Swinging in the 70s

Friday might be a sleep-in day, but it's also a busy day. I had three classes, the last a two o'clock, which meant I had four hours in one- and two-hour blocks, to fill. So I was in the student union reading, drinking coffee, studying, and admiring the girls for a couple of hours, and in the library, huddled in my little carrel for a couple of more.

On the way home I stopped at the Kroger's store, as I almost always did, and picked up a couple of cases of beer.

I was home about 3:30 and, being the serious student I was, turned on the desk lamp and spent the final hour and a half of my work week studying the intricacies of calculating price elasticities of demand and trying to think of a way to quantify it and wondering if it might be predictive. Today, it would have been the work of a few seconds to refine Google search terms and see what had been done on the subject already. In 1973, I would need to find hard copies of journals, review whatever data I could find, try to figure out how to set up experimental controls if such was even possible, and, well, that's about as far as I got when there was a knock on the door.

I glanced at the clock and saw it was 4:28.

"What?" I asked as I opened the door and saw Sandy from the trailer down the hill, John's sister.

"We're having a party tonight and, well," and I couldn't help but smile at the way she blushed. Sandy was, as this exchange occurred, 18. She had been married for two years, Tom's child bride of 16 when they said their vows. She was one of those girls who was cute as a button with curly hair, round face, very small breasts, and an oversized ass.

"I talked to Myra and Tom and I thought you and Monica might like to come," she finished.

"Sure," I said, my mind still in school mode, "I'll let Monica know when she gets her and we'll be down. Appreciate the invite. But I'm back to work now," and swung the door shut.

I finished my thinking, jotting down a few notes, thinking I might actually be onto something here, and then the alarm clock I kept on my desk dinged politely, signaling it was 5:01.

I grinned, turned off my desk lamp, stacked my papers and books, and went into the kitchen.

I popped the top off on a beer, loaded up the little pipe I had made from brass plumbing parts, and took a deep hit of the not-very-good pot we had. Five hits, though, and I was pleasantly buzzed.

Monica wasn't home yet, so I turned on the little 19-inch color TV we had purchased when the Holiday Inn upgraded their equipment, and turned on the Atari game console, one of my very few splurges. I sat then, cross-legged on the floor (don't I wish I could still do that), and chased

Asteroids

across the screen in the screen borders mode that I had been the only one of our group to master.

Monica came in, finally, a little after six, looking flushed and smiling.

"That study group just would NOT shut up," she said, holding my eyes a bit too directly. We had been married five years by then, and I knew her tells pretty well.

"Did you get laid?" I asked.

The sudden stillness told me I had struck a nerve. She held my eyes for several seconds before saying, "Yes."

I grinned, held out my arms, and said, "Good. I don't have to feel guilty then."

Her eyes got big at that, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she went into the kitchen, got two beers and the pot pipe, and joined me on the couch. We drank our beers and smoked pot, her playing catchup, for a few minutes in companionable silence before she turned to me, kissed my cheek, and said, "I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours."

I laughed, the pot working now, even cheap, not-very-good pot always gives me the giggles, and started telling her of my morning with Darla while she told me of her afternoon with a guy named Roger and his wife, Linda. I had met them at some school thing or other, so I at least knew who she was talking about.

Her story was, if I'm being honest here, much more interesting than mine. After all, mine was pretty straightforward, a man and a woman having sex. Hers was a three-way with other, well, features.

Roger, it turned out, was the first man Monica was ever with who was uncircumcised. Christ, she waxed almost poetic describing his cock, the scent she found when she pulled back his foreskin, the way his glans just peeked out when he was erect.

The most interesting part was the interaction with Linda. Hell, I got hard myself as she described how she and Linda had licked up the shaft of Roger's erection until their tongues met at the tip and it turned into a kiss. I squirmed as she described each woman taking one of his balls into her mouth and sucking gently.

Then she described, in detail, how she had mounted him, cowgirl fashion, as Linda mounted his face and the girls kissed over him while taking their pleasure.

Yeah, I got hard.

"Okay," I said when she was done, and I couldn't help noticing the flush on her face and the scent in the air. The telling was getting to her too.

