My Paramours, My Miscellaneous Fucks

MY PARAMOURS, MY MISCELLANEOUS FUCKS

I find that as one ages, memories of the past float up to the surface of consciousness. Among them are often memories of the women I've known and more specifically, my sexual encounters. Accordingly, I thought it interesting to try to list these encounters, mostly for my own interest and possibly for others who might find something noteworthy in this non-exhaustive catalogue of my past activities.

I have to start with Suzanne, my very first sexual experience. This occurred at a relatively advanced age - I was already into my early 20s and a late starter - through no fault of my own and not for lack of wanting such experiences. I had the misfortune of constantly being at the wrong place at the wrong time throughout my adolescence. I encountered Suzanne during my junior year of college. She was a sweet girl - a lisome blond whose father was the Dean of a university. The mother was a housekeeper and other than Suzanne, there were two other daughters, Jeanne and Alice. I started seeing Suzanne and we rapidly became a campus couple.This was in the early sixties - the Pill had just been invented and sex was fraught with the fear of pregnancy along with a number of ways to prevent it.; ours was vaginal foam - a spermicide which did its job throughout our relationship. The possibilities of finding places for sex on the small campus of our college were problematic. Suzanne and I settled on a vacant classroom in a darkened wing of a campus building. My first attempts at intercourse  were catastrophic: I totally ignored the realities of feminine anatomy and failed to achieve an erection. I remember returning to my dorm room with the idea of leaving, of hitting the road like a vagabond in order to hide my shame. But fortunately, Suzanne was patient and after several other attempts, she finally calmed me enough so that we were able to consummate what we had initiated. From there, it was upward and onward: sex was a marvellous discovery and I indulged in it as often as possible. Such was my gratitude towards Suzanne that once out of college, I eventually married her. A largely unhappy marriage which lasted only a few years before I left. I then took up with Linnea, a former college classmate who resembled a Botticelli venus. My next liaison occurred shortly thereafter. I was living in an off campus communal apartment in Hyde Park, adjacent to the University of Chicago.  Annie, a tall, good-looking blond from a neighboring apartment, invited me to accompany her to a party, thrown by friends. It was there that I met Cara, a slim, shy and altogether lovely U of C student from Boston. We chatted and I asked for her phone number before leaving. I called and we began seeing each other. I rapidly fell in love with Cara - a love much different from the one which I had for Suzanne. It was the real thing and my first love, based on attraction rather than gratitude. Everything about Cara pleased me: her good looks, her slim figure, her shyness and the way her nails pressed lightly but insistantly into my back during her orgasims. Cara, in today's parlance, was a keeper. And keep her I did, during several years in Chicago and several more in New York, where I had moved in the quest for a larger playing field than provincial Chicago. I had moved to New York ahead of Cara, who was finishing up her senior year at the University. It was there that I discovered my ingrained lack of fidelity, for as I soon discovered, the opportunities for sexual encounters were practically on every street corner. There was the good-looking girl who lived across the street from my 38 dollar a month apartment in the East Village. She was an absolute dish, but courted by a tough Puerto Rican guy who lived in the same building. Our trysts had a clandestine quality - the other guy had to be kept in the dark. But she was a delicious fuck, with our furtive encounters charmingly accompanied by the music of Bach motets, and thoroughly worth the danger. There was also Cindy Treadwell, of old and authentic Puritan stock. Fucking her was an authentic Puritanical experience - there was always something lacking in her sensuality department. Who else? There were too many to remember. The aristocratic South American girl who gave me her cashmere scarf after one of our Winter fuck fests. There was the statuesque Verbena who I picked up one evening on 8th Street. She was visiting from California and was unmistakably Californian, with a life-affirming multi-colored look totally out of place in New York City. She took me to the Chelsea hotel, where she was staying, and we happily fucked the night away. There was also Jane, the descendant of one of the first presidents of the United States. I enjoyed her company - and her bed - over a period of several months. But as always, I eventually grew tired