Erotica Readers & Writers Association
Home | Erotic Books | Authors Resources | Inside The Erotic Mind | Erotica Gallery
Adult Movies | Sex Toys | Erotic Music | Email Discussion List | Links

Story Gallery | Treasure Chest

Erotic Fiction
Queer Fiction
Kinky Erotica
The Softer Side

By Alan
Other News

By Alice Gray
Slick 50
The Fourth Veda
Stolen Hour

By Amanda Earl
Daddy Complex
The Graffiti Artist
Sex With An Old Woman
The Vampire Responds
The Afternoon Circle Jerk Society
Beating the Gothic Out of Her
Real Irish
Mercy and the Man. . .
The Revenant
The Vessel

By Ann Regentin
What Never Dies

By Arthur Chappell
Tedia, Goddess of Boredom
The Too Beautiful Boy

By Big Ed Magusson
The Fix
Like a Brother
Old Dogs

By Brady Sutton
Girls for Leash
The Peculiar Case of...

By C. Sanchez-Garcia
An Early Winter Train
The Doll
The Lady and The Unicorn
Riding the Dog
You Belong to Me
Soul Naked
The Girl With Kisses...

By Cervo
An Evening At...
Readiness Is All
Chinchilla Lace
Fridays At The Benoit
Cruising On A Sea...
Bitsy Takes a Test
Touring Persephone
Are You Kidding?
Quigley’s Harvest
Mr. Merridawn's Hum
Angels’ Spawn

By Cherry Black
Mrs. Priestly
Face Down
Just A Simple Black Dress

By Chris Bridges
The Whitechapel...
Passing Notes

By Daddy X
Nikki Didn't Like It
A Woman in My Position
Never For Punishment
Carnival Ride

By Dominic Santi
Kiss of Peace

By G. E. Russell
Judgement Day
First Love, Last Romance
Snow White
This Desolate Eden
The Glass Cage
You Like It Like That...

By Helen E. H. Madden
When The Angels Fall
Husbands and Wives
The Fifth Horseman
The Monster Beneath...
Neighbor of the Beast
Over the Rainbow
Going Viral
Virtual Love

By Helena Settimana
Highway 69
The Space Between

By Huck Pilgrim
Goodbye Roger
He Sends His Regrets
A Small Favor

By J.T. Benjamin
The Question
Thornburg Sex Survey
Alternating Weekend
Secret Lives and Lusts
What are Friends For
Olivia's Ulterior Motive
Advice From Miss Millicent
The Baby Doll
The Journals of Chastity
Use Me
Zachary's Perfect Date

By Jill
Sheila Discusses ...
It's About Sex
A House On Fire?
Maureen and Sheila...

By john e
I Wish My Dick...
johnny's jackoff journal
Saturday Morning
Ava's Honey

By Julius
In Praise of Pussy
Tight, Tighter, Tightest
You Rang Madam?
The Newcomer

By Juniper Maclay
Lunch Break
The Scientist
Public Transportation

By Keziah Hill
Laying Down the Law
Strawberry Flavoured Joy
The Second Coming
Dutch Masters

By L.A. Smith
Missionary Position
Both Hands

By Lara Nickles

By Lilie Berlin
Naughty Little Girl
Color Less Ordinary

By Mike Kimera
Soft Option
At the Adult Bookstore
Playing With Barney
Deserving Ruth
Till Death Do Us Part
Happy Anniversary
Mating Calls
It May Not be Art...
Living With It...
The Last Taboo
Fucking Ugly
Paying For It
Sex with Owen
Ask Alice
The Sisters
Bar Snack

By Nan Andrews
At Rest
Spirit Guides

By Nick Nicholson
The Room
Grigore & Tatiana
Land of Smiles
The Uniform

By Nikki Isaak
A Rathskeller Jar
The Dread That Stained Kalos

By Oxartes
Maybe You Can Go...
I Am Not A Scorpion
Babylon Nights
Eat Your Veggies
What Would Aristippus Think
The Vow Part I
Fiend in Need Part II
Androids Behaving Badly
Innocent Flower
Eclipse Sex

By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

By Remittance Girl
The Central Registry
The River Mother
Things Bettter Left Unsaid
The Baptism
The Other Side
I Waited for You...
Pleasure's Apprentice
Fixed in Amber

The Last Taboo
by Mike Kimera © 2006

Most men lie about sex. I don’t know why. We talk about it often and loudly in all those places where men gather without women. We talk about who we’d like to fuck and how and sometimes where. We brag about our performance on one-night-stands or with whores or with the wives of friends. But, to my ears, these conversations lack authenticity. They have about them a whistling-to-show-I’m-not-afraid-of-the-dark quality that is more than a little pathetic.

