It’s 2:13 p.m. on the East Coast, a murky gray day, just the kind I like. All my afternoon plans fell through, so I’m walking around my apartment naked, trying to solve a problem in my head. Also, I’m masturbating like the steam drill that killed John Henry. My roommate, who’s also my sex partner, is out for the day, so I’m having fun by myself. She knows I write stuff for Literotica, and I’m sure she won’t appreciate me mentioning her as my “sex partner” instead of my “girlfriend,” but I don’t appreciate her having a threesome last week with two girls from the restaurant where she works, so life continues to accumulate little moments of angst the way a beautiful beach retains the trash the tide brings in. Shit, that’s downright poetic.

The problem du jour is what to do with “Chicago Hotel Adventure.” By the time you read this, you’ll probably already have seen part 4, but today, I’m really stumped on what to do with the last part of the story, and many of the Literoticans are wondering when the hell I’m going to post that last chapter. I’m as psyched as anyone that the story is so good, but I’ve really painted myself into a corner. If you’ve read parts 1 through 3, and you know anything at all about good storytelling, then you know I face a tough path toward a great ending. How could it top what’s come before? It probably won’t. In the end, George Lucas and I will have to settle with a stellar first three parts.

But that’s not really what this submission is about. You see, I have an idea on how I can break through this minor mental barrier, and it all starts with brainstorming. Ideas create themselves, and you must stand by and allow it to happen. You just have to listen to your subconscious sometimes, you know? Right now, every time I try to think about “Chicago,” my subconscious keeps turning my attention to an incident I remember from my senior year of high school. I figure I need to get the idea out of my head, and if it’s as steamy as I remember it to be, and if I write it well, then I’ll have my next post for the pervs back at Literotica. So, let’s start typing.

I don’t keep a journal, but if I did, it would probably read like my stories read — random, unedited thoughts, strung together as the muse dictates. I know how to edit my work for clarity and a reduction in errors, but who gives a fuck. Why should my recollection of the memory be more pristine than the memory itself? And why is my dick so hard even though I’m typing these ridiculously profound elucidations? I turn myself on with my own pontification, I suppose.

Anyway, here’s the story:

It was the spring of 1992, and I was getting ready to graduate from high school. My girlfriend and I had just broken up, and she was my first in every way. You may be surprised to learn it, if you’ve been paying any attention at all to my writings — true stories of group sex, bi-sex, public sex, dom/sub sex, Rep/Dem sex… you name it. But at the tender age of 18, I’d only been with one girl. Hell, I’d only kissed three, one at the age of 14, the one before that at age 8. But my high school sweetheart was something special. We both started out naïve and ended up giving each other Ph.D.’s in sex ed. I highly recommend it… well, except for the part where you exclude anything from the relationship other than sex. That’s definitely the reason why everything went so sour. What a thoughtless horndog I was.

I could try to explain why my relationship with that girl was so great, but unless you’ve been there, you just won’t get it. What’s so fun about fumbling around like an amateur for an entire year? Trust me, it just is. Grades went down the toilet, friendships got put on hold, but the orgasms were always stellar. And when we finally got past months and months of finger painting and snapped on our first condom, let me just say, even the awkwardness was sublime. For a time, we were true soulmates, whatever the fuck that means.

(There’s another reason I can’t tell you about my relationship with my first true love, and that’s because we were both 16 and it was very physical. It’s just not cool to talk about teenage sex on Literotica, which is to say, it’s not legal. So do the Feds bust down my door once they learn I engaged in statutory rape? Was it mutual rape? I’ve read enough stories on this site to know rape stories aren’t taboo, but that’s not what this was at all. I’ve seen a website forum about masturbation where all the submitters are 13 and 14 year old girls, and while that makes me very uncomfortable, the hard cold truth is that I started jerking off at 14, and so did you and your sister and your dad and your best friend and your parole officer. I guess I’ll just have to wait until I see this story posted to learn whether or not this parenthetical got edited out. I doubt that will happen. Wow, just look at how my philosophical introspections are turning me on once again. Put a social studies textbook in my hand and my libido goes through the roof.)

It was good and we liked it, but we were kids (18 by the end of it), and we didn’t know what we wanted, and it ended in April. By the time May came, I realized too late that I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life with her, and that I probably better ace some finals in order to get my grade-point average back up. Then I caught bronchitis, which put me on the bench for track, which was another scholarship option that vaporized on me.

The biggest part was the regret. Not that I’d messed up on school, not even that my relationship had fallen apart. No, I regretted all the missed opportunities with OTHER girls. That’s right, studs, you know what I mean. Things may be bleak with the girl you just dumped, but you are the creature you were meant to be, and that means you’re always looking ahead to the next sexual encounter, whether your brain is a willing participant or not. Your frontal lobe may be screaming, “Don’t think about other women! Can’t you even remember ten minutes ago, when your heart was decimated? How can you want MORE of this?” But your dick doesn’t care.

