The summer between high school and college, the first go at college, anyway, I spent as a counselor in an all-girl’s Catholic summer camp. I taught swimming, sailing, canoeing, and other water-related fun to a hundred or so really very good girls from around the world.
I also taught one twenty-two year-old half-Ecuadorian, half-El Salvadorian woman named Marta that she was, in fact, really a dyke.
I was seventeen. I had joined the proud legion of consenting adults about a year and a half previous, and I’d been diddling girls since around fifteen. So, yeah, basically I remember I landed at Camp VirginCrest, immediately surveyed the moldering 1920’s hotel that served as its bunkhouse, meetinghouse, and dining hall, and I thought: so where the boys at?
There was one. And he was, to his credit, pretty hot. Tall, athletic, lean and…blond.
Blond men don’t blow up my skirt. The only two blond men I’ve ever gotten unreservedly wet for were these: one was bald, and being in bed with him was rather like fucking a well-muscled six foot dick. Which is to say pretty cool. The other was half Puerto Rican, so I looked at the blondness as an accident of birth, like a strawberry stain or a third nipple. Something maybe not attractive on its own, but with a certain charm when considered within its entire package.
So Mr. Tennis counselor wasn’t going to do it for me.
And then I saw Marta. And I knew the moment I watched her descend the swooshing, curving grand staircase, all very tan and muscled, with short black hair and snapping black eyes that she was a dyke.
And if she wasn’t quite yet a dyke then I was going to fuck her and make her one.
Marta had a kind of crisp officialness to her. She seemed as if she had been raised by an Army officer, but she had not; rather, she held in all of her fears, anxieties and insecurities in the very tightly bound, three-corner fold façade of her extreme capableness. She was warm but somehow also a bit distant. And while she laughed and smiled easily, preternaturally white teeth flashing, she seemed a bit low, a bit sad.
She was short, flat-chested, and had a truly magnificent ass. She also had a very sexy mole beside her mouth, Marilyn-Monroe-style. It bugs me that I can’t remember which side, but I can’t. It’s funny that as I write this details about Marta come back to me, how her legs looked against her tennis whites, her watch and her small gold earrings and cross, how her pussy was barely groomed, but then this was the very early 80’s and the topiary bush had not yet gone mainstream.
Seducing Marta was a lot like seducing any guy I had a crush on, but maybe easier because it felt incredibly natural. I managed things to be sure that we had patrol together, so we were obligated to sit in the darkened hallways, hip to hip, having murmuring conversation to the sound of many girls breathing.
How could we not kiss? And how could that kiss not turn into a touch? And that touch into a lick? And that lick into a suck? And that suck into something bigger?
We took chances, Marta and I. We went out with other counselors and I fingered her under the table, one hand still on my…whatever it was I drank when I was seventeen, the other buried in her panties, touching her clit, smearing her pussy juice, and making her squirm. Another time, she stood beside my bunk, the wide open door to my room, which I shared with four other counselors, giving us a partial view of the parade of passers-by, and she made me come with her slow Latina hands. We kissed everywhere. We sent love notes via our campers to one another at the dining table. We were an Item, and everyone knew it.
And we could not care less.
It just felt natural.
So we took bigger and bigger chances, until one weekend that we had off together, we drove Marta’s tan Mustang to my parent’s house while they were out of town. My folks were hippies, and in our cathedral-ceilinged living room was a queen-size bed, which we made full use of.
We spent the night fucking, in the morning we had some breakfast and resumed our fucking. My parents and sister walked in while we were totally in flagrante delicto. Completely bare-assed naked and performing a happy sixty-nine on one another. Yup.
It was one of those moments when you scramble for your clothes and your dignity and then you introduce your parents to the woman you’re in love with, the woman who has just been tongue-fucking you, and you her, on your parent’s former bed.
What could I say? “Mom, Dad, this is Marta. Marta, this is my mom and my dad.”
My parents acted gamely, trying their best not to seem shocked and appalled. Their performance wasn’t entirely convincing, but it was close enough for a pair of ex-hippies.
Fucking Marta was beautiful. She was, after all, a good Catholic girl, and so she was a virgin. She had never had anyone do anything to her beyond kissing. I was the first person to feel her up, suck her nipples, touch her pussy, lick her pussy, kiss her ass. My fingers broke her hymen. She loved loved loved being finger-fucked. I remember telling her that if she liked what I was doing so much, she was going to love being with a man.
I wonder whether she ever found out.
And, naturally, I was the first person to make Marta come. In orgasm, her voice was long, low, incredibly mellifluous. She sang when she came, a gentle alto song beyond words. I loved to make her come, and that summer I would make her come again and again and again, trying to see how many orgasms I could stack up like cord wood against an impending winter.
Marta and I had a pretty adventurous, if derivative, sexlife for a pair of kids. We took a trip together to Gotham, saw the movie “10” together and went out to a record store, bought Ravel’s “Bolero,” returned to her parent’s apartment (two lovely Latins who had no freaking idea their daughter was getting bent over a chair and tongue fucked in the next room), poured red wine on one another and licked and sucked it off each other’s very wet, very red, and very tasty pussies.
And then each of us got raging yeast infections.
At the end of the summer, I went to college; Marta went somewhere in the Mid-West for grad school. We pledged our love. Columbus Day she came to visit, but even before that I had started to move on. I’d get her porn letters—we would mark them with red borders—and I wouldn’t read them. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want her.
And I dumped her viciously. Cruelly. And without much of a thought.
And that was when I knew I, at least, wasn’t a dyke. Because I could live happily without Marta. I liked boys. I liked cock.
Later, much later—after, much to my current shame, I’d repeated Marta-like episodes, but without the passionate intensity—I realized that I couldn’t treat women as I had treated Marta. I realized I was a dick with chicks. I was as bad as any dick I’d ever fucked and then later felt forlorn about when he didn’t return my repeated phone calls.
And I realized that I probably felt what the dicks felt: happy to be with the chick. Happy to get her attention and her pussy. And even happier to see her walk away. And only with the smallest eeking voice of guilt.
So, yup, I’m a playa. And don’t be a playa hater. I’ve learned my lesson.
Now I only do chicks in threesomes.