“You’re such an egghead, even about sex! Honestly, Peter.” Katrina shook her head in her snobbish, teasing way at me as she kicked me gently under the table, blowing Dunhill smoke from one side of her thick lips.

She could say the stupidest things with those lips, but the asymmetrical smoke-blowing blew my mind every time.

They were the thickest thing about her — feather-soft but heavy and so fleshy they often seemed to overflow the space they had been designed to fill on her thin, elegant face. She could have literally just grunted “duh” and I would have wanted to scoop her up like the delicate taste of heaven she was.

But I had a plan for that evening, and I was damned if I was going to let her take me off the scent.

She was still talking: “Do you have some kind of kink or brain damage where you think you have to talk about, like, electrodes on my nipples to turn me on?” She grinned, lopsided and perfect; her delicate face could never be straight, but that made it even better. “And do you seriously think that anything science-y you could ever say is going to ever make me tolerate, much less want to kiss, that horrible slutty walking flesh bucket you call your best friend?”

She was talking about Lorna. Lorna had been a friend of mine with occasional benefits for a decade. Katrina was convinced she hated Lorna — Lorna, whose breasts were each the size of Katrina’s entire backside; but despite their size, Lorna’s double-Cs were light, with an elegance of their own. They didn’t just float in water; they floated on air.

“Ugh,” said Katrina. She stood up and yanked me to my feet. Then she yanked me toward the bedroom. I barely fought her, although this wasn’t part of my plan. “Lorna. I adore you, Peter, but if you think that girl is of any interest sexually, I don’t know why you’re dating me and not her. She’s like Marilyn Monroe. I’m like — Olive Oyl!”

“Oh, come on, now, Katrina. You’re so cute and sexy. You’re more like — oh, what’s her name, the Beetlejuice girl.”

“See, you don’t even remember her name! It’s Winona Ryder.”

“Yeah, and she’s still hot. You think Marilyn Monroe would have been hot past thirty?”

“Of course,” Katrina sulked. “I hate her.”

“Who? Lorna or Marilyn?”

“Both of them! But not as much as I hate nipple clamps and sensors or anything weird on my nipples!”

“Where did you get nipple clamps from?! All I’ve mentioned in this entire discussion is genital sensors.”

She gave me a little disapproving sniff and the sort of frown that you get from girls who are incapable of doing anything with their faces that isn’t inviting, no matter how angry or fake-angry they are.

When they act like this, I often wonder whether maybe, if I were ten percent stupider, my girlfriends would like me that much more. But her tone — it was teasing, affectionate — put me at ease. If you were an outside observer reading nothing but our words, you might think we were on the verge of fisticuffs rather than the sort of cuffs we were probably heading toward. She was being a jerk and I was enjoying it immensely. Who knows; she might have actually been a tiny bit annoyed under her banter, but I wasn’t about to let a little thing like that ruin my evening. She knew I loved her little body, even if there wasn’t much of it to love. It was the fire inside of it that made me wild. Well, and her silky inner thighs. They’re so soft I can barely tell where the air surrounding them ends and the flesh that they’re made of begins. How can the skin be so unbelievably soft on the inside of girls’ legs? Sometimes I wonder how they even keep all the parts of their bodies inside of them when the skin holding it in is so soft and pliable and delicious and —

— and this is how I get distracted when I’m trying to pull off one of these adventures! Focus, Peter, I thought. Either focus on your plan or just throw her down and have her like she wants you to do anyway. — Oh, sure, I said to myself, that would be kind of me, wouldn’t it? Take the easy way out and never let her find out what it is she really wants. That would make me a heck of a guy, all right.

I took a deep breath and stared into her big, wild, green eyes. “No, sweetie, listen this time instead of thinking about what clever little thing you’re going to say to prove me wrong as soon as I stop talking, OK? That’s another thing science tells us people do — ”

“Oh, my God. Science. So sexy.”

