LJ Idol - Week 11 - Sexual Healing
Since Eve tempted Adam with an apple, women have used seduction to encourage, manipulate, increase their worth, and assert their power. When I was young, I also used sex to heal. My insecurities, my fear of abandonment, my hyperactive psyche, I discovered I could tame them with sex like the lashing of a dominatrix's whip or concubine’s tongue.
I filled myself up and up with cock and in the middle of the act, anointed with heady adolescent passion, gazing half-lidded through a sheen of sweat and the steamed up windows of a Chevy Blazer, I was able to forget myself and forgive myself- at least till the afterglow faded.
Rarely did I look back at what I’d done or who I’d done it with and experience an ounce of guilt. I may have been easy, but I wasn’t stupid. Sex made me feel powerful, beautiful, talented even. It was an art, and like a sculptor’s apprentice, I steeped myself in the tradition of great artists, read what I could, watched what I could and practiced my craft frequently, in beds and movie theaters and on the dressing room floor at the Express.
Sometimes I was calculating, conducting experiments and gathering data on what moves made the most impact. For instance, pushing a finger into my dripping wet sex and then languidly licking it off during foreplay practically drew applause, and there’s a reason those porn star hotties gaze wide-eyed and expectant at their lover’s face when his dick is collarbone-deep down her throat…guys get off on watching their junk in action!
This extraordinary extracurricular schooling made me feel like a sorceress, but I also believed I was using sex to heal the men - really just overgrown boys - that I was sleeping with. I have always been a little mother, playing Wendy to all those Peters, telling them the sweetest bedtime stories I could imagine before blowing their minds on a picnic table at the park.
I felt I could fuck them to completeness, to happiness, and balance. And it often worked, for a while, until I got tired of using my body as a Bandaid for whatever wounds they were licking. Rarely did I feel remorse for any of the lovers I had taken…and left…but there were a few that made me ashamed of myself.
MC, a virgin at 17 and a little on the chubby side is one of those few. He was a good boy, a weekly churchgoer, active in his youth group and adorable, but insecure because he had recently lost all this weight and girls had never paid him attention before. We met at work and my flirtations were small and innocuous so as not to scare him away.
That combination of good looks and “aw shucks” manners was irresistible. On one hand, I craved the affirmation of being liked by a good boy, because that would mean perhaps I was still a good girl, but then again, beneath that blushing exterior pumped the blood of a man - fighter and lover - and I wanted to see what the boy could do!
I led him down the path of temptation cunningly, throwing out little bread crumbs to help him keep pace as we ventured deeper into the woods. I let him think it was all his idea, but did he really believe my hand just happened to fall on his thigh, centimeters from the hardness in his jeans as we made out at the movies? Did he really think I was surprised when he put my palm on top of his cock and I paused with a look of “Oh!” before kneading it with my fingers through the denim then delicately reaching beneath his waistband (because I’d learned zippers really are a pain in situations like that?)
The whole romance lasted about five weeks. In my quiet moments away from him, my inner Reverand Dimmsdale would chide my lusty Hester Prynne to release the poor bastard and focus on more experienced prey. I never listened. We had so little in common, but I was too caught up in the game to see beyond my next move. I’d never really discussed my colorful sexual past with him either, and perhaps this was dishonest of me. He’d asked if I was a virgin, I’d said no, then acted shy and asked “Well, are you?” knowing full well the answer but wanting to deflect attention in a hurry.
Week One, we flirted tirelessly and started talking on the phone. Week Two he asked me out and we kissed a little in the movies, by Week Three he’d worked up the confidence to fondle my breasts behind a large Fraser fir at a park. Week Four he invited me to an overnight New Years Eve Party with a bunch of his goodie-good friends and I accepted, and by 2 a.m. he was giving me head behind the couch while I covered my face with a pillow to muffle my moans. And on Week Five…we had sex, in the dark, in the park, in his Toyota Corolla.
I make this story out to sound so calculated, but when it comes right down to it, the actual sex surprised me too.
