Giggling Into the Pillow

by Chris Bridges

  “Try it, Vince,” she said. Her eyes were very large.

  I was afraid to say anything so I rolled over her leg until my face was just above her bonus bits and looked up at her. She grinned down at me and wiggled my Pud. “You look pretty good down there. 'We'll take the foreplay as read, dear.'“ I leaned in and carefully touched the tip of my tongue to her new clit, which was apparently the wrong move since she whacked me on the side of my head. It was a bit disconcerting to see her pussy slide sideways when she let go of one side, but she fixed it quickly. “Not so fast, she hates that. Work the lips some.” I shrugged mentally and ran my tongue up and down the rubbery ridges.

  At this point I would have paid cash money for a picture of this.

  “Now you can circle around the clit, but don't lick hard on the underside of it, it'll still be too sensitive. And you can alternate with occasional wide licks up the whole thing, like you’re keeping an ice cream cone from dripping.” She raised her hips up and down in counterpoint to my strokes and to make me work to keep up with her, but I noticed a definite heat rising up and I began my own game. I put my arms over her thighs and pulled her to me while I pushed harder with my tongue, mashing the Pud against her groin in small circles. A familiar, maddening scent filled my nose, driving me wild. Her breath was becoming ragged, and she seemed to be holding her genital mask much tighter against herself than was strictly necessary. “Now… now lick it harder, and harder, keep circling around it and… ahhh… graze it a bit with your teeth. Oh, Jesus…” I wasn't following her orders anymore; I had gone on to post-graduate work. I took the rubbery knob representing the button of love and bit hard for traction, using my teeth and chin to grind the whole thing into Clary. She let go of it and clutched at the front of her shirt with both hands as she pushed hard against my jaws and moaned.

  My neck and shoulders were aching and my face muscles were strained tight, but there was no way in hell I was stopping. Over Clary’s hot denim-covered mound I could see her squeezing her tits through her shirt and throwing her head back and forth, gasping and making little “ah, ah” cries. My own groin was rubbing against the mattress; I was hoping desperately I wouldn’t come, even though I desperately needed to. Finally she jerked hard and cried out.

  “Ohhhhhhh, god, I'm gonna—”

  She did, and I discovered what it was like to ride a roller coaster by the teeth. Pinching her nipples hard Clary ground her quasi-cunt into my face, nearly breaking my nose with her rocking spasms as she bucked again and again. Finally she pushed me away and rolled over on her front, breathing heavily. I stayed face down too, since I had more to hide. After a time she lifted her head up and smiled at me with a slightly dazed expression. “By George,” she said raggedly. “I think you've got it.”

  I rolled over and rubbed at the back of my neck. “It doesn't half wear out your jaw, does it,” I said. My erection was extremely obvious to both of us; we both ignored it.

  “Try giving a blowjob in the front seat of a Corolla sometime. I'd say you're ready, kid.” She jumped off the bed and gathered up her visual aids, finally laying her store-bought twat carefully on the bulging ridge of my pants and giving it, and me, a pat. “In case you need it after I leave.”

  I called out to her before she left the room. “Do you really think she’ll like it?”

  Clary smiled a wickedly sensuous smile at me. “If she doesn’t, I know someone who will.” She kissed me quickly and left.

  I laid back, hurriedly jumped up, hid my damp Pud in my sock drawer, then laid down again, thinking furiously. Let's see, Nicci's class is over in ten more minutes…

  -------------------------

  ASK MISS DILDO

  Hello my darlings! Once again I have emerged in your very midst to answer all of your questions about love, sex, and manners, no matter how sticky any of them get. Let's jump right in:

  Dear Miss Dildo,

  The other night my man and I had been making passionate love in our usual way, and when we finished he just rolled off me and lay there on the trampoline, waiting for me to jump up and get him a towel. I couldn't believe it! Like I wasn't the one with the fettucine alfredo all over me! I was so mad I crossed my arms and just laid there and there we were, neither of us willing to give in. We were there for hours! I was so pissed off and the audience left after the first 30 minutes.

