She Used the F-Word§
by Russell Dyer
published: june 18, 2007; revised: september 03, 2017; readers in past month: 111
He was good at sex for two primary reasons: One reason was size. He wasn’t long; he was of fairly normal length. Instead, he exceeded most men by girth. He had more girth. That was the first thing women noticed, or rather, the first thing to which they reacted. It wasn’t much more girth, but enough extra to please them. It was more than they expected. They would gasp upon entry, make strained faces. Afterwards, many couldn’t help but comment on his girth. They would be embarrassed to mention it, but they would mention it. They would say how well it pleased them, how it suited them, how it supposedly was made just for them.
The other reason that he was good at sex was that his attitude, his focus was always on pleasing the woman. He didn’t concern himself with his own needs so much. Instead, he made sure that the woman was satisfied—thoroughly. In doing this, he enjoyed himself more and longer. This was his length advantage. It was not unusual for him to engage in sex with a woman for over an hour at a time, sometimes two hours or more. Since he was always looking to please the woman, he could allow himself to become excited for a while, but pull himself back without reaching his limit, that is to say, without losing his motivation to continue, losing his interest in the game. For this he had many tricks, tricks for intermittently excluding his key components from direct interaction so as to be able to rest, to restart himself, while still engaging the woman. His favorite method, though, was to provide oral sex for his partner.
Most men it seems aren’t very good at oral sex. He wasn’t sure why, but that’s what women told him. From what he could ascertain, it’s because they are reluctant to do it and they don’t listen for cues from the woman as to what pleases her. Sensitivity is necessary, necessary to find the most sensitive point and best methods. Once he was there, on point, all that was required was the lightest flick of the tip of his tongue. There was nothing else that he could do to bring so much pleasure to a woman and for the least amount of exertion on his part. Once he was in position, once the woman had permitted him to take up his position and to do his flicking, his ever so light pressing, his personal intimate art, once he was there, he would stay there for as long as she would let him. He would try to make sure of a fifteen-minute minimum, but women didn’t always cooperate, despite his abilities.
Not all women would allow him in this area. Some claim not to like it. Of course, they would make this claim even though they hadn’t let him try with them. He suspected that other men they had encountered were so terrible and pointless in their actions in this area, that it was only an irritation for the women. Other women seemed to be self-conscious about the position due to concerns about odors and so forth. Whatever the reason for their resistance or their unwillingness to let go of their inhibitions and just enjoy themselves, it always disappointed him not to be able to please them in this way.
On a rare occasion, though, he encountered a woman who let him do what he did best. On a rare occasion, he met a woman who enjoyed it. When this happened, it pleased him. It pleased him like a chef was pleased with someone who appreciated the dish he prepared. Rossella was one of these rare women for him. She was the kind of woman who enjoyed his skill. She didn’t resist it, nor did she mind expressing her pleasure in it.
He met Rossella at a bookstore near his home. She was looking at books written by Graham Greene. He was a fan of Greene’s and was intrigued to see someone else looking through his many books. He knew that such people existed, that he wasn’t alone in his like of Greene, but he had never actually met anyone who liked him, or who was currently reading him. And here was an attractive woman before him who was fingering the selection of Greene books.
“End of the Affair. That’s my favorite,” he said with a smile. She looked up at him and smiled back.
“Mine too,” she returned. “The Comedians and The Heart of the Matter, as well. They’re also my favorites.”
He chuckled and said lithely, “Yes, The Heart of the Matter. You’re right: it’s his best work.”
And so it went. It went better than he could have hoped. It went straight to his apartment and to his bed. It led him to his knees before his bed and she on her back in his bed in the receiving position of his talents. It took no convincing to get her to let him show her what he could do. She was willing and she was receptive. She was pleased. She savored it and she squirmed in ecstasy above her hips. She did not move below. She did not want to disturb his art, only to appreciate it. She sometimes pounded the bed with her left fist, although she was right-handed. At other times she threw her head from side to side as she clutched his sheets. She enjoyed every second, every flick. And he enjoyed pleasing her. At a peak moment, she pressed his pillow to her face with both hands to muffle her muted cries of ecstasy. And still he continued, not satisfied to stop after her first or second orgasm even. Eventually, she covered her face with her hands. She tried to speak, but only half a word wheezed out, only the first syllable: “St… St… St…” He didn’t stop and she didn’t try to stop him, except to repeat the syllable several more times until she became limp, calm, and content. Only then did he stop and smile at her, feeling content himself.
After giving her time to catch her breath, he began kissing her all over and then resumed the activities which involved his personal interests. To this she was more than ready and voracious. She was equal to him in her abilities and talents. He was well satisfied. When it was all over, she lay in bed with her head back on his chest while he held her. They lay silently for a while, just enjoying each other’s breathing and closeness. Eventually, she told him how she liked his girth, how it was just right. He said that he was glad she liked it.
They got dressed and went out and got Chinese food. They took it back to his apartment and sat and talked more about books and about movies that they both liked. They also talked about Jazz and other forms of music. They talked about things they liked to do and many other things. ‘I like her,’ he thought while watching her as she took a sip of her drink. ‘She’s sweet.’ He smiled silently at her.
