Sex Education

My roommate Zaftig, Dr Rebecca Barton and I drove back to Capitalland from her brother Ian's wedding downstate in such silence that you could hear the treads of my tires meeting the road as we plunged through the pre-dawn October darkness. How had it come to this overwhelming feeling of disappointment? Who was I disappointed in, Zaftig or myself?

The trip didn't start that way.

In anticipation of taking Zaftig to her brother's wedding, I had juggled my schedule waitressing and in law school, to make the trip. I also had to take an advance from our mutual friend Al Mandy to pay Zaftig past due rent just to keep her from belly aching.

"To get the money," I shook my head, "Al, I knew you'd get your pound of flesh for the favor, but really appearing naked extra in a parade of freaks. I went through most of my life hiding my deformed chest. Now, I flaunt it."

"Proudly, Erica! Be proud! Consider it a promotion. You will appear your first time fully naked in a film in the completely legitimate theatre," tall, bronzed Al Mandy defended himself, "You'll be in good company. The star of the flick America's little girl," Al stressed the British pronunciation: g -- e -- l -- l, "Beverley Botticelli will present full frontal nudity for the first time in this scene."

"Legitimate film? You Al?" I, after receiving his money, teased him, "People in my neighborhood down state in The Fenlands revere medical doctors as saints. How do you reconcile your involvement in pornography with your saintly medical degree?"

"I say, my dear Erica!" Al, in his affected British accent, exclaimed, "I'm most fully committed to the study of anatomy." In affecting impersonal British humor, Al had the capacity, like Zaftig, to disconnect from personal involvement.

When I returned home, I caught Zaftig full figured bare towel over her shoulder on her way to the shower. Handing over her past due rent to Zaftig in our apartment, I commented, "you've forgotten that in spring and early summer, I paid the full rent for this apartment out of my tip jar and appearing bare ass tongue kissing a naked girl in a shower scene for Al Mandy. Sometimes, you live by a balance sheet; when it's in my favor, you have an excuse; when it's in yours, you'd willingly nail me to the cross."

With her gold cross dangled between her impressive DD breasts, Zaftig grabbed the money out of my hand and counted it. I expressed shock, "You could have waited. I don't suppose you intend to stuff the money up your slit. You do prize your virginity."

"When my friend gave me this cross," Zaftig, wrapping the chain in her fingers, holding the cross in her hands, and kissing it, reminded me of her pledge, "I promised to wear it always while I remained untouched and pure."

"Pure?" I questioned.

Ignoring the question, Zaftig invited me to join her in the shower to wash the hot humid day away. "In this heat, a few minutes under the shower will open those pores and remove the sebaceous secretion (SEBUM) which passes to the surface of the epidermis."

"It isn't what you say. It's how you say it," I hugged her as she clutched the money against her chest, "You could act like a bitch and still bring a smile to my face."

Drawing away, Zaftig ordered, "Strip. You need to get in an unclothed condition to enjoy the shower with me."

In the shower, Zaftig faced the wall as I soaped her up. "Al apologized," I told Zaftig, "that he can't drive you down state in October. He is in the wedding party but needs to stay downstate, he says `a wee bit longer' to attend to family matters."

Stretching, holding her hands aloof into the drizzle, Zaftig leaned into me. Standing on her tippytoes, she shoved her fleshy butt into my belly. Her breath became deeper as I lathered her under boobs.

"`Mater and Pater'" Zaftig chuckled, "are at as Al puts it `at sixes and sevens.' Father works with Al's ugh -- pater at Clintonville Landing Hospital. Al's `Mumsie' became Americanized faster than Al's pater. Mumsy wants a divorce. Al and `pater' are devastated. To them family is everything."

"Oxford English," I commented.

In the balance, despite the flare up over the delay in delivering my share of the rent, everything between me and my roommate Zaftig -- Dr Rebecca Barton seemingly went smoothly. I wrote off the flare up over nerves about the wedding and the reunion with her family. Possibly, I rationalized, that explained her snippy behavior.

Tuesday evening before Columbus Day, I picked up Zaftig from work about 45 minutes past 6PM, freshly showered and casually dressed. In the car, Zaftig apologized for being late. "Sorry for being late," Zaftig was exasperated, "I thought I'd never get rid of Al Mandy."

"Oh, did he call?" I asked.

"No," Zaftig was emphatic, "Al raced up to Capitalland from downstate," Zaftig disbelief entered her voice, "to unveil his idea for a new flick. He was very impressed with brother Ian's bride. She's an amputee, wearing a prosthetic leg. It gave Al an idea for a new nude script involving a disabled person. He wants me to suggest some student who wants to play psychiatrist."

