The Time I Slept with God
_
Did I ever tell you about the time I slept with God? No? Well it’s a good story, pretty funny really.
I met her at this party, think it was at her house, or her friends’ or something. I’d noticed her a few times, hanging around with the younger crowd. Pretty, blonde. Had this dress on made of what looked like fish scales – tantalising in the flashing coloured lights, a touch tacky when she went into the kitchen. She was of note, but I was there with a friend of a friend who I’d lost so I had other things on my mind.
Later on, when things got a little messier, I was on some strange Eastern European lager and smoking in a corner. She came up, made some comment about the lager. I thought she might have drank the rancid stuff on holiday so I said,
“I’ve never been.”
She gave me an odd look. I shugged. She laughed. I laughed. She put her tongue in my ear. The usual. Really long tongue though, it was somewhat overpowering. It was like someone rubbing your feet, but instead it’s your brain… I don’t know, you had to be there I guess.
So, halfway through this – it went on for, like, aaaages – I realised this was the ear I’d been having trouble with recently. Waxy build-ups. Horrid. Here she was making out with it. I suddenly got all self-conscious. I think she sensed it as she pulled away pretty rapid. I must have gone rather red with her stood there looking at me, but the lights may have hidden it… I can’t really remember… anyway, I just ended up being all apologetic.
“No problem,” she giggled, her mouth working away like she was chewing gum, “I’ve tasted worse.”
“Oh. Well, sorry anyway.”
Taking out a pair of scissors, she clipped one of the pockets off the front of my shirt. Spitting the wax ball into this – I say spit, she was very refined about it – she rolled it up and stuffed the whole lot into my other shirt pocket. I took this as an indication that my shirt really was as uncool as I’d feared. What was I thinking? Two shirt pockets?
“Do you want to go upstairs?”
That cheered me up. I moved close to her. Placed my hands around her waist. Squeezed her gently, yet firmly. Her body gave, just kept squeezing in, sort of like she was filled with bunched up newspapers. It was exhilarating – more for the newness of the sensation than anything else.
“Sure,” I shouted. It was supposed to sound casual, like James Bond, but you know how loud these parties get. She pointed me across the room,
“Out there on the left. Lead the way.”
So I went, launching teenagers left and right across the dancefloor as I went. Out in the corridor it was quieter. The stairs were actually on the right (why I’m guessing it might not have been her house) I trundled up them all the same.
I sat there ten minutes. The usual thoughts went through my head – have I remembered underwear today? When was the last time I neatened everything up down there? How many condoms have I got left in my… where’s my wallet?
Eventually, no sign of her. Wasn’t coming. Pretty sure. So I headed back downstairs.
I found her out on the dancefloor. She smiled at my approach, “Hey! Did you get to go upstairs like you wanted to?”
“Yeah.”
“Its’ nice when we get what we want.”
She went on dancing, glancing at me occasionally from the corner of her eye. Just enough time passed for my reply to sound incredibly forced. Damn it though, I thought, time to be daring,
“I want you.”
“Well, okay!”
So anyway, we end up upstairs right? We’re having the most amazing time. Don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun in bed before. Just good fun, you know? None of this pouty, oh-so-meaningful crap – not that that isn’t nice sometimes… but anyway…
Yeah, so we’re in bed and I’m behind her. We’re both pretty far gone by this point – doing all kinds of wild and crazy stuff. She’s been wanting it kind of rough and, well, this isn’t my cup of tea but I’m keen to oblige. So she’s asking me to spank her and I am and she’s asking for it harder and I’m doing it harder and it’s lucky her face is buried in the pillow because I’ve got this look of “do I really have to?” all over my face – secretly enjoying it but feeling all kinds of guilty. So then she starts screaming,
“Just punch me! Punch my arse!”
I mean, what am I supposed to say to that? I just sort of whisper,
“You want me to punch you on your arse?”
“Yes! Yes! Punch my arse! Punch it! Oh!”
So I do, right?
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
I was trying to do it as weak as possible but there really isn’t a soft way of doing these things. Try it yourself. I don’t know what she thought was going to happen but, needless to say, it killed off the mood somewhat. She lay down on her side, rubbing her swiftly purpling rump, and I collapsed next to her, rapidly losing blood flow to another purplish bodily department. I figured that was probably that and lit us a couple of ciggies. We’d had a few orgasms each, wasn’t too bad a time to call it a night.
It was only later when we were having a cuddle that she mentioned it. It was one of those, “So what do you do?” “I’m a teacher, and what do you do?” “Me? Oh, I’m God” conversations. I was a bit taken aback at first but it turns out that it’s not really all it’s cracked up to be, this whole God business. She’s not immortal, doesn’t have any special powers or knowledge, and never had anything to do with the whole making the universe thing. No, she’s just like anybody else really.
“So… are you perhaps like a muse then?” I asked her.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, do I get any special powers or inspiration or anything now I’ve been in contact with you?”
She thought for a moment, “hrm, that depends…” and buried herself in my shoulder. I could feel her eyelashes on my skin whilst she was staring into the bedding, thinking about it. Then she just sort of sighed and shrugged – a touch of both – “If I could grant you a power then what would it be?”
“Hrm. A tough one… I guess if you were a muse then I’d be able to write great stories and get famous and change the world or something... Yes, I’d like that.”
“This is a pretty good story, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”
So it turned out she wasn’t wrong… or I wasn’t? I forget now. There wasn’t very much of a point to that story, was there? No like moral or owt. Still, good story though. Good story.
