"OOHHH FUCK!! UHHH...oh my god, this is amazing...right like that, fuck me like that...oh yeah...no wait, hold on, move over this way..."

Having sex with Joanne is an exercise in longevity and contortion. We move through the various penetrative combinations, searching for that night's winner.

Joanne laying on her side, her leg on my shoulder, my penis in her vagina, my mouth on one nipple, my hand on the other. From there Joanne moves on her back, her mouth around my penis, my tongue on her clit, two of my fingers in her vagina, a thumb massaging her sphincter. This morphs into Joanne on her side, my penis in her ass, her fingers on her clit, my fingers massaging her g-spot. Tonight, after 15 minutes of contortion, she finally settles on this position. This circus act is accompanied by graphic color commentary.

"There, put your fingers here, like that--there you go, OHHH...oh yeah...like that...oh baby...holy shit, that's it..."

I don't know if she does this on purpose, or if it's just an involuntary consequence of her sexual excitement, but she insists on telling me exactly what I am doing and how it affects her. As if I were in the other room watching TV, and needed an update on her climb to orgasm. Some guys find this sort of commentary erotic. When other girls did it, I used to think it was sexy. Unfortunately, Joanne's comments are stupid, and she repeats them endlessly. She is the John Madden of sex.

"Oh God, you're fucking my ass...FUCK MY ASS! AHH!!! FUCK IT! OHHH, go slow, baby. Ahh yeah, like that...that's it, yeah...oh yeah...."

Apparently just the idea of me fucking her ass is horribly erotic to her. After twenty minutes of this, I am bored, and I want to just come, but I keep thrusting and massaging. Eventually I start thinking of anything but her and sex with her. It is everything I can do to stop from coming. Quick flashes of thought blaze before my eyes...

Why don't limes have seeds? How do they plant new lime trees?

"...ahhh, god, that is amazing...ohhhh...ohhh...fuck me...ohhh..."

Why can't I ever find basketball shoes that don't give me blisters the first few times I wear them?

"...oh god baby, you feel so good in my ass...ohhh...ahhh...."

Did Miss Cleo actually start her own psychic hotline, or is she just some low rent actress they found doing local theater, and then based a whole company around her?

"...ohh baby, you are awesome...oh my god...I love you fucking me like this...OHHH, oh god...right in my ass..."

I think of that time at a law school fundraising event right before graduation when I wore GoldenBoys's nametag and promised every administrator that "GoldenBoy will match the contribution of everyone in his class." No one even asked me why I (ostensibly, GoldenBoy) was talking in the third person about myself. The real GoldenBoy ended up getting calls and letters from the alumni office for months after graduation, telling him about the participation of his graduating class. The mental image of GoldenBoy's confused face as he opens these letters almost starts me laughing, but I'm interrupted before I can finish the thought.

"Don't stop baby, keep going with your fingers baby, you're getting there--Ohhhmygod, yeah like that..."

This is just perverse. I start thrusting quicker in order to come and get this over with. Forty five minutes is too long for intense and narrated animalistic sex. Unless I am the focus of attention, of course.

She can sense my increased urgency, and feels my penis slightly enlarge, as it does right before I come. She pushes me back a little, "No, you're almost there; keep going. Go slow if you think you're going to come. You can take little breaks if you need to, it won't affect me."

Thanks. Like I need fucking instructions.

We've slept together at least 30 times, so by now, I know her body well enough to know that it takes almost an hour to make her come, but honestly, I just want to get it over with. Not only that, she's probably about the 60th or 70th girl I've slept with in my life, yet she talks to me like I'm new at this. [ed note: I dated her at age 25.]

Sweat is getting into my eyes, the pain of which makes it hard for me to focus on distancing my mind. I want to wipe my eyes and forehead, but I don't have any extra limbs; one arm is starting to shake from the fatigue of holding my torso up, while the other is still vigorously attacking her loins. I dutifully keep thrusting and rubbing away; stopping now would only cause more problems than it would solve. We are on the carpeted floor, and I can feel the advancing rug burn that is going to leave my knees covered in yellow, festering scabs tomorrow.

Am I here right now? Is this really my life?

Is this what my parents envisioned my future being like when they doted over me as an infant? "Honey, I sure do hope our son grows up to be healthy and strong, and has lots of meaningless, physically exhausting sex with women he has little or no emotional attachment too. That'd sure make me proud."

I'm slowly pumping away, stopping every fifteen seconds or so to prevent myself from coming before Miss Marathon Orgasm. I'm doing this because I know it will make her happy, and I want to make her happy because I want her to love me the way I think I want to love her. I know what it's going to do though; the few times I've had the patience and fortitude to stick with it and make Joanne come, she becomes a puddle of sexual bliss for days on end. She holds my arm when we're in public, licks my ear and plays with my penis in the car, and constantly initiates sex, no matter where we are; restaurant bathrooms, parking garages, a Banana Republic dressing room. Thankfully she doesn't press for those sessions to be more than quickies. It's almost like she's some sort of sexual camel; every time she comes she gets a massive hit of orgasmic ecstasy that lasts her for a week. In my desperation for some sort of emotional love, I'm reduced to settling for this.

