Thanksgiving 1998, part 2

WARNING:

This blog is sexually graphic. If you do not wish to read material more graphic than what usually appears on this site, you best skip this one. You've been warned.

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She began fiddling with the strap on her bra. I was thankful for this because I had no previous relationship with bras or their straps. I'd seen a few from afar and had theorized how they held into place, but I'd never undone one. I knew I'd just get in the way, so I didn't offer to help. After I let her squeeze snot all over my jacket, undoing her own bra seemed the least she could do.
I focused on myself wherein I realized I was shirtless.
I had no shirt on.
Which, as you know, is another way of saying that I was shirtless.
She had never seen me without my shirt on. It seemed like a good sign that upon first viewing, she hadn't begun laughing or crying.
I wondered whether anyone had ever been rejected based on the appearance of his chest or abdomen.
There was tension in my brain, a tight pain caused by worry. My chest had hair on it, but nothing unmanageable. It's hard to tell how girls feel about that stuff. There are social signals hinting toward how certain girls prefer their men to dress or act or dance. There aren't many signifiers of a girl's predilection toward a boyish figure or a grizzly one.
Luckily, I don't have any weird scars or moles and my nipples are of appropriate size, so really it all comes down to chest hair.

She unlocked (unhinged? unguarded?) her bra while keeping one hand on my chest the entire time she did it. As with my jean button, her bra came off with a simple flick of her wrist. Did she practice this? It seemed like a real talent. I wondered how many wrist flicks it took her to get to this point. How many other pants buttons had she undone before mine?
She slipped the tank top off her head and I forgot whatever it was I had just been pondering.
Breasts.
Up until this point, breasts were always just tits or boobs. Tits are what men call breasts when they are attached to girls they don't know, or what they call breasts when they know they'll never actually get to see them. Boobs are what girls call their own breasts long after the novelty of having them has worn off. Men identify breasts as boobs if they belong to a girl they have no sexual interest in whatsoever.
Sisters, buddies, gym teachers.
What I had in front of me were breasts; the first breasts I had ever seen up close not glossed over by the veneer of "Playboy" magazine.
They were mine and they bounced. My, oh my, how they bounced.
She had tiny erect nipples. No scars. I don't know why I assumed so many people walked around with big awful gashes across their chest, but it must have had something to do with all the G.I. Joes I played with as a kid.
G.I. Joes all had cool scars across their chest.

She had more experience than me. She undid my pants and her bra, managed the flannel fiasco and presented me with the sweet dessert before the meal.
I had done some comforting earlier in the evening, which was about 90 seconds ago, but the interest accrued from all that was spent with the flannel shirt. I had to bring something to the table. She was sitting up on my lap now, looking down at me.
I wanted all of this. I think I did, I wasn't sure if I wanted this or if I was just aware that many other guys in this situation would. I felt trapped, strapped on a roller coaster seconds before it started.
I chose this, but maybe I shouldn't have.
Her eyes were still red, but she was smiling. Taunting me into making her feel good. Daring me not to.
All I knew about breasts I learned from old 80's movies. They don't make movies like that anymore. Nowadays, you need a reason for your actors to get nude and even then, it's usually artistically done. PG-rated comedies from the 80's would have totally naked women in it.
For no good reason.
For fun.
I cupped them gently. It seemed to be the safe move. Hell, it was a move, which at that point was all that mattered.
She threw her hair back and I wondered if she was acting.
She was, after all, an actress.
And if she wasn't acting, she seemed to be preparing for some sort of unimaginable pleasure. Considering that cupping my hands around her breasts was the big news from my holiday weekend, I couldn't imagine I'd be instilling much pleasure in her.
I allowed myself to enjoy feeling her. I kissed her nipples. I wondered in my naïve stupor whether or not I could coax milk out of her breasts. I feared that if I did, it would freak me out beyond recovery.
I knew very little about the female anatomy.

