This post sets the context for the whole. It may be read first, last, or any-when.
The author SybaRight is standing in for seeded some sex stories into his domain among the long-standing modules of philosophy, information theory, education theory, anarchist-Christian politics ...
Complex circumstances including federal censorship knocked a stack of domains down like dominoes. Now SybaRight agrees with the author: the sex stories should exist independently, as a blog, and not rejoin the philosophy and science once, if ever, they're restored.
The sex stories are simple. Here they are now. The stories will be told in chronological order. That is, they will read as a blog in reverse order, the oldest posts telling the kiddie sex, old-age sex coming last.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Powers of Attraction Degenerating
Does anyone know how old they are? I don't mean do they know the date and can they tell you their birth year; I mean subjectively.
I remember my father telling me of going to a class reunion and asking himself who were all these old men: could he possibly look that old? I believe I've already told my story of bragging to a woman that even if I didn't get up from my desk for six months I could run two miles without gasping. Then I thought to myself, You unabashed moron: that may have been true twenty years ago, but you have no idea what's true now: you haven't run in ages. So the next day I started to jog the two mile loop of Hillsborough River State Park where I was staying. I hadn't reached from my pop up to the pavement before I was gasping. I kept going though — just a slow jog — and at the end of the two miles I wasn't breathing ... too hard. So there was still a smidgeon of truth in what I'd bragged.
I launched this sex section five years ago: blurted dozens of stories very fast, in a day or two. As I wrote them, the years peeled away. I relived the moments I was reporting. As I said, initially, girls came to me. It was the girl who suggested that we take our clothes off. It was the girl who wanted me to see her naked, who wanted to see my penis, play with my silly little empty scrotum. I told of the number of young women who planted themselves in front of me, the number of wetting females who'd offered themselves to me.
I write this today lest the visitor think that any of that is still true. It isn't.
We're born, we die. In between, we grow, we decline. Our abilities sharpen, then they dull.
The curves won't duplicate exactly between any two individuals, but statistically there are deep probabilities: we grow till we're twentyish, we start stooping when we're forty-five. After forty-five more and more people have poor vision, failing hearing, can no longer tie their shoe without huffing and half falling over.
When I was nineteen I was not only female bait, but fag bait. I'd count the number of propositions within a year on my fingers and need my second hand. Since turning fifty, I can count them all on one finger.
At fifty one a woman decades younger eagerly offered and gave me a blow job once I'd spent a little time with her over a period of a few days only. Believe me, it hasn't happened since.
Indeed, on those rare occasions when I pursue acquaintance with a woman, it starts off promising, but quickly bumps into a rut: promises broken. They don't keep a date, don't return phone calls.
At thirty I wasn't the only male without an income nevertheless finding pussy left and right. But somehow, after thirty, that changes: even for SybaRight.
Uh, actually, I've had some fabulous fucking a sucking with women recently met: but only online, only long distance, only without actual contact.
I'm not talking about whores. I mean women legitimately met: not in a sexual context. Life-long I've had only one experience with a declared pro; but in that case I'd been fucking the woman for months if not years before she declared herself pro. Only then (only once), did she ask for payment. (I never called her again: though had I, given the amount I'd volunteered to give her, she might not have agreed to come.)
Toothless Sex Scrapbook
I fish to be away from people, not to socialize, and certainly not to stalk women. Skiing, you could take a date, or pick up a chick, in the lodge or on the slope. But I'm recalling my past, my distant past. Now broke, half-blind, half-deaf, the lake could be littered with nymphs and what would it have to do with me? Still: I spend enough time on the water that I've now accumulated enough odd on-water runs ins with females that a couple of such might now get told here.
For instance, last night: did I get an eyeful of tit in a circumstance where I was just looking for bass. Actually I was casting for bass while very carefully surveying a highly tricky section of lake bottom.
There's a section of shore on Lake Jackson that used to be impenetrable weeds and brush. Houses on shore had views of tangle, not water. No one boated near it, and when I approached it wading, I see 'gators hiding but no hookable fish. Well, the municipality now wants a "scenic" lake. They've dredged, they've put in grass carp, they chopped the bushes just below the waterline ... Now you can see the houses, the houses can see the water ...
Every house there now has a realtor's sign in front, everyone's living on spec, everyone's hoping the price is tripling, not doubling. Two owners just invested in fancy boat docks, for sale signs up throughout the construction.
Understand: I'd given up on fishing those areas. Once "water" opened up, boaters found it illusory: you'd run aground, get free, run aground again. My recent attempts to wade those waters have encountered a variety of treacheries. I always worry about stumbling and getting impaled on something under the water line. Those who sheared the vegetation below the surface were "beautifying" the lake, not worrying about the safety of waders. But in this section, though there are plenty of stumps, full of bristles, there also seem to be rocks, even boulders. One moment I'm standing in water up to my chest, next to me is a structure, I can't tell whether natural or human accidental, certainly not designed, practically reaching the water surface. It seems to be a boulder, but there are no rocks in Florida lakes, none that I've known of. Within inches there will be low rock, easy to step up onto, which will suddenly let your foot slide into a crack. You can get skewered underwater anywhere in this area; specifically here you can break a leg, break an ankle, drown, amid the rocks.
I have yet to catch a really good bass in this section with the rocks but just this summer I have been finding a few bass here. One day last week I caught three bass in short order near this one dock here. Now I'm just trying to get closer, still upright, still in one piece, still functioning, to lob a finesse worm in closer to the dock.
The wind changes. From stiff in my face the wind now has the dock in my lea. And I'd just changed lures to a bullet-weighted Texas worm. And lo and behold there's a woman on the dock. I'm behind her. She's sitting, reading, with her back to a timber. My purpose here, other than teaching the rocks to my feet, is to steal close enough to the dock to probe its underside. These swirling winds could land my hook in this woman's lap no matter what I'd intended with the cast.
I'm thinking I'd better back off and try learning this treacherous area when it's unoccupied, when it occurs to me that if the woman lives here she just might know the history of human interference with this stretch of lake bottom. I'm not geologist, but I don't believe these rocks are native. And I can't imagine what history, natural or human, would have put them the way they seem to be. I want to ask her. But I'm now so hard of hearing I'd better be right next to the dock to hear her answer. But I don't know the bottom and don't know if I can get next the dock. Behind me there's not two inches of water over the boulder, but it could be dredged to eight feet right by the dock!
So I call out. "Excuse me, I'm not trying to sneak up on you." She jumps. I mean she starts. She turns. She's much younger than I'd anticipated — an adult, but not from the retirement crowd — and very easy on the eyes. "I want to ask you something. I no longer hear well, so if it's OK, I'm going to try to wade over there."
"Don't fall in a hole," she says, now watching my progress. Suddenly, between me and the dock, on this north side, there seems to be nothing but sandy bottom. Now I go right up to the edge of the dock. She moves over to the edge herself, hunkers down low, smiling, welcoming. I'm not shaved. I'm not wearing my teeth. Ah, but I was polite: she seems to be welcoming me.
I'll skip the part of our conversation about her name, whether she lived there or elsewhere. She did know something about the history of the municipal interference there; not about the rocks specifically, but that the city had worked to expand the lake there, "beautify" the shoreline. I'm interested in the rocks but neither the rocks nor the bass are why I'm telling the story here. The sun was shining brightly overhead. She was wearing a shorts and a halter. Clearly one could see the outline of some kind of a bra through her halter, but much clearer, utterly clear, was the impression in the material made by her nipples. This woman was hung. Her nipples articulated. Christsake, she had spigots.
