Anal Sex Ain't No Laughing MatterbySusanJillParker©
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A woman who opposes having anal sex, has a secret, anal sex agenda
Other than in the realm of comedy, comedians, and comediennes, anal sex ain't no joke. To many, anal penetration is as series as vagina penetration. A serious matter, one that takes a lot of self-reflection prior anticipation for the woman to properly clean and douch herself, anal sex is just as wantonly desired as is vaginal intercourse. The perfect, foolproof, birth control method, anal sex is not only for heterosexual men and women but also for gay and lesbian couples too. Yet, before getting down to the serious business of ass play, we explore the lighter and less sophisticated side of anal sex.
"Are you ready? Shall we begin?"
* * * * *
"Knock, knock," said Olivia smiling at her husband, John, no doubt with the anticipation of what she was going to say to him next.
In the way she always looked when about to tell her husband a joke, she looked excited. Not getting her humor, never getting her humor, in the way he felt as old as he looked, she looked so young, especially when she was happy, laughing, and smiling. Yet, bored to tears by her seemingly endless supply of jokes, he looked at her over his reading glasses, sighed loudly, and rolled his eyes. Looking at her as if she was a painting or a priceless work of art that he admired from afar, she was so beautiful. If it wasn't for her beauty, he would have kicked her to the curb for a dog, a Labrador Retriever, a Poodle, or a Cocker Spaniel. Alas, in the way she was so against giving him anal sex, the one thing that he so wanted, to him, she was so sexually unattainable.
Now after all of these years, he finally knew the sad truth about a May and December romance. This is why he never should have married a much younger woman. Not even able to maintain an intelligent conversation, they had nothing in common. Had he married someone more his age, she'd be serving him tea before returning to reading her book to leave him to his thoughts in peace.
"No Olivia. Please. If you don't mind, no more knock, knock jokes," he said. "I've had quiet enough of knock, knock, who's there?" He looked at her with obvious exasperation while putting up his hand as if he was stopping someone from talking in his class. "I'm tired of your nonsensical knock, knock jokes."
Still smiling and not terribly crushed by his rejection, she had grown accustomed to his difficult nature and moodiness. Allowing his impatient attitude to roll off of her back and taking his verbal abuse in stride, she looked at him while he returned to doing his crossword puzzle in ink. Cajoling him, she nudged his foot with her foot.
"C'mon John, I need to try out my new material on you for the comedy club," she said leaning forward to pat his knee with encouragement.
When she leaned forward like that, in the way she always did when in his class 15, long, sexually frustrating years ago, she gave him the perfect down blouse view of the tops of her abundant breasts. As if he was a horny teenager, he stared at her long line of cleavage in the way he always stared at her ass crack whenever she bent forward enough to flash him her thong. With her reminding him of a character in a period novel, a privileged woman of distinction back in the 17th century, she was wearing her sexy low cut bra, the one where her boobs nearly spilled out of them.
Odd that she was giving him encouragement to listen to her joke when he should have been the one encouraging to share her joke with him. Instead of listening to his wife, he reached out his hand to take her hands in his while looking in her eyes with utter frustration and bored annoyance. In the way he had once already done, looking as if he was about to propose again, he didn't propose. Instead of being lovingly kind to her, he was mean to her. Instead of talking to her as if she was his equal, he talked down to her as if she was just another one of his immature students.
"Listen to me, Olivia. You must stop this foolishness. Please stop with you trying to be a comedienne," he said with a sad face as if he was giving her his condolences at the funeral of her close relative or family friend. "None of your jokes are funny. You suck at telling jokes. Really, you do. All of your jokes are terrible," he said. "It's painful for me to hear you destroy the English language by telling me another nonsensical joke."
He looked at her while wondering if he was getting through to her.
"Terrible? My jokes are all terrible?" She looked at him as if he had stabbed her in the heart. "Seriously? Do you really mean that?" She remained silent while staring at him. "How could you say that to me, John? You know how much I want to make it as a comedienne."
