“Honestly, recently, I’ve had a string of men who can’t keep it up. Or they pound away for two minutes then say they have to stop cos they’re about to cum. Initially, well, years ago, I used to take this as a compliment. That it was because I was sooo sexy, that I turned them on so much. Now I know. They’ve got over-wanked cocks, desertified balls, acclimatised to climaxing after three minutes furious shuffle, blind on porn, watching so much it no longer makes sense, makes even less sense to fuck AN ACTUAL WOMAN.”
She blew out some smoke.
“I mean, there’s nothing wrong with a wank, but I think for a lot of these men, their sexuality has become just sitting there, watching, doing nothing. That’s the danger, that’s the death. Some of them, I’m sure, are dangerously close to only the artificial being able to turn them on. They are passive voyeurs, devoid of ideas, useless, inadequate lovers.”
“There’s a moment of grim reality just after a wank,” I said. “But sometimes you need a medicinal one to take your mind off it for five minutes.”
“You seeing anyone at the moment?”