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...
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Friday, November 10, 2006
Thanksgiving 1998
WARNING:
This blog is sexually graphic. It is so graphic in fact; I've blocked my mother and my sister from reading it. I don't know why I felt compelled to write about this experience, but don't say I didn't warn you. -Adam
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I wished it wasn't so cold out. It was two days after Thanksgiving, so I shouldn't have been surprised, but the cold really put a damper on what was happening to me right then.
I had too many layers on.
She had gotten my brown jacket off, but my green flannel shirt was stuck. It was stuck on the long sleeves of my "Sasquatch" t-shirt. Had I worn my flannel over a regular cotton tee, she and I would have no problems; the flannel would have slid easily off my bare arms. But that's not what I did.
I felt the need to double-sleeve.
And so now, in a fit of passion, the flannel was chafing against cotton instead of skin and I became convinced that any minute, she would start laughing.
I could stand anything as long as she didn't start laughing.
She was a wreck when I got to her apartment. Parent-issues. I was unclear what had happened, but whatever it was, it happened over the phone and it happened hard.
I came over to comfort her. It's what I understood a good boyfriend to do. I hadn't been in any relationship as serious as this before, so every action I took, I took cautiously. But driving 12 miles to my girlfriend's house because she was feeling bad seemed like a safe way to proceed.
I drove to her house quickly. I liked speed but tended to get caught a lot. I didn't get caught this time. I got a good parking spot, tipped my cap to Charlie the doorman and headed up to the fourth floor of her apartment.
It seemed as if she might've been leaning against the door in anticipation of my arrival because as soon as I knocked on the door and licked my hand to flatten the stray hairs flying off of my head, she opened the door.
She didn't ask why I was quickly wiping spit on the ass of my pants so I pretended I wasn't doing it.
Her eyes were red.
In time, I would come to see her red eyes as devilish and putrid, but tonight, they were just sad and bloodshot. So much crying.
I was in a difficult position because when I got there, I was so horny. I was horny almost all the time; it's a frighteningly typical characteristic in young men. Everything we do seems to be - even in extremely abstract ways - connected to sex. Honestly, the difference between the "nice guys" and the "assholes" is more often than not, that the "nice guys" have the energy to hide their libido from everyone else.
But she was crying. She was wearing a tank top and tiny pajama shorts, but she was crying.
She was naturally beautiful. This is what I thought at this time, standing there in her doorway.
And to be honest, standing in her doorway, watching her naturally beautiful body welcome me into her warm apartment, made me horny. It didn't take much, and it certainly took less than what I was being offered at that point.
But she was crying. And that made my horniness both inappropriate and unfortunate.
We sat on her couch. It was her roommate's couch actually, but her roommate wasn't here, so tonight it wasn't her roommate's couch. I didn't know where the roommate was tonight or why she wasn't home, but I assumed it had something to do with Thanksgiving and I let the rest fall out of my head.
That's not entirely true. I was slightly interested in where the roommate was because she liked me. I went on two dates with the roommate before I decided I liked my girlfriend better.
There was no closure. We'd hung out, but never discussed anything. I didn't feel right about it, but the roommate wore more makeup than my girlfriend and I feared the secrets hidden underneath her blush and her lipstick.
In hindsight, staying with the roommate would've made my life easier.
I don't remember what my girlfriend was saying to me exactly. She was crying and so I held her close, her head mostly buried in my shoulder. But holding her close only caused her to muffle all the words she was already slobbering while explaining what it was that made her so sad.
Again, this was all new to me. I was trying to do the right thing; I kept asking myself questions like, "Should I pat her on the shoulder? Play with her hair?" I was already hugging her, there wasn't much more physical comfort, I could offer.
That wouldn't be the only mistake in judgment made that night.
The problem was, while I was considering the best ways to comfort the girl I kinda, sorta, perhaps one day might love, I was completely oblivious to all she was saying.
In doing my best to be caring and supportive of her, I completely removed myself from the situation.
I just held her. I rocked back and forth for a few seconds, but that's what my parents did to me when I woke up screaming from a bad dream. I was dating this girl not parenting her, so I stopped rocking her.
Then she stopped. Stopped talking, stopped gently sobbing, stopped moving completely. Luckily, her head was buried in my chest and shoulder so I could feel her hot breath and see her back rising and falling underneath my arms. I knew she hadn't died.
She leaned back but kept her head down so I couldn't see her eyes.
Her puffy bloodshot eyes. Her hands clasped my jacket zipper.
I would like to state for the record that the sound of a zipper unzipping slowly is astoundingly sensual when the zipper in question A) belongs to a part of my own clothing but B) is not being unzipped by me.
