Riding my bike through the wending walks of Fire Island today it occurred to me to wonder how many indiscretions of varying degrees of desperation have been perpetrated by its perfected wives on the caramel colored young men of its menial labor.
The air is fairly rife with sex. Bees do their buzzing things, drowning out, in my imagination at least, the hushed moans of a thousand sundrenched and bleachtoothed wives as they enjoy the mushroomy cocks of their young and dusky lovers.
I don’t think much about the workaday daddies here, mostly because it being midweek there are few. And the ones I see don’t inspire my erotic muse like these cold and tightened mommies.
But I did not actually come here to talk about the sex of these women and their imagined men of various colors. I came here to talk about the man who taught me to come during sex.
His name was…something. I’ve forgotten. I do remember, however, that I met him at a Summer Solstice party at some artist’s house somewhere in Vermont. The artist had huge stone orbs punctuating the rolling syntax of his property’s bucolic hills. They sat, these orbs, like a game of marbles abandoned by giants.
Which is neither here nor there, except to paint in your mind the picture I have in mine: a bright and shiny new summer day, a wooden A-frame house, a field of wildflowers, a bevy of Vermont hippy-hipsters, and the rich and privileged boy who would teach me this invaluable lesson.
I don’t remember meeting him, I don’t remember our conversations. I do remember I didn’t like him very much, as attracted to him as I was. He wasn’t very likeable. He was pretentious and wealthy. He spoke French and had traveled the globe and liked to hold his privilege like a cudgel, which on occasion he would swing at people, such as myself, who had not been born by laps as luxurious as the one that had bore him.
When we fucked, which of course I knew we would when I first laid eyes on him as I knew I would whenever I laid eyes on someone I wanted to fuck (I was spoiled as a young woman. I never, ever met a man—or woman, really—I wanted to fuck and did not get the opportunity to), when we fucked he taught me. And while I knew I would fuck him, I did not know that he would teach me nor that fucking him would change me irrevocably.
What he taught me simply was this: He taught me to raise my hips as he drove his cock into me; he taught me to use my finger on my clit as he drove his cock into me; he taught me to come as he drove his cock into me; and I did.
This knowledge was like a new toy. And while I disliked him actively, I could not get enough of him. He lived alone in an apartment a couple blocks from the department store where I did the windows (I was a window dresser, a visual merchandiser, they call it. I loved it. It was both like being the director of a play and being a six year old playing with Barbies at the same time.). I would leave the store at lunch, walk to his apartment, and fuck him. I could not get enough of it because for once, I had discovered what all the fuss was about.
I had, of course, come with guys. And girls too. I had come from hand and I had come from mouth and I had come from hand and mouth together. But I had never, ever come from fucking and had spent altogether too much time of my life faking enjoyment from the fucking. To have finally been given a ways and a means to no longer fake it was, literally, a fantasy come true.
Although we fucked many times, this forgotten and not well-liked rich boy and I, only one specific time still glimmers in the gold pan of my memory. We were in his bed, kissing, and I was being recalcitrant, for as much as I wanted the orgasm, I didn’t really love the getting there with him.
Or perhaps I didn’t like to admit that I liked the getting there. Or something.
But he lay me down in his bed, and he began to unbutton my shirt.
“This part must be exposed,” he said and parted the shirt open to reveal my breasts.
“This part must be exposed,” he said and unzipped my jeans.
And I lay there on the bed, unbuttoned and unzipped, casually laid out like a patient, like an object d’art, like an artifact for his inspection. He propped himself on one elbow and looked and he touched what it was he wanted to look and touch. He drew the sleeves off my arms, holding my back in one hand and then the other, telling me firmly, “This part must be exposed.”
He drew my body casually, like a cocktail, like fruit, like an hors d’oeuvre, to his lips, sucking my hands, my nipples, my belly. Licking and tasting what he wanted to lick and taste until he was sated.
“This part must be exposed,” he said and pulled one leg of my jeans and then the other down my thighs and off my body, and dropped the jeans to the floor.
He looked and touched my legs, my calves and my feet with the same objectivity that he had employed with my torso, my arms and my throat. He touched and kissed and licked that which he wanted to touch and kiss and lick. And I, obedient, entranced with his detachment, lay there and let him objectify me, let him make me his object. That object was I, and I felt very good about it.
Once more he said, “This part must be exposed,” and he pulled my panties off, tracing my pubic mound with his fingers, curling the then-long and blonde hair around his index and middle fingers, drawing a perfect triangle down the inside of one thigh, up the inside of the other, across my lowest abdomen and around again.
He looked me in the eye and murmured, “This part must be exposed,” and parted my thighs wide enough to look, to touch, to taste; I was entirely an object, a pet, a fruit, a thing.
He knelt between my wide parted thighs, took my hips in his hands and said, “This part must be exposed,” and lifted my hips up; my pussy hung there in space, open to his eyes, his hands, his mouth and his cock.
Finally, finally he entered me, and my finger found my clit hot, wet and hard between the folds of my pussy. And again, as I had before with him, as I would again with others, the unexpected thrust of the cock and the knowing friction of my finger combined and I came with an ululation.
This story, for one reason or another, today, had to be told. I had to tell it. It had to be exposed. An exposure I share while simultaneously I imagine all those furtive high-count cotton sheet rustlings hidden in the work-a-day midweek, mid-day, the tangling limbs of privileged wives and tawny young men hushed in the drowsy late summer bee-song of unsung sex.
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