Could I tell my parents that she had been gay? If we had a family, would our children ever think their mother had a dark secret about her past? Was I facing a lifetime of deception?
At bottom I knew such thoughts were mere excuses. But I also felt that our passion had soured. Even if I were living with the world’s most beautiful blonde, I would worry about the inevitable day when her breasts sagged, or convince myself that she must be dumb since she was so gorgeous, or that she was too flashy to be faithful. I was not proud of myself.
I also developed a hypocritical definition of fidelity. I went home with other women, unbuttoned their blouses, feasted on their breasts, then blithely informed them that I could not fuck because of my “commitment” to Leslie. However, I would permit them to go down on me. After coming in their mouths, I went home to Leslie, relieved that I had not violated her trust.
These liaisons convinced me that I was hot stuff. I envisioned a wild sex life if I only broke up with Leslie. The details are uninteresting, but we finally parted. She decided to leave town and start fresh.
My friends predicted she would go back to women. I hoped not, then wondered why. Originally, I had believed that gayness was just as viable as heterosexuality. But now I no longer felt quite the same way. Rather I had come to believe that straights in general were more fulfilled than gays and lesbians.
My friends were right. After about four months of being alone, Leslie began seeing another woman. They moved in together and even bought a house. I was relieved. Making love with a woman who cared for her was at least better than being alone or entangled with a man who left her unhappy. But I was still baffled by the basics. What made Leslie prefer women? I had no answers.
Meanwhile I entered one of those famines most men go through periodically—a time when sex, especially during those first halcyon days with Leslie, was no more than a treasured memory.
THE STUNTWOMAN: HIGH SENSATION SEEKER
I perform movie and TV stunts for a living. I drive cars, spinning and skidding them, stopping on a mark, executing a near miss or an actual hit. Or I jump out of high windows, fall down stairs, get thrown across rooms and appear to have the daylights beaten out of me. I do all this for money and I enjoy it.
Being a stuntwoman means that I have to keep myself in perfect physical shape. Though amply proportioned, my physique is muscular, and living in Los Angeles has given my hair that sun-streaked-blonde look. I often favor jeans, boots and a cowboy hat, and while I take risks for a living, I am no tomboy.
I always get a jolt of fear before doing a stunt gag. My adrenaline is pumping, my sense of space and time is a little unreal, and my breathing accelerates. Fear creates a state of hyper-awareness. Half of me is filled with terror, while the other half is concerned with the cool, mechanical execution of the stunt. Sex is like that for me, too. I like the element of high sensation in both.
Stunting also satisfies my desire for power. To a large extent, men’s opinions run everything. As a stuntwoman I jam their circuits. They don’t know what to make of me. For certain men that makes me very, very desirable.
I work in a macho field. That makes my relationships with my male colleagues highly charged and often difficult. If a stuntman doesn’t accept a woman as a stuntwoman, he’ll try to fuck her. He’ll want to see if she’ll fuck for a job. I get tested all the time by stuntguys who don’t know me.
Taking risks all the time makes me especially aware of how precious things like sex are. I won’t waste my time on men who bore me. I want them to be risk-takers like me. An athletic body is a plus; so is a large cock. But I am most interested in men who abhor the ordinary.
Occasionally I get involved with stuntmen. Most of them have been very special men. I particularly like those who act as professional mentors to me—who are willing to train, teach and protect me, but who still regard me as an equal.
Sam, a New York stuntman, is one of my best lovers. Since I am based on the west coast, the geographical limitation is considerable. But the arrangement allows us to keep emotionally unentangled while preserving a sense of camaraderie! Making love with him is always a major event—a battle.
I had been introduced to Sam through proper stunt channels and was hoping he would give me some pointers. I spent an entire day with him and he taught me some driving tricks and gave me tips on getting a job I wanted. Though not looking for a sexual encounter, I was quite aware how attractive he was. He has black hair and green eyes—a hard combination to resist. After we parted I returned to my place and the phone rang. It was Sam asking for a date. He made it very clear that he didn’t want to talk business. I was caught completely off-guard. Sam is one of the hottest stuntmen in the country. He lives on the edge and does very dangerous things. A lot of younger stuntmen revere him. It put me in an awkward and heady position. I said yes.
