Stupid Orgasm

Stupid Orgasm

               We were sitting at a table inside the yuppie grocery store sipping coffee and talking.  I was trying to be civil and succeeding.  She wasn’t reciprocating but you can’t win them all.  My motivation for even being there in the first place was I wanted my compact discs back.  She had originally confiscated them as a mating strategy to keep me around.  One of the first times we broke up she had come back around to my house uninvited and suggested a compact disc swap.  I had been lonely and decided like the dipshit I am that having a friend couldn’t hurt and had loaned her some of my favorite music: Fugazi, Elliott Smith, Bruce Springsteen, Our Lady Peace.  I paid for it, too.  I remember the first time she put “Gravity” into her car’s audio player and I skipped ahead to “Innocent.”  It’s a corny song, but still, one of my favorites.

She immediately began imitating the singer’s voice, singing along in a real degrading mimic.  This is a chick who listens to fucking Drake for God’s sake.  Her music taste is fucking pathetic.  I never once made fun of her for it, and here she was putting me and my childhood memories down.  Here she was, degrading the shit that got me through my teenage angst and depression, grounding it, pulling it down like the planet’s core sucking tiny bits and pieces of the Challenger back to Earth after it exploded.

Somehow she got around to her new medication, her new crazy pills.  She had wanted to explain how great she was doing since our final break up.  I’m not sure why all my ex-girlfriends are on pills other than my own weakness and poor taste.

“My new medication is so much better,” she said loudly, drawing glances from the nearby checkers, baggers and customers.  I wondered why she was raising her voice.

“Oh?” I said in a normal, indoor voice.  “That’s great.”

Then came the sucker punch.

“Yeah,” she said with an evil smile.  “I can actually orgasm now.”

I groaned and slumped back in my seat.  My mouth hung open even after my guts quit pushing noise out and up from my belly.  I didn’t even have the energy to fight her.  It was like Tyson had hit me in the gut.  I had fallen down to the mat and curled into a ball.

The baggers started smiling, a checker laughed, and some old veteran with a Vietnam hat started shaking his head solemnly.

“Then again,” she started, still smiling with a cunning twinkle in her eye, “Maybe it was just you.”

Bullshit, total fucking bullshit.  I wish I had had the wherewithal to come back at her and tell the truth but maybe it would have looked even worse had I rebutted her.

But she had plenty of orgasms with me.  One time she squirted period blood all over my bed when she was on bottom, and she came countless times when she was on top.

And here’s how I know: every time she came she would start fingering her clit and make this horrible sound you would expect out of a Mongoloid child masturbating and having an orgasm for the first time.

“Ehhghuohhh,” she would moan, furiously running her hand in circles over her tiny clitoris.

It was by far the stupidest looking and sounding orgasm I have ever seen, heard, felt.

I decided to count my losses.

“Where the fuck are my cd’s?” I demanded.

Here’s Our Lady Peace.  Yeah it’s corny but I think this song has a great message.  We’re all innocent, even bitches who orgasm like a twelve year old with Asperger’s.