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(Author’s note: It seems funny to say that I’m “dating” an older man. When you’re in your forties and your lover passes sixty, you would think there was some more adult word for it besides “dating”. Dating is for teenagers and twenty-something’s that think they know everything, but actually know almost nothing. Whatever you call Donald’s and my relationship, we are emotionally together. He related this story to me over several evenings, both in and out of bed. I asked many questions. Some of it he dismissed as “youthful ignorance”. Some of it seems to be because of the era in which his sexual awakening took place and other parts are because of his odd family situation. I found the story compelling and erotic and it moved me along steadily, but at the gentlest of paces. I’ve always felt that it was the journey, and not the arrival, that mattered; so this is the archetype slow build. If you are seeking a quick erotic rush; this will not be your cup of tea and you might just as well look elsewhere right now. Trust me, this is a story most of all about sexual love and we will get there, but at the original unhurried pace, and, of course, all the names have been changed.
Don’s recollection of these events is flawed by the passage of over four decades. We had to construct a time line from other events in his life. Being a typical man, he remember the cars he owned better than the women he’d made love to. So, we worked from the cars and when he got them. Then we tried to see which girl had been in which car and what school he’d attended at the time. This is probably a crazy way to do things and it led to a few revelations. He was surprised that some memory, which he felt was flawless, turned out to be off by a couple of years on the ‘automobile scale’. I’m sure some fantasies have crept into this narrative, so if it didn’t happen exactly as I’m relating it, then this is as it should have happened, according to Don.
If Don is a Renaissance man, then he’s made of me a Renaissance woman. We both feel that the level of violence and sexuality portrayed in today’s movies and television shows is borderline pornography, and that border is incredibly thin. Don’t mistake us for fundamentalist fanatics, we enjoy pornography and sex toys and all sorts of things, but they are for our mutual amusement in privacy. It is because we value these things and because we find them thrilling, that we hate to see them pandered to everyone, especially our youth. These things should be obtainable, but not thrust in your face every second of every day. I urged Don to tell his story in a more public forum, because I think there is something to be gleaned here. If we can just manage to show the beauty and the emotionality of his journey, then perhaps some young person will not take the path of easy nudity and meaningless sex. Don maintains that he is a “nuts and bolts guy”, not a writer. He claims that I am the literate one, although he has a phenomenal vocabulary and reads voraciously. We made a deal. He agreed to tell the story, if I would type it up, so here, dear reader, is that story.)
* * * * *
Don was born in 1947 in Baltimore. He was the second child, but since there was ten years between him and his older sister, she was married and out of their tiny house around the time of his first reliable memories. Near the end of the summer of 1965, barely eighteen-year-old Donald was looking forward to his senior year in high school. His mom was 58 and his dad was 55, but both were totally gray-headed and wore upper and lower dentures. To Don’s eyes; they were ancient and out of touch.
He lived in an area most frequently referred to as Howard County by the locals. Don was a teenager before the first shopping center was built. As a young child the area was primarily farming, but progress was moving west down Route 40 out of Baltimore, so it was a time of transition. Howard High offered academic, business and general diplomas, and with Don’s quick mind, he was pursuing the first and thinking of college. His parents had 8 and 6 years of formal schooling, respectively, but were clever in the way of folks who’d survived the Great Depression and the Second World War. His sister had graduated high school and placed high in her class, but being a girl was expected to marry and become a homemaker (she did, and then became an attorney at 50). Don’s dad was a hard-working, self-employed business owner and Don always describes his family as “blue collar affluent”. “I grew up middle-class” he says “but you could do that with much less money in those days.”
Don’s early life was based on getting around with minimums of things. He didn’t have a car of his own, but he was allowed to drive the family car, a Rambler American. The fact that he drove it more than his parents, and that it came with a floor shift and red bucket seats was the telltale that the car was his; in everything but legal ownership and the implied agreement that it was NOT his. Don always had a few dollars in his illegal bahis jeans from his Dad, sometime working if he needed some unheard of amount like $25. Don was a bright average kid, bookish, not into sports. He would have been a nerd, only they didn’t have them then.