One of those girls for me was Melanie. (The name I’ve given her in this story is the ONLY part that isn’t true.) Melanie was two years older than I, and I first met her in band. (Go on, laugh.) She played oboe and was good at it; I played trombone and hated it. Ours was a three-year school, so I was enjoying my first year (sophomore) as she was completing her last. One day, a mere week after starting high school, I got locked out of the school without my wallet and didn’t have a way home (long story, who cares). This was before cell phones, and also, I was sort of an idiot. Well, Melanie drove by the front of the school and saw me sitting there. She offered to give me a ride, and I said yes.

That was the single moment at which I began to believe I might rise above my own junior high mediocrity and become what the ancient sophists referred to as “cool.” Melanie was perfect in every way — blonde, muscular from playing basketball, very nice to everyone she met, and approachable. I’d learn later that she was also very smart and quite giving, but during those first weeks, she was simply another unattainable goddess in a sea of high school goddesses. Never once during that car ride did I believe I had a chance with her, but the mere fact that she was aware of my existence was an affirmation that I didn’t NOT exist. Perhaps the popular kids weren’t just looking through me after all. It was a milestone.

In some ways, Melanie was responsible for me finding the courage to ask out my first girlfriend. (Let’s call her Madame Ex.) Ex was my age, and we’d been friends for a long time. Only after my body pumped out the prerequisite amount of testosterone did I begin to see her as a sex object, and only after Melanie befriended me did I realize I could talk to Ex about things other than movies or the mall.

And so I began to look at Ex in a new way. In the meantime, Melanie was looking at me in a new way, and I had no idea. Why should I have? A senior lusting after a sophomore? By Jove, man, wouldst thou stand idly by whilst the planets crash ‘nto the sun? These things go against the natural order! No no no, I was meant to be with Ex, plain and simple. She was pretty but not intimidatingly so, smart but not brilliant, foresightful but not ambitious. Also, she was brunette, and just between us, I was more into brunettes, and perhaps to this day I think of them as more obtainable than blondes, although the opposite is perhaps more true. See how convoluted the reasoning becomes? Just try having this discussion with yourself when you’re sixteen!

Ex and I hooked up, and Melanie and I stayed very close friends. Melanie dated older boys, graduated from school, went to college, dated more boys, lost touch with me. Years passed, Ex and I imploded, and then May of ‘92 arrived bringing bronchitis in its wake.

The fateful day was a Thursday, a heavily clouded day just like today. I was home excused from school, listening to “The Soul Cages” by Sting. I had very poor taste in music then, don’t be distracted by the fact. Daytime television sucked as much then as it does today, so I sat on my bed reading comics by the gray light of my window.

A knock on the door. I remember thinking it was probably the mailman; my parents would still be at work this early in the afternoon.

When I opened the door, there stood Melanie.

(Pause while I silently relive the moment…)

Pardon me, had to deal with a severe flashback there. I can tell you in varying degrees of detail everything that happened that day, but I can tell you with PRECISION the moment that Melanie showed up at my door. For one thing, she was the last person I expected, and she was also one of the people I’d most like to have seen at that moment. It’s a powerful combination, and it leaves an impression. Every detail is burned in the mind — the careless way her bright blonde hair was tied back behind her head, the healthy white glow of her skin, the fact she wasn’t really wearing much makeup that afternoon. She had on a boy’s burgundy knit golf shirt (was that something she bought for herself, or did she get it through more risqué endeavors? Hmm…) with tight plaid shorts and sneakers with those short socks that showed off her ankles. You don’t see plaid shorts around much these days, but in the early 90’s it was pretty prevalent. Besides, she could have worn an XXL leisure suit and I still would have wanted her.

I even remember the tiny red zit she had on her left temple. Now, you may not want to hear that Melanie had a pimple, because anytime YOU write a story for Literotica — or I do, let’s face it — the girl has flawless skin like a porcelain vase or a bar of perfect soap or blah blah blah. To be fair, whenever I remember the incident, I usually remember Melanie without the pimple, so you’ll have to do the same as you read my story. At the end of the day, most of you writers craft perfect women for your stories, but those of you who’ve actually HAD sex with a woman are familiar with all sorts of skin blemishes and love handles and other imperfections that you actually grow to love or admire or turn into a fetish. As for Melanie, well, that pimple is the single flaw I remember. Everything else was storybook good.

I wore denim shorts and a black t-shirt, which is what I still wear when I’m alone, if I wear anything; early habits die hard. My hair didn’t look as good back in those days as it does now, and I remember worrying that it was out of place. What a little geek I was. But she probably didn’t care about my hair, considering how my face lit up at the site of her, and hers at seeing me. She stepped forward and gave me a big hug, the kind you give when you see an old buddy after a long time. Innocent, to be sure, but very warm. We’d missed each other.

She asked why I wasn’t at school, and I told her I’d had bronchitis. She made a sympathetic face, and I told her it was pretty much passed and I was just playing hookey at the end of the house arrest I’d been assigned. It didn’t take much convincing for her to agree to stay.