She looked at him as if she was about to cry. Instead of just listening to her tell him a joke, how could he do that to her? How could he treat her in such a disrespectful way?
"Don't worry about the money you think you'd earn telling jokes," he said snidely. "Between the royalties from my books, my paid lectures, my movie consulting fees, and my full professorship at the university, you don't need to work. I earn more than enough money to support the both of us," he said finally giving her a look of encouragement when telling her to do something else other than telling jokes. "Why not just read a book, paint a picture, or knit something instead of telling jokes? Do the crossword puzzles," he said holding up his nearly completed crossword puzzle. "Find a hobby."
As if seeing him for the first time, she looked at him as if he was the mean bastard that he is. The mad professor, he was always angry and never happy. What attracted her to him before, when not directed at her, was his lack of patience and tolerance to all things and to all students. Only with him worsening with age, now that his verbal abuse was directed at her, he confounded her. He angered. He frustrated her sexually and otherwise.
"All of my jokes are not funny? How can you say that to me? How can you hurt my feelings like that?"
Instead of looking as if she was about to cry, with her face beat red, she looked as she was about to hit him.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Better that I be the one to tell you that you're not as funny as you think you are to spare you the embarrassment of going on stage."
She pulled her hands away from him to put her hands on her knees. Sitting bolt upright, she sat as if she was sitting on a toilet and was constipated.
"Many of my jokes are very funny. I'm not about to be your kept, little woman, painting, knitting, reading, and doing the crossword puzzle," she said pointing her finger of womanhood freedom at him. "This is the 21st century and not the 1890's. As a capable and college educated woman, a human being just like you, I want to make my own way," she said. "You don't get my jokes because you don't have a sense of humor. You're just jealous because you can't tell a joke to save your life."
With him sitting there so smugly smart, so arrogant, so full of himself, and with him having distain for everyone, including her, his own wife, he was a miserable man. A lonely man, he didn't have any friends. He had lots of acquaintances until he lashed out his superiority on them. Only, he didn't see himself that way, a miserable, lonely, angry man. He saw himself more of a refined gentleman, a man of class and distinction in the way that Richard Burton and/or Peter O'Toole were when they weren't drinking and drunk.
Alas, perhaps he'd be happier if he was sexually satisfied. Perhaps he'd be happier if his wife would agree to have anal sex with him instead of just telling him anal sex jokes. With him always completing his crossword puzzles in ink, wordplay, serious thinking, and solutions to problems that confounded others were all the things that he professed as important to his scholarly domain.
With her simplistic domain always telling him her not so funny jokes, always ready to laugh in the hopes of making others laugh, she was foolishly impetuous and he wasn't. She was as kind and caring and he was insensitive and mean. She had an insatiable appetite for life and he, wanting to be left alone with his reading and crossword puzzles, was seemingly done with people and with living. With her not giving him anal sex, seemingly, if judging him by the way he treated her, he was done with her too.
"How long have I known you, Olivia?"
"Knock, knock," he remembered were the first words out of her mouth when they first met.
At the time, thinking that she was adorably cute, a sweet pixie of a young woman and a dark haired, Katie Couric look-a-like, but for her big boobs and shapely ass, he didn't even remember the joke. He more remembered how amazing her perfect ass looked in her skintight jeans when she turned to take her seat in his class. Forsaking her skintight jeans for short skirts, sadly, that was the last time she rewarded him a view of the shapely outline of her perfect ass. Just as he didn't laugh at her jokes then, he wasn't laughing at her jokes now. Having heard them all before or facsimiles of old jokes retold with new characters, he wasn't even moved to laugh at her never mind to laugh with her.
Only, she was so very beautiful and he could tell right away that she had a schoolgirl crush on him. Unaccustomed to any woman having a crush on him, he was more than flattered. He was moved to act upon his sexual impulses. He couldn't wait to kiss her while feeling her big breasts through her tight, low cut sweaters. He couldn't wait to slide his hand down behind her to feel and squeeze her incredible ass through her painted on jeans. He couldn't wait to remove her jeans before removing her panties with his teeth. He couldn't wait to bend her over his desk and plunge his stiff cock in her sweet ass. He couldn't wait to get her in bed and take her anally again and again.
