Message-ID: <37631asstr$1028279402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: cobillard@hotmail.com (Carol)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 2 Aug 2002 05:25:38 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Safer sex in my future and an orgasm while sleeping
Date: Fri,  2 Aug 2002 05:10:02 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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For the past week I have been writing, elaborating on notes from the
diaries I kept from time to time since I was 11 years old, and picking
and choosing from some of the more memorable and sexy parts. Today I
want to write on why the paradigm of my past life won't work anymore.
In due course, I hope but cannot promise very soon because I am
moving, I will reduce to story form some of my life experience at the
second communal home we lived in. Life was different there from in the
first; we wore clothes and sex (among other things) was more
restrained. Fearing homelessness if we were kicked out, Mom became
more assertive and in some ways more restrictive or protecting:
probably too much, too late for me at my rebellious age. It was still,
however, a free and open "family", with sexy, friendly, constant
relationships although rather little of it in the living room. In our
new house a boy would have been unlikely to masturbate in the living
room although he might have done it in his bedroom with the door open.
Likewise for teenagers having sex, or younger kids at their sport. The
atmosphere was still highly permissive, indeed encouraging; there was
just greater decorum. Propriety is highly relative, as you shall see.
Perhaps readers will relate to such a regime more than to the
permissive-to-the-ultimate-degree environment that I have been writing
about, or maybe that, too is excessively permissive. Although judging
from television today I have to wonder.

I have not met many others who experienced the sort of life I did in
my early years (although doubtless if I ever publish my book I shall
be hearing from some), and I encounter few outsiders who do not
express shock (real or contrived) at my stories. I suspect that this
is because I was born twenty years too late. I always need to reassure
my interlocutors that the atmosphere of my infancy was most kind, and
that it was very educational, even literary and intellectual; there
was no deprivation. Sex was not really on everybody's mind all the
time; we did other things too: like our homework.

District attorneys take note: a lawyer friend tells me the statute of
limitations has run and it's safe for me to write these things. Don't
come to my book signings with any warrants. (She also says that
potential civil suits by some of the kids against their parents may
not be barred because the statute is suspended during their minority,
but that's another story.) More legalese: there are no licentious
photographs extant. Social workers take note: all the children
involved have grown up. Some of them I still see, they are all well
adjusted, in my uniformed opinion. Most, I think, are likely to have
better lives than the average sex cop. That means, I suppose, that
they will have more certificates on their walls, more toys in their
homes; maybe even own the big house on the hill. Although I'm happy
with my life experience, if I marry and have kids in the Capital City
they will have to wear clothes most of the time and we will have to be
respectable citizens. I wouldn't want my kids taken away from me by
social engineers. (My lawyer friend, again, advised that if I get
pregnant I should give birth in Canada so they would be dual
nationals. I haven't figured out if that would make them safe, but I
did read about a case involving Swiss-Americans where the family
remained together by fleeing back to Switzerland and the Colorado
authorities finally realized they had no witnesses and no evidence to
maintain a case for incest ... against the ten-year-old boy left
behind. He was then allowed to rejoin his family in Switzerland
<http://www.fathermag.com/news/1768-incest.shtml>. At the time, the
Swiss Embassy said that Swiss law was more "understanding" (read:
scientific) than Colorado law; the family would never be extradited
back to the USA. I believe it. I hasten to add that I know of no
instance of true incest in my environments, although given the
Colorado case, there at least the term is defined loosely. I leave it
to readers to decide if Colorado is really part of the United States.
Do they have cable TV there?)

When I talk about my life, as I often do with other girls, I'm asked
about how I could have engaged, or been allowed to engage, in risky
sex. (Most are so amazed with my stories that they do not query the
early sex part.) The answer is that I didn't. Except for the period
that we lived on the houseboat, when the boys I met were mostly as
young as I was (about 12) and inexperienced and it was wildly
improbable that any would carry a STD, I lived and had unprotected sex
strictly within a closed circuit. (For those who don't know: the
problem of rampant STD was one of the things that nearly destroyed the
COG, and forced it to change its practices, particularly with respect
to flirty fishing.) Once I went off to college away from home -- the
last two years of my education -- Mom stressed the need for safe sex
and condoms. But I hate condoms; as my story revealed I didn't always
take her advice then. What I love is the feel of flesh and the
streaming of semen. I love to feel semen in my body, on my fingers, in
my mouth. I want my tongue to taste My Boy's penis, to feel its tip,
its crown, its length. I want that penis in my vagina and I want to
feel his ejaculation within me. I want to play with the flesh of his
penis, with his scrotum and its contents, before and after I have
penis in vagina or penis in mouth: I want foreplay and afterplay. I
want to have and to share the sensory delights of fluids: his fluid
and mine. I want his tongue in my vagina, I want it caressing my
clitoris. I want My Boy to take my vulva, my labia, into his mouth and
to kiss them thoroughly. I want him to love them and to love me, and
to love their lubricants. I want to love his smoothness, his
stickiness, to caress him all over. I want to exchange bodily fluids.
I want poetry. But, except with My Steady, I can not, I dare not
follow my urges and desires to their limit. And, of course, it is up
to me to pick My Boy of the moment from all those candidates out
there.

