A Perfect Pairing

Prelude: I loved to write and much of this came straight from a sex journal I kept. This is about my thoughts, behaviors and actions related to sex.

This is a condensed account of our life as undaunted, uninhibited lovers. It is a story of lust, but also a story of love and devotion. Perhaps, more than anything, it is a story about a perfect pairing of slut and slut-lover.

This story takes place from 1975 -- 2000. You'll notice there is no mention of cell phones or internet. Our current era makes any chosen sexual life style much easier, and I'm sure we would have taken advantage of new technologies had they existed.

My wife is long passed and in a sense this is a tribute to what a fantastic woman she was; a lady when she needed to be, but woman through and through. I worshipped her and spent a good portion of my life helping her meet her extraordinary sexual needs, which in turn met mine.

I don't recommend unprotected sex, but that was our thing. It's a fucking miracle neither of us ever caught anything.

CH 1, Finding Rachel

Our beginning set the stage for what was to come. As fantastic as our sex life was, it could have been better had the internet existed. We would have been aided in discovering our true inclinations and been better equipped to sidestep social pressures and explore our sexuality. We did explore, me wrestling with marry-a-good-girl programming and her with sluts-are-bad programming.

I'm Norm, not normal, just Norm. Cutting to the chase, as a teenager all of my fantasies centered on eventually having a wife who was a practicing slut. I love the erotic feel of the word "slut." "Whore" sounds erotic too but there is a distinction. "Whore" suggests that a woman might be spreading her legs for money, while "slut" suggests it's for the cock. I consider them both complimentary as both are rooted in the fundamentals of human need and nature.

I think finding that box of erotic novels that had been dumped beside the road, as if someone was hoping they would be found and not go to waste, had something to do with my fantasies. I was in my early teens. Many of them had plot lines about wayward wives and a few had husbands in the story who loved having an insatiable wife that wanted to fit the social norm of monogamous, but just couldn't. Often the husbands were at first objecting but eventually got turned on by the situation and encouraged the wife to continue getting her needs met. The books about slutty wives were my favorite and seemed to connect with a core passion.

I didn't expect to realize my slut-wife fantasy because it was my enculturated belief that sluts were for fucking, not marrying. That's how my friends, who were much more successful at scoring sluts to fuck, talked about the matter. Now that I think about it, that's probably also how the sluts thought about it too, "Just fuck me and move on, I'm not interested in your tangled web of relationship."

My first lay came when partying with a friend. He had one of his regular sluts, Tina, with us and we were drinking together. He fucked her right in front of me and told her I was a virgin who needed some pussy. She said, "Come and get it." Her cum filled pussy felt so magnificently warm and wet that I think it strengthened my slut wife fantasy.

Considering my fantasy, I guess I was (am) the quintessential slut lover, which I define not as man who loves to fuck sluts, but a man who falls in love with them and has no desire to reform their wanton ways. A slut, to me, is a woman who is saying "fuck you" to the social mold women are expected to fit into. They are independent, adventurous and like their sex on the sleazy side. What's not to like (love)?

I didn't agree with my friends' attitude about loose women but there was social pressure to marry a "good girl." I resigned myself to the good-girl fate and did just that. I married a girl I had been dating through my senior year of high school. She was beautiful and shapely, an aesthetic mismatch to my pimply scrawniness. Despite my esthetics, I had cultivated a persona of coolness, a quiet bravado and reputation for never losing a fight. That attracted some women, especially if I had the opportunity to talk my game.

My presence seemed most effective on women who were angry at their parents. They saw me as the guy their parents were least likely to approve of, making me perfect from a revenge point of view. That was Beverly to a tee. We eloped after high school. We called it quits at a year and a half in. Though she didn't care for employment or much of anything including housework, she lamented the slow pace of my financial progress. I was determined to never get married again. And then came Rachel.

Rachel was the sister of a guy I was rooming with. She came by almost nightly to party with us: drink, smoke, listen to music etc. We were both 25 at the time and I had been crushing on her for a while. Rachel was medium height for a woman, about 5'4". She had long, dark brown, wavy hair, a really cute face, small breasts, which I think are sexy looking and not prone to sagging with age, and an ass that was near incomparable. Everyone seemed to notice the perfection of her backside.

At the time there were two guys vying to be her boyfriend. She had been abstinent from sex for about a year in an effort to sidestep a reputation that her brother warned me about. She was ready for a monogamous boyfriend, but she'd seen me with too many women to think I was boyfriend material.

She said no to my first request for a date, but I kept pursuing and flirting with an undaunted confidence. It helped that I was weight lifting at the time and had a rocking body going on. She finally caved in and I took her to a fancier restaurant than she had ever been in. She had grown up in relative poverty. We lived in an upwardly mobile community where the norm was middle and upper middle class.

We drank expensive wine while I probed for information on how the battle for her love between the two others was going. "Okay, I guess," she said, with a complete lack of enthusiasm. I felt encouraged.

"By now if either was Mr. Right I think you'd be feeling that," I said.

"Yeah, maybe. Do you think you might be Mr. Right?"

"Well, you haven't told me to fuck off yet. Your brother said you would if you weren't interested."

"I don't know why you're interested, the path to your bed seems well worn as it is."

"Maybe none of them are feeling like Ms. Right."