And that's how my jacket came off.
She threw my jacket on the floor and moved to my pants, which seemed disorderly to me. Like listening to an album on random.
Track three followed by track nine followed by track one.
She undid my pants button with one hand, like a villain in old western movies flicking a lighter. A snap of two fingers and my jeans were loose.
I also remember the elation I felt when I remembered that she was wearing little pajama shorts. No buttons. This was lucky for me too because as I recall, she had a lot of pants with button flys. I may very well have been there for hours trying to flick those Goddamned pants buttons open with one hand all the way down her inseam.
But just as the elation swept over me, it disappeared when she left my pants and attended to my flannel shirt. We know how this goes. Not like the movies. I had spent about 65 percent of my life watching movies where the actors got frisky and took portions of their clothes off, but never once were any of them wearing flannel nor did they have trouble with the stripping.
Maybe Woody Allen did, but I would have hoped to be a little cooler than Woody Allen.
But I wasn't. The flannel shirt got stuck and she kissed my neck in hopes of distracting me from the awkwardness caused by shimmying the flannel shirt down my arms. She straddled my lap yanking this damn shirt off first one arm and then the other while I foolishly leaned forward, arms prostate behind me.
Because of our positioning, I found my face buried in her chest. This embarrassed me tremendously. I didn't know what to do. My mind raced with thoughts both confused and inappropriate. I wondered if I was still under some sort of obligation to be comforting. I wondered if I had done such a wonderful job that the current position of my face was my reward. I wondered if allowing her to painfully strip me of my worn flannel shirt was a continuation of her healing process.
Ironically, through all these thoughts, it never occurred to me that now was not the time to get naked.
After finally wriggling my flannel and my "Sasquatch" tee free, I was shirtless in front of her. The realization of what was happening hit me and I was somewhat jazzed about it.
It was important that I played cool. I wanted to show my excitement, but not get geeky about it. Getting geeky about my own nudity wasn't going to improve a situation that was already as fragile as a glass egg.
My jacket and both my shirts were on the floor. The roommate was gone. I did the math in my head. She'd been gone for at least four days and was the only one in the apartment I'd ever seen clean. I hoped that nothing gross was stuck to my clothes and made a mental note to inspect the floor later.
Later.
...To be continued in part 2.
This blog is sexually graphic. It is so graphic in fact; I've blocked my mother and my sister from reading it. I don't know why I felt compelled to write about this experience, but don't say I didn't warn you. -Adam
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..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
I wished it wasn't so cold out. It was two days after Thanksgiving, so I shouldn't have been surprised, but the cold really put a damper on what was happening to me right then.
I had too many layers on.
She had gotten my brown jacket off, but my green flannel shirt was stuck. It was stuck on the long sleeves of my "Sasquatch" t-shirt. Had I worn my flannel over a regular cotton tee, she and I would have no problems; the flannel would have slid easily off my bare arms. But that's not what I did.
I felt the need to double-sleeve.
And so now, in a fit of passion, the flannel was chafing against cotton instead of skin and I became convinced that any minute, she would start laughing.
I could stand anything as long as she didn't start laughing.
She was a wreck when I got to her apartment. Parent-issues. I was unclear what had happened, but whatever it was, it happened over the phone and it happened hard.
I came over to comfort her. It's what I understood a good boyfriend to do. I hadn't been in any relationship as serious as this before, so every action I took, I took cautiously. But driving 12 miles to my girlfriend's house because she was feeling bad seemed like a safe way to proceed.
I drove to her house quickly. I liked speed but tended to get caught a lot. I didn't get caught this time. I got a good parking spot, tipped my cap to Charlie the doorman and headed up to the fourth floor of her apartment.
It seemed as if she might've been leaning against the door in anticipation of my arrival because as soon as I knocked on the door and licked my hand to flatten the stray hairs flying off of my head, she opened the door.
She didn't ask why I was quickly wiping spit on the ass of my pants so I pretended I wasn't doing it.
Her eyes were red.
In time, I would come to see her red eyes as devilish and putrid, but tonight, they were just sad and bloodshot. So much crying.
I was in a difficult position because when I got there, I was so horny. I was horny almost all the time; it's a frighteningly typical characteristic in young men. Everything we do seems to be - even in extremely abstract ways - connected to sex. Honestly, the difference between the "nice guys" and the "assholes" is more often than not, that the "nice guys" have the energy to hide their libido from everyone else.
But she was crying. She was wearing a tank top and tiny pajama shorts, but she was crying.
