Outofdoors

Flash for the camera

You never see naked people in the real world. You see them all the time on the internet.

When someone's naked in front of you, it's a mistake, or it's time to fuck, or someone's too drunk to have their shit together.

Flashing is more a surprise - a shock than a real sexual fetish. (Maybe that is the festish - the surprise.)

Girls pull up their dresses or pull down their panties, they open for the camera - and they always play to the camera. While cars or construction workers pass unassumingly by.

The cultural transgressive nature of dropping your drawers is what creates the thrill. How daring will they be? How comfortable are they, or are they really hiding behind a wall - and it only looks like they're doing something in public?

Flashing is a chase for some new exhibitionistic thrill, and the point is in the watching. If it's not captured for us to see, to be amazed and to get horny about, it's merely nudism.

Sex is less interesting if you don't break a couple of rules.

The Aesthetics of Mediation - three

This example is a purer form of cinematic display of the subject's masturbation. It foregrounds the mediation on the part of the girl - that is the "director" of the clip.

She sits in an anonymous location, clearly in front of a camera or computer webcam on the ground in a awkward position with unrefined lighting. She has a hand-held flashlight and the remote for the camera explicitly to help with the display to come.

She spreads her pussy shows us her vagina and clitoris in extreme close up - she shines the light right onto her open pussy for about 5 minutes in, using it as a masturbation aid. She zooms the camera in and out with the remote numerous times, zooming or shifting it at different points, depending upon her angle, her posture, and legs. The remote, for the first half of the clip (which is an astounding 20+ minutes), is off camera (her hand goes off screen) but by 2nd third, her remote controlling is on camera, between her legs. Effectively and almost symbolically, in the last 5 minutes, she puts the remote on the ground between her legs, and it is partially in view in the foreground, reminding us continuously that there is a camera there to control, that she controlled it, and that she is not currently doing so.

We will see her reach for the remote at one point to adjust the angle for us.

Her face is off screen. She seems to be seeing exactly what the view is, which is close, rather close and gynocological. This clearly makes explicit her interaction with the image we are now watching. She is mediating it, changing it, moving in closer as she seems to revel in the frenzy of sexual excitation.

This extreme detail - hairy pussy and all - is not the "standard" view which, for women masturbation videos, often includes as much of the woman's body as possible. And often their faces (which brings their authenticity into question. Would a true "amateur" let her face be seen on such a clip on the internet, even though it presumably is listed "anonymously" on the site in question and the chances of an aquaintance seeing it seems very slim? A professional or semi-pro pornstar would have less qualms about being seen and identified (and takes "credit" for the clip in the process.).

(Men's "amateur" webcam as a genre often are positioned much closer to their genitals, partly as an anonymity masker, and perhaps more importantly, the male psyche is more focussed on the actual hard penis alone and its erect and ejaculating spectacle than the body surrounding it, the whole "person" presented as a sexual being.)

The image is clear and unflattering. Her pussy with untrimmed (but neat) hair - running down to her perineum and towards her asshole - is an anomaly except in clearly amateur clips (with performers without the look of "classical" pornstars). Her fingers clearly get wet about 9 minutes in, and she bucks, seemingly having an orgasm. The resultant close-up seems to verify that orgasmic liquid - thick and creamy, is running out of her vagina. Her fingers are slick as she continues to finger herself, and the show may be over. Yet she continues, and turns on her side, eventually sticking a nail polish bottle into her asshole.

This clear and unique exhibition of sexual excitement is evidence of true sexual arousal on the subject's part. More suspicious "amateur" clips often fake arousal... because they have to.

This 20 minute clip approaches documentary versimilitude, in its (intentional) misframing and presentation, it's overly explicit presentation of hairy and wet vagina, between-the-legs angles, awkward but intense display of labia, clitoris and masturbation, it's foregrounded use of low-tech mediation techniques (the remote on screen) rather than successfully hiding them (or pretending they don't exist).

The artifice adds completely to the aesthetic pleasure of the clip.


* * *
Updated/re-upped 6/7/11 - original seems to intermittently be not available.

The Allure of Low-Rise Jeans

Low-rise jeans are a phenomenon that wasn't around when I was a kid. In fact, girls during my high school days had rather high-waisted polyester Angel Flights (which drive me crazy in their own way, with that flat panel in front just so, just like that).

But these low-rise jeans, not only the ones that sit low on a girl's butt, but hang low in front, halfway down her pubis, practically sitting on the top of her pubic hair, can't be good for the morality of youth today.

Fuck, it screams "beaver below."

Don't get me wrong - I love to see these hippy hippie chicks walk down the street, with their lower stomach exposed, and the pants cradling that round packet - that sweet spot just above their pussies where the cum would shoot if you pulled out just before blowing your load - exposed to see.

I sneak a peek and imagine a watery rope of cum on their stomachs, right there. Just a snap and half a zip and I could see the underwear they're wearing.

But then - these styles dictate that underwear not be worn. So the look isn't complicated by undergarments.

Which is a different look. An underwear-is-peeking out look. Which makes the low jeans that much more sexy, that much more revealing.

Discovered

At some point, maybe soon, I will be discovered on this blog.

My wife will discover my history on the computer. Visit this and see pictures of her husband - naked! Masturbating! Writing about having sex with her!

Or, I'll look up the site history, and see that there seems to be an inordinate amount of hits from my town, from my neighborhood. My god, is word out? Are all my neighbors passing around the info - check out Ryan's blog! and emailing the link?

I'll be discovered, and the blog will be deleted. I'll do it all in one fell swoop, or simply let it sit, and not be updated ever again.

How will I face the question my wife asks me at the dinner table.

You've been taking pictures of yourself? Sharing them to the whole world.

Now everyone knows what your dick looks like.

Why didn't you come to me?

Messy

Sex is messy.

If it isn't, maybe you're not doing it right.

Amateur

Watching the History Channel. In a hotel room.



The call to expose yourself to others is amplified in the internet world. You can safely... that is, anonymously... capture your naked sexuality and broadcast non locally. You don't have to walk down your own street and be recognized. You won't get arrested.

(Immediately...)

You can expose yourself to a portal in which millions of people may see you A million potential observers, casually or accidentally. And they will not confront you back. You can be as sloppy, as fat, as dirty, as perverted, as uninhibited. As sexy, as hard, as horny as you like and it is only a spectacle to be observed by others. Without your partaking in their immediate response.

It is an isolated and insular way to explore the need, the urge to do something everyone does, explore your sexuality, wherever your are. (In your home.) And also to do something only a few daring people do, demonstrate it to others for money. Whether they're porn stars, or models, or otherwise professional exhibitionists.

The fact that no money is changing hands makes you an amateur. And it also makes your motives more pure.

Spectacle

Close to cumming, my precum slowly dribbles out. I did my best to not go "all the way."