“ — hey, how do you think vibrators get made!?!”

By way of reply, she pulled her skirt up an inch. She was wearing the type of fishnet leggings that go up around the top of their thigh and are held there by elastic, so the inch was the difference between looking at her leg through fishnet and looking at her leg through leg. I was getting both at once.

You little jerk, I thought fondly. “Yeah, science made those, too. Anyway, science tells us that people’s conversations suck because they don’t actually listen, they just think about what their own retort is going to be, but their retort doesn’t make any sense, because they weren’t listening to what the other person was saying in the first pl — oh, my God.”

She giggled. While I was rambling, she had been sliding that clever little hand of hers up between my thighs, just to the tip of my dick. I’m not sure whether Katrina thinks about this consciously, but she ruins her “I’m just a dumb little cutie pie who’s not up to any tricks, never mind me” routine every time she touches me. The sensual intelligence in those little paws gives her clever, bawdy little mind away every time — even if you could ignore the way she outwits me while I think she’s letting me pontificate and impress her. It’s one of the many, many reasons I keep old Katrina around (well, she’s only 23, but you know what I mean) — but she was driving me perfectly nuts about Lorna in about forty different ways at once.

I pushed her hand away — it took me about a week’s worth of willpower to do so; there went my leg day at the gym — and, laughing, I said, “Now, look here, Missy. You know how everybody thinks you girls are all so jealous of each other you can’t think straight?”

“Are you sure you don’t mean envious?” She crossed her arms. “We can’t think straight because we are envious? Envious of what, may I ask?”

I sighed. “You’re never going to let me live down the day I made you sit through my ‘envy versus jealousy’ vocab lecture, are you?”

“Nope,” she grinned, pulling closer and stroking my backside. Her pinky finger was making dangerous revolutions around my anus. “Envy,” she said, mocking my pedantic tone, “is when you want something somebody else has. Like — oh, I don’t know, like I might like to have Lorna’s huge, round, perfect ass.” Her finger moved in closer to my ass and kept going around, slower and more gently this time, finding that one nerve she knows I have that makes me shiver every time she plays it just the right way; hesitating, massaging it, enjoying the way I squirmed before she went back around again.

I laughed and pushed it away. I have the willpower of a god. I should seriously try funneling this into the gym; I would just be able to lie back and let them crawl on me. Unfortunately, that wasn’t quite the way people worked — at least not women — at least in my experience. Not that I had ever had a completely perfect body, but no matter how good you looked, people needed games.

“Now, listen! Evolutionary psych nerds and regular society types always say you’re all maliciously jealous because you’re just like that because survival: You’re jealous, envious bitches because you want to make sure your man spends his resources on your offspring and not your rivals’ kids. And maybe that’s partly true, but they did a different series of experiments — and it wasn’t with nipple clamps! This is where your listening skills need some work, my darling. If I go for the short version, will you listen this time?”

“Blah, blah,” she sulked, pushing me onto the bed, where she alighted on my lap, black curls bouncing down the ivory skin of her back. Her jade-green tank minidress set all her colors off deliciously. I had never noticed before that her black hair had a slight auburn cast; against the green, she looked like a forest fire, but in a good way. Wild. I enjoyed the sensations but went on talking.

“Now, they did this experiment where they took men and women and attached sensors to their genitalia so they could see whether the subjects were, uh, responding to the, uh, the images they were seeing.”

“Let me guess.” She put her pointy chin in her hands like a well-poised elf. “It was porn!”

“Yes, it was porn. But more to the point, it was all different kinds of porn. Gay, straight, lesbian. And guess what they found?”

“Most of it was badly produced?”

I laughed. “Well, yes, but they found that according to the sensors, men only responded to one kind of porn — either stuff with all men in it, so they were gay, or straight and lesbian porn, stuff with women. Statistically, I mean, Not everyone. But by and large, men either got all bothered by straight and lesbian porn — porn with women in it, right? — OR they were just plain gay and only got turned on by the men.”

