The Ice Queen Cometh

I've always been shy. When I got to college, I had to share a room with a roommate. That was torture. I wore sleeping clothes that went from neck to ankles. I dressed for bed this way even when it was hot. I went to a northern school where air conditioning was deemed unnecessary, so we had only the relief of a fan my parents gave me when it was boiling hot for two weeks in September.

When I went out with boys, we usually went out in groups of girls, with groups of boys. I tried never to be alone with a single boy. That way, there was little danger of a boy trying to undress me. Unfortunately, though, I am pretty. Apparently, I am sexy, too. As if that's not enough, I have an easy and pretty smile, and I am an incorrigible flirt. It's not surprising then that boys were interested.

I did love kissing and making out. I also loved it when boys would feel me up through my clothes. I was ready for sex. But it was not to be: nobody could see me nude. I was unable even to let anyone see my unclothed breasts. The rest of me was also off limits: My tummy, behind, thighs, and of course my privates. I have a phobia, and it is all-powerful. I guess it's obvious that meant a lot of sexual frustration not only for the boys, but also for me.

There were several reactions to my behavior. One was simply that men considered me to be a prude. Another was that I was a ball busting tease. Another was that I was some kind of moral person, or a bit extreme due to religious beliefs. You get the idea.

None of it was true. My true personality, I later discovered, was that of a flaming slut, I'm ashamed to admit. But I could not know this, since my nudity phobia kept me untouched, unviewed, and unloved. I did not even suspect my true nature was that of a slut.

I had amazing fantasies. Over time, my sexual fantasies gradually became more and more outrageous. They ranged from exhibitionism, to group sex, to gangbangs, to bondage. But they were just fantasies. The reality was that of a sad, lonely, untouched, unspoiled virgin.

After college graduation, I moved to New York. I got settled, got a job as a legal secretary, and - of course - met men. With my looks, my smile, and my flirtatious ways, I am a magnet for men.

When I was in the dating scene, my nudity phobia was again a bit of a handicap. Here I was, a secretary in New York, trying to land a successful lawyer or banker, and I had plenty of dates with them. When it came time in the dating process to explore our bodies, just as in college I let them kiss me and fondle me through my clothes, but I balked at the next steps. I lost a lot of potentially wonderful men that way.

It was frustrating: It was clear the men always wanted to have sex with me; each time it was the natural evolution of a relationship I was having with them. I desperately wanted also to have sex with them! But I could not let them undress me.

Something still forbade me to let men (or anyone) see my naked body. Touching it might have been okay; I can't be sure, because nobody ever got that far. Nobody could see it; I even had to force myself to look at my own body when I was in the shower, or shaving my legs.

I know in some customs the woman getting naked is not necessarily part of the sexual relationship. The woman remains covered except of course for her vagina, which is quite necessary for traditional copulation. But both the men I was dating, and also myself, conform to the traditional American seduction: kissing, fondling through clothes, loss of clothes, oral play, and naked or near naked humping. Most importantly, that too is what I want.

I tried everything to get over this disability: this nudity phobia. I tried alcohol, and even got falling down drunk on one of my dates with a man I liked. But even drunk I could not do it.

I went to my internist and she prescribed tranquilizers, but they were useless, and instead only made me spacy. Anti-anxiety meds made me psychotic. I went a few times to a psychiatrist, but my health insurance was not friendly and the out of pocket expense was so high I could not afford to continue.

I even tried hypnosis, but apparently, I am one of those people who is hard if not impossible to hypnotize. Nothing worked. I was miserable.

I knew I was not frigid. I even had been able to isolate the type of man that turned me on. It helped if the man had a hard body, but that was by far not the most important thing. A certain kind of man, irrespective of his appearance, made me wet, and made we weak in the knees.

The men that turned me on were dominant men. These men tried and I am sure minus my phobia would have succeeded, to exercise some sort of control over me. I am sure I would have happily submitted to their every sexual wish for me were it not for my phobias. If it were a struggle between their wills and mine, it would have been no contest, I'm sure.

