James

I remember the first time the subject arose. We had just completed a lengthy, torrid session of lovemaking. By my count, D had three major orgasms judging from the spasmodic squeezes of her thighs and the sudden attempts to clench a non-existent handle of flesh on my back. And once again her sighs of gratification had involuntarily rolled from the depths of her throat. That was what always brought me to climax, listening to her husky but feminine voice turn to animalistic cries of passion.

Well, we were wrapped in the afterglow of wonderful sex and I wondered how I would recover the energy needed to dress. D dutifully reached down to remove the condom from my penis. She was very neat, and before I would move always responded to concerns about wetting the sheets with a timely concession to tidiness regarding the unfortunate messy details of lovemaking.

“Ever think of getting a vasectomy?”

The subject was thus introduced. She knew I hated condoms. And my distaste became more evident each time the revelry of satisfying sex had to be truncated due to the obligatory disposal of the slippery, semen-filled pouch.

So her timing was exquisite, fully aware that I preferred to remain semi-catatonic, lying next to her over heated, naked body, inhaling the familiar but pleasant aroma of combined perfume and musky feminine arousal rather than dealing with mundane sanitation. But alas, her concerns forced her to gently slide the wet rubber from my flaccid but still excited manhood, pinch off the opening, and trudge to the bathroom. Thus, the seed concerning vasectomy was planted at that particular point in time when the use of a condom seemed most inconvenient.

The retrieval and disposal signaled the end. I knew from countless Friday night dalliances that she would not return to bed, that the toilet would flush, that a fluffily robed D would quietly pad to the kitchen, and that the resulting smell of fresh brewed coffee was really a signal from her to commence my departure.

As I dressed, I called to the kitchen.

“You know I’ve never had children. Rather not close off that option right now.”

My pitched reply sounded more like a futile protest rather than a steadfast ‘no’.

My voice always came across as wimpy when I spoke to D. Not sure why. Probably because of her firm, no nonsense demeanor and the confident manner in which she carried herself. And there was her physical beauty, which also seemed to fill a room and deplete the oxygen required for speech.

I crawled out of bed and began to dress. By habit I always folded and placed my clothing atop the large, curious dog cage in the corner of D’s bedroom. I had known her for over a year and had rarely heard her mention her old pet, nor had I seen pictures of him.

She told me it was a large male mastiff that she had sent to a cousin’s farm, having finally deemed the suburbs too congested.

“Never had him fixed,” she explained. “He was all right with me, but some neighbors moved in with children. I didn’t trust the situation.”

I found it interesting that she never referred to the mastiff by his name.

When I picked u