They shared a room with two double beds. Herb passed around a joint and immediately went to town on my body. Not unexpectedly Arlene had her hands full on the other bed. The moment Herb's month touched my cunt, I came—again and again, in my usual multiple fashion. A few minutes later I heard Arlene's meek little orgasm. Andrew came quickly and rolled off Arlene. But Herb kept pounding away on top of me for another 10 minutes. Then we all switched. I reacted the same way with Andrew. He had a thick, hard cock that he used adeptly. “You're so goddamn sexy,” he whispered hoarsely.
The next morning after a room-service breakfast, Arlene and I quit the premises. Walking home, we compared notes. “That Andrew was really lame,” she griped sourly. “He could hardly even keep a hard-on!”
Apparently, Arlene has endured many similar disappointments at the hands of men. Even though she is more attractive than I, with long, honey-blonde hair and cover-girl looks, I get far more satisfaction. I think our sexual styles make all the difference. She expects men to perform for her, whereas I
challenge
men to prove themselves.
Once a friend dragged me to a feminist consciousness-raising session. Many of the women present were attractive, even sexy. But when the topic of male performance arose, the majority castigated men as selfish boors concerned only with their own pleasure. “The day I meet a man who doesn't just want to put it in and come,” groused an olive-skinned dancer, “is the day I throw away my vibrator.” Her comment gained a round of applause.
My heart pounding, I raised my hand. “If women could only teach men to be perfect lovers … ,” I started to say. But I was booed into silence. These foolish women did not want to hear about rehabilitation. They preferred to let their drippy faucets drip.
If they had let me speak, I would have spelled out my ten rules for fixing lousy lovers. And here they are:
1. I never play games with myself.
I do not pretend that a dinner date will conclude with a good-night kiss. I allow for the possibility that every encounter will end up in bed. So I come prepared—impeccably clean, smelling sweet and carrying my diaphragm in my pocketbook.
2. I take great care of myself.
Being a desirable sex object is extremely important to me. Exercise keeps my body firm and muscles toned. I also lavish attention on my skin to make it smooth and soft. I want men to like touching me.
3. The environment and accoutrements of lovemaking are crucial.
My apartment is always clean. I light candles, dim lights, put satin sheets on the beds. I dress in lingerie and utilize vibrators, K-Y jelly, massage oils and whatever else will enhance the experience.
4. I frankly appraise men as potential lovers.
If I am attracted to a man, I immediately fantasize about him as a lover. I am curious about the size and shape of his cock. If he seems uptight, rigid or unimaginative, I do not encourage our friendship. The qualities I admire are a good physique, self-awareness, intelligence, intensity and humor. Body language is always revealing. And I like to share a meal with a man before he eats me. If he is blasé about food, or dumps salt on his steak before tasting it, I suspect that he is equally crude as a lover.
5. The role of sexual aggressor suits me just fine.
When I am interested in a man, I call him up, ask him out and in general pursue him. I do not sit around waiting by the phone for calls that will never materialize.
6. I disassociate my ego from lovemaking.
My aim is mutual satisfaction. If a man hints that I am sucking him too eagerly, or stroking too passionately, I immediately accommodate him. In fact, I often inquire beforehand about how he likes to be licked, touched and kissed.
7. I say sexy things.
A man gets incredibly excited when he hears me whisper, “I'd like to sit on your face and come all over your mouth.”
8. I give guidance when necessary.
If a man is licking my clit too hard, I tactfully tell him to ease up. Most men respond favorably to this kind of openness.
9. I will experiment with anything that does not cause serious physical pain.
10. I come a lot.
I am multi-orgasmic and have long, sensuous, expressive orgasms. Men usually try to give me as many as they can.
Some men do not rate a “10” or even an “8” during our first encounter. But if a lover seems willing to please, I give him another chance. A majority of males are nervous the first time they make love to a different woman.
