The Pat Wong Diaries

Before we had the boys, Sunday used to be sex day. It used to be the day we dedicated ourselves to debaucheries, as if to spite those who called it God's day. We started it with a sloppy breakfast: a dozen scrambled eggs, butter on toast, milk, cream cheese on bagels, orange juice and coffee. We didn't set up a nice breakfast table, but instead, ate in the kitchen, right out of the frying pen and the milk carton, chewing and grunting. Harry, the champion of making bodily noises at will, loudly burped and farted all through the breakfast, once in a while spitting on my eggs as if to mark his territory.

After the messy feast, we raced up, like little children, and jumped into bed. I lay on my back, my legs wide open, in position, inviting my husband to begin his work, while Harry clumsily lubricated his cock. And then the fuck festival began.

The first Sunday fuck session was always loud and violent, with Harry glaring at me as he penetrated me and once in a while withdrawing his cock and moving away from the bed, throwing his hands up and pretending to leave the room, as if saying, "you take my cock for granted and you need to show me some respectful appreciation."

So I would shout out, pleading with him to come back, to put is cock back in immediately, my high, supplicating voice trembling with pleasure. He would then turn, shaking his head, and climb back on the bed, then aim his long skinny cock at my pussy and then thrust it back in, often causing a loud pussy fart that always made him grunt with animal approval.

The first ejaculation was always glorious and was always aimed at my face. There is nothing like the smell of fresh semen on a Sunday morning.

After cleaning up, we would lie down on our bed and quietly read the paper with the Sunday political shows in the background. Harry's favorite was ABC's This Week with David Brinkley, but I preferred Meet The Press and Face The Nation. David Brinkley was too crusty, too severe, too sarcastic for my taste. Then there was George Will, who irritated me to no end: he never smiled and took himself far too seriously. And I hated his bow tie. But perhaps he was a different person with his wife and family. Perhaps he had a large, thick cock; perhaps he shaved his balls regularly and licked his wife's ass hole. Perhaps he owned a stash of porno magazines, books and movies, like my Harry, and was a dedicated masturbator. Or perhaps he wife-swapped with close friends and participated in loud orgies. Who knows. Sam Donaldson, on the other hand, with his large nose and thick sideburns, turned me on. He oozed sex, and I could see that he was a dirty sexual partner. He was hairy and I could only imagine the smell of his armpits after a workout.

Harry loved Cokie Roberts and masturbated openly in front of me when it was her turn to speak. "Cokie," he would breathlessly whisper, sitting up on the bed and focusing all of his attention on the TV set. "I need to spend some time with you." And whenever she raised her voice or made a point with emphasis, he stood up, opened his mouth loud and stuck out his tongue and wagged it left and right like a lizard. And then he started his chant -- the chant that meant that the second hour of the fuck festival was about to start.

He shouted, "Females, females, I need some females."

Then he turned to me, the female at hand that he could penetrate at will, as many times and for as long as he needed, licked my nose, inserting his lizard tongue in my nostrils and taking out whatever buggers he could extract and chewed them lustily. Then, pushing his head back, his mouth wide open and his teeth sticking out, he roared like a lion, pinning both of my arms under his knees and hitting my forehead with his solid cock and rubbing his wet balls against my nose.

The smell of semen emanating from his balls was strong back then and I would take long deep breaths, savoring the mixed aura of his cum, spit, and ass hole.

Then the fucking commenced again, but this time, we would lock eyes and not let go of each other's stares until he came.

"We fuck a lot," he would whisper, as if sharing a private thought. "I've fucked your pussy thousands of times," and then, as if to present evidence, he would start counting each thrust. "Can you believe it?" he would then ask breathlessly.

"Yes, baby," I would answer him in a whisper. "A lot of fucking."

"And you just open your pussy like that," he would chide breathlessly, "letting me fuck it like this. No shame."

"Yes, no shame, baby."

And then I would start shouting from sheer joy. Harry could fuck me for as long as I needed to get my orgasms, sometimes going on for a whole hour without pause. Once, early in our marriage, I was reduced to shivering uncontrollably, my whole body, to the last blood cell, engulfed in a severe orgasm. I really thought I was going to die. Harry wrapped me in a blanket and hugged and kissed me as I shivered, my eyes wide open in panic. It took me more than 30 minutes to calm down.

It was only then that I fully realized the power of sex -- that it was a drug that one could get addicted to and overdose on.