At this point you’re asking, where’s the dialogue? You want to know exactly what she said, and what I said, and how we mugged and moaned and pleaded and yelped. Truth is, I remember a lot, but not everything, especially the words we said. And since I can’t relay precisely what happened and how, to put down the words would sound hokey and sort of dishonest. When I write a fictional story, the dialogue is a very important component, but when I remember times like this, they’re hardly important at all. The good stuff happened after the blabbing.

Melanie sat on my bed next to me and we listened to Sting. Melanie was more of a Smiths and Erasure kind of girl, and I really resent that she didn’t try to expose me to better music back then. Today I’m all about the Hives and the B-52s and Radiohead (at the moment it’s Neko Case blaring from six channels), but back then it was Duran Duran and Steve Winwood and whatever other shitty artist was on the radio that afternoon. But like I said, I learned from the mistake, no regrets. She told me how college was, and who she’d been dating, and how much she missed home. Then I told her about breaking up with Ex, and that was pretty much what the rest of the conversation was about.

Oh yeah, baby, that’s right. Talkin’ about ex-girlfriends with someone who has a crush on you. For those of you paying attention, you know that the good part is coming up, because this conversation is the classic segue to sex. Girls get jealous when you’re dating them and you bring up past lovers, because they wonder if they can live up to what’s come before, but BEFORE you start dating, ex-lovers are simply something for the girl to be curious about. She wants to know that you’re experienced, and that you miss the physical relationship more than you miss the ex-girlfriend, and that you are ready to move on and start having more sex again as soon as possible.

In fact, the moment I knew something was stirring between me and Melanie was the moment she asked, “So, what kind of stuff did you guys do?” It sounds so simple, but it’s really the first part of a very complex process. First, she has to ask the question just that way so she can hear you talk about having sex and being naked and getting raunchy, because the girl is horny and that’s exactly the kind of thing that will get her even more worked up. Second, she can’t say anything like, “Is that okay to ask? I didn’t mean to pry. Oh, I’m so embarrassed. Did I embarrass you?” That’s exactly what she WANTS to say, but she’s trying to create a mood here, and bringing polite societal rules into the mix is counterproductive to the atmosphere she’s trying to convey. Needless to say, while I was sitting there staring at Melanie’s thighs, thinking how nice it would be to get something going with her, she was seducing ME. Good times, buddy, good times.

I was horny, too, so as soon as she asked, I said, “We did EVERYTHING.” I had to say it quickly to confirm for her that no apology was necessary, that it was okay she asked. After that, she bounced on the bed a little and told me she wanted all the details. Over the year we spent together, during the time she was a senior, we had several similar conversations — in tone, not in content. Not about music either, damn it. Mostly we talked about movies and books that we both liked, or people we knew, or things we’d done growing up. It’s exciting to share details about your life with someone who “gets” you, and once you have the same kind of conversation about sex, well, what comes next is inevitable.

We spent about half-an-hour going back and forth on the sex subject, and while it started out pretty tame, it got graphic by the end. It’s true that I’d learned a lot during my time with Ex, and there wasn’t much we didn’t do, but DOING sex is a hemisphere away from TALKING about sex, and I’m telling you, sitting there with Melanie was my first honest-to-golly sex talk, and it was fucking fantastic. I’m not even convinced she’d talked like that before — I was probably her first as well. It’s liberating, you know it? To capitalize on all the great skills you’ve developed regarding social conversation and idea articulation, to apply those skills to describing what you’ve done while naked with a member of the other gender, how it felt, what you’d like to try next. Sometimes the anticipation you develop in moments like those is better than even the hard reality of actual sex. No, I’m not a fag, shut up asshole, I’m just saying that I’ve had conversations with girls that were better than the sex that followed. Your friend knows what I mean, yeah him, the good looking guy.

Half-an-hour doesn’t sound like a long time, but it’s longer than it sounds. Positions… tender moments… things that were whispered, things moaned… favorite kisses… best orgasms… By the end of it, we were both exhausted and also both incredibly turned on. She had the most beautiful pale skin that burned a little red when she was hot, and she was damn hot at this point.

What happened next is really my favorite part of the story. We were still sitting on the bed, me with my back against the window sill, Melanie beside me, kind of nestled back against my shoulder and the wall. It sounds deliberate, but it didn’t come across that way, because it was a twin bed and there are only so many ways you and a friend can share space on a twin bed. Yes, I know, she wanted to be closer, and I wanted to be closer, so it WAS deliberate, but you have to understand the game we were playing. Both of us had the same idea: If she (he) doesn’t want to kiss me or touch me, but there might be a chance she (he) does, what position could I be in where either one is okay? How to abort the mission without consequences?

When that’s the game, a lot of factors have to line up before you can move to the next level. For starters, the conversation has to peter out. Melanie was lying beside me like that, and one moment we were talking about sex and future lovers and maybe even school and schedules and shit. The next moment, the talking hit a lull. The proper thing to do during a lull, so we are told, is to regroup your thoughts and develop a new topic so the conversation can move forward. Fortunately, sometimes you end up with someone you like a lot and feel really comfortable with, and that lull is actually a nice time to just sit and enjoy each other’s company in silence. You might not even realize how much you enjoy simply being with that person UNTIL the lull arrives and you have the opportunity to stay quiet and enjoy it.