The result is that except at such times as I have a steady boyfriend
(defined in some sense reasonable in the context) I have infrequent
sex. Well, anyway, much less than I would like to enjoy, to share. And
my past lifestyle is just that: past history. Which does not, by any
means, mean that I am not sexy or that I have no relationships.

But I can think back and dream of the early years. How the girls and I
debated, in our room, whether a girl could bring a boy to orgasm in
his sleep, and I volunteered to try. Three of us went into the boys'
room and we took the bedcover off My Boy, and it was winter, he was
wearing pajamas, so I had to move away the pajama top and unfasten the
bottoms without waking him. And his penis was so lovely, lying against
his thigh on a bed of jet-black pubic hair, his scrotum tight against
his body. I leaned over and kissed his penis and he didn't stir. I put
it in my mouth and he slept on. I massaged his penis on its underside,
just below the glans, where I knew he was the most sensitive. His
penis filled out a little; My Boy groaned. I wondered: would My Boy
get an erection in his sleep?

One of the girls had suggested that because boys have wet dreams they
surely could ejaculate while asleep. That seemed reasonable, in fact
it's a tautology. But how to get inside My Boy's brain, to make him
dream, without waking him? Ejaculation is not based on a mechanical
trip wire; surely the friction of my tongue on My Boy's penis must
register in his mind for an orgasm to occur. I proceeded with our
experiment. The penis had been in my mouth. I took it out and studied
it. My saliva on it glistened: wet, wrinkly, that penis looked cuter
than ever, and so vulnerable. That penis needed my protection and my
attention. It needed to be cared for and loved. I wanted it to reward
me with a stream of semen, the smell of sex, the ecstasy of My Boy. It
didn't matter if I didn't have a climax of my own that day, my reward
would be making My Boy feel good and in seeing the result of my
handiwork. It would be in showing the other girls what I could do, in
proving my argument. In making My Boy love me for loving him and
having made love to him. The penis right there in my hand was a
perfect miniature of the gorgeous sculpture it would be when engorged
with blood, when fully erect. Could I make it erect, could I draw out
seminal fluid, the drop or two of pre-cum that with its sexy smell and
taste and texture would beckon and encourage me on? A stray thought
passed through my mind: I was reminded of something my Mom had told me
long before, something she had heard or read about, that had been
published in The Realist and in Rolling Stone magazine years before,
articles by Ellen Sander on the Plaster Casters, the rock groupies who
made casts of their heroes' erections using dentists' supplies. (I
looked it up on Google: Mom had remembered it well.) What a brilliant
idea, what a superb model My Boy would make. But he deserved better
than ordinary plaster of Paris. My Boy's penis was a trophy.

I ran my tongue over the glans and the crown of My Boy's penis the way
I always did. I put it back in my mouth and massaged the whole penis,
but mainly the tip, with tongue and lips, using my saliva to lubricate
its passage between my lips. My Boy started to stir even as his penis
started to harden. He didn't wake ... yet. But as his penis rose, as
it thickened, as the glans filled out further, as it went deeper into
my mouth, My Boy's arms flailed about and one struck me lightly. He
was awakening, yet still half asleep.

I looked again at his penis. Now it was more than half-hard: I should
continue. I ran my tongue past its notch and over the slit opening. A
light hint of saline told me that he had released some fluid: I was
sure he could now be fully aroused. I resumed my work, but there were
more sounds from My Boy's lips. He opened his eyes. Surprised,
astonished rather ... and seeing the two girls there in their
nightgowns, and me, naked and kneeling next to him, his penis in my
mouth, he could only smile sleepily. I nodded to the girls in a way
that told them they should drop their nightgowns to the floor. Now one
could see their breasts highlighted by an outdoor light and by the
moon shining through the window. He could view their sexy bodies as
they stood there; his view of me was obstructed because I knelt, and
because the room was dark. The girls remained quiet. One in her early
pubescence, just a hint of pubic hair, just an outline of breasts to
come, the nipples already poking well away from her body, smiling
sweetly, enjoying the scene, learning from it. A terrific girl who was
more than anxious to make the most of her future sex life, who soon
would be at my stage of development and was on the verge of expressing
herself with physical sex. The other, years older than I, mature and
confident in that maturity, throwing her shoulders back so that her
quite firm breasts could titillate and pushing forward her pubis so
that with her legs slightly apart the onlooker could see the promise
of her vagina. Her smile told me that I was doing well, that she
approved.

