Still Life: the aim of the game

Hardly has he entered me but he expels an anguished cry of elation. With the single thrust of penetration, the act was over. Just as I had feared.

Just as he had feared.


I run my hand along his spine, my eyes closed. My body, likewise. My mind, searching for what to say in response, decides upon silence, for some requests are not amenable to a positive answer.


A day later, we make love again. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed as I straddle him. Three or four thrusts, he lasts. Wait awhile, he breathes-lessly into my face. We’ll do it a second time. He thrusts,  thrusts. No force behind it. Wait awhile. I need to get a little bit harder. I don’t like the position and tell him such. Down on all fours, I spread my legs. Raise my ass. But his soft willy won’t stay anywhere. He stuffs himself into me. Slips out. Stuffs himself in again. Wait awhile, he breathes hard   – man-at-work –   hips chiselling away at me, but how I feel hollow inside.


I pull away. I will not wait. You fix your hard-on, then we’ll try again. Maybe.

Okay, he husks, rubbing, rubbing himself.

I won’t look, but I can hear it, the slosh of his semen dabbling with my juice.

Just wait a bit…

He talks to himself, to his penis, like a coach to his team before the match. It doesn’t take long for me to detect that change in the quality of his voice. I seize the opportunity to stop his hand, gently, with my own, before, or as it seems to me, he rubs himself raw. There is no recrimination in the language of my touch. It simply lets him know that I know: game over.


(from Mut@tus)

‘This is something I would happily read and buy copies for all my friends (maybe not my Mum, though).’ 

I don’t know what tablets you’re taking, but do, please, keep taking them. They seem to be working wonders. If you can get them on the NHS, please let me know.’ 



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