I would have been putty in their hands, and doubtless would have become their newest sex toy, possibly even their sex slave. Even the thought of being a sex slave (within "reasonable" limits) made me wet. But that was too extreme for me. I did not want that to happen. I was raised to be a moral person, in everyday life, and also sexually. More than a few times, my nudity phobia had saved me from these dominant men.

I was a mess of contradictions, but it did not matter: My nudity phobia controlled everything.

I got respect from these domineering, controlling men. I was one of the rare women who they could tell was a submissive, but nevertheless could resist them. But the respect I garnered was false. It was my phobia that was stronger than my will or theirs. It was the ultimate decision maker, and it said no nudity. It said no to nudity every time, no exceptions.

My phobia kept me pure. It kept me moral. It also kept me virginal, and for that I hated it. I wanted to have a man, and I wanted sex. I was tired of getting wet and having to finger myself to relief. I was tired of being alone.

I learned how to avoid domineering men. That did not help me to get a man, or to have sex, but at least it made me feel safe. Nobody knew or understood why I was such an icicle when it came to sex. I could flirt with the best of them, but then I became known as a tease. Nobody likes a tease who never comes forth to deliver "the goods."

My girlfriend Gloria was the only person to whom I confided all this. She was my confidant. I needed to tell someone, and she was a good listener, always sympathetic. Sometimes I would wonder, though. She seemed jealous of me, of my good looks, and the way men would cluster around me at parties, for example.

I had this easy smile, you see. I smiled all the time, at the very least provocation. It was almost a nervous habit, like giggling, and I would do that, too. I'm told my smile alone would light up a room, making people more relaxed, and happier. That, plus my pretty face, and - modesty aside - excellent figure with largish boobs, attracted men like - as a jealous girlfriend once nastily said - flies to shit.

But the smile was more than a smile. It was an inadvertent come-on, an opening for men, signaling my availability. I had this habit of running my tongue along my upper lip. It was unintentional, but I would do it mostly when I was nervous, due to the presence of men. For me it was a nervous, unconscious gesture. For the men, it was a turn-on. For sure it's a sexy gesture, to say the least. I was a non-conscient tease.

Gloria was also jealous of the ease with which I climbed the corporate ladder, effortlessly advancing to become the head of the legal secretary pool. I got a higher salary, a better bonus, and power over the other secretaries. I used my power fairly and justly, but I suspect that irritated Gloria even more: We were friends, and she wanted favors.

But the bottom line was, she was my best friend. At times, I thought she was my only true friend. Nevertheless, we had our moments. One time she once told me she was sure I was actually a slut, wanting to escape the confines of my phobia.

I was so offended by this that it almost ruined out friendship. I knew Gloria slept around somewhat, but she was no slut. And I was certainly not a slut! But anyway, we eventually reconciled, and then our friendship was even stronger.

Looking back now I realize the reason I was so offended, insulted to my core, was because on some level, deep down, I knew Gloria was right. She had seen, buried in my psyche so deep I could not see it, that my true nature was one of a slut.

I was a woman who craved sex, and would some outrageous things if a controlling man wanted me to do them. My phobia saved me from this fate. After our huge fight, Gloria never again mentioned her suspicions I was a slut, waiting to break out of my phobia. With time, we both forgot about it.

Word got out among all the men in the circles I socialized in, about my inability to perform, and men stopped asking me out. I had the reputation of being frigid: an ice queen, so to speak. I was sure I was not, but hell, I was still a virgin at the tender age of 24, due to this one problem with nudity I had.

I began to hate myself. Saturday nights would go by with no dates. I was at the height of my powers at attracting a potential spouse, and I was left remarkably alone. No sex seemed to mean no men, no matter how brilliant was my smile, nor how seductive was my natural behavior. It was that simple.

In a way, it was my girlfriend Gloria who came to the rescue, if you could call it that. I am hoping if it was inadvertent on her part. I know now however that it was anything but inadvertent.

Gloria had a friend from Chicago who was coming to New York on a business trip, and she set me up with him on a blind date. He did not know of my reputation as an ice queen, and Gloria did not tell him. We were both hoping I could triumph over my phobia with him. I always hoped, but it never seemed to work.