  Which one of us was right, Miss Dildo?

  Soggy in Cincinnati

  Dear Soggy,

  You poor dear! Even the most inexperienced lover should know that whomever ended up on top must get the after-love accoutrements. Not only will the person on top will almost always have the least amount of detritus to drip on the carpet, but also it is only polite to your lover who has borne the brunt of your thrusts, or humps, or lashes, or what-have-you.

  However, it is far more polite to have these utterly necessary items ready at hand before commencing the sweaty part. Of course that's not always possible — Miss Dildo knows all too well how love can make premature ejaculators of us all — but most of the time you can present your lover with a warm and soothing salve for their poor battered whatevers. Just get a soft fluffy hand towel and pop it into the dryer for a few moments before you begin. You may use a bath towel if you plan to introduce any additional ingredients in your love gravy such as maple syrup, potato soup or a bucket of meringue.

  Gentlemen, you'll be appreciated for your consideration if you prepare a towel by soaking it in hot, scented water (use toilet water, the par fum type — nothing and I mean nothing with alcohol in it). It'll still be warm when she needs it and the damp cloth is a comfort.

  Ladies, all you really need for him is what he's used to already: the t-shirt he wore today, or possibly a gym sock for that retro feel.

  Dear Miss Dildo,

  The other night I was out with my girlfriend and some of my friends, and the dinner topic came around to sex. I had had a few, and I admitted (hell, bragged) that my lady was the best cocksucker on the West Coast. The guys were laughing and joking that she couldn't be that good since she had obviously never had much to work with, but she spoke up and said she was too and she could prove it. She looked at me and I kinda shrugged, and then she smiled and dropped under the table right there in the restaurant! I could see my buddy Matt suddenly jerk and get this weird look on his face and then he fought to stay calm while he was clearly getting the knob-polish of his life. Just as he finished clamping his jaw shut and let out a huge happy sigh, Jimmy grabbed the sides of the table and it was his turn. I finished my meal while she finished off all five of them and the waiter when he stood too close to the table. My friends congratulated me, thanked her, and walked a little unsteadily back to their cars.

  All this was fine, but when we were driving home I asked for a little head myself and she looked at me like I was crazy! Okay, granted she looked like she had just swallowed a python and she kept hiccupping, and rubbing the back of her neck, and her lipstick was smeared past her ears, but damn, I was pretty disappointed. Shouldn't she have been thinking of my needs?

  High and Dry

  Hi, High!

  I'm afraid you're in the wrong on this one, my stiffened friend. Your lady was upholding your honor by abandoning hers, and defending your claims of her skill. Granted the waiter was a bit beyond the call, but it's certainly customary to thank good service. Pamper her for a few days before expecting anything more - even Olympic athletes get to rest afterwards. If you really expected her to be rested and ready for you, you should have been right under the table alongside her.

  Dear Miss Dildo,

  The other night my new boyfriend came to my apartment for the first time. I had decided it was finally time for our relationship to go to the next level and now that he was celebrating his parole it seemed right. We stood there in my bedroom, all awkward and shy, and then he kissed me very tenderly. Tender turned to urgent, urgent turned to demanding, and then we were on the bed and ripping at each other's clothing. He was trying so hard to be gentlema
nly while still getting my panties off, and I wanted to reassure him that I was just as horny as he was, so I reached over into my night drawer and pulled out condoms, lube, and my Big Bill vibrator with the pump head. Zoom! He was up and running down the street before I could squeak! Now he won't return my calls or subpoenas. Miss Dildo, I am so afraid that now he thinks I'm a slut. Should I have waited and let things progress at their own speed?

  Assault with Batteries

  Dear Assault,

  Of course you should have, you silly twit. Enjoy your lover and let him get secure in your affection before introducing him to your plastic boyfriend. Naturally Miss Dildo believes in sex toys and their wonderful abilities, but your lover needs to know that he is sufficient unto the day thereof, even if (especially if) he isn't. Bring out the toys next week.