of our relationship and in one rather amazing gesture, I literally handed her over to a poet friend. Jane was amused by the idea of the exchange and my friend seamlessly took up where I had left off. Such was New York in those days. In another adventure with my poet friend, I picked up a young lady as we were crossing the street on our way back from a restaurant. We brought her back to my apartment, now in the West Village, where we both enjoyed her favors. There were others still: the pretty co-ed from Barnard, the tall girl from Colorado who I picked up at a macrobiotic restaurant in the East Village; still another Jane, a heiress from the Philadelphia Main Line, who I saw somewhat longer than most others. The pretty blond encountered outside of a Village folk club; a diminutive brunette whose name I can't recall, from the St. Mark's poetry project. The poetry project was the source of another experience - this time a threesome with another girl and my then-girlfriend Kathy. As I watched, both girls spontaneously made love to each other and when both had satisfied themselves, I alternately had each of them blow me, moving from one mouth to the other until I came, sharing my sperm as each girl swallowed. There were certainly others, but none who come to mind at this time. I should also explain my objectification of these girls as "pretty", "good-looking," "a dish" and so on. These adjectives are the fruit of no fanciful imaginings or exaggerations: I've always been attracted to women's beauty and have always sought it out. And why settle for anything less when there are so many available beautiful girls and women? Speaking of which, I must pay hommage to Deirdra - a goddess among the beautiful, encountered on a trip to see a friend in San Diego. I was calling back to New York on a public phone near the beach when I saw Deirdra walking up the sidewalk towards me. Everything about her radaiated a sensuality which I found irresistable. She was a tall, slim, dark-haired beauty, visibly in her early twenties. Tanned and hale, a royal bearing and a pure product of Southern California. I put down the phone in mid-conversation and stepped up to her as she prepared to pass by. I've no idea what I said to her, but I did get her to accept my phone number at my friend's place, urging her to call. She said she would, and I felt my heart leap with hope and joy. She went on her way and I returned to my friend's beach house, telling him about the encounter. I was on pins and needles: would she call or not? An interminable hour or two went by when the phone finally rang: it was Deirdra calling with a suggestion to meet up. I couldn't believe my luck. When we met, there was a definite sense of a strong mutual attraction between us. As well as a sense of adventure. Deirdra suggested we take her car and drive up to Los Angeles and San Francisco, where we both had friends. I was up for it, and the next day we arrived in Los Angeles, checking into the Tropicana Motel, then a favorite with some of the edgier rock bands of the era. We made love and it was simply divine. That evening, we were visited by Cynthia PlasterCaster and a girl friend. I'd known Cynthia in New York, where she achieved notariety for creating plaster casts of the penises A-list rock stars. She'd since moved to L.A. to pursue her activities and we spent the evening gossiping and catching up. At one point in our conversation, she asked if I desired a blowjob by her girlfriend - apparently oblivious to the fact that I was visibly with Deirdra. I politely declined, although the idea of being blown while two other girls looked on was tempting. After Cynthia and her friend left, Deirdra and I went back to fucking until we both nodded off to sleep. In the morning, we took to the road again, driving up to San Francisco and our respective friends. After visiting with Deirdra's acquaintances, we decided to pay a visit to friends I had known in New York, and who now had a magnificent place on a hilltop in Marin Country. They were dealers - in weed and hash - and owned a record store in Mill Valley which they used as a legal front for their illegal activities. We were warmly received and given a bedroom in which to spend the night. There was more delicious love-making until the next morning. For the sake of brevity, I'll skip the rest of the story, which included a visit with friends in Berkeley and a trip to one of the nearby state parks. Unfortunately, my idyll with Deirdra ended badly for me: impressed by the life-style of my friends in Marin Country, Deirdra made a play for one of them just as I was preparing to return to New York. It devastated me - for I had fallen in love with her - and I wound up in tears at my friend's place in Berkeley. After pulling myself together, I flew back to New York, the memories of the goddess of San Diego never to be forgotten.

