Ch. 13 The Pursuit of Happiness

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Hi. I’m Felicia, a professional artist; and I’ve got this neat husband—William Faxon—who’s a fairly well known novelist. He’s also great in the sack, which is important, but, further, he gets turned on hearing about the guys I had sex with before we met. I’m both proud and ashamed that there were eleven in all whom I fucked. Two prospective husbands and two one-night stands turned out badly; nevertheless, looking back, I had lots of fun, and Bill says he’s glad of my experiences and proud to be my hubby.

I was, however, a slow starter. During the grades I was a tomboy, having inherited my father’s stocky build. (He had played in the line for Holy Cross.) Dad, in fact, had been my Little League coach; and in high school I caught for our softball team and enjoyed planting my 140 pounds and blocking the plate when the broil was fierce. Consequently, the figure I cut reduced my dating to nil until my later high school years.

Though I felt increasingly horny in high school, I didn’t go out at all until junior year (1971-1972), and even then the sex was mostly in my head. But the following year when I was eighteen, I had a summer romance. The guy was a year older than I, had just graduated from Exeter, and was taking riding lessons in my group at the horse farm. I think he liked my tits, which were pretty big then—being 34 C. Kyle was 5’11” with beautiful brown eyes under a mop of dark hair in emulation of the Beatles. Furthermore, aspiring to a career in musical theatre, he had a beautiful singing voice and invited me to a play he was doing in the community. I admired his talents and we got along famously.

Kyle had his own car, which facilitated our dating and kissing; and very shortly we got into some torrid evening petting sessions. Early on he undressed me up above and his enjoyment of playing with my tits seemed to approach my own. After he’d slipped a hand down my panties and found me to be terribly wet, he popped the question: “Would you like to see my cock, Felicia? It’s pretty big. . . ”

“O yeah, Kyle, I do. And I want to play with it. Take my pants off,” I said panting. Then I undid his belt, unzipped his shorts, found his dong cramped in confining jockey shorts, and worked it to a hardening fullness, happy that it really was of substantial size.

But our best sex took place during daylight in and about the horse farm, where, when lessons were over, we had the run of the place–sometimes in unoccupied sleeping quarters in the hayloft, other times in the deep woods adjacent to the property. At those times the visual components of erotic play were ours.

I didn’t pry into Kyle’s dating history, but for me he was the first guy to see my big tits swing bare and free. The eagerness with which he fondled and sucked them brought me to the high point of my adolescent years. I had gotten completely nude for him, letting him stroke my wet cunt as well. And what a glorious partner he was to strip for me and proudly show off his 8-inch-plus beauty–my first to see (in a parade of extremely big cocks), to admire, to handle, to jerk off, to suck off, but not to fuck. He was so happy to discover that I loved sucking his big cock when he asked me to. Feeling his big balls tighten and draw up and then taking the warm shots of his ejaculate on my bare breasts, or down my throat, brought me serene satisfaction in the power of my womanhood. We knew the facts of life, but contraception had not come to mind. Perhaps it was the non-verbal agreement young people develop in petting: as he dared to each particular escalation, I acquiesced. Kyle had created within me a positive attitude concerning physical love that I took with me at some distance from home to Art School, along with notions of maturity and high hopes for professional distinction.


My teachers and the exciting opportunities to work in various media more than met my expectations, but my new maturity was a crock! The guys were dating other women. And then there was lonely me; it was my high school isolation all over again. In fact, back home my best friend Tina had been doing pot and fucking for two years. I was the last virgin in our small circle.

The summer after my second year at Art School I got realistic and gave myself a talking to. ” The 50’s fairytale of Cinderella is not going to work for you, babe. No Prince Charming is going to come along and marry you and support you the rest of your life. Women outnumber the men, and you are unlikely to get one. After all, you’re a bit on the chunky side, dear. Make the most of your training and be able to take care of yourself; and, by the way, being a virgin is stupid.”

