She let her jeans slide down, muttering something about a Japanese myth: the pieces should fit together like a puzzle, or something.
That’s not how the myth goes, but I got the gist.
I pushed her to the bed and yanked my belt off. The buckle (an ostentatious L and V fused together like ugly conjoined twins) crashed to the floor with a thud. I disrobed the rest of her with a practiced hand.
(After fucking my fiftieth girl, I threw myself a party at a bar. Balloons and everything–HAPPY FITYITH. Bystanders congratulated me even though I “look[ed] no older than 30.”)
I dramatically pried apart her legs as though she were resisting. Then I stopped.
“What’s wrong,” she cooed, playing her role.
“I’m sorry, ” I said. “What do you want me to do with this?” I was staring at an angular opening, like the corner of a jigsaw puzzle. She recoiled on cue. “Asshole! I told you: like a puzzle piece.”
I pulled my pants up and fetched my expensive belt. “I thought you were misquoting,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Could it be, I’m not as smart as I think I am,” I wondered on my way out.
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