When I almost died from sex

I became frantic as the legs of the bed, all four one after another began to gallop like a wild stallion. At least that is what I thought a wild stallion must gallop like. Cul-a-lump, cul-a-lump, cul-a-lump, lump, lump and on and on that stallion raced. My hands clung to the sides of my mattress as I desperately prayed to survive the earthquake above me. Silently, I plead “Oh God, please don’t let me die from sex!”

Then it happened, the scream of horror escaped from me. I lay drenched in panicked sweat fear enveloping me like a cold, black cape of death. A face appeared from the top bunk of the bed demanding, “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want us to get caught?” I couldn’t do more than stare at the angry face of the teen boy, while agile as a cat the older foster sister Lolita leapt to the painted green hardwood floor.

I’m still amazed that Lolita could leap, as though inhuman, off the top bunk. Lolita sneered her best sneer, wrinkled her oversized nose and hissed, “You’re a virgin loser. At least the boys want to do me.” I turned away and held back a desire to hug the now still wall. The top bunk hadn’t fallen to crush me to death. Thankful, I closed my 13 year old eyes and ignored Lolita and her latest ride as they sucked on each others faces, their goodnight, or maybe goodbye kiss.