It had been a while since a friend had bothered to set me up on a blind date, since all the men who dated me came away frustrated. Worse, some of them would complain to the friend who had set us up.

But Gloria told me this man Jason, from Chicago, had his own problems, and maybe things would work out? I suspected she knew something that I did not, but she's the kind of friend a girl can trust. I felt it was worth a try: anyway, at this point I would try anything.

It never occurred to me, even for a second, that Gloria had figured out a possible key to penetrating my phobia, and that she had elaborately coached Jason on just what he should do to seduce me, and to turn me into an exhibitionist, and eventually the slut she knew was hiding within me, straining to get out. I never saw it coming. I had no idea how much Gloria wanted to destroy me.

Were I to become an exhibitionist slut, easily manipulated by controlling men, it's likely my career would quickly enter the toilet. I would be ruined. The law firm I worked with handled sensitive information, and anyone vulnerable to blackmail is a liability, and typically such a person is fired.

Job termination is dramatic. One is fired at 9am, and escorted out of the office building within the next hour, holding all of one's possessions in a cardboard box. It's not pretty.

The date with Jason began in a promising way. I liked him at once, and as far as I could tell, he liked me. He looked at me with sexual hunger, as if this was finally the blind date where he had struck gold. Seeing this in his eyes had two effects: It intrigued me, and it put me on guard.

Usually I don't go to a man's apartment on the first, or even the second date. I want to get a good sense of the man before letting it progress that far. (Of course, then quite unfortunately I always freeze, and the man invariably ends up feeling rejected. He feels led on, only to be denied, and men hate that. The relationship typically ends then and there, or shortly thereafter, alas.)

But Gloria had assured me Jason was a great guy, and that she had dated him when she had been stationed at the Chicago branch of our firm for a few months. I could trust him, no problem. I trusted Gloria, so my default position with Jason was one of trust, unless he proved otherwise. He did not.

Since Jason was from out of town and I would probably never see him again, I let him invite me back to his hotel room, the very same day I met him. I was enthralled with him in any event. He was nice, respectful, funny, and interesting. When the time came for him to put the moves on me, he apologized.

"Jamie," he said, "I need to explain something. I am shy about my body. Would you mind if I turned out the lights and closed the curtains?"

"Truth be told, Jason, I am no doubt just as shy as you, probably even more so. Please go ahead," I replied.

Jason first closed the curtains. The hotel had blackout curtains and he closed them, too. Then he put a towel on the floor at the door to the room to block any light entering from the hotel hallway. There was a clock by the bed with a luminous readout screen, and he unplugged it. The TV had a small red light on when it was turned off, and he unplugged the TV, killing the tiny red light.

He got the courtesy terry cloth robes from the closet and the bathroom. He laid them on the edge of the bed. He turned off the lights, and it became pitch black in the room. He had memorized the route to the loveseat where I sat, and he plopped down next to me.

We kissed. He kissed me tenderly, lingering and enjoying my lower lip. His hands stroked my cheeks, and I let my hands roam through his thick and luscious hair. We kissed like this, tenderly and lovingly, for a good ten minutes before he began to unbutton my blouse. This is the moment when typically I am consumed with panic.

I did indeed feel panic, but I opened my eyes wide and I could see nothing. I could see nothing at all. Therefore, I knew Jason could see nothing. I kept repeating that to myself: He can see nothing. He can see nothing. He can see nothing...

My body went from nervous rigidity to a relaxed state of happiness. "Let me help you," I said, and I quickly took off all my clothes, keeping on only my panties. I did it quickly, before I could panic and change my mind. I was being naked (or more correctly, almost naked) with a hunky man for the first time in my life. "You undress too," I said. Jason complied.

Jason took my hand and he led me to whewre he (correctly) thought the bed was, and we both climbed on it. "Jason, I'm a virgin. Go easy with me. We can start with a blowjob if you like, but that too will be my first. Is that okay?"

I could not see Jason's face of course, but if I could, I am sure I would see an expression of surprise. Perhaps great surprise: After all, here I was, a sexy, 24-year-old woman, coming back to his hotel room on a first date, and claiming I am a virgin?

