My Girl

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My sex life prior to college didn’t prepare me for my first real girlfriend. I missed out on adolescent monogamy based on mutual masturbation. I played in a rock band for five years after high school and dating consisted of groupies, star-fuckers if we were touring with a big-name act, teeny boppers, and virginal maidens who had no idea what they were doing.

Asking a woman out on a date never happened. We picked up chicks without even trying. The groupies and wannabes followed us around, hung out with us, slept with us, did anything we wanted, and oftentimes we didn’t know their real names — girls went by names like Star, Caprice, and Flower.

As a result, romance and intellectual connections never happened, while quickies, blow jobs, hand jobs, twosomes, threesomes, and foursomes were the norm. Even certain niceties like foreplay, afterglow, and simple conversation weren’t in my repertoire.

After my band broke up and left me washed up at twenty-four, I went off to college and was forced to adjust to a universe in which girls don’t flash their boobs at you, grab your crotch, pinch your ass, and fuck like rabbits because you can sing a song like Mick Jagger.

After a couple of one-nighters, I hooked up with Carrie mid-way through the fall semester. The funny thing is that she was more fuck-me than marry-me material and had as little experience in a traditional boyfriend-girlfriend relationship as I had. She informed me almost immediately that she doesn’t screw on the first date; so, she sucked my cock instead.

Coming from an orgy of drugs and sex and rock ‘n’ roll, you would think there was nothing under Eros that I hadn’t tried. However, Carrie schooled me on a number of things. I had always thought of fellatio as dominance and submission with the woman on her knees, paying homage to her man. Carrie would cradle me in her arms and take hold of my dick—my center of sexual gravity—and dominate me with her lips, tongue, and warm mouth. Instead of hiding behind a pad or a tampon, Carrie opened her hungry labia while menstruating. The blood on my cock was a badge of well earned manhood.

As a novice lothario, I learned early on that ladies enjoy having their breasts fondled and nipples sucked as much if not more than men enjoy doing those acts. Also, Carrie particularly enjoyed cunnilingus and spreading her cheeks for analingus. As a matter of fact, she exclaimed “I love you, Nicky” the first time I went down on her.

“Oh, you know what you’re doing down there…Oh, yeah, baby!…Gobble up my pussy…Uh-huh, thatta boy!…Find my clitty…Oh, fuck, that’s my g-spot…I’m gonna come, I’m coming, I came.” Then she squirted all over my face. Her smegma was as thick as my semen.

“I love you, too, Carrie.”

Since we were in love or something like it, we decided to shack up. Coed dorms were still new at colleges in 1969, but, once they were populated, roommates moved out and boyfriends and girlfriends moved in. Breakups led to more room changes right away. Carrie showed up at my dorm room with all her worldly belongings, mostly underwear, in a knapsack.

The first night we slept together we proved that the “sleeping” part is just a euphemism. After she blew me like a trumpet, swallowing so much jizz it spilled out of the corners of her mouth and she had to lap it off my groin, I ate her cunt and her ass for a full hour, giving her multiple shrieking orgasms. Her scent and flavor intoxicated me.

“I never knew it could feel like this,” Carrie confessed. “I’ve had sex with a bunch of guys—and girls,” she added unnecessarily. “Nobody ever made me feel like you do.”

My girl was a contradiction walking. She was tall, black haired, and brown eyed with a tawny complexion, muscular legs, round buttocks, and firm breasts. One minute she was a sultry vixen in heat; the next minute she was a shy, fragile, soft-spoken waif. I loved both sides of her personality, but she could switch at any moment and a volatile temper.

Carrie demanded a level of intimacy I had never known. She dressed, undressed, shaved her underarms and legs, farted, tinkled and pooped in front of me. My lady love also liked to go days and days without bathing and asked me to sniff and lick her to prove my devotion. I did.

In addition, Carrie was confused by the sexual revolution in which we were participating. She said she belonged to me, but I had a hard time keeping her in the corral. I heard that she had snuck into one of the boys’ dorms last semester and sucked her way down the corridor, giving etiler escort twelve blow jobs. The next day the guys chipped in and sent her a dozen roses. “Sweet!” One of my new school friend, my soul brother, Donnie, confessed he had fingered her at a party, but didn’t know her name at the time and she was so stoned that she probably didn’t even remember.