 I am usually silent when these conversations take place. No one in my circle of male acquaintances, hereafter referred to as, ‘The Lads’, questions this. I was never a handsome man and I am no longer a young one. I think the assumption, in the language of male—(don’t worry, we’re all hetero here, honest)—bonding, is that “Fat Frank isn’t getting any.” What else could explain my silence?

In reality, I remain silent because I think The Lads would not react well if they knew the truth. Fat Frank, (a nickname chosen for its alliterative charm, its factual accuracy, and the ease with which it can be rhymed with wank) deviates from one of the accepted norms of married life. I break the last taboo: I like to fuck my wife.

I mean I really like to fuck my wife. I think about it before we do it. I give myself up to it completely when I’m in her. I hug the memory of each fuck to me, reluctant to let it go.

Liz and I have been married for eight years and been together for twelve, so we must have fucked thousands of times. I know the conventional wisdom is that repetition blunts the experience but Liz is like a whetstone for my knife-sharp desire, each time I rub against her the edge gets keener and cuts deeper.

Perhaps if Liz was the kind of woman that The Lads ogle and comment on (but never EVER actually speak to) I could share the reality of my passion with them. They would slap me on the back or punch me in the arm and shout “You lucky bastard.” Jimmy would say, “Who’d have thought Fat Frank would have it in him?” Robbo would grin and say, “Who’d have thought Fat Frank would have it in her you mean.” I would be expected to drop my head in false modesty and then explain of how Liz goes all night like a racehorse on speed. Jimmy would say, “If you ever need a hand with her, Frank, you only have to ask.” Everyone, including me, would laugh. I’d be offered a beer and my status in the group would rise.

But Liz is not the kind of woman The Lads notice. She’s not a fantasy figure. She’s a normal, healthy, slightly over-weight woman in her mid-thirties.

Liz, it seems, is extraordinary only in my eyes. Her eyes are green with little flecks of gold that shine in the sunlight. Her hair, which she keeps short, curls against the back of her neck as if caressing it. Her smile is crooked and filled with wickedness. Her skin is soft and pale and flushes when she is aroused. But the most extraordinary thing about Liz, the arse-clenching, cock-stiffening, heart-aching thing about her is that she loves me.

I’m not talking about something vague here, some Hallmark sentimental notion of love, a fantasy emotion propped up by romantic gestures and mutual self-delusion. I’m talking about a warts-and-all, robust, uncompromising and unconditional love that crashes over you like a big wave, taking your breathe away but leaving you excited to be alive.

Liz has known me for a long time. We went to the same school. We saw each other grow up. Liz knew the bookish, solitary boy I was and the hormone-charged, cripplingly shy youth I became, and yet she still fell in love with me. The power of being thoroughly known and thoroughly loved is almost impossible to get into words.

According to Liz, words are my weakness. She thinks I use way too many of them and get lost in the patterns that they make. It’s true that sometimes I can be too introspective for my own good. I get hooked on ideas and concepts and lose touch with the day-to-day world where reality happens. Left to my own devices I could float away from the world and become an eccentric old fart who laughs at obscure references no one-else understands. Liz saves me from that.

It’s not that Liz doesn’t like ideas. She loves to hear me talk about them. She just doesn’t let herself become seduced by them. One time I was going through a phase were I was obsessed with the early Greek philosophers. Liz bought me a copy of Plato’s “Apology” written in defiance of Socrates. Inside the cover she wrote, “An over-explored life is not worth living.”

Liz and I don’t speak much when we fuck. We laugh and groan and grunt and sigh, but mostly we let our bodies do the talking. From the beginning, Liz has been the one who initiates these kinds of conversation. There’s a certain look she gets that I know means that she wants sex and she wants it soon. I never act on the look alone. Over the years, we’ve developed a little ritual: when the need is strong, Liz will stand close to me, sometimes in front, sometimes behind, put her mouth next to my ear and whisper, “Fuck me.” Those two words are like a trigger, they always make me hard.

Most of our fucking is outside of the bedroom. Liz thinks that beds are for sleeping on and that floors (and sofas, and tables and stairs) are for fucking on. She has whispered, “Fuck me,” in every room in the house. Although we’ve never talked about it, we both understand that I will fuck Liz whenever and wherever she whispers those two little words. We’ve fucked on Ferry Boats, in cars, in phone booths, on the steps of public buildings. I love the risk that this introduces and I love the sense of wickedness that comes from a secret shared.