Another exercise in self-depiction. Mediation entirely intentional and objective. No camera interference. Though clearly ... I know it is there.

There is something powerful about watching yourself love your own cock.

Suck My Cock

There's a lot of cock on the internet.

I see it a lot, and usually it's pumping into pussy.

Unnaturally. Bald and shaven. A piston-like machanism that barely captures the deeper, primal, nerving and unnerving...

--liquid stir of orgasm and cum and roiling semen being urged.

--pumped and coaxed out, while...

--she feels the shaft hardening and pounding,... moving and gyrating,... stroking and stimulating up deep, along and cleaving,...

--a tightening of the loins as the cilia hairs flatten and rally to send electronic impulses to the center, to the glans, to the balls.

Depictions of fucking in porn are both explicit and objectifying, replacing sensation with image, to be beyond use. When I first started watching porn, on VHS tapes, I preferred lesbian scenes, because there wasn't any cock there - only pussies.

"Sweet Cakes," with the lesbian scene with sisters Brooke and Taylor, is still something that stirs me everytime I see it. Maybe once every 5 years now.

Now, I've come to realize that seeing and watching a hard cock pump a pussy is better, so much more horny and erotic, than 2 girls going at it. Lesbians - even if they have strap-on dildos - just don't seem to be getting into the fuck rhythym when they do each other. They're lickers.

Cock is an important part of fuck films. I love cock. It's aggressive, and male and organic. It squirts and asserts a blood-filled pumping bitch-slap to the pussies, mouths, and assholes being offered, opened.

The cock is me. The cock is skin, and all skin, hair, balls, and cum is liquid fluid love and amber.

It's the stroke, it's the thrust, it's the hit. The stroke, slow on my long erection, in which you rub and suck it with your lips, is more a turn-on than you opening your legs and showing me your pussy lips, your erect clit. Come down here and lick me, my glans and my shaft and grab my balls. Suck my cock and let it rudely point at you.

Let it drip as it bangs against your tight pussy. Let me cum on your stomach. Your pussy, split by cock. Hair on hair.

The Aesthetics of Mediation

An example of a webcam/amateur video clip in which there is no mediation by a 3rd party obvious or presumed. The clip is from a single and unmoving position, and the subject has set herself up, carefully framed to show us a priveledged view of herself playing with herself.

Her full body is in view, except for much (but not all) of her face. Her actual identity is obscured in this way by elision. Yet the video, as long as 4 minutes, is an uninterupted, and un post-managed document of herself.

The subject has also made no attempts to play "to the camera." There is no eye contact. She is not specifically showing herself to the camera or adjusting her position as it has already been positioned. Her activity is predetermined. She is not in a hurry.

The sense of time is close to "real." The strategy serves to create a meditative state in the viewer, to observe the clip as an entire entity, without change in focus, perspective, or subject.

Celebrities Nude

Here's a picture of Natalie Portman at a party in which a photographer managed to snap her with cum on her face. Someone has spent a lot of time making this hardcore shot seem to be populated with a famous actress - with her face covered with cum. A young one that many people fantasize about. A large amount of celebrity nude shots out there are screen shots stolen from films. That was never the intent of the scenes, to be frozen and studied in statis. FIlms afford quick and fleeting glimpses, in a narrative, yet they're strangely purient and unsatisfying. To a certain extent because the celebrities don't have as much sexually to offer... when we see them naked. They're acting after all. Lindsay Lohan, who's been a cute girl and generally can demonstrate a positive, vivacious energy on film, is someone I thought I'd like to see naked and in hardcore action. But her pussy here doesn't seem too appealing. It's been shaved and has a certain clammy tackiness to it. 

And to a certain extent, so does her recent life. It isn't good porn. Her recent hijinx with her girlfriend, which may or not be real, continues the dismay and dissatisfaction with following her career. The artist above goes by the name of Yovo and does this photoshop work to make a fantasy more real. Our hardcore fantasy made flesh. Retouch the photos professionally and carefully, using the proper and matching materials to make shadows, skin tone, pose of body work with the rest of the photo. And this work of creating "fakes" - there are thousands of varying degrees of professionalism - introduces a sexual and explicit element into our voyeuristic fantasies of the stars we watch, look at while they do not look at us back. Celebrity is a unique and privileged social and public construct. In these new and forbidden documents...they are presumably not acting. Celebrities, or at least the people that are well known to us, allow us to look at them. We are profoundly and instinctually interested in each other, in other people, and we can't stop watching. And they watch us to make sure we still are. Celebrities, who are often beautiful, or made to look beautiful, or certainly, made to be looked at (since a camera is pointed at them and the resultant images are relayed to us by t.v. or film or the internet), create their own awareness. We have a personal and unique relationship with these people who allow us to watch them and fantasize about them. They're larger than life in our minds and in our hearts. And their sexuality is unknown. It is forbidden. Usually kept a secret. These "celebrity fakes" change what might otherwise be a promo headshot of our favorite celebrity, and grounds it visually into the real, base, human and horny sexual realm. To an extent it makes them closer to real. We actually see Natalie Portman blowing, and getting blown on. And believe it for a while. Our relationship to the celebrity, of course, affects our response to these fakes. If we have fantasized over the prim doings of a young starlet, or if the actress has played loose and sexual roles in films, our shock and pleasurable surprise may be mitigated, dampened, or heightened. Here is Britney Spears, in another fake. It addresses our suspicions of her lack of control, and rhymes to a certain extent her lack of decorum in public. Although very explicit, it doesn't have the same power to shock. That may have a lot to do with how we think of Britney Spears as a person vs. as an unobtainable celebrity figure. We feel that here, even she is still watching us watching her. Does it excite us by exposing a hidden aspect of a public personality, a private exhibitionistic streak we're unable to access except through trickery? Or does it merely confirm it?

  

The Long Tail

The sex life of a couple changes dramatically from when it's first lit aflame, to the later years of familiarity and routine.

The first week - the first month - the two people can't get enough of each other. We fuck in every room, in every position, at every moment. In the back row of the movie, in the car, in the restaurant bathroom.

As we figure out what gets the other off. Or we confess what we'd like to try, some routine and regularity enters in. The same moves, the a to b to c plan, and the same time of day (always after dinner) or the day of the week (Friday is best, after the week).

I begin to crave the specific things my partner offers me. If she's a little heavy, I find myself looking at heavy girls, wondering, or rather - knowing how they look naked. And how they buck in bed. The folds behind their ass. The heft of their thigh.

If they have red hair, I lust after their pussy that I know I love, can make drip and cum. The thinned hair, barely hiding pink. Or dark-skinned girl? I have one just like you at home.

As my love affairs end and I find someone knew, my fetishes fade to be replaced by new ones. (The early ones, the ones that have been imprinted at an impressionable age, seem to stay. I still got a thing for red pussy hair. And being naked out of doors.)

