by Bob Jacobs
And then, for no apparent reason, sex with Gloria became a noisy, physical affair, she would pant loudly, calling out, "Yes, yes, oh yes, more, oh GOD yes, give it to me, right there, RIGHT there, oh Jesus Christ and all His disciples, do it, DO it, DO IT." This went on for weeks, thrashing around beneath me, raking my back with her nails, grabbing the pillow behind her head and thrusting her pelvis at me, and each time my hard-earned erection would turn to marshmallow and I couldn't finish, until that last time as it softened she grabbed my ears, brought her face up to mine and screamed, "OH GOD, I'M COMING." I moved away from her and said, "For Christ's sake Gloria, we've been married twenty-five years and you've never behaved like this until recently, what the hell's wrong with you?" She frowned and said, "Isn't this what you want?" I said, "No, of course not." She sat naked on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed, lit a cigarette, blew the smoke out calmly and said, "Well Christ almighty, it's what I fucking want."
Bob Jacobs, whose full catalog is here, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.