Getting laid was no easy task for a guy my age. I mean, virginity was still treasured by my female contemporaries. Most of them hung on to their hymens for dear life, heeding their parents' warnings of a future of outcast depravity should they lose their virginity. Also, opportunities were limited. The boys still clung together in what the sociologists called peer groups and we called gangs, and so did the girls.
But I was growing up. By the time I was thirteen my puberty had almost pubed. I was shaving a rather heavy beard every day, my voice had lowered considerably, and my body took on the general characteristics of manhood long before most boys of my age.
Of course, we talked about getting laid all the time. Some of the guys told handsome tales of how they had fucked this or that girl in our class. I'm sure some girls lost their "reps" because of these rumors, based upon adolescent fantasies. Some of the guys, not quite willing to lie to such an extent, would say that some girl had wanted to do it with them, that they had gotten her stripped and everything, only to find out that she "had the rag on," since we now knew all about that. Thus, the boy would get sympathy for being so close to "scoring" and the girl would have her reputation saved by the grace of a little imaginary blood. That way nobody got hurt except the gullible fools who believed the tales and tried to date the girl in question, only to find that either her parents didn't let.her date yet, or if they did, to find a hard hand across their face when they got fresh.
We didn't spend all of our time thinking about sex. Just most of it. We all were very normal. We attended school, played at sports, pursued hobbies, spent time with friends and parents, etc. It was only the other ninety percent of the time that we concentrated on sex.
At our age there were two basic groups of boys. There were those who turned all of their energy to sports, memorizing the names, numbers, and batting averages of all the players in the major leagues and keeping meticulous track of all the player trades in the new pro-football circuit. We thought of those guys as retarded and frequently snickered at them in the hallways as they walked, uncaring, past beautiful sets of knockers, with their heads buried in sports books. Then there were the rest of us, who lived double lives; normal junior-high freshmen with our heavy secret lives of sexual daydreams, reveries, curiosity, and constant masturbation. We considered ourselves, with our knowing bullshit, to be the elite.
Looking back, it was a wonderful feeling not to know what it was like to make love to a woman. Imagination had free reign because the entire subject was still a big question mark in all of our minds. We knew about cunts and breasts. We had seen pictures. And we thought we knew how to do it. It was a combination of true innocence and wishful anticipation that I sometimes long for in the lonely hours.
Soon several things started my life on a new course, which ultimately was to remove me from my school friends and accelerate my maturing process tremendously. I was now thirteen. By the time I was fifteen I would regard boys of my own age as children, with whom I had nothing in common. Everybody I knew would be much older and I would find myself wise much beyond my years.
I was a smart little bastard with an IQ up in the genius range. Schoolwork bored me, but I devoured literature, art, and music like a goose being prepared for pate (another indication that I didn't spend all of my time jacking off).
It was in the field of music that I took off, with a lunge into drums and.other percussion instruments. I had great, natural rhythm and well-developed coordination. Two weeks after starting in the school band I had mastered the twenty-six rudiments of percussion and read music as readily as English. Recognizing this talent, my school music teacher recommended that my parents secure some first-rate private instruction for me, since my drumming abilities had already surpassed his. This they did, and for a while I had one of the best drum teachers in the Bay Area. In school, I was taken out of my beginners' class and put into both advanced band and orchestra with the exalted ninth graders.
The difference between the two classes was tremendous. Most of the students had been taking private lessons for five or six years. One of them even made the grade and became a noted concert violinist. Our teacher acknowledged that it was the most unusual orchestra he had ever led. While the beginning seventh-grade class was still learning to do scales without squeaking and hitting bloopers, the ninth-grade orchestra was performing the entire original score of Pinion's Rainbow, with the help of the choir and dramatics club, whose abilities unfortunately were not equal to ours.
It was during rehearsals for Finian that I got my first real go at a cunt. I began joking with Donna, a girl who sang in the choir. For several days, when the stage characters were rehearsing and the orchestra and choir were not needed, Donna and I sat next to each other in auditorium chairs and talked. Since only the stage lights were on, I began to hold her hand in the semidarkness and she held my hand back, eagerly. Never since have I received such a thrill just from holding hands. I had such a hard-on that I was sure I would come in my pants. When we had to go back and play I made a Groucho Marx dash, to have the security of the snare drum in front of my crotch.