You must have patience, and learn from your lover. You develop new techniques that are 60% familiar and effective, and 40% new and transgressive. It may be easy to do the tried and true, but there's benefit to pushing the envelope to keep it like that first sexy bitch blush of discovering a new fuck lover that first week. In which anything and everything goes, every position, no matter how awkward, because you're going to cum anyway.

"Can I do this today? I've never done this before - how does it feel now?" We all want to go right to what works. Is it still good? "Where did you learn that new trick?"

Mixing it up, and trying new things, keeps it interesting. Keeps you interested in your long-term lover. Your wife. Keeps you married. Keeps you hard and horny, wanting to fuck that ass, that tail, when she comes home and she's the only one you're gonna fuck.

So don't make a mistake. Make it yourself and make it good.

Two Men for Every Woman

There was a time during my first marriage when one day I was suddenly sure she had a boyfriend. I'm not sure how I figured it out, or even if I really did, but suddenly so many little minor clues and hints and strange behavior that I never noticed before all added up to some other guy on the days (or nights) when I wasn't there with her.

And the fact that our sex life had taken a constricted turn. She was unwilling to put out for me like she had, as if she had gotten tired of me.

Yet I never actually found out and confronted her. I would let her go on errands to go do laundry, and not say anything if she came home late. She would get defensive over little things I didn't bother to pursue. She would be over at the shop next to my work, and having a way too good conversation with the guys who worked there.

I didn't know how to confront her - or if I should. Or could. She was still my wife. I would push her to spend time with me, and then really come onto her, forcing her to have sex. I'm not sure if I had ever fucked her when a previous guy had been inside her - mere hours or minutes before. Perhaps my cock was pushing his sperm further up her love canal. Maybe that was why she was wetter some days than others.

The idea that the other guy's dick had fucked her had a weird attraction that made me visualize and conceptualize the details endlessly. Did she let him fuck her in the ass? Did he do her doggy-style?

I may have only fucked her 4 times more after that, although we were together another 9 months. But from that point on that pussy wasn't mine. It was someone else's. I was just using it occasionally.

The Blowjob

Now it's time to tell you about the gay blow-job.

It was my first blow-job - the first one I got that made me cum. The only one a guy did on me.

I don't want to make a big deal out of this.

I was walking home from a theatre after a double bill - I had missed the bus. A car pulled up and a young guy asked if I needed a ride to campus. I thought I recognized him as a fellow student, but didn't know his name and didn't have any classes with him.

I got in, happy not to have to walk the 2 miles back to the dorm. He began to talk about his girlfriend, and how she wouldn't have sex with him.

I told him I knew the feeling. He said just a blow-job, it wasn't really sex. Maybe she would get to like it. A good testing ground.

I agreed with all of this. I'm naive.

Then he asked me if I ever got a good blow-job. I hadn't had any blow-job of any kind at that point. Only casual tastings by my handful of partners.

He said, as safe as milk, if I'd like him to let him try on me.

I liked the guy, and he wasn't intimidating at all. I said no way, and he said he'd stop as soon as I stopped liking it.

I insisted that I wasn't interested in that.

He said that I didn't sound that convincing. He wondered if I would prefer to do it on him.

I told him no, I didn't know how. He admitted he wasn't an expert either. So I think I was inadvertently choosing to let him try it on me.

We pulled into an alley, and he leaned down and very carefully undid my pants, and fondled my genitals, which got very hard in his hand very quickly.

There was a moment or 3 there in which I was not making any decisions.

His mouth felt very good, and for the first 2 minutes I told myself as soon as my curiosity was satisfied I'd ask him to stop.

He gently stroked my balls while he put my cock into his mouth and licked. Quietly and attentively. And I soon came, and he licked most of it off my prick and his hand.

I felt good - then cold and shamed. He drove me home.

I wonder how it would have felt to have gone ahead and blown this stranger in his car instead.

I've never had another gay experience. I never wanted one.

A redhead

Chair

I have a relationship with the kitchen chairs.

When I was younger, I rubbed myself for the first time one afternoon on a flowered vinyl kitchen chair in our dining room to my first orgasm.

I was beginning to rub against everything with my erections at that point. I wasn't even 11. I pulled my pants down and lay cock down on the seat of the chair - I put my feet up on another chair, and faced downward, holding my torso up with my arms, as I rubbed against the seat cushion.

The chair was on the linoleum floor outside the kitchen. I needed lubrication against the vinyl, so I peed onto myself, then leaned onto the chair, peed some more, and slowly rubbed my erection hard against the frictive yet lubricative surface.

And it pressed against me, the way I had pressed against the sink in elementary school when I leaned in to take a drink, and felt profound nervous and twingling synapses rush to my groin in unexpected but deep and good chocolate ice cream ways.

I'd felt spontaneous tightenings of my testes, sometimes but not always tied to erections, but clearly based deep behind my shaft, teasing me to keep going.

I rocked back and forth, and kept going without thinking that there might be a climactic moment to this feeling, until there was, a release of splashy and squirting cum that I had never seen before or heard about. It felt so complete and draining, and aggressively centered, yet I was worried that I had somehow broken some vessel or valve, and the white liquid was an emission akin to blood, from some unknown organ.

And yet the feeling wasn't of pain but of orgasmic release.

I was beginning to understand. I wasn't hurt - I would not be confessing to any doctor yet.

Soon I would learn how to do it with my hand instead of rubbing against vinyl.

Squirt

There's an amazing amount of sites on the web that devote themselves to pissing girls. They have footage, rather surprisingly, of women I haven't really seen before anywhere else.

In other words, they're amateurs, or maybe just specifically devoted to that one niche.

There's something fascinating on the surface in watching women pee. It's not something you see everyday. It's a "forbidden spectacle" that the internet has brought to us.

It bestows upon women the traditionally masculine trait to squirt like hell in a sexual manner. (And I guess "squirting"is peeing manipulated and under a different name. Fans of that are in denial.)

But I've never really gotten off on peeing. There's something dirty about it but I'd rather have the girl sucking cock. I don't fantasize being pissed on. Besides, I've already had that happen.

It was after a party, and Sheila had had way too much to drink - as had I. We'd been flirting the way drunk 20-somethings do, and we ended up in my bedroom upstairs. We didn't intend to fuck... just fuck around. I let her watch me pee into the toilet, with my half-erect penis, and we ended up on my bed.

We didn't get very far, and both fell asleep stone drunk. When I woke up 3 hours later in the dead of morning, she'd pissed the bed, and me.

At first I thought I'd done it, but I reached over to her and discovered her pants were soaking. I drunkingly felt her up, and the urine lubricating her pants and underwear was a definite turn-on. Especially since she was still dead to the world. I could do anything to her, and she'd never remember.

But I was too drunk to do more than a half-assed attempt at finger-fucking her. And her clothes were all pissy.

I fell asleep again soon after.

