Liberated - Installment III


I decided it might be best to make use of all accompanying study materials before jumping right in with the sex business. Knowledge is power, after all. So I pulled out the full-color “loveart position guide” and flipped through it.

If I may be allowed a moment’s digression, I’d like to offer one word of advice for the Liberator copywriting staff. There’s nothing wrong with trying to make the whole thing classy. With promising your customers a “first class ticket to tease!,” adorning your literature with winged angels, and inventing terms like “LoveArt.” Yours is, after all, an expensive, well-constructed product. High-end, both literally and figuratively. The photographs featured in the position guide are exemplary and go far to illustrate both the logistics of each position and the resultant level of ecstasy each partner can expect to experience. But don’t forget that a large part of your ultimate marketing goal is to penetrate (as it were) the general lovemaking public and to make giant sex triangles seem like a mainstream, even bourgeois, accessory. With this is mind, you should be sure, in future editions, to avoid giving sexual positions names like “Screwdriver,” “Bumbustic,” and “Bow, wow, wow, yippie yo yup yup.”

“Spinal Tap” is a particularly horrific name for a sexual position and you should let go immediately whichever insane employee penned it. For there is not now nor will there ever be anything sexy about a Spinal Tap. Ask anybody who’s ever had one. The mere mention of it invokes thoughts of twelve inch needles and head-splitting migraines and spinal fluid dripping out of ones body — all things best kept out of the bedroom. “The G-Bomb,” while clever, is a phrase best avoided in our post-9/11 world and “Girth Control” makes no sense whatsoever. “Alabama slammer” is right out. Being as you are, a British company, perhaps you are unfamiliar with what Alabama is actually like. Let me assure you there is nothing sexy about it. In the states, the phrase is generally reserved for strong wrestlers and even stronger drinks. In other words, things that mean to fuck you up royally.

But enough about semantics. You, the reader, care little about company copy. You want to know one thing and one thing only: are these wedges as good to fuck on as they say they are? Well, let me attempt to show you, rather than merely tell you, how it all went down.

“You ready to try out the ramp, Raegan?”
“You know I don’t perform well under pressure.”
“What pressure?”
“Why do you always have to write about these things?”
“You know well enough. It’s an angle, a gimmick.”
“You really think doing it on a giant triangle is going to be any better than doing it on a couple pillows?”
“It couldn’t make it any worse.”
“What’s that supposed to mean!”
“I meant, it couldn’t hurt.”
“The only way that thing could make our sex any better is if it solves the problem of you not giving me enough foreplay.”
“You never know.”
“I think this giant wedge of yours is putting a giant wedge in our marriage!”
“That’s probably not the kind of thing they want to hear.”
“Look. I’ll do my best. That’s all I can promise.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“If it doesn’t work out, you’ll just have to make something up.”
“Terrific. We’ll start with the video.”
“There’s a video?”
“What good is a giant sex ramp if it doesn’t come with a video? We gotta figure out what we’re doing somehow, right?”
“Can’t we just improvise?”
“Have you seen the size of that ramp? A person could break his neck if he’s not careful!”
“You watch it. I have work to do.”
“If I watch it alone, I may not need the wedge at all.”
“Have you no self-control?”
“I’m just saying, it looks promising. There’s a pretty hot chick on the cover.”
“There’s a pretty hot chick in your marriage bed, too!”

Hungry for foreplay, my wife, meanwhile, has positioned herself on the larger triangle with the business end of her ramped and elevated towards me, nearly two feet above the bed. She held her basal thermometer triumphantly aloft.

“I don’t think that’s a good position, hon. It looks like your neck is…”
“Never mind! Can’t you see I’m spiking?!”

Not being one to argue with a spiking wife, I wrapped the restraints around her wrists, clipped them to the ramp, then stroked her legs and let my tongue begin spelunking. She writhed in what I assumed was a fit of passion. “Oh yeah,” I thought. “Baby-making aside, we are really going to make something happen here tonight!”

I expected a flurry of moans and unbridled exclamations of ecstasy to emerge at any moment from my wife’s impassioned mouth. Instead, from up above, I heard:
“Woah!! Hold on!”
“I’m holding on.”
“Let me go! My head is pounding!”

I released my grasp and she struggled to right herself.
“Get these straps off me! All the blood’s rushing to my head!!”

When I finally managed to free her, she said:
“Oh my God. I think my vagina’s gone numb.”