He took me to an expensive restaurant and over dessert pressed a vial of cocaine into my hand. Coke is it in the movie business, but stuntmen use it with great discretion. I could have refused his offer, but felt it was a sign of his acceptance of me; I knew that it did not compromise how he felt about me professionally.
The best way to describe fucking with Sam is that he is a tornado and I am the state of Kansas. What happened between us is an interesting illustration of how I approach sex. I love a man to be stronger than I am. I admit it. Sex, when consensual, can be violent. And you can interpret violent to mean anything you want. Lovemaking provides no thrill if that dangerous edge in my sexual encounters is lacking.
Sam drove us back to my place after dinner and I found it hard to concentrate on anything but the palpable tension between us. Once inside and after some wonderful kissing, he picked me up so I was facing him. I locked my legs around his waist and he carried me up the flight of stairs to my bedroom.
I left to get candles and when I returned Sam had stripped and was lying flat out on the bed with an immense hard-on. He didn’t say a word. I lit the candles and with deliberate slowness took off my outer blouse, shoes, stockings and underpants. In my white gauze dress, I climbed onto the bed and straddled him. Sam reached up, pulling loose the shoulders of my dress, freeing my breasts. He looked me up and down and told me that he was going to talk me into an orgasm! I almost lost my breath. No one had ever done that to me before.
Sam undid the rest of my dress and pulled it off. I was sitting on him, his thighs locked in between mine. Sam ordered me to look at his cock. He told me to imagine how his hardness would feel inside of me. I felt that twinge of a contraction inside my cunt as Sam entwined his fingers in mine, holding me still. He had beautiful hands; broad and brown with square fingernails. I felt the strain of his muscles through his grip. He told me that his cock was to be the center of all my attention and pleasure, and that orgasmic release depended on my acceptance of that. I couldn’t speak.
Then Sam described my arousal and that is exactly how my body responded. He said my breasts were made to be sucked and that their roundness and softness demanded a hard cock in between them. My nipples grew hard from his voice. He saw that and told me to slowly describe what his cock would feel like fucking my breasts. I couldn’t get the words out but Sam insisted. I told him that the humid warmth of his cock made my mouth want to suck it. Sam told me to imagine that it was in my mouth.
I looked down. His thighs are beautifully muscled and his cock was straining. The balls were drawn up tight. I didn’t want him to shoot. I said so but Sam smiled and replied that it wasn’t about to happen. He told me how soft my thighs were and that as I thought about his stiff cock, the lips of my cunt would part and the muscles inside would contract as if around his shaft. I felt it happen. I struggled against the grip of his hands because I wanted to fill up my cunt with his cock. He wouldn’t let me do it. He described his super-heated tongue teasing my clitoris and opening the folds of my cunt.
A drop of moisture from my extreme arousal fell on Sam’s cock. He said he was pleased that I was giving him what he wanted. A spasm ripp
led over me, an indication that I was going to explode. I begged Sam to enter me. He refused. He told me to be as still as possible and listen to the sound of his voice. I wanted to please him more than anything.
“What do you want?” he demanded. He pulled me sharply when I didn’t answer. “Your cock,” I finally said. Sam countered, “You could have anybody’s cock, because all the men want to fuck you, they want to feel your pussy grabbing their cocks. What do you really want?” “Your stiff, hard cock,” I spat at him. He replied slowly. “I’m only going to let you imagine that now, baby. Do you still want it?” I could only nod, and Sam whispered, “Fuck me with your mind.”
