***
RPS

Ooh, I felt like hitting Mr. Big with the table lamp.

Isuppose he must be forgiven for not being quite up to the task of an
all night romp; the little professor-schoolgirl thing must have did it.
RPS (that's Role-Playing Sex in my comprehensive dictionary of
naughty-girl abbreviations) can be so tiring.

It's fun, yeah, until the story starts to become too elaborate.

Didhe really have to ask me what happened to my dorm-mates when his
colleague turned up by my bedside one humid night? (But they are always
humid here) Or how did I know for sure the girl I saw in the bathroom
with the dyke was really the head-girl for my house? My fertile
imagination apparently wasn't all that up to the challenge; and
besides, there were better things to do with the limited mental
capacity I tend to have after midnight.

We stopped afterawhile, because the story was starting to get terribly bizarre and I
didn’t feel like thinking or making up stories anymore. I just wanted
to have sex. You know, the standard sort. Climbed all over him and
tried to make it work, but nothing did; and he actually said my name,
in full (I find that annoying because it’s so formal) and told me that
he was really sex-ed out in a tone that sounded most un-pleased.

“Let’s just cuddle all right?”
“Ugh.” I roll off him and lie flat on my back.
“That’s lying by yourself, not cuddling.”
“You make me feel stupid.”
“You’re
nuts. You’ve got all these itty bitty things that embarrass you when
they shouldn’t. It’s just like how you can’t pee when I’m at the sink.
Or remember the time with that nasal spray?
I didn’t say anything to make you feel stupid. Whatever, suit yourself.”

*grrr*
How unnatural.
But hey, I can now say I’ve got a bigger libido then he does.

Like that’s supposed to be a good thing.

xoxox