One day shortly before the big performance we arrived in the auditorium early from lunch. Donna and I decided to explore the area backstage. We walked amid rows of ropes, pulleys, and guywires to a metal stairway, and, with bated eagerness, we decided that we should find out where the stairway led. She was wearing white bucks with white ankle socks, a navy pleated skirt, and a white middy blouse with a V neck. I followed her up, and I thought my erection would catch on one of the steep steps, as my face was practically in her ass. I could make out fine, blond hairs on her bare calves. At the top of the stairway was a passage which led to the stage lighting booth. The booth was empty.
Donna was a tall girl, about my height, and we kissed and held one another the second we got into the booth. I had never kissed a girl before, but luckily Donna seemed to have had some experience. She kissed as she had seen some of her screen favorite's kiss, turning her head sideways and putting her lips on mine, then just holding them there. Nevertheless, it felt heavenly. We had our arms around each other's waists and pressed tightly together. I could feel her breasts against my chest and my swollen cock pressing into the space between her legs. Without saying a word or moving her lips, she removed one hand and let it drop to her side for a minute. Then I felt it lightly against the side of my buttocks, as if it was resting there by accident. I bent her slightly and turned the front of my pants toward her hand. I was so excited I thought I might explode. It wasn't possible to turn all the way because of our position, so she obliged by moving her hand slowly, ever so lightly, to the front of nay pants, over my bulge. As we continued to kiss she increased the pressure of her hand until it was firmly against my cock. And then she began to rub. Panting with our lips together, I thought I would go crazy. It was actually happening to me. I was actually kissing a real girl while she felt my cock. I could hardly believe it.
Of course, I wanted to feel her,-too, but I didn't know whether to go for her tits, her cunt, or both. Still shy, I decided on tits. I put one hand to her neck. Slowly, I let it run down to the V of her middy and then inside the blouse. To accomplish this maneuver I had to turn my hand all the way around, leaving my elbow sticking up in the air. Damn! I was between her slip and her blouse. I pulled my hand up and let it slide down again, being careful this time to keep it in contact with her soft skin. I felt the lip of her bra, the swelling of her breast, and started to slip my hand in, when the damnedest thing happened. With her free hand she firmly grabbed my forearm and withdrew it from her blouse before I could get all the way inside of her bra. Hell. Here she was, with her hand rubbing my crotch, and she wouldn't even let me feel a little tit.
Still kissing, her hand still on my cock, I was perplexed. My mind raced to solve a barely formulated problem. If she wouldn't let me touch her tits, she sure as hell wouldn't let me go for her cunt. With my lack of knowledge and my obsession with sex organs, I reasoned that I had only three alternatives: tits, cunt, or cock. Since two were temporarily out of the question, I decided to try the third.
Thank God I was wearing gray cords with a zipper, instead of Levi's with those impossible buttons. I moved my hand down and put it on top of hers, pressing it still more firmly in-to my cock. No resistance. I removed my hand from hers and found my zipper. Still no resistance. I unzipped halfway. Still no resistance. I unzipped all the way and waited. She had slid her hand over to the side, feeling my shaft and rubbing slightly through my pants. I waited for her to put her hand into the opening, but it didn't move. Again making a choice, I put my hand into the opening and immediately ran into trouble. My prick had grown so big that I couldn't get it out through the little slit in the front of my jockey shorts. I struggled and struggled, but to no avail. The damn thing wouldn't budge. Finally, in desperation, I broke the kiss and bent over almost double to give myself room to move in front. Gratefully, it popped out and I resumed our kiss.
Donna's hand moved over slowly, just touching it at first, then stroking it with her fingertips, and finally grabbing and holding. Then something else strange happened. Her breathing became much harder, her arms tightened around me, and she pressed herself closer. What was this? Could it be that she was enjoying it? I couldn't figure it out.
I decided not to screw around with tits anymore. If she could feel mine, then I could feel hers; fair was fair. I put my hand directly up her leg and began groping at her crotch, through nylon panties. I could feel prickly little hairs sticking out through the material. To my surprise, Donna didn't resist. She began moving her hips back and forth and moaning softly. She liked it. She really, actually, liked it. I couldn't get over it; girls used fucking motions just like boys.
Elated by my success, I turned my hand and slipped a few fingers under the elastic of her panties. And there it was, resting against my hand, soft, pliable pubic hair and the lips of a cunt. A real honest-to-God cunt. Finally.