John was typical. We met at a rock-and-roll club. A videotape editor, he was very poised, handsome and self-assured. We danced and he charmed me with his sense of humor. Afterward we shared a few lines of coke. The sexual tension between us was hot and highly electric.
We closed the club. John suggested that we leave together. After a visit to an all-night diner, we decided on my place. In the taxi, John kissed me. I was disappointed. He had a small, stubby tongue and he scarcely pushed it into my mouth.
“We'll get down to some real kissing later,” I thought. Once in my apartment, I put on a reggae tape. The sexy, sensuous beat may have annoyed my neighbors at 5
A.M
., but it turned me on. We huddled together on my couch and did some more lines.
This time I took the initiative in kissing John. Thrusting my tongue deeply into his mouth, I tried to excite him. But he still did not respond. I wondered whether I had misjudged his potential as a lover simply because he looked sexy.
“Let's go to bed,” I whispered.
He hesitated, then followed me. Though dawn was coming in, I lit lots of candles. They cast an exotic glow around the room. When he began tearing off my clothes, I felt disappointed. He was depriving himself of the pleasure of admiring my breasts encased in a black lace teddy.
After some brief but skillful foreplay, John penetrated me. He did not perform cunnilingus. We fucked. He foiled over and fell asleep soon after.
His performance showed all the signs of first-night nervousness. I decided that if he was to be upgraded from a “7” to a “10,” I would have to take the initiative.
A few days later I invited him over for dinner on a Friday night. This gave us the opportunity to sleep late the next day. I prepared a five-course Italian dinner. John brought wine and champagne. Both of us enjoyed the meal immensely. For dessert John lit up a joint. Afterward we drifted toward the bedroom. As we embraced, I whispered, “Let's do this nice and slow, okay?” We kissed.
“Kiss me deeper,” I requested. He stuck his tongue an inch deeper into my mouth.
“No, deeper, deeper,” I urged.
Soon we were engaged in a passionate, earthy kiss—the necessary preliminary to a great fuck.
“Do you mind if I take off my clothes?” I asked coyly. He laughed. In the dim candlelight, I slowly stripped for him. When he saw my garter-belt and black stockings, he moaned with delight.
“You're so sexy,” he murmured.
“And I want you to really give it to me,” I replied. “I want you to fuck me all night long.” I unzipped his stiff cock and took it into my mouth.
Only a wimp would refuse such a challenge. John performed admirably and has remained a lover for more than a year—one of many.
But my girlfriends are still complaining about their Mr. Wrongs.
THE PROFESSOR OF SEX
By Jack Martin
Whenever I hear stories about coeds trading sex for grades I have to laugh. I have taught for 12 years at various colleges around the country and talked to dozens of colleagues about making it with students—and guess what? Few of us would even think of risking our careers by bartering bodies for grade points. Why should we? Getting laid on campus is more a matter of selection than seduction.
A lot of good old-fashioned romance and affection springs up between a student and a teacher. With men and women both interested in the same subject and spending a lot of time together, inevitably some of them are going to fall in love. I know. I've been there—often.
Perhaps the odds favor those of us who teach creative writing. We have more reason than our colleagues in the sciences to sit over coffee and bare our secret hopes and deepest feelings. The kind of soul-talk that ordinarily grows
out
of sexual intimacy can also grow
into
it.
The first day of class in September or January is always special. By the end of that session I have had enough suggestive eye contact with two or three students to know that my only problem is to separate the mere teaser from the serious pleaser. The former have come on to me in class or in my office with as much subtlety as your average B-girl. Wanna buy me a Coke,
professor!
Wink, wink. Take them up on it and these teasers plead total innocence. Or they write nasty editorials about sexual harassment in the campus newspaper.
During my first semester at the Midwestern university where I now teach, I was sleeping with a female student from
each
of my three creative writing classes. In two instances I was the initiator, but in the third I was chosen. While walking back to my office after a brief, get-acquainted lecture I felt a tap on my shoulder. A tough-looking, street-wise girl from the class asked what my sun sign was. I told her. She nodded. “I thought so,” she said and gave me hers.
