The Other 90%

He could only cum
10% of the time
that was one time out of ten
ten times out of one hundred
and so on.
It wasn't for lack of trying.
He was a sports fan
and wanted to increase his average.
He'd pump and he'd pump
balanced on forearms
body wet with sweat
face twisted in concentration
eye on the ball
but unable to hit it out of the park.
He wasn't a quitter.
He would stop now and again
sip from a glass of water
and, replenished,
he would continue
Sisyphus in futile frenzy.
You'd think I wouldn't mind
most men finish too soon
but all I could think of
focus on
was the clock near the bed
counting the minutes
until his exhaustion
overwhelmed his ego.
I would be sore and bruised
for days after
each unsuccessful attempt
the constant crushing in and out
banging of bone to bone.
I tried everything.
Black lace panties
Fuck-me pumps
Sensual massages
Outdoor seduction
Finally taking him in my mouth
tongue teasing
sucking in vain
waiting for him to harden.
"I don't like that," he'd say
pulling me off of him.
That should have been a tip-off
or at least a red flag.
What normal healthy male
does not desire
beg and beseech
willingly sell his soul to the devil
for a small hot mouth
suction cupped
clamped to his cock?
He would need to manipulate himself
hands slick with spit
rubbing up and down
faster and faster
until, finally ready,
he would slip inside me.

I went to his apartment one day
unannounced.
As I stepped inside
I was drawn to his bedroom
by moans which grew louder
with each sharp intake of breath.
He was sitting on his bed
hand between his legs
a woman on TV
being serviced by two men at once
balloon breasts bouncing
with each slam and thrust.
He turned to me
but didn't stop what he was doing.
I turned to leave as he climaxed
with such force his body shook
a look of lust and ecstasy
I had never before seen
on his face.