"OH, OHHH! Oh my god I'm coming...I'm coming, I'mcomingImcomingImcoming AHHH! I'M COMING, Ohhhhhhh, OOOOHHHHHHH BABY, AHHHH, YES, YES..."

You get the point.

She goes on like this for longer than normal. I've made her come before, but never like this. The intensity of her sphincter contractions, the force of her grip and volume of her screams tell me I've finally done it: an anally-induced vaginal orgasm.

Raise your hand if you've ever done that. I can put this on my resume.

Even though I've apparently found the holy grail of sex, I'm too tired to even celebrate. All my focus is now on coming and then getting some sleep. Ironically, her wild screams of primal rapture are making it harder for me to accomplish this. Maybe my penis has forgotten what it's doing. It has a one-track mind, but give it long enough, and even that head can get derailed.

I move her onto her back and slip myself in her vagina. I'm running on fumes, but I'll be damned if I put that work in and not get any results. Her brain is so flooded with seratonin right now she could be the poster girl for a methadone clinic; I'm not sure if she even knows what's going on. She just lays there, as supine as a boneless cat on heroin, gladly accepting my final few thrusts to completion, barely acknowledging anything beyond her own pleasure. I quickly finish, and collapse next to her. I have played in college basketball games that weren't this exhausting. We are too tired and too covered in sweat to cuddle. She is giggling and twitching and moaning, rubbing her hands over herself and on me.

I want to love this girl passionately. I want to love her beautiful face, her sculpted body, her silky, angelic brown hair, her sparkling eyes, her uncultured intelligence, her naked ambition, her sassy, raw wit. But unfortunately, the only part of me that loves her is the part of me that's desperate for love. My intellect realizes that this relationship is a bomb waiting to go off.

I met her in a restaurant. It was about 4pm, and I had just arrived for happy hour with some friends, when this stunning girl comes in, dressed in workout clothes, hair pulled back in a ponytail, obviously just finished with her workout. When a girl in a disheveled state looks that good, then you know she is legitimately hot. I didn't think she was alone at first, because these two older men followed her in and sat at her table, talking to her like they knew her. She seemed slightly standoffish to them, and when they eventually left, and she sat there by herself, eating a steak. The surreal quality of this scene should have screamed "Obvious Foreshadowing," but let's be honest: The closest most guys get to girls that look like this is through their Maxim subscription. I was willing to risk Scylla and Charybdis for a shot at her.

I walk over and ask her if those guys were with her, or just bothering her. We start talking, and wow, she definitely has some energy. Not coked-out energy, but clearly mild hyperactivity. She seems to be eager to tell me everything about everything, all in the next few minutes. Another obvious piece of foreshadowing I willfully ignore. I get her number, call her a few days later, and meet her out for dinner.

The meal went fine, until I begin to inquire about her past. It's a standard maneuver; ask questions about the girl, show an interest in them, get them talking about themselves, and once they start talking, they feel comfortable with you, and as long as you have the wit to throw in a few jokes during their monologue, they usually project whatever traits they look for in a guy upon you, without you ever having to actually show them. It's an easy game.

I was doing my usual maneuvers with her, asking her about where she's from, what she does, etc, when somehow the subject of her ex-boyfriend came up. She said a few things to indicate that their relationship was a major event in her life (e.g., "When we lived together," or "The break-up did not go well,"), so I asked her about it. She looked at me, lowered her eyes, and said,

"Are you sure you want to hear about it?"
"Yeah, of course. If it's important to you I want to hear about it."

She took a deep breath and glanced at me out of the corner of her eyes, almost as if to tell me to prepare myself, and started in on a soliloquy that lasted at least an hour and a half. All the way through the main courses, dessert, and three after-dinner drinks, she told me about her boyfriend, how they met, how they immediately fell in love, how they bought a house together, or rather, she bought the house and he moved in with her, about how everything was great for awhile, until he lost his job and sunk into a deep depression, projecting his hatred of himself on her and her success with her business, and eventually robbing their house, and claiming it was some house thieves. She went into deep detail about how she figured out it was him, how she gave him the benefit of the doubt, but set him up and trapped him in too many lies to ignore, and eventually had to bring in the police to get back some valuable jewelry he had stolen, back, and how she confronted his parents with the mountain of evidence that he was in fact the one who had robbed her, and that neither him nor his parents would admit that it was him, and how all she wanted was him to admit that he did it, and ask him why he would do such a thing. And how she found out she was three months pregnant right after this happened, and how the stress of the event made her miscarry, and how she hadn't told him or her parents about it.

I'm used to emotionally bankrupt girls, and this one was setting off alarms, but she was so incredibly beautiful, I was helpless against her. Normally, I would do one of two things; get the fuck out of there as fast as possible, or suck back some drinks and use this info to sleep with her.

With Joanne, I wasn't sure what to do.