She's being very nice. I'm trying to be nice. I'm trying not to state at her tits. But that's impossible. What I really can't help staring for is to decipher what kind of an undergarment she can possibly be wearing: bare nipples, but held up and pushed forward by a structuring garment. What the hell: if I can't take my eyes off her, it's deliberate on her part. Though she obviously hadn't expected company from the sea side.
No, one doesn't normally go wading toothless and unshaved in the muck to find prime female. But there's enough prime female in the world that you never know where you'll cross it. I now know, not too too much to my surprise, that there are some women who like to exhibit themselves sufficiently that they'll even exhibit themselves to an old fart in a boat, or an old fart standing in water up to his neck.
Yesterday's acquaintance let me come right up to her, but then I'd asked. On other occasions I've been careful not to say anything, not to get too close, to concentrate on presenting my lure to the relevant boat dock, and let the resident female choose how much of herself to show. One very comely blond had a vigorous catch with a frisbee and her Irish setter so long as I lurked by her dock. When I moved on, she went into the house, the dog stayed on the beach.
One blond walked her spaniel on her dock when I was faced toward her dock but from the distance of another dock. When I came to fish her dock directly, she walked her dog there again!
Her I talked to, came closer, found her continuing to be friendly. Though she did not continue to be friendly on a second occasion. Too bad, cause she had invited me to come back, said she was always walking her dog there.
As you get older you have to be satisfied with less and less; or be very unsatisfied.
I'm tickled to have stimulated some female behavior on odd occasions despite my age and non-existent social status, but I see it in other old farts too. I was fishing Lake Placid with my friend Ron a few years ago. A female fish and game warden approached, Ron running the trolling motor from the bow: obviously the boat's owner and captain. This gal put on such a display for him I couldn't believe it. I might as well have not existed for her. Her ignoring me was pissing me off enough for me to speak up and address her. She answered me: still looking at Ron. And Ron was damn close to seventy at the time.
I remember my father telling me of going to a class reunion and asking himself who were all these old men: could he possibly look that old? I believe I've already told my story of bragging to a woman that even if I didn't get up from my desk for six months I could run two miles without gasping. Then I thought to myself, You unabashed moron: that may have been true twenty years ago, but you have no idea what's true now: you haven't run in ages. So the next day I started to jog the two mile loop of Hillsborough River State Park where I was staying. I hadn't reached from my pop up to the pavement before I was gasping. I kept going though — just a slow jog — and at the end of the two miles I wasn't breathing ... too hard. So there was still a smidgeon of truth in what I'd bragged.
I launched this sex section five years ago: blurted dozens of stories very fast, in a day or two. As I wrote them, the years peeled away. I relived the moments I was reporting. As I said, initially, girls came to me. It was the girl who suggested that we take our clothes off. It was the girl who wanted me to see her naked, who wanted to see my penis, play with my silly little empty scrotum. I told of the number of young women who planted themselves in front of me, the number of wetting females who'd offered themselves to me.
I write this today lest the visitor think that any of that is still true. It isn't.
We're born, we die. In between, we grow, we decline. Our abilities sharpen, then they dull.
The curves won't duplicate exactly between any two individuals, but statistically there are deep probabilities: we grow till we're twentyish, we start stooping when we're forty-five. After forty-five more and more people have poor vision, failing hearing, can no longer tie their shoe without huffing and half falling over.
When I was nineteen I was not only female bait, but fag bait. I'd count the number of propositions within a year on my fingers and need my second hand. Since turning fifty, I can count them all on one finger.
At fifty one a woman decades younger eagerly offered and gave me a blow job once I'd spent a little time with her over a period of a few days only. Believe me, it hasn't happened since.
Indeed, on those rare occasions when I pursue acquaintance with a woman, it starts off promising, but quickly bumps into a rut: promises broken. They don't keep a date, don't return phone calls.
At thirty I wasn't the only male without an income nevertheless finding pussy left and right. But somehow, after thirty, that changes: even for SybaRight.
Uh, actually, I've had some fabulous fucking a sucking with women recently met: but only online, only long distance, only without actual contact.
I'm not talking about whores. I mean women legitimately met: not in a sexual context. Life-long I've had only one experience with a declared pro; but in that case I'd been fucking the woman for months if not years before she declared herself pro. Only then (only once), did she ask for payment. (I never called her again: though had I, given the amount I'd volunteered to give her, she might not have agreed to come.)
Toothless Sex Scrapbook
I fish to be away from people, not to socialize, and certainly not to stalk women. Skiing, you could take a date, or pick up a chick, in the lodge or on the slope. But I'm recalling my past, my distant past. Now broke, half-blind, half-deaf, the lake could be littered with nymphs and what would it have to do with me? Still: I spend enough time on the water that I've now accumulated enough odd on-water runs ins with females that a couple of such might now get told here.
For instance, last night: did I get an eyeful of tit in a circumstance where I was just looking for bass. Actually I was casting for bass while very carefully surveying a highly tricky section of lake bottom.
There's a section of shore on Lake Jackson that used to be impenetrable weeds and brush. Houses on shore had views of tangle, not water. No one boated near it, and when I approached it wading, I see 'gators hiding but no hookable fish. Well, the municipality now wants a "scenic" lake. They've dredged, they've put in grass carp, they chopped the bushes just below the waterline ... Now you can see the houses, the houses can see the water ...
Every house there now has a realtor's sign in front, everyone's living on spec, everyone's hoping the price is tripling, not doubling. Two owners just invested in fancy boat docks, for sale signs up throughout the construction.
Understand: I'd given up on fishing those areas. Once "water" opened up, boaters found it illusory: you'd run aground, get free, run aground again. My recent attempts to wade those waters have encountered a variety of treacheries. I always worry about stumbling and getting impaled on something under the water line. Those who sheared the vegetation below the surface were "beautifying" the lake, not worrying about the safety of waders. But in this section, though there are plenty of stumps, full of bristles, there also seem to be rocks, even boulders. One moment I'm standing in water up to my chest, next to me is a structure, I can't tell whether natural or human accidental, certainly not designed, practically reaching the water surface. It seems to be a boulder, but there are no rocks in Florida lakes, none that I've known of. Within inches there will be low rock, easy to step up onto, which will suddenly let your foot slide into a crack. You can get skewered underwater anywhere in this area; specifically here you can break a leg, break an ankle, drown, amid the rocks.
I have yet to catch a really good bass in this section with the rocks but just this summer I have been finding a few bass here. One day last week I caught three bass in short order near this one dock here. Now I'm just trying to get closer, still upright, still in one piece, still functioning, to lob a finesse worm in closer to the dock.
The wind changes. From stiff in my face the wind now has the dock in my lea. And I'd just changed lures to a bullet-weighted Texas worm. And lo and behold there's a woman on the dock. I'm behind her. She's sitting, reading, with her back to a timber. My purpose here, other than teaching the rocks to my feet, is to steal close enough to the dock to probe its underside. These swirling winds could land my hook in this woman's lap no matter what I'd intended with the cast.
I'm thinking I'd better back off and try learning this treacherous area when it's unoccupied, when it occurs to me that if the woman lives here she just might know the history of human interference with this stretch of lake bottom. I'm not geologist, but I don't believe these rocks are native. And I can't imagine what history, natural or human, would have put them the way they seem to be. I want to ask her. But I'm now so hard of hearing I'd better be right next to the dock to hear her answer. But I don't know the bottom and don't know if I can get next the dock. Behind me there's not two inches of water over the boulder, but it could be dredged to eight feet right by the dock!