Another important ingredient in the mix was Sting playing on the cassette deck. I can’t remember exactly how the lull occurred or what the last thing said was, but I do remember that “The Soul Cages” (song not album) was playing when it hit. If you know the album, you’ll recall that this song is a guitar-driven rocker, or what counts for one in Sting’s world. Melanie and I sat pressed side-by-side as we listened to the song, and it was just something to do. (Later I remembered that this song was about fisherman losing their lives at sea and confronting Satan so they could bargain for their freedom, but I wasn’t paying any attention to that shit at the time, thankfully. Sting, you are one disturbed Englishman.)

What next? I’ll tell you what next. I took her hand in mine, that’s what.

No ceremony, no words, not even a pang of doubt in my mind or gut. I just wanted to slip my hand in hers, and I did. It felt right… “proper” is the word. We’d both been wondering for an hour whether we were attracted to each other, fumbling around for words to figure it out, and one touch was all it took to understand what a thousand words couldn’t illuminate. We weren’t in love, we weren’t really even friends in the way we had been, but there was a physical spark at work, and now we both knew it for certain.

It’s funny, looking back, how deliberate the whole thing was, and hereby we replace the word “deliberate” with “slow.” It’s funny because today when I want a woman, we stand on her doorstep after the date, she invites me up or doesn’t, and if she does we make out, get naked, have sex, then decide whether I’m spending the night or not, usually not. It’s just as much a mad rush as the rest of my day, trying to fit fucking into my schedule between paying the bills and staying in touch with useless friends.

But that afternoon, the world stopped. No pressure, no clock ticking, just that single touch of our hands and the feeling of Melanie’s head on my shoulder, and the certainty that more would be nice but this was enough. My heart beat faster but not thunderously fast; her breathing sped up, but only slightly. My palms didn’t sweat, my mouth didn’t go dry. We just sat like that for a few minutes and felt relieved.

And then, ah yes, and then. Then I turned my head. I didn’t move another single body part, but she felt me looking at her. She turned her head upward but couldn’t look at me. Really, we weren’t trying to look, but to connect our lips. I could call it telepathy, some shared thought that we both knew what the other wanted to happen, but it felt more like magnatism. My mouth moved toward hers, and hers toward mine. Not a conscious thought, but rather, a physical force, just the natural world following its laws, bringing our faces into contact. Still so slow, so deliberate, until at last, her neck was craning upward a bit awkwardly, and mine craned downward, and we kissed.

Our mouths met, and her lips felt so soft. The further we went, the more relief I seemed to feel, but there hadn’t been any anxiety, so why the relief? Things were just working out — what other word could fit? It was happening, it was really happening.

That first kiss lasted a long time, and in many ways, nothing that followed could top it. The journey of a thousand orgasms begins with one kiss, and the first kiss is the hardest, and it was happening and happening well, and that meant the journey had begun. I didn’t dare open my eyes, or move at all, or touch her. I simply kissed her, and she me, and it felt great.

Meanwhile, Sting garbled and played his guitar until the song played out. Then, the last song on the album started, “When The Angels Fall.” Do you know it? Haunting synthesizers played way too slow, a guitar with a light touch, and Sting singing lyrics about angels watching us dream. The verses are in a dreamy little major key, the chorus is in a minor key, and the final bridge is a bit more grand but still methodically paced and ethereal. The song ends in a sort of long, decrecendo play-out, as though some child is going to sleep. It’s a very romantic song, the perfect makeout music. By the time the song ended and the tape stopped, the damage was done, and the rest of the Melanie story occured without a soundtrack. That song is truly the capstone of the memory.

I didn’t plan it this way, you realize. That’s what makes it so perfect, that’s what makes the memory so vivid in my mind. Here I was, making out with a beautiful girl while this seductive music created a romantic atmosphere, and I didn’t even have to deal with the guilt of orchestrating it that way. And it worked, god did it work. She touched my face, and I touched hers, and the song carried us along like a slow boat on the lake, further onto each other’s bodies.

We kissed and kissed and kissed. Her mouth was hot and wet, her hands so greedy yet so giving. I felt her rubbing her palms against my chest, up and down my arms, even across my legs. As long as we both kept our clothes on, we could pretty much touch anywhere we wanted. To put it accurately, we lingered at first base for a long time. I wanted to kiss her cheeks, so I did. I wanted to lick the inside of her ear, and I did. She liked that a lot. In fact, second base started right about there (the spirit of second base, you see, not the actual fondling). She started twisting and humming as I lapped at her ears and neck with my tongue. I didn’t think about how messy I was making her face, I just kept licking her, massaging her with my lips, nibbling her flesh. To my pleasant surprise, she wanted to do the same thing to me. She kissed my face all over, breathed her hot breath on me. You might wonder what’s so sexy about getting your nose and eyes kissed by a girl, and I’ll tell you — it means you’re completely at her mercy, and she knows it, because you can’t kiss her, you can only breathe and be patient and enjoy the moment.