  And after he's comfortable with them, get them the hell out of the nightstand! Sex toys are not furtive little shames to be hidden, used, washed, oiled lightly, and hidden again! Stand them tall; make display racks! Be proud! Miss Dildo has a handsome carved teak stand across her headboard, with holders at 45º to keep them at attention, and little brass plaques underneath each one explaining its history and significance.

  But your major mistake was in springing a phallus and lube on an ex-con. He didn't know they were for you, he’s probably used to being the bitch. What a way to remind him of his inglorious years by making him think he had to toss your salad! For shame! Pack away your battery-operated demon lover and make your new boyfriend the trustee of your loins, if you can catch him again.

  -------------------------

  Sex in the Suburbs

  Once upon a time it was a magical, wonderful thing to discover the “real” thoughts of a single girl in the city. Breakthrough books and columns and movies and plays and songs and poems emerged, showing us the truths beyond the neuroses and the special spark that lives in every single city girl. We learned of their triumphs over sexual inequalities, the impossibility of finding the Right Guy, the problems with birth control methods, the anguish of choosing the right feminine hygiene product and the horror of being recognized purchasing “personal massagers.” We watched their constant struggles with mothers who didn't understand, or understood all too well. We laughed and cried and lived vicariously as they dated and encountered and screwed an impressive amount of single city guys, all with their own stereotypical flaws and traits. We loved the columns from Anka and Cynthia and Candace and and and…

  Okay. Now we know. Let's move on.

  What is sex like for other women? Our investigative reporter Hilda Ingham was curious about just that question and so, after weeks of exhaustive research, she managed to find three single women who actually lived somewhere besides Manhattan (addresses verified by an independent agency). Here's what she found.

  The scene: a diner in Figgerton, Iowa. Small place, counter with bar stools, maybe six small tables. It's 8:30 p. m. ; the locals are at home watching television or, most likely, sleeping. I'm sitting at one of the tables (the farthest away from the counter, to provide more privacy and apparently less service) with three local ladies who asked that they not be named in this article. Sitting across from me is “Meryl”: pretty, blonde, 32, hairdresser, constant smoker, heavy lipstick. Next to her is her best friend “Susie”: a 27-year-old Valerie Bertinelli lookalike if Valerie was ever seen in a Jimbo's Grocery smock. And sitting next to me, knees together and hands clenched on the table, is “Martha”: 56, weathered, covered from neck to ankles in a shapeless black dress, face set in a grimace and ready to exhibit disapproval over all the questions I haven't asked yet. We have introduced ourselves, we have experienced coffee, and there is the promise of fudge sundaes later. We're ready.

  HI: So. (long pause) Gettin' any?

  Susie: Any what?

  Meryl: That's a damn personal question, miss, pardon my french.

  Martha: And mighty impertinent, too. Didn't your mama teach you any better than that?

  HI: Um, but this is what I asked you all here to…

  Meryl: I thought we'd be talking about, you know, living a single life, or how to handle the finances without two incomes, or stuff like that.

  Susie: The problems when you raise a child on your own.

  Martha: I'm not single anyway, I'm a widow. My Jackson is with me every day of my life. Can't rightly say I'm single a'tall.

  Meryl: Maybe about the difficulties of finding the right person, or even questioning the social pressure to pair off even if it's not the right choice for you.

  HI: But our readers, pardon my french, don't give a shit. They want to hear about your sex lives. What you do, what you don't, what you wish you did, and what you regret ever doing, in full detail.

  Martha: I never discussed intimate matters even with my Jackson, even when we were engaged in it. I ain't about to start now.