I moved my fingers to try to get one into her cunt. It was wet. It was wet and slippery. What the hell was going on here? Had she pissed in her pants? Her moaning became louder, her motions faster and more forceful. She spread her legs apart a little and seemed to be really enjoying it. I took my free hand and plunged it down the front of her blouse again. This time she didn't protest. I found her nipple and began squeezing, which was about all I could do inside the cramped quarters of her bra, with my elbow sticking up like a flagpole.
Meanwhile, my hand down below was turned inside out and backward. My circulation was going and it hurt like hell, but I didn't care. Just being able to touch a cunt was worth it. Anyway, I was still in trouble. There seemed to be all kinds of folds of flesh and hair, and every time I shoved into what I thought was a hole, it turned out not to be a hole.
Suddenly the problem solved itself. Donna rubbed a little too fast and a little too hard for just a second, but that was long enough. I shot off all over her hand and the front of her skirt. She said, "Oh, oh, oh," as it came squirting out, and broke our kiss to watch my ejaculation. She had the funniest look on her face. An expression of pleased triumph. I couldn't figure that out, either. She moved back to pull my hand away from her cunt, wherever it was, because even being right on it, I couldn't seem to get into it. I was almost relieved. My hand and wrist hurt so badly that my eyes were tearing.
Donna took a small hanky from the sleeve of her blouse and cleaned off the front of her skirt. On the way back downstairs she made me promise that I would never tell anybody, and of course I lied and said I would rather die first. Back in the orchestra pit I kept smelling my finger. It was a week before I washed my hands; the hands that had touched a real cunt. The whole experience didn't last ten minutes, and five minutes later I was letting the other guys in the drum section smell my finger. I wouldn't tell them who I had fingerfucked, but they all knew I had been sitting with Donna.
The following day I ran into her in the hall. She looked right at me and then walked by like I wasn't even there. It bothered me until I saw her at rehearsal. I asked her if she wanted to go up to the booth again.
"The booth?" she said incredulously, as though she had never been there, "I wouldn't be caught dead with you in the booth or anywhere else."
"Why?" I asked, becoming altogether confused.
"Why? Why didn't you tell me you were just a punk seventh grader? I thought you were a ninth grader, like me."
"What difference does it make?"
"Difference? Already my girl friends are kidding me about going with a baby. If I'd known you were only in the seventh grade, I never even would've talked to you, much less what I let you do up there." She pointed, blushing.
"Let me do?" I shot back angrily. "I seem to remember you were the one doing almost everything."
Coloring even more, she turned quickly and walked away. But I didn't care. I relived those blissful moments in the light booth many times in my fantasies, embellishing them a little each time.
In 1947 the Bay Area was dismantling its many military installations with tremendous speed. One of the biggest was the Mare Island Naval Shipyard at Vallejo, across the Bay. Vallejo became a boom town in the war and was known not only for its shipyards, but also for its many fine whorehouses, built to service our weary sailors and construction workers.
Our trumpet player, Hank, had an older brother who had a car. The Vallejo cathouses, as we called them, were a prime topic of conversation in our group, and Hank's brother decided that he would take a bunch of us little kids over there to get laid.
The house, an old wooden structure of 1920s vintage and painted a neat white, stood on a quiet corner. We parked, and walked slowly to the front door, surprised that there was no red light in the window. The five of us stood on the old, railed porch, each waiting for the other to make the fateful move and push the doorbell. Finally Hank's brother growled roughly, "Ahhh, you bastards are all chickenshit." He pushed the bell hard, as the rest of us giggled nervously.
I expected some hard-faced old broad to open the door. Instead, a tall, very skinny bleached blonde came. "Yeah?" she said, showing little interest. None of us said anything. "Well, whaddayawant?" she persisted.
"Mac sent us," said Hank's brother, ever brave, and the only one of us who knew the password.
She scrutinized us closely. "You guys all twenty-one?"
"Oh, yeah!" we all assured her, assuming our deepest voices.
Inside, the hallway had been turned into a reception area, with an old wooden bench on one wall. The whole thing reminded me of my doctor's waiting room, except that the music of Tommy Dorsey came from a phonograph on a nearby table.
The tall blonde informed us that we would be taken in turn, as the girls became "free." We sat silently, examining the faded wallpaper, being careful not to look at one another.
"You guys got enough money?" the blonde asked.
"How much is it?" asked Hank's brother.
"Five for a straight, seven for a french, ten for around the world, and twenty for any real fancy stuff," she droned, still bored.