Remember how I described her sitting up beside me? I leaned down and kissed her, and she had to look up. As the kissing proceeded, I gently laid her down on the bed, laid half on top of her, and reached my arm underneath her so she felt my hand on her back. But we moved around a lot. Sometimes we were side-by-side, sometimes she was on top. I remember one moment when Melanie was on top, I decided I wanted to kiss further down her neck. She had on that golf shirt, and somehow I unbuttoned the collar as far as it would go, and I kissed across her shoulder blades, on top of her shoulders, down to the top of her cleavage.

I have to laugh at this point, remembering how I kissed her chest as far as her shirt would allow. First base, remember? She’d had sex before and so had I, but we were both good Christian kids and old friends, and even if we hadn’t been, I was too much of a gentleman to think I could just tear her clothes off without permission. What if we were meant to date, but I pushed her into sex and she decided I wasn’t the right boy for her, and she left feeling embarrassed right in the middle of our kissing? You laugh too, because you’re a sex fiend like me here on the other side of adolescence, and you don’t have any problem with loving-and-leaving, and neither do I. But don’t you remember how different it was back then? You weren’t looking for sex, you were looking for a (all-caps, now) BOYFRIEND or a GIRLFRIEND. Wouldn’t it be better to have sex with — ahem — “someone you loved?” I wasn’t thinking rationally about the facts of me and Melanie dating, because if I had, I’ve have remembered that she was in college far away and we weren’t likely to last. But there I was, kissing her chest as far as her golf shirt would allow, thinking I didn’t want to rush her if it meant she’d stop “dating” me. Like I said, I have to laugh.

After the music stopped, I guess we’d been kissing for about ten minutes. Then, it happened. BAM, the magic. Do you know what I’m talking about? Can you guess? It was the moment she was on top of me, and her legs opened, and she sat spread eagle on top of my hard cock.

Yeah, NOW you know what I mean. Here, hold on just a second while I explain it to the novices in the room. You see kids, making out with a pretty girl is a great thing unto itself, but that’s the kind of stuff Amish kids are allowed to do with a chaperone in the room and a board between their lower bodies. But baby, as soon as your genitals connect through the clothes, you’ve arrived at a new place in the physicality. Deep down, hidden from your senses, your body has been building heat like a furnace while your hands and lips play their amateur games, but once you feel your cock rubbing the girl through her pants, your senses sit up and say, “Wait a minute, what the fuck is happening down there? I didn’t authorize this!” Too late, constable, too late. Second base is just around the corner.

And it was. Melanie’s tongue probed deeper down my throat as her crotch rubbed against mine. For the first time I put my hands on her ass, marginally curious to see if she’d protest, shocked to find that she didn’t, at which point I grabbed two handfuls of ass with gusto. The way we moved and rocked, you’d think we hadn’t been aware of our own bodies before that point. Her thighs were hot against mine, her hands gripped my shoulders like clamps. The real sign that things were about to get raunchy was that her mouth, while still open and dripping into mine, had stopped moving. Her hips, however, had not. She was genuinely getting off.

Ex and I had been here many times, you realize, and each time the action had progressed to its logical conclusion, nakedness followed by orgasms. But even at this moment, I wasn’t about to impose on Melanie. If the furthest we went was cumming in our pants, well shit, that would be downright fantastic. We could even pretend afterwards that we hadn’t gone as far as we both knew we had.

Regardless of everything I’m telling you about my propriety and chivalry, I was the first one to untuck a shirt. I can even remember telling myself, Hey, I just want to feel the skin on her back, what’s wrong with that. Ha! I wanted access to those magnificent boobies, that’s what I wanted. I’d say she was about 24B, just the right size for a handful. She sure as hell tightened out that golf shirt.

Why do I keep using that terminology, about how I would’ve been content with any stopping point? Because it’s literally true. You see, I kept my expectations in check. She was only the second girl I’d ever honestly made-out with (or heavily petted, for that matter). I had to prepare my brain for the possibility that this could END at any moment.

So of course, I was thrilled beyond words when she reached down and untucked my shirt as well, without lifting her crotch from mine. Even though she kept her torso leaned horizontally above me so we could kiss, she was able to move her hands up between us and run her palms over my naked chest. My shirt rose high as her arms played with me, until it hiked up over my nipples. That was all the cue I needed to try and do the same to her. I could have worked my hands up her back without lifting her shirt, but by pulling my forearms outward, lifting her shirt was exactly what I did. Within only a matter of minutes, her bra was pressed against my bare chest, with our shirts lifted up around our necks.

