Confessions of a Slut

You're a different person out of town than when you're home. During my visit to Bangkok, I had been scandalous -- having sex with two married men, one of them the husband of a very good friend. Back home in Kansas City, I was Ms. Prim and Proper again, serious, studious, career-oriented, and judged by most men to be much too uptight to be a good lay.

Moreover, I had medical problems that necessitated a hysterectomy, putting me out of action mentally and physically speaking for a good long while -- and ended my already fading hopes of becoming a mother and wife. With the trauma of the operation, and my natural reticence, I reverted to my normal condition: dull.

Thus, I went through several months of sexual abstinence while shopping for the long term relationship -- and marriage -- that I so craved. That's when I ran into Jack. He was a decent fellow, thirty-eight years old, five years older than me, and he had never been married. Like most unmarried men approaching middle age, Jack was old-maidish in his methodical habits and all too attentive to his mother but I had modest expectations.

Jack and I followed the script for conventional romances. We got to know each other on our first two dates and on our third date, I invited him to my apartment "for a drink." He didn't set off any sparks in bed that night, but we became a couple and I was happy to have a man and the security of a relationship. We went out a couple of nights a week. I stayed over at his place once, but in the morning he was in a hurry to see his mother, it being Sunday -- and he always, always spent Sunday with his mother.

Our first few encounters were missionary sex after a pleasant warm-up. We found ourselves in the same climatic zone -- which was warm and pleasant rather than burning hot. The clouds appeared after several weeks. One night, as I was lying on my back, my legs spread and waiting for him to mount up and ride, he asked, "Would you masturbate me?" He added, "For a little variety."

I said, "Sure." I was a bit disappointed that he wasn't taking advantage of my spread thighs, but I am all too compliant. He lay back on the bed. I made a feint at his penis with my mouth, but he didn't respond. A hand job was what Jack wanted. I gave it to him. After ten years of marriage to Doggy Don and his nightly demands jacking off a man wasn't anything new to me. We had enough light in the room for me to enjoy Jack's response to my hand and to see cum spurting out and pooling up on his chest. I stuck my finger in the pool and tasted it. I got the impression, however, that Jack didn't like me tasting his cum. Maybe his mother wouldn't have approved.

Jack got up quickly and said he had to go home and I was left laying there wishing that at least he had finger-fucked me. Well, sex isn't always great, I told myself, and, in fact, the next time we went out he missionaried me adequately. But, then, next time he again asked for a hand job (you get the idea why I am calling him Jack, don't you?). After that, the pattern of our relationship was established. We rarely fucked. Our dates often began and always ended with a hand job for him and nothing for me.

I consoled myself that Jack was presentable, had a good job, and didn't molest children or rob banks. Most of all, it pampered my tiny ego to have a boyfriend, inadequate as he was in the care and feeling departments. Things went on this way for several months until I got a job with the Department of State in Washington and was told to report for work in one month. Suddenly, I had a bright shining alternative to Jack and my built-up resentment against his sexual selfishness came to the fore. I was looking forward to saying sayonara. I didn't plan, however, to do it in the spectacular way that it happened.

On our next date Jack wanted to be jacked off before we went out. Through force of habit, I acceded to his wishes. He just pulled his shirt and pants off and laid down on my bed and I stroked him to completion. I didn't even take my clothes off -- and he didn't care. Then, we went to a restaurant to eat. The dining room was full, but we saw several friends at a large table in the bar. We sat down with them and drank margaritas and ate nachos.

"Sly" showed up. I had gone to high school with him. He was tall and handsome and slick and a notorious lady's man. Sly had never paid the slightest bit of attention to me. Until then. "Becky," he said, kissing me on the cheek. "You're looking good." That was an exaggeration, but I had been working on my appearance, and I'm a sucker for a compliment. Sly pulled up a chair and joined us, sitting by my side. Jack was on the other side of the table, talking about football with another guy.

To make a long story short, I ordered another margarita and drank too much too fast. Then, I was suddenly sick, my stomach heaving and the taste of nachos in my mouth. Sly took command. He helped me out of my chair, saying to Jack, "Stay where you are, Jack ol' boy. I'll take care of this." Jack looked at me with a puzzled expression, but he didn't offer to help. Football was more interesting than my gastric distress.

Sly half-carried me to the parking lot and I vomited all over the boxwood bushes. He helped me into the front seat of his car and wiped vomit off my dress with a paper towel. I was alert enough to notice that my dress was hiked up way over my knees and my legs were splayed. I didn't care. Sly sniffed my breath and clothes and recoiled. "I'd better take you home. You're a mess." he said. I muttered my address, and went to sleep.

Sly drove me home, hauled me up to my apartment, found the key in my purse, and opened the door. I staggered into the bedroom. The bed was still stripped down to the sheets where, two hours before, I had jacked off Jack. I toppled over onto the bed; I was waking up and feeling better. I could still smell Jack on the sheets.

"You want to take a shower?" Sly asked.

"Yes," I said. And I sat up and began taking off my clothes. Sly helped me unzip my dress, and pulled it over my head. Sitting there in my panties and bra I had a twinge of romantic feeling. I put my arms around him and started laughing hysterically. Or maybe I was sobbing. I contemplated the bed where Jack had been, thin penis upright and quivering, as my hand stroked him. "Jack and the Beanstalk!" I shouted. "Hit the Road, Jack!"

"Shhh," Sly said. "You'll bother the neighbors." Quickly, he slipped my bra off and I sat there dumbly surprised, my breasts hanging free. I didn't protest when he pulled my panties off and led me to the shower, turned on the hot water, and pushed me inside. "Jack be nimble, Jack be quick" I shouted. "Jack me off with a hockey stick."

I continued my loud recitations until, suddenly, Sly was in the shower with me, naked, and he put his hand over my mouth. He handed me a bottle of mouthwash. "You need it," he said. I took a swig, swirled it around, spat it out, and then he kissed me, his soapy finger finding its way to my clitoris.

I was as hungry for sex as a bear is for honey. I was still noisy. "Fuck me gently, fuck me slowly," I sang. "Take it easy, don't you know, that I have never been fucked before....Not true," I added with a giggle. I was so, so drunk and so out of character. Sly and I dried each other off, headed for the bed, and laid down together.

That was when Jack stuck his head through the door. He had a key to my apartment and had come looking for me. It must have been a sight. I was lying on my back, my hand on Sly's penis, his body half covering mine, his finger inside me and his mouth on my breast while I tunelessly sang "Fuck me gently, fuck me slowly." It was a mortifying moment. Jack turned soundlessly and left. For just a moment I froze in the bed. Sly paused, but he didn't look over his shoulder at the retreating Jack. He looked at me, and smiled and I smiled, and we continued. Jack was history.

Sly was into Tantric sex or something that gave him enormous staying power, and I hit all four notes that open Beethoven's Fifth with booming orgasms.

I should have called Jack the next day to apologize, but in the sober light of day I couldn't -- and I was leaving town anyway. I never had another encounter with Sly. I hear that he got married, got religion, and became a perfect family man. I hope his wife appreciates him the way I did.