Never get out of the boat. Absolutely goddamn right.
His hand darts between my legs, toying with my pussy through my jeans as I rock my hips back and forth. I feel my eyes glazing over with lust; it never takes much.
Then Laramy Fuquerton’s fingers make a violent flicking motion toward my nethers that doesn’t quite find purchase and whispers “Yeah. Flick that clit!” huskily.
“No!” I snap my legs shut to protect my precious, minuscule pearl.
“Yes! You like that.”
I sigh dramatically, wearily. “Laramy,” I put on my best lecturing voice, “we need to have a frank and open conversation about sexuality at this time.” He nods excitedly. “There’s a very sensitive part of a woman’s anatomy called a clitoris. It looks kind of like a little man in a boat. Now, when you flick this little man his boat capsizes and a big shark comes out of the ocean and eats him. Do you understand what I’m saying here?”
“Yes!” Laramy exclaims. “The shark’s a metaphor for an orgasm!” And here we just about die laughing. I’m not sure where it started but there’s this huge joke between us where Laramy pretends to think that girls like it when you flick their clitorises and I pretend to be horrified. We’re frightfully mature, you know.
“No no no,” I rally, trying to regain my serious face. “You can’t flick it. That’s a terrible idea. There are more nerve endings in my clit than there are in your entire penis!”
He looks impressed. “Is that true?”
“I dunno. It’s in the Vagina Monologues.” I shrug. We make out more. For the truly dorky, inside jokes are foreplay.