"The way I see it," I said, kind of proud that my voice was steady, "we have two choices right now. We can retire to the bedroom and fuck like monkeys, or we can show control and delayed gratification, go down to the get-together at Tom and Sandy's, and see what develops."

She smiled. "Well," she said, "I'm pretty well satisfied right now so I vote for the party."

"Typical woman," I said, "always thinking of your own pleasure first." But I was chuckling as I said it.

She grinned. "Men are easy, Honey," she said and started out the door, "Come along now."

So I followed, pretty high and buzzing from the two beers we had drunk quickly.

Down at Tom and Sandy's double-wide, the party was already going on. As we walked in, Randy latched onto Monica, first with a kiss and then with a hand planted possessively on her ass, while Myra kissed me, long and thoroughly, and then took my hand and started leading me around.

It's funny, really, the way my point of view of these people, most of whom I knew at least casually, changed since I had Myra and, since, evidently, the word was out that Monica and I were now part of the swinging lifestyle.

So I looked at Kay's ridiculously big breasts, I would later peek at her bra and find my estimate of 44HH to be close. The bra was actually 42GG. I accepted Brenda's kiss, a serious man-woman kiss, not some

faxu

European peck on the cheek, in good humor and, I like to think, gave as good as I got.

It was a crowd. The double-wide trailer, the only one in that particular park and something still new in the world in those long ago, innocent days, seemed big, especially compared to the 10 X 50 box I called home in those days. Still, with a dozen couples, it was crowded, even when a half dozen of us would be on the deck. Between cigarettes and the pot pipe, when you opened the door it looked the damn house was on fire.

"That wasn't very nice," Sandy said, reaching around me from behind, putting her hands in the pockets of my cut-off jeans, part of that uniform all the wannabe hippies were wearing in those days, and pulling me back as she pressed forward.

"You know my deal," I said, drawing on my cigarette and taking a drink from my beer, "until five o'clock I'm a student."

She giggled at that.

"Normally, when I get the door shut in my face, I don't suck the man who did that's cock," she said and I felt her moving, her hands left my pockets and moved down my legs, and then felt her hands on my hips turning me.

"But I've been waiting too long for this to not follow through," she said as she started unbuttoning and unzipping.

In those days underwear was considered quite Plebian, and if I wasn't going to school I rarely wore any. So when she unbuttoned, unzipped, and let the cutoffs fall to my feet my erection was right there.

"Well, hello handsome," she said, opening her mouth and taking me in.

Sandy, it turned out, was a true artist with her mouth. I'm not particularly big, but my limited experience with oral sex taught me I'm long enough to trigger a woman's gag reflex. With Sandy, there was a brief instant of resistance but then she swallowed, noisily, and accepted that final inch into her throat. Then she closed her lips around my shaft, right where the pubic hair grew, and started masturbating me with her tongue.

I had never imagined anything this intense. Her throat, holding my

glans

, the head of my erection where the nerve endings were densest, was pulsing slowly while her tongue worked along the relatively less sensitive shaft.

The combination of sensations was breathtaking. What she was doing with her throat was almost painful, as if every nerve ending in my body had quit bothering trying to compete and left the field to that one small area. But the way her tongue was working held the climax, the ejaculation, the completion of nature's work, at bay.

I don't know how long she might have kept me like that, balanced. This wasn't what I would come to think of as "edging," where she would take me to the edge of ejaculation and hold me there. This was something different. It was a perfect equilibrium.

"Well, well, well, I call next," came a booming voice, breaking the mood, breaking the perfect balance she was maintaining. I glanced over and saw Tony, one of the guys I knew casually, unbuttoning his khakis. He wasn't a student. I guessed him around 30 or maybe a bit older. He was a pilot and friend of Tom's, another pilot.

As I came, Sandy pulled away quickly, holding me in her hand, guiding my ejaculation so that the hot, sticky jet of my semen left a dripping line across her forehead.

Her smile was pure joy as she held me, stroking, pulling a second pump, a second jet, this one not as hard, that she caught by moving forward and laying my cock against her cheek.

That final little spurt, as those muscles deep in my belly clenched, was just a big white teardrop of semen that she caught on her outstretched tongue.

"Good job, youngster," Tony said, "now step aside. My turn."