She seemed to have no boundaries or inhibitions, however. For example, she told me the story of the first time she had oral sex. On vacation with her parents, her cousin brought his friend over to their hotel and they lured Carrie outside. “I was willing to learn how to suck dick, but the kid was diving me instructions, like ‘do this, don’t do that,’ and asking questions, expecting me to answer.” Carrie stuck her thumb in her mouth and said in a muffled voice, “I said to him, ‘I can’t talk ’cause I have your prick in my mouth.'”

I said, “You really shouldn’t tell me things like that.”

“Why not?” she truly didn’t get it.

“All I can picture is you blowing some anonymous guy.”

She also told me about her ex-boyfriend. “He had an armpit fetish. He didn’t want me to shave my pits ’cause he thought it was sexy and he liked got off sucking the hair.” She explained, “But he didn’t like the taste of deodorant. So, I let it go natural…It got me smelling bad all the time. That’s why I broke up with him.”

One day, she burst into the boys’ lavatory, which everyone used, including faculty staying overnight to fuck students. I was standing at one of the sinks in my underwear, shaving—which for me is actually trimming around my beard. Carrie breezed past me, chirping “Hi!,” and slammed open a stall door. From inside, she moaned, “Sorry, I have to go real bad.” She filled the toilet with piss and shit, giggling uncontrollably, and filled the air with fecal stench.

“My little buttercup,” I called her when she emerged relieved, wiped, and cheery.

She made me a proposition while washing her hands. “Next time you take a crap, call me and I’ll suck you off.” The idea intrigued me, but I never took her up on it.

Carrie may have seemed like a dream come true. She acted like a wild child who was hopelessly devoted to me. We had our downer times as well. One night we were planning to go to a disco night in one of the dorms. In those days, student organizations and even the administration actually paid for kegs of beer, though we only drank between smoking joints and bowls. We fought in my room—not argued, but an actual fight. Carrie hit me twice and spit in my face. Don’t worry, I would never hurt a woman, then or now. I let her stomp off to go party by herself. She called me a faggot on her way out. I stayed in our room to watch Star Trek on my black-and-white portable telly.

Carrie literally snuck back into my room hours later. She tried to insert the key, turn the lock, open the door, close it, and lock it as quietly as she could, thinking I was asleep. She undressed in the dark and slipped under the covers. Laying beside me in bed, she whispered, “I’m so sorry, babe,” and peppered my cheeks, neck, ears, and shoulders with butterfly kisses. Then she cuddled up to my chest and started sucking my nipples.

“I’m sorry, too, honey,” I responded, although I thought the fight was all her fault and she acted much worse than I did.

We kissed, our dueling tongues dribbling saliva over our lips, and I juggled, squeezed, and pinched her sweaty tits. I played with them roughly due to my lingering anger. Carrie’s perspiration odor was pungent. She said she danced a lot at the disco party. Her breath was stale from weed, tobacco, and beer. She said she was too turned on to go brush her teeth. She grabbed ahold of my cock, pulled it into her mouth, and began simultaneously stroking and sucking.

In the throes of passion, my hands wandered to Carrie’s feminine garden, where I rubbed her wire brush and pressed my fingertips inside her pudendal slit. To my surprise, her cunt was spongy and damp, not from excitation, but as a result of coitus.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” I bolted upright. “Do you think I wouldn’t be able to tell?”

Carrie made noises as if she was trying to form words, but couldn’t.

“Who did you fuck?” I shocked her by demanding in a loud, lead-singer’s voice, more like Jim Morrison than Mick Jagger.

“Just some guy at the disco,” she whimpered. “I don’t even know his name. He’s nothing, nobody. You’re my man, Nicky.”

“That’s eve gelen escort supposed to make me feel better?”

She sat up in bed and reached for my cigarettes on the nightstand. She took out a Windsor and lighted it with the last match in the pack.