I was going to turn 21 that October, and it looked as though I wasn’t going to get laid unless I arranged it myself. Kyle would have been a willing and delightful collaborator; but his family had moved, and he had won a full scholarship at Oberlin College out in Ohio. In September my determination to fuck someone sent me to the local health clinic where I got on the pill. küçükçekmece escort

Although it occurred to me to go braless to Happy Hour so that some of the party guys could get my message, I wanted someone safer to do the deal. Then I thought of my long-time neighbor, Ike Taylor. Our families were friendly, so that I knew him from picnics and swimming. Being two years ahead of me in school, he probably never considered dating me; nevertheless, I liked him. As Ike became a star hockey player, he moved into the elite social clique. Some of us commoners became fed up with his cockiness, but he remained friendly with me. I had been especially intrigued with the gossip that he had deflowered several girls, and now I wanted to join the ranks– even if I had to make an appointment. Now I could fuck him bare and he could shoot his come deep in my cunt. I was excited: here I was on the threshold of womanhood, and my friendship with Ike could be the key to getting started right. Of course, I did want to be a good lay for him, and it would be more comfortable for us both of us if he could come to me at art school. . Consequently, I got my guts together and called him up at his B. C. dormitory.

When I presented the proposition, he accepted. I was mightily relieved. He was willing to drive the distance between us and put another notch in his belt. Going over my directions, I could feel my excitement revving up. Just make sure, I wanted to hear him say it again. “So you’ll come?” I posed the question once more.

“I’ll leave the University Friday about 7:45 and arrive at your place around 9. Yeah, I’ll come. And we’ll go get a pizza and a beer or something. Then, we’ll go back to your dorm room and go to bed. Your roommate won’t be there, right?”


“In the morning there won’t be any kissing or anything because I hate morning breath. I’ll take a shower and then I’ll go. Is that okay?”

“Sounds fine. See you Friday, Ike. Bye.”

I knew Ike was experienced, but I was really surprised that he had actually developed a set of rules around this activity. I managed to shrug off the crassness of it all. The fact that this was going to be a “wham-bam-thank you ma’am” date would not deter me from my goal. I just wouldn’t think about it. What was the big deal anyway? This was an adult experience that I needed. Adult relationships include sex. Better get with the program.

Friday came, and Ike and I went out for a pizza and beer at an off-campus joint, where a college-age crowd was clotted in front of three TV sets airing the Red Sox in the World Series against Cincinnati. The cheering and yelling were exuberant. We were excited too—our eyes on a different ball—and, having finished our slices, hastened back to my dorm room.

As in most of my later assignations, clothes were coming off from the get-go. Ike was, for practical purposes, a careful lover. He wanted to make sure I was secreting heavily before he entered me. He unbuttoned my blouse and fondled my breasts somewhat roughly through the C-cups. Then, with one hand he undid the bra and my tits cascaded out to our keen delight. He rolled my hardened nipples between his thumbs and fingers, and then began sucking them hungrily. With his manipulation of my breasts, I could feel my twat twitch. This was great; I hoped his cock was getting hard.

It was my turn to strip Ike. Naked to the waist, I unbuttoned his oxford cloth button-down and peeled his tee shirt off over his head. His mouth ate mine. One hand on my right breast, he gently clutched the hair at the back of my head with the other to pull my head back. With that embrace he thrust his tongue in my mouth with a delightful balance of aggressiveness and tenderness, foreshadowing what was to come. I grabbed his ass with both hands and squeezed, rhythmically pulling him against me. I could feel his stiff cock through his jeans.

He then, still eating my mouth, took both my wrists and guided my hands below to his belt buckle. I undid the belt and the button and unzipped the jeans down the shaft of his cock. He kicked off his sneakers, threw off the jeans and took off his shorts. His penis was fully erect and waving free. I looked back up into his eyes, and we smiled. It was fully as big as in my dreams. I wanted to suck it. To start, I grasped his manhood lightly with one hand feeling the warm softness of the skin that slid easily over the rock-hard shaft. While I squeezed and stroked it gently, my other hand sought and cupped the high tightness of his balls.

“Turn around,” he said firmly. The sudden command signaled Ike’s regain of control. Was I to have no part to play in my own deflowering?

I did as he said, and he peeled my jeans, panties with them, down over my ass. He held my hips as I finished getting shoes and everything completely off.

Pulling me back around, he reached down into my crotch, spread my labia, and did a finger-check to discover that I was ready. Then he eased me küçükyalı escort to the bed, there to adjust my arms above my head and to spread my legs wide. (Hardly a position from which to dial 9-1-1.)

As he placed the head of his penis at the mouth of my vagina, Ike announced, “This might hurt.”