I watched the hard, lean muscles of his body strain toward me and I felt very weak. Control was disappearing rapidly and I was radiating from my clitoris. I was shocked by the stunning power of the orgasm I was having. My body jerked. Sam’s hands were still entwined in mine and held me firmly above him. I wanted him inside me and the ache within my cunt was intensified by the rush from the orgasm. I was dripping on Sam. The last shock wave subsided and he eased me down. I wanted to make his stiff penis part of my body, absorb it inside of me. He finally let go of my hands and I slid his cock in between my breasts. He pulled my head up gently by the hair so he could watch. Seeing it sent him over the edge. I closed my mouth around his cock when the first foam of semen appeared. He came for a long time, like a little river, and it was sweet as honey.
Making love like that was a supreme example of total control on both our parts. As I often say, a man’s mind can be his sexiest organ. However, I am not always so compliant. I had a very sweet young lover once, Billy, who adored me. That is a statement of fact and not a boast. He was a sexual technician, handsome and well hung. But we fucked only when I said so, and he came inside me only if I allowed it. The sexual dynamic was entirely different from what it was with Sam. He was nicer to me than Sam, but I didn’t desire him as much. It’s strange, but if a man’s sun rises and sets on me, I’m not all that interested. Billy didn’t make me hungry. I became satiated sexually with him easily. With Sam, the more he fed me, the hungrier I became. That’s why it’s a good thing we don’t live in the same city.
I am a voracious consumer of sex. Though I can always find someone to fuck, I do believe in quality over quantity. I sometimes make mistakes and end up with men I shouldn’t have bothered with. Sometimes they perceive me as a threat and almost have to dare themselves to get into bed with me. If I have had a bad string of affairs, I’ll swear off men for a while and try to get my center back.
Here is an example of how stuntwork has changed me. I was in New York, visiting a few film sets to make some new connections. I dressed to impress—in shocking pink cowboy boots, a mini-skirt and my perpetual L.A. tan. On the last set I saw a producer I knew named Fred. A little thrill of fear ran through me because he often worked with a director named Anthony with whom I once had a tortuous affair. Anthony was also married. His temper, my lack of focus and the ever-present thought of his wife had ended the physical affair, but for me some emotional baggage remained. We had not spoken to or seen each other in quite some time. Fred saw me and said, “Guess who’s here!” I didn’t have to. I could see Anthony, his back turned, discussing the set-up of a shot with the cameraman. I shrugged to Fred nonchalantly, then went about my business of talking to the stuntguys. As I was giving my phone number to the stunt coordinator, I heard footsteps approach and Anthony’s familiar voice say, “So, how many men have you given your phone number to today?”
Barely looking up, I finished writing, smiled and said, “Fuck you!” Anthony laughed and continued walking. I laughed, too, but my heart was hammering and a moment later Fred came over and “borrowed” me from the stunt coordinator. He brought me over to Anthony. The three of us joked around and I suddenly realized that the dynamic between Anthony and me was now different. Previously, I had been woefully unsure of myself and he had controlled all the strings of the relationship. But now I sensed that he was clearly excited by my presence and, oddly, sort of shy! I asked about his wife and he told me that she was back in L.A. It was an awkward moment because chance was beckoning. I realized that it was up to me whether or not to become involved again. That was a wonderful feeling. He asked me to dinner. I said yes but asked him to call later to set up the time.
That night, a stuntman I knew phoned and wanted to introduce me to some people worth meeting. I agreed, aware that Anthony was expecting to see me. As I was walking out the door to my appointment, the phone rang. I told Anthony that I had made other plans and he was enraged. He hung up on me. He used to behave just that way when I had been in love with him—letting that Italian temper hold sway, assuming he had a “right” to me. He was wrong this time. I kept my other plans.
When I returned at two in the morning, Anthony was sitting in his car in front of my place. With unusual humility he apologized and asked if we could be friends. I felt a little guilty, knowing that I had been a bit of a cock-tease when I cancelled our date and that we both deserved better from each other.
The house was dark when we got inside. I took off my shoes and got a bottle of wine from the kitchen. Anthony lit a fire in the potbelly stove. I sat down opposite him and put my legs up on the table. I was not sure which way I wanted the evening to go. We were no longer encumbered by the immediacy of our affair and there was a wonderful freedom between us.
