Pussy-whipped, a term Sam loathes less for its vulgarity than for its
reproof of masculinity, describes his state regardless, because try as he might to
dispel Joanna, dismiss her as a fluke (if truly she mistook him for somebody
else), every idle moment grabs like a squid’s intrusive tentacle, insisting he
recall her amatory cunt, another term he loathes because of its
vulgarity, yet vulva seems too formal, crotch too generic, lap
too quaint, and who save a gynecologist relates to the word pudendum
(?), an organ he, heretofore, knew none too comprehensibly, nor had he fully
imagined what an agile cunt could do by way of captivating a young man's fervent
fancy, a young man drafted into service in every way save one, his
you-know-what—penis, phallus, dick, prick, tool, prong, pecker; the terms went
on and on, none quite up to Sam’s superior standards, stickler that he is when
it comes to using words, modest, truth be told, despite his recent excesses, and
glad somewhat she had barred their official copulation, tortures
notwithstanding, restraint a painful tactic for prolonging their affair,
their mutual pleasure, which lasted hours and hours, he readily admits,
throughout which bountiful emissions (hers not his) inflamed him even more,
gushes at the start transformed into periodic oozes, an inexhaustible wellspring
of viscose lucent fluid that kept his lips and fingertips copiously anointed,
the scent revived upon showering, once home in San Francisco, exciting him anew,
inciting him to ask:
anyone be mistaken for someone else under such intimate
Either she had
pretended he was near-and-dear—unlikely—or, in fact, he was another man's
spitting-image. The prospect of a twin, for the first time, dawns.
approach his mother with such an improbability? And even were it true, why would
she confess? Surely such a secret kept for twenty-two years and counting would
resist disclosure on such a flimsy pretext:
"Mom, I met this girl who thought I looked so much like her lover she lured me
into bed and incited actions so obscene I’m hopelessly infatuated. Might I ask, was
I born all by my lonesome or accompanied by a twin?'
Right; fat chance
that approach would make my mother spill the beans.
Sam rethinks his original explanation:
knew I was a counterfeit and had her way regardless... cleverly avoiding
any risk of pregnancy by cooking up some pretext of me being out of
commission... a ploy I blithely swallowed hook, line, and sinker... landing me
in the sack while agreeing to keep my pants on, sipping, slurping, and siphoning
her endless flow of sap, until I thought my jaws were about to come unhinged...
yet savoring every surge and sphincter-squeezing spasm.
How to know for sure, though?
Try my luck again.
Except that he had left without her address. He knew the make and color of her
car but precious little else, neglecting to jot down her license plate number,
so eager had he been to flee the scene, feeling guilty yet elated, fraudulent
yet in luck, culpable yet delighted with his role of stand-in ravisher... and
retrospectively certain he would have at her again.