I supposed I could always find something wrong with her. Fucking someone who could go either way -- well, it made me limp sometimes. Sometimes I felt like I was betraying the heterosexuals who were all-the-way. Other times, I just wasn't sure if she was that into me. Who knows, perhaps those fake orgasms were meant for a vagina instead of my vascillating penis.
While my penis was confused, my brain wasn't. I knew women whom I could fuck with my eyes closed. Their scents! More than the eyes or feels, their smells overwhelmed me. I could taste their moans with just a whiff.
Ada was different. Traveling together on the road prevented regular showers. At times, stumbling out of the trails with our boots wrapped in mud and skin crusted with sweat, we both stank, but that I understood.
The smell at the peak of our sex that was like a referee. It kept score of my white flags, my surrenders to the inevitability of thrusts, pushes and pulls, the back/forths that grew from two crippled souls colliding; her rankness seemed to me a rebuke of my lassez faire attitude towards us, as if she knew there were no roots, that I was the cause of the rotten weight that dragged us into the weeks and months.
That didn't annoy me as much as her inability to move while we were copulating. For all her talk about sexual freedom and her proclivities for passions, she was frigid. A real downer. I felt weird during such times: was she enjoying it, was she in pain, was she just going through the motions as much as I was?