My body was still recovering and my cutoffs were around my ankles. I damn near fell on my face as he shouldered his way past me.

I almost laughed when I saw his pants on the floor of the deck, almost like a fireman's ready-to-go setup, and moved out of his way.

His cock, and yes, I looked, was very big around. Think one of those summer sausages you see in the deli department of your local grocery store, but short.

Sandy smiled up at him, said, "Oh yummy," opened her mouth so wide I wondered if she was going to dislocate her jaw, and took him in.

Yes, I watched, fascinated.

The way he was so casual about it, sipping at his beer, opened my eyes to this new life Monica and I were entering more than any amount of talking could have. This was truly "casual sex." Oh, I had seen Sandy and Tony interact before and they were friends, obviously. And I realized that this was just an expression of friendship. It wasn't sex without love. It was sex between friends. All of this decades before the phrase "friends with benefits" entered the American lexicon.

I was thinking about this, beer and pot are a dangerous mixture when it comes to how my mind works, when he came. And it was impressive. Christ, he came like a damn hose. The stream of his semen washed across her hair. And it went on. Before he was done with a final little spurt and a quick kiss to her lips, it looked like someone had poured about a quart of yogurt over Sandy's head.

He was casual when he gave me a high five after zipping his pants and then went back inside. And that movement, along with the way Sandy was just as casual when she took my arm and we moved back inside told me what a strange world I had entered. She made no movement to clean her face or hair and, thinking back, seemed to be proud of her look.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke, and the stereo was playing the Moody Blues

Nights in White Satin

loud enough that conversation was difficult leading to a hubbub that was annoyingly loud. In the living room, the furniture had been pushed back and the area rug rolled up. A half-dozen couples were dancing and the way they danced, the women with both arms around the man's necks and the men's hands roaming up and down women's backs, made me think of my high school prom.

I spotted Monica dancing with Frank, a casual acquaintance through Tom, part of what I would come to think of as the "Aviator Posse." He was big, bordering on fat, and bald. He was the first person I ever heard say, "God made a few perfect heads. ((dramatic pause)) The rest he covered with hair." His airplane was a twin-engine "King Air" (don't ask me for any more about it, that's all I know although a few weeks later after a wax-the-plane party he would let me take the controls while he inducted Monica into the Mile-High-Club), and he owned a factory where they made plastic things. We all had plastic chairs he had brought one time.

She had to stretch to wrap her arms around his neck and as I watched they kissed but didn't miss a step or lose the beat.

In this group, with its incredibly open sexuality, it took a few seconds before it hit me.

"I wonder where my wife's pants are?"

I thought as I watched Frank's hand casually cup her ass.

As that thought passed through my mind, Gary, another of the Aviator Posse came up, said a quick, "Hi" to me, and took Sandy's hand. "Let's dance, gorgeous," he said. She giggled and was gone.

So I stood, alone, and just watched the party. I was sipping my beer and then took a hit from the joint that John was walking around and offering, still taking it in.

I was overwhelmed, no doubt about that. I laughed to myself as Sarah Vaughn's version of

What A Difference A Day Makes

started playing. I did the quick mental arithmetic and thought,

Well, what a difference three days make anyway."

Ingrid came and stood in front of me, smiling. I was surprised to see her there. Monica and I had gravitated to two separate groups that I hadn't noticed interacting much. The Aviator Posse centered in the trailer park and we had been introduced by John and met through his brother-in-law and sister, Tom and Sandy. The Hippies centered on an old farmhouse that one of them rented, Fred and Ingrid were on the rental agreement although there were usually a dozen members of the loose commune they had formed. We met Fred and Ingrid through a college acquaintance.

I smiled back and toasted her with my beer.

"I was wondering how long it would take you guys to join in," she said, and that surprised me. I hadn't noticed any interaction between the two groups before, but here she was, big and blowsy.

Ingrid was one of those redheads with frizzy hair that would never be tamed. She was a true carrot top. She was a big girl too, looking me right in the eye in her bare feet. She was drinking directly from a bottle of

Jim Beam

and when she tipped the bottle up for a long pull that bright orange armpit hair almost glowed. She was wearing her hippie uniform, bib overalls with one strap loose letting one big tit fall free. The tit itself was very pale, a tracery of blue veins looking like a GoogleMaps road map, and an oversized nipple the same shade as the tit. The only way you could find it was the texture of the areola with very distinct love bumps, "Montgomery's Glands" if you care about nomenclature, and a big nipple.