Penetration - A Love Story

I used to walk into an adult bookstore about once every 3 weeks. I'd risk it no more than that, risk being seen.

Sure, there are books there, but they're also full of pictures. And 95% of the store is dvds. Sex dvds.

The guy behind the counter looked over his glasses at me. He nodded like he knew who I was, but he didn't. He couldn't - I never gave him an opportunity to remember me, never even said a word to him. Not even when I was buying something. The purchases were transacted in grunts and nods and with halting credit-card handovers. He doesn't know what I like, or what I respond to. He doesn't have to. I don't know myself half the time.

It wasn't long after I was old enough before I went all the time to see these pictures on my own, with their images and their forbidden secrets. Adult movie theatres were the only place in the early '80s I could see naked women in motion. No video then. My dating life wasn't developed at the age of 17 - my success was all downtown, and the outskirts, where the shops and theatres lay as remnants of a more vibrant community that had long abandoned the city center. The theatres were all downtown in the rundown district, old palaces now empty of the gentrified crowds that filled the roadshows of "Camelot" or "The Sound of Music" years ago. The advent of video had emptied the downtown San Diego streets, where now hookers, drug takers and sailors stood out watching their own lives pass them by. You went into the large dark emporium, in public, but anonymous, looking up at the aging stained screen.

Surrounded by strangers. I never went with any friends. Who knew who went into these theatres and what those strangers were up to. Like it was ever in doubt. And you never encountered a more rapt and subdued collection of misfits. The danger of going out at night was reduced indoors.

All it cost was money. Oh the money. Everything's for sale now here. Anything you could think of - fetishes like girls that take it up the ass, or women that let guys come on their face to an excessive degree. Some guys go no doubt to the pissing section - there's a section. Whatever works for you.

For me the promise is told on the cover box. A combination of title and sample pictures to let me know the imagery, the girls, the aesthetic will be right, properly respectful to the subject matt

The promise of course that leads to the impulsive buy. The conveyance of the nasty life encapsulated therein. Of the fun the participants are having, that are on display for my ownership. Fun, with a camera present. The image offered. Here - surrounded by tits, pussies, out of context

But then it is its own reality. Movies with people who fuck. The neighbor talks to the mailman, they fuck, the husband at work, with secretary, they fuck. The new guy sees the female boss, she fucks him. All personal interactions related to fucking, to pulling open your pants, and sucking on the other person's genitals.

It's reduced to commonplace. Fucking as primary interaction between all adults in the play. People do this all the time. Will wifey find out? Taste the sweat and emissions of an asshole dripping with cum. They did this back in Roman times. The power of pussy, human and instinctual, the curve of a woman's ass has kept this species alive through the ages.

Sex is life. People are into it. It has to feel good. What drives us? Drives me into this store, filled with maybe a dozen other men right now.

It's not the middle of the night, it's not late in the evening. It's 3 p.m., just past lunch hour, before the time to go home, into cocktail hour with the boss. They all avoid eye contact with the others here. We stare intently at the color images on the cardboard covers in front of us, the girls airbrushed, posed, open. The customers are exposed here, as well, naked to the siren lust that has pulled them in, guilty by their presence, found out and defensive, caught, male...needy, horn. And semi-erect. We try to be as invisible and unobvious as possible, lost in a personal search for sexual epiphany, as we finger the pages, and turn over the boxes.

We're receptive through our eyes. Looking for imagery to get us off, to remind us of how it feels...how it must feel. To remind us of that woman we want to be fucking, that whore, that old cheerleader, that ex-wife or future wife. That neighbor, that cipher who comes in from next door...the woman - no, girl, with open legs, wet pussy lips, and a willing schedule and a good attitude. Penetrated.

We're all here to find something to capture our imagination. We need big tits, or maybe dark skin. Open bald pussies or cheerleader outfits. Cum shots to the face...or internal, dripping slowly out down their asscrack. What gets you off, reminds you of the hot feeling that is emotional, instinctual, that works. We take our handful of tokens and we wait in the hallway past the curtain for the booths, for more. For the films.

Three of us wait patiently outside the booths. Number 3 is out of order, and the other 7 have users inside. We see what's happening inside each - on little monitors that are feeds of what's showing. There are 50-word summaries printed on cards with a still posted outside in metal frames next to a LCD screen by each door.

Fuckfilms, handheld, shown inside in close-up. Too small to distinguish details. We can't quite see. They've gotten worse in the 20 years I've been watching. They used to have more art to them. Now they point at the most obvious place and film away, without edits. We wait in the hallway like lambs, quiet, ever patient, and in a way powerless. In spite of the testosterone here and all the men, this is not a macho environment. It's not an arena in which the strongest men negotiate, spar or bargain, in display of alpha-male territorialism. We're all here completely at the mercy of what we are here to consume. We've lost, acquiesced, and accept it - we welcome the mantle of defeat. We're whipped.

But we will get our payoff. Booth 4 shuts down; Don the store guy comes back, glancing at us as he passes with a certain amount of disdain. We back up and let him pass so he can investigate. No one's complaining. We stand in no judgment. You can't break it while sitting and watching. Waiting for the cum in my gaping asshole, the suck my dick, the fuck my pussy. Surrounded by sexualized women, images and products, the hyper-sexual response tempered by what stands out in a sea of exceptions. Our ability to be shocked has been sublimated, disregarded, and defused. The technical problem should stem from the front dvd playback deck.

There's no one here to say, "You like this shit?" "That's not natural." "You're sick." The girlfriends are at home. You're among friends. We get it. We all get it.


Check out the tits on that bitch.

The films barely narrate a story, a series of images in sequential order to relate a cascade of events. "Story" isn't right. The power of film is to depict a reality in realistic images. What's photographed has happened on the stage, and is manipulated by camera work and editing. The camera angles favor the women, not the man, showing her in long shots, positioning her centrally in the frame. The guy (often never showing his face) is secondary, with that big dick, that piece of meat intrusive and necessary, yet distracting and somewhat troublesome.

Sometimes the guy enters her with a little bit of sideways. The audience's stand-in for themselves, the transferred personal, in the pussy, as she poses. Spreads and stretches. For us, we identify with her, not him. She poses in positions open to reveal for the camera. And she looks at us, held up, in the room that never changes, in rhythmic movement. Beach house. Window. Couch. Linoleum floor. Tattoos.

She's playing herself. Reverse cowgirl. Does anyone fuck like this? It's a character note, revealing her enthusiasm. She kneels over his cock, facing backwards, legs spread and balanced on her high-heels. The pose is calculated to show a bald asshole and penetration. And the male body is out of the way as much as possible. She's doing it. Really doing it.

The search is never ending. For me it started with that girl in the trailer in the Academy theatre, jerking off while she talked on the phone. I'd actually seen something I had never seen before. What was that film called? The girls with light hair turned me on, the red pussy hair. It suggested a certain exotic wild archetype that was captured and conveyed, not from any personal remembrance.