Liz is the only woman I’ve ever had sex with. Now there’s a statement that would make The Lads shuffle their feet and pretend that I hadn’t spoken. As a conversation stopper, it’s on a par with “Have you opened your heart to Jesus?” The fidelity implied by this statement is not a badge of honour. I have made no sacrifices. Liz gives me everything that I need and I give thanks for my good fortune everyday.

I’m sure that Liz and I are not the only couple with this kind of relationship but I’m equally sure that we are a minority. Many marriages run out of passion or find they no longer need it.

The real reason it is taboo for me to talk to The Lads (none of whom are lads any longer and all of whom are, or have been, married) about the reality of my sex life, is that they don’t want to be confronted with the possibility that, if they had found the right person, they too would look forward to fucking their wives.

So, I will continue to be silent when they brag and boast and encourage one another. It is the polite thing to do. And it gives me time to think about Liz and what we will get up to the next time that she whispers in my ear.

© 2006 Mike Kimera.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Who is Mike Kimera? Read his bio on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website.

Authors live for feedback!
If you enjoyed this story, please send comments to
Mike Kimera


  E-mail this page

Search ERWA Website:

Copyright 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
All Rights Reserved World Wide. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form or
medium without express written permission is prohibited.

By Riccardo Berra
Ligne Claire
The Girl with Two Lovers

By Richard V Raiment 
Ghosts of Christmas Past
Recalled to Life

By Robert Buckley
Absentee Ballots
Making Her Late For...
Brotherhood Of The ...
Convenience Store
Head Games
Practicing Lovecraft
Coins For The Ferryman
Seeing Is Believing
The Mission
A Weekend in Queens..
The Exchange
Close to Hand
Excess Of Light
They Need Me
Bench Mates
Pre Need
Cthulhu's Toad
The Dog Park
Smells Like Money
Extraordinary Graces
What Now?
You Get What You Pay For
The Angel of Loneliness
The Great Sin
Mere Moments
An Unconventional Friendship
Adam and Eve on a Raft
Dead Man's Switch
Does Immortality come with a Pension?
Embraceable Ewe
A Fragile Desire
Surviving Winter
You're the Only One

By Robert GSK
Still Life

By Rose B. Thorny
The Thing Under the...
Only When It Rains
Power and Glory

By Savannah
Naked Ambition
The Principal of the Thing

By Sidney Durham
Junk Yard Goddess
I'm Only Shaving!
Santa, Baby!
Sometimes I Can ...
Speaking of Escher
The Road Not Taken

By Tulsa Brown
Flesh On A Woman
Half Moon Girl
Debt of Honor

By Valentine Bonnaire
American Daddy-O
Bukowski Girls
Bing Cherry Silk
Colony, Collapsed
Have a Nice Day
l'heure bleue
Once Upon A Time . . .
Red Suede
Yellow, like the daffodils

By William Dean
Stranger in the Bonfire
Great Notion
Kiss Me And Then...
Switch Back
A Hand in the Bush
Buy Me Something
Forest for the Trees
Swap Meet
Burning Man
Port Said
Twisted Faith
Political Asylum

Screen Play
by A.F. Waddell

A Filing Fling
by Addison Long

Ménage A Cart
by Adhara Law

Elevator Shaft
by Alana James

Torn in Two
by Alicia Night Orchid

by Angela Caperton

The Lady-killer
by BJ Franklin

by B.K. Bilicki

The Vacation
by Beth Vox

Frostbite the Ice Pimp
by Chuck Lovepoe

The Accidental Fetish
by Corvidae

So Much in Common
by Daphne Dubonet

The Hand & I.
by EllaRegina

Safari Tuesday
by G. Gregory

The Puss Hater
by Inna Spice

One for the Road
by J. Corvo

Full Serviced
by J.D. Coltrane

Naked Over New York
by J.Z. Sharpe

The Chocolate Wife
by James Robert Sands

Once Shy
by Jamie Smithe

by Jean Roberta

Caitlin Comes Clean
by Jerry Rightson

Something To Make...
by Jim Parr

Melanie and Jay Go...
by jtallen

Peeping George
by Jude Mason

It's Lovely. It's Horrible.
by Kathleen Bradean

The Temp
by Kaye Heche

A Husband's Lesson
by Kim Bax

Better Than a Blow...
by Lauren Mills

Page 12 - No. F
by LilyOrchid

In The Name Of...
by Michael Michele

The Classics
by Nettie Kestler

The Wounded Healer
by Nicholas M.

by Nick Santa Rosa

The Cabin
by P. E. Brink

Post Mortem
by Riccardo Berra

Newly Reformed Woman...
by Seneca Mayfair

by Sybil Rush

by Teresa Lamai

Alter Christus
by Teresa Wymore

Shadows of De La Rosa
by Tori Diaz