Sex on Her Mind

There’s always sex on her mind. Or is it the other way around? There’s always sex on my mind. Apparently not when I sleep, but luckily I only sleep about five hours a day, except for Sundays when I can sleep for six. Ain’t that the truth. I will digress a lot, but it’s also part of the story, this so-called story. There’s always sex on Jenny’s mind now that I succeeded to get her into bed. This is not M or anyone else whom you may have read about before. This is M’s new narrator. Wait! you may think. Jenny’s his narrator. She isn’t anymore. She couldn’t take it any longer without M’s carnal love and took off, leaving M the following note. It was lying on his desk and I read it. It’s a strange note, to say the least, but I’ll let you be the judge of it.

Dearest M:

I love you, but you knew it from the very beginning when you opened the door and let me into your world. You were looking for a narrator, which was a strange job posting, since I always assumed that the writer was also the narrator. But you saw things differently. You wanted the narrator to be different from you. Some may have thought that it was a literary ploy, but you proved them wrong when you finally let me write a few stories, which only exacerbated my situation of being in love with you. I love you. I love you. I can’t write it enough times. I could write it a 100 times on the blackboard, though they’re not black anymore, as punishment by a teacher unbeknownst to her or him that it would have been a pleasure to write I love you all over the classroom. I love you. I love you. And I’ll keep writing it and feeling it until the end of my life.

Let me put it in a way that you will understand. I love you more than you love your muse. I finally said it, wrote it, typed it. I love you more than she ever will. I gave myself to you and you refused my love because of my younger age. Come on! I’m not 18 or 28. I’m 38. I can’t be dismissed at 38. And you’re not 80 or 70 or even 60. I’ll be 61 when you’re 80. It feels fine to me. You won’t be my sugar daddy. Even Charlie Chaplin, the man you admire most in this world, married Oona O’Neill when he was 54 and she was 18 and they had one of the best marriages in history, remaining together for 34 years until his regrettable death that you never accepted to this day, and he died in 1977.

I love you. I love you. But I’m leaving because I can’t take it any longer. My heart has been broken for too long. I already put an ad for a new narrator for you. You should hire a man this time to avoid another broken heart on your hands. I love you. I love you. Your first appointment is tomorrow with William. No! Shakespeare isn’t his last name, but it’s Browning. I know that you like Robert Browning. I hope that it works out with him.

I love you, I love you,

Your Jenny

It seems that M was chagrined by her departure, but he hired me the next day, making sure I wasn’t gay in case I could also want him. He tried to be astute about it, asking me about a wife or a girlfriend. I told him the truth, that I was looking for a woman, that I was ready to settle down. That’s all he needed to hear along with the fact that I also wrote and had a BA in English from a university that he knew, having attended it himself but only for one summer course. I was on Medium myself and thus readily understood what he needed to be done. He seemed sad. At one point, I saw tears in his eyes. I asked him if something was wrong. He replied that he had a muse problem. I thought that I had heard, mouse, before understanding that he really meant a muse. I really understood what he meant after I read all the stories that he had written for her. I was amazed at their number. And he keeps going. She must be a good muse because he doesn’t seem to be running out of words.

I met Jenny when she came over one morning to get the rest of her things. Even masked, she looked beautiful. I asked if I could help but she declined, thanking me for asking. I helped her to take her stuff down to her car and asked if I could call her sometime. She wasn’t keen about it but she gave me her number, telling me that she had nothing to lose. That was surely my cue, so I thought. When I called her later that evening, I got her voicemail. I left a message but she didn’t return my call. When I tried again a couple of days later, her phone had been disconnected. That was surely strange and I never heard from her again.

What about the first paragraph? you may be asking. I had written that we were having sex. I lied, of course. I’m a narrator that lies. I believe in lies that don’t hurt. Do you feel hurt? I hope not because it wasn’t at all what I wanted to accomplish. Sex opens many doors and some windows too. Sex on her mind was the key, after all. The panties in the picture are red because it’s the favourite colour of M’s muse. I actually like red too, but I know that M only likes blue followed by green. As I mentioned, I read all his stories that directly or indirectly involved his muse. I guess that it’s time to submit it. But before I do, I have to reveal another lie. This is still Jenny. I could never leave M. I love him to death.

But I still need to justify the title if I want to submit it to Sexual Tendencies. Average Don Juan is a rather strict editor. I need to include some sex. I guess that I could describe what M would have done to me had he been with me instead of her. I was already on top in the previous story (linked at the bottom), so I’ll give the floor to M in this one. I hope that I do him justice.