“Don't you know what that means?” she asked as we continued walking. “Those signs are a dynamite sexual combination. If you and I have an affair, which I expect we'll do before the semester ends, it'll be
fantastic.”
“I don't really believe in astrology,” I informed her, hoping she was not as dumb as she sounded.
She smiled as I pulled out my keys to open the office door.
“But,” she inquired sweetly, “do you believe in affairs?”
What could I do? I let her in ahead of me and locked the door. I've had some fast approaches from students before, but this one took my breath away, it was so totally unexpected.
As soon as I got inside, she turned and I slipped my arms around her, pulling her close, running my hand down to her firm, blue-jeaned buttocks. She'd looked almost tom-boyish sitting in my classroom. But as she pressed against me in a long, hungry kiss, I knew right away she had a voluptuous figure.
I ran a hand up underneath her sweatshirt and was pleased to find she wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were large and her nipples became erect as soon as I touched them. She undulated her hips against me and began pulling her jeans off.
We separated for a moment so I could drop my trousers and clear a space on the edge of my desk. In a moment she was naked from the waist down and sitting among my papers, breathing hard and staring at my stiff cock as it popped out of my shorts.
“God,” she whispered, “I'm glad we didn't have to play games all semester. We could have wasted so much time.”
I moved close and she seized my cock in one hand, squeezing it hard.
“I want to fuck you this time,” she said, guiding me into her cunt. “But next week I'm going to give you the sincerest blowjob you've ever had in your life.”
Two students walked by the door, talking about a literature assignment. In the office across the way one of my colleagues was pounding on his old manual typewriter. The 19-year-old girl on my desk lay back among my scattered papers and wrapped her legs around my hips as I thrust into her. Here I was fucking someone, and I didn't even know her name! But I sensed that this was not the proper time to ask.
Never before or since have I made love to a woman within half an hour of meeting her. Most students are far less aggressive, although a shy, good-looking friend of mine seems to bring out the boldness in his Texas coeds. One simply drew him a naked picture of herself, added her phone number, wrote “Would you like to see the real thing?” and included it with her short story. He even gets calls at home from amorous women.
More often I run into women students who ask to see me after my regular hours (“when you are less likely to be disturbed”) or after an evening class (“to go over my story in depth”). Or they invite me to dinner before my evening class. Not infrequently, they submit poems and short stories with characters who seem a lot like me and a lot like her. And the characters are making love in unusual places, like offices or seedy little apartments in which “she” and “I” discover unlimited sexual fulfillment.
Students who write such
roman à clef
stories can often cause their professors a few hair-raising moments. I will never forget the night a fellow writing professor brought a short story over to my place to read after dinner. He was agitated. It seems that a pretty student had written about a tender love affair with an older writer, presumably a teacher. And the apartment she described, although not precisely like his, was what a writer would have around him. “I think,” he confided, raising his eyebrows, “she's trying to tell me something.”
My wife said she would like to hear the story as soon as she finished making the coffee. While she was in the kitchen I suggested to my colleague what I'd do to him with a steak knife if he read the manuscript. That “apartment” was my off-campus study. We talked football all through coffee and my wife finally said, “I guess I'm not going to hear the story, am I?” She shrugged philosophically.
“It's about a student-teacher affair,” I shrugged. “You don't want to hear about things like that. It makes you feel suspicious.”
“I'm suspicious about what happened when I was out in the kitchen.”
“See?” I exclaimed. “Even mentioning a story like that gets you upset. I just hate to add to the myth. Everyone thinks teachers are trying to jump in bed with their students all the time and it's just not
true.”
Not entirely true. And not entirely a matter of males chasing coeds. A female professor I knew was so angry at her husband for spending his sabbatical at a faraway writers' colony that she systematically fucked every willing male student in three different classes. And when she finished off the kids, she started hitting on single male colleagues.