It was January of 1995. We got off work and drove to a park at the lake. They were all deserted that time of year, and there were plenty of tree-covered corridors to secret a car under.
MC loved Santana. As some amazing guitar poured from the speakers his hands were making the rounds beneath my clothes. He pulled my shirt over my head, but it was I who unbuttoned my jeans, lifted my hips and found myself swiftly naked. For a moment he looked startled to have so much female flesh glowing coolly in the moonlight in his front seat, but he motioned for me to follow him and we crawled over the seats (how romantic) to the back of the car.
I straddled him without hesitation. I always loved the feeling of my nudity on a man’s clothed body - like I was free but he was trapped in bonds of chastity. On my knees, my head was above his and, like a cobra about to strike, I shifted side to side anticipating his next move. We didn’t even remove his pants, just tugged them down to his ankles in a rush.
I remember he was large, both long and wide, and in my excitement, I didn’t even consider things like a condom or the sanctity of virginity - or the fact I was about to take his in the back of a TOYOTA COROLLA!
No, as Carlos Santana lamented “She’s a black magic woman,” I placed my hands on his shoulders and raised my hips up, then wickedly eased myself onto his cock. What a show to watch the joy/pleasure/agony on his face as he experienced a warm, wet pussy for the first time!
The boy did good. He held out for at least five or six minutes of grinding before my evil ways made short work of him. I was proud of him. I had certainly had others who didn’t make it that long, so I’d been prepared to make the “Don’t feel bad, baby. That was great. It was your first time - we can always go again in a few minutes!” speech.
He took my face in his hands and kissed me.
“Was that all right?” he asked, all puppy-hopefulness and ardor.
I knew then, that very instant, that we would never have sex again, that I didn’t really like him at all, wasn’t even that attracted to him. I couldn’t waste my time playing paramour to this inexperienced guy! Hell, what was I thinking?? I really was bad.
Hiding my face in his neck for fear it would betray my ambivalence, I breathed in his ear “It was awesome.”
We had a few moments of practical formalities, looking around for something to clean up with - he wound up sacrificing his undershirt for the cause - and I was getting chilly so I had to scare up my clothes and get them right-side out again.
When we were both dressed, we clambered back to the front seat. I feigned surprise at how late it was.
“Oh God! My mom’s gonna kill me- I can’t be out till now on a school night!” I yelped.
I was silent on the drive back to my car. I have never been good at faking it anyway, and now I knew this was a lost cause. When I got out he grabbed my hand and asked plaintively “Are you o.k.?”
I lied again and said everything was fine.
My affections were always like a light switch, on and off in a mere flicker of time. I waited five whole days to tell him I didn’t think we were going to work out. I had already begun working on my next conquest and even if he couldn’t believe it, he knew it. He didn't yell at me or call me names, he just looked at me with such disappointment, disillusionment. In my heart I knew bad girls like me didn't belong with a good boy like that.
I never told him I was sorry, but then back then he made it pretty hard to feel bad for him, the way he went back to his high school and told anyone who’d listen what happened. The saddest thing was that I couldn’t deny any of it. It had been a major error in my judgement, this careless abuse of a virgin, and a mistake I never repeated.
The majority of men I have wronged I’ve made amends with, cleared my conscience, become their adult friend where I’d had difficulty being their teenage love. But not MC.
He quit work not long after I broke up with him and I never ran into him again. I hear he still lives around here somewhere, married with a couple kids.
I have wondered how I would react if I ran into he and his family at the Pizza Hut or something. Honestly, unless he approached me, I’d probably act like I didn’t see him. Brave, huh?
And if he asked me how I was doing, I’d lie like before and tell him everything was fine.
But I’d be thinking how very sorry I still am that I’d earned my callous lover badge making a mockery of his first time. The funny thing is, he probably doesn’t even think of me any longer, but in my guilt, I will always remember him.
In true Catholic style, this was my confession. Now if only I felt absolved of my sins.