My love affair with Cara was long over, my lack of fidelity being the reason. My stay in New York was also drawing to a close: I literally saw no future for me there. By means of an around the world air ticket, one of a packet "liberated" from a travel agency in Berkeley, I said goodbye to New York, my apartment and girlfriend Kathy and embarked on my travels. After Amsterdam, Paris, Cairo and Rangoon, I deplaned in Bali, where I was to stay for a full year. Although there were women, the occasions for sex were strangely absent at that time. This was just before the tsunami of mass tourism, and visitors to the island were not legion. I did, however, spend an afternoon with a pretty French brunette, part of a group on their way to a commune somewhere in Southeast Asia. There was also an "almost" with a magnificent girl whose hand was caressing my erect cock when unfortunately interupted by the arrival of the girl's boyfriend outside of my place in Ubud. And that was it. Did I suffer from lack of companionship? Not really. Bali itself was so incredible as to preclude any desire other than to experience its richness to the utmost. Towards the end of my stay, I was joined by my girlfriend Kathy, who had flown out on yet another "liberated" air ticket. After Bali, we set off together, travelling through Malaysia, Thailand, Nepal and finally India, where we separated, with Kathy flying back to the States. I was never to see her again. After her departure, India was also characterised by a lack of sex, with the exception of several sympathetic prostitutes living in a beach house adjacent to my place in Kerala. I'd now been away for several years - a fallow period for sexual encounters. It was time to head back and having burned my return ticket in an access of idealistic asceticism, I made my way to Europe by the overland route, taking buses and trains through India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey and Germany until I arrived in Paris. The time spent away from America had convinced me to definitively continue my exile. As things turned out in Paris, I soon found myself in Formentera, the southernmost Mediterranean island before Africa. I was low on money and was offered a place to stay by a French girl who had rented a house there. It goes without saying that we fell into each other's arms - essentially like friends with benefits, and made the most out of our reciprocal desire for sex. Her stay coming to an end, she turned the house over to a pretty American girl, explaining that I "came with the house." Truer words were never spoken, and I took up with the new girl exactly where I had left off with the former one. I've many more memories of my travels and my stay in Formentera, but this being an itemization of my sexual activities over the years, the other memories must be left for another time and another accounting. After six months of "coming with the house" (I'll pass over an auxiliary liaison with two German women living nearby) I travelled back to Paris. As I didn't speak French and avoided other Americans, my encounters with girls were initially sparse - until I moved in with Annie, a young, dark-haired psychiatrist. After a short period of fidelity, my natural instincts took over and I enjoyed the favors of a girl who was one of our neighbors as well as Rachel, an attractive psychiatrist and one of Annie's friends, as well as others who don't come to mind at the present time. Annie, as it turned out, was addicted to heroin, as were several of her very bourgeoise friends. I attempted to get her to quit, but it was impossible, as was our relationship once I discovered her addiction. I had no choice but to leave. Once again, there followed several years of near-abstinence. These fluctuactions were more or less cyclical, but once again, I adjusted and was able to serenely live my life sans girls or women. As time passed, I found work as an English teacher in several adult education programs and ultimately, the Sorbonne. This afforded me the possibility of liasons with students in my classes. I remember one in particular whose skin had the taste of sugar; another was a newly-divorced woman hungry for sex. All of these were largely inconsequential relationships until the day that I spotted one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, who destiny arranged to be in my class. I was subjugated from the start by this creature - so far above my imagined pay grade, yet somehow approachable. To approach her became an imperative for me, and one afternoon at the end of a class, I came up to her with an invitation to...She said "yes!" even before I could finish my invitation to have coffee together. And from that point on, we were inseparable. Mostly inseparable, since she was married. To be near her and to save traveling time, I took a studio a block away from her place. We spent years of afternoons together having the most incredible sex. She had been a runway model for Saint Laurent before meeting her husband and was not only spectacularly beautiful, but highly intelligent, sophisticated and had a wicked sense of humor as well. She was everything I could have dreamed of or wanted in a young woman. It was the same for her, and we fell deeply in love with each other, a relationship that would last a full ten years. During this time, and despite the almost supernatural beauty of Justine, I continued in my unfaithful ways, bedding a variety of women, the foremost being a downstairs neighbor, a smashing blond in her late twenties, with the most perfect breasts I'd ever seen. She had the deliciously erotic habit of cupping one of them in her hand, and offering it like a ripe fruit to be savoured by my mouth. Entering her was like entering a soft cloud of pleasure, I'd never known anything like it and availed myself of her charms as often as possible. After all, she was just two flights down from my place - it was all too irresistibly convenient.

There were others, of course: the miscellaneous one night stands, a several year relationship with Catherine, a higly-intelligent girl and an amazing blow job artist (who probably took more pleasure in doing it than myself in receiving it) a very young German girl whose name I forget but whose pussy I frequently licked until she climaxed, and Mai Lin, a Taiwanese girl who would show up for conversation and unbridled sex. She would let me do anything I could imagine to her and never failed to show that she liked it. A rare example of unadulterated feminine sexuality. As I've said before, there are certainly others, and perhaps others to come as I remember them. But for the moment, this will have to suffice: it's an excellent reminder for me and I hope that others will find it worthy of the time spent reading it. It's time to sign off with nothing left to say other than, Honi soit qui mal y pense.