When he told me about his deteriorating relationship with his wife, I felt a twinge of sadness. He was not looking for passion. He just wanted to feel alive. Sixteen years older than I, though still striking and dynamic, Anthony looked his age.
I put my wine glass down and sat beside him. Opening his shirt I saw how grey his chest hair had become. He kissed me and joked that maybe he was too old to handle me now. But the feel of his hand on my ass, as he worked his way under my panties, assured me otherwise. Anthony undressed me. I sat quietly on the couch, almost childlike. That had been a powerfully exciting dynamic in our relationship and was still. He knelt down and slowly ran his hands over my body. Now I was stronger, slimmer and tighter. He remarked on the firmness of my muscles. I ran my fingers through his hair. It had definitely thinned.
“My little girl,” he said simply. Anthony stood up and pulled off his shirt. I reached for his belt and unbuckled him. Then I pulled his cock out of his jockeys. I could see that even his pubic hair had begun to go grey. He stopped for a moment and said, with a measure of uncertainty. “You want this old man again?” I did.
Instinctively I knew that we weren’t starting something again, but finishing the affair we had never ended properly. He lay me down in front of the firelight of the wood-burning stove. I saw his reaction to the sight of my body, more beautiful than he remembered. He brushed the curls of my pubic hair and tasted the moisture on the lips of my cunt. My breasts looked rosy in the light and my customary flush of arousal appeared. He smiled at the familiarity. Anthony entered me very carefully. The slow opening of my cunt was the gentlest of feelings. He fucked me slowly for a very long time. We hardly looked from each other’s eyes. I cried a little, but it was the most proper of resolutions. Anthony and I have now worked together a few times since. The closeness and camaraderie is there, but it will never get sexual again.
I am a physical woman. I need the physical release from tension, whether in stuntwork or in sexual adventure. I doubt if I will pursue this line of work forever, but right now it complements my unrestrainable nature best. To me the important thing is to live life the way you want, with only you deciding what is too risky and what isn’t.
And when I’m old and grey, I want my grandchildren to know that I used to be one hot number and that it’s all up there on the screen in living color to prove it.
THE WOMAN WHO CRAVED CUNNILINGUS
Even in a pair of jeans it is impossible to camouflage Jenny’s small, well-proportioned figure and magnetic femininity. But Jenny is a woman with the sexual psychology of a male chauvinist. She likes to get head�
��exclusively.
Her greatest bedroom pleasure dates back to her very first orgasm. Cunnilingus was her open sesame to the world of carnal satisfaction. Ever since then, she had single-mindedly orchestrated her sexual experiences so that they culminate with her being licked and tongued into ecstasy. Even when she was completely heterosexual, she avoided intercourse while making love. She saw it as a challenge to climax through oral sex without giving men their sexual release through fucking. While her male partners were often apprehensive about her unusual demand, intimacy with Jenny seldom left them unsatisfied.
Jenny now feels that she has a more enjoyable sex life than most women. Not that she is in competition: Rather, she thinks the majority of women sexually shortchange themselves and that most men will not help a woman explore her erotic limits if their own needs are fulfilled. In her eyes, it is the rare man whose desire to give is greater than his desire to get.
Finding her sexual niche was a long and often frustrating road. Like most women, Jenny did not always know what she preferred in the bedroom and, initially, she was more than willing to make sure that her man was satisfied first.
Jenny’s first orgasmic experience is the key to her unique psychology because it incorporated elements of what is usually perceived as a “male” sexual orientation. Very early in her erotic career she found out that male passion scared her. Intercourse was so intimate and overwhelming that having a man inside of her was literally too close for comfort. A man’s powerful sexual needs seemed to stand in the way of her own path to orgasm. Jenny believes that only about ten percent of men really enjoy giving head to a woman. Half would much rather not, and perhaps forty percent comply because they expect the same in return. But a member of that elusive ten percent is what Jenny hopes to find every time she ends up in bed.
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