"But you think I might be Ms. Right. Why is that, I'm certainly no prettier than the ones I've seen frequenting your doorway."

"Might be something your brother told me, but I shouldn't betray his confidence."

"Then I won't ask," she said with a big grin, "but I am intrigued since he knows my past in embarrassing detail."

We engaged lighter topics through our delicious meal, music, books and such, before returning to her apartment and switching to beer, which we both preferred over wine. One thing led to another, and then to her bed. We stripped and lay next to each other. After some kissing she pulled back and got a serious look on her face.

"I need to tell you some things."

"Okay."

"I like you and if what I tell you is a deal breaker as far as us ever having a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship, that's fine, I'll get it. Maybe you don't even want that and I'm being foolish to think otherwise."

I remember feeling titillated at the possibility of her revelations being sexual. "I'm pretty openminded, so relax," I told her. "And, I like a lot of things about you. Whatever your shortcomings are your ass more than makes up for." I laughed after saying that, as if it wasn't true. She laughed too, but it sounded nervous and compulsory. She was clearly on edge about whatever revelations were to come.

"Please don't make light of this," she said.

I tend to believe that we need to find humor in more places, not less. It is the key to our deepest self-reflections. Because of that I get accused of taking things lightly. "I'm sorry Rachel, please continue."

"I'm not going to try and make it less than what it was. I'm just going to tell you the truth."

"Okay, I'm ready," I said, but wasn't prepared for the shoe she was about to drop.

"I had a girlfriend in high school and for three years we had a competition to see who could fuck the most guys. I was cuter and slimmer, and I won."

I didn't want to appear taken aback, so I said, "How did you keep score?" I asked this as if she was telling me about being on the swim team. Then again, if she was being truthful, she had turned fucking into a sport.

"We each had a little black book. We got one point every time we fucked a guy for the first time. After three years I had 117 points. Of course I fucked a lot of the guys more than once, but there were 117 different guys over three years."

I was doing the math in my head and later on paper. That was 39 new fucks per year or 3.25 new fucks per month, almost averaging one new guy per week. In my book that's impressive.

She told me a lot of stuff that night, really, really slutty stuff. I guess when she noticed how excited I was it encouraged her to get it all out. She may have noticed how rock hard I was during her disclosures. By the time she was done she never had to worry about me hearing something that I didn't already know. As far as I was concerned, it was all thrilling and it all endeared me to her. I love the spirit of anyone who can disrobe from society's expectations and navigate toward their true sexual self.

We fucked, and after hearing her story I didn't last long, but after hearing a few more of her exploits I was engorged again within minutes. After a second, longer fuck, she said, "I feel ashamed of how slutty I was."

I said, "Please don't, I think you're the woman I've been looking for and I would be proud to have a girlfriend who fucked 117 guys in high school." She maneuvered down and gave me the best blow job I had ever had, and for the first time in my experience, swallowed every drop of my cum. I thought that was a really good sign.

After the blow job I started to go down on her and she said, "Wait, let me go freshen up a bit."

I said, "I want you as you are," and proceeded to give her the best licking she had ever had, bringing her to what she claimed was her first orgasm. Hard to believe after 117 guys, but why lie after admitting to the 117.

I felt it was too soon to mention that my fantasy was to have a girlfriend who needed to fuck other guys, and I hadn't sorted all that out in my mind anyway. Needless to say, after that first date the other two guys were history. She moved in with me and her brother at the end of the month.

We both soon felt that living with her brother was not working, and a couple months later we rented our own house together. Soon thereafter, during sex, I started revealing my ultimate fantasy, to be in a relationship with a practicing slut, which only triggered her sluts-are-bad programming.

Her programming manifested in an interesting way. How could I possibly "really" love her and not be jealous of other guys fucking her. I suspect this was mostly because she was, like we all do, viewing the world through the lens of her own experience, which was basically that although everyone loved fucking her in high school, nobody was lining up to be a boyfriend.

She was also very jealous. In her mind, love and jealousy were joined at the hip, so to speak. If I wasn't jealous I couldn't possibly be in love. She was sure my outspoken desire for her to fuck others was a thinly veiled desire to fuck other women, and she was right. I genuinely wanted her to fuck around, but also wanted the freedom to do the same, or so I thought.

Our various social programming slowed our sexual exploration process to the extent that we were a half decade on before we settled into what really worked for us. By worked I mean a situation that was mutually satisfying, routinely titillating and natural feeling. It came after we had tried swapping and monogamy, neither feeling like a good fit. It came in the form of a relationship that was only open on her end, literally and figuratively. It came five years in, but clearly the groundwork had been laid on that first date with the revelation of her slutty past.

Society had been so predisposed to slut shaming and so tolerant of philandering men that Rachel and my relationship could have been considered a role reversal. It wasn't about roles at all, though I did eventually read up on dom/sub roles and learned more about my inclination in the process. If it feels like who you are, it's not a role you're playing.

Reading about roles helped me to be more at ease with a relationship that rendered me what my high school buddies would have called pussy whipped. To them, at least in open discourse, it was a fate worse than death. I've seen people get whipped by drugs, and wealth and status, and I found none of that enticing. Figuratively speaking, I could think of nothing finer than to be whipped by slut pussy, enslaved by it, smothered in it etc.