Confessions of a Slut

At age thirty-four my life, including my sex life, was over-due for a major overhaul. I had been successful in my career as an accountant and I had a new exciting job with the Department of State. Henceforth, I would work in American embassies in foreign countries and I looked forward to travel and adventure in my new life.

Romantically speaking I was nowhere -- and that included my sex life. I toted up my love life: one failed marriage, two failed long-term relationships, and four one-night stands. That was it. The one-night stands had been wonderful, perhaps showing the direction my sex life should go -- although I was too dumb to realize that.

I'm no beauty queen; I'm tall, big-boned, long-nosed, near-sighted, and my personality is typical of my profession, by which I mean I'm more comfortable with my head buried in a book than in a party dress. But I stay in shape; I'm friendly and honest, and I have lovely black hair and eyes and big boobs.

My pathetic sex life receded into the background as I moved to Washington, D.C. for training and then was assigned as a budget and fiscal officer in a small Embassy in a remote African country. The country was exotic and poor and the foreign or "Western" community (as we called it) was small in numbers. Twenty Americans worked at the Embassy, including six marine guards who were responsible for security. I was one of three single women employees; the rest were men, mostly married, except for the marines who were all in their early twenties.

I was so wrapped up in my job that I hardly noticed that my romantic scorecard after six months in Africa showed no hits, no runs, and nobody left on base. One of the problems was lack of eligible men. My employer strongly discouraged relationships with local African men for security and safety reasons.

My thirty-fifth birthday rolled around on a Friday and a girlfriend and I celebrated by dropping in on the Happy Hour at the Marine House, a large rambling villa where the six marines at the Embassy lived. The marines had a bar and a pool room in the basement and they sold beer and snacks on Friday nights. I drank, danced, played pool and flirted with the young marines -- and the next thing I knew I woke up in a bedroom with one of them sleeping next to me. I didn't even know his last name.

The sun was streaming through the window into the small bedroom as I lay on the bed naked. I didn't know where my clothes were and I had to pee. The door was closed, but I could hear other marines outside the room walking up and down the halls and talking to each other, and even the rattle of pots and pans by the cook in the kitchen. I was trying to decide what to do when my bed partner woke up, rolled over, and, with hardly a word, climbed on top of me and slid his penis inside me. He entered me so easily that I realized I was still dripping wet from the night before. Vaguely, I recalled that he had spurted sperm inside me two or three times.

My tongue thick, my head aching, and my bladder full, I should have been humiliated. I was lying on my back on a bed in the brightness of day while a boy I barely knew -- 15 years younger than me -- lay between my legs and thrust his broom-stick penis up my vagina. Momentarily, I wanted to pull away from him and run. But where? Out into the hallway? Naked?

With no better option, I submitted. He took a long time, pumping mechanically back and forth, straining to cum, still empty after the night before. He paused and said a few nice words to me and, suddenly -- a sucker for sweet nothings -- I felt a twang of pleasure, and then more pleasure, and I began to move with him and soon I had my first man-made orgasm in more than six months. It was a good one. When we had both finished and he rolled off, I relaxed happily and, suddenly, all the pee inside me spilled out and soaked him and the bed.

He jumped up cursing, wiping pee off himself. He shouted that I had to go and he opened the closet door and threw my clothes at me. I dressed while he stripped the bed and mopped up pee, but he softened as I went out the door and gave me a pleasant kiss good-bye. "Thanks," he said. "I needed that."

"So, did I." I answered. We embraced and I left, never to bed him again.

It had not been a romantic experience -- but, on reflection, it hadn't been that bad either. The marine was an immature asshole, but I had gotten laid, it felt good, and I told myself I had performed adequately. If only I hadn't had to pee so badly. A lesson learned. And another was that love and romance weren't going to find me in a small country in Africa, so I had better be satisfied with sex. In other words, after long years of being a good girl who saved herself for love, I decided to become a slut. And when I decide something, I put my heart -- or in this case, my body -- into it.

I haven't looked back. I am now sixty-six years old, so it's been thirty-one years since my night with the Marine. I've had sex with one woman and 170 men, give or take a few. Most of them were one- or two- or three- night stands. If I like a man and he likes me, I fuck him -- and not a few times that has happened within minutes of our first meeting.

Not that I don't have standards. I don't have sex with men I work with; nor with married men whose wives are present in the same town. I am not into gang-bangs or anything kinky. My style is one man, one woman, one bed, and missionary or oral -- although I have, on occasion, deviated from those preferences and enjoyed the variety. Strange can be fun.

Being neither beautiful nor young, I have worked on my technique. My specialty is "Around the World." Start with a nervous or tense man -- nearly all married men are -- and work your way over his body, touching and tasting every part of him. Fifteen minutes of Around the World and a dead man stands up like a flagpole. Not that I've ever had sex with a dead man -- although some were nearly dead. My men have ranged in age from nineteen to seventy-five. The seventy-five year old was last week. He was pretty good.

I've suffered through lean times -- weeks or even months without a man -- and I had one wonderful vacation in Greece when I had sex with 6 beautiful men in 18 days. I can't say that my sex life is ideal. I've always wanted a man to come home to every day, but that's not going to happen. In the meantime, I vowed to not lose any opportunities by being hard-to-get. That's the life of a slut. I chose it and I'm not sorry that I did. At least, I've got some good stories to tell.