“I was so mad at you,” she said inhaling a puff of smoke. “I wanted to beat you up. So, I had a revenge fuck instead.”

“I’d rather you beat me up,” I said, already halfway to forgiving her.

“You wanna spank me?” she asked coyly. “I’ll kiss your ass. I’ll lick your ass.”

“I don’t wanna spank you…Just quit fucking strangers.”

“You know, your friends, Donnie and Sandy, were at the disco thing. They saw me dancing and making out with that guy. They both came over and told me what a cool guy you were and that I was lucky to have you. I’m sure they know I went off with the guy.”

Without a word, my unfaithful lover began to massage my buttocks, then kiss them and lick all around, before running her tongue up and down my crack. Carrie rimmed me until I was ready to shoot, whereupon she pumped my milky seed all over her chest with her right hand and frigged my anus with the middle finger of her left hand.

A few days later, we had lain about in our room, getting high all afternoon, and by nighttime we had run out weed. Carrie, who seemed to have connections on campus and in town, set out in quest of some dope. She returned after an hour, looking flushed, her shirt partway unbuttoned, carrying a plastic bag of leaves, twigs, and seeds.

“Where the hell have you been?” I was annoyed.

“Don’t talk mean to me,” she countered evasively. “I scored some reefer. Here.”

I took some out. “From who?” It wasn’t very high quality stuff, but I started to roll a couple of joints.

“Some girl told me two guys on the fourth floor were selling,” she said, watching me fill the paper with the cannabis. “I went to their room and they invited me to smoke some with them.”

“In their room?” I asked, a tad suspiciously. I licked the paper from end to end and pressed it closed.

“Yeah, well,” she stammered hesitantly. “One kid was lying on the bed in his underpants while the other kid filled a nickel bag for me.

“And?” I wondered, getting more agitated at her story seeming to lead up to some revelation.

“I ended up on the bed, laying between the two of ’em, sharing a jay, and the first kid said, ‘Hey, let’s get naked.” Carrie paused as I finished rolling the second joint. She took a toke.

“What, you took your clothes off with these two dudes?”

“Yeah, then, well, you know, one thing led to another.”

“What thing led to another?” I choked as I took a drag on my joint.

“A little fucky, sucky…I’m sorry, babes.”

“You fucked and sucked both of ’em?” I felt my face flush with anger.

“Yeah,” she answered, holding in some reefer smoke. “I fucked and sucked ’em both.”

“Why do you do these things, Carrie? Jeez!”

“Hey, what about free love?” she drew another lungful. “Ever heard of the sexual revolution?”

“I thought you loved me,” I said, sounding like a cuckolded wimp.

“What,” she snapped, “are we supposed to be like married?”

I shook my head and turned away from her, not wanting to imagine her getting fucked by one guy and then the other. Though I got a bit of rise picturing their cocks in her beautiful mouth.

“They’re nothin’ compared to you, Nicky,” Her tone changed. “They’re little boys with baby dicks. You’re a bull next to them.”

Needless to say, she got laid for the third time this afternoon. As I was pushing my penis deep inside her succulent vagina, she hissed, “Don’t try to tell me you haven’t balled any other chicks since we’ve been together.”

“I haven’t,” I protested, humping her at mid speed.

“Lyin’ sack of shit,” Carrie chuckled, not angry, grinding her hips beneath my thrusting. She almost rattled off a list of the chicks with whom I had screwed around—at least, the ones she knew about. She let it be. By the way, we never used condoms in the days of love, peace, and happiness. “I’m on the pill” was Carrie’s mantra.

One day she was like the Great Whore of Babylon, fucking everyone with whom she came in contact. The next day she was a playful woman-child.

During a half-in-jest disagreement about who would get to wear the jeans that happened to fit both of us, I kicked the jeans under the bed. Carrie scrunched up her face, stuck out her fatih escort tongue, and taunted me, “Here’s what I have to say to you.,” and ripped a thundering fart.

