The first time is always a bitch. That's what everybody tells you, and for me, the old adage keeps proving to be the case. I am a married man—23 years—with four kids, ages fifteen to twenty-one, so I'm what they call "old enough to know better." That's why when I first received an invitation to a JO party I told myself I had lived a quiet respectable life in a small community and didn't need to risk it all for one evening of new and unsampled pleasures.
The invitation came from a co-worker we'll call Dave, who had just gotten run through the wringer on a knock-down drag-out divorce and wound up with what they call the "former marital residence," a cracker-box house in a working-class neighborhood in a town we'll call Peoria, IL, together with back-breaking payments to his former wife. Understandably, he was bitter as hell about the whole rigamarole. That's why the invite was kind of a surprise and yet not really surprising either. The thing was, neither one of us had ever harbored any doubts about our sexual orientation. We were hetero to a fault. Or so we told ourselves until that fateful night.
The only time I had strayed after two decades of marriage was with a co-worker we'll call Jane—even though her real name is Yvonne Faye Hobbs, dob 12/19/59. Yvonne was and still is married to an asshole named Mickey Hobbs, who sells luxury cars at a local dealership. Mickey must have been giving Yvonne a more-than-ordinary hard time because when opportunity presented itself she went for it and took me with her. It happened like this: our boss has a condo across town, the rich bastard. He uses it for his little flings with secretaries, waitresses, dirty legs he picks up at Hardee's, whatever. Anyway, Yvonne had a job-training DVD we were supposed to review and write a report on, and time had gotten away from us, so the boss lent her his condo keys. Since I had to see the DVD too, Yvonne drove herself and me to the boss's condo in her Explorer. I wondered why she was driving so fast—we had an hour for lunch and the boss knew it would be a working lunch—but soon I realized the reason for her hurry.
Yvonne locked the Explorer and I followed her up the walk to the condo. It was a new development, well landscaped and designed to please the eye. So was Yvonne, I couldn't help noticing as I admired her trim ass and shapely legs going up the stairs. She fumbled a bit unlocking the door, muttering, "Fucking keys," which was unusual. I don't know what she did with Mickey at home, but Yvonne never swore at the office, let alone letting go with the "f-bomb" in another man's hearing.
The condo was stuffy, so Yvonne flipped on the air and found some scented candles. "Funny if we burn the place down," I said, trying to make her laugh.
"If you're thinking of starting any fires, include me in your plans," she said, looking me right in the eye.
I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything. Yvonne finally broke eye contact, shrugged and led the way into the living room, saying, "I guess we better get started." She sat down on one sumptuous white couch, beckoning for me to join her. Then, taking the DVD out of her purse, she handed it to me and said, "Do the honors?"
I walked over to the boss's LCD big-screen, trying to figure out how to turn it on. Yvonne said, "The player's built-in. See that slot toward the bottom?"
I tried to insert the training disc but there was already a disc in there. I ejected it but then clumsily allowed it to re-insert. The TV came on, spontaneously I thought but later realized Yvonne must have used the remote. At any rate, the DVD in the player set the bar to a whole new level for hard-core porn.
Like every guy my age, in my early years I saw Linda Lovelace, Seka, Jody Maxwell and the women of their generation getting it on onscreen. I still wasn't prepared for what I was seeing: a grand cavalcade of the boss's favorites, including maybe twenty women in a wrestling ring taking bukkake shots from men of all ages, sizes and shapes, women gagging and then asking for more, women puking from taking too much cock in their mouths or having it forced on them, naked elderly women in their late seventies sucking young mens' cocks, and men casually sucking each other off in public with the angry disgusted public reaction painstakingly recorded so you knew it had to be a candid shot.
I must have stared at the screen for ten solid minutes without turning around. When I finally did, Yvonne was seated on the couch completely nude.
Yvonne's breasts were heavy and pendulous even for a woman in her early forties. Her nipples were big as my wide-open mouth must have been, and her expression left no doubt as to her intent. Without a word, I shuffled over to her, heart pounding, and knelt between her legs. First she offered me her breasts. I sucked them, slavering over them greedily before, remembering my manners, I politely teased each nipple in turn with the tip of my tongue. With gentle pressure against the back of my head, Yvonne soon directed me downward to the silken treasure that lay between her legs like a rare jewel hidden in layers of downy softness. I gave the edge of her pussy lips a slow, generous lap that made her sigh and ask for more. Her pussy was musky and moist, and as I licked rhythmically I brought out the intimate slickening that is every woman's telltale prelude to climax. Yvonne's fingers tightened in my hair, pulling it with a sensation that was painful but not distracting. I plunged my tongue into the crevice of her, encountering her "pearl of great price," swirled my tongue tip around the slick firmness I found there, and realized with satisfaction that Yvonne was experiencing a clitoral erection.
Trying to remember what I'd read about a woman's g-spot, I pressed a broader expanse of my tongue against her now exquisitely sensitive clit, at the same time plunging a probing index and middle finger as far as I could up her vagina. She moaned, then gave forth with a startled whoop as my wayward fingers explored her. Slightly curling my fingers upward, I found what I was looking for: a round bump that in Yvonne's case was at least an inch in diameter, while my own wife's is more the size of a mosquito bite. Still licking, I circled her g-spot with the gentlest of tickling motions until she gasped, "Harder!" Always willing to oblige, I pressed and massaged the spot, bearing down each time she demanded, "Harder!"
Suddenly Yvonne seemed to struggle against my lewd embrace. "I gotta pee," she whispered urgently. "You're making me have to go pee!"
I moved to withdraw but she said, "Don't stop!" I bent again to lick her clit and pressed one final time on her g-spot like ringing the doorbell. She quivered, cried out and came instantly, in waves. Moments later, she started her stream.
I don't know if you've ever been pissed on or tasted piss, but when you're sexually excited already, it's a not altogether unpleasant experience. As son as she was through, Yvonne apologized even more profusely than she'd pissed, running through the condo nude, frantically searching for paper towels. After she found some I helped her soak up her pee before it permeated the couch, which, lucky for us, had been scotch-guarded. She sprayed a liberal quantity of Febreze all over the wet spot and then started picking up her clothes to get dressed. Noticing my disappointed expression she said, "I'm sorry, Gary, but I just can't do it to Barb. I just couldn't live with myself if, you know, you'd cheated with me. At least now you can honestly tell yourself we never technically had intercourse and you never once had an orgasm while you were with me. Trust me, you'll be glad we didn't, once you come to your senses. Now let's get down to business. Mind putting in that DVD, Sweets?"
I blew out the scented candles and abandoned any burning sensual fantasies involving Yvonne. She and I never spoke of the experience again, even though we see each other every day at the office.
Getting back to the JO party invite, Dave ran into me in the corridor and asked me if I could keep something under my hat. I said sure. He said, "you ever hear of something called a 'circle jerk'?"
"Not since the seventh grade," I replied.
"This whole divorce bummer has got me logy. Time to kick out the cobwebs, but everybody says don't get hung up with a new woman for at least two or three years."