"You didn't just tell Al to write a script and let you review it?" I asked as I drove down Capitalland's main drag Triumphal Way through the modernistic state office buildings under construction to reach the Interstate.

"I think ugh -- Al," Zaftig blurted out, "made a pass at me. I told him I needed to undress to change into clothes more suitable for travel." After a pause -- waiting for me to express surprise, she continued, "Al told me, `proceed please don't let me stop you. You haven't anything I haven't scrutinized before.'"

"Fresh!, I interjeced.

"Clothes off, " Zaftig continued her account, "after retrieving a towel from my desk, I started toward the bathroom. Al was shocked. He remained seated on the office chair as I strode toward the shower. `Joining me?' Turning to face him, I asked. `Get your clothes off. We need to hurry. I have Erica waiting.'"

"You grossed him out!" I exclaimed, "Somehow it's not surprising that a lecherous man becomes a coward. You should write a script for Al's next movie."

"Oh, he eventually approached the door," Zaftig fell into that disconnected mode as if she were lecture hall, "I splashed him and invited hm to join me, but he stayed trying to tell me how the acceptability of nudity in the legitimate theatre has required him to look at more exotic forms of sexuality -- the freak show. But Al became inarticulate while watching me. How would you coax a man like Al to copulate?"

"You want to get Al Mandy in the sack?" I chuckled. "You talk like I'm a slut," I replied, "I prefer women, but I admit I've done guys. Guys, ugh they're different. Women are a constant. Women keep going, but men come in spurts."

Zaftig chuckled.

"First if he's shy you have to help him undress," I replied, "I never expected to have to give a doctor anatomy lessons."

"I tried to stay away from OBYGYN -- eh maternity," Zaftig commented, "I didn't want to be categorized as a woman doctor limited to specific fields -- maternity, teaching, administration."

"Be a doctor," I suggested, "Take charge."

"Like I did playing doctor with my brother Josh," Zaftig asked, "Clothes off. Take vitals...".

"The vital you need to take is his erection," I chuckled.

"Hmm, no difference there, we need to examine the problem," Zaftig suggested, "We must get him properly gowned. How do we do that?"

"Suggest he take a shower," I observed, "It's hot. It's been a long sweaty day. Let's wash the day away. Join him in the shower."

"Fuck in the shower?" Zaftig held her hand over her mouth.

"Oh, c'm'n, I know you had a boyfriend before I met you," I chided Zaftig.

"I never allowed my ex-boyfriend to shower with me -- he wanted to," Zaftig recalled.

"OK, the shower allows for a little touchy feely, soaping him up and massaging his projectile. Hold it against your slit, dangle it there to tease him before you rinse and towel him dry." I explained, "Now, you've his clothes off. You're naked together. You've teased him and pointed out the way ahead."

"What if he introduces his tumescent penis in my vaginal tract?" Zaftig asked.

"Just crams it in?" I chuckled. "Mission accomplished. But many shy guys will just look away," I explained.

"Will he simply dress and leave you boiling over?" Zaftig asked.

"If you allow it," I laughed. "Instead. Get your nervous guy to close his eyes and lie flat on the bed, His erection should rise perpendicular to his body. Run your fingernail along the side of his penis. There should be blue streaks along the sides of his projectile."

"Blood filling the sinusoids of corpora cavernosa," Zaftig interjected, "maintain the rigidity."

"Once your breathing and his is in synch and deepens," I led her to the next step,

"You're ready to climb on the bed, squat over him, tuck him inside you, lower your body to absorb his penis. Then lift yourself up until the head of his penis is barely in touch with your opening then crash down slowly. With every rise and fall, quicken the pace."

"I'm doing all the work," Zaftig pouted, "He's lying supine. He'll ejaculate. It's a pure question of hydraulics exciting him beyond the point of no return. I gone into Hyperhidrosis eh--drenched in sweat. He's ejaculated. His spermatozoa has been shot into me. Our bodily secretions are dripping from my internal reproductive tract. Eh..."

"Supine -- sublime -- you're prime. What if he cums and you can't?" I teased her. "Give him 15 minutes and mount him again. He'll get used to having sex. Guys like animalist sex. Next time all you need do is throw him a hint."

"A hint?" Zaftig asked.

"Once he gets used to the bill of fare, he'll take your cue. Bend over wiggle, give him a dare to play with you, Touch your toes, He'll be ripping at your clothes Be sure what you wear is easily doffed."

