Allison

She was driving, and I was daydreaming as I watched the brown hills on both sides of the highway. We were coming through a pass, down the eastern slope of the Sierras, on our way to Arizona. We weren't talking much. I didn't know what she thought of me, really. In my more paranoid moments, I worried that she didn't really approve of me at all, and just let me ride with her because she couldn't afford to make the trip alone. I knew she had been with men, but a great deal of her talk was anti-men, all about the myriad ways men oppress women. In her eyes, I was probably just another sexist pig. Maybe she was right, I decided, wondering what she looked like between her legs.

It was our first day on the road from San Francisco -- early November 1974. I was heading back to North Carolina after a summer in San Francisco. No, it wasn't the Summer of Love, which had been years earlier. By the time I got to Haight Street, every other storefront was boarded up, and drab, dirty panhandlers roamed the streets. But the counter-culture was still strong. For me, the city was a liberating place to be. People were living the ideas we had only talked about in college. There were food co-ops run by Communists -- real ones! I had been sorely tempted to stay, but decided to keep my commitment to start a new job back east at the end of the month. I decided to ride back with Allison, whose car was now loaded with all her belongings. She was returning, in time for the holidays, to live with her parents for a month or so before starting graduate school in January. She needed someone to share expenses.

Allison was short, with jet-black hair, perfectly straight, parted in the middle, down to her waist. And she had a face to die for. It was (and still is) a face of striking beauty, but strong. At first look you know she can be tough. She didn't smile that often, really, but when she did it was a wide smile, and her dark brown eyes sparkled. Her complexion is darkish, too -- one of her great-grandmothers was a Cherokee.

I had known her in college, but not well; she was in an outer circle of friends. Soon after graduation, she and her best friends -- three other girls -- moved to San Francisco and took their feminist leanings to new levels. But that is the last time I will call them "girls," a word they have foresworn for any female past puberty. They steeped themselves in feminist books, encounter groups, and self-help women's health workshops where they took off their jeans and gave themselves pelvic exams with speculums and hand mirrors. They wanted to take control of their own health. They wanted to escape all the games and be real women. They stopped using makeup. They stopped shaving their legs and underarms.

I knew all this because they let me sleep on the living-room floor of their flat in the Haight-Ashbury district when I drifted (hitchhiking) to San Francisco a year later. I lived there a whole month until I found a place of my own. I got to know them better and did my share of the housework. We had house meetings to air grievances and plan the week's menu and cleaning schedule. On the wall of the kitchen was that Maoist poster of a Chinese woman welder with bulging biceps.

Living with four women, I sometimes had trouble getting to sleep in my sleeping bag. Allison was my favorite, and she figured in my masturbatory fantasies. I never "hit on" her or any of her roommates. I guess I was intimated by their politics. I didn't want to make the wrong move and be condemned by all four of them as a "male chauvinist," a frequently used phrase in that household. But there was more to it than that. I had lusted after Allison ever since I saw her on campus freshman year. She was popular, usually accompanied by lots of friends, and I guess I thought she was unattainable. Getting to know her a little better in San Francisco didn't help. I figured wasn't good enough for her.

No, they didn't hate men. All were heterosexual and were sexually active to varying degrees. It was the Seventies, pre-AIDS. Some, including Allison, would bring men home to spend the night with them now and then, and their moans and grunts would usually arouse me. I resorted to "Rosy Palm," my faithful right hand.

And yet it is safe to say Allison had a chip on her shoulder. She and her roommates were always quick to take offense at any offhanded remark, no matter how offhanded or ironic, that could possibly be interpreted as a putdown of womankind. The way I saw it, I could not help having been born male and raised in a patriarchal society, but that excuse was scorned. I unwittingly sparked corrective lectures, which were delivered with varying degrees of resentment. I got used to it.

My daydreaming had turned into a deep sleep in which the smooth, brown hills became Allison's thighs, reclining. I didn't wake up until we pulled into the parking lot of a motel near the Arizona border. We could only afford one room, and at the check-in desk Allison made sure it had two beds.

"Don't get any ideas," she whispered to me in the motel office. I nodded. Her forearms were on the counter, which was just a little too high for her as she filled out the registration card, and she must have noticed I had been eyeing her underarm hair through the loose short sleeve of her peasant blouse. It wasn't the first time. The hair didn't bother me; quite the contrary.