"Fifteen years John," she said. "We met fifteen years ago in English Lit class."
He couldn't believe he's known this woman for fifteen years and not once has she agreed to submit herself to giving him anal sex. He couldn't believe he's known this woman for fifteen years and throughout all of these years, she continues making a fool of herself by trying to be a comedienne. If nothing else, she's determined. If nothing else, she's not a quitter. If nothing else, she's so frigging immaturely annoying by boring him to death with her stupid jokes.
Envious of her devotion, she doesn't give up on her dream in the way he's already given up on himself in being nothing more than a college professor. When he wanted to be head of the English department and eventually become the Dean of the school, he saw his dreams dashed when he realized finally it wasn't so much what he knew but who he knew. As a man who kept to himself and as a man who lacked the social skills to be in such a political position, he was much better sitting behind his desk than being in a position of leadership.
Perhaps if he wasn't so serious, he'd be more approachable. Perhaps if he smiled instead of frowned, he'd be more likeable. Perhaps if he laughed at himself in the way so many of his students laughed at him behind his back, he'd be more beloved. Perhaps if he told a joke to the Dean or to his class, he'd be invited to one of their private parties and/or be accepted as one of them.
Only, paying honor to the classics and to the authors who wrote the words he so cherished, there was nothing funny about 20th century, English Literature. Not to be taken lightly with the disrespectful jocularity that his wife approaches a knock, knock joke, interpreting the words of Nobel Prize winners was not only scholarly business but also serious business. More than a mere English Literature professor, he was his students' guide, their mentor, and perhaps their first contact to the classics.
Nonetheless his scholarly education and his lofty intentions to motivate his students, he always struggled to find the exact word, the fitting phrase, the desire description, and/or the imagined imagery to inspire his students to embrace American literature in the way he has for more than forty years. He was determined to make his students not only see what he sees but also to realize what the authors were thinking at the time to have written what they wrote. He needed his students to understand why these literary works have stood the test of the tumultuous and turbulent times without their inherent messages being dated and meaningless.
"How long have we been married?"
Totally opposites with him being a serious and preoccupied college professor and her telling him stupid jokes that weren't funny, obviously, they were on the opposite ends of the intellectual spectrum. They were opposites sexually too. With him always wanting to try anal sex and with her not even considering the thought of him sticking his cock in her ass, they were at an impasse without room for negotiation. Then, adding insult to his injured pride, as if to rub anal sex in his face, her favorite type of joke, for some strange reason, she enjoyed telling anal sex jokes more than any other type of idiotic anecdote. How could she tell an anal sex joke when she's never had anal sex was beyond his comprehension?
"You don't know how long we've been married?" She made a bitter face in the way he always made a disapproving face at his students and now at her.
Of course he knew how long they were married. Seemingly over her head and beyond her limited scope of understanding, he showed her his impatience with asking her a rhetorical question.
"Of course I know how long we've been married. I'm just asking you a rhetorical question to make a point," he said with attitude. "Just answer the question, if you will please," he said as if he was still her teacher and she was still his student.
"Twelve, wonderful years," she said with a loving smile.
In the way she always smiled at him and in the way she was always so kind to him, he sometimes felt that her smile was insincere and a knife that she turned in his stomach to make him feel guilty for being so mean to her. Twelve years. He's been married to her for twelve years. It didn't seem that long to him. If he didn't know any better, he'd think that they were married eight or nine years, at the most. Yet with her confounding him and exasperating him, with her stubbornness, and her resistance in quitting and giving up her dream of becoming a comedienne, and with her not agreeing to try anal sex, sometimes he felt as if they had been married 30 years.
"How long have you been trying to make it as a comedienne?"
As if she was a clown or a horse counting with its hoof, trying to be funny and make him laugh, she counted on all ten fingers before removing her shoes and counting on her toes too while giggling. When she removed her shoes and spread and lifted her legs to count on her toes, whether accidentally or deliberately, she flashed him her panties. Still mesmerized by the mere sight of her panties, even though he's seen her in her panties a thousand times, never tiring of seeing her panties, he loved her bikini panties.
