Maybe one of the reasons I like to write erotic stories and poetry is that fact that I'm an Exhibitionist. Whether people approve or not, I like to get my fantasies and wild ways out there. I get a strange thrill out of knowing people may be rubbing themselves or jacking-off by the words I have written. Being an eternal banana-enthusiast, I particularly like the latter.
This all began when I was 19 or 20. It started out by wearing skimpy outfits. I was never big on mini-skirts and heels (I could never walk in heels without falling over). I would wear tight jeans, tight sweaters, tight t-shirts, and short, snug denim shorts. Though this is hardly an act of sex, I got a great rise out of knowing men -- particularly older men -- were getting a lift from seeing me. I liked knowing that they were picturing me naked or fantasizing about fucking my tight little gash.
I had a ball when I was young. I was first discovering sex and having the time of my life. I may have been a late bloomer, but the gardens were mine and mine alone to wander in and explore. I remember making out with a man on a dancefloor who was about twice my age, at which an old catty shrew yelled at us to "get a room!". Meow!
When I was 21, I had my first steady, serious boyfriend. One day, on about an hour-long trip home from a day out, we were driving on the interstate. He was in the driver's seat and I sat beside him in the passenger seat. I never saw his cock before (this was our first date) and, on a young impulse, I unbuckled my seatbelt, scooted over and took his cock out. He was hard and I put my mouth on him. He was a big boy. I sucked on him and he lovingly stroked my hair as I gave him head. He managed to stay on the road, and with my head down and my butt up, I was hoping some passing cars would see me blow my much older boyfriend. I was slightly afraid we might get in trouble, but we never did.
When he and I dated longer, we made love in his car. It would be nighttime and he'd park in a vacant parking lot and we'd just go for it. Man, he was a good lay. And, judging by his actions and words, I was good for him too. I remember those summer nights: he'd expertly undo the clasp of my bra while we kissed. That's what started it all for me. I needed no more encouragement than that -- and he knew it. I was like butter in his big hands.
Over the next few years, I had a very adventurous life. I became involved with a different man -- let's call him Lee Strasberg. I moved in with Lee after only a few days and we thoroughly enjoyed each other's company. When we first met for breakfast in a family diner, I ordered my food with a side of sausage, which I suggestively ate, slightly giving it head before giggling and eating it up properly.
When I shacked up with Lee, he had a male roommate who lived in the bedroom next to our bedroom. I honestly didn't know too much about this roommate, but it didn't seem to matter to me as long as I was with Lee.