The sound of flatulence makes anyone laugh, but the smell is another story. Another time, while I was napping on the bed, she got back from class and knelt beside me, pulled down her pants, and let one rip right in my face. I opened my eyes to a cloud of methane and her cute little ass moong me.

“Why’d you do that,” I laughed even as my eyes teared from her stink bomb.

“To see if you love me,” she answered in little girlie voice. “You love me, huh?” We proceeded to fuck madly. Our lovemaking that night was more like a wrestling match, where she tried to pin my shoulders to the bed, twist my arm, and put me in a headlock. At the peak of erotic frenzy, she asked me to smake her ass, spank her pussy, bite her clitoris, and chew on her nipples. I did as I was told.

We lived together, sharing the dorm room, through the Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks, finals, which were still scheduled for January, and the beginning of the spring semester.

The problem is that for all my sexual prowess, I was missing something. She was not just a lusty fucking partner, she was endowed with the power of Aphrodite. Carrie’s vaginal muscles were stronger than any woman’s I had ever known or would know. She could hold my phallus in a hammer lock inside her vase and would squeeze every drop out of me with deliberately applied, throbbing pressure when I came.

However, unbeknownst to me, Carrie rarely orgasmed with coitus. I should have picked up on this, but I was so happily spent almost every night that I never thought to consider her end of the coitus. The Age of Aquarius wasn’t nearly as enlightened as we would like to think in retrospect. A tipoff should have been that I still usually came harder masturbating or receiving fellatio than by screwing, notwithstanding Carrie’s hypersexuality.

After fucking, I would doze off, leaving my girlfriend awake and unfinished. She would wait, smoke a joint or a cigarette, and listen to me snore. Then she would get up and go the bathroom. Originally a men’s room, now a coed lavatory, where sinks, toilets, and showers are shared by all. Carrie either get dressed, grab a bathrobe, or dash naked down the hallway. She would squat in one of stalls, rubbing and fingering her cunt to climax, tasting her own sticky fingers in the process. Once in a while, a guy or a girl would come into the bathroom and she would invite him or her to come play.

Also, I didn’t know that she made it her mission to fuck all of my friends and their girlfriends as well as numerous strangers. When my best friend Sandy, the former bass player in my defunct band, came to visit, Carrie hit on him and he told me.

“That’s the way it is,” he said. “Men are like dogs, loyal to the bitter end, but women are like cats. They will dump you for the first guy to come along with a can of tuna fish.”

Despite Sandy’s sage advice, I stuck with Carrie because she professed her undiminished love for me, despite her wild promiscuity. “Those little boys have baby wieners,” she explained. “You’re a real man with a bull’s dick. Only you can fill me up, buttercup.”

We finally broke up when I found out she had fucked a skanky junky in our bed after shooting up smack with her. A week later, I caught Carrie going down on our friend Jeanette and I had had enough of her shenanigans.

After we broke up, I tried to cop some reefer from Carrie’s connection, a greaser named Heston, who was a townie, not a student on campus. Carrie never had money, yet always scored good dope. I called Heston and we met in a parking lot, negotiating through rolled down windows with our cars side by side with motors running.

“Can I sample a bowl?” I asked.

“Sure thing,” answered Heston, who had slicked back hair in a rat’s tail style and a goatee. He filled a pipe with some Mary Jane and puffed three times to light it before passing it to me through the car windows.

“How much?” I asked and he held up a rather thin baggie. “That’s a nickel bag?”

“That’s a dime bag, man.”

“What kind of price does Carrie get?”

“Ha!” he chortled. “I betcha don’t wanna know her price list.”

“What do you mean?” I asked naively.

“Blow job for a nickel bag, fingering for a dime bag, and screwing for a tab of acid.”

“Oh,” I said meekly. “What did a kilo cost?”

“That was a gang-bang,” Heston sniffed. “Me and my boys all had a go.”

In hindsight I recalled waiting half an hour in the car outside Heston’s apartment while Carrie supposedly negotiated the deal for the kilo, 2.2 pound of grass. She came out very happy about the “real good deal” she just made.

I paid Heston $80 for a kilo and didn’t have to fuck or suck him. That was a good deal.

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