So I call out. "Excuse me, I'm not trying to sneak up on you." She jumps. I mean she starts. She turns. She's much younger than I'd anticipated — an adult, but not from the retirement crowd — and very easy on the eyes. "I want to ask you something. I no longer hear well, so if it's OK, I'm going to try to wade over there."
"Don't fall in a hole," she says, now watching my progress. Suddenly, between me and the dock, on this north side, there seems to be nothing but sandy bottom. Now I go right up to the edge of the dock. She moves over to the edge herself, hunkers down low, smiling, welcoming. I'm not shaved. I'm not wearing my teeth. Ah, but I was polite: she seems to be welcoming me.
I'll skip the part of our conversation about her name, whether she lived there or elsewhere. She did know something about the history of the municipal interference there; not about the rocks specifically, but that the city had worked to expand the lake there, "beautify" the shoreline. I'm interested in the rocks but neither the rocks nor the bass are why I'm telling the story here. The sun was shining brightly overhead. She was wearing a shorts and a halter. Clearly one could see the outline of some kind of a bra through her halter, but much clearer, utterly clear, was the impression in the material made by her nipples. This woman was hung. Her nipples articulated. Christsake, she had spigots.
She's being very nice. I'm trying to be nice. I'm trying not to state at her tits. But that's impossible. What I really can't help staring for is to decipher what kind of an undergarment she can possibly be wearing: bare nipples, but held up and pushed forward by a structuring garment. What the hell: if I can't take my eyes off her, it's deliberate on her part. Though she obviously hadn't expected company from the sea side.
No, one doesn't normally go wading toothless and unshaved in the muck to find prime female. But there's enough prime female in the world that you never know where you'll cross it. I now know, not too too much to my surprise, that there are some women who like to exhibit themselves sufficiently that they'll even exhibit themselves to an old fart in a boat, or an old fart standing in water up to his neck.
Yesterday's acquaintance let me come right up to her, but then I'd asked. On other occasions I've been careful not to say anything, not to get too close, to concentrate on presenting my lure to the relevant boat dock, and let the resident female choose how much of herself to show. One very comely blond had a vigorous catch with a frisbee and her Irish setter so long as I lurked by her dock. When I moved on, she went into the house, the dog stayed on the beach.
One blond walked her spaniel on her dock when I was faced toward her dock but from the distance of another dock. When I came to fish her dock directly, she walked her dog there again!
Her I talked to, came closer, found her continuing to be friendly. Though she did not continue to be friendly on a second occasion. Too bad, cause she had invited me to come back, said she was always walking her dog there.
As you get older you have to be satisfied with less and less; or be very unsatisfied.
I'm tickled to have stimulated some female behavior on odd occasions despite my age and non-existent social status, but I see it in other old farts too. I was fishing Lake Placid with my friend Ron a few years ago. A female fish and game warden approached, Ron running the trolling motor from the bow: obviously the boat's owner and captain. This gal put on such a display for him I couldn't believe it. I might as well have not existed for her. Her ignoring me was pissing me off enough for me to speak up and address her. She answered me: still looking at Ron. And Ron was damn close to seventy at the time.
Old Fogey
Just now, 7:30 PM on a Sunday, I'm driving from my Darling's back to my studio, all on little, rural-seeming Brunns Road, I haven't gone more than a couple of hundred feet, and a young girl, uh, woman, just as I come abreast of her, sticks her hand out, waving for me to stop. I do. What do you want,? says SybaRight. "Could you give me a ride?" she asks. She's thin. She has a pretty face with flesh in the female areas of it: oriental of some flavor. Where are you going? "Oh, just down the road."
I open the door. She gets in. I'm giving you a ride, I say, so that no one else does. Don't you know that it's dangerous to ask rides of strangers?
She smiles sweetly. I'm only going down the block, I add. Where do you want to be let out? Hammock Road? Are you going to the Circle K? "That would be nice," she says.
Then suddenly she indicates a local side road going into one of the developments. "Here," she says. "This will be fine." We're still a few hundred yards from Hammock Road, not even yet to my park where I have my studio, but I stop. I tap her on the shoulder. Be careful, I admonish her. She has flinched a little bit. She smiles somewhat less sweetly. She gets out, crosses the street, and immediately flags the car going into the opposite direction: a couple of young men its occupants.
That car stops. She gets in. And off she goes: flat north instead of south.
Now I presume that she had seen the car turn onto Brunns Road, judged the riders to be male: maybe a little bit hornier, a little bit less fatherly, than this dud had turned out to be. No wonder she flinched from my advice if she was rushing to solicit a better prospect.
Looked to me by then like she was a road-whore: a possibility I'd considered in the first place but hadn't yet judged probable.
How long was she going to keep that sweet face? Unmarked? Unscarred?
How long would she keep that slender figure? straight up and down like a boy? This gal had more flesh in her cheeks than in her tits or her ass.
Reminds me of the whore in Fear of Flying who kept gaining weight and couldn't figure out why: she dieted so severely: until finally some advisor suggested that she keep track, write down, every single thing that she puts in her mouth all day long.
The first time a girl ever waved at me like that—got the same dialogue from me, by the way—was back in the 1970s when I was driving from Hempstead to Long Beach: along Long Beach Road.
I told her to be careful. She asked me if I liked to party.
No, not much, I answered. And I don't have any dope: I don't use it.
Still, she stayed in the car with me till we were almost crossing Sunrise Highway. Maybe she'd find more party people there.
Or by "party" did she just mean get a blow job while driving?
What happens to these girls? How many of them are there?
How many of our mothers and sisters and daughters are whores?
I presume a good number of them become mothers themselves: don't get cut up, survive somehow.
I'm a little bit better at recognizing road whores when I'm in the Apple, but I haven't been in NYC now in decades. In NY the road whores tend to hang more on particular corners: especially in certain neighborhoods. And they're not coy: don't waste time waiting for the john to initiate.
One night—could have been my very last time in the Apple—1986 maybe, down on West Street, underneath the Henry Hudson, I'm turning left, oh, onto 12th Street maybe, West Village somewhere, and a tall, good looking redhead, rushes the car like she's in trouble. I stop. Crack the window. Not much: I think it was coolish: night time, toward autumn maybe. She sticks her face up to the opening, smiles winningly, and asks me in a sweet innocent-enough-seeming voice how I'd like a nice blow job.
No thanks, I answer. She pouts. Seems sincerely disappointed. "Oh," she complains, "why not?"
I don't got no money, I explained. That lost her interest. Swiftly.
Actually, there was plenty more I'd have like to say to her. But I understood that she was working, that time counted. She may also have been under close supervision by a pimp ...
So I merely fantasized the rest of the conversation as I rode the tunnel, on my way back to New Jersey where I was crashing on a friend's "farm": in his wreck of a travel trailer: writing my novel. Yes, I would have liked to have said, especially if you'll sit on my face while you do it. Uh, provided you can convince me you're clean.
Maybe I should have narrated my novel to her. Maybe she'd give me a freebie—on scholarship.
Yeah, and maybe I'd wind up with my face cut wide open with a razor blade.
Shaish. Here we are: dangerous creatures: large, meat-eaters, wearing camouflage ... Sex requires vulnerability: especially for the female, but for the male as well. One is generally on top of the other. Even standing, or both seated, you have the other's genitals at your mercy.
No wonder some cultures have insisted on arranging marriages.
I open the door. She gets in. I'm giving you a ride, I say, so that no one else does. Don't you know that it's dangerous to ask rides of strangers?
She smiles sweetly. I'm only going down the block, I add. Where do you want to be let out? Hammock Road? Are you going to the Circle K? "That would be nice," she says.