"Sounds like rape," Zaftig protested.

"On round two, once he spent his wad," I laughed, "you take the upper birth, ride him like a wild cowgirl until he begs to allow him to cum. You've broken the bronc." After a pause, I cautioned, "Before you engage the beast make sure you've refilled your birth control prescription."

"Where is the love, the romance, the sudden rapture, looking into each other's eyes?" Zaftig asked.

"Oh, the missionary position? A little vanilla sex can be worked into this," I continued, "After he gets his rocks off, ripping your clothes off, bending you over to penetrate you from the rear, and you cum riding his saddle horn like a wild cowgirl, he may come alive during the night. Just spread your legs and go back to sleep."

"You're terrible," An evil undertone infected Zaftig's chuckling.

"Oh, it'll work. Try it out. I will too. Let's see who beds Al Mandy first?" I suggested,

"Between medicine and porn, it is difficult to believe that Al would be squeamish around naked women," Zaftig observed.

"It's different. In medicine or porn there is an objectivity, a detachment as if Al is an observer not a participant," I speculated. "My technique will break through that hardened shell he protects himself in."

"In med school the first year's objective is to create that air of detached but present concern," Zaftig went into her own detached mode in response, "to copulate with him you must penetrate his defenses to attain intimacy."

"Penetrate to be penetrated? OK, what kind of birth control are you going to use?" I laughed. "That's why women are so much easier to deal with. We're cleaner. And there's no risk of getting knocked -- up. And with a strap-on girls can do pretty much what a man does -- only better. Want to try it out?"

It was midnight when we crossed the Soundview Bridge. First exit off the interstate led to a long avenue which intersected with The Clintonville Road. We entered the Landing Motel's office in a cheery mood with a lively step, arm -- in -- arm. When the Clerk examined my driver's license and presented a bill, Zaftig gave me that distant stare, as if suddenly she wasn't there, no longer directly interacting. She had divorced herself from me entirely, suddenly turning distant and cold like a statue.

I prodded her with a reminder of our disparate incomes, "You have the money. I just paid all your rent. Unless you pay for the motel, I won't have the money for the drive home."

Plunking the money down on the counter, "Pay me my overdue rent and now," Zaftig's tone was emphatic, "you want it back. Why didn't you just keep the money?" Zaftig snarled her face contorted.

"Perhaps I should have bought you one of those new Electronic Calculators," I replied in a calm voice, "That way you could work the balance sheet faster." Looking away in exasperation, I declared, "There are times when I think we play the wrong roles: forte at calculating the balance sheet belongs to you; by default, the gold cross belongs to me."

"Never mind. I'll walk to Landing Hospital nearby." The expression on her face was sharp. "There I can get a ride home." Noticing the shock on my face, she added, "-- to my father's house in Clinton Manor."

"You wanted me along to hitch a ride," I protested, "At least, you could stay with me here at the motel," I protested. What am I supposed to do here by myself?"

Turning as she strode toward the door, Zaftig answered in a hash tone, "You brought some of your books. Do your coursework. You'll have plenty of quiet!" At the door, her final words were unapologetic, shaking her head, Becky in angry tones exclaimed, "It would have been cheaper for me to have taken the train."

I shook my head. As brilliant as she was Zaftig never learned how to drive.

Why did I put up with Zaftig's mercurial temper and her temper tantrums lately over rent? She reads the balance sheet strictly in her favor forgetting that earlier in the summer when she was worked around the clock unable to cash her checks, I covered the rent out of my tip jar waitressing, taking a role in one of Al Mandy's porn films and posed nude for a doctor who, in the process of compiling photos for a medical text, fell in love with me.

Why did I put up with her? Yes, I felt an obligation. Becky took me in when my previous roomie tossed me. I felt betrayed. My ex-roommate and I had been intimate. I allowed my ex-roommate to lick my hollow chest -- No one ever dared touched me there. I was still hesitant about exposing my chest, but much less so. And it was Zaftig who gave me the courage to be self-confident.

During the week, most days, I remained in my Che Guevara T shirt and a pair of panties reading my textbooks. Holed up in my room reading my law books, in idle moments I daydreamed about applying my sex education techniques with Al Mandy in mind. He liked photographing naked women, but there was an objectivity a detachment. There were occasional complaints about missing panties, but none of his Dirty Dozen actresses ever complained of Al making advances. Like Zaftig, he divorced himself from the scene and people, a disinterested, uninvolved spectator. I'll bet Al is afraid of his involvement in a sexual situation.