After brief glance at the girls there to give me moral support My Boy
looked again at me. He groped at my breasts, perhaps too crudely, but
he was still half asleep. He ran his fingers through my hair, lay his
hand atop my head as I continued my work. My mouth went up and down on
his penis with a slow but steady cadence. My tongue pushed especially
and deliberately against the underside of his glans where I knew he
was so sensitive. He would sigh from time to time. He moved slightly,
perhaps to increase his pleasure; he seemed to be responding to my
pace. Then there was a sudden tenseness in his body and in his penis,
a further movement of his thighs. A quivering perhaps; his testicles
budged, reminding me that of their presence and their treasure. I put
my hand around them and caressed them lightly. And then, from
somewhere deep inside My Boy, a rush of semen up his urethra and into
my mouth. I did not stop. There was another. The familiar taste and
smell; the happy thought of those sperm, those millions of bits of his
precious DNA. My reward and My Boy's ecstasy. He would be back to
sleep in seconds and I would savor his fluids for a while until, still
debating in our own room the outcome of that experiment, we fell sleep
ourselves. I wondered how much My Boy would recall in the morning.

This is one of my favorite memories, a typical story of my past life.
They are really childhood stories of those forbidden pleasures we,
exceptionally, had access to. But they are innocent stories, lovely
stories, magnificent memories. They may be scarcely repeatable in
today's environment. It would be difficult to maintain the kind of
closed circuit we had, or to avoid officious interference from
outside. Nor, today, would I wish to take the risks of Catherine
Millet, having sex with five thousand men.
<http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/audiovideo/programmes/newsnight/archive/2002120.stm>
Grown up, in today's world, today's America, I could not safely
maintain the lifestyle that gave me such a good understanding of
humanity, sexuality, human chemistry and ecstasy. It is particularly
unfortunate that neither will it be a heritage I can pass on
unexpurgated, unsanitized, to my own future offspring -- for I am
confident they would benefit from it. But just as life of 1883 could
not truly be replicated for PBS's effort to do so in "Frontier House",
neither can my childhood situation be faithfully repeated now. I have
already fixed my priorities for life; they are elsewhere. Any kids I
may have can learn from me, although I'm always suspicious of the guy
who says "Do what I say, not what I do". And for my own future
happiness, for unbridled sex and maximum ecstasy, I shall have to
await the arrival of the Man of My Dreams. But my standards are so
high ... perhaps he will never come. I shall soon move to the Capital
City. Surely I shall find him there?

Sex with a condom is a sometime necessity, a compromise mandated by
risks to health. But I find little to write in relation to the coital
occasions when I have had to insist on condom use because I was not in
the same house with or in a longish relationship to The Boy in
question. At such times, the epicurean pleasures are lost: one has
only the physical climax. The tactile and sensory parts of the ecstasy
are absent. These I treasure and for that I imagine I shall have to
seek a life partner and strict monogamy. I suppose that's what I
really need anyway. But for any kids of mine the '90s, much less the
'60s, are gone forever, and the COG could only delay their passing for
the duration of my passage. Indeed, as far as I understand it, which
may not be very far, it was not the COG as an entity which really
revived and protected the "old days" from oblivion, but only the few
communities like ours which affected a Church connection but which in
reality were independent mini-sects that had followed David Berg's
teachings.

I hope readers have learned from my writing. I shall be back, perhaps
very soon. But in the meantime I have to pack my bags and prepare to
move to the Capital City for my new, my first real, job. I do not know
if my new employers would appreciate my extra-curricular writing: they
hired me for my wisdom in another field of expression or endeavor, and
for my conventional appearance. I shall have to be discreet. Will I
one day have material, in addition to this project on "My Love Life in
My Home Town", for a book, "Sex in the Capital City" or has that story
already been exhausted by the TV series of similar title? Will I find
someone safe with whom to exchange love, and body love and body
fluids? And, an aside: would Ellen Sander be a good role model for me?
After all, her main job was not writing about rock stars' penises but
as music critic, and she wrote for the Saturday Review and other
mainstream publications, yet she could record details of avant-garde
life for the underground press too.

I had thought of doing these accounts as a weblog -- a girlfriend from
college started one -- but I didn't think it would work, and it
requires too much commitment forever. Even publishing my diary poses a
problem: there are only so many ways of describing all the known sex
acts, let alone just the non-kinky ones. But my diary is a treasure.
Perhaps when I can get back to it in days or weeks I can try a
different approach and look into the kids' and others' minds as much
as their bodies. Of course if my life story is made suitable for
family reading, it won't be suitable anymore for this forum. Anyway,
watch this space. (While I cannot answer e-mails, I do read your
comments. For what it is worth, I am more interested in the political
notes than the other kind. But thank you for them all.)


Love, 
Carol

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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