Confessions Of A Slut Ch 06

The first year of my sluthood was my most active. At age thirty-five, my lifetime total of sex partners was seven men. When I reached thirty-six, my total was twenty-seven. I had sex with twenty men in one year.

Why did I become a slut? I mentioned in a previous chapter that a hysterectomy destroyed my hopes for children. The hysterectomy liberated me from monthly periods and, thus, I was available for sex full-time. I also gave up on the notion that I was going to find the perfect man and husband and spend the rest of my life in blissful serenity.

An important factor was the times, which were "a-changing." It was 1977 and sexual liberation was in full flower. Women had thrown off their bras and were asserting their freedom to have recreational sex. Sexual liberation was facilitated by reliable birth control methods and the absence of serious health consequences from unprotected sex. Genital herpes only became a concern to the sexually active in the late 1970s and the spectre of HIV/AIDs didn't arrive until the early 1980s. Before those two plagues, sexually transmitted diseases were usually curable with a penicillin shot. Thus, one could fuck without fretting.

This combination of circumstances made for a whole lot of sex in the 1970s. I was late in joining the sexually liberated -- but I made up for it.

However, my universe of willing and available males in the African country where I lived and worked was small. Single American men included about fifteen straight Peace Corp volunteers -- most in their twenties -- and young six marines stationed at the American Embassy. Then, there were the occasional visitors to the country: tourists, scholars, and temporary workers at the Embassy. I wasn't brave enough at this time to venture outside the American community to search for love and sex among Africans or other nationalities.

I had sex with all fifteen Peace Corp volunteers (PCVs) during the year. My other partners included two of the marines and three married men who were passing through the country on business. Most of my partners were repeaters -- men who came back for more, usually once a month. The PCVs lived and worked upcountry. They came to the capital city for visits, meetings, and consultations every three or four weeks. They were sex-starved and hankering for a good American meal. Many of them made a regular stop at my apartment for lasagna and sex.

I have already told about the night I had sex with three men. That was the exception as I usually take my men one at a time. My typical week went as follows.

During the week I worked hard, from nine in the morning to after seven in the evening and I came home alone, drank a glass or two of wine, ate something, and went to bed. Friday was Independence Day. On Friday night, I always got drunk and laid -- and only rarely did I begin the evening knowing who my sex partner would be.

Usually there were two or three parties in town on Friday night and I showed up at the one that boded to be the bawdiest. A number of us -- about ten people, with the men always outnumbering the women -- would meet at somebody's apartment or house to drink and dance and eat. Most of the party goers were PCVs -- and they were horny. During the party couples paired off and went into the bedroom for sex. Occasionally a couple, unable to wait their turn for the bedroom, would have sex standing up in the bathroom. Or we would turn the lights out and everybody would have sex all at once.

We played games such as "spin the bottle" or "truth and dare" or "strip poker" to facilitate pairing off. I drank a lot of alcohol. Others smoked marijuana and hashish. Sometimes I got laid at the party, and sometimes I took a man home with me at the end of the night -- and several times I did both. A couple of times I woke up Saturday without knowing who was in bed beside me. I always recovered well enough from my Saturday morning hangover to play tennis at ten a.m. After tennis and lunch I came home sober, usually to find a peace corps volunteer waiting at my apartment. We fucked and then I took a nap and when I woke up he might or might not still be there. If he wasn't there, it was party time again and another drunken evening capped off by sex.

On Sunday morning, it was up, shake off a hangover, play tennis, eat lunch, and come home to find still another volunteer waiting for me. Sex again, and then I would shoo my third, fourth, or fifth partner of the weekend out my door so I could get to bed and rest for a long week's work ahead.

That was my life: work, booze, and sex. In all honesty, I didn't fell like a slut, and most of my men didn't make me fell that way. Rather I felt like the Mother Hen of the Peace Corps. These were my boys and I loved them -- collectively. I fed them lasagna, listened to their troubles, and fucked them.

Of course, I liked some men better than others. My favorite was a charming 25 year old boy who liked oral sex. We always ate each other. At the time, I was experienced at giving oral sex, but not at receiving. Only once had I been brought to climax by a man's mouth.

My boy -- I always called him that -- was a masterful licker and sucker. We didn't sixty-nine much. A sixty-nine requires that you enjoy what is being done to you at the same time you give your man pleasure. I like oral sex best when you lay back and luxuriate in your own feelings.

Whenever my boy was in town we met Saturday afternoon at my apartment. A shower together was the first order of business. After a tough life out in the boondocks, he loved the abundant hot water at my apartment. Then, it was to bed and he spent a long time caressing and kissing every part of me and when I was worked up into a writhing frenzy, he put his head between my legs and gently massaged my clitoris with his lips and tongue. It didn't take me long to cum and often the feeling was so intense that I had to grab his head, pull him away from my pussy and lie shaking and convulsing in great pleasurable gasps.

He was always restrained and controlled and exceedingly gentle. What made my climax so explosive is that I was begging, begging him to go hard with me, fuck me, fist me, thrust his tongue into me harder and harder, but he never did -- and when I cummed it was me thrusting and plunging while he stayed gentle and soft, speeding up to match my rhythm but keeping it easy. There's a time and place for hard fucking -- but I like the gentle stuff too.

Then, it was his turn. As he laid on his back I gave him my own version of an "around the world," kissing, feeling, probing, my hands oiled, taking baby oil in my mouth to lubricate him, and finally fastening on to his hard, straight dick and taking his hot, salty cum in my mouth, licking him dry as his penis softened and he retreated into a post-coital trance. It was intense but peaceful; relaxed but ecstatic.

Then, it was rest, nap, get up, drink a bottle of wine, have something to eat -- and do it again. I can't think of a better way to spend a Saturday.

I was happy with my weekly sex and drink sessions. That is, until one day when my boss called me into his office. I liked him, and he liked me, and I was a very intelligent, efficient, and conscientious employee. He was embarrassed. He told me that that my drinking and its consequences -- he didn't mention my sexual activities directly -- had become of concern.

In those days, the State Department and its embassies were obsessed with communists and security and behavior out of the ordinary was perceived as a potential security risk. An employee might be compromised by a Russian agent, or blackmailed, and betray his country. Therefore, it was decided -- I don't know by whom -- that I, being guilty of deviant drunken sluthood, would return to the United States to undergo counseling and attend an alcohol anonymous program.

If I completed the program and behaved myself, my boss explained, I would be restored to good standing as an employee. Otherwise, the State Department would have no choice but to cancel my security clearance and terminate my employment.

It was the most embarrassing and shocking moment of my life. I had thought of myself as a benefactor of lonely men. I had seen sex as a virtual public service, my venture into helping make the world a happier place to live. And I wasn't an alcoholic. True, I was always drunk on the weekends. But never, never had I missed a day of work or even a tennis game because of alcohol. I drank for courage, to raise my self-esteem, to reduce my inhibitions -- and not because I had an addiction to alcohol. .

As I prepared to leave the country, I turned men away at my door and avoided parties; not a drop of liquor passed my lips; I couldn't meet the eyes of my boss and co-workers. I was a whipped dog, slinking away from pain and humiliation. I reverted to my past life: Ms. Prim and Proper, Ms. Efficiency, Ms. Boring. My next year would be devoted to penance, abstinence, and unimpeachable behavior.