It was definitely her eyes that started the whole thing. They were steady and dark and filled with mystery and something more. Within them was the promise of something I had only fantasized about since I first recognized there were more profound differences between men and women than the length of their hair. They were differences that had aroused both my curiosity and my wee but willing weenie.
I can remember that at nine years old I would snitch the Penney's catalogue and search through it, looking with eager anticipation for the pages with the bra and panty ads. Yes, I was a horny little guy and those ads made my prepubescent prick pop up, stiff as a little poker. It wasn't fully operational yet, of course, but it liked to be touched and I would lie in bed at night and hold it with one hand while rubbing the satiny smooth border of my blanket back and forth over its sensitive head until the pleasure became so intense I couldn't take anymore.
My mother, bless her sainted heart, made it clear to me that being a horny little guy was not a good thing when she found me looking at the bra ads in my bedroom. Yes, she told me, men had these urges and desires, but they had to learn to keep them to themselves because women didn't like men looking at them "that way" and really didn't want to have much more to do with them than the minimum that was required to get themselves with child. AND, God knows, you should always respect and protect your women. (Translation: Don't lay your filthy paws on them, you nasty horn dog.)
My father had died when I was only two, leaving mom with an overly generous insurance policy payday. Having now gotten from my father both the money to live comfortably and the child she undoubtedly believed she had paid her sexual dues to conceive, she never felt the need to remarry, and I never had a man in the house to talk to.
Since I have no siblings, I pretty much found out about women and sex through my buddies. One of my friends when I was between ten and twelve years old was Bobby Garabedian who lived a block and a half from our house in California's San Joaquin Valley.
Bobby's father had a particular fondness for big-breasted women and he kept a stack of Playboy and other girlie magazines in a cabinet in the workshop area of his garage. Thus, it was in Bobby's garage that I first saw the wonders that were hidden inside those exciting brassieres in the Penney's catalogues. Of course, I saw what was in the panties as well, but at eleven and a half years old, my focus of erotic interest had not yet dropped below chest level. Once I had seen what breasts actually looked like, the catalogue took on an even more erotic mystique.
We spent quite a bit of time in the back of the garage that summer, going through the pile while Bobby's folks were at work. It took me longer than Bobby to find my perfect Playmate because I was more attracted by quality than by quantity, and Playboy - and especially the other magazines his dad got - leaned heavily towards quantity. My preference is smaller (but not tiny, although tiny can be a turn-on as well), pointed breasts, preferably with puffy areolae and - absolutely a must - large, erect nipples. Bobby, on the other hand, was a chip off the old block - he loved huge hooters. Other than bulk, he really wasn't too fussy.
Because his dad really didn't revisit the older issues at the bottom of the stack, Bobby and I copped a couple of magazines for our own recreational use. The Playmate of the month in the one I copped had beautiful blonde hair (imagine that, a Playboy Playmate with blonde hair), blue eyes, flawless skin (I found out later they airbrushed the flaws out of them, but I wouldn't have cared even if I had known then), and the most beautiful breasts I had ever seen. They were perky and pointy and the areolae were large and puffy and pink the way my imagination dictated they should be, and her nipples - well, I can feel my cock twitching now just remembering them. I always used to fantasize that I was giving them butterfly kisses with my eyelashes as a part of my mental "foreplay" for my masturbations with her as the object of my lust.
But enough about that. Let's get back to where I left off about those dark, hypnotic eyes.
Actually, I was originally surprised I even noticed her in the first place since I had pretty much given up on life at the time we met. Once I looked into those eyes, however, I couldn't get them out of my mind. Strange as it seems, I felt guilty at my fascination with them despite the fact my divorce from Allison had been finalized two months earlier. I still had some sort of misplaced loyalty to the woman who had devastated me with her announcement that she couldn't stand the thought of being married to a pervert like me for ten years and wanted out before that unhappy day arrived.
I was convinced I would never love again; that I'd never be happy again. When I told my buddies I intended to quit my significant six-figure job and move away after she forced me out of the house, they said I should treat divorce like the death of a spouse.
"Don't make any major life decisions for at least a year, Dave," they said.
"Listen to the voice of experience, here," they said.
"Trust me, man, you'll be way too vulnerable to make sound choices," they said.
That was really good advice, but … well, I was way too vulnerable to make sound choices.
Allison's rejection of me had left me completely shattered and I had narrowed my "sound choices" down to whether to quit my job and move away, or commit suicide. By the time I was captivated by the dark eyes, I had pretty much settled on the second option as the only viable solution to my pain, having realized that simply moving wouldn't change the way I was feeling.
