Jenny’s predilection for cunnilingus began only when she met Sandy, a widower fifteen years her senior. He was able to convince her that he would go down on her all day, and did not care if she fellated him or if they fucked. If it felt good to her, he was happy. She tasted and smelled wonderful to him and he made her moan and whimper. What more could he ask for than to see her sexy little body in a fever of delight? Jenny began to trust him and his expert mouth. But she could not tell whether the pleasurable twinges she felt were the real thing. Sandy told her that when orgasm happened, she would know it.
One steamy afternoon, Sandy and Jenny took a drive into the country. Jenny fell asleep in the car and woke from her doze because of Sandy’s gentle touch on her thigh. She felt very relaxed, with the seat back as far as it could go. Sandy did not know that she was awake. He just wanted to touch her.
Jenny wondered if the drivers of the giant semi-trucks whizzing by could see Sandy’s hand working its way under her skirt. The idea of all of these macho truckdriver voyeurs caused an unaccustomed twinge in Jenny’s cunt. While pretending to be asleep, she saw from the corner of her eye the familiar bulge in Sandy’s crotch. Removing his other hand from the steering wheel momentarily, he unzipped his fly to let his hard cock loose. Still feigning sleep, Jenny shifted and opened her legs.
Sandy slowly worked his way under her damp panties. In her fantasy, Jenny saw the truckdrivers pulling their own cocks out to play with themselves. She also added a crucial element to the fantasy: The horny drivers were watching Sandy go down on her. His head was between her legs while his tongue explored her cunt. The sight made the truckers mad with lust and they ejaculated all over their steering wheels and windshields. With this image in mind, Jenny stretched her legs wide open and Sandy’s fingers entered her cunt. But in her fantasy, it was his tongue.
As he flicked against her clit, Jenny slipped over the edge for the first time. Her body arched with blinding pleasure and Sandy almost lost control of the car. In keeping with Jenny’s fantasy, he actually ejaculated all over the dashboard. The next day Sandy sent her a card that said, “Congratulations: May you have many more!”
This enormously erotic experience set the stage for her desire for orgasm through cunnilingus. Either in reality or fantasy, it had to predominate.
After her affair with Sandy ended, Jenny had a series of lovers who fell into the category of men who simply did not enjoy giving oral sex. Not that they minded her overtures to fellate them, of course. Then came a period of time when being alone seemed preferable to sleeping with a boor. That was when she discovered that she could give herself an orgasm through fantasy cunnilingus without having to please a man first. Initially, she bought a dozen or so erotic magazines. Once home, she began leafing through them. Some were vaguely exciting but most left her unaroused. One story entitled “A Snatch of Pepper,” however, had possibilities. With scissors and tape she amended it to make her own unique version. The new story went as follows:
Pepper is a poor Mexican girl who lives in a pickers’ shack on a farm in the Southwest. She has stayed home this particular hot and dusty day to sweep out some of the workers’ quarters. Pepper wears a thin peasant blouse and skirt and the effort of sweeping makes her sweat and her clothes stick to her breasts and legs.
Unexpectedly, two young men who live in one of the shacks come home in the middle of the day. One of them collapses on the bed and teases Pepper. She tries to ignore him. The clothes sticking to her damp skin arouse him and he slowly fondles himself. While continuing to ignore him, Pepper is alarmed to feel the stirrings of powerful first arousal.
When he suddenly frees his cock from his patched linen pants, Pepper is stunned and stops in her tracks. Then slowly she feels two large calloused hands slide around her waist. It is the other young man. Unknown to Pepper, he has been watching the scene from the doorway, and now he brazenly kisses her neck.
As he slides the peasant blouse down, his work-hardened hands cup her ample breasts and she feels the pressure of his hard cock through his clothing. The man on the bed walks over to Pepper and pushes up her skirt. He rubs his erect cock against Pepper’s bare thighs and she leans back against the other man as he eases his penis between the damp cheeks of her ass. Then the first man gently opens the folds of her cunt with his fingers. Pepper looks at his strong brown hands against the curls of her pubic hair. His fingers are wet with her juices which he rubs over his cock. Then he slowly licks and nibbles her cunt, working his mouth toward her now taut clitoris.