It became as film - stories, fantasies as maids, doctors in lingerie, stewardesses, or secretaries, ordinary everyday people. Fairy tales, run of the mill, and they have pussies and sex lives too. Sex lives I could only dream of seeing. At the tender age of 19 I began to have true sexual relations. My fantasy turned to housewives...everyday people, students even - and other taboo transgressions. The hotness of being found out, of being with someone you shouldn't. Was it wrong? Was it possible? Was this a manifestation of almost fucking my girlfriend's best friend my first year in college? When I hadn't quite fucked her yet?

No. I think it was a manifestation of my best friend actually fucking my girlfriend, later, whom I had not fucked yet.

I'm still looking for that thrill - that intoxicating rush of seeing and being where I should not see and be. But the narratives could go only so far. The fantasies weren't very well created. We're here to see people fucking. It's done by amateurs.

Your neighbors made this film in their living room. It's not a stunt. True and unadorned - shocking by its unfamiliarity, yet deadpan in the depiction. All cut together and reproduced as objective product, in long takes. Unmediated, and therefore powerful in its guileless banality.

The actress looks at me. Sees me looking back at her. And she smiles, and implicates me in this act, unexpectedly, this unfakable sexy and dirty open workout.

She got me.

Three more pictures

Three more pictures of you, taken by yourself with your camera, pointing in the mirror.

You want to show me your sex.



You look so good, watching me watching you.



You admire yourself in a way you haven't before. Because you are aware of the act of looking.

This time at yourself.

And as you look upon yourself, you consider your exhibitionism.



I think - you think you like it.

On The Couch

Sex with my wife can get a bit routine. We go into the same positions, in the same order. At night, once the kids are asleep, we don't always have the energy, and the bed isn't firm enough to really go at it. Not without making a squeaking noise that makes us self-conscious.

I love my wife, and I love her pussy. I love eating it and fucking it. Her ass is really nice, especially when I'm looking at it from behind - as I enter her. But every so often I need to get into the mood, and when we end up fucking on the couch, it really works.

Usually we're downstairs watching a movie that isn't holding our interest, and we've been cute that day - either shopping together, or shared something at work at we appreciated. Our mood is good, we may have a glass of wine in us. And I start to kiss her, and grab her tits.



She likes it when I fondle her tits. They're sensitive, and one of her most responsive erogenous zones. She lays back and allows me to keep going.

Her clothes become undone.



Pretty soon, I'm eating her out, and she's spread-eagled out on the couch.

Because it's lower than our bed, I can stand next to it and enter her very easily, with no strain to my legs or arms, and it doesn't give - or squeak - like the bed upstairs. When I push her she pushes back.

Upstairs the kids are asleep (we hope!) and the shitty Netflix film continues as I fuck her in her hairy pussy.

Then I stop and turn her over.

She kneels over me, and raises that great round ass over my cock, and she sits down on my hard cock. I hold onto her asscheeks as she rocks up and down on my erect dick, rubbing herself forward and back, hands on the back rest.

I look down and see me pumping in and out, deep and high - and can smell the scent from her asshole as I spread her buttocks with my thumb.

Doing it on the couch reminds me of when I was still a teenager. I always cum hard when we're fucking on the couch. It reminds me of when we were first dating (I was in my 20s by this time), and we would fuck in the den of her house downstairs, while her mother was upstairs watching t.v.

We would bite our tongues as so not to let her hear us, and it was the most illicit and hot sex I'd had.

I'd cum in to her daughter while she was upstairs, watching Leno.



I wish we had more energy to stay up more nights.

Pulling Out

I've pulled out of the woman I've been fucking many times. I've actually developed a bit of a fetish about it. Cumming outside, onto her, and I can see my cum. And she can see it too. It's an excuse to make a bigger deal out of my orgasm -it's a finish that's public, messy, and definitive.

Many times it's been because I didn't want to ejaculate inside her, and thought by having the cum outside her, she wouldn't conceive. That strategy seemed to work for years, for both my wives. Lots of cum on pubic hair.

Other times, it's been a trace memory of the thousand porn scenes I've seen, in which the money shot has been shown - coming outside the pussy.

Which isn't the natural state of things. It feels better when it's inside.

But by pulling out, and cumming on that pussy, on that stomach, over those tits, you recreate the scene in your head playing from the video you saw last week. And the girl takes it. Opens her mouth, lays back and lets you cum all over her.

There's some level of humiliation in it...for her to be debased, and for you to have to jerk yourself off to get the rest of the last drops out.

"Cum on me, baby. Cum all over me."

Practically reaching the point of orgasm, then pulling out and pre-cumming on her pubic hair, outside, then slowly entering her again anyway, is a sexy forbidden thrill. I pump against my own jizm, into her pussy again and then cum for real, fully, into her hot sperm pussy.

Pictures of You

I wanted to know what you looked like naked. You wouldn't show me.

Not in person. Not until that night when we grappled in the car. We touched each other, and we almost fucked. But you wouldn't let me put my cock in you. Only touch your bush, your clit.

You pulled your pants down to your knees, and I buried my face in your crotch. I smelled and licked the warm smell of your pussy and asshole. The wet slurp and sweat.

We continued to date, but it wasn't about sex entirely. It was about being together. One day you sent me a love note with the words so explicit I knew you had been thinking about it. That you were interested. You were exposing your sexual side to me, in words and not in person. You wanted to show me, to capture my imagination. But not to simply present yourself to me. To surrender.

You knew you could get my cock hard when you touched me... kissed me and licked my ear. My neck. You sent me a picture of yourself, naked that you had taken yourself.



I poured over it. I analyzed every pore, every detail.



I analyzed every detail. The camera. The stuff on the floor. The placement of your legs. You were the author of this photo, there was the camera. You looked at yourself and took the picture, staring into the mirror, with the camera capturing what you had seen.

I told you I liked it. In fact that I had masturbated to it... but not cum. I saw you in the bathroom, as plain and as normal as you always were. Yet naked. Posed, but unaffected.

The second picture you spend more time posing yourself.



You stood in front of the mirror, exposing yourself. This was something more explicit and rarified and straight-ahead fuck than the first, although I don't think you quite realized it.

It emphasized your sexual attributes. You take a picture of yourself unposed, and it's a self-portrait, and whatever is captured is what it is. Your hair may not be correct, or the glare of the camera may obscure some important detail. There is a documentary/reality aspect to it that lends authenticity to the picture.

Even if you've taken off your clothes. If your hand is at your vagina. And the smile is a come-hither come-fuck-me look. You are an inadverent agent of your own depiction. To pose, to stick your ass in the air is to create meaning and text beyond the subtext.

You were no longer sending me a picture of yourself, potentially naked and pontentially available, you were actually offering yourself, visually and physically (by agency) to me. Your ass to the mirror, and to the camera, pointed at you and therefore at me.

