I've Never Been Touched . . . Down There

(An entry inspired by one of the lies I used to tell, in yesterday's post.)

In the South, cruising is an art. It wasn’t until I moved to the midwest, twenty-five years ago, that I understood how much for granted I took the glances two men, strangers, can exchange at the beginning of sexual courtship. The bold stares, the slow appraisals, the drop of the hand to one’s own jeans pocket so that the fingers can dance casually across the denim enclosing the cock . . . there’s a certain excitement to such raw expressions of desire.

Here and where I live now, however, men barely cruise. They scarcely look at each other. When they do, their eyes flick nervously over the object of their interest and dance away. I had a friend from the area who never believed my stories of growing up with easy sexual pickings. Until, that is, he accompanied me on a drive down to Virginia. On I-95, a studly fellow with whom I’d flirted at the welcome center candy machine caught up in his car with our own. He stared and stroked himself through his pants, then passed so we could catch up. When we did, he’d repeat the performance again. For ninety miles we passed each other over and over and smiled and stared and flirted, until finally we waved goodbye to him and got off our exit. My buddy was absolutely astounded, the entire time, at how blatant it had been. And that encounter turned out to be only the first of several similar.

Cruising served me well when I was a teen. I had a yen for men older than myself—I would particularly welcome men over thirty-five. I would exchange hot, meaningful glances with men on the city busses, with school teachers, with guys at the YMCA, with men I’d pass on the street, with guys browsing at the Waldenbooks downtown. I learned where to sit on the campus of my parents’ college, so that I could be displayed to best advantage. When I'd cruise the local parks, I'd recline against a tree with a book and the men would drive by, looking at me. There were times I’d simply walk the dog and find cars following, their drivers staring out and licking their lips in invitation.

Because I was easy and willing and horny and—from my current viewpoint—somewhat stupid, I’d accept just about any offer. I was at that point a total bottom. I liked older guys. I’d do it anywhere.

Believe me, I wasn’t wanting for action.

When I look back on my sexual history, I often can’t decide whether I was an odious little game-player or a thoughtful kid who just liked to enhance his partner’s pleasure. Maybe a little of both. My favorite game for the first couple of years of my sexual activity was to pretend that I was a virgin. Guys loved a teen virgin, I found out within a week after my first experience, when a man groping me reached between my legs and fingered my butt. “Have you ever been touched down there?” he whispered.

I had. I’d been touched down there so thoroughly and deeply for the very first time just a few days before that I’d barely been able to sit, since. But I shook my head, and saw his irises widen with excitement just as I'd felt his dick expand in my hands. “I’ll be gentle,” he whispered as he eased me down and spread my legs, spurred to the challenge.

No one can accuse me of being a slow learner. After that I knew exactly what to do. During the groping phase, I’d maneuver the man’s hand between my legs, encouraging him to explore me. The moment he’d make contact with my hole, I’d gasp a little and pull back—not enough to lose contact with him, but enough to stop the proceedings. With a vulnerable look on my face that I’d perfected during more extracurricular creative dramatics classes than were probably good for me, I’d say, “I’ve never been touched . . . down there!”

Eight times out of ten I was rewarded by an instant hiss of satisfaction and a look of lust, followed by being flipped over on my belly. Sometimes, however, with the men who were already a little nervous about seducing someone my age, I’d have to take it a little further. “Will it, you know, hurt?” Usually I’d receive an assurance that it didn’t (or from some honest souls, the truth that it would hurt the first time, but that if I relaxed, it would be more tolerable). Rarely did I have to take the third step, which involved puppy dog eyes and a writhing of the hips, while shyly asking, “Would you . . . show me?”

Maybe I was an odious little game-player. It’s difficult for me to outline the techniques I used to keep up the illusion I was being deflowered without sounding calculating. I had my little palette of groans and cries of “It’s so big!” and “Oh wow, oh wow, is it all in?” down pat, followed by the genuine winces and groans of pleasure. I really enjoyed the look of desire and pleasure in the men’s eyes when they were inside me. I got off on when they’d tell me I was doing a good job, or when they’d just lose themselves completely in the moment and pound away, eyes closed. I just loved that.

By the time I was into my second year of sexual activity, I’d lost my virginity several dozen times.

It all came to an end one afternoon when I lay there after one performance, sweat dripping from my pores and other fluids dripping from other cavities. A handsome man in his forties pulled out of me and hugged me close. “God, that was great!” he murmured at me.

“Was I okay?” I asked him. It was my standard post-virginity-loss line, a blatant hook in the water for compliments.

“Oh yeah! Fuck yeah! That was great!” I glowed in the praise until he added, “It was even better than the first time I got your cherry!”

He was chuckling at that point. I turned and peered at his face and recognized him, finally, as someone I’d been with a few months before. After I realized he wasn’t mad, I couldn’t help but join in the laughter with him, knowing that the minute I got onto my wobbly legs, my career as a professional virgin had come to an abrupt end.