually, between you and a bull is that a bull has a bigger cock and you have a bigger brain. No animal, including man, was made to last a long time, because the main purpose of sex, biologically speaking, is procreation, the propagation of the species. Nice little things like female orgasms don't have a damn thing to do with it. So if you shoot fast, it's because nature intended for you to do it that way.

"You see," she continued, "the only reason the human female gets any pleasure from sex at all is because of her clitoris, and the only reason she has that is because of a genetic fluke from ages past, when both sexes were combined in the same animal. It's really only a tiny, vestigial penis, with all of the delicate nerve endings supplied to the penis. Otherwise, we could hardly feel a thing. That's why the human female is the only female species that can have an orgasm.

"As for the rest of it," she purred drowsily, "don't worry, I'll teach you. I'll teach you well, my love. I'll, teach, you, well."

We slept in each other's arms. My hormones dissolved and I was content to hold Mora, to feel her close to me, her fragrance, the soft, natural scent of clean, scrubbed skin. Eventually I turned over, and in her sleep she fit herself into the curve of my back, her arms across my side.

I woke up to Mora kissing me, light touches of her lips on my eyes, forehead, cheeks, mouth, chin, and shoulders. I opened my eyes slowly, reveling in the teasing of her hair on my face as she moved her head over it.

We had coffee and juice, took our shower together, and I shaved and cleaned up. When I came into the living room Mora was naked on the sofa, reading the newspaper.

I sat next to her and we kissed. I ran my tongue rapidly in and out of her mouth, around and around, as I had learned from some panting teen-aged girl two years before. Mora pulled back her head and looked at me quizzically for a minute, the humor ever-constant in her eyes. "Take my face in your hands," she said softly.

I did.

"Now," she whispered, "just do what I do. I'll do it on my lips, so lightly I can hardly feel it."

I did.

"Now," she whispered, "just do what I do. I'll do it first, and then you do it, and then we'll do it together."

Her lips took my lower lip between them and pulled it out gently. Then she broke, but came back to the side of my lower lip and pulled again. Then, with my mouth open, she ran just the tip of her tongue slowly around the inside of my upper and lower lip.

Fitting her lips to mine, she inserted her tongue on top of mine. Still at first, she gradually started moving it, always slowly, always lovingly in and out, then, with a groan, far into my mouth, as I sucked hard to bring it still further in. I reciprocated, doing everything to her that she had done to me. When I put my tongue into her mouth she sucked on it so hard that it became painful at the base. By this time we both were breathing heavily. She ran her tongue around the outside of my lips, on over the skin around my mouth, licking my cheeks, my nose, my forehead, my ears, my neck, and I did the same to her. Then I knew why animals lick one another, it's a truly wonderful feeling.