After dumping our stuff in the room, we found a diner within walking distance. In a freewheeling conversation at dinner, I somehow ended up telling her how attractive I found her, and how I had always been afraid to say so. I was afraid she might be offended, since men tend to put way too much emphasis on a woman's looks, the whole fashion/advertising establishment makes women chase perfection and come up short, which lowers their self-esteem, etc. We both knew these issues. Even before I was finished, I started to worry that I had gone too far. I was only her paying passenger, so why was I turning our meal into a confessional? But the 1970s were a time of truth telling and soul bearing, and she took it well, I thought. She thanked me for the compliment, then she changed the subject.

Back at the room we watched some TV to relax, teasing each other as I surfed through 57 channels of drivel. In one show there was a bikini-clad actress on the beach. It sticks in my memory because when I moved on to the next channel Allison taunted me. "I thought you'd stay longer on that one," she said with a laugh that turned into a giggle. It was good to see her laugh. But soon we agreed we were both tired and decided to turn in.

I sleep in the nude, but we removed our clothes in total darkness at opposite sides of the room. After a restless night, I got up early, took a shower, and dressed in the bathroom. When I came out, Allison was standing there in a cotton nightgown, holding her clothes, apparently all business and ready to get back on the road after her own shower. We passed in the doorway with perfunctory smiles. "Morning," we said in unison. I sat on the end of my bed and opened our map to check the day's route.

When she came out, I immediately turned the TV off and reached for my pack.

"Wait," she said.

I turned to see her freshly scrubbed face. Her hair was combed, but not quite dry. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Since she didn't believe in bras, Allison's white peasant blouse had already given me a little peek at her breasts. Now, to my utter amazement, she crossed her arms and lifted the blouse over her head, exposing her hairy armpits. It was then that I got a good look at her pert nipples arising from small areolae. They tilted up. They were so beautiful, perfectly proportioned for her slender build.

Then, before I had a chance to react, she shoved her jeans and panties (she would have called it underwear) to the floor. It was the biggest thatch of pubic hair I had ever seen. Black of course, and unruly. But soft, not wiry. "Whoa," I thought. But then, smiling enthusiastically, she lay down on her bed with her knees up and opened her legs wide. There it was, the "gash" -- what the novelist Tom Robbins has called "the vertical smile." No worries. Her open slit, pink and glistening, pushed everything else from my mind, demanding my full attention. It beckoned me, with life's most urgent imperative. I was so excited that I practically dove between her legs. I licked her labia, inner and outer, slowly at first, up one side and down the other, as my hands grasped her hips and traveled upward to those breasts. I cupped them, then lightly, ever so lightly, pinched the brown nipples. I had her in the "rock lobster" position. "Yeah," she said with a sigh.

She smelled and tasted so fresh. I know I called it a "thatch," but up close I learned that her abundant pubic hair was not at all like the close fur of an animal, and not at all matted or tangled. It was just fragrant, curly hair. It was not difficult to part that hair and find Allison's clitoris. I teased the slippery nubbin with my tongue, which elicited a sharp intake of breath. But I then I moved my mouth lower, sticking my tongue slowly, gently, into her vagina. She liked that, too. Her juice was flowing heavily now, sticky and sweet. I brought my fingers down from her breasts across her tight, flat abdomen into her bush, massaging her mound. When one finger found the precious button, Allison started to squirm. I held her by her slim thighs. Her knees were still up. Her legs, unshaven for many months, were hairy but not outrageously so, and again the hair was soft, which turned out to be turn-on. Then I tongued her delightful gash from asshole to clit, where I took the bud in my lips and began to suck.

"Uhhh, uhhh, uhhhhhhh," said Allison. She was starting to buck, but I moved my hands from her thigh to her mound again. Into the hair they went, massaging, sort of pinching, her whole vulva, which by now was quite plump with arousal. She erupted. Her orgasm snapped her up to a sitting position as she let out a most wonderful yell: "OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" Just as quickly, she collapsed back to the mattress. I came up to kiss and stroke her cheeks and run my fingers through her hair. I kissed her on her upper lips for the first time.

