Page 8 of Lucky Night

All that noise. All that hooting and hollering andoh God, oh Nicking! What was that?

It felt so good. I just didn’t quite, you know. Get there.

You fakedit.

A little. Can I get back in bed?

No, he says. You never fake it. You told me that once. It was a real point of pride.

She glances away, her eyes going vague. I know, I just…it felt wonderful, and I could tell you were about to come, which is always so exciting, almost as good as…so, I guess I joinedin.

Except you didn’t, he says.

Well, no, but—

Have you ever faked it before?

Nope, she says.

Nope. Nope! He knows what she’s doing. She’s in retreat, resorting to her midwesternisms, her jeezes and cripes, hiding behind a bogus aw-shucks simplicity until the storm passes and it’s safe to come out of the cellar.

Good luck with that, cookie.

I loved it, she insists. Like always. So what if I didn’t, you know, reach the pinnacle? Let’s give it another chance.

She’s close to him now. She pulls the duvet down, brushes his cock with her fingertips. It stirs. Traitor. She kneels beside the bed and kisses it. She takes it between her lips and sucks, gently. Maybe she’s right. It’s not a big deal. He shouldn’t give her such a hard time that she has to come over here and play handmaiden to his wounded ego. Isn’t it a little hypocritical to ding one’s affair partner for dishonesty? Plus, he could extract all sorts of concessions in round two. Punish her for her grievous infraction. His cock likes the sound of that. Yes, we have a seconding of that motion, we have an enthusiastic—

The problem isn’t that you didn’t come, he says. It’s that you pretended you did.

The delicious pressure ceases. It’s possible she sighs, even with his cock in her mouth. She releases him, sits back on her heels and waits, inscrutable.

That’s not totally accurate, he concedes. The faking is an issue. But also? I love making you come, Jenny! You know this. Being inside you, feeling you around me, feeling you chase it, and overtakeit?

The faraway alarm rings again.

And then, you’re so beautifully helpless, in the grip of it. That’s not polite to say, I know, I’m a Neanderthal, but I don’t mean helpless as in my prey or anything.

The alarm stops.

Something’s wrong, she says.

Your orgasms are the best, Jenny. They’re a splash of color in a drab, shitty world. If you could see them, feel them the way I do, you’d understand.

The alarm starts ringing again.

She stands.

And the thing is, I make them happen.I—

Nick, could you—

I know, he says. Trust me, I know what that sounds like. The arrogant male, the preening baboon, beating his chest and roaring about his vaginal prowess. I get it. Why do women fake orgasms? Because it’s such a big goddamn deal to their baboon-partners that they come, even though most of them have no clue how to make it happen! But I do, Jenny. I’ve done the homework, okay? Put the time in, sorted out all those complicated folds—

Nick, stop! I’m trying to count!

The alarm is still ringing.

It’s a million miles away, he says. It’s nothing.

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