My hands wandered up and down Melanie’s back, over her bra straps, down her ribs, up to her shoulders. Still we kissed passionately and wetly, still we ground our genitals together through the terribly hot underpants and shorts. At last I moved my hands to the sides of her breasts, and her mouth froze on my neck. As I moved my palms underneath, softly cupping her fabric-covered mounds in my hands, she gasped once, twice, three times. When she moved up to kiss my mouth again, it was with intensity. Our tongues licked furiously. I squeezed her tenderly but with intent, truely fondling her tits.

As I write this, I begin to see how much control I had over the situation. I was the first to hold her hand, I was the first to lean in for the kiss, I was the one who untucked her shirt… and I was the one who unsnapped her bra. To be fair, she came to my house. Oh yeah, and she straddled me so she could ride my hard cock through my pants. Well anyway, it was pretty mutual, but I’m not going to go on with anymore of this “I was so chivalrous” bullshit. I wanted her in a bad way, and that made me do things I didn’t know I was capable of doing.

This was only my second girl to de-bra, but I’d unsnapped Ex’s bra hundreds of times, so it wasn’t rocket science. And just like that, we were at second base. Reading it on the page, it seems to you like it took a while, but nothing could have moved faster. Don’t think I’m contradicting myself, the whole thing was still very deliberate, even slow by current standards, but we didn’t really stall at any of the points where we needed to keep things moving along, we just barreled through them.

My fingers unhooked her bra — and, well, yeah, I was a little nervous that I’d crossed a line; I held my breath a second in anticipation of her sitting up and saying, “Wait, wait, this is too fast.” But instead, she kissed me faster, deeper. I moved my hands around and under, slid my fingers inside her bra cups, lifted the material up, and felt her naked breasts. Even the crotch-grinding came to a pause as we savored this moment. She hyperventilated into my open mouth as I felt her boobs, really FELT them. I fondled that girl so tenderly, reverently, like her experiencing flesh was a sacred ritual to perform through the sense of touch. Her nipples were swollen like thick stones and yet felt soft between my gently pinching fingers.

Melanie apparently couldn’t stand the waiting any longer, because she pulled her own shirt and bra up over her head with one swift yank. I saw her, sitting on top of me, naked from the waist up. Breathtaking, even now so many years after, literally breathtaking. I saw her, the tight lines of her toned stomach and upper arms, the minute jiggle of her moderate breasts, the definition of her neck and shoulders, and most of all, the dark pink of her nipples. And hovering above it all her face, her beautiful face, famed by her blonde hair like a halo, pulled flat against her skull by the pony tail band. She didn’t smile at me, nor did she frown. Her countenance presented no human thought of any kind. She was pure desire, a mammal in heat reviewing her mate beneath her, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. I wonder if she saw the same look in my eyes.

I wanted to remove my own shirt, difficult as it was with her on top of me. Once I started to pull, she helped me out of it. Next, I wanted to suck those nipples. I braced myself up with my elbows, reached around her back with one arm, grabbed her left boob with the other hand, aimed her nipple at my mouth as I sat up. The breasts entered my mouth, and Melanie dug her hands into my thick black hair, pressing me tight against her chest. I sucked and sucked, feeling her writhe in my arms, knowing she needed me to relent but knowing also I could not. I fondled and pinched the other breast with the right hand, supporting myself with the left.

Can you believe she still had her shoes and socks on? After I laid her on her back, I placed my body down on hers again, as we mugged our mouths together as our naked chests pressed once more together. I felt her shuffling below as she kicked off her shoes and pulled her socks off with her toes. When the bottoms of her feet slapped against my calf muscles, something electric hit me.

Melanie’s legs spread open again, and I placed my crotch firmly against hers. Any illusions we’d enjoyed before were now shattered; this was sex without the intercourse. Every part of our bodies where flesh could be seen was pressed together, still not sweaty but definitely warm, and growing hotter by the second. And always the kissing, that deep throat kissing, the most intimate part of the encounter. Can you explain to someone who’s never kissed someone whom they want badly what it feels like, what it means? Take it a step further — imagine having sex, cock and pussy slapping together, fluids flowing, bodies crashing. Now add french kissing to the mix. It kicks it up a level, doesn’t it? How can kissing make the most extreme act, sex, more than it is? And how can kissing add a level of depth to every preceeding level as well, even though it’s the first act itself, the simplest, the thing you have to get through to get to the rest? There’s no way to put it in words, but when I remember grinding Melanie and fondling her naked chest and feeling all my flesh against hers, it’s still the kissing that provides the key to the entire memory. She tasted good, not like any specific flavor, just the way a girl’s mouth is supposed to taste.

When Melanie reached down between our crotches and felt my cock through my shorts, it was a real showstopper. My eyes shot open and I froze, which made her eyes open also. Then she closed her eyes and started kissing me harder, as though to say, Don’t think about it. She used both hands to unbutton and unzip me. She felt my penis against the white briefs I wore. Her hands grabbed me hard, caressed me through the fabric. My shorts slipped further and further until they were below the underwear. Then she reached inside and took hold of my penis.