And to boot I was offering to give him my first ever blowjob? How often does that happen? He was quiet for a while, and then he said, "Sure. Let's start with a blowjob. I'm already hard as a rock, just from your wonderful kisses."

I should explain. I was completely inexperienced in all matters sexual except for kissing, but I had watched an enormous amount of pornography on the Internet. I watched it not to get myself off, but to study what women do to please men.

I read enormous numbers of women's magazines' sex columns. I read erotic novels. Finally, I read a wide assortment of "how to" books about sex. I had probably memorized "Fifty Shades of Grey." I was an expert from the standpoint of book learning. All I lacked was having had any sex at all.

The point is that intellectually I knew how to give a blowjob. Jason was amazed. "Are you sure this is your first time giving a blowjob? You have talent, Jamie. You are really good. It must be natural talent."

"Thanks," I said, removing his cock from my mouth to reply. "I had a lot of practice with vegetables and dildos. I've been wanting to do this for so long, it's not funny."

"You know, most women, I find, don't really want to do it. They do it to avoid doing the deed, or to please the man, or to get him hard, I always thought. At least, that's been my experience," Jason said, adding the last phrase while reflecting on his past conquests.

I replied, "I can't speak for other women, but I for one love sucking your cock. I just want to save your cum for what comes later, if you know what I mean. I've been waiting so long to be deflowered."

"Lie down, woman, and spread your legs," he said.

"Your wish is my command," I said. "Make a woman out of me. Please."

I tried desperately not to show it, but I was a Hungarian stew of emotions. I was thrilled, excited, relieved, but most of all, I was terrified. I had no idea what to expect. I told myself that everyone has sex, and most people want to discuss little else; obviously, it cannot be a bad thing. I kept telling myself that. I tried to focus on what would surely be the pleasurable aspects of -let's just say it bluntly - fucking.

I spread my legs as wide as I could, making myself an easy target in the dark. Jason was experienced and he had no trouble finding my special opening. Nothing had ever been in there except my fingers. The dildo I used only for fellatio practice. I used Kotex pads rather than Tampons. I wanted my hymen to be intact for this moment, and I did not want any tampon or dildo to puncture it.

Jason entered me. He was warm and hard. From the very outset, I knew that this was a good thing. I found what I had been missing for so long. All during college, all of my post college dating, everything, had led up to this very moment. Now he was inside me! It was happening. At last! Oh, my God.

To put it in a word: It felt wonderful.

His cock found my hymen, and he paused. I said, "Go for it, Jason. Please." That was all the encouragement he needed, if he even needed any. How many women does one man get to deflower, anyway? Not so very many I should guess. Maybe I was his first, or maybe I was doubling the total number of virgins he has ever possessed? Who knew? Who cares?

He was in. A moment later he was all the way in. It hurt a little when he passed through my hymen, but not much. As he began to pump, I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I went nuts.

It felt so good. It felt good in two ways: The physical sensations were wonderful, and not to be denied. But it was the psychological element that was overpowering. Finally, to be having sex, to have a man's cock inside me, to understand his raw desire to have me, to possess me. I had never felt anything like this before. Jason said, "Woman, you are fine. You are so wet, so ready for me. Jesus."

Jason's timing was perfect. When he said that, I just melted. It was the happiest moment of my life up to that point.

I said, "Give it to me lover, give me all you have. Take me. Any way you want me, I'm yours," and then my capacity for intelligible speech left me.

I was reduced to guttural moans as he pounded in and out of me. God, he was strong. He was so masculine, using his strong cock to pleasure me, and pleasure me it did. I figure he must have rubbed my clitoris with each penetration. My ego soared to have a man inside, to want me, and yes - to put it crudely - to want to fuck me. Yes!

I felt a wave of pleasure slowly building in me as he fucked me. I raised my pelvis to greet his thrusts, and that increased the pleasure. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper into me. I began to scratch at his back. I was constantly moaning in pleasure. My moans were loud.

Who cares if my moans are loud? I thought. We're in a bleeping hotel! Nobody knows us here. Caution need not exist. Caution ceased to exist. I relaxed and let myself become his woman, to make his own with his wonderful cock.