When M returned from en errand both masked and gloved, I was already naked in bed waiting for him and his prick. I could never call him a prick even if he doesn’t mind it at all. He considers all men to be pricks, and some women too, I recently discovered, but they are members of his immediate and estranged so-called family. He despises them all. He doesn’t even consider them to be alive. He even tried to kill them in one of his novels but couldn’t go through with it because he thought that death was too good for them. They should get old and suffer like everyone else, he had finally surmised, but threw water bombs on them from a hotel window where he was waiting for them to arrive to a meeting in which they were going to receive about $200,000 dollars each, Canadian, of course, to piss them off that it wasn’t American. I laughed so much when I read it. He really knows how to hold a grudge. He never lets go and he doesn’t forget anything. Back to the sex!

When I heard him open the door, I told him that I was naked in bed and wanted him to make love to me and that I meant it. He didn’t reply for a while and then said that he couldn’t on account of his muse. But I reminded him of all his troubles with her as I appeared naked before him, even spreading my pussy to show him what’s at stake. He looked aroused but quickly reminded me of our age issue. Fuck it! I replied. I want you to make love to me now. Your muse will understand if she really loves you. Something strange happened next. Everything with M is strange. They should write a book about him. He actually did write a semi-autobiographical novel. It was his first. M began to cry. I swear. I can’t make something like that up. I wanted to hug him but he wouldn’t let me on account of his having just returned from the virus-infected outside. I told him to take everything off and take a shower, or even a peppermint bath, and that I could join him. He refused, of course, but went into the bathroom to get undressed and take a shower. Even his shampoo and conditioner smell like peppermint.

I was waiting for him still naked when he came out with a towel around his waist. He lowered his eyes when he saw me but I think that he knew that it was too late. He was going to make love to me even if I’ll need to be on top. He had read the story and took my words at face value.

“But I can’t,” he kept repeating. “I love her too much.”

Yes you can and you will, I replied and took off his towel, grabbing his prick with both hands. He looked at me surprised but then I went down on my knees and put his somewhat erect prick in my mouth at which point he asked me to stop. But it was too late since I was already sucking his prick, knowing that he didn’t like it this way, only considering the pussy as worthy of such lust. He agreed to make love to me if I let go of his prick, which I did after he swore on my life. He surely didn’t care enough about his to swear to it. I took his left hand and we both walked slowly to bed. I proposed the sofa but he declined since, I’m sure, there was nowhere to hide, whereas on his large bed, he could always attempt a foolish escape under the comforter or even the sheets.

It looked like I was going to be on top again, but this time it was going to be real. I started to navigate my love for him, feeling him inside me and almost orgasming given all the time that I had waited for this to happen. It was close to two years since he had needed me for his last novel in mid-2018. He needed to narrate some parts but couldn’t, thus required an external narrator. He had met several applicants but picked me. He must have liked something. He told me that I had reminded him of someone in his dreams. I forgot to mention it in the previous story. We had apparently a few features in common. He even intimated before making love to me, because he finally did, that my breasts looked similar to hers and even my pussy. My feet as well to some degree but also my hands. He kept looking at them in amazement, kissing them, and putting my fingers in his mouth. He then kissed me and stopped.

“I can’t,” he said again. “I love her too much.”

But I look like her, I said, the woman in your dreams, which turned out to be your muse, and if she really loves you, she won’t mind. She’ll be happy that you’re finally making love to someone you love. Not as much as her, I know, but as much as can be expected, and I know that you love me too. He looked at me but didn’t reply at first. He was trembling a little but it quickly stopped.

“How could I not love you?” he asked. “But you’re too young and it’ll be unfair to you later if not now.”

Charlie Chaplin didn’t mind.

“I’m not Charlie Chaplin. I’m just freaking M.”

Yes, and the M whom I love and want now, unlike your muse who lives on the Moon and even further away. Can’t you see that it’s right? I love you. I love you.

“I love you too, muse,” M replied. “You could be my second muse if you want the task on top of being my narrator, and I’ll never again call you my freaking narrator. You’ll always be Jenny, my second muse.”

What if I marry you? I asked. He half smiled but I wasn’t sure that he did.

“Why would you want to marry me? You know how I feel about children. It’s not fair to bring them to this dying world. We’re screwed. All the truthful scientists know it. We need drastic measures to reverse the tide but it’s not going to happen. The ship has sailed and all the sailors have drowned.”

I don’t want kids either. I just want you. I want you to make love to me like you mean it. And he did. The details, however, are omitted given that M and I as well refuse to tell any private parts. The only thing I can intimate is that I orgasmed twice, as he did, though both of mine came first.

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