For April I am trying to write a piece of flash fiction a day, for the month, so this is Sunday’s entry. 😉
Safe sex: what an oxymoron! Sex is never really safe. There are hidden dangers around every corner.
Take Maria at University, for example. She was a biter. No penetration was complete without the crazy minx sinking her teeth into the flesh of the man as he pounded his cock into her. His screams would increase as she neared her orgasm. The flailing cries of the aroused man, in pain and pleasure, totally rocked her boat. We had a very short-lived relationship: I had bite marks all over my arms.
And then there was Polly: a one night stand doesn’t equal a long-term relationship, and nor does a drunken fuck mean I want one. She was good, at least I think she was: I can’t quite remember all the ins and outs, but she squirmed with delight as I fingered her on the dancefloor, and was breathless as I filled a rubber with my cum while balls deep in her cunt behind the back of the Odeon, so it must have been pretty good. But not worthy of a month of stalking, desperately trying to get a second date. Or even, a first, for that matter.
Then there’s the jealous women, STI’s, and you realise sex is never safe.
But with Violet, I tried; I really tried. We both did.
We always used condoms: neither I nor her, really wanted her to get pregnant. And it would have been a difficult conversation to have with our spouses. We always used her stout, sturdy, four poster bed in her multi-million pound mansion, ensuring that we could not be spied upon and the furniture would not collapse. I used to park my car in the lane opposite, and walk across the fields, so I was never photographed going into her house. We tried to remove the risks to our illicit liaisons.
And that Saturday was divine; she had been swimming and greeted me, stark naked and dripping wet. We kissed as my hands slid over her glistening body, and I held her tight to me, feeling her moist heat against my damp T-Shirt.
I was naked in the pool a minute later, and eating her out in five, sliding my tongue down her slick cunt as she writhed and groaned with satisfaction. I sated the lingerie model like her husband never did, I drove pleasure into her, and made her body sing with relief. I made her happy.
And as I unfurled a condom down my erect cock there was no doubt what we expected to happen. What we wanted to happen.
Only, what really happened was her husband burst into his pool and saw me, about to fuck his wife. His game was postponed, and he had returned home. The Premier League knew, the broadcasters knew, the fans knew and the players knew.
The adulterers didn’t.
And as he picked up a metal bar from his pile of weights, he threatened to kill me. I think he meant it.
So just how is sex, remotely safe?!
My own record with “safe sex” is not nearly so good; my wife (then fiancée) conceived after fifteen months of our dating when we made a mistake once. Just once, but that was all it took, and we knew we were taking a risk, but never thought it would happen to us. My second was a bit of accident too. We think that for all the sex we’ve had, we’ve had sex without protection four times, and have two children.
We don’t take any risks now.
Featured image from here under a CC-license.