Capturing my gaze as I look upon your and your sexual poise. Vulnerable and offering, not hiding. This was no casual self-portraiture. This was an invitation to gaze upon and engage your fucking wishes and fantasies.



In other words, you want it. You look upon yourself and move emotionally and physically beyond the mere regarding of your sexual body, your casual and seductive... enticing... nudity. You have pointed the creature at yourself which will encapsulate your soul, take grip upon the gaze that you let fall upon yourself and freeze it to be shown to me.

To confront me with my own gaze upon you - the camera looking right into my eyes that captures the image of you, naked and smiling, hand on hip, legs slightly open, hair on pussy and clitoris moist. Breasts hanging but nipples assertively erect.

Flash at the ready. Window open. Exhibitionism for yourself, a self-satisfied circle.

A Jungle

Yeah, at one point in my life, I fucked a black girl. I met Denise at college at the dorm at a party, and surprisingly, she came from only a couple of miles from where I lived. This created an instant common bond.

I never really was attracted to black women. They're usually curvier than white girls, which is a good thing, but their attitudes and cultural outlook seemed so foreign to me and my limited white-bread upbringing in the suburbs.

Denise wasn't so "black" that I couldn't talk to her, and her taste in movies was insatiable. We went on dates to the Crest to see any of the non-Hollywood stuff that snuck in between the summer or Christmas season (and not during finals weeks), and had a comfortable but pretty platonic relationship. Or so I thought.

I think Denise wanted to move it further before I did. We began going out after the films for ice cream or pizza, and she would want to sit with me and talk, not just about film, or school, but more personal stuff. Like where I was born, our brothers, stuff like that. Then we would go out with no movie as an excuse. She began to make it clear that she was interested in me physically, and I quickly began intrigued by the idea.

I hadn't had much experience with sex at this point only having been with 2 women before this. The idea of messing about with Denise, her black and somehow exotic and foreign body got me very hot and excited. I picked up whatever bait she dropped, and followed wherever she led.

We finally consumated our sexual curiosity for each other in her dorm room on the 3rd floor. It was a Monday night, about 11, and her roommate had gone out of town for the week. We began to kiss, and then fondle each other.

She let me open her jeans and feel her bush. It was thick, and her pubic hair was courser than mine - kinda like brillo. It was very sexy and got me even harder than I already was.

Denise opened my pants and jerked my erection. Lovingly. The pre-cum on my tip lubricated her small hands up and down the shaft.

I slipped my hand down her panties and between her labia and felt she was incredibly wet. Sopping, and sticky; almost like she'd spilled a smoothie into her cunt.

She pulled her pants down to her ankles and opened her hairy pussy, exposing her surprise pink buried in there. And I rubbed the wettest, ripest and most glistening pussy I ever encountered, then or since. I licked her clit, and got a teaspoon of her pre-cum on my mouth. She moaned softly.

She was so ready to be fucked.

I laid on top of her and entered her, sliding in with no resistance. She was dark and warm - humping her cunt was very "slurpy." My god.

My cock felt warmed and wet, and I had a vision of fucking the nubile natives. I began to pump her.

There was no friction - she was too wet. Just this wet tight creampie of pussy-kiss.

I became aware of her pussy hair rubbing my pubis just above my shaft, making wet squishie noises. I moved against her and within seconds I came, deep inside her. Seemingly without trying.

God I was horny.

She knew what had happened. She smiled.

She grabbed my back and hugged me close, to keep me inside her.

"How was it?" she asked.

"Too quick," I whispered.

She ran her hands over me, feeling me. "We can try again later."

We hung out, and listened to some music. We went downstairs 20 minutes later and got some food out of the machines, and went back upstairs.

Back in her room we fucked again. This time it was slow, and I enjoyed every thrust and her body against mine. My penis still got soaking wet, not only from her pussy fluid but by my sperm inside her from before.

Denise was very appreciative of me, and I tried to do her right, by getting her to cum herself. I diddled and licked her clit as best I knew how, but she never orgasmed. But she seemed to enjoy being with me all the same.

Although we remained friends after that, we didn't go on any other dates to ice cream, or even any movies. She politely declined, saying she was busy or had something else to do. But I never felt like she'd given me the brush off.

After college, when I went back home for a summer, I often thought I might see her back in our home town, and a couple of times I imagined I did, just out of the corner of my eye. And maybe restart the relationship.

The Great Outdoors

During my earliest teenage years, we lived near a canyon, that backed up against our house. I would play in the bushes and trees for hours after school or on the weekends. As I approached 10 and 11, my erection began to interest me greatly, and I would strip and sit naked in a tree or bushes.

I'd be erect, this young teen. I loved the feel of the sun on my naked skin. My body was becoming a complete and unified object, not just a hormone-d jangle of limbs and bruises.

Once I found an old Penthouse magazine and looked at the pictures of the naked women in it, not sure what to do with them. My pubic hair was only beginning to come in as a fine fuzz around my groin.

The feeling of being naked - out in the open - is very sexy.

I think those stirrings, which didn't result in masturbation, have marked the way I feel about nudity, and public exhibition, even if and especially if no one, absolutely no one else is around.

Which no one was.

But I don't think I'd be able to hang as a nudist. Would I really be able to walk around without an erection? Especially with all those natural milf-y comfortable-with-my-body women around? Those cocks? Those limbs and nipples?

I know too much. And the non-smarmy aspect of it makes it more erotic... I'm not talking from much experience. I never went out and was naked with a bunch of other people, not intentionally.

There have been other people in the room when I've been fucking someone. Sorta a drunk last-minute what-the-hell exhibitionism covered up by the dark.

I'm otherwise not sure how to go about it. The naturalism of it, the real people around, seems to be quite a turn-on, much more than mere flashing in public. Which has an illegal thrilling aspect to it. Being outdoors with other naked people is a weird variant on exhibitionism - it's not flashing, exactly. You're not trying to shock or be transgressive.

You're not in the middle of downtown.

More than once, late at night, I've gone outside at midnight into our backyard and stripped naked. I could hear the traffic. My neighbors' windows were open, some still with lights. Those responsible homeowners with kids did not know that the responsible adult next door to them was standing in his yard, naked, slowly playing with himself. Looking at the sky and dark houses.

These sensual experiences have certainly formed some of my responses to being outside, to being seen... even only in my fantasies. This serves as a more recent experiment.

My favorite time to make love with my wife is in the early afternoon, by the window. It's open, and sunny outside, coming in onto our bodies.

We can see out, and of course part of the thrill is thinking someone could see us if they just
looked.

Why keep it hidden, in the dark or behind doors, or under clothes - sex is such a great spectator sport.

Front-Seat Ellen

I lost my virginity in a car at a drive-in, to a girl that lost her virginity to me that same night.

Ellen and I had been dating for a while, and had gotten hot and heavy a couple of times. We knew that sooner or later we would go all the way with each other, if only to get it over with.