I was running on autopilot at work and was so depressed that I had stopped spending time with my friends. Even when I did hang out with them, I mostly just went through the motions of pretending I was having a good time. I could see the discomfort and pity in their eyes as they tried their best to keep my spirits up, but I wasn't having any part of it. I was such lousy and unwilling company that they finally stopped trying to include me in their get-togethers and drinking excursions. I didn't blame them a bit. The fact is, I really didn't want to be included because I missed Allie's company so much. Yeah, we'd had our issues - what couple hasn't? - but that didn't mean I had stopped loving her.
Allie and I met during our junior year in college and I was totally, immediately, and permanently in love with her. I was "in love" to the point I almost failed Professor Leonard's Comparative World Religions 101, for God's sake. I'm talking about a class that every undergrad knew was an automatic "B" unless you actually cracked the textbook, in which case you could expect an automatic "A". It was the easiest humanities requirements grade in the school … and I almost failed it.
There was no question about it, my feeling for Allison was definitely love with a capital "L"; the kind of love my mother had idealized in my psyche; the kind of love that made you want to protect and provide; the kind that engendered uber-respect for the fragile female object of your affections. In other words, it was the kind that had you putting your hands in your own pants after a date rather than in hers during the date.
Now, I wasn't exactly a virgin, but I certainly wasn't the cocksman that a couple of my buds were. They were pigs who didn't give a crap for the feelings of the girls they banged, and even though it ticked me off that my mom had done such a number on my libido, I couldn't find it within myself to treat them as the emotionless objects my buddies did.
I'd had several experiences with Dennie, the girl I dated in my senior year in high school, but none of them had been really hot. In fact, they'd been kind of disappointing - okay, make that a lot disappointing. It probably didn't help that, while she didn't fight my explorations and fondlings, she didn't appear to be turned on by them at all. My problem was that in my fantasies, my lover and I would (a) slowly and tenderly or (b) quickly and violently (pick one) undress each other as we teased and fondled and pushed one another to orgasm. Instead, the whole process with her was clumsy and mechanical, and it certainly never felt like she was really into the occasional sex we had. It seemed like she mostly just let me open her blouse and get into her panties to make sure she had a date for movies and the football games and proms. God forbid she get herself involved in getting a condom on me, and she would just sort of lay there limply as I entered, stroked, blew, and withdrew. The single blowjob she gave me was heaven, but perfunctory and the expression on her face as she looked for a place to spit my come didn't really make me feel she'd gotten as much out of it as I had. It was pretty much the way I imagined a blowjob would be from a down-and-out whore in an alley on skid row - mechanically acceptable, but hurried and emotionally empty. By the time I'd paid for the movie tickets and dinner at Jimmy's Diner, I probably would have paid less for a blowjob from a whore and enjoyed it more.
My only other experience of any kind was extremely wild, but I honestly remember very little of it. My buds and I were celebrating the end of finals in our sophomore year and went down to Tijuana, as so many other young and dumb males do. I got totally hammered and my buds decided they'd have some fun with me, so they hired one of the local working girls to service my account. I thought this hot chick had picked me out and was all turned on that I was such a stud muffin. But, of course, that wasn't the case. Nonetheless, it was a wild night of sex. In my hazy memory, I remember little other than sticking my cock in any opening in her body that was large enough to take it - and trying to get it into some that weren't.
I was half passed out when she sat on my face at one point and rubbed her pussy over it while she sucked on my cock. Probably because I was a selfish male, I'd never even considered voluntarily putting my face into a woman's crotch before that moment, but its taste and scent awakened an intense hunger that lay largely dormant until the moment I looked into those dark eyes.
When I woke up the next morning, I found a drop-dead gorgeous woman going through my pockets. I had gotten so hammered that I didn't really recognize her so I asked her who she was and what she was doing. Well, she was looking for the two hundred dollars my buds had promised her I had in my wallet. I had maybe twenty dollars. She eventually got her money from my buds, but she was pissed.
Bottom line was that between her and Dennie, the message came through loud and clear and confirmed what my mother had unknowingly taught me: Women don't like sex; they just put up with it to get what they want. Even the hot women in Playboy posed like that for the money, after all.
As I said before, when I met Allison I was blown away by her. She was blonde and beautiful and poised and intelligent, and with a fun sense of humor. We just plain craved one another's company from the first moment we were introduced after we backed into each other at an off-campus beer bar. We talked politics and literature and movies and television and family and friends and life, and genuinely enjoyed the hell out of each other's company.
