Posted by on Jun 28, 2010 in SLH Excerpts | 0 comments

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE)

I’m in my closet preparing for my date with Mr. Smyth. It’s been nearly three weeks since our last date, and it’s our two-month anniversary. Not that I think he’s keeping track, but…

I grab a short dress (as in, I-thought-it-was-a-sweater-when-I-first-saw-it-on-the-rack short) and hold it against my body. Yup, it still falls just below my ass. I smile; it’s perfect.

I throw on the three-quarter-sleeved black cashmere aphrodisiac and a pair of strappy black heels to match. I head to the bathroom.

My face is better, but there’s still a yellowish-green tint around my eyes and nose. I grab the MAC cosmetics bag filled with the all-new makeup I bought the day after my accident, and try to remember how to apply everything in it. And generously—just like the full-figured goth girl behind the counter did. My phone rings.

“Something strange happened today.” It’s Jack.

“Strange? To you?” Jack saying something strange happened to him is like Rocco Siffredi saying he likes having sex in front of the camera.

Anyway…I get on the plane—”

“Oh, so you finally decided to leave Maui.”

I’m still not happy about that. After Holly proclaimed she never wanted to go back to Montreal and Lola prodded her on by saying we were all welcome to stay as long as we wanted, Holly convinced Jack to stay there with her an extra few days.

“Stop being bitter.” Jack sighs. “Anyway…I find my seat and start putting my bags away, when this stewardess saunters up to me, her full ass swaying from left to right, and says in this thick French accent: ‘Sirrr, I theenk yuu ave ze rong zeet.’ And then she ushers me to first class!”

Of course. Jack gets to extend his vacation, fulfill some childhood fantasy he’s been hiding about my sister, and nabs a ride home in first class. I on the other hand, get to rush home to a job I hate; riding in a cramped seat, sipping on a small plastic cup of ginger ale, and munching on a bag of preservatives.

“But that’s not the strange part!” Jack interrupts my self-pitying ruminations. “Halfway through the plane ride, she whispers in my ear ‘Get te ze batrum, an liiv ze duur apen.’”

“Great accent, Jack.” I mean it. “You could almost pass for a French slut.”

“I’m trying to give you the full flavor of the situation.”

I tell Jack I prefer not to taste anything he’s ever been involved with.

“Whatever—I get up and look around, and there’s only two other people in first class; one’s asleep, and the other is grooming himself while reading some boring financial paper.”

“No other stewardesses?”

“No, they were all busy serving the poor people in coach.”

I put Jack on speaker phone to try my hand at the concealer.

“So I get in the bathroom, and I have no idea whether to get naked or start washing my hands. Five minutes pass, which feels like an eternity when you’re stuck in the only type of bathroom smaller than a port-o-potty, and finally the door starts to open and I pray it’s the busty French airline tramp and not the gross fat man picking his ear.”

“And…” I prod.

“And it’s her. She walks in, grabs my face, and starts tongue-wrestling me like Super Barrio on Spanish Fly.”

I stop dabbing. “Super-what?

“Oh my god, you are so not international. He’s a famous Mexican wrestler who helps impoverished children.”

“Helps them do what?” I reach for the foundation and a sponge.

“Who cares! Anyway, she tastes like a total French stereotype: red wine and cigarettes, and it’s almost making me nauseous; but then she stops and jumps on top of the little toilet seat that leads to nowhere, and says ‘Eeet ma chatte.’”


“Yes, chatte, kitty cat, pussy! Eat my pussy!”

I pause, realizing that with my Maui tan, my foundation doesn’t exactly match my skin color anymore. “At least you won’t gain weight eating pussy.”

“Bitch! I’ve been losing weight ever since the stomach pump. Anyway, I get down on my knees, praying there isn’t urine on the floor, and start lickin’ and suckin’. She of course starts freaking out.”

Of course. Jack is not modest about his ability to please.

“She keeps saying ‘Yu eeat chatte lak a canibaal.’ Then she comes, and of course she’s a squirter, so it goes everywhere—the mirror, the door, my shirt, my hair—and I’m trying to get out of the way, but there’s no space, so I get hit right in the eye! And then, as I’m trying to get up to wash it out, she pushes me against the sink, and tears—literally tears—my new six-hundred-dollar Prada pants, slaps a condom on me, and jumps on! So I’m pissed, my eye is burning, I’m standing in a vaginal waterfall, and I’m holding onto the turbulence handle so that her thunderous thighs don’t break my back. And then it’s over. And for the first time ever…I experience”—Jack hesitates—“post-ejaculatory remorse.”

I grab my MAC bronzing powder to even things out. “What the hell is post-ejaculatory remorse?” I ask, dusting my face.

“You know: guilt, regret, disappointment…”

“About the pants?”

“No! Not about the pants, about the whole experience!”

I drop my compact. “Shit.”

“I know! I’m starting to feel like…” Jack takes a deep breath. “Like I need to reassess my life.”

I pause, not only because I can’t decide between the dark purple and dark brown eye shadow. I wonder whether Jack really wants to reassess his life, or just wishes he’d worn safety glasses.

To Be Continued…

Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season by Dorota Skrzypek.
Copyright 2009 by Dorota Skrzypek.
ISBN 0-9768869-0-7
All Rights Reserved.

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