Then suddenly she indicates a local side road going into one of the developments. "Here," she says. "This will be fine." We're still a few hundred yards from Hammock Road, not even yet to my park where I have my studio, but I stop. I tap her on the shoulder. Be careful, I admonish her. She has flinched a little bit. She smiles somewhat less sweetly. She gets out, crosses the street, and immediately flags the car going into the opposite direction: a couple of young men its occupants.
That car stops. She gets in. And off she goes: flat north instead of south.
Now I presume that she had seen the car turn onto Brunns Road, judged the riders to be male: maybe a little bit hornier, a little bit less fatherly, than this dud had turned out to be. No wonder she flinched from my advice if she was rushing to solicit a better prospect.
Looked to me by then like she was a road-whore: a possibility I'd considered in the first place but hadn't yet judged probable.
How long was she going to keep that sweet face? Unmarked? Unscarred?
How long would she keep that slender figure? straight up and down like a boy? This gal had more flesh in her cheeks than in her tits or her ass.
Reminds me of the whore in Fear of Flying who kept gaining weight and couldn't figure out why: she dieted so severely: until finally some advisor suggested that she keep track, write down, every single thing that she puts in her mouth all day long.
The first time a girl ever waved at me like that—got the same dialogue from me, by the way—was back in the 1970s when I was driving from Hempstead to Long Beach: along Long Beach Road.
I told her to be careful. She asked me if I liked to party.
No, not much, I answered. And I don't have any dope: I don't use it.
Still, she stayed in the car with me till we were almost crossing Sunrise Highway. Maybe she'd find more party people there.
Or by "party" did she just mean get a blow job while driving?
What happens to these girls? How many of them are there?
How many of our mothers and sisters and daughters are whores?
I presume a good number of them become mothers themselves: don't get cut up, survive somehow.
I'm a little bit better at recognizing road whores when I'm in the Apple, but I haven't been in NYC now in decades. In NY the road whores tend to hang more on particular corners: especially in certain neighborhoods. And they're not coy: don't waste time waiting for the john to initiate.
One night—could have been my very last time in the Apple—1986 maybe, down on West Street, underneath the Henry Hudson, I'm turning left, oh, onto 12th Street maybe, West Village somewhere, and a tall, good looking redhead, rushes the car like she's in trouble. I stop. Crack the window. Not much: I think it was coolish: night time, toward autumn maybe. She sticks her face up to the opening, smiles winningly, and asks me in a sweet innocent-enough-seeming voice how I'd like a nice blow job.
No thanks, I answer. She pouts. Seems sincerely disappointed. "Oh," she complains, "why not?"
I don't got no money, I explained. That lost her interest. Swiftly.
Actually, there was plenty more I'd have like to say to her. But I understood that she was working, that time counted. She may also have been under close supervision by a pimp ...
So I merely fantasized the rest of the conversation as I rode the tunnel, on my way back to New Jersey where I was crashing on a friend's "farm": in his wreck of a travel trailer: writing my novel. Yes, I would have liked to have said, especially if you'll sit on my face while you do it. Uh, provided you can convince me you're clean.
Maybe I should have narrated my novel to her. Maybe she'd give me a freebie—on scholarship.
Yeah, and maybe I'd wind up with my face cut wide open with a razor blade.
Shaish. Here we are: dangerous creatures: large, meat-eaters, wearing camouflage ... Sex requires vulnerability: especially for the female, but for the male as well. One is generally on top of the other. Even standing, or both seated, you have the other's genitals at your mercy.
No wonder some cultures have insisted on arranging marriages.
CyberSex
In the 1980s it was a kick to see my son in his college computer division, getting dirty jokes from Israel within seconds of their telling, downloading from France erotica displayed as graphics composed strictly of ASCII characters ...
Thanks to my son's hard/soft-ware, expertise, and to college mainframe connections, I had my first online experiences that actually meant something to me. Before that, my computing via modem had been limited to a session on a NYC terminal online with a main frame at Princeton in 1970, perhaps 1971. By the mid-'80s I had a modem for my Commodore 64 but got very little but frustration from it. It wasn't until the early 1990s that I had a Mac cum modem and my own 24/7 DSL connection.
But since seeing the ASCII erotica coming out of the college computer division's printer, I had no experiences of cybersex till 1998 when a fan, after only a couple of emails, phoned to say that she wanted to have my baby. This physics teacher then sent photos to make the offer both vivid and attractive. (But she didn't show up when she said she would be visiting.) (I certainly couldn't (and wouldn't) go to her.) First in her emails she was admiring. Then in her emails she was loving. But when she wanted to be sexy, she phoned. to Florida from Michigan! (Only after a time did I realize she was also drunk.)
But that's not what prompted me to start this snippet today. It wasn't until 2003 that I myself got heavily erotic over the internet. I cite one fond moment:
He (stimulating the woman with everything he's got): Ooooo ... I think your clit just curtseyed!
She: That was no curtsey — that was a salute!
Thanks to my son's hard/soft-ware, expertise, and to college mainframe connections, I had my first online experiences that actually meant something to me. Before that, my computing via modem had been limited to a session on a NYC terminal online with a main frame at Princeton in 1970, perhaps 1971. By the mid-'80s I had a modem for my Commodore 64 but got very little but frustration from it. It wasn't until the early 1990s that I had a Mac cum modem and my own 24/7 DSL connection.
But since seeing the ASCII erotica coming out of the college computer division's printer, I had no experiences of cybersex till 1998 when a fan, after only a couple of emails, phoned to say that she wanted to have my baby. This physics teacher then sent photos to make the offer both vivid and attractive. (But she didn't show up when she said she would be visiting.) (I certainly couldn't (and wouldn't) go to her.) First in her emails she was admiring. Then in her emails she was loving. But when she wanted to be sexy, she phoned. to Florida from Michigan! (Only after a time did I realize she was also drunk.)
But that's not what prompted me to start this snippet today. It wasn't until 2003 that I myself got heavily erotic over the internet. I cite one fond moment:
He (stimulating the woman with everything he's got): Ooooo ... I think your clit just curtseyed!
She: That was no curtsey — that was a salute!
Masturbation
I'd had my finger in a few wet places before I ever fucked. The boy I was once didn't know how much of the female was inside or quite where, being unable to tell the inside of the vulva from the front half-inch of the vulva: and I had no idea of the location, let alone the depth, of the vagina. But still I'd gotten my finger wet well into the vulva and fairly well in the vagina before I ever put the dick in too and then came there. Still, I'd fucked more than a few times before I discovered that even a great fuck is not a complete satisfaction for some women: they want to get fucked and they still want their pussy pulled. Maybe they want to be eaten, and fucked, and then still have their pussy pulled. (What they will not get from me is their pussy pulled, a great fuck, and then eaten. Once I've come there, I don't want to eat there. Not that same day anyway.) (Is any of my come still in the twat the next night? Would I recognize it if I tasted it?) (What I absolutely don't want to eat is some other guy's cum there.) I'd fucked a couple of girls on this and that occasion, and even fucked my favorite more than a half-dozen times on one single occasion, couldn't think of anything we could have left out (still not know the half of it), before I was with my favorite for a second, leisured, multi-bout session—at her place in Boston for a three day weekend, she having thrown her roommates out for the occasion—before my hand was guided to the pussy: a while after the fifth or sixth very-mutual orgasm.
