I'm sitting in the kitchen of my childhood home, still thinking of Jenny, the girl with whom I had first explored my sexuality. With all these memories playing through my head, I had been pretty turned on when I sat down, and sitting here sipping some water I feel my cock, still half swollen, cradled in silk.
I lean back in my chair and slip the fingers of my right hand into my pants, feeling the silky smoothness of my freshly shaved skin. I rest two fingers on the top of my cock and feel a surge of arousal pass through me. I'm feeling sexy and horny.
I can hear my sister Sarah moving around upstairs. I still recognize the creak of every floorboard in this house, so I can tell she is walking between the bathroom and her bedroom. She had gone upstairs as soon as she got home, so I had no idea just what she was up to. My mind returned to memories of Jenny.
After our night of passionate oral sex she and I became lovers. We hung out together for the rest of our senior year, learning a lot about sex together. One particularly sweet memory is of Valentines Day that winter. I'm normally not real big on this day, since I see it largely as a profit-making occasion for florists and Hallmark. But Jenny and I were in love, so we planned to do something special together.
It fell on a Friday that year, and we had set things up so we could actually spend the night together for the first time. Jenny's Mom was out of town on a business trip, so we had her house all to ourselves. I told my parents I was staying at a friend's house, and they didn't ask to know anything more. I was, after all, already 18.
We went out to dinner at a good Italian restaurant where a couple of Jenny's friends worked waiting tables. The food was excellent - we both had ravioli stuffed with crab and topped by an Alfredo sauce, and a green salad with balsamic vinegar. One of her friends was able to slip us each a glass of white wine, so I was sure to leave a nice tip for her. We skipped dessert and were in high spirits as we headed back to Jenny's house.
Jenny had a DVD of Fellini's film La Dolce Vita, so we set ourselves up to watch that in her mom's family room. I had some green bud with me, so we loaded Jenny's bong with ice and smoked out before starting the film.
That's when I pulled out my surprise: a bottle of Chardonnay I had scored from a friend. I poured us each a glass as we settled in on the couch. It was sweet, but not too sweet, and we both got a good buzz on while watching the movie.
Jenny had been studying European film in an English class, so as the movie played she pointed out some of the important elements that critics and scholars have made a big deal of. It's a fairly surreal movie, with a plot that is difficult to follow, if it can even be called a plot. Still it is enjoyable, and it held our interest to the end.
I poured the last of the wine into our glasses as Jenny loaded up the bong for us. We had a nice conversation about the film. My impression was that the main character played by Marcello Mastroianni was a total asshole who showed little or no concern for the people around him, especially the women with whom he interacted. Jenny had a more sympathetic view of him, seeing him as an innocent lover of beauty lost in an uptight world restrained by traditional morals.
"He's symbolic of a lust for life," she said. "He epitomizes the human spirit, longing to be free but held back by stupid social mores." "Maybe so," I responded, "but he could be nicer about it. I mean, he treats women like total objects, in the world only to be made use of by him."
"Did it ever cross your mind that sometimes a girl wants to be treated that way, Chumleigh?" That was one of Jenny's nicknames for me. "I mean," she continued, "he loves women for their inherent beauty, as valuable in themselves for the pleasures their company brings into his world."
"Right," I said. "As objects." "No," she replied. "That's only the patriarchy speaking through you. You're the one who is not allowing the women any autonomy, since you're treating them as if they need your manly protection from the wolves. Sometimes a girl might want to be objectified by a lover. "
At that I leaned over and kissed Jenny. "Did you say wolves," I asked her in a funny German accent. "Don't worry, my pretty. I'll protect you." Jenny laughed, but with a smirk that told me she was not done with the argument. She leaned against me on the couch, and we continued kissing.
We continued our talk as we made out. Jenny started talking about packets of beauty, about her desire to send little bubbles of joy my way, messages of love, wrapped up in lust. It didn't make a whole lot of sense to me, at least not at the time. All the while I was nuzzling her neck, planting small short kisses along it, occasionally taking her earlobe between my teeth and giving it a gentle tug.
Jenny was dressed that night in a very sexy skirt, lightweight material with a nice floral print pattern. She had on white stockings, and a nice silk blouse, open at the neck. The whole time we had been at the restaurant I had been looking at her cleavage, thinking of her breasts, of the way they feel in my hands when she is on top of me and I'm fondling her. I had thought of the way her nipples swell and become hard like pebbles, erect but still soft and fleshy. I thought of the way she softly moans when I roll her nipples between my thumb and forefinger.
Now here on the couch as we kissed I unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse, and I traced my fingers along the lacey edge of her bra. I drew my fingertips along the top of her breasts, feeling every bit of her skin that was exposed, trying to raise some desire in her while our lips were locked in a long slow kiss. I sometimes think that we too easily pass over the erotic potential of touch by not letting our fingers linger on our skin. There's a hidden depth involved in touch, a depth that the surface of our skin opens up but leaves unexplored unless prompted to pause.