She returned the smile and said calmly, emphatically, and pleasingly, “My friend.” He smiled deeper and let out a sigh in response. They were friends. It happened that fast. Normally, if he was pursuing a woman in the hopes of having sex with her or otherwise developing a romantic relationship, he dreaded the F-word. To be labeled a friend meant that sex was not going to happen. It was a neutralizing word, a water balloon that all women carried in their purses and could pull out at anytime to extinguish a man’s hopes. But this was different. With Rossella, they had had sex first and hadn’t developed a romantic relationship. He wasn’t looking for romance with her and neither was she with him. He already had a girlfriend and she had a boyfriend. She wasn’t using the F-word to disarm him or to break up with him. She was using it for genuine reasons. They were friends and good friends, albeit new friends. She was a friend unlike any he had ever had. He sensed it and so did she. It felt good. It was just right for him.
The next day he went to work feeling good. He had a smile on his face and good thoughts in his mind. He thought about Rossella, about how she had enjoyed herself, as well as her comments about books and life. He remembered her smile and her laughter. He probably should have been feeling guilty about having spent the night with another woman, but Rossella wasn’t like another woman. She was a friend. He knew that his girlfriend wouldn’t understand this distinction and especially would not be pleased that he had had sex with someone else while in a relationship with her. But he didn’t have any intention of telling her and didn’t care. He was pleased that he had been with Rossella and had no regrets.
In the afternoon, he sent Rossella a text message on his mobile phone. He didn’t ask her anything or suggest anything. He just said Hello and sent her a smile. It made him feel good to think of her and he wanted to touch her, if only digitally.
An hour passed and he didn’t receive a response to his text message. He had hoped to have received something sweet in response. ‘She must be busy,’ he thought after another thirty minutes. ‘Maybe she doesn’t like to do text messages,’ he later thought when she still hadn’t responded. Even later he recalled that she had received two text messages while he was with her, and she didn’t reply to them even though he gave her leave to do so. ‘She’s not good at text messaging. I’m not either,’ he concluded. He went to sleep that night feeling sad.
Two days later she sent him a text message saying, << Hi. How are you doing? >> He responded with a message saying that he was fine and glad to hear from her. He said that he was worried that she had changed her mine about him. He wished her a good day and left it at that, open-ended. A day later she text messaged him again and suggested that they get together the following night, Saturday night at his apartment. He replied that that sounded good to him. He was feeling good again.
The next afternoon he cleaned his apartment and went to the store to buy some wine and a couple of new videos. He looked as though he was preparing for a date. He thought about that when he was on the subway returning home from the video store. He didn’t see her as a romantic prospect, as a girlfriend. He saw her as a friend like no other he had had. The truth was that he didn’t have any friends, or at least none that understood him like she seemed to have understood him. It wasn’t the sex per se. It was that she enjoyed the sex the way he enjoyed it. She enjoyed Greene and other authors, other books the way he enjoyed them. She saw life as he did and she saw him as he was. She was his friend.
Around seven-thirty, his girlfriend called him to see what he was doing. He said he was at home just re-organizing his bookcase. He had started in on that after he had finished cleaning. She suggested that maybe she could come by and spend the night with him. “No, um, no. That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Why not? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just want to spend a quiet night home, alone. Is that alright?” She seemed perturbed, but she said it was alright and that she would call one of her friends and meet her for dinner instead. She was an understanding girlfriend and luckily for him, not very jealous or suspicious. She would leave him two months later, though, because the energy had gone out of the relationship. That’s what she would tell him and she would be right.
About nine-thirty, Rossella still hadn’t arrived. He sent her a text message asking her what time she was thinking of coming by. They hadn’t set a specific time. He paced his apartment for a few minutes waiting for her to respond, but she didn’t. He decided not to think about it and watched television for a few minutes. There was nothing good on. He put on one of his favorite DVDs, but couldn’t pay attention. He switched off the television and laid down onto his bed to read a book. He read the same paragraph three times without comprehension before he tossed it on his bed next to him. He lay there a while and thought about Rossella. He wondered why she had not come and why she had not sent him a message saying she was coming or not. He had no plausible explanation. He wasn’t making excuses for her this time. He was a bit numb in this area. He reached over and picked up the pillow that Rossella had pressed to her face a few days before. He could just barely smell a hint of her perfume on it. It was a soft scent and it pleased him. He rolled over and embraced the pillow and fell asleep.
He woke the next morning feeling a bit disgusted for having been ignored by Rossella and for having rejected his girlfriend’s suggestion to visit him. She was clearly interested in coming by for sex and he turned her down for Rossella. The result was that Rossella hurt his feelings and he missed the pleasure he could have gotten from his girlfriend. He told himself that he had been a jerk to his girlfriend and he had gotten what he deserved. On the surface he believed that, or rather he wanted to believe that. However, such a formula was pagan from his perspective. He wasn’t religious and he definitely was not pagan. The pat answer just didn’t work for him. He sat on his sofa sipping his morning coffee and said sadly to himself, “She used the F-word.” She hurt his feelings in that, in saying that and then not being that.
He never saw or heard from her again. Nevertheless, whenever a woman wanted to put him off by suggesting that she thought of him as a friend, he would smile slightly and think of her with sadness and would be totally oblivious to the slight he had been just handed. In fact, whenever anyone used the word friend in any manner, he thought of her. He never stopped thinking of her.