For me, one of the pleasures of being a young college teacher was having the still younger students approach me on campus or in my office — or off campus — with their personal problems. SybaRight has always related to females more readily than to males: it didn't surprise me if the females who approached me on personal matters outnumbered the males.
And the girls were more than ordinarily cute. I've elsewhere mentioned that Colby attracted higher caliber females than males: SAT scores were very much skewed by gender, Colby registering scores of girls who could have gone to Smith, but just about no boys who could have gone to Colgate. The girls who came to me after class or in my office with personal problems were not among these sterling females: cuter than average, intellect on walkabout.
One girl I'll call Bonnie, though I truly don't remember her name. In the incidents I'm recalling, she was a sophomore, though I'd had her as a student from her first semester as a freshman.
She must have gotten addicted to her confessions because for a while there, she was hanging around all the time; then disappeared, never showed up around the English Department.
Bonnie's problems can be summarized as one problem: she feared she was pregnant — and she'd already had two abortions. She really didn't want to have to go back to her parents to beg for a third operation.
Nature assures that sexed creatures want to fuck. Nature assures that humans want to fuck more regularly than rabbits. Nature doesn't inquire about your family's financial conditions before it makes the young girl put her shoulders back: let those boobies protrude!
If there was any girl on campus whose shape, manner, and dress proclaimed virgin, it was Bonnie. She had fine features. Her hair was toward blond: a light brown. She was slight of build, but definitely female. She wore white shorts. She always looked clean.
One time during her (and my) second year there, a fellow English teacher came up to me and said, "Bonnie asked me to invite you to see a sculpture she's made." I followed him to his office where some exhibit was being assembled: and there was a clay "study" of a female torso, clearly pregnant. I nodded.
"Wow," the guy's silence seemed to say.
Did he suddenly think that she was pregnant and that I'd knocked her up? I don't know, but clearly he was that there was something between SybaRight and Bonnie that had something to do with her potential fecundity.
Now: what should SybaRight do in circumstances in which a cute girl comes to him and tells him that she repeatedly gets pregnant: before anyone wants her to be pregnant? Have my tube tied? Change profession? Charge fees?
What I did I now know to have been insane: another one of a jillion insanities that move me so far from the norm of the culture that species labels should be challenged. What struck me was that it was inexcusable for girls to get accidently pregnant a second time. Once upon a time nature made human females to get pregnant when they were about seventeen years old. Typically, they'd already been married since fourteen, or sixteen ... Nature gives the couple a few years of free fucking before sending the bill. Now that has changed. In Shakespeare's Juliet's day, Juliet, not quite fourteen, needed no birth control, no family planning: she couldn't get pregnant if Romeo's testes were grafted right next to her own ovaries. The possibility wouldn't exist for her for another few years. Contemporary nutrition has changed all that. The age of fertility has dropped dramatically; simultaneously the culture has pushed the age of possible financial independence in the opposite direction. If a cave-woman was pregnant at seventeen, so what? Her culture was ready to receive her, help her, married or not. Now fertility and opprobrium hit the girl at roughly the same time ... as school tuition bills.
God really should pound the PlayDough back into one pretzel and start all over again.
And it's society's fault. Why aren't the girls trained in opening their mouth while locking their corsets from age ten?
All males have orgasms. Troubles ejaculating, at least while young, are rare. Humans are the only mammalian females that have orgasms. All females may know that they need to fuck. They all may like it, they all may love it; but actually coming, in any way like a male, in unheard of; except among humans. Still: many a human female hasn't made the evolutionary adjustment. I don't know the stats, I doubt that we're capable of keeping honest stats, but not all females have had so much as one orgasm by the time they're forty, while 99.9% of males have had at least one orgasm by the time they're fourteen or so: if not much sooner: and many times more than one.
I believe that males should be considerate of the female, help her to come if she can, but not to get all crazy if she doesn't. I believe that males should start practicing helping the girl to come from the earliest ages; so long as they're not also helping them to get pregnant before the society wants to help pay for the baby. I believe that males should start practicing helping the girl to come from the earliest ages; so long as they're not also helping them to get, or give, AIDS. And a certain risk of fertility and disease is worth it: we're sexual critters. But there's no need to come in the vagina, unprotected, every single time.