I had eleven dollars, out of which I had to split gas and bridge fare and maybe buy a little beer later. I would just make it, I figured.
Eddie was sitting next to Hank's brother. He leaned over and whispered, "Hey! What's a french?"
"A blow job," Hank's brother whispered back, just loud enough for us all to hear.
"Oh," said Eddie.
Silence for a minute. Then Eddie, again. "Hey!"
"Yeah?" said Hank's brother.
"What's around the world?"
"That's when they lick you all over."
"Oh."
More silence.
"Hey!"
"Yeah?" this time with some annoyance.
"What's a blow job?"
Hank's brother looked exasperated. "For Christ's sake, that's when they suck you off with their mouth."
"Oh."
Actually, I'm glad Eddie asked, because I didn't know what a french or around the world were, either, and I wasn't really sure I knew what a straight was. It was all so strange and unreal.
The drapes into the hall opened, and a plumpish redhead in her early twenties stepped through. She was wearing a diaphanous gown with bra and panties underneath, all in red.
The tall blonde said, "Okay, fellas. Who's first?"
Silence and a slight shuffling of feet.
"Well, come on, we ain't got all night, y'know."
Hank's brother got up off the bench.
"Whatcha want, honey?" the blonde asked.
"Uh, straight." His voice seemed a little hoarse.
"Okay. Five bucks. Pay me, then you go with Darlene, here."
Hank's brother paid, Darlene took his hand, and they disappeared through the drapes. I had the feeling I might never see him again. He wasn't much, but he was the only moral support the rest of us had.
Shortly another redhead, taller and thinner than the first, appeared and went off with Hank, now also minus his five dollars. That left three of us sitting there. It began to seem more like we were being taken for execution than to get laid. I couldn't take the tension any more. I made up my mind that the next time those drapes opened I would jump up.
Soon, the drapes moved and I leaped to my feet, only to be greeted by an elderly Negro man who proceeded to empty ashtrays into a pan and pick up a few papers from the dirty wooden floor.
Blushing violently, I sat down again. It seemed that Hank and his brother were taking a very long time.
Finally the drapes opened again and a short, dark-haired girl with Spanish features entered. She was wearing a blue bathrobe and matching mule slippers. I bounced up once more, and in my deepest voice said, "I'll take a straight," giving the blond madam the five-dollar bill I had been crumpling in my pocket. Damned if I was going to go for a french or any of that fancy stuff when I had never even been screwed the usual way.
"This is Lotta," the madam said as she stuffed my five bucks down the neck of her dress.
Lotta smiled, took my hand, and led me through the drapes. I had begun to suspect that on the other side of those drapes there was a pit filled with boa constrictors, but there was only a flight of stairs, which we climbed to the second floor.
"What's your name, honey?" Lotta asked.
"Uh, Dick," I replied, forgetting for the moment just what my name really was.
We went down a hallway and entered a small bedroom. There was a washbasin in the corner, a bureau, and a double bed, pushed against the wall in one corner. The floor was bare wood, except for a throw rug beside the bed. Now, inside the closed room, knowing for certain that I was going to- get laid, I was nearly breathless with a mixture of anticipation of the known and dread of the unknown.
Lotta opened the top drawer of her bureau and withdrew a small, white washcloth and a half-used bar of soap. "Here," she said, giving them to me. I went to the basin in the corner and began washing my hands, although not knowing why. "No, no," she said, as though talking to an infant. She came over and started undoing my belt and began unzipping my pants. I was almost crazy with embarrassment. She would take down my pants and underpants, and out it would flop, swollen and hard. And she would probably laugh at me.
Sure enough, the pants came down, and then the underpants. Lotta was very businesslike, but she didn't laugh. Instead, she soaped up the cloth and began washing my cock and balls, very thoroughly.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Twenty-one," I moaned, trying not to lose everything into the washcloth.
"No, I mean really. It's okay. I won't tell," she assured me.
"Well, sixteen, then," I lied, really embarrassed to tell her I was only thirteen.
"Your first time, huh?"
"Yeah, sort of." I was thinking of telling her about Donna, so she wouldn't think I was totally without experience.
Lotta finished washing me. "Has anybody ever told you that you've got a real nice one?" she asked, smiling at me.
"Uh, not really." I wasn't used to having my cock talked about in such familiar terms.