He loved how her bikini panties perfectly fit over her beautiful tush. Too good for him, she was such a fun loving woman. Perhaps he'd be better suited being married to a stiffly stern librarian in the way of Miss Hathaway, Mr. Drysdale's executive assistant, on the Beverly Hillbillies. He surely didn't deserve being married to funny, fun loving, and easy going Olivia.
"Twenty years," she said laughing.
He put his crossword puzzle down and looked at her over the tops of his reading glasses whenever she said something stupid, foolish, or unbelievable.
"Twenty years? You've been telling jokes with the hopes of being a comedienne for twenty years?"
"Yes," she said with pride.
"Tell me this then and be honest," he said pausing to stare in her eyes as if willing her to give up her dream. "Have you ever heard me laugh at one of your inane jokes?"
Before removing his focus from her to return his attention to his crossword puzzle, he looked at her with disapproval and disappointment in the way a father would look at his disobedient daughter. Only, with her his child of a bride, they never had children. It was apparent to him now that there was a gap in their commonalities that their twenty-year age difference could never bridge.
She was his student when they first met and he was her college professor. In many ways he was still her teacher but, in the way she no longer listened to him when hanging off of his every word as she did before, it was obvious to him that she was no longer his student. With her unwilling to try anal sex, there was nothing more to teach her that she willingly wanted to learn. Just as his existence was more geared to the finer things in life, obviously her life was stuck in her frustrated inability to make people laugh.
"No, I've never heard you laugh at any of my jokes but you're a tough nut to crack. I figure that if I can make you laugh, I can make anyone laugh," she said looking at him with renewed inspiration while smiling at him before giggling again. "Knock, knock," she said with a giggle.
He dropped his head to reveal his frustration and drooped his shoulders to exhale his boredom.
"No Olivia. No more knock, knock jokes," he said looking up at her over his glasses.
With her knees parted enough to still flash him a triangular peek at her panties, he thought of all the times she deliberately flashed him her panties while sitting directly in front of him in the front row of his class. Difficult for him to concentrate on his lecture, one day, she sat in front of him without shame, without embarrassment, without modesty, without decency and morality, and without wearing her panties. Having to lecture his class from his chair, he had to remain seated not to show his obvious erection. It took all the self-control he possessed not to stare between her opened legs.
Nothing new, with the secret sexual lust he had for her, he always had a boner when she was in his class. He had to look to the other side of the room not to stare at the tops of her shapely thighs and her exposed, trimmed, dark brown pussy. If only she'd bend over in front of him, he'd love to see her naked ass. If only she'd fill his eyes with her naked ass in the way she was filling his line of sight with her naked pussy, he'd be a happy man.
He'd love nothing better than to fall between her knees to finger her pussy while kissing her and feeling her big breasts through her blouse and bra. He wished he could lick her to an orgasm before standing before her for her to suck his cock. Then, when ready to cum, he'd pull her up to him and bend her over to give her anal sex her doggie style. He'd love nothing better than to fuck her in her beautiful, round, firm, shapely ass. He'd love nothing more than to fill her anal cavity with all of him.
That fateful day he asked her to lunch. That fateful day, they had sex in his apartment. That fateful day when he felt her ass, squeezed her ass, and licked her ass, she rebuffed him when he tried to seduce her anally. Too much too soon, he figured she'd have anal sex with him another time but she never did. He figured she'd give her ass to him once they were married but years later, he's still waiting. It's apparent to him now that she'll never willingly submit her ass to him. Only, he's not the type of man to force her. How could he force his wife, the woman he loves, to do something that she willing cannot do?
"I promise you, this one is really funny," she said.
She was always so excited to tell him her joke and he was always so tortured to hear her joke.
"Please, I beg you. No more knock, knock jokes."
A small victory, or so he thought, he reached for his crossword puzzle again to immerse himself in the meaning of words by filling in his little boxes.