42


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:

How could anyone be mistaken for someone else under such intimate circumstances?

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.

But how 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:

She 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.

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