"Well, you have. A real nice one. Big and nice and juicy," she said. And then it happened. Kneeling in front of me, she lifted my cock in her hands and before I knew what was going on she put her tongue at the base of my balls and licked all the way to the top of the head. Instantly the whole head and part of the shaft disappeared into her mouth. Never had I felt or even imagined anything so voluptuous. She ran it slowly in and out of her mouth a few times. I could feel myself tensing up, ready to come, when she suddenly stopped and got to her feet. I was actually thankful that she had stopped. One more lick and it would have been all over.
"Let's get into bed, honey," she said, kicking off her mules and shedding her robe. She was naked underneath, and from the way I was looking at her she must have guessed that I had never seen a naked woman before, because she stood still for a minute, smiling at me and letting me take it all in, before she got up on the bed. Her skin was olive, with breasts drooping just slightly, and small nipples. Her hips were larger and her waist smaller than I had believed when she had her robe on. A triangular mass of black pubic hair curled up from between her legs.
I removed my shoes, pants, and shirt, leaving on my argyle socks, and joined her in bed. She put me next to the wall, joking that she wouldn't want me to fall off of the high bed. She smiled at me gently and ran her hands all over my body, as I began doing the same to her, pushing and squeezing her breasts. I slipped my hand between her legs, which she obligingly opened, feeling her hair and having trouble again because of those confounded folds of skin. I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever get my finger into a cunt. Lotta reached down, took my index finger, and guided it into something warm and slippery. God, finally I had my finger in it, and in a few minutes it would be my cock. Even though Lotta didn't hump as Donna had, I was pretty damn pleased with myself. I was really about to get laid. It was wonderful.
She turned me over, facing the wall, and began to kiss my back and the back of my neck, while caressing my chest, stomach, thighs, and then my cock. I could feel the front of her pressed into my ass. Lord, what a feeling! She stroked my cock and suddenly I knew it was going to be too late. I pushed away her hand, back to my thigh, but the feeling wouldn't stop. I shot off all over the wallpaper and the side of the bed, trying not to move, hoping she wouldn't notice. I watched large gobs of my white ejaculate run down the wall. Turning onto my stomach, I pushed Lotta onto her back and started to mount her. The feeling of lying on top of her was unbelievable, much better than the best pillow in the world. She reached down and grabbed my still semierect cock. I thought she was going to put it in, but her dark eyes only twinkled up at me.
"You wouldn't be trying to kid an old friend, would yon, sonny?" she said, smiling.
I smiled back weakly, knowing that I had hoisted my own petard. She gently pushed me off of her. I was surprised how flat her breasts looked when she was on her back, and how wide her thighs seemed. "If you could just wait a few minutes… " I began gamely.
"Maybe some other time," she said.
I dressed hurriedly and Lotta told me to leave by a rear stairway at the back of the house. All the other guys were waiting. "What took you so damn long?" Hank's brother demanded.
I smiled knowingly. "She liked me, so she gave me a french for free and then it took me a long time. I really fucked the shit out of her," I lied. "She was great," I added, sticking the finger that had been in Lotta's cunt under Hank's nose. He made a face and we all laughed.
Actually I was mad as hell. There I was, in bed with a real woman, her beautiful cunt just waiting for me, and I had crapped out. I thought I was probably the only guy in history who had been in bed with a whore and still didn't get laid.
On the way back, with all of our juices gone, we began thinking about clap. Hank's brother said he would try to get some pro kits from a sailor friend of his. He explained that a pro kit was a long glass tube that you put down your prick, and then poured some awful medicine into it that burned like crazy. I shuddered. We talked about gonorrhea and syphilis, which had been explained to us by our gym teacher. Now, suddenly, I was scared. In spite of the gruff, blustery comradeship of four guys who had just been laid, and one who pretended that he had just been laid, I think we all were scared. I told myself it was only her mouth, but then she must have sucked plenty of guys. Suppose one of them had the syph?
For weeks after, I examined myself.carefully each time I went to the bathroom and when I awoke in the morning. I even went to the John many times when I didn't have to go, just to pull it out and look for that telltale drop of goo or a sore. When my underpants would bind up, making me uncomfortable, I would break out in a cold sweat and dash to examine myself, sure that this time I would find myself dripping. It was really hell, but as time went by I became less concerned and finally forgot about it.
The experience gave me great memories to masturbate by, but that was my first and last trip to a whorehouse, and my next-to-last time with a whore. The next time would be quite different.