“Oh God, you’re not trying to tell me Lorna is a man, are you?”

“You are IMPOSSIBLE.” I slapped her little butt and it barely jiggled — but enough to make me wonder whether I shouldn’t give up on my entire ridiculously convoluted plan and just take her like she wanted me to. Nahhhhhh. Anyway, that would leave Lorna literally in the closet, feeling silly, and I doubted she would ever forgive me for that one.

“I am trying to tell you something about Lorna, sweetie, but you gotta let me spit it out. OK, so the women were the interesting ones in the experiment.”

“Aren’t we always?”

I rolled my eyes. “Sexism is illegal now, you know.”

“Oooh, is it torture dungeon day?”

“That was Wednesday.”

“You know, you are honestly beginning to intrigue me, Peter.” She ran back out to the living room to fumble for another Dunhill and mix herself one of my more expensive Scotches with Diet Coke. I tried not to wince too hard. She leaned across my bedroom doorway and sipped irresistibly, dribbling expensive cigarette ash on the hardwood floor. There was no way she was as un-hot as she pretended to think she was. Or thought she thought she was. Well, she was pretty drunk. Not too drunk, I hoped. She wasn’t much of a drinker, so when she started trying to use drinks as comic props I had to look out for her performance issues.

“Would you LISTEN to me?!”

“Ooooh, it’s angry. That’s hot.”

“I’m sure it is,” I grinned. “Now shut up. When they showed the women the same porn — gay porn, straight porn, just men, just women, both, whatever — the women responded to everything. Whether they said they were gay, straight, didn’t matter — they were all turned on by everything they saw. Which is why I came up with my theory.”

“Oh, Christ, that’s right, you had some kind of thought you wanted to torture me with.” She rolled her eyes.

“Torture, shmorture,” I said. “My theory is that the reason you guys are so much more envious than we are is because you’re actually capable of seeing how hot your competition is.”

She gave me a furious look.

“What?!” I said. “Everybody else is saying you’re senseless, selfish, nasty people! I’m saying that you guys are capable of understanding things us men can’t even notice in the first place! And that the only reason that other girls being hot bothers you more than other guys being hot bothers us is because you notice at a visceral–bone-deep — ”

“By which you mean pussy-deep?”

“Fine, if you want to be vulgar, my little sex pig: You notice at a pussy-deep level just how hot the other women you’re in competition with are, and it drives you nuts.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t know what you want to do, you see? You want to compete with each other, because you know that neither of you has a dick, and of course you want a dick. But oh my God, do you really just want to compete with each other when you could be touching each other? It’s not like all breasts are the same, for example. I mean, you really hate Lorna, don’t you?”

“Of course. What, did you think you were going to talk me out of that with your phony philosophy? Your goofy science experiment with mental patients watching porn with nipple clamps — ”

I couldn’t take it; I grabbed her and threw her hard back onto the bed and kissed that soft, crazy mouth. “Mental patients! Nipple clamps! Where do you get this stuff?! Oh, my God.” She kissed me back, hungrily like she was a desert wanderer and I was a canteen of Perrier.

“You hate her huge, soft breasts!”

“Despise them,” she assented, sadly stroking her little handful of a right breast.

“You hate them so much you just want to have them for your own, don’t you? You want to be able to reach out in bed every night and squeeze all that soft, firm flesh ’til you’re satisfied — ”

“Oh, I’ll never be satisfied,” she admitted. Suddenly her eyes went wide. “I did not say that!”

“Oh, yes, you did,” I grinned. “Her breasts, my cock. You could have them every night and never get enough.”

“Shut up, I was thinking about something else.” She made to slap me, but instead her hand found its way down between my legs. Before either of us knew it, she was playing with my cock like it was the finest thing she had ever touched. I hadn’t expected this, but I let my back arch a little and groaned.

