By Matthew Sanborn Smith
“Origasmi,” Sensei told us, “Is the ancient Japanese art of folding paper until you cum.” Which is basically why I paid seven-hundred dollars for the only night class I’d ever taken.
“I like the name of it,” Celia said, as she folded the hull of an origami U.S.S. Indianapolis. We had a big room, so it was going to be actual size. She was looking for the biggest orgasm of her life. “Origasmi. I like words, you know. I think about them sometimes.”
“Like what do you mean?” I’d been folding and unfolding the same ratty sheet of paper for the last seven weeks. Sensei said that was a typical man’s way out. He never said it wouldn’t work, though.
“Like handjob?” she hollered down from the deck.
“Yeah, I love handjobs,” I said.
“No, I mean the word. Job makes it sound like it’s labor.”
“Precisely. Nobody wants that. It should sound like something you’d want to do, like handhobby, or something.”
“Unless money exchanges hands,” I said. “That sounds like a job.”
“Fair enough.” A low, hot moan came from the front of the class. I looked to see what Jimmy had folded.
“Well, duh!” I said.
“What, what did he do?”
“He folded a naked woman. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Oh, please,” Celia said. “You can’t decide on whether to make a square or a triangle there. Why don’t you put that poor piece of paper out of its misery?”
“Look, why don’t we quit early and go to my place?” I asked. Suddenly, Celia flopped down on deck with a groan. “Dammit!” I folded faster. Soon, I heard Celia snoring. A blowhobby now would be out of the question. My hands were blistered worse than a chronic masturbator’s. A chronic masturbator who had seven-hundred dollars more in his pocket than I did. All this thought was starting to get me aroused. I quit class early, like I’d planned and went to my place alone like I hadn’t planned. You take your opportunities where you can get them, I suppose. My sheet of paper was soft enough at this point to make a fine napkin.