Harry Peters Out

It is written in the philosophy of playboys that too much of a good thing is even better, but after a year of having Sarah on him until all hours, long after the music’s over, it begins to dawn on Harry that less might mean more, that having a young wife who fucks like a bunny is not all it’s cracked up to be!

Heartbreaker Harry used to blow his own horn about his talent for keeping up with any passing jill rabbit. Now fifty-one years old, he begins to feel he’s crawling at a tortoise pace behind the cotton tail every playboy dreams of.

Forgoing her suicidal pleasure mission with the Sage increases Sarah’s desire. In the end nothing less than infinity will satisfy her lust. But for the time being her yen to get the most out of life includes milking Harry’s sex glands for all they’re worth. His desire however is all too measurable, three and three-quarter times is all. Late in the fourth lap, long since turned from soft and sweet to sweaty and salty, Sarah heaves her seaworthy hips, parts her brimming wet lips, and bares her clenched teeth, wolfish, ravenous, dauntless in her urge to reach the peak of the mountain of love one more time, but Harry peters out. He’s bushed, ready to roll over and play dead. Combat fatigue.

“Please don’t fizzle on me now, man. What’s the matter, don’t you like it?” She whispers while she splints his flagging mast with her fingers, whipping it between the sheet and her inner thigh, trying to get it to stand up straight and slide right.

“What you want tonight is bigger than the both of us, Cupcake. I’m afraid I’m finished!”

The Monkey Sage’s mistress just won’t take “no more” for an answer. “That settles it. Next Friday you’re going to come to the meeting and sit with us. Believe me, if you’d just listen, the Lord would put a little extra spice in your love life.”

“Oh, no thank you! Religions, or any facsimile thereof, are definitely not my cup of tea.”

“Not all religions are for puritans, Harry. Anyway this is the spiritual life, not religion. The way we Bharanis look at things fits right in with your playboy philosophy. It just extends the same privileges to everyone, so that women can enjoy fooling around on the wild sides of their minds too.”

Harry nods. On record as a freethinker, he believes a single moral standard should apply to all, theoretically. With the wisdom of age he understands that a man’s power is different from a woman’s. A man must do something to gain his strength, but if a woman has beauty, she need nothing more.

“I’m not supposed to tell you this,” says soft Sarah, rubbing her sweaty breasts against him, “but Lord Z’s tales lead us to believe that we can have anything we want. Imagine sex in the six realms. I’ve done it with animals, vegetables, minerals, demons, angels, and gods!”

These admissions and the way she blurts them out always make Harry uncomfortable. He liked it better when she never spoke about what went on at meetings. Now he doesn’t have to go down the back stairs to hear. The bunch of bananas in the bedroom can be heard all over the house and, extra nutty, she tells him all about how now old Keinar is carrying a secret agent named Double F Fife, and, of all absurd things, a Mother named Goose.

“Lord Z says that overindulging in sex can help the Brutish defeat the Nastis and end this war before it starts. Come on, one more time for peace.”

The playboy fails to see how orgasms on the homefront can have an effect on the outcome of a conflict thousands of miles away. As it excites him that she can’t tell the difference between fact and fantasy in the bedroom, it perplexes him that she doesn’t give a fig for logic or reason when she talks about the world situation. It infuriates him that his wife would bring up these ridiculous fantasies about the Battle of Brutten in an attempt to stimulate him. Metaphysics, bah! Snakeoil! Why does she insist on going to those damned meetings, consorting with those raggedy women?

Indeed Harry has an open mind. Only he is so oversatisfied that jealousy begins to haunt him. “I’m well aware that I’m not the man of your dreams. You tell me everytime we screw that you love your own projection more than you love me. How do you think it makes me feel when you say that when we’re together your mind’s on all those different planes and planets and then you press me to do what I physically can’t do?”

The annoyance is worse than if she had a fleshy lover, one whom under the pressures of his father’s will he could at least legally and practically disallow her.

“But if you’d listen to the Sage—he’s as seasoned, as wise, and as cocksure a stud as they come—”

“—Oh boy!” he raves on. “A regular rooster of the supernatural barnyard, is he? An invisible super stunt man? Cupcake, nothing could be more outlandish than this story of yours. Nothing we do or don’t do has any effect on the war overseas. There is no such thing as the Purple Sage, or Double F Fife, or Mother Goose. They are all only figments of your imagination. You and your weird sisters sit together and support one another’s madness. I’m tired of having these nobodies shoved down my throat. First I have to compete with some Corny Duke character who may or may not have existed. Now you want me to admit that I’m bettered by a man who is no man at all.”

“Z is Lord, Harry, darling.”

“He’s not my Lord, Cupcake, I promise you that.”

“If you’re into me,” she whispers, pulling him close to her, softly kneading his droopy masculinity, “you’re into Z, like it or not. And in the war if you’re not with us, you’re against us. Maybe if you got on top this time?”

Harried, he turns his back, punches the pillow, and gets out of bed. “Bad enough your mind’s always on Lord Z,” he says as he puts on his robe, “but that you should suggest mine be too, that’s a bit more than I can take!” And as he makes his way upstairs up to the workshop, he says to himself, loudly enough for the whole house to hear, “Listen to me! Talking as if this absurdity, this phantom, were real!”

Thus Sarah cannot win the playboy of the western world over to the mysteries of the east. He remains firm in his attachment to science and rationality. If a logical mind means that he has fewer erections, so be it. He will die before he tries such remedies.