In this simplistic time, the only overt female nudity was the “girly picture” calendars in gas stations. These titillating illustrations typically showed drawings of girls with their skirts blown up to reveal stocking tops or frilly, brief-style panties from the backside. Any that used actual photographs typically showed an oblique view of the shape of her breasts or buttocks, nothing straight on, no nipples and (perish the thought!) no pubic hair. In most cases the women were Latina or Afro-American, a real blue-eyed blonde was the stuff of dreams.
One may well ask, what did a young man of that period use for erotic material? There was no Internet and he was too young to buy “Health” (nudist) magazines. “Well,” he drawled, “Mom got a new Monkey Wards catalog every year.” Apparently the brassiere and girdle sections were examined with great care. There was no Victoria’s Secret, most undergarments came in white, with a few in black. They were unadorned, utilitarian, and reinforced. “Those women didn’t need chastity belts, just a Playtex long line. Why did women go to the bathroom in pairs? One had to pee, the other used the can opener on her underwear.”
Don is a veritable encyclopedia of ancient, corny, dirty jokes. It seems that before the sexual revolution, jokes fulfilled the role of sex education. The girl’s gym teacher took only the girls out of class when they were in sixth grade to prepare them for menstruation. The boys never learned anything unless Dad explained “the facts of life”. Don’s dad expected him to know, but other than making jokes with his contemporaries when Don wasn’t quite out of earshot, that door never opened either. So like many young people, Don learned from jokes and from his more experienced friends. Kent got to feel up Linda through her bra, so he became the expert, and for weeks other guys badgered him with endless questions. Kent was the king of the hill until someone else had a more informative experience. Don could talk a good game because of the jokes, but he’d never seen so much as a photo of an honest-to-God pussy. Because he lived in a commercial zone behind his parent’s business, there were no other children to play with until he began to attend public school.
In Don’s room there was a gun rack with a locking drawer. This was Don’s singular bit of impervious privacy (though all those gun racks and most of the foot lockers used the exact same stamped sheet metal key.)
One evening while visiting friends of his parents Don snooped in the bathroom pantry. The man of the house had a stack of magazines, the type that were sold under counters, if you were 21. Don had a moral crisis; he wanted one of those; he NEEDED one of those. Before they departed for home he again went to the bathroom, and picking out the one with the most promising cover, he slipped it inside the back of his jeans and pulled his shirt over it. It was one from the middle of the stack, a bit worn, so definitely not new. He was in agony wondering if the theft would be noticed, and of course, they would suspect him first! (This was also a very paranoid age.)
His mom looked askance and asked why he’d used the bathroom twice. If Don had ‘the trots’ he should take a dose of Pepto as soon as they got home. Needless to say the minor larceny went sufficiently unnoticed that he never was questioned, and the magazine ended up in the gun rack drawer with his rifle cleaning kit, his hoard of firecrackers and a ancient stiletto-shaped knife that had been through many hands after it had been converted into a “gravity knife”.
Don always masturbated into a clean white handkerchief taken from the stack in the dresser drawer, but tended to leave it crumpled-up and crinkly in the bookcase headboard of the bed. His mother never commented on them other than to smile knowingly when he requested a box of tissues for his room in case he had to blow his nose. He said goodnight to his parents and dutifully kissed them and then closed his door. It was supposed to stay open for “fresh air” and he wasn’t allowed to lock it, but if he was studying or watching the late monster movie on his small black and white TV, he could close it. He drew out his prized stroke book and began to look at the pictures. After a lot of stroking his penis got hard and he emitted a little bit of clear fluid, but that was it. He’d more or less abandoned “working up sperm” (since he had no sperm) and the activity just made him more frustrated. “There was something out there, but it was damned elusive.”