The sensation of her hand on my cock, the fingers wrapping around me, untangling my pubic hair which was steamy and bunched up from the rubbing… even the memory fills me with a great sense of satisfaction. It felt so good! Is that trite-sounding? Could I say it more poetically? Fuck, it was just great! She kept pumping me, over and over. I had the sense that she was really enjoying feeling me; she took her time, exploring me with her palm and her fingers.

I leaned down and licked her neck again, an act I knew turned her on wildly. Simultaneously, I moved my own hand down to Melanie’s plaid shorts, so tight around her curvy hips, and I unfastened her as she had me. My hand slipped directly down the front of her panties, and I felt her tender hair as hot and tangled as mine had been, although her pubic hair was much less thick than mine, softer, finer. My fingers kept working their way down, down, until my middle finger felt it — burning hot wetness. Her hand that wasn’t on my cock reached around my waist and grabbed hard; she had to brace herself. I did not penetrate her with my finger, but I did move my entire hand up and down her labia lips and the lines of her pelvis with eagerness. Sometimes my fingertip would find her clitoris, and at those moments, I felt her fingernails dug into my back. I loved that, and how her other hand would squeeze my cock a little too hard.

At last it was time to be naked together. I used one hand to push my shorts and underwear as far down my legs as they would go. Melanie used her feet to pull them down the rest of the way, and just like that, I was naked above her, with my cock throbbing thick in her hand. She lifted her hips and pushed her own shorts down, and I helped remove them from her legs, and just like that, she was naked below me, with my hand pressing full against her loins.

Melanie spread her legs wider and wrapped both her arms around my neck. I set my cock flat against her pussy and braced myself above her. We kissed, and I’m telling you, that was one wonderful kiss. Are you starting to understand the importance of anticipation to the success of the endeavor? I’m not talking about teasing, which is something girls often do in the absence of real anticipation; she’ll lick your cock without sucking it, or drip candle wax on your nipple or some shit, or dance in front of you even though she can’t dance. True anticipation comes from ignorance of what’s about to happen, occurring only under those circumstances where sex isn’t a foregone conclusion, and sweetheart, you’re reading about that cirmustance right now. Well, you were. By this point, it’s a foregone conclusion.

We started rubbing against each other again, and if rubbing through our pants was fun, then rubbing naked was downright exhilarating. Sex is wonderful, but feeling the girl from the outside like that, it’s nothing but pure friction, coupled with the idea that you’re getting away with something. And girls, you know it’s even better for you. Sex means penetration, and it can be a lot of work, but having your clit hit full on by a boy’s dickhead for a few minutes is as sweet as an ellicit drug. And not many folks know this, and I sure as hell didn’t that day back in ‘92, but it’s such a fantastic precursor to sex for the girl, the way it gets all the juices flowing and the pussy lips open. Take the time to rub and roll like this, and you’ll find the following penetration is a lot smoother.

And well, what can I say, for Melanie and I, it was damn smooth. I looked her in the eyes, and she looked back at me. She sucked her bottom lip as she aimed my cock head into her pussy hole. I moved forward, slipping between the folds of her. You must think I’m was an indecisive loon when I tell you this was my favorite moment, after all the favorite moments I already described, but trust me, although some of those other moments were the best part of my afternoon with Melanie, the entering of the penis head into the wet pussy lips is my favorite moment of EVERY sex encounter, period. Not only is that the time when, magically, “the waiting is over,” it’s also the last truly perfect moment in the sex until the orgasm hits. So many things happen at once — the cream her lips hold back is released (either a little or a lot), her vagina softly grips the cock and pulls it like a vaccum deep inside, and both of you feel your entire bodies relax in the most delicious way.

Further inside her I went, trying not to hurt her, trying to make the moment last, trying to keep my weight from pushing down uncomfortably on her, trying not to cheer in triumph. Suddenly, she pulled me down onto her, and I crashed on top of her nakedness, feeling my cock glide fast and deep inside her. She gasped in stunned ecstasy, as her arms grabbed me tight and her legs locked around me. For a long moment we were frozen in that position, neither able to move.

Then she started to go at it. Slow at first, then without warning she really started to rock. I repositioned my elbows so my weight was braced, and then I began to fuck her back. Melanie opened her mouth and made the most beautiful sounds, loud breathing sounds, each one like a call from nature, sometimes an “Ah,” then an “Ooh,” but mostly just a loud whisper like rushing wind. And I made the same sounds, and that was all the noise in the room except for the squeaking of the bed.

When I write sex stories, I like to add a bunch of different positions, along with a detailed conversation and pleadings for cum facials and other strokes of finesse. But Melanie and I didn’t roll around during sex, and she didn’t get on her hands and knees, and we didn’t have any oral sex or cum swallowing or silk bondage or videotaping. We just made love with me on top, her legs open wide and me fucking her softly, pressing my sweaty crotch against hers, over and over for as long as we wanted, licking each other’s faces and mouths and necks as we went. Often I would move my chest against hers, relishing the simple sensation of her naked boobs against me. We had sex like this for about thirty minutes, steady and good, completely confident, unashamed.