Jenny’s perfect masturbators fantasy culminated as she lay on her living room floor atop the pile of erotic literature. The image of the young Mexican men pleasuring her caused the most explosive orgasm she ever experienced.
While masturbation continued to be a source of erotic pleasure, however, it did little to ease her loneliness. Jenny craved the closeness of skin-on-skin intimacy. But it never occurred to her until it actually happened that her next sexual breakthrough might be with another woman.
Jenny had joined a woman’s task force during an election year, and in that way came to meet the kinds of women she had never known before—avowed lesbians and bisexuals. The all-female atmosphere seemed rarefied and exciting. While she did not shun men, or take on the sensibilities of a lesbian, Jenny now found male company simply uninteresting.
One of the women whom she became good friends with was Elena. Tall, fair, frail and shy, she was Jenny’s opposite. Through the grapevine Jenny heard that Elena had considerable sexual experience, both straight and bi. Jenny felt an attraction to her that was disconcerting and persistent. Yet the possibilities of an erotic encounter with a woman was unnerving and she did not press it.
Circumstances intervened, however, at a party when the election season was over. The staff presented Jenny with a book of erotic stories, and Elena jokingly began to read some of them aloud. Emboldened, Jenny asked Elena to come back to her room and continue reading the book with her. Elena blushed and stammered, but said yes.
Taking the unaccustomed “male” role of pursuer thrilled Jenny. Yet seeking out this sexual encounter only made her feel more feminine, if anything.
Alone in the room with Elena, the pretense of reading was dropped and in silence Jenny sat on the bed as Elena slowly undressed for her. The taller woman seemed like a fragile bird, her heart beating quickly under Jenny’s tentative hand. Now Jenny realized that she wanted to know what it felt like to give a woman head. She touched Elena’s body slowly, very aware of the differences between her pliant, soft form and the lean hardness of a man and the rough abrading touch of his five o’clock shadow against her face. Yet Jenny was not comparing. Now, without haste and with an unusual sense of wonder, she languidly explored Elena’s vagina, doing for her what she so often desired from men.
Cunnilingus was so different from fellatio. Jenny lost herself in the unusual texture of the folds and the moisture and scent of Elena’s cunt. Jenny proceeded as slowly as she wanted her men to go with her. When Elena finally reached orgasm, Jenny rubbed her own clit against the rough bedspread and came, too. Although their affair would not last long, Elena did reciprocate a few days later. She invited Jenny to her apartment and when Jenny arrived, she found the bed sprinkled with rose petals and encircled with burning incense and candles. Elena catered as exclusively to Jenny as Jenny had to her. The experience was as near sexual perfection as Jenny could ask for.
But while accepting their lovemaking as a facet of her sexuality, Jenny did not feel homosexual. Further, the consequences of pursuing that kind of lifestyle outweighed the attractions of the affair. And however wonderful the sex was, Jenny still desired the forceful, uniquely masculine touch of a man. About six months after her affair with Elena, Jenny called New York on a whim. Kevin was an actor with whom she once had an intense affair. He and Jenny made passionate (though inorgasmic for her) love for an entire summer. Then he left Jenny’s life as unexpectedly as he entered it. But she had never forgotten him. Finding his phone
number in New York was easy enough.
Kevin was surprised to hear Jenny’s voice. And it was clear that he also remembered that extraordinary summer. When Jenny asked if he would like a weekend visitor, he did not say no.
After meeting her at the plane, Kevin took Jenny to an Upper West Side cafe. Getting reacquainted over a bottle of wine proved that their long dormant attraction to one another was easily rekindled. When Kevin’s hand touched her thigh under the table, Jenny told him about her Pepper fantasy and how important it was to her ability to reach orgasm. It was the first time that she ever confessed a fantasy to a man. But she felt she could trust Kevin. Quietly absorbed by her rendition of “Pepper,” and without taking his eyes off her once, Kevin led Jenny out of the cafe.