I finally asked Allie out on an official date, which led to more dates, which eventually led to some kissing, and then a little petting, and finally…
Alas, Allie was a carbon copy of my high school girlfriend when we finally did the big nasty for the first time on our wedding night. Actually, it was worse because all the lights had to be off and the blinds completely drawn, so I couldn't see much more than her outline. That was a shame, really, because she has a dynamite body. I was careful and thoughtful and tender. I kissed her and caressed her and teased her sensitive zones and licked and sucked and ever so gently deflowered her. I could hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears as I slid deep into her … and came almost instantly.
When I was done, I lay panting and throbbing atop her with tears of love and release at the corners of my eyes. After a while, Allison sort of rolled me off her, turned her back to me, and went to sleep. I wasn't hurt, though, because I was ready for sleep as well, and I really didn't expect more. I snuggled up to her back, put my arm over her and fell asleep.
Our wedding night pretty much set the sexual tone for our marriage. I would kiss and touch and pet and rub and hope and hope and hope. And once a month - whether she wanted it or not - she would relent in an attempt to become pregnant.
Every once in a long while - like, maybe, every two or three years - something would tweak her just right and she'd be all over me like a lion on a wounded zebra. Those were the only times her mouth ever made it to my cock, but when it did, it was fantastic. It wasn't mechanical like it had been with my high school girlfriend. She would roll me over and rub her breasts over my face and dangle her nipples into my mouth and rub them over my cock before going down on me while she played with my nipples. She'd stop short of my climax and sit on my cock, then grind her twat against my groin as I came deep up inside her. I could never tell if she'd had an orgasm herself, but she seemed to be so completely into what she was doing it didn't really matter. Each time it happened, I'd hope that she'd "seen the light", so to speak, and been converted to the dark side. But it was always an aberration and the next month we'd be back to command performance time when the egg dropped. We were such great friends, though, that we worked our way past the disparity in our wants and needs for nine long years.
Overall, I was never really satisfied with what passed for a sex life with Allie, but it was pretty much what I had been told to expect in the first place when my mother caught me masturbating in the bathtub when I was thirteen. I'd soaped it up pretty good and had my eyes closed as I held the shaft in my left hand while I briskly rubbed my heavily lathered right hand across its head. The intensity of the feeling was exquisite, just like when I rubbed the satin edging of my blanket over its head when I was younger, only now I could finish what I started. My hips were thrust above the surface of the water, a mental picture of my Miss March fixed firmly in my mind, my legs trembling and my cock convulsing on the point of orgasm when she opened the door.
Mom didn't try to give me any of that b.s. about going blind if you do it too much, but she did make it abundantly clear that it was a disgustingly unnatural thing to do. She told me that women find "those things" … and here her eyes locked onto my still erect cock as it throbbed just below the surface of the water with semen leaking from it at each pulsation … that "those things" were useful tools for making babies and not much more. She made it clear that expecting sexual interest from girls would be a recipe for everlasting frustration, so I might as well get used to the idea right now and stop having the unwholesome, unnatural thoughts that lead to disgusting, degrading behaviors such as masturbation.
I was so mortified I didn't touch myself for a whole week, other than to go to the bathroom. But the siren song of sensual pleasure beckoned, and I returned fairly quickly to my often twice or thrice daily hand jobs.
With my mother's well-intentioned help, self-pleasure became the norm for me - a norm that continued up to and right on through my marriage to Allison.
"Dave, have you ever masturbated?" Allie turned towards me from where she sat propped up reading a magazine as I lay on my side of the bed with my back to her.
My eyes popped open. I had been drifting at the raggedy edges of sleep when Allison's voice uttered the question I was genuinely embarrassed to hear from her lips.
How was I to answer? If I told the truth, it would certainly hurt her feelings. After all, knowing that elephants would fly before I got any sex from her that night, I had given myself a quick hand job not thirty minutes earlier while she was removing her make-up in the bathroom. On the other hand, I didn't really want to lie, so I punted. "Why do you ask, honey?"
"In this month's issue of Healthy Adult magazine, there's an article that says most men masturbate far more often than women."
"Umh," I grunted, as noncommitally as I could. Did someone actually get paid to figure that one out?
"I've never done it, but I was curious if you ever have."
I was trapped. "Yeah, I do."
"Eww! You mean as in 'do', not 'did'?"
"Oh, my God. I don't believe this. So, how often do you do it?"
"You don't really want to know, do you?"
"Just tell me."
"Almost every day."
When there was no response, my long-standing frustration got the better of me. "Usually more than once a day."
Still no reaction, so I pounded the final nail in the coffin. "In fact, I jacked-off while you were taking off your make-up tonight."
There was a long moment of silence before she closed the conversation with a single word: "Shit!"
And that was the beginning of the ending of our marriage.