Melanie came first, and it was amazing. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, opened her mouth and whimpered. I felt her legs tighten even harder around me, felt her arms hold me with more strength. Her stomach was the part of her that trembled, not the limbs like I sometimes write I my stories. I stopped moving inside her so the orgasm could wash through her, flowing over her, filling her until it was time to pass away. She held me still for a minute, trying to catch her breath. Then she said, “Finish,” in my ear, and it was the first word either of us had said for at least an hour.

Her pretty voice punched a button somewhere inside me, and I barreled down the home stretch. She literally gritted her teeth as I pounded her climax-sensitive cunt, making movements that would cause friction against my shaft, exploring her wet vagina walls with my head, looking for the beginning of my own orgasm. Finally it arrived, and I was ready to explode. Looking back on it, I still can’t believe we thought about doing it without a condom, but we sure as hell did. I didn’t even think about what could have happened, and apparently neither did she. I just pulled out at the appropriate moment, let my cock aim itself at her tummy, and splashed my semen against into her belly button and across her tummy. I sat on my hands and knees above her for a very long time, feeling my cock twitch as the last drops plopped out of me and onto her stomach. She reached down and grabbed my cock. I yelped in sensitivity but didn’t pull away, because if she wanted to enjoy the feeling of my sperm, then I was going to let her. (Besides, she was sensitive when she let me finish. How could I not let her touch me?) Finally it became too much, and I had to pull away. I collapsed on the bed beside her, a tricky feat in a twin-sized bed but not a problem when you’re willing to invade the other person’s personal space, which I’d just done in spades.

I watched Melanie rub the jizz into her stomach. She left her legs open for a long time, allowing the room to fill with the ridiculously good smell of her sex. It was so strong, the aroma, not musky or acidic, nor sweet, but unmistakably physical, the smell of a good workout. We kissed, slow wet smooches with our closed mouths, thanking each other.

After about ten more minutes of kissing and touching, we ended up lying still, eyes open, a bit zombified. Finally Melanie nodded to herself, as though saying, It’s time to go. She stood up and left the room, and I got to see her naked backside. It’s burned in my memory like a plaster impression, the image of her walking away from me, her nude posterior perfect in every detail, from the roundness of her bottom cheeks to the curve of her hips, all the way down her legs, up across the strong muscles of her back.

She washed herself at the bathroom sink, and I made my way to my parent’s bathroom. And what did I see as I entered the hallway? We’d left the front door of the house wide open. I shit you not, anyone could have walked right into the house and enjoyed the show. I tiptoed — tiptoed, I say — to the front hallway and closed the door, actually worried that someone might walk up at that very moment and see me naked, with jizz all over my crotch. Anyway. I cleaned up, she cleaned up, we both got dressed.

There we stood in the center of my room, she looking up at me, my hands on her shoulders. She thanked me, or maybe she told me she had fun, I can’t remember. Whatever we said, it was unnecessary and shallow and inadequate, because our bodies had said everything there was to say. Fully clothed, it was like we’d stepped out of the truth and back into a lie. Everything had changed between us, no one could deny it, so why did I feel like the moment was passed and everything had changed back? Perhaps I knew this was a one-time thing, and these emotions are what your body produces instead of rationalizations or predictions.

Regardless of all that metaphysical crap, the moment eventually came when Melanie had to leave. We hugged at the front door, and I promised her I’d call that evening. Pretty lame ending, isn’t it? Well, I was still on house arrest, remember? I had to be home when my parents got home, which could be anytime in the next two hours, and Melanie sure couldn’t be there when they got there, because hey, if I’m sick, why do I have guests, and female guests at that? It would have been nice to sit around and discuss the finer points of good sex with Melanie, but she had to go, and that was that.

We did talk that night, and we made out the next day, but it was behind my locked bedroom door with my parents down the hall, so it didn’t go very far. At the end of the week Melanie went back to college, and that is what philologists refer to as the end of the story. It wasn’t the last time I saw or spoke to Melanie, but it was the last time we acknowledged anything deeper between us than friendship.

Knowing what I know today, there could have been a way to keep the relationship going. Plane tickets, long-distance calls, and (within a couple of years) e-mail and chat windows. But I was such a kid, and I still saw her as unattainable, even though I’d just definitively attained her.

(fingers hovering over the keyboard — gimme a minute)

I don’t know where Melanie is, and for that matter, I don’t know where I am, either. This whole sex thing in my life has gotten way out of hand, but so has every other part of life, so at least I’m consistent. I don’t have any regrets, but I don’t think it’s because I’m still learning anything useful. I keep rereading the story I just told you, looking for some deeper reason, some profound truth, and it’s eluding me. All it is at the moment is a good memory, a pleasant memory, and it’s actually pretty mind-boggling to think that I have as many of those as I do.

Melanie and I went looking for a moment of human connection, and we sure found it. So what’s the point of me typing all this out? I won’t be so pedestrian as to suggest that you might find some life lession here where I did not, or that you even need one. All I can say is, I think I might have gotten past the writer’s block I was suffering under. That will have to do for now.