**I need to be good at something. I'm not saying this because I'm drunk, but because I really need to be good at something else, and not just putting dicks in my anus. So let me write some more, instead.
It is now five in the morning, and I can hear him fucking her in the other room. There is no groaning or moaning or cursing involved. Where's the sexual grammar that blooms with expressive delight? And this is decidedly boring most especially when there's nothing to see. It's the irregular thrusting sound that muscle upon muscle upon the iron frame of a four post bed that's giving them away. It's muffled, but distinct, a soft whoomp/creak followed shortly by a series of irregular whoomp/creeks, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, pffooottt went my unoccupied ass, and then a succession of the usual whoomp/creaks.
I am not one to judge. Maybe it is acceptable for two consenting, exceedingly drunk adults to fuck each other most especially when they're attracted to each other right off the bat. Several hours of brandy ignites, and then intensifies, the magnetic intention, and his erection, and that explains my listening to the Whoomp... Creak Show. I get that, and I am not going to knock on their door just to be a lousy friend and tell him that his real girlfriend will not know anything. I say real because there is an alarming increase in the population of Drinking Sessions Girlfriends. I have no choice but to come to terms with that minority. The Whoomp... Creak Show will not air otherwise.
It is now 5:40 in the morning. And they're still at it.
I now bear Unfortunate Knowledge. His forward thrusts are singular, and I can give you a list of three or four dirty boys that will out fuck him ten times out of ten. This is not what disappoints me, however. I used to look up to him because of his flowery homilies about loyalty and fidelity and The Great Love, you know, the usual crap that weakens in the face of two liters of brandy and three hours of flirting. I'm still hearing him fucking her in the other room. The Whoomp... Creak Show is still airing. Whatever happened to all that face, pretty boy?
I mildly wonder how looking at him tomorrow will be like. He did me no harm, he bore me no false witness, he ruptured none of my tight orifices, he did me no wrong. It is now 6:10 in the morning, and I am waving a cheerful Fuck You to fidelity. I learned today that Nearly Nothing beats a raging erection.