One weekend, Ellen suggested we go to a double feature at the drive-in. What was showing? She said it didn't matter.

During the first film, we began to pet, and finger each other's privates. She pulled her pants down to her ankles and looked at me with a look that said it all...without words.

I'd thought we would wait until the beginning of the second film, but she was apparently impatient. She reached down and grabbed my erect cock and began to gently jerk it, licking her hand and lubricating me with spit. This was something she had never done before. I was very horny. Then she'd lubricate herself with the spit.

She said, "This is good."

She was preparing herself, as well. "Don't you want to wait for the second movie?" I clumsily asked.

I was shaking. The moment of truth was at hand. I asked her if she wanted to go into the back seat, and she said no. Perhaps it would feel too pre-meditated.

Pants around my ankles, I climbed on top of her. It was awkward in the front seat, but I got into her, and she let me fuck her. My cock went into her pussy for the first time.

My knees were on the floor rug, and she readjusted to get me in better.

There was no love there. And there was no fucking. She knew it, and was determined. She held me, and I was sweated like a pig over her, dripping sweat onto her face, as I pumped my cock into her virgin pussy, clumsily, trying to get her to feel something, trying to get myself to feel some transport of ecstacy.

Soon I announced that I was going to cum, as if she would stop me, or tell me what to do next. She didn't, didn't really even move. And I came inside her.

I looked at her and said a stupid asshole thing: "Now can we watch the movie?" We adjusted, and watched the movie in silence for a while, pants still down.

We left at intermission, friends. Perhaps having figured out what we came to figure out. After that we didn't go on anymore dates, even though I called, and tried to get her to come out to play.

About 4 months later, I saw her in a parking lot walking to her car and I stopped to say hi, but she waved me on. Smiling, but in a hurry. I wanted to get to know her better, get to know her again. Try to make it up to her. To show her I had learned. She waved me on.

I never saw her after that.

Madonna

Everyone, in the old days, had hair on their privates. It was the mark of puberty.

Hair under their arms.

In our manufactured world of today, our mediated electronic realm in which naked people, in which fucking is viewed through devices, in which we don't actually look at each other face to face...

In which the shitty and sweaty aspect of fucking and making love is not always or even ever part of our education with the opposite (or the same) sex...

And sexuality...

Then our new models, our new fantasies, our sexy demons that enter into our libidos, basically, the people by whom we jerk off to, masturbate while looking at...

Aren't entirely creatures, carnal, sexy, sweaty and human and real.

They're two-dimensional and on the internet. On the page of the magazine. They're shaved. They smell of ink and perfume rather than cum and sweat.

They are sterilized, and enhanced. Air-brushed and boob-lifted. Tucked and made happy. Made high. Made drunk.

The men's magazines of the '60s, when they entered into the common and mass marketplace (eventually to disappear again with the right-swing of Reagan and the internet) were the final cause of this. Pictures even as late as 1990 (of the pop star Madonna, for example) were willing to show a hairy and healthy bush.

Demi Moore, no sexual slouch in the day, had one healthy pussy in her more daring days of opening legs for the press and her fans.



The public pussies of today are less interesting, if better defined, because they are not the fecund center of fucking, or of birth.

They aren't the pit of original sin, the pissy hot cumhole of hair and skin.

These new thin and plucked rails of porn don't jiggle and fart when they're tongued. I really think we've lost something.

An Exhibitionist's Daydream

She gets horny looking at all the porn on the internet, and wonders how that world - that huge world - can ever be entered into.

The camera on the top of the computer looks at her and teases her. She knows it's pointed right at her. And it's an exhibitionist's dream.

She's taken pictures of herself for Facebook. Sent a couple to friends. To her sister.

She's looked on the web, and she knows how she'd do it. Some don't show their faces. Points right at her crotch. It's a way to expose yourself with no risk. To do whatever you want - no matter what you are doing.

And so one night she tries it. She sets up the camera and sits in front of it. She pulls her panties aside and shows herself to the camera.

Her legs open. She takes the picture and and she downloads it.

And she posts it. And it gives her a great thrill to see it. She's now on the internet. Her open pussy.

In fact she can't stop thinking about it. So about a week later, she does it again. She gets naked and spreads herself wider for the camera. Looks into and takes a more explicit picture.

She has a webcam, that can take video. Days later, she's back at it.

Looking at herself. She turns on her webcam and looks at herself naked. She lays on the bed. and begins to rub her pussy.

She looks right at her pussy the whole time, and it's both an incredible turn-on and strangely distancing. That's what her pussy looks like, from the other side. She starts the camera and captures her open legs as she rubs herself.

Spreads legs for the camera. Masturbates furiously, and cums.

It lasts just a minute.




She posts the video on YouPorn, but can not forget about it. No one can know it's out there, know it's her.

But she has second thoughts every so often. And when she goes to look for it again, with the idea of deleting it, she finds that it has already been copied. With different keywords.

Over 1000 people have looked at it. Seen her masturbating.

Who?

She thinks about deleting the original, but there are dozens now elesewhere. Perhaps hundreds of links to it, copies posted other places so other people everywhere look at her rub on her pussy that one lonely night.

Her personal experience - her webcam masturbation is now out there, and it's not like anyone can find it. "Find" her. But if you do find it, you would enjoy its anonymous pleasures.

Red Pussy Hair

I'm not going to tell you my name, but I will let you see me naked. I'll pose and let you see. I have red natural hair, and my pussy is covered with thin red pussy hair.

I'll open my legs, and let you see my vulva. My labia, and my clit. The fine red pussy hair covers my pussy, decorating the wonderous space between my legs. Where your cock wants to go in and pump against me.

I cover this wonderous pussy with my clothes, my panties and my skirt that hides so much, but can be lifted in a moment to show you the succulent soft wonder of my red pussy. My skin is fair, and I have a slight freckles. My nipples are light pale pink, not dark aureoles. My red hair signals to you that I'm natural, fair-skinned. That my pussy is covered with fine, soft red wisp of beaver hair.

You want it. You want your face in my cunt, my asshole. You want to lick the red pussy hair on my twat until it's wet with my cum juices.

Cum on my red pussy hair. Cum on me.

Youthful Abandon

In the early days, when I was having sex with another teenager that certainly didn't want to be pregnant as I didn't, I would pull out before I came.

Not sure if 100% of my sperm ended up on her stomach, or only 95%, but I grew to love the look of the thick milky slime on the soft skin of the girl below me. Co-mingled with her soft and thin pubic hair.

I would - foolishly - reenter her with my erection, which was getting hard again, as the wet lubrication of the thickening cum smashed into my own public hair, and foamed up against her pubic bone against mine.

The secondary spasm of orgasm would pull through my groin as I managed to get another deep shudder, not entirely connected with a spurt of semen, but rather related to the warm and wet muscular convulsions of the pussy, the vagina, and the cock spending their last attempts at feeble, instinctual fertile lunging.