Inside his apartment, they barely spoke a word. Jenny’s uncertain expectations only heightened her sexual desire. She could see that Kevin’s pants were straining from his erection. So she walked over and slowly went down on her knees in front of him. As her hand touched his zipper, he stopped her. “Not yet,” was all he said as he led her to a pile of throw pillows on a soft rug. As he slowly unbuttoned her blouse, freeing her ample breasts, he called her by name . . . “Pepper.”
For a moment Jenny was taken aback—no man had ever entered her fantasy. But then a delicious sense of abandon flooded her and the Pepper fantasy began to unreel in her mind. Kevin flicked her dark nipples with his tongue and kissed her neck and ears. Jenny pushed his head urgently down to her belly, but Kevin was in no hurry and emphatically pressed her arms down at her sides. Jenny was beside herself and arched like a cat, but Kevin was going to play the fantasy for all it was worth. Jenny closed her eyes and began to see Pepper sweeping the floor of the shack with beads of perspiration gathering between her breasts. The first young man entered the room and stared at her, much to her discomfort. As Kevin ran his hand down Jenny’s belly to her thighs, the man watching Pepper stroked himself and lay down on the bed with an immense hard-on showing through his thin pants.
Kevin suddenly parted Jenny’s legs. In her mind’s eye the man on the bed freed his cock and Pepper stopped, not knowing what to do, but shivering with unexpected arousal. The second man then glided his hands around her waist. Pepper was incapable of doing anything but lean against him as he grasped her breasts with his work-calloused hands. Finally, Kevin moved his mouth down to Jenny’s cunt and parted the aromatic folds, tasting her moisture. The rhythmic moving in and out of his tongue almost sent her over the edge. But he stopped and began to tease her ever so gently.
In Jenny’s fantasy, with one man holding Pepper from behind, the first man got off the bed and pushed up her skirt, pressing his cock against her thighs. The man behind her began to slide his cock up and down between the cheeks of her ass.
With one of his hands pressing against her clit and the other massaging her breast, Kevin whispered in Jenny’s ear, “They’re both taking you at the same time, Pepper.” Then he expertly returned his tongue to her clit.
Jenny could only cry out and completely give over to the sudden waves of orgasm that Kevin elicited. When she finally opened her eyes, she felt a warm spreading sensation on her belly. Kevin had freed his ample cock from his pants and the sight of Jenny responding to his touch made him come in a surge of powerful rhythmic bursts.
Jenny smiled at the thought of traveling half a continent just to have a great sexual encounter. But then the road to orgasm had never been simple or short.
SUSHI SEX
I have had French kisses and Latin lovers. Italians, Jews, Irishmen, Wasps, Blacks, Eastern Europeans and Scandinavians have shared my bed and captured my heart. Yet not once in the fifteen years since I lost my virginity have I ever encountered an Oriental on a social or sexual basis. Then, last month, my friend Estelle met a Japanese man at a San Francisco rock and roll club. Like me, Estelle has had an adventurous and versatile sex life. So when she told me that Toshi knew astonishing sexual techniques, I was intrigued. I began to closely observe Japanese waiters and sushi chefs in the New York City sushi bars I frequent.
In the past, I had always regarded the Japanese as being excessively polite and formal. Most Japanese people seemed so tidy and impeccably groomed that I couldn’t visualize them in the sweaty heat of passion. Now, I wondered whether Japanese sushi chefs ever daydreamed about women while they skillfully rolled those moist pieces of raw tuna and giant clams in their slim, delicate fingers.
I remembered that a gay friend of mine had once worked as the only American sushi chef in a Japanese restaurant. I asked Fred if his coworkers discussed sex.
“Are you kidding?” Fred replied. “They reported to work every morning reeking of cunt. They were really funky, like they’d been partying all night. First they’d prepare their vegetables and rice, then they’d shower and shave. Even though they knew I was gay, they asked me every day, ‘You wanna meet Japanese girl? Velly tight pussy.’”
“How could I get to meet a sushi chef?” I asked.
“Just go to a sushi bar right before they’re closing,” Fred advised. “Look hot, and flirt.”