Then I got my act back together. Pinning her two little arms together with one hand, I took Katrina’s right breast in the other hand, stroking it from its tip toward the little divot between her two breasts. I knew from lots of tasty experience that this would drive her wild; her flesh there was so sparse and fine, the nerves were insanely concentrated, and the slightest touch set every inch of her on fire. She sighed uncontrollably; she couldn’t keep up the angry act for a second when I did that. Not even if I said:

“Would you hate them so much if you could have them for a few minutes?”

“What do you mean, have them? Lorna’s breasts? Have them? Are you gonna cut her up so I can wear them ’til they get cold or something?”

“Oh, he had better not do any such thing.” A low, purring contralto voice was emanating from the closet. Yes, I had Lorna literally pinned in the bisexual closet, doing God knows what with herself in there the whole time while we talked about how much my girlfriend hated her and her big, light, fit, firm, perfect tits. Katrina’s face turned from alabaster to fire-engine red in a millisecond.

“YOU HAD HER IN OUR CLOSET?!” Katrina screamed.

“Oh, you loved it,” Lorna smirked. She slipped out like a big lithe panther. Lorna was the healthiest girl I’d ever met — it would be misleading to say she worked out every day. Lorna played in the sunshine like a giant cat, and then she feasted in the shade like a queen. Lorna had the most stunningly bisexual personality I’d ever met, as well; I loved to introduce her to people, because unless she matched what they thought they were into, she made every single person who saw her wonder what exactly their type was. She was a honey blonde with darkish skin and very dark eyes, but I’d seen gay guys who were into goth albinos with their hair dyed jet-black chase her around a bar offering her fifty dollars and their turn at the pool table just to let them put a hand on her ass for a minute.

Right now she was wearing a pale pink and fawn-skin brown negligee; on closer inspection, it actually was fawn skin or some kind of pale tan leather. The straps were wide, the garment cut into a V to show off the perfect musculature of her stomach, fleshy and strong. The honey color of her hair and her dark tanned skin all contrasted with the light leather and pink taffeta to make her look like an oversexed shepherdess.

I looked at Katrina. Her mouth was hanging wide open — trapped between being angrier at me than she had ever been at anybody in her entire life and wanting to jump into Lorna’s cleavage head-on. Door number two took about ten seconds to win. I didn’t even get a chance to grab anything ’til they had been running their hands up and down each other’s bodies for at least five minutes. They were both so different, but each perfect in her own way — Katrina all green and black and slim, Lorna all pink and brown and healthy, like two famished panthers.

Lorna got Katrina’s simple dress off first, so I got to slip my fingers into all the familiar nerve endings that I knew would make Katrina insane. And oh, did she go insane. I thought for a moment I was giving her a stroke, but she was just having — and I quote — “a feeling I didn’t know a body could feel, because it was that good that I had to be in heaven, but for some reason I didn’t seem to be dead. My vagina was purring and screaming at the same time, was all. And also, Lorna’s tit was in my mouth.”

Oh, God, Katrina couldn’t get enough of Lorna’s breasts. Lorna couldn’t get enough of Katrina’s nice silky little legs, either, but she’s had girls before. Katrina, on the other hand, was like a kid at an amusement park. Her mouth, her tongue, her fingers — all the usual stuff explored every perfect inch of Lorna’s bosom — but then Katrina started getting creative.

Katrina has a nice tight vagina, but somehow she managed to get Lorna’s breast halfway into it, which was when all heaven as well as the other place broke loose. Katrina came uncontrollably from having Lorna inside of her — and I, much to my chagrin, also lost control.

I thought that was it for me. But the girls weren’t about to have it. I had given them something they’d never dreamed of, after all — well, at least, Katrina hadn’t. She immediately dove down toward my cock, sucking it like she had never done before, and in thirty seconds I was more than good to go. I had each of them for a good twenty minutes before we all came within ten seconds of each other and collapsed, as happy as we had ever been.