Hmm. Just remembering, trying to remember, something else, something I hadn't meant to tell, just here, just now. Jackie had taken me in her mouth just prior to my putting it in her for the first time. That was my first experience of the dick in the girl's mouth as well as my first real fuck (one entirely voluntary and with a girl I wanted to be with: not one I was sorry I'd made a date with after she puked all over my car, after she wanted me to kiss her after she'd puked, after she wanted me to fuck her after I'd kissed her: and she had the gall to tell me the next week that she was a virgin! A drunk with no memory?) That weekend in Boston I found myself looking very closely at her pussy. There was my first real opportunity to kiss the snatch. I thought of it. She must have felt me thinking it. She had every opportunity to coax me closer. To coax my tongue there: if she's wanted it. If Jackie had coaxed me, I'd have wanted to, for her sake, however little I wanted to at that time in my life for my sake. If cunilingus had been important to her, she would have found a way to hint it. No, Jackie had sucked me: then I fucked her. She sucked me a couple of more times: just prior to slipping it in. These were none of them "blow jobs": they were just preparatory to proper missionary penetration. The sucking was an appetizer (and a lubricant), not the
entré. But there we were, and Jackie was guiding my hand to her pussy.
By the way: my son at high school age gave me a nice distinction which he'd picked up from the women's liberationists: who by the time he was fourteen or fifteen were becoming willing to say things to young males (whereas in my generation, men were excluded from such talk: even the founder of the Free Learning Exchange and promoter of free networking (unless the men went out of their way to act reverse-subservient: women in my experience were not ready for, or capable of, equality). He said that, for males, society talks about penises and testicles; for females, society only talks about vaginas. Uh, so? So the vulva—and with it, female pleasure—is excluded from consideration. Wham! Bulls-eye! Right. It had gotten me too. I never talked about the vulva. I had no separate word for it. So folks, these days, when I say pussy I mean the whole paraphernalia: vagina and vulva. When I say cunt ... uh, I don't say cunt much. Except to curse. Anyway, when I want to be specific I say: vagina here, vulva there. If I say pussy, I'm being general. Kiss the pussy means lick the clit and lick deeper. Finger the clit, shove the dick where it best belongs.
The dick belongs to the female. Isn't it funny that it hangs with the male? The pussy belongs to the male. The female has it only for safe keeping.
Back to pulling-it. Jackie guided my hand. I tried my damndest to touch her exactly how she wanted: to take guidance from her throughout. She had another wonderful little orgasm: all by herself. Except that I thought it was wonderful too: just as I expect women to benefit from my pleasure. Maybe she's not having my earthquake, but she's in it in a sense, even if I'm coming on the ground, my dick in my own hand, my other hand on her breast, or on her butt, maybe her hand on my knee, or her fingers around my balls ... or, she's doing it for me, her fingers wrapped around the shaft, her hand going back and forth, or her mouth: still, she feels the earthquake: she's "in" the earthquake in some sense.
Indeed: that's one of the things that I love about eating: I can concentrate wholly (or almost wholly) on her. I feel her orgasm. Mmmm. Closest I can come to having female experience.
I've simply adored it the few times that women have told me that I made love like a woman (ages 21 and again around 45 to locate at least two).
Now: to my own masturbation. I've already told how I never heard of it until some guy whipped himself in front of me around the eighth grade. I was quite a bit older before I tried it myself, but by age fifteen, I knew it well.
Now: When Jackie had come on my hand, she told me that that kind of an orgasm was "different" somehow: obviously also precious. Me too. Maybe by dint of long practice, maybe by a number of things, no woman can make me come the way I can make myself come. In a good fuck ... it's different again. The woman doesn't make me come; I don't make myself come; the coming comes from "god." But a blow job, or a jerk job ... they're artifacts: made by man: or woman. Anyway, if I'm living with a girl, if I'm married and living at home with my wife, if we fuck every night and sometimes in the morning ... I'll still occasionally need to whip it by hand. Or have her whip it by hand. And no matter how many times she whips it by hand or how well, I'll still need to whip it myself by hand on occasion. I bet Jackie pulled her own pussy for herself after I'd left Boston to go back to NY. I'll bet she was at least "1%" glad to be rid of me however well I'd bowed her legs.
When I was addicted to cigarettes, I'd feel the need for one right in the middle of a cigar. (I never inhaled cigars: or pipe smoke.) There I was, enjoying my cigar: and I'd "need" to suck on a cigarette. There I am, right in the midst of a world-class banquet on the girl's pussy, satisfying myself, and her, left and right, and I'll need to plunge it in her. Suddenly, no oral satisfaction can interfere with the urge to hump from the hips. Overwhelming. So. There's more than one thing in the world.
Thus: I have masturbated at least occasionally from age oh say around fifteen till the present: with one exception. And that was recent. I'd lived with this girl and that girl, and then gotten married—to the girl I was living with—and then lived with this other woman and that other woman: till at age fifty-three I took up with my Darling. Only rarely did we make love more than once a day, never more than three times in a day; but we did make love almost every day, every single day: for years and years. Having made love, I slept in that same double bed. And I think years had passed before I noticed: Jeez: it's been years since I've whipped it. With other women, I'd gone and whipped it when I felt like it: right while they too were in the bed. It didn't matter that I'd fucked them last night: or that they'd whipped it for me the night before. Sometimes you need your own hand. But not with my Darling. Until she got so old that I could no longer get a good night's sleep in her noisy, old-woman's bed: and I stopped sleeping with her: merely visiting her bed regularly.
Just had a memory I think I'll mention though it's irrelevant to the things I'd planned for this session at the Macintosh. On more than one occasion I've masturbated while in bed with a woman because she's not cooperating in any sensual joint venture. Girl doesn't want to fuck, that's her business, but if I can't get laid at sleep time, getting the orgasm I need becomes very much my business regardless of whose name is on the lease for the address that contains that bedroom. And on more than one occasion, my activity has warmed the girl to change her mind. "I don't want to make love tonight." "OK. Just turn that way and I'll hump up against your bottom." Humping her bottom, or humping her tits, or whipping it myself ... may just make her stir, get aroused, change her mind. It can be very nice to have your dick sliding with only half satisfaction between a pair of otherwise perfectly lovely buttocks and have the girl stir, slip her panties off, and guide your plunging just a bit lower. It can even happen that she catches up to you after her late start. Hell, getting bumped against the anus may itself be nice for a female.
I hasten to clarify. I have never been in the garbage shoot even of a female let alone that of a male. I was with one woman who kept talking about it: though she was quick to be clear that my size put her off the idea completely in my case: if I weren't me, she would want it. That talk put me off completely. I wasn't with her for long: as desperate as I was for food and shelter while writing my second novel. She had great tits though.
Gives me another thought: once I was at the movies with a Puerto Rican girl I'd helped look for her lost dog. She too was a nut for Japanese film. We were at a double feature: a Kurosawa I knew from several viewings over and a feature by a vastly lesser name. Usually I'm at the movies to concentrate, not to screw around; but this time I couldn't help it. For some reason it was easier for me, given the position we were in and the kind of trousers she was wearing, to put my finger in her ass than in her pussy: either vulva or vagina. I kept realizing I was off target, tried again, and it kept going into her ass. She was writhing around to it just the same so I finally gave up and left it there. I didn't even need to move my hand. Once she warmed to that presence in her ass, she warmed indeed, and she thrashed herself to a shuddering climax right there in the Riviera Theater on Broadway. I was just moving from one place on Riverside to another: corner of 103rd. I'd yet moved nothing, not a rug, not a chair, not one stick of furniture. But I had the key. After the movie we went and rutted on the floor. I've fucked here and there but only twice on a hard floor without so much as a towel underneath us. Four times I fucked her: that's on top of her orgasm in the theater. Come to think of it, I'd shown her my empty apartment before the movie time approached. She'd had me by the balls. When she crawled away to reach for her purse or something, she showed me one hell of a lovely rear end pussy target and I'd lush-smacked her bulls-eye right below her buttocks. I am hardly an ass kisser, but that time came close. At least she had on a couple of layers of cloths. The only thing open at that point had been my fly.
