“You should do it,” said Lo.
“I don’t think so,” I replied.
“No, you definitely should do it.”
“It’s not really my thing,” I said.
Now, dear reader, before your imagination gets the best of you, we were not talking about any of the things you may have thought we were talking about.
I had been invited to give a talk at a Moth reading. As many of you probably already know, a Moth reading is a storytelling event where each speaker is given about five minutes to tell a tale without a script. No notes. Just ad lib, though the performance can be prepared and rehearsed like an actor’s monologue.
“I’m a writer. I’m not a performer, a thespian. And I’m awful at memorization. It becomes stale to me.”
With a “Peshaw,” she dismissed my objections. “You can tell a story! You’re made of stories. You ooze stories.”
“A little too graphic,” I muttered.
“You want to ooze some stories into me?” she asked suggestively.
“Lo, that’s the problem! All my stories are about you! About sex! This has to be PG. And also, I notice that good stories, like the one’s that win at Moth competitions and get the most applause on Medium, have a point, a sentimental little piece of wisdom, a surprising ah-ha! culminating conclusion. My stories don’t have that. They’re just stuff we do, things we say, everyday life. There’s no point to them at all.”
“Well. . . ,” she cooed, “I wouldn’t go that far. You have a nice little point.” She reached down and grabbed at my crotch.
“Why don’t you point me in the right direction and maybe a story will come to you.”
She got on the bed and slid out of her panties, leaned back and spread her legs.
I positioned myself above her. She reached down between her legs and rubbed her pussy. “Mmmmm, that feels good,” she said.
I hadn’t even touched her yet.
She raised her hand from her crotch to her mouth and licked her fingers. She didn’t do this in order to lubricate, but to taste her own lubrication.
“Fuck me, Daddy.”
Before I entered her, she was back to caressing her pussy — pulling her labia and slapping her hole, making popping sounds with her hand.
“That felt good,” she said.
“Lo, you know that I. . .”
“I know, Daddy. The point wasn’t to make you cum.”
“Then what was the point?”
“You figure it out. You’re the writer.”
[For more pointless stories, check out: mysexlifewithlola.com]