Lucrezia Magazine

Oh, boy. You've heard something like this before, right? Someone of the male persuasion (a friend, maybe even yourself?) talking about how he had some girl crawling up the walls from super human hump action. Yeah, right. I'm a hot-blooded man, too. And I know that during most rump sessions we men tend to have two-minute alarm clocks.

Now, before the PC police come after me, I understand some men have genuine physical problems. "Misfires," if you will, a real need for the blue pill. I'm not talking about them, though. I'm referring to the Super Freaks, always bragging about lasting longer than back-to-back showings of the movie Titanic. Got the "sword" skills of a Samurai.

And speaking of "sword," I'd bet these fools have a nickname for their buddy down south, right? Probably something like "Herminator" or "Big Willie." Sounds about right? I got one, too...but I'll, uh, keep it to myself.

Despite Big Willie's talent, though, you sing a different tune once you sample the goodies. Why? Because that private sector between a woman's thighs is mmm-mmm good. Delicioso. Literally turns a man's brain to mush. What's that saying? You spend nine months trying to get out of it, but the rest of your life trying to get back in? So true.

Meanwhile, we men know three things: Lock, load, fire! All in about the time it takes a microwave to heat popcorn. And you know I speak the truth. Hell, the two-minute alarm clock probably sounded off on you last night, huh? C'mon, don't lie. I know the scenario by heart through sorry experience. It goes something like this:

You're in front of her, inches from the pearly gates that lead to paradise. She lies spread-eagle. That's unrestricted access to do whatever you want. She pushes the remote control away to focus on you, but the TV stays on. Don't matter. Can't hear it anyway because TV light glows off your lady's naked skin, clouding your senses. Your gaze seizes on the 38-24-36 cocoa/caramel/butterscotch/vanilla--whichever applies--flavored figure lying on her back. She adjusts her head against the pillow, swipes hair away from her dark eyes. So damn sexy, her feline grace. Nothing compares to a beautiful woman's birthday suit. Like chicken soup for the "pole."

Buttermilk smooth legs are bent up, wide open at the ready, field goal style. And you're in the red zone. Time to give your girl a piece of the rock.

Time: zero seconds.

And so you slither inside...slow...digging into your personal crawl space. Her sweet lips kiss, suck, then swallow Big Willie, deep-throat style. Half-way in, you gasp. She gasps. Or curses. Don't matter. You drop your eye lids, allow your mind to plug into the Matrix-like sensation of your woman's channel. Her back arches until her spine loops, legs become wings, two become one, until...

Uh-oh. It's a different ball game now. Of course, if you claim to be a Daddy Whip King it won't take Herculean strength to keep from popping the cork off your "bottle" within two minutes. But nine times out of ten, you'll deflate faster than a tire with a 10-inch puncture. And you're on the clock.

The dance begins. In the driver's seat, you ride first gear. I think you know what I'm talking about. Slow, deep dips and circles inside your lady's ocean. That's right. Why rush? She rocks with you, same rhythm, same speed.

Time: Forty seconds.

With each stroke, you witness her steady transformation from civilized to barbaric. Manicured nails jab your lower back. Her erratic moans mix with curse words. Such a nice tune. Your favorite song.

Your lady's vocal chords become a siren, howling like a fire truck speeding toward a 2 am fire. Dribble smacks your forehead. Deeper. Deeper! And that's what you do...then...

Thump! What was that? Oh, nothing big. Just you knocking the remote control onto the hardwood floor. Takes more than a broken remote to cease-fire, though. Nothing can disturb this groove.

Instead, you open your eyes; a sly grin creeps across your cheeks. Parting her mouth, your lady swipes her tongue along a pair of lips riper than strawberries.

Man...that blissful look she has--a glow. That's all you, man. Natural beauty manipulated by "penile" power, twisting her face like rubber. Damn, got her looking like plastic surgery gone wrong. But slow down. Pay attention to those tiny tingles in your gut. "I can hold it," you say in your head. Yeah, right. 2nd gear.