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Did I ever tell you about the time I slept with God? No? Well it’s a good story, pretty funny really.
I met her at this party, think it was at her house, or her friends’ or something. I’d noticed her a few times, hanging around with the younger crowd. Pretty, blonde. Had this dress on made of what looked like fish scales – tantalising in the flashing coloured lights, a touch tacky when she went into the kitchen. She was of note, but I was there with a friend of a friend who I’d lost so I had other things on my mind.
Later on, when things got a little messier, I was on some strange Eastern European lager and smoking in a corner. She came up, made some comment about the lager. I thought she might have drank the rancid stuff on holiday so I said,
“I’ve never been.”
She gave me an odd look. I shugged. She laughed. I laughed. She put her tongue in my ear. The usual. Really long tongue though, it was somewhat overpowering. It was like someone rubbing your feet, but instead it’s your brain… I don’t know, you had to be there I guess.
So, halfway through this – it went on for, like, aaaages – I realised this was the ear I’d been having trouble with recently. Waxy build-ups. Horrid. Here she was making out with it. I suddenly got all self-conscious. I think she sensed it as she pulled away pretty rapid. I must have gone rather red with her stood there looking at me, but the lights may have hidden it… I can’t really remember… anyway, I just ended up being all apologetic.
“No problem,” she giggled, her mouth working away like she was chewing gum, “I’ve tasted worse.”
“Oh. Well, sorry anyway.”
Taking out a pair of scissors, she clipped one of the pockets off the front of my shirt. Spitting the wax ball into this – I say spit, she was very refined about it – she rolled it up and stuffed the whole lot into my other shirt pocket. I took this as an indication that my shirt really was as uncool as I’d feared. What was I thinking? Two shirt pockets?
“Do you want to go upstairs?”
That cheered me up. I moved close to her. Placed my hands around her waist. Squeezed her gently, yet firmly. Her body gave, just kept squeezing in, sort of like she was filled with bunched up newspapers. It was exhilarating – more for the newness of the sensation than anything else.
“Sure,” I shouted. It was supposed to sound casual, like James Bond, but you know how loud these parties get. She pointed me across the room,
“Out there on the left. Lead the way.”
So I went, launching teenagers left and right across the dancefloor as I went. Out in the corridor it was quieter. The stairs were actually on the right (why I’m guessing it might not have been her house) I trundled up them all the same.
I sat there ten minutes. The usual thoughts went through my head – have I remembered underwear today? When was the last time I neatened everything up down there? How many condoms have I got left in my… where’s my wallet?
Eventually, no sign of her. Wasn’t coming. Pretty sure. So I headed back downstairs.
I found her out on the dancefloor. She smiled at my approach, “Hey! Did you get to go upstairs like you wanted to?”
“Yeah.”
“Its’ nice when we get what we want.”
She went on dancing, glancing at me occasionally from the corner of her eye. Just enough time passed for my reply to sound incredibly forced. Damn it though, I thought, time to be daring,
“I want you.”
“Well, okay!”
So anyway, we end up upstairs right? We’re having the most amazing time. Don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun in bed before. Just good fun, you know? None of this pouty, oh-so-meaningful crap – not that that isn’t nice sometimes… but anyway…
Yeah, so we’re in bed and I’m behind her. We’re both pretty far gone by this point – doing all kinds of wild and crazy stuff. She’s been wanting it kind of rough and, well, this isn’t my cup of tea but I’m keen to oblige. So she’s asking me to spank her and I am and she’s asking for it harder and I’m doing it harder and it’s lucky her face is buried in the pillow because I’ve got this look of “do I really have to?” all over my face – secretly enjoying it but feeling all kinds of guilty. So then she starts screaming,
“Just punch me! Punch my arse!”
I mean, what am I supposed to say to that? I just sort of whisper,
“You want me to punch you on your arse?”
“Yes! Yes! Punch my arse! Punch it! Oh!”
So I do, right?
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
I was trying to do it as weak as possible but there really isn’t a soft way of doing these things. Try it yourself. I don’t know what she thought was going to happen but, needless to say, it killed off the mood somewhat. She lay down on her side, rubbing her swiftly purpling rump, and I collapsed next to her, rapidly losing blood flow to another purplish bodily department. I figured that was probably that and lit us a couple of ciggies. We’d had a few orgasms each, wasn’t too bad a time to call it a night.
It was only later when we were having a cuddle that she mentioned it. It was one of those, “So what do you do?” “I’m a teacher, and what do you do?” “Me? Oh, I’m God” conversations. I was a bit taken aback at first but it turns out that it’s not really all it’s cracked up to be, this whole God business. She’s not immortal, doesn’t have any special powers or knowledge, and never had anything to do with the whole making the universe thing. No, she’s just like anybody else really.
“So… are you perhaps like a muse then?” I asked her.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, do I get any special powers or inspiration or anything now I’ve been in contact with you?”
She thought for a moment, “hrm, that depends…” and buried herself in my shoulder. I could feel her eyelashes on my skin whilst she was staring into the bedding, thinking about it. Then she just sort of sighed and shrugged – a touch of both – “If I could grant you a power then what would it be?”
“Hrm. A tough one… I guess if you were a muse then I’d be able to write great stories and get famous and change the world or something... Yes, I’d like that.”
“This is a pretty good story, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”
So it turned out she wasn’t wrong… or I wasn’t? I forget now. There wasn’t very much of a point to that story, was there? No like moral or owt. Still, good story though. Good story.
Back to Short Stories