Zaftig's father and probably Al's too were pushing to mate the two. On Al's side it was to establish an American connection. On Zaftig's side, her father was overly impressed with foreigners. Who would bed shy Al first? Me or my friend and roommate?

Friday the day before the wedding, I was visited by Al Mandy. Throwing a bikini on the bed, Al gruffly ordered, "put it on."

"What?" I protested. "I can't do that!"

"You accepted a considerable advance from me to appear as a nude extra in a parade of freaks." Al insisted, "You have to prove me you're worthy of my confidence. Thus, you can wear a bikini and, if I order it, you will."

Grabbing me by the shoulders, Al turned me around. I looked at myself in the mirror. Al neatly combed my shoulder length hair. "We present you to yourself," Al commented. Reaching under my oversized T -- shirt, Al exclaimed, "The ultimate rebel is what's underneath." With a swish of Al's hands sweeping up from my hips along my sides brushing past my boobs and massaging my underarms raising my arms over my head, Al lifted my Che Guevara T shirt over my head and threw it across the room.

"We have nothing that horrible to see!" Al exclaimed, "Do we?"

Al yanked at the thin elastic strand holding up my panties. They fell to the floor. I was naked staring at myself in the mirror. I leaned back against Al. I whispered, "Get undressed Al. We're going to the pool together."

Obligingly, Al opened his buckle and dropped his pants. "Feel your magic," Al cooed as he pressed his erect penis against my butt. As we rocked back and forth with increasing intensity, I partially squatted to allow his engorging member slowly fill my crack.

"You and Becky are an item," Al whispered.

I pulled away, "Zaftig and I are devoted to each other," I explained, "Zaftig believes `a relationship with a woman doesn't exclude the possibility of a man injecting his spermatozoa to stamp her genetic imprint on generations to follow.' In her mind, until she's touched by a man, she's still a virgin. That's the significance of the golden cross around her neck."

"That sounds like Becky," Al intoned at a high pitch.

Turning to Al, I, noticing pre-cum on the tip of his swollen penis, I took a drop on my fingertip and placed it on my tongue. After a pause, I warned, "We better get down to the pool before we decide to do something else."

Bikini on I strolled onto the pool deck where young mother with two small children looked up from her newspaper when Al and I entered the pool area. Noticing us, she returned to her reading.

Ignored by Zaftig at Zaftig brother Ian's wedding. I was crammed at a table next to the band. On the podium Zaftig in a low cut gown with her cross dangling between her partly exposed boobs, sat with Al Mandy. Was Zaftig clutching her cross in her hands? Her stony glare in my direction had no flicker of recognition.

Planting a kiss on Zaftig's cheek, Al Mandy left the podium to join me. Eying the slit up my right leg in my full-length gown, Al Mandy daringly ran a finger up my right side from my ankles along the partially exposed right butt to my hip. To my reproof, Al mockingly protested, "I am a doctor."

"Doctor -- Patient privilege?" I chuckled, watching Al's finger advance up my exposed leg.

Al retorted, "The privilege is a protection the patient enjoys."

When Al rose to rejoin Becky at the podium, I took my leave. "Early curtain call," I apologized to my table mates, Becky's classmates from the Convent School. All at once decided to follow me out.

The freak parade went well enough. Ordered to strip, I had to leave my clothes in a bag. Standing around naked for hours, I met a dwarf who went to High School with me. "Oh they need to leave you naked for a few hours to allow clothing lines to fade," Jena advised me. "Then the star will show up and zip zip they'll film and a few minutes later, we'll be handed our clothes with a `free to go.'"

I seem to have endured the shoot well enough. Beverly Botticelli's butt, when revealed by an aide who swept her knee robe away, did seem a lot bigger than I would have expected.

The following night, our last night before our return up yonder to Capitalland, Al and I met Jena at her home. Al pitched his idea of a freak show.

"We have a unique opportunity to find a new medium," Al presented his proposal, "where our interests will coincide. Exhibition of freaks at side shows at carnivals have become under evolving social standards socially unacceptable. Many towns outlaw them as exploitive. I'm also pressed. The legitimate theatre has embraced the nudie cuties."

Returning to my motel with Al, after discussions of a new porn series, I excused myself to change out of slacks and blouse. Removing my bra, I donned my oversized Che Guevara T -- shirt. Looking at myself in the mirror I mused, It should slide off easily enough. Rejoining Al on the porch in front of the room, we drank champagne from the box of wedding favors I lifted on my way out of the wedding.