Also just remembered: After the fourth fuck we were really sore. And sticky. We took a bath in my "new" tub: even though there was not a towel in the house: not so much as a handkerchief, and certainly no soap. Wiped the water off with our fingers and just got dressed again: in time for dawn.
My God ... I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.
Marla Singer, Fight Club
Marla Singer, Fight Club
Hmm. Just remembering, trying to remember, something else, something I hadn't meant to tell, just here, just now. Jackie had taken me in her mouth just prior to my putting it in her for the first time. That was my first experience of the dick in the girl's mouth as well as my first real fuck (one entirely voluntary and with a girl I wanted to be with: not one I was sorry I'd made a date with after she puked all over my car, after she wanted me to kiss her after she'd puked, after she wanted me to fuck her after I'd kissed her: and she had the gall to tell me the next week that she was a virgin! A drunk with no memory?) That weekend in Boston I found myself looking very closely at her pussy. There was my first real opportunity to kiss the snatch. I thought of it. She must have felt me thinking it. She had every opportunity to coax me closer. To coax my tongue there: if she's wanted it. If Jackie had coaxed me, I'd have wanted to, for her sake, however little I wanted to at that time in my life for my sake. If cunilingus had been important to her, she would have found a way to hint it. No, Jackie had sucked me: then I fucked her. She sucked me a couple of more times: just prior to slipping it in. These were none of them "blow jobs": they were just preparatory to proper missionary penetration. The sucking was an appetizer (and a lubricant), not the
entré. But there we were, and Jackie was guiding my hand to her pussy.
By the way: my son at high school age gave me a nice distinction which he'd picked up from the women's liberationists: who by the time he was fourteen or fifteen were becoming willing to say things to young males (whereas in my generation, men were excluded from such talk: even the founder of the Free Learning Exchange and promoter of free networking (unless the men went out of their way to act reverse-subservient: women in my experience were not ready for, or capable of, equality). He said that, for males, society talks about penises and testicles; for females, society only talks about vaginas. Uh, so? So the vulva—and with it, female pleasure—is excluded from consideration. Wham! Bulls-eye! Right. It had gotten me too. I never talked about the vulva. I had no separate word for it. So folks, these days, when I say pussy I mean the whole paraphernalia: vagina and vulva. When I say cunt ... uh, I don't say cunt much. Except to curse. Anyway, when I want to be specific I say: vagina here, vulva there. If I say pussy, I'm being general. Kiss the pussy means lick the clit and lick deeper. Finger the clit, shove the dick where it best belongs.
The dick belongs to the female. Isn't it funny that it hangs with the male? The pussy belongs to the male. The female has it only for safe keeping.
Back to pulling-it. Jackie guided my hand. I tried my damndest to touch her exactly how she wanted: to take guidance from her throughout. She had another wonderful little orgasm: all by herself. Except that I thought it was wonderful too: just as I expect women to benefit from my pleasure. Maybe she's not having my earthquake, but she's in it in a sense, even if I'm coming on the ground, my dick in my own hand, my other hand on her breast, or on her butt, maybe her hand on my knee, or her fingers around my balls ... or, she's doing it for me, her fingers wrapped around the shaft, her hand going back and forth, or her mouth: still, she feels the earthquake: she's "in" the earthquake in some sense.
Indeed: that's one of the things that I love about eating: I can concentrate wholly (or almost wholly) on her. I feel her orgasm. Mmmm. Closest I can come to having female experience.
I've simply adored it the few times that women have told me that I made love like a woman (ages 21 and again around 45 to locate at least two).
Now: to my own masturbation. I've already told how I never heard of it until some guy whipped himself in front of me around the eighth grade. I was quite a bit older before I tried it myself, but by age fifteen, I knew it well.
Now: When Jackie had come on my hand, she told me that that kind of an orgasm was "different" somehow: obviously also precious. Me too. Maybe by dint of long practice, maybe by a number of things, no woman can make me come the way I can make myself come. In a good fuck ... it's different again. The woman doesn't make me come; I don't make myself come; the coming comes from "god." But a blow job, or a jerk job ... they're artifacts: made by man: or woman. Anyway, if I'm living with a girl, if I'm married and living at home with my wife, if we fuck every night and sometimes in the morning ... I'll still occasionally need to whip it by hand. Or have her whip it by hand. And no matter how many times she whips it by hand or how well, I'll still need to whip it myself by hand on occasion. I bet Jackie pulled her own pussy for herself after I'd left Boston to go back to NY. I'll bet she was at least "1%" glad to be rid of me however well I'd bowed her legs.
When I was addicted to cigarettes, I'd feel the need for one right in the middle of a cigar. (I never inhaled cigars: or pipe smoke.) There I was, enjoying my cigar: and I'd "need" to suck on a cigarette. There I am, right in the midst of a world-class banquet on the girl's pussy, satisfying myself, and her, left and right, and I'll need to plunge it in her. Suddenly, no oral satisfaction can interfere with the urge to hump from the hips. Overwhelming. So. There's more than one thing in the world.
Thus: I have masturbated at least occasionally from age oh say around fifteen till the present: with one exception. And that was recent. I'd lived with this girl and that girl, and then gotten married—to the girl I was living with—and then lived with this other woman and that other woman: till at age fifty-three I took up with my Darling. Only rarely did we make love more than once a day, never more than three times in a day; but we did make love almost every day, every single day: for years and years. Having made love, I slept in that same double bed. And I think years had passed before I noticed: Jeez: it's been years since I've whipped it. With other women, I'd gone and whipped it when I felt like it: right while they too were in the bed. It didn't matter that I'd fucked them last night: or that they'd whipped it for me the night before. Sometimes you need your own hand. But not with my Darling. Until she got so old that I could no longer get a good night's sleep in her noisy, old-woman's bed: and I stopped sleeping with her: merely visiting her bed regularly.
Just had a memory I think I'll mention though it's irrelevant to the things I'd planned for this session at the Macintosh. On more than one occasion I've masturbated while in bed with a woman because she's not cooperating in any sensual joint venture. Girl doesn't want to fuck, that's her business, but if I can't get laid at sleep time, getting the orgasm I need becomes very much my business regardless of whose name is on the lease for the address that contains that bedroom. And on more than one occasion, my activity has warmed the girl to change her mind. "I don't want to make love tonight." "OK. Just turn that way and I'll hump up against your bottom." Humping her bottom, or humping her tits, or whipping it myself ... may just make her stir, get aroused, change her mind. It can be very nice to have your dick sliding with only half satisfaction between a pair of otherwise perfectly lovely buttocks and have the girl stir, slip her panties off, and guide your plunging just a bit lower. It can even happen that she catches up to you after her late start. Hell, getting bumped against the anus may itself be nice for a female.
I hasten to clarify. I have never been in the garbage shoot even of a female let alone that of a male. I was with one woman who kept talking about it: though she was quick to be clear that my size put her off the idea completely in my case: if I weren't me, she would want it. That talk put me off completely. I wasn't with her for long: as desperate as I was for food and shelter while writing my second novel. She had great tits though.
