Everything in these memoirs happened, although I will admit real life was often slightly less... um, pornographic. They develop slowly, though, so if you're looking for something designed to get you off in three minutes you've come to the wrong place.
Writing about one's own life is in itself a form of masturbation, but masturbation is fun. Writing these dirty stories brought back many things and even people I had forgotten.
Their names and the places have been changed, because in cyberspace you never know who's looking over your shoulder.
I hope you have as much fun reading these stories as I had writing them.
-- Felix
If you spend much time watching heterosexual pornography you will notice that "sex" begins at the point where a woman, often fully dressed, drops to her knees and frees the man's cock, which she immediately puts in her mouth.
Depending on the length of the video, the woman now spends anywhere from two to ten minutes licking and sucking, maintaining eye contact with the man and making sure to push her lips right up to the base of the cock a few times and then pulling all the way back, so we're sure his freakishly huge schlong has been down her throat. Gagging and drooling is presented as part of the fun.
After moving on to other activities, the couple often finishes with the woman again on her knees with her mouth open, no matter where that thing has been.
In my own extensive research--for science--I've found that, after the novelty of a new man and a new cock wears off, very few women really enjoy playing with a man's equipment except to get it hard enough to use.
Almost all women will take you in their mouth and play a bit, and some obviously enjoy the taste and feel of a cock in their mouth. But in my opinion, almost none of them wants a mouthful of cum, even if she really likes you.
I can't blame them. "Don't come in my mouth" is often the only thing a new partner says during the entire act of sex.
And deep-throating? It's exactly like sword-swallowing, a skill so rare you can make a living doing it at fairs and magic shows. All a woman (or a man) has to do is overcome the body's reflexive urge to expel anything that might block its air supply.
And yet.
Once in a while I have run into a woman who wants you to come in her mouth--who gets off on making you groan while she swallows. And I have known one who trained herself, for whatever reason, to deep-throat.
Like a lot of people, I look back over the years and think about which lover was the first to do--or allow me to do--this or that thing that was considered "dirty." And if the list is long, I think, "Who was the best?"
Here are some fellatrixes I will never forget.
Arlene
Arlene was basically a summer romance, which is just an unexpected affair like any other, but with the wonderful addition of a predetermined ending.
It was the era of "Animal House" and "Wet Hot American Summer," which is appropriate because I had a summer job as a camp counsellor in New England, thanks to some friends at college.
The camp had an art class, and some crafts, but basically it was a six-week sports camp--no girls--and the whole thing, to me, was a foreign country.
I won't name the camp because it would be recognized by thousands of former campers. For a century, the sons of rather wealthy people on the East Coast have been spending their summers at that camp or one very like it, playing baseball and learning to paddle their own canoes.
Nearby, on the same lake but approachable only with permission, was a girls' camp. And there, the counselors were college women. And they were sick to death of basket-weaving and folk songs.
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On one of my first afternoons off, a rendezvous was arranged by someone who had been there before, and a carload of boys' counselors met up with a carload of girls' counselors at a pretty spot in the countryside. We were far from either camp: Our meeting would have been frowned upon.
A few of the people there knew each other well. Introductions were performed and we chatted as a group.
Toward the end of the afternoon, the subject of some upcoming local entertainment--a movie or a concert--was raised. "Dates" were arranged, and everyone quickly paired off except me and one of the girls. Her name was Arlene.
We hadn't really talked, but I had noticed her. She was bright. Her curly dark hair was cut fairly short, and she was tall for a girl, athletic, with long legs.
Now that we were in an awkward social position, I focused on her and realized she had a pretty face. She was also "built," as I would have said. She didn't dress to emphasize it; you had to pay attention.
"Everyone has a date but me," she said to no one in particular, like I wasn't sitting right there. To be fair, in those days girls didn't ask boys out. It wasn't done.
I actually said, "Well, what's wrong with me?"
You young men should take note: Don't ask questions that can be answered with punch lines. I immediately regretted what I had said, but fortunately she was a nice person and resisted the chance to knock one out of the park. We made a date.
I didn't know then that her grandfather owned both camps.
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Fast forward through several things I do not remember to a moment at the end of our date, when she and I were parked in my ancient Chevy, well-hidden in the woods. The two of us were making out enthusiastically on the huge front seat, as we had both known we were going to.
I upped the ante. I don't remember what I touched, probably her breast, but it was enough for her to protest, shrugging away from me and saying, "No," in a gentle voice.
That was a perfectly normal thing to do. Even though we each expected the other to have had had some experience, we barely knew each other. On most first dates, you take it slow, in case your new sweetie turns out to be nuts, or doesn't believe in bathing.
Also, although she didn't mention it, she couldn't be sure that I wouldn't go back to camp and blab about everything we did (like I'm doing now). As I said, everyone knew who she was, except me.