"I, ummmm," I started but couldn't think of what else to say to that.

She laughed, the overdone laugh of someone who's been drinking her bourbon straight from the bottle.

"I've been fucking Stan," she said, referring to that mutual friend who had introduced us to Fred and Ingrid, "for four years now and he introduced me to Frank," she wound down and took another pull from her bottle.

"But I see he's a little busy right now," she went on, nodding to the dance floor. I followed her gaze and saw Monica's tonsils appeared to be receiving a tongue bath from Frank.

"Sooooo," she said, swaying a little, "Wanna fuck?"

I thought for, oh, roughly two nanoseconds before I took her hand and started leading her up the hill to our trailer.

She was giggling as she followed.

We were about halfway up the hill when she said, "Uh oh," and stopped.

I turned in time to see her bend over and throw up.

As pukefests go, it was pretty fucking spectacular.

She opened her mouth and it looked like a damn firehose was running out. What came out was very thin, almost watery, and the smell of bourbon was covered by the smell you normally associate with puke.

She laughed as she gagged and a second wave hit her.

The way the trailer park is laid out there's a central greenspace, fenced for the owner's cow, sort of a park if you don't mind cowshit. On a tall pole a single dusk-to-dawn light discouraged burglars and, in this case, made it easy to see the stain spread when her bladder control failed as she gagged and got down to thick strings of mucus and God-knows-what coming out of her mouth.

Finally, she stood, giggled, said, "Oops," and took another pull from her bottle.

"Okay, Princes Drinkstoomuch," I said, taking her hand, "Come on."

"Lead on, Prince Wantstofuck," she said, giggling.

I'll give it to the girl, she maintained even after the pukefest.

At our door, I stopped, undid the hook on the other strap of her overalls, and let them fall. She was pretty damn spectacular, even in that weak light.

"Wipe your feet," I said, opening the door and laying my hand on her big ass for support as she climbed the three steps and went into the trailer.

"Sit," I said, pointing at one of our dining room chairs.

She sat.

"I doubt," I said, moving to the drawer in our kitchen cabinet where we dumped our change and pulling out two quarters, "that there's anyone using the laundry right now. Be right back."

I took her sodden overalls to the little building that housed the park's utility room including the well pump, an oversized water heater, a big electrical panel, and some other, unidentifiable things along with a commercial washer and dryer. I put the overalls into the washing machine, put the quarter in, started it, and then headed back to see how Princess DrinksWayTooMuch was doing.

Honestly, I half expected her to be passed out on the couch.

What I found was a naked redhead sitting at the kitchen table eating a ham sandwich.

"Hey," she said, saluting me with the half-eaten sandwich, "long time no see. I'm glad you have a well-stocked refrigerator. I was just about starved after that."

Okay, that stopped me.

I just looked at her for a long ten-count before going to the refrigerator and getting a beer.

I sat and watched her eat. She was aware of me watching and deliberately started chewing with her mouth open, allowing an interesting drizzle of bread cribs and half-eaten ham to fall onto her big boobs.

She swallowed, grabbed my beer, and drank it in one long pull.

"Now," she said, standing, bringing the flaming orange bush within an inch or so of my nose, "about that fuck."

Her scent was an interesting mixture. Her womanscent, the pheromone-laden scent of her desire, was full and exciting, bringing me erect although I hadn't realized I was soft. There was a hint of urine from her loss of bladder control, a hint of vomit, and a hint of unwashed body.

"Come on," I said, "let's get you cleaned up."

I stood, took her hand, and led her into the bathroom where I started the water running.

"Now we'll need to be quick," I said, "the water heater is only 12 gallons and it's about half full of calcium. Well water, you know."

I was peeling off my clothes as I talked.

I stepped into the tub and held her hand as she followed me.

The water wasn't hot yet when I pulled the diverter so I turned her, using her as a shield as the cold water started blasting from the shower head. The system might deliver water so hard it filled the water heater with calcium in a couple of years, but the pressure was good.