No, no. 4th gear.

Time: One minute.

Bedsprings squeak. The headboard beats the wall. With her legs wrapped around you, her ankles handcuff just above your butt bone. Oh, boy--she got you on lockdown, now. Under her vice-grips, Big Willie nearly drowns in her parted seas.

Time: One minute, fourteen seconds.

She slaps her hands against your butt. No longer a lady, your woman becomes "animal" now. Forget the Barry Manilow soft stuff--it's time to get Billy Idol on that ass until her whole body rebel yells. Or so you think.

Time: One minute, thirty seconds.

5th gear.

She latches onto the back of your head, stabs her tongue in your mouth. Your faces become a smeared glob of saliva and sweat, but between deep moans, muffled curse words and tongue-fu, your woman cries your name and screams, "give it to me!" And you oblige. Actually, you try.

As your woman gnaws a path toward spasmodic oblivion, tingles within your scrotum have become a beehive, mushrooming into an explosion bound to exorcise your stamina.

"Oh, damn," you whisper. "Not now!"

Oblivious to your turmoil, your lady yells, "yes! Yes!" Her legs have clamped tighter; you're a nut, she's a nutcracker. The siren cries drown the voices in your head, begging you to hold strong. You put up a good fight... somewhat. Easing Big Willie back to stifle eruption, you then attempt mind-over-matter tricks:

Mr. Van Johnson, your fourth-grade teacher, digging up his nose. Nasty. Then the nursery rhymes begin, like the little old lady that lived in a shoe. Humpty-dumpty sitting on the wall. Little Miss Muffet sitting on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey. Dumb strategy, I know. You learned these diversion tactics from your sexpert buddies. Doesn't work, though. You're too busy grunting like a pig with grass stuck in its throat.

Then the "lid" pops open. Uh-oh.

With a deep, hard thrust, little soldiers bumrush toward freedom. One squirt...then two. A cuss word later, you gasp, skin stretches around your neck and then...

Splash. Friction has milked the cow.

Houston, we have a problem.

Now if married, your mini warriors scatter like roaches with the lights turned on. If playing the field, I hope they slam headfirst into a rubber hat.

So now what? All stop. As you pancake your girl, heaving in loads of air while smothering her, a five-second pause sets in. Then your woman says three words no man wants to hear: "No. You. Didn't!"

Yes, I did, you say in your head.

What happened? Twenty-four seconds into last gear and your gasket sprung a huge leak.

I know what happened: Did you really want to evacuate the premises? Especially while riding a euphoric rush?

I didn't think so.

And your time? One minute, fifty-four seconds. Beat your record from the night before. But don't feel so bad. You can get around this! Did you know 88% of men have run the same two-minute sprint at least once? You're in good company. Happens to the best of 'em. At this point, however, I suggest you blow Big Willie back up or go "tongue-surfing." Don't leave your woman hanging like that! Keep her fire burning until she reaches the apex like you did so damn fast. You definitely don't want to say something silly like, "damn, baby, that was good," then roll over into unconsciousness wearing a goofy grin.

If you do, a swift kick to the butt will catapult you off the bed face-first onto the floor--right next to that broken remote control.

Then you, Mr. Super Freak, will suffer long and hard--emphasis on "hard"--because your woman will boycott the booty for at least a month. You two-minute tease you.

So you know what to do: If you can't super-size Big Willie fast enough, ya gotta go downtown.

Dig in, man! Hope you're hungry!

© 2005 James W Lewis

James W. Lewis is a novelist, freelance writer and fitness trainer living in Southern California. His publication credits include Zane's erotic anthology Caramel Flava, Chicken Soup for the Mothers and Sons Soul, Journey into my Brother's Soul, and Truth Be Told: Tales of Life, Love and Drama. He's also been published in several magazines, such as VIP New York and Comedy Corner. You can find other writings at www.jameswlewis.com and www.myspace.com/jameswlewis.

James can be contacted via email, at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it