“Okay,” I whispered. I was shaking.

In one motion he rammed his cock deep into my wet canal and stopped. I cried out. It didn’t hurt, but it was astonishing. He let me adjust to the full feeling.

“You all right?”


He continued to stroke in and out with long, slow, deep thrusts. Burying his cock to the hilt each time, he filled me up, punching my cervix, making me heave and mewl. More and more rapidly he drove his eight inch rod into me until finally, groaning, he came.

After he pulled out a short minute later, he observed, “You didn’t feel like a virgin. Are you sure you were one?”

“Of course,” I stammered in whispered disbelief.

“Well, it’s probably because you’re a horseback rider and you’ve used tampons for a long time. Thanks, sweet. Night.”

He rolled off and fell asleep, his arm around me most of the night; but I was wide-awake. I didn’t know what to think. I was in shock. I could feel his cum ooze out of me, run down my ass, soaking the sheet under me.

In the morning, he reminded me of the “no kissing morning mouth rule” and trotted off to shower. I went separately to a shower, myself, careful to wash away traces of the previous evening.

He dressed as if we had been married for years, gave me a peck and a hug and left. I went down the elevator with him and out the front door of the dorm. From the top of the steps, I watched him get into his maroon Corvette and cheerfully wave as he drove off. Turning away and walking back inside, I wiped tears from my eyes that leaked out without sound. At least I wouldn’t be a stupid virgin anymore.


For the next month I was a mixed-up kid. I felt over-all disappointment with Ike’s selfish conduct and shame that I had resorted to what amounted to hiring a male prostitute. I certainly wished, on the other hand, that Kyle could have shared my virgin fuck; and as the days passed my libido could not be denied. Then, in my late adolescence, I was so ripe! I had been fascinated with the two nice cocks in my life; and in the fantasies of my incomplete womanhood, I pondered, “Whose else?” I kept recalling the wonderful feeling of a full vagina that Ike had given me and how much I liked the deep-stroke pounding he gave me before he came. I do forgive the guy. He tried. And I was all the more determined to continue my search for romantic experience. In what better setting than at Friday afternoon Happy Hours at the bar of “The Copper Kettle?”

Of course, dress on those occasions was unbuttoned and casual, and sex was in the air. To emphasize that I was fair game, I dressed down to the extent of leaving my bras in the second drawer. I knew most guys liked big tits. And in my tight T-shirts, mine looked extra big and low, resting on the rise of my tummy. The thrust of my prominent nipples was such that I got several feels on busy nights. And I enjoyed occasional make-out sessions in darkened booths. But nobody really hit on me to the extent of our going back to one of our bedrooms.

But I moved off the slow track in January 1976, when I got a new admirer and the friend I needed. He was Ray, the new bartender at “The Kettle.” Wow, was he handsome! 6′ 1″ with a rugged build and silver gray hair, he had the words “Semper Fidelus” and a bracelet of laurel tattooed around his left wrist. From the beginning I was aware of his steady appreciative gaze enfolding my plumpness as I moved about the room or took a bar stool at closer range to engage him in small talk. We enjoyed the other’s banter, while the play of our blue eyes spoke more seriously of strong sexual attraction.

He was a local guy who traveled by motorcycle, I learned, with a following of middle-aged women who started appearing at “The Kettle” when he started working there. The word was that that he’d been a Marine hero in the Korean War with trouble settling down ever since. It slipped out that Ray was a gun dealer. That news and that he was close to twice my age lent to the mystery that was already exerting a strange and exciting power over me.

Midst my dreams of our imminent compatibility, I was severely shaken to learn from Ray himself calmly at his station behind the bar that he was bedding down the three camp followers of his own generation. “But, Felicia, darling,” his words were heavily pronounced, “It is you I most passionately desire.”

I’d gone from “wow” to “pow” in three weeks time. Sometimes while we chatted, Ray would rearrange his genitalia for my benefit. Following this latest announcement, he massaged his John Henry to its full length down the left leg of his trousers. It was very big. Then, in freshened idiom, maltepe escort he spoke again: “I want to fuck you, Felicia. I think you’d like it.”

My breathing was ragged, but I got two words out: “Okay. When?”

“Saturday. You free? Okay, I’ll pick you up, 11:30. I’ve got my powerboat down on the river.”

