It was one of those weeks when I was feeling low rather than feeling Lo. A depression had settled in and, too depressed to do anything, I felt like trying to shake it was as futile as anything else I had tried to do in my life. Dark thoughts.
Lo had been trying to seduce me all week. “Fuck it out,” she’d say, “you’ll feel better after.”
“Lo,” I’d reply, “you know that depleting my Chi energy through ejaculation is a certain method for moving my mood from the ground floor into the basement.”
“Well, then just don’t cum. I’ll cum enough for the both of us!”
Though I found her determination amusing, it did little more than evoke a wry smile from my lips.
As a direct result of my lack of amorous affection for her, Lo felt no desire to keep herself primed and ready for a good romp — with me or anyone — and she let her hair-down-there grow out.
Coming to bed one night, I saw her lying naked over the covers. “Wow,” I remarked, unaware of the words escaping my mouth, “you’re looking very 1970’s!”
She immediately pulled the blanket up and over herself, saying, “I suddenly feel a cold draft.”
I can be cruel when in the throes of depression and so I responded with, “You shouldn’t be cold, you have a warm fleece.”
I climbed into bed and opened a book. Beginning to read next to her, she turned to me and said, “With that facial hair you look like a movie villain.”
“You know, don’t you, that the villain of every story is the hero of his own story?”
“Yeah, well you’re the villain — even in your own story.”
“I can live with that. You know that Milton’s great dilemma when writing Paradise Lost was that he had drawn the Devil in such a villainous way that he became the most compelling and interesting character. God didn’t have a chance when the Devil was on stage.”
“Really? Milton? Really? You are the most literary narcissist I ever did meet!”
“I take that as a compliment,” I said to her.
She reached over, more lovingly this time, and she said, “Daddy, you really do need to trim your beard.” She rubbed my rough beard with her hand and tugged a little on it.
“When did you masturbate?” I asked.
She looked guilty and then said, “A little while ago.”
“Just before you came into the bedroom. How did you know?”
“I can smell you on your fingertips.”
“Well,” she replied, “if you’re not going to finger me, then someone has to.” As she said this, she moved her hand down to my crotch.
Never one to miss a moment to spoil the mood when my mood is foul, I called out, “Why are your hands so cold?! Were you giving the Ice Man a handjob before he cometh?”
She wrapped her legs around my bare legs and I felt her feet on my feet. I followed my first question with another, “A foot job too?”
“The Ice Man has a warmer heart (and bigger dick) than you!” she said, rolling away from me and grabbing her phone.
I fell asleep to the tap-tap-tap of her texting with someone.
[Excerpt from the story, “Fuck Noir,” from the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]