Gives me another thought: once I was at the movies with a Puerto Rican girl I'd helped look for her lost dog. She too was a nut for Japanese film. We were at a double feature: a Kurosawa I knew from several viewings over and a feature by a vastly lesser name. Usually I'm at the movies to concentrate, not to screw around; but this time I couldn't help it. For some reason it was easier for me, given the position we were in and the kind of trousers she was wearing, to put my finger in her ass than in her pussy: either vulva or vagina. I kept realizing I was off target, tried again, and it kept going into her ass. She was writhing around to it just the same so I finally gave up and left it there. I didn't even need to move my hand. Once she warmed to that presence in her ass, she warmed indeed, and she thrashed herself to a shuddering climax right there in the Riviera Theater on Broadway. I was just moving from one place on Riverside to another: corner of 103rd. I'd yet moved nothing, not a rug, not a chair, not one stick of furniture. But I had the key. After the movie we went and rutted on the floor. I've fucked here and there but only twice on a hard floor without so much as a towel underneath us. Four times I fucked her: that's on top of her orgasm in the theater. Come to think of it, I'd shown her my empty apartment before the movie time approached. She'd had me by the balls. When she crawled away to reach for her purse or something, she showed me one hell of a lovely rear end pussy target and I'd lush-smacked her bulls-eye right below her buttocks. I am hardly an ass kisser, but that time came close. At least she had on a couple of layers of cloths. The only thing open at that point had been my fly.
Also just remembered: After the fourth fuck we were really sore. And sticky. We took a bath in my "new" tub: even though there was not a towel in the house: not so much as a handkerchief, and certainly no soap. Wiped the water off with our fingers and just got dressed again: in time for dawn.
Male / Female Reflections
Comments on male female similarities and differences, beyond those obvious to any pubescent drooler, abound at my regular personal domain but they tend to bear somewhat importantly on evolution and our biological survival. Here I just intend to gather a few reflections either frankly erotic: or close. That doesn't mean that evolutionary points won't also apply.
I assume that male and female in all species are "equally" sexed; but that the symptoms won't show at all equally. The male's pursuit of getting it off is obvious, direct: almost pathetic; the female's pursuit is more oblique, better camouflaged: easily confused with some associated behavior. For example, a man staring at a female bosom is obviously staring; a woman changing a male infant's diaper is not. Society keeps some sort of records of males (of the wrong class) helping themselves to so much as a glimpse of females (of the right class). There are no statistics of how many baby boys had their genitals rubbed by their mother, their nurse, their wet nurse, their baby sitter ...
Of course differences are hard to measure. The male's sexuality is "90%" located in his genitals (and vastly unevenly distributed there: the glans being 90% more sensitive than the shaft, the testes some other unequal share); the female's sensuality is more distributed over her whole body. Sure her clitoris or her nipples are highly sensitive: but so is her forearm, her triceps, the back of her hand: not just the inside of her thigh. A woman gets fractional orgasms from a spring breeze that a male doesn't even register on a male.
I further observe (and suspect further yet) that ... whoops, lost that thought: I'll return when it re-rears its head.
We see dogs on the street, in the park, in the yard. When not in heat, all "females" might as well be neuter. Virtually all males are grab-assy faggots. The moment a female nears heat however, every male becomes a mad pussy-eater. Fine. Me too. Although it's annoying after a while how one-sided the activity seems to be. You see males scampering after indifferent-seeming female hind ends as the female cycle nears; you do not come upon dogs paired up in male / female 69s every other hour. The female goes about her business while the male tries to eat.
One summer visiting the Catskills, artist Cuca Romley, her daughter, and I stood at the side of a meadow and watched two cows, female of course, gang up on a poor bored bull. The cows kept backing their hind ends against his nose. He'd back away, seeming mildly annoyed, and resume his foraging for grass. Was he very young? Were the "girls" just mocking him? That is, would they have been playing indifferent to a mature bull sniffing their snatch? Were these two cows near their ovulation? don't Know: but I've never seen that behavior in dogs.
Anyway, I've mated my dog more than once and watched carefully on those occasions where the mating was supervised (as distinct from opportunities he found on his own). Angus walked perpetually after the fragrant bitch to lick her. He'd get the merest taste and she'd walk off: indifferent seeming. At no point did she throw herself down, spread her thighs, and wholly (pun) indulge both herself and Angus: in her early days, that is. Around day nine her behavior would change. She'd walk away after three beats, not after one. And every other time, just as she'd walk away, she sneak a quick lick at his maleness. Now: I never saw a bitch dog take the male in her mouth and finish him there. Dogs don't waste cum. But at least the male did finally get a lick or two after offering hundreds himself.
And on day eleven? I've already told elsewhere how both penetration and orgasm were accomplished in a mid-air meeting before any of eight paws touched the ground! No fuckin' around: she was pregnant.
Dogs aren't people. Neither are cows. But we're all mammals. I've watched snakes fuck, and been utterly amazed. Nothing humans do can compare to totally sensuousness distributed over eight or twelve feet times two, lovingly caressing every micrometer of the way. Anyway, there are certainly analogies: close analogies among the mammals. I closely courted a young mother for a day or two a couple of decades ago in a Florida state park when she suggested that we leave our separate campers where they were in Jupiter and drive in one car to the Keys for a couple of days, sharing expenses for a motel. That night, in Islamorada, she put her son to sleep in one bed, tucked him on one side leaving plenty of room for her on the other and went to the shower. I got into the other double bed and doused the lights. When she emerged from the bathroom in a robe she came to "my" bed, not her son's. She whispered oh so quietly, "I'll visit here but sleep there. You may make love to me once, but only once. Then, never again. Don't forget that I'm here with my fiancé's leave. As soon as we're done, I'm loyal to him again." (This fiancé was not the boy's father: neither was her first husband. I'd come to know her pretty well in thirty or so hours. Fortunately for me, I (with my SybaRight Newman blue eyes, reminded her of the boy's actual sire.)
"Agreed," I said.
"Are you naked?" she asked.
"Yes." She drew back my sheet. I scooted over to make room for her. She instantly shed her robe, and, as she lay down next to me—here's my whole point, her right hand unerringly did the fastest, neatest, but somehow most complete, once-over of both my erection and balls! First, (she had radar) the dick, up, around, and down. Then, the balls. Then, she never touched me again: she just received me.
No, not my mouth. That she was clear and firm about. She wanted me to mount her; not eat her, not 69 her. I was similarly quick in kissing her breast. And then we were merely the beast with two backs.
(That fuck lasted a good while, but once I came I wasn't quite sure she'd come as much as she might. She stayed in my bed while I offered her my hand. She'd refused my mouth, but she accepted my fingers. And masturbating her was simply wonderful. What a pussy! What an ass. Though I still ache that I never tasted her. This girl was young. Astonishingly beautiful. And very rich. (She was in Jupiter partly to shop for beachfront property on which to build a house: that's right: next door to J. SybaRight Getty! or the Burt Reynolds.) I've been with beautiful women. I've been with rich woman. I've been with beautiful and rich women. But never before had I seen a woman of any degree of beauty with such a wardrobe for travel. I never saw her wear anything, including years later on a separate visit to Florida, that didn't look like an original from Rodeo Drive. Even her panties looked like they'd been designed by Salvador Dali: hardly more than a tea bag to cover the vulva and nothing at all to cover the ass: yet, there was nothing obscene about them. No, these were not Las Vegas pants.)
I tell the story with different details than I'd previously told elsewhere: to emphasize how fleeting was her female touch of the male genitalia, yet to emphasize that the touch was there. I also emphasize how amazing it was because we had never been together before: how could she have known my coordinates, my locations so perfectly in genuine dark. She didn't know if I was naked, but did know minutely where everything was. She touched all of everything: once: and then onto her back to get fucked.