  Meryl: Well, your readers can go to hell, miss. I don't feel the need to embarrass myself, undermine my own self-esteem and self-worth in any way, just to increase your circulation. You media types are a little too quick to focus on the sexual aspects just to sell magazines faster, and that only serves to reinforce the idea that sex itself is the end-all and be-all of life. Well, it isn't, and it shouldn't be. Maybe that sort of thing goes on in the city, but we're respectable, Bible-fearing folk.

  Martha: Well said.

  HI: I'm very sorry you feel that way, ladies. But, just so it's not a total loss, let me go get those fudge sundaes, be right back. (gets up, grabs purse, disappears into “staff-only” kitchen area)

  Susie: (whispers) What was she asking about?

  Meryl: Oh, she just wanted to hear about your sex life, Carol.

  Susie: “Susie”! Remember, I'm “Susie”.

  HI: Here we are, ladies! (hands out bowls of fudge sundaes, everyone digs in, Hilda puts down her mysteriously lighter purse)

  Martha: (muttering) Your ice cream's off.

  Meryl: Mom, um, “Martha”, be nice. You don't criticize someone's cooking where they can hear you, what were you thinking?

  Susie: I like it. Can I have another?

  (time passes, more sundaes are consumed)

  HI: (brightly) So I guess there's nothing to say about your sex lives?

  Susie: (swaying) Oh ho, I could tell you some stuff, lady, I surely could.

  Meryl: (somewhat disorientated) Susie, contain yourself. She's always been like this, ever since high school. That's why she got knocked up so fast.

  Susie: (giggling, using her index finger to scoop up the last little bit of fudge in her bowl) No, I got knocked up so fast cuz Jimmy Gruno had a beer can dick and we couldn't fit the little rubber things over it. Whee!

  Martha: (muttering) Def'nitly off, I c'n taste it. There's some ice cream been left out just a bit too long, if I'm any judge.

  Meryl You coulda waited until after high school, you know. Plenty of us did.

  Susie: (muffled giggling, behind her hands) Oh, you waited all right. Waited til you could get home and get that pillow between your legs!

  Meryl: Carol! I told you that in confidence, when we was grown and you were worried you touched yourself too much! You have no right to broadcast it that way!

  Susie: (loudly whispering to the others) I saw that pillow, too. Worn down to the feathers.

  Meryl: Hmph.

  Susie: (overly dignified) And it's “Susie.”

  HI: Ladies, masturbation is a perfectly natural, healthy practice. There's no reason to be ashamed of it in this day and age.

  Meryl: There's also no reason to discuss it here. And it's much more natural than what she used to get up to!

  Susie: What do you mean?

  Martha: Tastes almost zactly like the toddies Jackson used to make f'r me on Saturday nights. . .

  Meryl: I heard the boys talk about you. You used your mouth!

  Susie: (laughing) Yup, yes ma'am, I surely did! I heard about you from yer husband, too. He said you didn't.

  Meryl: I am not going to dignify that with
a response! Not to you and not to him!

  Susie: That's okay, we decided you were just REpressed.

  Martha: Give me a toddy right after supper, when we was sitt’n ‘round the fire. Right nice, it was, and he made the best ones. Especially when he wanted me to rim him.

  Meryl: And just what is that supposed to mean, “we” decided? How often did you two talk about me?

  Susie: Every Wednesday, while you was at choir practice.

  Meryl: Every…

  Susie: Well, not every Wednesday.

  Martha: Nope, Saturday was the night, that was hot toddy night.

  Susie: Most Wednesdays we hardly mentioned you at all.

  Martha: Always made me two of 'em, so I could use the second to rinse my mouth out afterwards. He was a considerate man, Jackson was.

  (Everyone slowly turned their attention to Martha)

  Martha: (dignified) You don't think I'd rim somebody stone sober, do you?

  Meryl: What…?

  Susie: It's a mouth thing, you wouldn't understand. (to Martha) Did you really?

  Martha: Honey, Jackson was in his 80's. I had to rim him for a good half-hour just to make it stick far enough out to pee! (she and Susie break into giggles) Then on Sunday nights…