It's very difficult to discuss having sex without being so crude that I sound like a pornographic book or without being so discreet that I sound like a repressed, uptight Victorian novelist who suffers regularly from va- ginismus and still calls her husband Mr. Clements after twenty-seven years of marriage.
How about if I just say that mighty oaks from little acorns grow?
Isn't that good? Discreet yet symbolic?
Offensive to no one but at the same time leaving you in no doubt what- soever that Adam had a hard-on that could cut diamonds?
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Whoops!
Vulgar, vulgar, vulgar!
Although while we're on the subject I might as well tell you that it was big enough to make me fear for the safety of the light fixtures if he made any sudden movements.
Which, naturally, I wholeheartedly hoped he would.
No, I'm only joking. It wasn't that big at all.
It was of medium size.
Neither alarmingly big nor depressingly small.
Just right, really.
Of course, there are some unscrupulous women who tell whatever man they're with that he has the biggest penis they've ever seen.
You know, quite simply as a matter of course.
They shrink back against the mattress and stare round-eyed with mock horror at the man in question and squeal, "Oh my! You're not coming anywhere near me with that monster of a thing. What are you trying to do? Screw me or batter the door down?"
Sneaky tactics.
Because of course the man in question is delighted. Believing himself to be in possession of a weaponlike member, he feels invincible and all man. And gives them a seeing-to that they won't forget in a hurry. But you wouldn't catch me doing that.
Well, only very rarely.
And I also can't describe what was going on below Adam's waist because I can't think of a word that I feel comfortable with to describe his, well, you know, his...
Well, how can I tell you what I can't describe if I haven't got a word to describe it!
I mean, the correct word is, of course, penis.
But that sounds so clinical.
I don't think I'd like someone to say to me, "Oh, that's a beautiful vagina you've got there."
It's not exactly evocative or romantic, now is it?
Hardly the language of hearts and flowers.
And by the same token I think penis is far too reminiscent of biology lessons at school where a scarlet-faced substitute
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teacher hurriedly and scantily explains the human reproductive system to a room full of sniggering adolescents.
It's not a human-enough description.
But what else can I call it?
I know there are hundreds of words, but not one of them seems appro- priate.
How about knob?
That one's currently very fashionable.
Weeeell, I don't know.
It sounds a bit functional to me.
Although then again, why shouldn't it?
Cock?
No, I don't like that one either.
For some reason I find it reminiscent of aging rock stars with London accents and horrible stone-washed jeans and long gray hair.
And worse again are the situations where the man has christened his member with a name. I mean, did you ever! Sidelong smirk from man, followed by wheedling noises.
"I think George is waking up."
Meaningful and wheedley smile.
"I think George wants to come out and play."
Wheedley eye contact and hopeful expression.
"George want to play hide-and-seek."
Glazed and sickly grin.
Ugh!
Well, George can just go right off and find someone else to play with. That kind of carrying on is enough to make me want to embrace celibacy.
Well, in the absence of a moniker that I like I'm going to resort to the language of romance novels and call it his Throbbing Manhood. Adam, thankfully, hadn't introduced me to his Throbbing Manhood by name, and I didn't know if I was ready to make friends with his Throbbing Manhood just yet.
I'd kind of gotten used to James's Throbbing Manhood. Not that it was an especially hard act (if you'll pardon the pun) to follow, but it suited me.
I had nothing against Adam's Throbbing Manhood (apart from my thigh, of course), but I felt nervous about becoming acquainted with it.
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As if he sensed this, Adam caught me by the arm (no, Adam, not my arm, for God's sake; it hasn't got an erogenous atom in it) and said urgently, "We don't have to do anything, Claire. We can just lie here if you want to." Now, if I'd had a penny for every time I've been promised a "just lying there" scenario by a man, I'd be a very rich woman indeed. I couldn't count the number of times that I'd been promised this when I've had to spend the night with a man because I'd missed the last bus and didn't have money for a taxi.
"You can stay in my place. It's only around the corner," he'd say.
"I'll sleep on the couch," I'd say quickly.
"Well, you might as well stay in the bed with me. It's much more com- fortable."
"Ah no, the couch is fine."
"Look, I'm not going to touch you. Is that what's worrying you?"
"Well, er, yes."
"No need to worry. I won't lay a finger on you."
And then those fateful words. "We can just lie there."
And of course not getting a wink of sleep because I had to spend the night doing some all-star wrestling with the man.
Or squashed with my face right up into the wall in a vain attempt to get away from the man, finding it damn near impossible to breathe because of the erect penis pressed into my back.
Being afraid that if I breathed out and thereby moved my lower spine--entirely involuntarily, mind you--even a tenth of a millimeter onto his hot member, this would be taken as a sign of encouragement and acqui- escence.
And then, of course, if I didn't deliver the goods, as it were, there was the highly probable chance that the gentleman in question would bad- mouth me the length and breadth of Ireland, calling me a prick tease and a frigid lesbian and all manner of other terrible and totally undeserved names. Saying things like, "Oh, she was coming on to me all night. She was fooling no one with that line about not having money for a taxi."
To this very day I think I still have a faint, penis-shaped indentation on my back.
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But I believed Adam.
I knew that he meant it.
I trusted him.
I knew that if he said we could just lie there, that he meant it.