So: men and woman do the same things: but in grossly different proportions: and at vastly different times: frequencies, etc.
Like a dog, I want to eat: almost all the time; the girl, seems indifferent; but will use her mouth at least once: and when it counts most!
Oh, I've been blown by women as I walk through their front door. She'll have my pants around my knees, my drawers around the tops of my thighs, my balls in her hand, and my dick in her mouth, before the door has finished closing. But that's unusual. I want to dive on the muff before the door is closed "all the time." And even the time I just describe, the blow job was prelude, incomplete, a minute later she had me in the bed, on top of her, fucking away, and not blowing my load the first second, indeed, finally coaxing me, quite the opposite of reigning me back. "Oh, you're so full," she murmured as again her hand found my balls: this time to trigger me over the edge. Ka-boom.
I assume that male and female in all species are "equally" sexed; but that the symptoms won't show at all equally. The male's pursuit of getting it off is obvious, direct: almost pathetic; the female's pursuit is more oblique, better camouflaged: easily confused with some associated behavior. For example, a man staring at a female bosom is obviously staring; a woman changing a male infant's diaper is not. Society keeps some sort of records of males (of the wrong class) helping themselves to so much as a glimpse of females (of the right class). There are no statistics of how many baby boys had their genitals rubbed by their mother, their nurse, their wet nurse, their baby sitter ...
Of course differences are hard to measure. The male's sexuality is "90%" located in his genitals (and vastly unevenly distributed there: the glans being 90% more sensitive than the shaft, the testes some other unequal share); the female's sensuality is more distributed over her whole body. Sure her clitoris or her nipples are highly sensitive: but so is her forearm, her triceps, the back of her hand: not just the inside of her thigh. A woman gets fractional orgasms from a spring breeze that a male doesn't even register on a male.
I further observe (and suspect further yet) that ... whoops, lost that thought: I'll return when it re-rears its head.
We see dogs on the street, in the park, in the yard. When not in heat, all "females" might as well be neuter. Virtually all males are grab-assy faggots. The moment a female nears heat however, every male becomes a mad pussy-eater. Fine. Me too. Although it's annoying after a while how one-sided the activity seems to be. You see males scampering after indifferent-seeming female hind ends as the female cycle nears; you do not come upon dogs paired up in male / female 69s every other hour. The female goes about her business while the male tries to eat.
One summer visiting the Catskills, artist Cuca Romley, her daughter, and I stood at the side of a meadow and watched two cows, female of course, gang up on a poor bored bull. The cows kept backing their hind ends against his nose. He'd back away, seeming mildly annoyed, and resume his foraging for grass. Was he very young? Were the "girls" just mocking him? That is, would they have been playing indifferent to a mature bull sniffing their snatch? Were these two cows near their ovulation? don't Know: but I've never seen that behavior in dogs.
Anyway, I've mated my dog more than once and watched carefully on those occasions where the mating was supervised (as distinct from opportunities he found on his own). Angus walked perpetually after the fragrant bitch to lick her. He'd get the merest taste and she'd walk off: indifferent seeming. At no point did she throw herself down, spread her thighs, and wholly (pun) indulge both herself and Angus: in her early days, that is. Around day nine her behavior would change. She'd walk away after three beats, not after one. And every other time, just as she'd walk away, she sneak a quick lick at his maleness. Now: I never saw a bitch dog take the male in her mouth and finish him there. Dogs don't waste cum. But at least the male did finally get a lick or two after offering hundreds himself.
And on day eleven? I've already told elsewhere how both penetration and orgasm were accomplished in a mid-air meeting before any of eight paws touched the ground! No fuckin' around: she was pregnant.
Dogs aren't people. Neither are cows. But we're all mammals. I've watched snakes fuck, and been utterly amazed. Nothing humans do can compare to totally sensuousness distributed over eight or twelve feet times two, lovingly caressing every micrometer of the way. Anyway, there are certainly analogies: close analogies among the mammals. I closely courted a young mother for a day or two a couple of decades ago in a Florida state park when she suggested that we leave our separate campers where they were in Jupiter and drive in one car to the Keys for a couple of days, sharing expenses for a motel. That night, in Islamorada, she put her son to sleep in one bed, tucked him on one side leaving plenty of room for her on the other and went to the shower. I got into the other double bed and doused the lights. When she emerged from the bathroom in a robe she came to "my" bed, not her son's. She whispered oh so quietly, "I'll visit here but sleep there. You may make love to me once, but only once. Then, never again. Don't forget that I'm here with my fiancé's leave. As soon as we're done, I'm loyal to him again." (This fiancé was not the boy's father: neither was her first husband. I'd come to know her pretty well in thirty or so hours. Fortunately for me, I (with my SybaRight Newman blue eyes, reminded her of the boy's actual sire.)
"Agreed," I said.
"Are you naked?" she asked.
"Yes." She drew back my sheet. I scooted over to make room for her. She instantly shed her robe, and, as she lay down next to me—here's my whole point, her right hand unerringly did the fastest, neatest, but somehow most complete, once-over of both my erection and balls! First, (she had radar) the dick, up, around, and down. Then, the balls. Then, she never touched me again: she just received me.
No, not my mouth. That she was clear and firm about. She wanted me to mount her; not eat her, not 69 her. I was similarly quick in kissing her breast. And then we were merely the beast with two backs.
(That fuck lasted a good while, but once I came I wasn't quite sure she'd come as much as she might. She stayed in my bed while I offered her my hand. She'd refused my mouth, but she accepted my fingers. And masturbating her was simply wonderful. What a pussy! What an ass. Though I still ache that I never tasted her. This girl was young. Astonishingly beautiful. And very rich. (She was in Jupiter partly to shop for beachfront property on which to build a house: that's right: next door to J. SybaRight Getty! or the Burt Reynolds.) I've been with beautiful women. I've been with rich woman. I've been with beautiful and rich women. But never before had I seen a woman of any degree of beauty with such a wardrobe for travel. I never saw her wear anything, including years later on a separate visit to Florida, that didn't look like an original from Rodeo Drive. Even her panties looked like they'd been designed by Salvador Dali: hardly more than a tea bag to cover the vulva and nothing at all to cover the ass: yet, there was nothing obscene about them. No, these were not Las Vegas pants.)
I tell the story with different details than I'd previously told elsewhere: to emphasize how fleeting was her female touch of the male genitalia, yet to emphasize that the touch was there. I also emphasize how amazing it was because we had never been together before: how could she have known my coordinates, my locations so perfectly in genuine dark. She didn't know if I was naked, but did know minutely where everything was. She touched all of everything: once: and then onto her back to get fucked.
So: men and woman do the same things: but in grossly different proportions: and at vastly different times: frequencies, etc.
Like a dog, I want to eat: almost all the time; the girl, seems indifferent; but will use her mouth at least once: and when it counts most!
Oh, I've been blown by women as I walk through their front door. She'll have my pants around my knees, my drawers around the tops of my thighs, my balls in her hand, and my dick in her mouth, before the door has finished closing. But that's unusual. I want to dive on the muff before the door is closed "all the time." And even the time I just describe, the blow job was prelude, incomplete, a minute later she had me in the bed, on top of her, fucking away, and not blowing my load the first second, indeed, finally coaxing me, quite the opposite of reigning me back. "Oh, you're so full," she murmured as again her hand found my balls: this time to trigger me over the edge. Ka-boom.
Still Older Women
Four years ago I mentioned my Darling in a series of sex stories on sex in relation to aging. Now that my beloved Catherine is dead I want to review everything I've said about her however casually. I therefore temporarily decommission this piece.
Old women are one of our most wasted precious resources.
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