So on this one night, Don focused on a series of small sepia photographs across the bottom of a color double-page spread in the purloined magazine. The model was a raven headed girl in a red bikini, illegal bahis siteleri with her straps down and her butt aimed at the reader, but in the little series she was changing from street clothes to the bikini, apparently behind a board fence. In shot 1, she was dressed and just pulling her skirt up to reveal a white slip. In shot 2, she was in bra, garter belt, panties and stockings. In shot 3, she’d stepped out of her shoes and unfastened the bra. In shot 4, she was just reaching for her briefs and you could see her nipples, both of them, large dark circlets that seemed to stare right out of the page. He was getting very excited, but had no idea what to do about it. In shot 5, she had on her bikini bottom and was just pushing her breasts into the cups of the top. Hey, what a gyp! Where was the shot of her without her panties? It was so unfair!
What could he do? He began, drawing his breath in hard. It felt so good. There was no clear fluid yet, but something was working differently. It almost hurt. Was he going to break something or do damage to himself? He was afraid to continue, but it felt so … compelling. “Just a bit longer” he thought, “Let’s see what happens.”
He thought of the missing picture. He thought of the girl’s panties reaching her knees. He imagined that she would have a thick black bush like the hair on her head. He liked the hair. If you saw hair, you were in the right place where you might actually see pussy. He also hated the hair, because it concealed what was driving him so crazy. If the wind parted that hair just a little… and then his answer came in a hot spurt over his arm, the magazine and the top of his bed spread. Thus he had the first of many self-induced orgasms and began the long succession of crinkly pocket-handkerchiefs. Of course, there were other magazines along the way, but none of them were any more informative, just stimulating because they were “new”.
One his best friends was Elbert, who understandably preferred to be called “Butch”. One Saturday afternoon, he and Butch had driven in toward Baltimore to one of the early fast food joints. It had begun as a frozen custard stand and later they had closed in the walk-up counter with screens and begun to sell burgers and pizza. While Don was deciding between pepperoni and sausage, Butch struck up a conversation with two cute girls in line behind them. The girls were having burgers because they didn’t have enough for pizza. Butch drew Don rapidly to the side and said, “Get a family sized pepperoni and I will get four Cokes.” Don was trying to puzzle out why he should pay for a $7 pizza when Butch was paying $3 for Cokes, and why did they need four? Butch in a stage whisper spelled it out, “Because, dumb-ass, if we feed these two girls maybe they’ll make-out with us.”
So, all four had piled into Butch’s baby blue VW (a real pussy-wagon, eh?) with Don in the back with the tiny blonde and Butch in the front with the cute, busty red head. They’d gotten acquainted while demolishing all of the food and Butch had suggested a drive. The girls reluctantly agreed, as long as it was only half an hour and because they were due home and both had dates with their boyfriends. They both attended parochial school and since this was Baltimore County, they were all strangers to one another. Butch’s radar was perfect and it took him only seconds to find a shady spot behind a church. He leaned over and planted one on the redhead’s lips and she drew her arms up around his neck and pulled him down out of view. Don turned to his girl and was about to ask permission when she pushed him back and began to French kiss him. This was super! He was full of pizza and this really cute blonde was a enthusiastic kisser. Before he knew it, Butch had started the car and, true to his word, he had the girls back at their car precisely 30 minutes later. Don requested the blonde’s phone number and she reluctantly gave it. He tried several times in the following days, but he could never get her to come to the phone. Butch told him, “Relax, everyone wanted to make out a little, but that’s it. They said they had boyfriends, remember?”
A few weeks later, Butch, Gary and Don found themselves at a drive-in movie. Drive-ins were always second run movies with a cheap price, sometimes $1 per car, and, of course, they had a snack bar with mediocre food and inflated prices. However, you could see a double feature and have a fun evening for a couple of bucks. Gary was engrossed in the film when Butch came back from the men’s room, leaning in the window at Don’s side. “Hey, Don, take a walk with me.” Gary ignored Don as he slid out of the window (the speaker pole was blocking the door and otherwise he would have had to crawl over Gary). Butch pointed to a rusty ’57 Chevy parked a couple of rows back and to the right. “You have Barb, the brown-haired girl, I’m taking, Dawn, the blonde with the long legs. But one thing, don’t fall in love, OK?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just canlı bahis siteleri don’t fall in love.”