This was all good, but I still had my clothes on. I jumped up to tear them off, releasing my raging hard-on, and joined her again on the bed. During some more first-class snuggling, Allison kissed me with feeling and reached down to take my erect penis in her hand, tenderly. After some exquisitely soft stroking, she sat up, bent over, and took the glans into her warm mouth. The pleasure was mind-boggling. I groaned. But it got better. She pivoted and swung one leg over my head. I looked up to see that sweet, hairy pussy descending to my face. Just as my tongue entered her vagina, Allison swallowed my whole penis! It was my first deep-throat experience. As I licked and sucked her dripping honeypot, she began to buck again. She slathered my whole face with her slimy, wide-open cunt. Her moaning made her throat vibrate, and you can believe I felt that. With my hands I squeezed and kneaded her ass cheeks, which were totally and naturally hairless. We were so excited. This was the best sixty-nine ever, and I wanted it to last, but I knew I couldn't hold back my orgasm much longer. I dipped a finger into her slick snatch and slid it up into her ass. Direct hit! We came together, bucking and sucking each other into the bliss of complete and utter release and fulfillment.

Slowly, after all the twitching had stopped, Allison turned back around so we were head to head. We kissed lightly, in awe of the power that we had just experienced. We lay in each other's arms, sighing and trading endearments. Gradually, the calm began to wane, and our desire again began to build.

As our hands skimmed down to the other's genitals, blood rushed into my penis. "Will you come in me?" she asked in a whisper. My answer was to mount her and plunge my hard cock into her welcoming pussy. Oh my god did it feel good. I just don't have the words; you've heard them all before. Allison's vagina was a perfect fit for me, and months of Kegel exercises -- contracting and releasing the vaginal muscles -- had given her such control of that organ that she milked me like you'd expect with some prostitute. Boy, did she know what she was doing. I was flabbergasted, and once again I knew I was about to come, so I sped up, pumping hard, bumping against her clit with my pubic bone. She lifted her legs up and wrapped them around my back. Once again, yelling again, we came together! We knew we had found a good thing.

As you may have guessed, we registered at the motel for another night. After lunch at the diner, we returned to the room. We took another shower (this time together, with giggles). Drying each other off, we began stroking each other again, and one thing led to another. I was rock hard, leaning against the sink, and Allison squatted to take me in her mouth. I experienced a rush of pleasure, of course, but I kept picturing her lower lips, which I knew must have opened when she squatted. I remembered our sixty-nine, and I wanted to taste her again and make her squeal. All of a sudden, I had an idea. Actually, I didn't take time to think, I just did it. I reached down to take her by the hips, and I started to lift. She immediately knew what I wanted, and let me lift and turn her body so she was upside down. She wasn't that heavy. My arms curled around her back. Her mouth left my penis for a few seconds during this repositioning, but then she locked her legs around my neck and her mouth around my dick. I was looking down at her forested pink cleft again. The smell was delightful, fresh. I lowered my mouth. My lips and tongue went to work, and we both let out loud groans. It was so different, so exciting, that I soon felt my cum rising. But I wanted her pleasure to be just as intense, so I redoubled my efforts; my licking turned to sucking. I got my mouth around her whole fleshy pudenda and sucked. She began to buck and moan. She jerked her mouth away from my erection and gasped, then uttered another long moan: ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh... I swirled my tongue all over her inner labia. Although her bucking continued, she took just the head of my penis back in her mouth and swirled her tongue around it. I knew she was trying to make me come, so I kissed her cute little clit and began to suck it, hard. She exploded. I exploded. Both of us were roaring. My knees were so weak; I'm glad I had the sink to lean against. Slowly we sank to the rug, as the roaring turned to laughter. Such delight.

A nap was in order. We snuggled and nuzzled and fell asleep in each other's arms. We slept for hours and awoke at about 7:00. Dinner at the diner, same booth. I had meat loaf this time and voiced that tired joke, "Don't let your meat loaf." Allison flashed me a mock-disapproving look that quickly turned to a smile. We mooned at each other across the table, anticipating more pleasure soon.

Returning to the room, we turned the lamp down low. No TV this time. We kissed, and slowly undressed each other. You can imagine the rest. More cooing, more fucking, more roaring, for most of the night. A lot of it was that long, slow fucking. We got lost in each other's eyes. We were truly making love. The pleasure cycle would build, and we would find ourselves clawing up the cliff of ecstasy, urgently grabbing for orgasmic release, then coasting down the other side. We repeated the sweet cycle again and again, swept away, lost in the moment, until we surrendered to a few hours of deep sleep.

The next morning we were back in her car, but our conversation was no longer stilted. Instead, we were tender and supportive of each other. As the miles ticked by, we basically told each other our life histories (or "herstories," as she said they should be called), our hopes, our dreams, our fears. We shared everything with each other, and I felt like the luckiest man alive. Allison and I had transcended the battle of the sexes. Needless to say, the rest of the cross-country trip was memorable. We took our time.

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