Notes from the Upper West Side. A novel by Dan Wrench. Chapter 54 The Female Biology There was a little more to it, I said. I mean at the end, she made a comment.
Jesus, like a critique. Yes, right side. Like a critique. He pushed his coffee cup of sides so he could gesture freely with his hands.
The first thing you have to do is learn to use the female biology to prolong sex. What about the vitamins I'm working out? I'll get to that. But see, no matter what shape you're in, you can always use the female biology to your advantage.
Women can come a lot more than men. That's the basic fact you have to use. Men orgasm and it's like the train goes completely off the tracks. A second ago, you knew exactly where you were going and why, and then there's this big explosion and you find yourself lying on your side with some stupid television theme from when you were eight years old playing in your head.
He glanced around. He'd been talking pretty loud and I guess he thought people were listening in. Me? I couldn't tell.
Lord his voice leaned closer. Okay, there are those weird occasions when you can go again almost immediately like if you're with somebody really hot and you haven't had sex in a long time, but that's quirky. You can't count on it. Just assume after you orgasm you'll need a lot more time to recover than she will.
I'm not exactly sure that's how it works, I said. I mean, it's not like I never had sex before. It's pretty much the same for men and women. You slam for a while, have a smoking maybe a drink and then maybe slam some more if you want to.
That whole pattern is a cliché based on the male biology. In reality female orgasms don't even have to be these big explosive moments they can be long cascading rhythms. Ever hear of the hour long orgasm? Of course not.
It's biology, he said. It's evolution. See that trigger in your brain that fires when you orgasm the trigger that says you can crawl away and die now? That's probably been part of the male brain since before we were human.
Since we were just fish fucking in a prehistoric swamp. Male salmon fucks. Male salmon dies. Why?
Because nature's done with him. Okay, cut to a billion years later and now we're human males trying to score with actresses who frame their consatice. We don't die after we fuck, but we definitely feel the curtain come down and the lights go out because nature says that when the man comes his part in the process is over, he's done. You can move along, but chicks?
Their part is just starting. The trigger doesn't fire in their brains until you're driving them to the hospital and they're pounding you with their fists and screaming how they never want to see you again with your dick out. So when a chick comes, if you didn't rub her rauch, she's ready to go again in a few minutes. So I ask.
So when you fuck, make it about her orgasm for as long as possible. See if you can make her come at least three times before you come once. Three times? You can do it, he said.
Get one of those books. I'm massive female orgasm, macascading orgasm that lasts forever. Now I'm supposed to buy textbooks so I can learn to be some theater select's clit ninja and not come once. Now people were definitely starting to notice.
A girl in this Asian guy in a ring or tee had the decency to put your buds in and listen to their tunes, but this other guy in a pink tie and cheap business suit was giving us the eye over his newspaper. Parpen I noticed the eye almost simultaneously. Parped, jumped up, grabbed his coffee and headed for the front door. Let's split.
He muttered low as he walked past me. I followed him out. That guy, what a pansy. I said when we were out on the sidewalk.
Parped just said, using her biology is how you make it last. Rim her asshole while she's getting ready to come again. Without coming, even once. You'll come already.
Save it for last like dessert. But what if she starts sucking my cock? I'm supposed to say stop. That would be cool.
Imagine the look on her face. You would be in total control if you could do that. I'm not sure I'm looking for total control. Well, you can get blown, just not all the way.
Back her off before you orgasm. That's bullshit. Who does that? You?
You do that. You can do it too. But you need to practice. Train yourself.
Train myself. For sex. Who trains for sex? It's what comes naturally.
They even wrote a song about it. That song was written by two squares for a Broadway musical about rubes grabbing ass behind the barn. Try not to make it your sexual manifesto. We crossed the street.
We needed to use an ATM so we spent the next few minutes alone in the vestibule of some bank. It's a physical activity. He said, you have to train for it. You have to learn technique.
You can't take your dick out once a year and expect to perform like a porn star. That was a little harsh, but I didn't say anything. I mean it pretty much described time when into that night with Cammy. Just sort of expecting I'd let Admiral Ballsy off the leash and he'd take a nice big bite out of the cute little snatch cowering in the corner.
But at least he didn't dwell on it. Instead, he started giving me pointers. First, to get my dick up, I had to do cagles. Man cagles.
An exercise where you flex your dick over and over until it grows biceps. Flexing my dick, I said. That really works? Try it for a week.
You'll never go back. Then came the usual lecture on diet and exercise. See, it isn't enough for Park to tell me the mechanical logistical rules for getting a harder cock. No, he's got to make it a lifestyle change.
A part of my new identity. This insistence that people completely change their lives in order to reach any goal. It's an integral part of Park's persona. The part everyone laughs at most.
It's what more than anything else puts the nutty in Park's nuttiness. It's like you need to lose a few pounds. So you ask Park about it and he says first you have to go out and get this really expensive bat costume. And get used to wearing it when you go out and spite of the looks you get on the street and then you have to spend all your free time in a cave building gizmos for your utility belt.
You don't have a utility belt. Shit. Are you serious about losing weight or what? You can't change your life without changing your life.
He said, I might have winced. Notes from the Upper West Side is a work of fiction. The people depicted in this work do not exist. Notes from the Upper West Side copyright 2013 to 2017 by Dan Ranche.