“So?” I asked when she returned from therapy.
“So what?” she said, nonchalantly.
“Did you tell your therapist?”
“Tell her what?”
“Come on, you know what – that you’re a nympho.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said.
“And nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Come on. What did you say? What did she say?”
“I’m starving. What’s for breakfast?”
“Lo, don’t try to change the subject.”
“Make me breakfast and I’ll tell you all about it.”
I got to work on the pancakes, mixing it in the bowl. She snuck up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist and whispered in my ear, “Did you miss me, Daddio?”
“Yes I missed you.”
Her hands slowly slid a little lower, “How much did you miss me?”
“Mmmmm,” she moaned as her hands reached my crotch. “Did you ever notice how raw pancake mix smells like cum?”
“Lo, that’s our breakfast.”
“Well it does,” she said, putting a finger in the bowl, scooping some on it and then licking it erotically. “I love that smell.”
“Lo, you’re trying to distract me from my questions.”
“Is it working?”
“Good, then come fuck me and we’ll have breakfast after. Let’s work up an appetite.”
I followed her into the bedroom where she slid out of her jeans. She wasn’t wearing panties and she didn’t even bother to take off her top. She just got right on top of me and said, “I was wet for you all throughout my session.” She bounced up and down on me with her hand between her legs for a little while before she gushed all over me. When she was done, she collapsed on top of me, breasts to my chest and her lips were next to my ear and she whispered, “Oh, Daddy, you have no idea how horny I was during therapy. I was aching for you. It was uncomfortable.”
“So, what did you tell your therapist?”
“I said that I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. She asked how I’ve been able to handle it and I said that I have my ‘coping strategies.’”
“Yeah. She asked how I cope and I said, ‘I find sex – with my partner and alone – to be a great stress relief.’”
“What did she say to that?”
“She just looked at me for a bit and then she changed the subject.”
“Yeah. I guess she’s not comfortable talking about it. This is a woman who told me that having three drinks in one night – a night out with friends – is excessive.”
“Oh my God! What a total prude. When was she born, 1890? Is she part of the women’s movement for prohibition?”
“Anyhow, Daddio, I was just dying for some more stress relief when I got home.”
“Well, I gave it to you.”
“I need more.”
She slid down my body, licked my cock, and then did reverse-cow-girl for her second massive all-over catharsis.
When she was done, she dismounted and lay by my side.
“Why did you want me to tell my therapist that so badly?” she asked.
“Because, Lo, you yourself do sex therapy, you have made sex and sexuality your profession, and at home it is a major part of your personal life (that’s putting it mildly). For you to leave it out of your discussions with your own therapist is like Hillary Clinton neglecting to say that she has an interest in politics – it’s central to who you are.”
“You mean, it’s like you not telling people that you’re a writer?”
She had a point there. Writing is at the core of who I am – I write all kinds of things in all manner of genre, yet I never introduce myself as a writer or even tell hardly anyone anything about my writing life. It’s something so close to me that I covet its privacy. Perhaps that’s how Lo feels about her sex-life. But still.
“Yeah,” I answered, “something like that.”
“So?” she protested, “Of all of my issues, sex is the one area that I don’t think is a problem. I just don’t feel the need to talk about it with her.”
“That’s fine, I guess. And it looks like she doesn’t think you need to talk about it with her either, but she should at least know of it.”
“Do you think it’s a problem?”
“No, Lo, I don’t, except for the fact that I have to go through all sorts of contortions and self-abnegations in order to keep myself primed and ready for your pleasure; we take out ads to find you sexual partners to satisfy your desire; you have suffered various injuries through auto-arousal and stimulation; and you keep an entire arsenal of adult female toys in your top drawer, not to mention that the water bill is probably triple what it should be due to your shower-time activities.”
“So, where’s the problem?”
[I know it's no longer October, but the posts are a bit behind the times - still in October is Orgasm Month - and this installment places Lo at 23 and H.H. at 4.]