College Life
Perry and I went off to our separate colleges, him to Indiana University, and me to a small private college in Virginia. We called each other every week, which dropped off to once a month, and then only occasionally. After a while, we only spoke to each other during semester breaks, which was rare, because he was on a four semester schedule and my school was on a tri-mester schedule.
I didn't cling to him being "my first" as much as other girls seemed to do. Instead, I took advantage of being in a city rife with African-American men and dated frequently-- all the while keeping my grade point average at 3.8.
My first real boyfriend at college was Marcus Johnson. Marcus was a basketball player, tall and muscular, with languid, dark brown eyes smooth pecan-colored skin. Anyone who looked at us thought we were the perfect couple, and for a while, I thought so too.
Sometimes you go along with what other people think because you think it's best for you, and usually, it's the best way to avoid any trouble with other people. But "going along" never settles the trouble inside yourself.
Marcus and I had sex the first time during the off-season. We met during basketball season of our sophomore year. Basketball season was when the coach demanded abstinence of all the players, and Marcus took his B-ball seriously, so it wasn't until the following semester that he even approached the subject--and even then, it was me, not him who mentioned it. Up to that point, we'd only kissed, not even made out. I figured it was because his father was a pastor of a pretty good-sized, black middle-class church back in his hometown that he kept so straight.
He was an education major and my major was art history. We rarely had the same classes, but we did have a couple of gen-ed classes together. The afternoon we "consummated" our relationship, we were in his dorm room, studying for a math test.
I hated math. He hated it only a little less than me. Our books and notes were strewn all over the bed. The television and stereo were off, all in the guise of absorbing the material, but it just wasn't working.
"There has to be something better to do than this," I said, closing my notebook. It was Saturday, and students were running up and down the hallway with their laundry, for their showers, and on their trips to the commissary.
"Yeah?" Marcus said, closing his book and shoving it off the bed he was lying on. I was sitting in the chair at his desk, which was flush against the wall and right next to his bed. "Any ideas?"
"Well, we could go for a walk," I replied.
"We can do that," he said, sitting up, preparing to put his sneaks on over his socks.
"No. I don't feel like it," I said, scratching my head. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. I looked at his long legs and the soft brown skin of his arms and thought it would be nice to see him with less clothes on. He didn't have a roommate yet. A transfer student who was also a basketball player was going to be arriving the next semester and, until then, Marcus had a room all to himself. So far, we had never taken advantage of it. Most of our nights consisted of hanging out with other basketball guys and their girlfriends listening to music. Us girls oiled our boyfriends' scalps, or we oiled and braided each others, all the while gossiping about other students and professors in and outside of the African-American community on campus.
"Let's just stay here. And talk," I said. I got up from the chair and set next to him on the bed. I rubbed my hand over his head, his hair shaved short and smooth.
I felt relaxed, and brave enough to make the first move. I blew warm breath into his ear, and nibbled his ear lobe. His shoulders jumped and then he relaxed and let his arm move around me while it still half rested on the bed.
"We've never talked about sex," I said to him, still nibbling on his ear lobe, then moving down his long neck. "All last season, all I thought about was being with you."
I wanted to say in more, to list in detail everything I wanted to do to him and with him, but I wasn't sure he could take it. He wasn't that vocal about anything, and sex even less. Maybe it had something to do with being a preacher's kid.
He chuckled. I could feel his breathing increase, so I kept nibbling, and moved my hand over his chest. He turned towards me and we kissed. He let his breath breathe into me , his lips covering mine, his tongue dipping deep into my mouth. I didn't totally object to his technique, except it left me no control. I tried to take it back by pulling my lips back and flicking my tongue around his, then removing my lips from his altogether and kissing his neck. I pulled his t-shirt up from his body so that it was gathered underneath his armpits. I gently pushed him down to the bed and ran my brown fingers against his brown chest. It wasn't as arousing to me as seeing my dark flesh against Perry's white skin, but the situation was arousing enough. Marcus' nipples were hard, large, gray-brown aureoles surrounding them. I ran my fingers across them, teasing them the way I used to with Perry. It yielded the same effect. I put my mouth to one, then the other, flicking my tongue across them firmly, then sucking softly. Marcus moaned. I moved my hand down his body and let it rest on the rod that was developing into a more solid state. Marcus moaned again, and I ran the palm of my hand up and down on his hardening cock through his sweats. My own juices were beginning to flow. I took off my tank top and lifted my sports bra over my head while sitting on Marcus' reclined body. Holding his hands, I placed them on my breasts and he squeezed while I heaved and humped back and forth on his clothed cock. When he had resigned himself to massaging and squeezing my soft brown breasts, I used my hands to pull down his sweat pants. He still had his boxers on, but his cock was bulging against the opening of them. I lifted the solid length of him out through the front of his boxers and stroked his dick with a firm but tender grip.
Separating myself gently from his hands on my breasts, I squatted on the bed next to his cock, examining it as I stroked it. The trunk of it was darker than his skin tone, almost purplish, while the head was a glistening lighter brown, with a glint of red in its excitement. It was the second cock I'd ever seen, the first black cock I'd ever seen, and the only cock I'd seen at all in months. My mouth watered as I examined and stroked it until I couldn't wait any longer. I let my mouth slide slowly down the length of him as he gasped, then back up again, repeating the movement slowly at first, then picking up speed according to his moans.
All too soon, I heard him groan, his cock pulsate, then my mouth filled up with his warm, salty cum. Having acquired the taste with Perry, I sucked and swallowed the warm, white liquid from Marcus' brown cock-head in the rhythm of how it erupted, each pulse giving up less and less.
I smiled looking down at Marcus' satisfied expression and licked up a drop of cum that dotted my lips. It felt good to do more with Marcus than just kiss, and I was rather proud of myself --I had heard on campus that most girls, black or white, thought it "nasty" to swallow. To me, "nasty" was rather nice, in this case.
I was so happy to have finally shared more than a kiss with him (and proud to have swallowed) that I didn't take it personally when he didn't reciprocate, or decide to take the situation any further than just his cumming. I should have taken his response-- or lack of one-- as a sign.
Because college is its own world and I didn't have much contact with Perry while I was there, I had pretty much resigned myself to not having a giving lover. No one here really knew that my first sexual encounters were with a white person and no one asked. Marcus was black, smart, talented, and a gentleman, and that was hard for a lot of women to find, so, for a brief period, I figured all that was enough.
About three months into our junior year, the basketball team was gearing up for another season. When I wasn't working in the slide library, I would meet Marcus after his practices at his dorm, sometimes getting there before he did. I had a key, and I just walked in, books in arm, ready to settle in and study for the Survey of Art exam. When I walked in, the desk on the other side of the room was piled with books, a hooded sweatshirt draped over it, and there was someone lying on the bed.