She was naturally beautiful. This is what I thought at this time, standing there in her doorway.
And to be honest, standing in her doorway, watching her naturally beautiful body welcome me into her warm apartment, made me horny. It didn't take much, and it certainly took less than what I was being offered at that point.
But she was crying. And that made my horniness both inappropriate and unfortunate.
We sat on her couch. It was her roommate's couch actually, but her roommate wasn't here, so tonight it wasn't her roommate's couch. I didn't know where the roommate was tonight or why she wasn't home, but I assumed it had something to do with Thanksgiving and I let the rest fall out of my head.
That's not entirely true. I was slightly interested in where the roommate was because she liked me. I went on two dates with the roommate before I decided I liked my girlfriend better.
There was no closure. We'd hung out, but never discussed anything. I didn't feel right about it, but the roommate wore more makeup than my girlfriend and I feared the secrets hidden underneath her blush and her lipstick.
In hindsight, staying with the roommate would've made my life easier.
I don't remember what my girlfriend was saying to me exactly. She was crying and so I held her close, her head mostly buried in my shoulder. But holding her close only caused her to muffle all the words she was already slobbering while explaining what it was that made her so sad.
Again, this was all new to me. I was trying to do the right thing; I kept asking myself questions like, "Should I pat her on the shoulder? Play with her hair?" I was already hugging her, there wasn't much more physical comfort, I could offer.
That wouldn't be the only mistake in judgment made that night.
The problem was, while I was considering the best ways to comfort the girl I kinda, sorta, perhaps one day might love, I was completely oblivious to all she was saying.
In doing my best to be caring and supportive of her, I completely removed myself from the situation.
I just held her. I rocked back and forth for a few seconds, but that's what my parents did to me when I woke up screaming from a bad dream. I was dating this girl not parenting her, so I stopped rocking her.
Then she stopped. Stopped talking, stopped gently sobbing, stopped moving completely. Luckily, her head was buried in my chest and shoulder so I could feel her hot breath and see her back rising and falling underneath my arms. I knew she hadn't died.
She leaned back but kept her head down so I couldn't see her eyes.
Her puffy bloodshot eyes. Her hands clasped my jacket zipper.
I would like to state for the record that the sound of a zipper unzipping slowly is astoundingly sensual when the zipper in question A) belongs to a part of my own clothing but B) is not being unzipped by me.
And that's how my jacket came off.
She threw my jacket on the floor and moved to my pants, which seemed disorderly to me. Like listening to an album on random.
Track three followed by track nine followed by track one.
She undid my pants button with one hand, like a villain in old western movies flicking a lighter. A snap of two fingers and my jeans were loose.
I also remember the elation I felt when I remembered that she was wearing little pajama shorts. No buttons. This was lucky for me too because as I recall, she had a lot of pants with button flys. I may very well have been there for hours trying to flick those Goddamned pants buttons open with one hand all the way down her inseam.
But just as the elation swept over me, it disappeared when she left my pants and attended to my flannel shirt. We know how this goes. Not like the movies. I had spent about 65 percent of my life watching movies where the actors got frisky and took portions of their clothes off, but never once were any of them wearing flannel nor did they have trouble with the stripping.
Maybe Woody Allen did, but I would have hoped to be a little cooler than Woody Allen.
But I wasn't. The flannel shirt got stuck and she kissed my neck in hopes of distracting me from the awkwardness caused by shimmying the flannel shirt down my arms. She straddled my lap yanking this damn shirt off first one arm and then the other while I foolishly leaned forward, arms prostate behind me.
Because of our positioning, I found my face buried in her chest. This embarrassed me tremendously. I didn't know what to do. My mind raced with thoughts both confused and inappropriate. I wondered if I was still under some sort of obligation to be comforting. I wondered if I had done such a wonderful job that the current position of my face was my reward. I wondered if allowing her to painfully strip me of my worn flannel shirt was a continuation of her healing process.
Ironically, through all these thoughts, it never occurred to me that now was not the time to get naked.
After finally wriggling my flannel and my "Sasquatch" tee free, I was shirtless in front of her. The realization of what was happening hit me and I was somewhat jazzed about it.
It was important that I played cool. I wanted to show my excitement, but not get geeky about it. Getting geeky about my own nudity wasn't going to improve a situation that was already as fragile as a glass egg.
My jacket and both my shirts were on the floor. The roommate was gone. I did the math in my head. She'd been gone for at least four days and was the only one in the apartment I'd ever seen clean. I hoped that nothing gross was stuck to my clothes and made a mental note to inspect the floor later.
Later.
...To be continued in part 2.
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