Does A Scene A Switch Make?

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Terms of Endearment

In my twenties I had a regular booty call with pretty sketchy dude. He was a bad-boy, and I was a sucker for his long hair and long legs. Inevitably we'd run into one another at the bars, drunk and horny, and go to his house to fuck. We'd roll over the next morning to see who we had spent the night with, do some bong hits and fuck some more. Well, except for the morning the cops banged on the door and hauled him off to jail for a "fail-to-appear" for one of his numerous DWIs. Oh, and then there was the morning where I put my hand between the wall and the mattress to find a shot-gun at my fingertips. A friend of mine once told me my life was out of "Pulp Fiction," I poo-poohed the idea at the time, but now as I write this, perhaps he was right.

Mind you at this time I was pretty naive sexually. I knew the basics and not much more. This was the pre-Internet era and information was not at my fingertips. Curious by nature, I asked Drunk Boy if he had any porn we could watch that night. "Sure!" he was enthused that I'd want to watch it with him. So he pops in a tape, I don't remember anything except some chicks getting down with an scary toothless old man in a wheelchair, disgusted, I made him turn it off. Then there was another one, some late 80s Lesbo fest that I dug.
"Those girls are hot sluts like you," Drunk Boy said as we started fooling around.
Slut? Who is he calling a slut? I started crying. "I might like sex, but I AM NO SLUT!"
"Oh Jesus X, calling you slut is not what you are thinking."
I'm boo-hooing, upset thinking the entire world thinks I am some floozy.
"I should have never even said anything."

I forgot when that dysfunctional coupling dissolved, but it wasn't until a few years ago that I realized that being called a "slut" was not always a bad thing.

"You like my fingers in my pussy you little slut," said the first woman who showed me the pleasure of Sapphic delights. She had me against the window in a mutual friend's bathroom where she'd followed me after flirting with me all night. Holding on to the windowsill, with my panties around my ankle, she thrust 3 more fingers into my willing cunt. "You love this slut don't you? I knew you were a total slut when I saw you come in." I moaned, my vaginal muscles gripping her fingers as I came. A knock on the door came soon after, and I never got reciprocate. But "Slut" wow, maybe she's right.

Flash forward to this morning, I get some lovely emails from Teacher that made me purr. While I am not an anal virgin, I haven't experienced anal in a positive situation and we've been discussing it, so when he informed me that I am to be his "3 hole Slut," well I just swooned.

Is it the idea of his ownership of my mouth, ass, and cunt? Is it merely being called what I exude? Or, is it both? All I know is now in my thirties being a Slut is not a bad thing, not at all.

Here Comes Sickness Part 1

Last night I happened upon the most hilarious niche porn -"KleanX (sic) Queens" aka "TissueGirls." A whole site devoted to women, excuse me teens, with a single ply of tissue on their breasts and, go figure, stuck to their wet snatches. Hey, whatever makes you happy, it certainly seems to be an inexpensive and harmless fetish to have. Just imagine this scenario:

"Hey baby, I want to cover you with some Puffs Plus With Aloe."

"No honey, I told you I need the protection of the Kleenex Antibacterial Two Ply"

"OK, damnit, but you know I can't feel anything through the two ply!"
"Sorry darling, two ply or you don't fly." He walks away to get the box of tissues.

"Crap baby, we're all out. How about some paper towels?"

Anyway, I was telling the Dr. Spankenstein about this, as well as the hoax Girls with Runny Noses site, as it was oh so amusing to me. When we got off the phone I starting thinking about it. When I get sick, I am always horny. Very horny. The taste of cough syrup, a scratchy throat, and a slight fever get me hot. Weird, I know. But then I started remembering why. There are two possible reasons.

Reason Number 1:

I'm not certain when I actually started masturbating on a regular basis. I'm guessing it was around 11 or 12, though I had a tribbing experience with a childhood friend at 10 that I still would like to recreate one day. Such naughty girls we were, laying on my parents rug, checking out each other's public hair progress (mind you that is before pubic topiary), and I don't remember how we got from that to laying on each other and grinding, but it was definitely my first orgasm. OK, so back to the sickness.

So, around the time I discovered the joys of self-love, I didn't have much privacy to get down with myself unless my parents were gone or during the night. I really wanted though, to do more than just lay under my Holly Hobbie sheets and rub my tween twat. So rare were the times when I was home all by myself, with my parents or sibling, that only a weekday common cold and a day off of school would give me hours of alone time.

So, from then until the time I moved out of my parents house to go to college, every time I was sick, I'd have a full-on masturbate-a-thon! Staying in bed was not an option, and if I did I had my hand in my panties.

I'd plow through my parents bookshelf, looking for a few pages of smut to get off. I had two favorites, "The Hite Report" which was a survey ala Kinsey of womens's different sexual experiences. That's were I got the idea to sit on top of the clothes drier and enjoy tingles of the tumble. The other one was Anais Nin's "Delta of Venus." I can still see the cover, it was a woman in twenties regalia. This was my first taste of erotica.

Other sources of arousal during those runny nosed days of pubescent pleasure was to take inventory of myself in the full length mirror. Checking out the growth of the breasts that I was told were "the best in the 8th grade," by the school bully. Upon discovering the layers and folds of my pussy, there she was that little pencil eraser of love, my ultra sensitive clit that was almost painful to touch directly (God, I wish that was the case now!). Hairbrushes, a curling iron were all inserted into my tight virgin vagina. It didn't take me very long to cum, and cum I did, enjoying the intense pulses that I am unsure I knew they were actually called an orgasm. I recall admiring the after effects of my cunt in the mirror, how my pussy had gotten puffy, and the moisture that was now down my legs.

I know it is cliche for boys to look for their dad's porno stash, but this girl looked for her dad's as well. Hustler, Cheri, all the good stuff. Thankfully, I never saw anything that disturbed me, save some lay out of a woman with three breasts. Till this day I think that is why I like seeing a decent muff on a chick. Bald is so boring these days.

Of course, you hear the sordid tales of young boys trying on their mother's lingerie, well I did that too. While I never felt too bad about looking at my dad's mags, I did feel guilty for putting on my mom's nighties and heels, but my nubile ass looked so hot in the black lace and I recall getting wet just looking at myself in the mirror over the dresser. Of course, there was always a bit of fear of getting caught, but even then, that too was sexy. Till this day, I am still pining for a replica of this specific sheer pink set complete with a marabou trimmed robe, and frou-frou marabou slippers. A teen femme fatale. Of course, I was unaware of the perversions of older men, how the image of a young girl in lingerie could absolutely wreck them.

That is reason one, why the common cold gets me clamoring for my vibrator or the nearest cock. I'll share reason two with you all later this week.

Soundtrack to this post:

Mudhoney "Here Comes Sickness"