French: A Dying Tongue?

I wanted to respond to your recent article about the joys of going down. I agree with the author that oral sex is fantastic! But in my experience, very few men ever learn to enjoy it.

The one and only time a man kissed my hidden lips was during my twenty fifth summer, two days before I gave him my virginity. It was my first date, and I didn’t have a condom, so he and I pleasured each other with our mouths and hands. I received the first, and unfortunately only, orgasm of my life that night. The sensation began so delicately, and built so steadily, that I simply had to surrender as ecstasy coursed through me. Is this what I’ve been missing, I wondered. And it was all so easy. Sex was going to be a wonderful thing.

When Dave and I had intercourse, though, sex fell on its prat. Hurry, hurry was then the order of the day. I can’t fault Dave entirely for hurrying. He had a penis that didn’t often behave, and seldom rose to any occasion. We always used a condom, as this is the age of AIDS. Most often, though, things were over before the rubber ever got close to entering me.

And Dave was my only lover who showed any promise at all. Dave Number Two had a four inch wonder, when stiff, and hadn’t a clue as to what to do with it. He hated foreplay of any sort, and actually told me he had never touched a woman’s vagina with his lips, which he reserved for “proper kissing.” Since I allowed myself to be poked (and believe me, “poked” is the word) in the vagina by his rubber dressed wonder, he felt he didn’t have to pleasure me. Patient as I am, I nonetheless shortly ditched him and the four inch wonder.

Dave Number Three (I don’t necessarily lust after the name Dave, it’s just come out that way) was a twenty eight year old virgin. He is probably a virgin to this day, though I’m not sure he knows it. He had a learning disability, at least when it came to sex. His parents were Victorian era refugees. His mother hinted I was a whore for even considering sex before knowing a man for a minimum of two years. I was twenty six, he twenty eight. I tried to teach him what little I knew on the subject, but it was no joy. The idea of oral sex filled this guy with terror. Mother probably told him that vaginas have sharp teeth.

One man I nearly married (Nathaniel, not Dave) was utterly impotent and drank like a fish— a fifth of vodka every single day. He denied both problems, as only an alcoholic can. He also enjoyed gambling. He often dropped huge sums on a single football game whilst we ate hot dogs.

Nat was a real winner. One night I asked him to lick me gently. I am a persistent lady. I lay back, expecting to enjoy his mouth on me, as he had so often enjoyed my mouth upon his member. He started licking my thigh! The man was forty eight years old! After all that time, a divorce and two kids along, you’d think he would know that a woman doesn’t carry her vagina on her thigh. (Imagine how much more shocking miniskirts would be!) I was finally forced to ditch “the thigh master” when he one day waltzed out of the emergency room despite a blood alcohol level of 4.1.

I am now twenty eight years old. My one orgasm is a three year old memory. I haven’t been with anyone in over a year. My conclusion is that oral sex is a treasured luxury that only a rare man is willing to give. A man who will caress your hidden lips with his tongue after his mindless penis is satisfied is a true unicorn.

N.B., London, England

Geek Tragedy

I am a white man in my early fifties, and an old hand at sex, “hand” being the operative word. I am writing about the only time in my life I had a sexual encounter that involved a real woman, instead of jacking off while perusing Forum, looking at pornographic pictures and videos, visiting the chat rooms on my computer or dating the twin sister of Bud Bundy’s inflatable rubber girlfriend.

Before I go further, let me explain that dating at the school I went to was done along social lines, rather than racial or ethnic lines. We recognized the following standard male and female types: “beautiful people,” “in crowders,” “jocks,” “greasers” (remnants of the duck’s ass haircut and switchblade knife set), “hippies,” “normals” and “nerds” (with or without glasses these were mostly the honor roll types). The fraternities and sororities generally sought pledges according to the types people belonged to. When it came to dating, a black nerd could date a white nerd, but not a beautiful person, in crowd person or a normal. Hippies, of course, would go out with any gender appropriate person to whom they were attracted. Jocks always had women of all types pursuing them. Homosexuality was still a crime in those days (the mid sixties), so queers were never considered a standard type, nor were they ever seen.

