It’s 12:30 a.m. Saturday and I am driving north on the 405 toward the Valley, away from the 90048. She persuaded me to traverse the hills with a certain logic based on nothing more than the fact that we were fuck friends.

Fuck friends. The title itself is an interesting statement on the devaluation of the term friend.

“All you have to do is come over and you get to have sex with me,” she said during the all too familiar should-I-stay-or-should-I-go routine Valley and City people partake in frequently.

The freeway is quiet. It’s perfect. Eighteen-wheeled behemoths cast a long shadow underneath the fluorescent lights to the speeding cars that change lanes in traffic-free delight.

I show up and she looks good: Tight, black sweats; a black tank top that hugs her 32C+ tits and a see-through black top that gives me the slightest hint of what her bra holds.

Bottle of white wine in my right hand, I reach for her with my left and feel how tight those sweats really are. I go for a handful of ass and a face full of her. She kisses back and moans the slightest purr. It gets me going something nice, with no hint of the strangeness the night holds.

We drink wine and look over the lights that dot the San Fernando Valley below. We retire to her room, which I had never seen before, though this would be the third coitus. The room is replete with pictures of her youth and books that betray a feisty intellect: Tim O’ Brien’s The Things They Carried, Jerzy Kosinski’s Being There.

Stumbling towards the bed, lips locked and hands fumbling, I manage to slip off both her see-through top and the tank top. She, my jeans and shirt.

For the next hour, all different forms of sex were had. I started out on top, slowly gliding, eventually moving behind her, where I took hold of that glorious ass that a super model will never have, but a size all women should be comfortable with and proud of. There was even some scissor sexing, 69ing, a bit of The Monkey and we even Crushed some Spice.

Then, it started to get weird. Now, I have nothing wrong with post-coital snuggling. Sometimes it can be grating, but sometimes it can be nice to cozy up with someone with whom you just shared a great fuck.

This, though, went one stage too far. She didn’t want me to, um, leave her. So, I stuck around for a little while until it was no longer feasible to hang around because, well, I started to hang around a bit too much. I thought it was just emotions but, in all actuality, it was the sheets. White sheets to be exact. She was afraid that any post-coital juice would soil the linens, creating stains that would forever form crop circles in the fabric.

Of course, my first reaction was, “Just fucking wash them! They’re sheets! Get some stain remover and wash the damn things.” She had other ideas. With old t-shirts and tissues well out of reach, we literally scooted, penis in vagina, to the nearest rag we could find, where she strategically placed it under the leaky faucet and averted a messy, stained disaster.

It was weird, but she was cool, so I was cool. Plus, she liked Kosinski.

We eventually fell asleep. When we awoke, hours later, round two began. However, she informed me, mornings usually brought dry spells. Apparently, she said, is was something out of her control. Of course, as a writer, I was naturally insecure about such proclamations of aridness. Was it me? Was I not doing a good enough job? I tried all manner of my own, personal brand of lubrication: finger, fingers and tongue.

Then, she remembered the lube that lived in her drawer. She had never used it, and was unsure about its effects. I know what you’re thinking: Lube is lube. You are right. Unless it’s not, in which case it’s Kama Sutra Pleasure Balm.

I put it on and things went swimmingly. She was digging me being inside her and I was digging the slick highway of lovin’. That is, until we started to feel an undeniable burning sensation.

“You feel that?” I asked, still rocking on her bed.

“Um, yeah,” she exclaimed. “YEAH!”

“Shit. Oh my god! IT BURNS,” I cried out, before exiting her as fast as an LA car chase (not involving OJ Simpson). “Is it burning you too?”

At first, I thought I had some rank STD that the tests somehow failed to show. Then I remembered that, wait, my sexual prowess will never reach Wilt the Stilt levels. Can she possibly be spreading something to me? Is there some sort of instant STD you can get?

“Yeah,” she said. “YEAH, wow. I mean, no. Shit! Wait, no it’s sort of tingling. Sort of icy.”

“Yeah, it’s icy. It’s like icy hot for sex. What the hell is this?”

“It’s like that patch Shaq wears in those commercials.”

“Is this Shaq’s lube?”

We looked at the container and it revealed nothing about its effects and only the flavor and brand. We showered and washed off as much of the icy/hot lube as we could. Still burning/cooling out of the shower, we were forced to walk it off.

Though my mind was put at ease knowing STDs were not in play, that it was only some Tantric shit meant to prolong the act of sex, and that some people do actually choose this, we were still caught off guard by the immediate sensation it inflicted on us both.

Call me old fashioned. Call me boring. But Ill stick to the regular ol’ handcuffs, hot wax, food, spanking, biting, licking, tying up and exhibitionism. All I ask is no tingling. And enough with the scooting.

Photo via Flickr by karin.idering