I believe that we should forge a culture in which any horny human, male or female, can walk in off the street and get a competent blow job as easily and as cheaply as they can get a Big Mac.
I tried to say some of all that to Bonny.
I didn't say it the first time she came to me, or the second. But by our second year there she'd come to me often enough that I'd build up a fair part of the whole argument. In essence, by the middle of our second year, I'd not only told her to keep her legs crossed till she graduated or got married or something, but had also told her that if she couldn't stand it any more, if she just had to fuck or scream, yet didn't have a knowing, considerate boyfriend with a good tongue, she should give me a call and I'd try to give her all the orgasm she needed, just with my face. Keep the liquids out of your channel: except saliva.
Did I add that it would be nice if she also blew me for my trouble? I don't think so. What I was trying to suggest to her was that I was not desperate. I was older, married, I had a kid ... I wasn't a virgin. If I came to be bursting with needs because I tried to help her out, I wasn't myself helpless.
She must have had the idea: because: in one of those conversations, this one in my car (A Saab wagon, so it was the second year, 1968-69), I said something about sucking and the next thing I knew Bonnie had my dick in her mouth.
What a surprise. And what a ghastly disappointment. She was very delicate. So delicate it was like getting kissed by a wet spider web. I've have come sooner walking through the woods with my pants open.
Well, all of that is buildup, background, for the following. One night I'm home. We have guests: other students. I'm called to the phone. It's Bonnie. Can I spare her a few minutes? Well, I'd rather she had called at a different time, but I had volunteered to be her emergency sucker. I excused myself from my party and I picked Bonnie up at her dorm. We drove off into the snow.
Now, she had had my dick in her mouth, oh so briefly, but I understand had never touched her in any way: not counting words; and there the words had been avuncular, paternal: father confessor. I'd never brushed her backside, never bussed her hand, her cheek ... Neither was she currently in any of my classes. She had been my student, but she wasn't currently my student.
I'm all ready to eat her. Actually, I'm getting more than ready. I want her to fondle my balls, I want her to suck my dick. But I must never forget: this whole thing is about NOT PUTTING IT INSIDE HER. No dick in the pussy. No.
I'll just eat you.
As my own horniness engenders, feeding on itself, I realize how vain my invitation to her had been. I'd been imagining myself as aloof from the drive, a servant to her needs, not a slave to my own. Oh, well: mine isn't the first, or last, appearance vanity has made around humans.
Anyway, I assume I'm there to scratch her itch. I assume she's called me to pet her, to fondle her, to give her an orgasm if I can: without jetting semen into her. What was after all the substance of my invitation to her to call me?
But as soon as I start to pet and fondle her, something is wrong. There's something deficient in her femaleness: at least this time, with me. She's not responding: and neither am I.
Her boobs are much better than I'd anticipated. Much. That was a more than respectable set of knockers on a slender girl. I wouldn't have guessed it, seeing her dressed. But her tits are not responding to my kisses. Oh well, on to business. But her pussy doesn't respond either. She smells and tastes like a clean cunt: first, during, and last. Her pussy never warmed, never got going, never got selfish and bossy. Pussies are never more adorable than when they get completely infantile: just like a penis. Me, me, me, me, me, me, me.
There are other details I won't bother with. What still interests me these decades later is the question why this girl had ever gotten pregnant a first time? She didn't seem to have any sexual drive. She had a drive that was related to sex, a drive to be a center of sexual attention: with boys, with her parents, with me ... But from my very limited experience with her, she was totally lacking in a sex drive.
Naturally I commented when I first took her bra off. She said that if I liked them, I should see her roommate's boobs. In fact she seemed to want to change the subject to the roommate! I didn't and don't know who her roommate was. I thought I was there to keep her from getting pregnant again; she seemed to think she was there to serve me teat. She proposed a trio: me, her, her roommate: her just watching: feeding pussy to SybaRight.
A month or two later the phone rings early in the AM. It's Bonnie's fianacĂ, calling to shame me, and to tell me that he's now her ex-fianacé. I didn't know she was engaged.
Maybe she'd called me not to satisfy herself, not to fix up her roommate, not to serve female flesh to SybaRight ... Maybe she'd called me just 'cause she liked to cause trouble for males.
Now that makes sense.
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