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Anti-Climax

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Brunette
It's late Thursday night - well, early Friday morning - the week after Thanksgiving, and at Warren's invitation, I stop by his place after my shift at the Bar. He lets me in the front door of his apartment, looking very much like a man awakened from restful sleep - but then a few seconds later, he's got me up against the wall and he's kissing me and frantically undoing my jeans. It's about four in the morning, and he has to be awake and starting his day in less than three hours, but he gets down on his knees, pulls off half my clothing, and starts going down on me right there in the entry hallway. All by themselves, the shock and his urgency get me halfway home within seconds, and I cry out a little. My knees shake and I press myself hard up against the wall, grabbing hold of his head. In reply he grabs my ass and holds tight, and starts bringing me the rest of the way home. He's learned quickly - very quickly - what I like and why, and God, there's just nothing like someone who's bothered to figure out exactly what the best way is to go down on you. It must take several minutes, I know it must, but it feels like almost no time at all has passed before my breathing quickens, my grip on his head tightens, and he redoubles his efforts exactly where they will do the most good - and I can't stay on my feet anymore, I feel myself sliding slowly down the wall, Warren's hands still gripping my ass, his mouth locked in place, and a scream rising in my throat. I end up sitting on the floor, and I grab my jeans from where they landed and stuff a handful of beer-tasting denim in my mouth just before it hits, and then I cry out loud enough to wake Levi Strauss from the dead.

As I sit there catching my breath, exhausted and shaking, Warren stands up, calmly walks to his apartment door - and finally closes it. I didn't even notice it had still been open. I throw my jeans at him. "You sonofabitch, someone could have seen that!"

He shakes his head. "Floor show's not included with the monthly maintenance." He crouches down, and with a little effort but not much, scoops me into his arms, stands up, and carries me to his room, where he throws me onto his bed from a few feet away. When he joins me, I strip him down and do for him what he's done for me. He's a little hard to read sometimes, but that's true of a lot of men - it's tough for them to ask for what they want, they think it makes them look weak or picky or something. But my ex Peter once told me that when it comes to going down on guys, effort and enthusiasm go a long way even when technique and preferences might be a question-mark. And the way I've been treated tonight, I've got enthusiasm to spare. He doesn't last long - not even as long as I did.

We're lying there a few minutes later, curled up together, my head on his shoulder, when I feel his arm twitch a little and sense a change in his breathing. "No you don't," I say, shaking him. "There's a condom in the pocket of my jeans, and we're not breaking Chekhov's Law tonight."

He laughs. "What?"

"Chekhov's Law of economy in narrative. If there's a gun on stage in the first act, it has to be fired by the end of the third act."

"Fucking English major," he says, shaking his head.

"That's right, I'm a fucking English major, and you're a fucking executive, so don't fall asleep on me!"

He rolls over on top of me and starts making out with me, and by about ten minutes later, he's ready to go, and we do. It's the slow and deliberate passion of two people who are wiped out already, and it's beautiful. Three or four times as he comes kind of close, we just pause where we are and hold each other tight, with him still inside of me, for a few minutes at a time. It's like this for somewhere in the neighborhood of a half hour. We pause one more time. This has been building up in me for days. I may never forgive myself, but I can't help myself.

"You need more than this, don't you?" I ask him.

"What? No, I'm loving this, we're both tired, don't force it."

"No, you need more than this - more than great sex, laughs, companionship."

He looks me in the eye. "We're doing this now?"

"Sorry."

Warren sighs. "I want to be settled. I want to get married again someday, and I want my kids to have a woman in their lives when they're with me, not just when they're with their mother."

"And you see that happening with me?"

"I see it as a very real possibility, Debra. I'm too old and I have too many responsibilities to be chasing girls for the hell of it. You don't see it?"

It's the strangest feeling, having a man inside of me at the same moment I'm realizing that it's almost certainly the last time he'll be there. I look into his eyes, and I search my heart, but I know I won't find anything there that hasn't been there already these last couple of months. The tears start flowing even before I start shaking my head. He cradles my head with his hands, and rocks me for a minute. Soon I wipe my tears away, then I kiss his ear, his neck, and his mouth, and what little size he's lost inside me in the last few minutes starts to come back.

We're still making love when his alarm goes off at 6:30, and we laugh as he turns it off. We pause as he gets close to climax again and we hold each other tightly. "You're going to be late for work," I whisper.

"Yes, I am," he replies. And then we start again.

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