So this time, the make-out session hadn’t cost him so much as a bag of popcorn. Barb was a big girl and deftly avoided any attempt to touch her inappropriately by gently bending his wrist back until he heard the bones cracking. However, she was experienced and willing to kiss up a storm. She would thrust her tongue so deep into his mouth that it felt like he was swallowing it. Again, he went home feeling fabulously cool and if he jerked off, that was somehow unrelated to the living and breathing girl who’d massaged his tonsils. He did call her up, without getting a second date and kept mentioning her to Butch, much to his disgust. “I knew you’d fall in love, you’re almost as much of a basket-case as that putz, Gary.”
Now there are two things that should be explained at this point. The first is that boys and girls approached the opposite sex with widely differing agendas and motivations. Even Don’s limited sports knowledge included the concept of first base, second base, etc. with respect to advancing on a girl’s charms. However, though he knew that breasts outside and breasts inside the sweater were different, and that her touching you or you getting to finger her were somewhere past first and short of home – well, let’s just say he couldn’t diagram it for you. Butch probably could have. Butch acted like he had invented baseball.
From the girl’s side, they all had “hope chests” and knew if you let a boy go “all the way”, you not only risked getting “knocked up” but worse, you were a slut and everyone would know of your bad reputation. When a girl asked if you would respect her afterwards, she was really worried more by the knowledge people might have of what she had done than the outright fear of the act itself. And by act, it might be something as simple as letting a guy put his hand on her knee. Boys always tried to score; girls always tried to behave as if it held no interest for them. The second thing was that girls seemed to be wiser and more self-reconciled about this than their male counterparts of the same chronological age. Serious relationships seemed to require that the boy be a year or two older than the girl to be at the same place emotionally and sexually. Boys tended to make a huge deal out of sex and every time was like the first time at bat. Boys would lose their virginity and go for months or years before having a second experience. Girls, once they began to have actual sex, proceeded on the basis of being a healthy and active woman (but certainly circumspect, you still wanted Mr. Right to think you could “wear white to the ceremony”.)
As that summer ended, Don’s two experiences (kissing only, for God’s sake) were based on girls in tank tops, Bermuda shorts and a full compliment of underwear. There were no short shorts or hot pants or cute culottes. As far as school clothes or something to wear on a date, the poodle skirt was still seen, but was yielding to a tight mid-calf version with a kick pleat in back. Girls wore blouses or sweaters and those bras were so pointy you could put someone’s eye out. They also retained that shape even when not filled with girl. Everyone wore full or half-slips. Unless a girl was totally skinny, she wore a girdle and panties. Panty girdles were more convenient that a garter belt because the lines were smoother and you could pull the whole thing down to pee, or for the open bottom variety, unclasp your stockings, fold girdle up, fold panties down. There were no pantyhose, just really thick tights or theatrical fishnets. There were no tanning beds either. So, if you wanted to show tanned legs, you wore full-fashion, seamed stockings. For school you might wear bobby sox, but on a date, “nylons” were compulsory.
One of Don’s illustrative jokes concerns the nature of a nice girl versus a good girl. A good girl goes out, has a good time, comes home and goes to bed. A nice girl goes out, goes to bed, has a good time and comes home. In another version, the good girl wears her garter belt over her panties (which is comfortable and pretty) whereas a nice girl wears her panties over her garter belt. This looks odd because the straps never lie flat coming out of the leg holes, but you can pull the panties down to go to the bathroom or other fun things without removing the stockings.
Another witticism is “Why do girls wear black panties? Because of all the boys who have passed on.” As you can see, Don had lots of ideas, but no practical experience. Considering the imagery that was available to him, seeing a girl’s stocking tops was the height of sexuality. And speaking of panties, there were cotton ones and silky ones, stretch lace was reserved for serious foundations. Sheer nylon? That was only for sluts and perhaps your wife, if she was willing. A sexy panty might have a little lace sewn on top of the fabric or a little appliqué. These were briefs that went almost to your navel and covered everything else, what they call “granny panties” today. Boxers were in vogue for older men with sock garters and cigars, almost all the young men wore what are now called “tighty whities”. Men’s colored briefs didn’t appear for several years.
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