Confessions Of A Slut Ch 07

In 1977, I fucked twenty men. In 1978, I fucked only one and it was a one-night stand.

I went back to Washington in disgrace. In the eyes of my employer, the Department of State, I was an alcoholic. My excessive alcohol abuse caused "additional problems" according to the brief against me. Translated, that meant I spent every weekend drunk and lying on my back with a man on top of me.

I am career oriented and I was determined to redeem myself. The only way I knew how to overcome my alcohol abuse and "additional problems" was to be a paragon of efficiency, hard work, and intelligence. No more booze and no more sex was my rule.

In Washington, I was given a boring, bean-counting job, that I pledged to make the most of. I had counseling sessions weekly with a State Department psychologist. On Friday nights, as required, I attended an Alcoholic Anonymous meeting. I got up in front of a room full of strangers and proclaimed, "My name is Becky and I'm an alcoholic." I told the story of my descent to alcoholism and alluded to the trouble it had caused me. I didn't really believe my own story, but I would do whatever necessary to keep my job and repair my damaged reputation and ego. Between counseling and AA sessions, I worked myself to exhaustion in my job, earning the admiration and support of my boss and co-workers.

Purgatory ended after six months. At my weekly counseling session the psychologist said he had recommended that I be returned to regular duty and reassigned abroad again. I was elated -- and my elation was only slightly dampened when I was given my assignment. It was a FUBAR post in Africa.

There are two or three Embassies in Africa that have the reputation of being punishment posts -- awful, unimportant places to which assignments seem reserved for employees who have really, really screwed up. FUBAR in State Department slang means: "fucked up beyond all redemption." That was my next assignment. I was out of purgatory, but still on parole.

I packed up, made my plane reservations, said goodbye to AA and my counselor -- and, then, I went off the wagon for one night, and one night only.

The night before I was to fly to my FUBAR post, I walked from my apartment to a singles bar two blocks away. I sat down at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic and I gulped it down -- the first alcohol that had passed my lips for six months. Then I ordered another, and then another. I ignored the men who attempted to open conversation with me until I finished that third g and t.

The bartender eyed me warily when I ordered my fourth. I smiled at him and looked sober and he brought me the drink. I sipped it and shifted my attention to my second priority of the evening: getting laid. My choice among several men in the bar was unprepossessing: a chubby, balding man about forty years old who had a nice smile and a pleasant face. I didn't want to play any games. I wanted a man who would appreciate me.

A glance or two from me and he got my message and came over to the bar to talk to me. We retired from the bar to a table and I asked him to get me another gin and tonic. It was my fifth and I was afraid the bartender would tell me I had had enough. I drank it while we chatted, my head spinning and my purchase on my chair precarious. It was time to make my move before I collapsed.

"I think I had better go home," I said as he steadied me on my chair, his hand just under my breast. I put my arms around him and in the semi-dark of the bar his lips brushed my neck and his fingers rubbed across the thin fabric of my dress to stroke my nipple. I put my knee between his legs and felt the bulge in his pants. I left my knee there.

"I'll walk you home," he said. Success!

We departed from the bar arm in arm. In a dark corner of the street, we kissed. His hand felt its way up my dress and his finger massaged my clitoris. My panties became wet. I rubbed my hand over his crotch, feeling the hard outline of his penis.

I don't even remember this man's name -- if I ever knew it -- but a penis slipping into me never felt better when we fell into bed at my apartment. I couldn't keep from grinding hard and he cummed too quickly and before I was ready. I needed desperately to climax and he obliged me with his limp penis halfway inside me and his finger on my clitoris. It was a quickie, probably not more than five minutes from penetration to when I fell back on the bed, momentarily satisfied, my head going in circles, my eyelids heavy, and the delicious smell of sex in my nostrils.

He was sleeping beside me when I woke early in the morning. I didn't wait for him to wake. I sat on top of him, and massaged his limp pecker until it was hard enough to insert into me. While he was still yawning and stretching, I rode him. Hard. I have never humped harder and when I climaxed so did he. We arched our bodies, quivered and shook, and when the spasms finally eased after an eternity of ecstasy we collapsed, exhausted, into each other's arms.

I am confident that my man -- whatever his name was -- had never been fucked better. After the sex, as we showered together, he asked, "When can I see you again?"

"Two years from now," I answered.

He was puzzled. "I'm leaving for Africa today," I explained. "You have to leave because I've got to go to the airport."

I went back to that same bar two years later when I returned on home leave from Africa but he wasn't there.