My story took place in the school swimming pool, and involved a Brandy Norwood lookalike (Moesha on TV). No, this is not a celebrity fantasy. I’m not suggesting this was the real Brandy Norwood, since she hadn’t even been born when this happened, some thirty years ago.

With so many social types, you’d think there was a place for everyone. Not so. I was one of these non standard dweeb types that girls of all groups refused to date. Not even female nerds, with or without glasses. The term for people like me was “spaz.”

This was supposed to be the “free love” era. My ass! It appeared as though I was the only spaz in the whole damn school, so I had no one to date. I suspect that even if I’d had the money (which I didn’t), the local prostitutes would have turned me down.

I was standing in the four foot end of the pool after doing laps. Much to my surprise, a woman who either belonged to the “beautiful person” or “in crowd” type, I couldn’t determine which, wearing what looked like little more than three postage stamps held on by string, wiggled up next to me. She sat on the edge of the pool while I stared straight at her bikini bottom, admiring the way the fat lips of her pussy were outlined by the material.

She started asking me questions about a teacher I was currently taking a class from. I couldn’t stop looking at her bikini bottom, so small that there were pussy hairs sticking out around the edges, and so tight that I thought I could see the split of her pussy against the stretched out material.

I was developing a huge bulge in my swimming trunks. Then the woman slid back into the pool and pressed her tits against my chest. Barely able to breathe, I pushed the bulge in my pants against her pussy. She then pushed me back a bit, pulled out the front of my trunks so that my dick was standing straight out and tweaked the head a couple of times. Then she ran away.

I wanted to chase her, but she got out of the pool before I could catch up, and I was in no shape to be chasing her in front of everybody with my dick sticking out like a Doric column in my trunks.

I managed to get my dick to go back down by doing some more laps. About thirty minutes later, the same woman approached me again in the water, asking me more questions about classes I was taking. Like a doofus, I just stood there in the water talking to her when I should have taken off. This time her bikini top kind of slipped off and she rubbed her tits against my chest, her nipples stiffly brushing against mine.

After about a minute, she stopped, stuffed her tits back into her bikini top and came close enough to feel my erection. She pulled my trunks out again, exposing my granite dick, and this time pressed her pussy right against my rod. She placed my hands on her hips, and rocked her own hips, so that her pussy slithered against my hard on. My dick began to twitch.

She pointed suddenly toward the other end of the pool and said, “Isn’t that the dean of students over there?” While I was looking, she tweaked the end of my dick and, before I saw what she was up to, once more raced out of the pool. I was left standing there in the water, coming in my trunks. She reached a group of several other women who were obviously waiting for her. Then she stopped, turned around, flicked her tongue side to side under her front teeth, wiggled her hips and shouted, “Better luck next time, spaz.”

That was the last I ever saw of her, in spite of what, as I think back, was a rather half assed attempt to find her. I imagine she and her friends got a good laugh at my expense. It must have been some sort of sorority initiation ritual, since I can’t imagine someone like her wanting to date me or even get close to me in real life. After this incident, I lost all interest in even trying to go out on dates with other than inflatable rubber women, since I couldn’t get any woman, of any social type, to go out with me.

Of course, at my age, I’m quickly losing both interest and capability in this field of endeavor, and even Forum stories don’t raise my dick the way they used to. Wouldn’t it be one of life’s ironies if, on the day I become completely impotent, we get weather reports of hell freezing over and pigs evolving wings and flying like birds? I’ve been told by several women that one of these events had to occur before they would date me. Or what if I hit a fifty million dollar lottery jackpot? (I statistically have a better chance of scoring a Lotto win than of scoring with a live female.) All of a sudden every gold digging whore in the state would take an interest in me.

In school, I was told to go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut whenever I tried to ask for a date. If I ever won the lottery I could experience the perverse thrill of telling all the women who kissed me off to get fucked by a flying green salami! I can still dream, can’t I? It’s all I have left!

Name and address withheld