It wasn’t your body’s fault, much less your fault. But my erection wasn’t my fault. It’s just how my body acts.”“Well, it shouldn’t act that way. You should be crying through your eyes, not though your dick. And what do you mean saying that I’m not ready ‘yet’? You were thinking about doing it. Maybe, when your dick was saying ‘now,’ your mouth wasn’t. Well your mouth was saying ‘later.’ That’s not weeping for your loss; that’s not sympathy for my loss. That’s simple horniness. And it’s not just your dick -- it’s you.”We went around like that for hours. Probably the neighbors could hear. I slept on the couch that night, and it was a damn lumpy couch. It didn’t get any softer over the next week, either.Then, one night, she came home from another doctor’s appointment. She didn’t say anything, but she did cook dinner. I’d gotten tired of my own cooking, and we couldn’t afford restaurant meals except for celebrations -- not really for them. If I’d have eaten out, Gwen would have thought. A simple frat party at a house in the Berkley Hills. Uninvited and unknown, the two women waltzed into the house as if they owned it. They were dressed for the singular purpose of seduction; all the men turned to watch as they sauntered into the center of the crowd to the heavy beat of Nine Inch Nails. As if of a single mind, they turned towards each other and began to dance. Their bodies undulated as they wound their limbs together. Guinevere hitched up her skin-tight, knee-length leather skirt until it rode just beneath the curve of her ass so that Moira’s silk stocking clad leg could ride between her own. Guinevere’s full breasts were barely confined by a simple black blouse completely open but for a single strategically placed button, and as she bounced and moved to the music, glimpses of her heavy cleavage showed to anyone and everyone who desired to look. Moira had clad herself in virginal white for the occasion. Her top was a tight contraption of lace and whale bone from back.
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