These actions continued and I realized there was nothing stopping us from moving further. She and I hadn't yet moved further, but tonight seemed to be aligning for us.
But let us go back to her breasts.
Staring up at them, I was awed. I'm not someone who would consider himself a breast guy.
I like butts. I cannot lie.
But breasts are the name brand of a woman's anatomy, the leader in their field; the Nike or the McDonald's. Breasts might not be your brand of choice, but it is understood nevertheless that they are going to lead in consumer dollars.
Advertisers entice with breasts, retailers delight in displaying and enhancing breasts, and for a period of time babies live off breasts. And when you have never seen a real pair bouncing directly in front of you...
...Breasts make the headlines.
I massaged them, but it didn't take me long to sense a serious lack of breast activities. I placed both my hands on her back and hugged her close. I couldn't see her face because her head was still thrown backwards, her red hair falling well past my knees.
She seemed more than happy to be hugged, so I continued. I couldn't imagine what she was getting out of it though. Hugs aren't sexy; comforting perhaps. It seemed we'd jumped the "comfort ship" a few minutes ago.
She sat there on my lap sliding slightly forward then slightly back, moaning gingerly each time.
It occurred to me that all this had nothing to do with my stupid hugs, but more to do with the feeling of her thin cotton shorts rubbing against my...

...And this is where we pause for discussion. What should a guy call his penis? "Penis" seems too clinical and sterile and no one wants to think of penile sterility. "Cock" and "dick" seem too pornographic and everything else seems like adjectives from Adam Sandler movies.
We'll just go with "member". Is "member" okay?
Over time, I came to realize that women are very self-conscious about their breasts. It is the one physical feature society puts a lot of pressure on girls to have above all else.
And even if you have them, they have to be a certain size or shape. And if they're not the right shape, society gives women many options on how to deal with their supposed imperfections. Then the nipple has to be right. Not too big, not too pointy and so on.
Sure, you could ignore all that and just be proud of who you are, but this is America and the chances of you getting away with that seem pretty slim.
What breasts are to women, the penis is to men.
As the realization struck that she was I guess, pleasuring herself on the feeling of my member, my mind traveled a billion miles away. I may have been erect, but I wasn't quite enjoying myself.
How could I? In a few short moments, my member would be taking the stage. In physical interactions between men and women, there is no portion of the stripping process more suspenseful than the penis unveiling.
There are two reasons for this - and it should be noted that I came up with both of these ideas as she - more forcefully now - began sliding back and forth on top of my jeans. The first reason is that there are no female parts as taboo as the penis. Breasts are hard to hide and are, in fact, encouraged to be displayed. The penis is just a big (or small) secret. Women in general, are just smoother, sleeker; more contoured than a man, less hair, scars, bruises.
Women are faire.
The second reason is there's nothing riding on breast size – sexually speaking. The breast size of a woman gives no indication as to what kind of intercourse she will provide. The man's penis, on the other hand, can certainly give a general overview.
The solution seemed simple: if I had a big dick, I'd use it and if not, I'd deal with it. The problem was I hadn't a clue as to how big mine was.
A common misconception is that men constantly walk around one another with their wangs hanging out ("wang" being a term I heard in an Adam Sandler movie). I've never seen any of my friends naked. It's something we've strived to avoid. It's never really been discussed, but I've always been fearful of seeing the members of my closest guy friends. Nothing good can come about gaining this information.
The outcome is simple. Either they're bigger then me or they're smaller. The repercussions from such knowledge, however, would be immense. If I were bigger, I'd always have that over them. I'd always get the final word if there were an argument. I'd always have one last burn armed and ready if I needed it. But if I were smaller, I would just want to kill myself. I'd want to kill myself because the very firepower I was just explained would now be locked and loaded against me.
It's also why I could never be with a girl one of my friends had been with first; because she'd know. Like a member of the Academy the day before the Oscars are announced. Knowledge is power.
Somewhere along the line men and boys get it in their head that penis size is the single most important attribute a guy can have.
I blame porn.
Most of the guys doing porno are not attractive men, sometimes they're fat or hairy or have some smug look on their face, but… they've got foot-long penises thick as soup cans.
My penis is not a foot long. There I said it.
Secret's out.

The penis itself plays tricks. I swam at the local YMCA when I was 12-years-old. I remember accidentally catching a glimpse of an older kid, maybe 18 or 19, switching into his swim trunks. His penis was a foot long if it was an inch, but it was real floppy.
The word I'm looking for is flaccid.
It wasn't until health class four years later that I was told that some penises grow much larger when erect while some hardly grow at all, but are larger naturally.
"Growers versus show-ers", I believe it was termed.

What I'm trying to explain is that she was going to finish what she started with the loosened top button of my pants and I was scared to death of her reaction. What's worse, I hadn't even a ballpark clue where I stood – phallically speaking. I've mentioned that she was more experienced than me, she's seen more members than just mine, and she's had a few control specimens to judge from.
I had no idea where I might fall on the scale.
It was all very tricky.

To be concluded in Part 3...