Rafael Yglesias - The Work Is Innocent

She hugged him closer when his hand touched her bare back and he interpreted this as a request for him to stop undressing her. He became a little frightened of her enthusiasm: she murmured loudly and pulled him on top of her. He was pissed off that their clothes were still on—the natural rhythm would have to be halted.

He made these transitions—convinced she was finding him inadequate to being disturbed by her pleasure—without the slightest regard for their inconsistency. He didn’t like being on top of her clothed. There was nothing to do. He broke the contact and started taking his clothes off. He congratulated himself on this straightforward act.

She turned the lights out, and they both hustled out of their clothes and into bed as if the apartment was unheated. They lay on their backs and Richard was paralyzed. He was furious at this reaction, and following it came shocks of hopelessness that he felt unable to break.

Joan suddenly moved over with determination. To see the line of her breasts and waist was thrilling, and he was grateful for the reassurance of her warmth. She kissed him and ran her hand lightly over his stomach and settled more into the kiss before stroking his penis with her fingertips. It jumped with pleasure, and he felt how tense he had been by the relaxation that her touch created. She ran a hand up his thigh and cupped his testicles for a moment before grabbing his penis. She squeezed and moved up and down its length. Her hand was cool and his penis inflamed: the contact framed it; everything concentrated in the organ so that his body yawned to the spot with desperate pleasure.

He wrestled her over, afraid of coming. He felt her disappointment and couldn’t understand it. He had read at least five short stories in which the woman was disgusted by a man climaxing either too soon or outside the vagina.

What do I do? The question provoked terror. Make love. He just let himself go, running his hands up and down her body, kissing, and licking every part but one with his mouth. He pushed the covers off and straddled her body to get a good look at her. He was delighted. He lay on top of her and kissed deeply, intrigued by the feel of his penis amidst her pubic hairs.

He felt confident and her legs were spread: he lowered his body enough to be ready and pushed forward. The lips opened and he felt moisture but then a wall stopped him. His penis jammed against it and he backed up. He pushed hard, very hard, and hurt his penis.

What was happening?

He lay on top of her, feeling his sweat and the soft cushions her breasts made for his chest. He felt sexless, as if he had just done some push-ups.

Joan’s hand reached down and he lifted a leg when she nudged it. She reached his penis and when she squeezed it he realized it wasn’t erect.

“I don’t understand that,” he said in a whisper.

She tried to move, so he got off her. “What?” she asked. Her tone made him trust her. He said, “I guess this is impotence, huh?”

She laughed with such pleasure that he was amused. “I guess so. What happens?”

“Well, I mean everything’s going along fine and suddenly”—he was laughing—“we hit a few air pockets just as I’m making my descent.” It was good to laugh about it. They were quiet until she said, “You know that this usually happens because of the Oedipus complex.”

He giggled nervously. “No, I didn’t know that.” He thought about it. “I don’t understand why.”

“You mean why it would make you impotent?” They were both embarrassed by the conversation. “Well, the theory goes, you want to sleep with your mother and you’re too guilty about that to sleep—”

“—with anybody else.” He laughed nervously. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“It does?” She was excited.

“About me?” He was appalled. “No. I think maybe I’ve got a cold.” They laughed like drunks and Richard was dismayed that the relief was satisfying. “I don’t think I’ve told you yet that I’m a virgin. I mean in case you didn’t know.” He started to laugh hysterically but was stopped by her turning and embracing him.

She didn’t know and it seemed to have an effect similar to having told her he was an orphan. His penis was raw, his legs pulled taut, but holding her was comforting and the pleasure of her kisses eventually overwhelmed the aches. She pulled him on top of her and he obliged skeptically. She held his penis in front of her cunt and stroked the underside as she guided it in. He felt the moisture and pushed, and for a moment the wall stopped him, but then he was in.

He smiled and would have shouted triumphantly except that he worried instantly that she was not enjoying his occupation. He knew, of course, what to do—and the motion in and out became a dance he tried desperately to choreograph.

He didn’t breathe, as if concentration could help him better feel the act. No one had described it: the sensation of that hard long arced thing surrounded and caressed. Her lips would cling to the head of his penis as he pulled out and tickle and soothe as he pushed in. He clamped down on his teeth, involuntarily suppressing the scream of ecstasy he wanted to release. He stopped moving and rested deep inside her, fighting the tickling liquid that gathered in his penis. How long had he been in? A minute perhaps. Premature ejaculation. That sin only schmucks commit. He grabbed the pillow and made his body rigid, lying perfectly still. But he climaxed nevertheless, in four ejaculations that hurt.

Though the next few days should have kept him busy with the lunches and conferences of being published, his mind stayed on the drama with Joan. He would run back to her apartment after the day’s activities and continue fucking. He slept with her several times, and as it became obvious that she was not enjoying it, he asked her why. They were in bed late at night and he was relaxed and confident of life: a published novelist who fucks.

She turned on the light and scurried out of bed. “I’m going to need a cigarette for this,” she said. They laughed and she got over her constraint about their discussion by pacing up and down with mock self-importance. “Well, see, between therapy and women’s liberation I’ve learned about, you know, what’s been fucked up about the sex I’ve had.” She looked at him seriously, measuring her effect. He felt numbed and told himself to squash any fearful reaction.

“Yeah?” He tried to look encouraging.

“Our sex has been good, but the reason I don’t have an orgasm is because you’re not relating to—you know—my clitoris.” She stopped walking and looked at him. Her eyes were curious and tense as if waiting for an explosion.

“Okay,” he said very loudly. “You’d better get ready for a shock. I don’t know what a clitoris is.” He put his hands out and made a big gesture of sheepishness.

“Really?” She seemed delighted.

“All right now, no jokes. It’s not funny. It’s absurd. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” She ran over to the bookcase. “Wait, I can show you.”

“I’m sure you can,” he said, and laughed wildly. She returned happily and bounced onto the bed. She opened a magazine to an article titled, “The Myth of the Vaginal Orgasm,” and told him to read it. Its headline was its point, that there was no such thing, that in fact the clitoris is the source of all sexual pleasure. “I didn’t even know there was such a myth,” he said, and giggled.

“Are you kidding? It’s a very heavy trip that’s laid—”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. I mean, you know, I don’t know anything.” He looked at the enormous diagram of the vagina and tried to figure out the location of the clitoris.

“So, um, you know what it is now?”

He had to make the experience even more absurd since he could not understand the diagram. So she took his hand and showed him: he had felt that small bump before and that cheered him up a little.