Mother I Need You

When the kids are in bed, and the second glass of gin is drunk, the parents take their clothes off and begin fucking with each other.

Dad has a new camera that he obsesses over, and loves to take pictures of everything he sees and everywhere he goes. He even has a darkroom set up in the basement, so he can develop the 35mm film.

He convinces his wife to pose for him, and she spreads out, a little tipsy, knowing that only he will see the photos. She may even get a charge out of it knowing that he'll jack off to her some lonely night, when she's asleep, and he's up late.

He keeps the negatives in a shoebox, unmarked, next to the spare screws in the basement, and time passes. When they move out of the house, most of the stuff goes into storage, and it's forgotten until the kids, along with their friends, who brought a couple bottles of red wine and Chinese food, inadvertently discover them.

Mom's dead now, and the friends don't want to embarrass their friends. They drop the negatives off at a local camera shop, that specializes in old reprints.

There must be hundreds of negatives in the boxes. The assistant manager goes through them and categorizes them and sees what he has seen so many of in the past - amateur photos of someone else's wife.

He sells them to a collector, who makes copies off the negatives and sells them to friends he knows. The real aspect of the photos are the selling point - they aren't studio-posed or glamorized. Someone convinced their wife or girlfriend to spread their legs for the eye of their camera.

She climbed up on the table and fingered her pussy, then raised her leg for her husband. Like it, honey? Wider, baby. Wait, do I hear the kids upstairs?


I love seeing you on the table where we eat breakfast every morning. I'll remember this tomorrow when I'm eating my Cheerios.

He eats her out, right there, and she comes. Then he fucks her on the table and comes in her hairy pussy moments later.

Infinite Pussy

The internet allows us to have access to infinite pussy. At least, the pictures of infinite pussy.

I've been chasing pictures of naked people for most of my life, and naked people almost as long. I've become fetishized on certain aspects of sex, based on my experiences, by the hurts I've felt, and by the intense pleasures I've experienced.

I can't pretend to have done it all. I've never swapped my wife - although my first (red-headed) one slept out on me. I haven't had sex with more than 2 people (although there was once another couple in the room, and we kept going, all four of us knowing they could hear every grunt, sigh, and slooshy sound).

A good couple dozen people have seen me naked and had some form of sex with me, even if it wasn't necessarily explicit vaginal-penis contact.

The question of access makes the events of my life less pre-determined (or post-determined?) and more a collection of events that have been chosen by me to remember.

That have shaped me, for good or bad. And that I'm reliving here, to recapture the times I was horny, and stupid, and driven by lust.

Encounter at the Beach

I saw my first erect cock before I saw my first pussy. I guess that's not normal – most men never see an erect cock besides their own. I was young, about 8 or 9. Me and my younger brother were at the beach down the avenue from our house and climbing around one of those open brick bathrooms with the walls that didn't go all the way to the eaves.

Inside one of the stainless-steel stalls – which had no door – was a kid, maybe 14 or 15, with his pants around his ankles and an enormous erection.

This kid was kinda dopey, maybe he was retarded a little. And his penis was huge, almost a foot long and its girth was almost 3 inches across. It was too big. He was stroking it as he sat on the toilet. This was not just a penis. This was a cock.

I was just starting to figure out that my penis felt good. I wasn't yet old enough to be grossed out by a naked body yet, either girl's or boy's, and this young teenager wasn't particularly threatening. I seem to remember he had light pubic hair, the thin soft patch that hadn't yet gotten tangly or burly.

He saw us climbing on the walls, and showed us what was going on. He started stroking himself, and asked us if we would to it for him.

We didn't want to. We asked him if he could touch it with his mouth. He showed us that he could. He was that long. But he wanted us to come in – he didn't want to do it, he wanted us to.

At that point I didn't know what would happen with that cock. I simply knew I had no curiosity and a little trepidation over strangers, and didn't want to have to start something I didn't know how to finish. And if it would change my orientation somehow, which wasn't yet codified or really decided yet.

This young boy probably had experiences with that large cock, with his (perhaps) diminished state, with other, older people I could never understand.

But I knew that even if he would have enjoyed me joining him, I wouldn't particularly have. And that was somehow important to me to be a participant, not a conduit to the activity.

Cheryl Rixon

Cheryl Rixon appeared in Penthouse magazine in December of 1977, and was chosen the Penthouse pet at the beginning of 1979.

My dad had issues of Penthouse stashed in the bottom drawer of his dresser, and I found them and would peruse them with mild interest. This interest grew as I moved into puberty, and I could barely contain myself when I began to be able to purchase these illicit and magical magazines for myself, barely 17.

One of the first ones I bought was that December Penthouse, which was so much better than Playboy because they showed wide-open beavers. Not entirely wide-open, but it left little to my imagination, having not had any experience with any beavers up to that time.

Cheryl's pussy was covered with a light red hair, and her thighs were heavy, and her ass succulent the way she posed, jutting up as if to take the thrusts of cock. While her labia weren't entirely visible (Penthouse would slowly move towards that through the '80s) the shape of her pubis, and her slightly open buttocks and split ready cunt drove me to horny masturbatory convulsions dozens of times.

I think I jerked off to those pictures of Cheryl Rixon - with her light eyes, her playful gaze into the camera, and her red pussy hair, more cushion than thatch - more often, more completely, and more satisfyingly than any other single stroke-book image my entire life. (Jennifer Welles, the equally buxom and dishwater-haired porn star, probably comes in a close second.) It was all I had, before the internet, and VHS tapes.

Ms. Rixon retired from the business after appearing in some films, and is now running a perfume business.



I'm sure my obsession with red pussy hair began with her.

Dormain At Work

Dormain was the freakiest virgin I ever met. She worked at a movie theatre I used to manage, and while she was cute, she wasn't quite pretty, and while she was smart, she wasn't worldly. She knew there was a world of interesting experiences out there, and while she fiercely protected her virginity, she didn't think she should deprive herself of pleasure.

We got together about once every 2 weeks, after work in one of our cars. We'd drive somewhere and she would play with my cock, but would never let me touch her pussy. She gave me handjobs, pushing my pants down to my knees, and would taste my cum when it oozed out. Her blowjobs were tentative but playful. She laughed a lot, but wouldn't take off her pants. I couldn't even get her to go down to her underwear, although I did touch her tits.

She convinced me to drink only certain things the day before we would plan to get together – V8 or pineapple juice. She would tell me not to eat any red meat. And for 3 days I wouldn't.

And she would report on how my cum tasted. I did whatever she told me, but it only lasted about 2 months. It wasn't right, and she had learned what she wanted. That she could do that. To me, a co-worker. I never told anyone about it until this. And I was glad to be rid of the whole thing too.

She moved to go to college shortly thereafter.