That was it. Our first heavy date. My second fuck. We got along extremely well. And we met for sex many times thereafter. He didn’t care for the publicity that might have threatened us if we’d opted for my dorm room. The other locale was his apartment, which was fine, because, although he’d been married and divorced twice with kids elsewhere, he lived alone. It was rather disconcerting, however, on occasion to meet Flora, Dora, or Mopsy coming in for the second shift when I was leaving.

Our sex was good for both of us. Contraception was no problem as I was on the pill and he had had a vasectomy. Ray was not into “oral” either way, but I had the joy of playing with his beautifully big uncircumcised cock in readiness for his choice of one of the three major positions. I must say I favored him as missionary for my pleasurable view of his manhood—shaft and sack—on the way to insertion and the ultimate creaming of my well lubricated pussy. I’ll admit I never had an orgasm with Ray; but he loved my bona fide moans of pleasure and took my fakes like a giddy sophomore. He told me I made him feel young and potent again. Now, didn’t he make me a really nice fuck buddy?

During my husband-hunting campaigns, Ray stood by and was there for me if they broke down. The damnedest thing about the 1970’s was you had to fuck to find a husband. That was the way you got to know a guy. The post-Watergate lack of faith in our political system played its part, but probably it was the PILL. We didn’t have to pay the piper anymore. You did not have to like someone very much to fuck him. And that’s my pre-marital story. I wish it could have been like Kyle and me after high school. We were friends based on our shared interest in riding and the arts. We really liked each other, and the sex was good when we became physical lovers.


My hopes remained ever high for finding the love of my life, and I fucked three candidates, one being a young sculptor new to the College faculty. Each trial ended in disappointment. Sometimes when I ‘d get really horny and Ray was otherwise engaged, or even if he weren’t, I’d do a one-night stand. Once I met two guys at the Laundromat, and we did a threesome in their apartment—a messy affair. Then there was the nicest one, when one night led to three more. The guy’s name was Earl and we met at the College during April of my senior year.

Around 4:30 one afternoon I was up to my ears in the Printmaking Studio, trying to finish a project, when I felt I was being watched. Just inside the doorway stood a handsome older gentleman, perhaps a trustee. A big man with short white hair and mustache, he smiled broadly and said, “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I have an appointment with Professor Burns and I’m a trifle early.”

I instantly liked the blue eyes set in the friendly face. He was “disturbing” me, yes, very much affecting my sexual center and sparking the animation of my explanations in answer to his queries about printmaking. I knew we liked each other. Shortly before Burnsie showed up, he changed the subject, “Say, where does a man get a drink around this place?” I told him about The Copper Kettle, and we agreed to go there together after his conference. “O hell,” he said, ” I should tell you my name. I’m Earl Masterson.” We shook hands, laughing. “I’m Felicia Heard,” I said happily. So, dear reader, who picked up whom?

In my analysis of the promiscuity of my generation, I cited a devil-may-care attitude and the pill. I omitted two other factors that helped me along my way: Scotch and soda. And indeed Earl and I had a couple at The Kettle. It was good to be out from under my studio smock. Further, during Earl’s confab with Burnsie, I had stepped into the john to remove my bra and stash it in my backpack. I wanted this nice man to enjoy seeing how hard my nipples get—an exchange of treats, as Earl would be paying for the Dewar’s. We seemed to be laughing more than were the other patrons. He related that after acting and directing in his early years, he was teaching theatre arts at Northwestern.

Although he didn’t look it, he said he was 62. I found it funny, but not uproariously so, that I’d been dating Ray, who was old enough to be my father, and now I was having the hots for a guy my grandfather’s age. But, hey, I have always been attracted to older men. They are not so brash in coupling or so critical of one’s physical shortcomings. For instance, several of my mature lovers have seen my opulence as a decided asset. I think they are more responsive to willing and appreciative sexual partners. It works for me as I have always been built for comfort and not for speed. The background of Earl’s mission to Massachusetts was sad. During the previous year his wife had died and then his brother, who owned a valuable spread along the lower North Shore. As the sole heir, he was seeing to the disposition of some of the estate at auction and needed Burnsie’s expertise as an appraiser in connection with the art collection. Over a two-week period he was all by himself at a ritzy hotel in the next town.

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