No minors are depicted here, everyone is over the age of eighteen and engaging in good, clean, consenting fun. Copyright belongs to the author.
I'm old now, of course, and long past the times when any man would want to have sex, even anonymous sex, with me. And that's fine. I had my fun while it was there to be had. My name is Ruby. My husband, who does not appear in these recollections, is seven years in the ground. I hadn't met him yet in 1982.
But still, I have my memories. You, reading this, probably don't remember 1982 the way I do, if at all. I was twenty years old that year, and the world was an amazing place.
Is the world still amazing? I suppose it is. But in 1982, it had darkness. It had magic. It had privacy. It had simply this: not knowing. You could walk into something and simply not know what you were going to find.
I'll try to explain, but don't worry. This story is all horniness and cum and filth. That's the way we liked it back then.
*****
I was what was known as a late bloomer. When I was eighteen, I wasn't exactly the senior class beauty. I wasn't even in the top ten. Strawberry blond hair, bangs straight across and framed around in what we used to call curtain bangs. Freckles and aquarium green eyes.
But boobs. I got lucky with boobs. I upgraded bra sizes a few times in my eighteenth year. My mom was pissed. Bras weren't cheap, even back then. I suddenly got hips, too. You girls out there, you know. Suddenly you have serious ass. Ass for miles and miles. It's a miracle.
But still, all I knew about fucking, I learned secondhand from senior girlfriends. The slutty ones, I remember, were prized for their very specific knowledge.
I learned a lot from babysitting when I was eighteen, too. The minute the happy mom and dad were out the door for their married "date night" and the baby was sound asleep, I'd start prowling around.
Every dad had his porn stash, usually in the garage or at the back of a top shelf in the guest room closet. The more adventurous couples had envelopes full of Polaroid photos stashed at the back of one underwear drawer or the other. I'd always see those moms and dads in a whole new light, when they came back home after a hard night of carousing.
Then, too, you'd get the inevitable ride home from the suddenly very friendly dad. But I was always too smart for any of that shit.
*****
I was never the high school slut. By the time I got to state college, though, I was ready to let it rip. I still had my senior prom boyfriend sniffing after my shapely ass when I arrived on campus. He played offensive guard on the football team, had a medium-sized dick, and virtually no imagination. He eventually became a chemist, I heard.
I always wanted it dirtier, filthier, even back then. I always hated condoms, that smooth slippery chemical plastic. Birth control pills gave me problems, too, especially weight gain. Talk about your college freshman fifteen!
Girls didn't always take cock up the ass back then, the way they do now, but I did. I learned all about it from those garage porn magazines. The guys would always be so grateful, like you were doing them the ultimate favor, but god I loved it. Their big stupid cocks up my ass, squeezing in, I could literally feel the veins in their cocks throbbing in my asshole. I was perfectly happy to rub out a grinding, grunty orgasm while they dumped their load up my guts.
And blowjobs, obviously. In 1982, girls were handing them out like candies on Halloween. You get one, you get one, everyone gets one! But again, I was craftier than the average girl. I wasn't in my girly college dorm room, hairband on the doorknob to warn off my roommate, blowing the same fool four nights a week.
I made them special. If I was getting some eye from a guy in my philosophy class, I might let a week go by, and then snap the trap. There were no hookup apps; you had to be bold. I might accidentally blunder into the men's room behind him after class. Oh my goodness! I'd say, wrong room!
What's a guy to say though, looking over his shoulder, standing at a urinal? He's kind of trapped there as you approach him from behind, run a sweet appreciative hand up his ass, and gently hold his hardening cock as he pisses.
Oh! Is there anything sexier than being in a men's room? If we were alone, I might have a sweet sip of piss. All you young girls drink piss now, but it was unusual then. I was so bad, right from the beginning. I didn't know any other way. Then we'd be off into one of the stalls, my young philosophy major pistoning his beautiful cock into my face until I had a sour sloppy load of baby batter in my belly. Good times.
I never joined a sorority, our northeast school didn't really prioritize them, and I never could have tolerated all those rules and that sex-frustrated female stink anyway. The fraternities on our campus were home to simple science majors who experienced
surprise blowjobs -- or better, filthy, furtive ass fucking -- as gifts from heaven.
At any rate, it was inevitable that I would meet Dave.
He was that kind of guy. And I was that kind of girl.
*****
Dave wasn't your typical undergraduate. (It's true, by the way. In 1982, guys were actually called Dave.) He had joined the army out of high school and been dishonorably discharged. When I met him, he was twenty-four, a college sophomore, and already failing out. He was going nowhere.
I was twenty, also a sophomore, sent to school by loving parents, carrying a 3.85 GPA, possessed of fairly big tits and a sweet ass, and had a bright future. I immediately fell on my ass over him. Like, love at first sight.
He was short. Maybe five-eight, just as tall as me. He still had his army haircut, short top and buzzed sides, which was inexplicable in 1982. He had tattoos, also uncommon back then, and they were bad ones. Bought, he told me, in the Philippines on leave. Looking back, I realize, he must have learned how to treat women in the army.