So one evening I dressed in ultra-sexy black lace stockings, red leather miniskirt and heels, and doused myself in perfume. I headed over to a local Japanese restaurant that featured a young and handsome sushi chef. I had never conversed with Fuji before. That night I discovered that he barely spoke English. Whenever I asked him a question, he consulted a Japanese-American dictionary. Doubting whether he would be able to translate, “Do you want to fuck?” I deemed him unseducable.
The next night, I took myself to another restaurant. The sushi chef was a middle-aged man with a severe expression. I downed a sake and split.
Someone told me about a hip Greenwich Village sushi bar where the waiters wore punk attire. I made my entrance an hour before closing time. Rock music was blasting and the walls were covered with abstract fiber sculptures.
The sushi chef looked to be in his early twenties. He had a trendy New Wave haircut and wore a gold earring. I greeted him with the expression “Komba-wa” that Fred had taught me. The sushi chef introduced himself as Shoji, and gave me a friendly smile and a wink.
After placing my order, I informed Shoji that I was a journalist writing an article on Japanese men.
“Can I interview you later?” I asked.
“Okay. We go bar across street when I finish work.”
I studied Shoji as he prepared my sushi. His elegant fingers deftly squeezed the wet rice balls and slivers of tuna as he created artistic, brightly colored arrangements. He seemed to take extra care with my order, adding an extra slice of avocado, a sliver of cucumber, arraying it all with precision.
An hour later, we were sitting over drinks at a fern bar. Shoji drank American whiskey and smoked Parliaments. He told me that he was twenty-two years old and had lived in the United States for two years.
“What do you want to know about Japanese men?” he asked.
I decided on a straightforward approach.
“Is it true that you are the best lovers?” I asked provocatively.
Shoji dropped his cigarette, then picked it up and regained his composure.
“That depend person to person” he replied. “But Japanese peoples loving sex.”
I nodded and sipped my wine.
“But I must tell you,” he continued. “Japanese men have complex. Compared to American guys, we have little dicks.”
I couldn’t think of a proper reaction, so I changed the subject to rock and roll. Shoji asked if I had cable television. I suggested that we go to my apartment to watch music videos.
We sat on my sofa, but Shoji was too polite—or too shy—to sit close to me. So we quietly sipped from a bottle of wine. Finally, I asked Shoji, “Can you give a massage?”
“Oh yes!” he eagerly replied. “I give excellent shiatsu massage.”
I led him into the bedroom and dimmed the lights. Then I lay face down on the bed. Shoji lifted up my blouse, and pressed gentle fingers up
and down my spine and neck. As he unleashed the tension and loosened the kinks with a professional quality massage, I moaned.
Suddenly, he was licking my neck and shoulders. He kissed and licked every inch of my back. I blissfully allowed him to.
His mouth and tongue worked their way to my shoulders. He kissed and licked each arm from shoulder to fingertips. Then he sucked each finger.
From my hands, he segued to my buttocks. He kissed and licked them as I cried with ecstasy. He must have kissed me for five minutes before turning to my cunt. I came instantly, and kept coming as Shoji treated me to the most divine head I have ever experienced. His tongue lapped my labia, sucked my clitoris, tickled my mons, penetrated and devoured my cunt, kissed my thighs. His movements were so quick and skillful that I couldn’t keep track of what he was doing when.
He ate me for a few minutes and then lifted his head.
“Please turn on light, Erica,” he asked. “I want look your pussy.”
“It’s too bright!” I protested.
“Please!” he begged me. “I want look your American pussy. I look American pussy in magazines—big and beautiful. Japanese pussy very little, very wet, not so beautiful.”
How could I turn down his request? I turned on the light and watched him watching me. His expression was reverent.
“You like Venus,” he declared, diving down between my legs again. I lay there passively, letting him pay homage to my large American labia. When I had come for the fifth time, Shoji completed undressing me. He sucked my breasts briefly. Then he undressed himself. He wore navy-blue cotton boxer shorts decorated with a batik design. I started to pull them down when he covered my hand with his.
“I embarrassed,” Shoji admitted. “I drink too much wine: My dick not stand up. I have little boy dick.”
I slipped his shorts off and scrutinized his member. Indeed, his Nipponese knob measured only about three inches long and two inches wide in its soft state. I tried to erect it with my mouth.
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