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My Jewish roommate was sleeping with her boyfriend. And she wasn’t shy about telling me what they did and occasionally tossing me out of our room so they could be alone. I think she enjoyed my wide-eyed reaction.
For my part, I unloaded angst about trying to break away from my “lace-curtain Irish” upbringing and how I didn’t have the courage to start.
My father was a policeman, my mom stayed at home to raise us. I was the only daughter (second child of six) in a close-knit and strait-laced family in the Irish section of The Bronx, New York.
My role in the house was to help mom maintain order, including bathing the boys, so I took for granted seeing naked males who occasionally developed erections in the bathtub. I was a day student in a convent school, then enrolled at a nearby catholic university. I lived at home in my freshman year but was allowed to live in the dorms as a sophomore.
Myra got me to double-date with her. She encouraged me to “pleasure” myself and showed me some pictures and was pretty graphic about things she did, to herself and with her boyfriend.
She pointed out that, if I was serious about changing my life, I had to break out of the way I viewed the world, particularly men. She encouraged me to “fool around” with my dates, which led me to be kissed for the first time. I probably went out with a dozen guys that year. With each one, I touched and was touched a little more. I even let one guy fondle my breasts through my blouse. I gave him a handjob through his pants.
My parents had said I could take my junior year abroad. While the university had residence programs in Europe, I was smitten with a California Christian college’s program that put 600 students on a ship and sailed around the world, stopping in about 45 ports during the eight-month voyage. After I was accepted, Myra got me to go to student health and get on the pill.
I decided this had to be my “Transformative Year,” when I would be completely free of my parents and would remake myself. Just because I was on the pill didn’t mean I would become sexually active, but now I would have the choice.
There was one required course, a lecture-and-discussion program that focused on world issues. It was taught by two senior faculty with discussion sections handled by about a half-dozen junior faculty. My section leader was Peter, a graduate student in urban studies. Gossip was that he was cutting a wide swath through the student body. He would focus on a “deep” girl, get her to come to his cabin, and ask her to scratch his back. They would wind up in bed but would soon break up, yet remain friends
He was 26 and charming. He had an ironic style and a self-deprecating sense of humor. He black hair was untamed and he sported a bushy black beard. His teaching style was aggressive questioning and persistent follow-up, very intense, even intimidating.
As the ship would approach a new port, Peter would select a few students from this and his other class to explore the city’s infrastructure with him. He said that you can learn everything about a city — how it grew, what the original geography was, its governmental structure even — by poking around its innards. In the first class meeting after the boat left port he had the students lead the discussion of what they had learned. At first the discussion was simple-minded and obvious, but it soon evolved into sophisticated comparative analyses of different cultures.
Peter selected me and two others for Istanbul. He had us up at sunrise to witness entering the port, an unforgettable experience. We were the first ones down the gangplank, met our guide, and piled into the taxi for the day. We visited the waterworks, underground rivers, garbage dumps, and the sewage treatment plant. The day ended with a wonderful dinner and we were back on board by 7:30.
The others were exhausted and headed off to their rooms, but Peter was bubbling with enthusiasm and asked me to walk around the decks with him.
“It’s criminal that they think so little of their waterways that they pumped raw Maltepe Escort sewage into them up until 10 year ago?” he said, indignantly.
“I’m reeling at the way the Muslims plundered the Christian sculpture and used it as foundation stone,” I said. “It’s incredible the disinterest these people had about their past!”
We walked around the middle deck and the conversation gradually shifted, to the personal. He quizzed me about why I had chosen this program and what I thought about it. He asked me who I was and what I wanted to do with my life.
At first I held back, but soon he had drawn me out and I told him about my Transformative Year.
“You’ve got a lot of guts doing this, Mary. Most of the airheads here have their lives already planned out, and it’s boring. I hope you succeed.”
I turned the questions to his life and ambitions. He told me about his fears of not getting a “real” college teaching job, that he wouldn’t ever have the chance to do what he loved so much.
By 9:30 it was getting dark and chilly. He invited me to his cabin.
Peter sprawled on his bunk and I sat in the chair. As we talked he began to fidget. He asked me to scratch his back. He motioned me to sit on the side of the bunk and he rolled over on his stomach. About 10 seconds later, when he realized that I wasn’t going to move, he flipped back.
“You won’t scratch my back?”
“No, you can do it yourself.”
“Like a bear rubbing up against a tree?”
“That would work, you’re inventive.”
“So what’s the real reason?”
“I’ve heard about you.”
“Oh? Tell me.”
I blushed at the directness of his question and stammered something foolish about seduction. Then, not wanting to say anything more, I folded my hands in my lap and looked down, my mind a blank.
Peter swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and sat up. His eyes bore into me.
“No, I’m serious. Tell me everything you’ve heard.”
I sighed, exaggeratedly. “Okay. You draw a girl out, get her to come to your cabin, you get her to scratch your back, and you get her into bed.”
“How often has this technique worked?”
“They say at least a dozen girls have slept with you. Where’s your scorecard? Do you carve notches here?” I said, angry at being challenged and having to make up a number. I got up and moved to the doorframe, pretending to inspect it closely.
“No, you must be more circumspect than that.”
“Mary, I like interesting students who want to learn. You’re interesting and you seem to want to learn about the world. I would like to teach you. Will you let me?”
Before I could answer he stood up, walked over to me, and took me in his arms. He kissed me. I pulled away.
“I have to go.”
“Okay,” he said, “go outside, lean against the wall across the hall, and take your time deciding. I’d like you to come back, but if you don’t want to, that’s okay.”
With that he reached for the door handle and waved me out.
My heart was racing and I heard the door snap shut. This was so unexpected. I’d fantasized about The Experience but this took me by surprise. His mouth was soft, his beard tickled my face, he had brushed one of my breasts when he kissed me. He smelled slightly of wine. I was 40 feet down the hall when I decided that, if I passed up this Experience, it might be a very long time before my next opportunity.
True, this opportunity had picked me, not me it. Myra said that was often the case. I went back to his door and turned the handle. It was locked. My heart sank: I’d missed my chance.
Peter opened the door and made a grand bow of welcome. I stepped across the threshold and he reached for me and we kissed, gently. He led me to his bunk and we kissed some more, as his hands wandered over my shoulders and back. Soon he pivoted and lay back on the bunk, head propped up by the pillow, and began running his fingers up my back and through my ass-length blond hair.
I swung my legs up on the bunk and snuggled up against him. We caressed Cevizli Escort each other and he ran his hands across my shoulder and down my side to my hips and legs. I had never gotten horizontal with a guy.
Suddenly and with a single smooth motion, he rolled me up on top of him. I felt the hardness of his erection and tried to pull away, but he held me. I surprised myself not only because I didn’t resist but because I wasn’t scared to death.
His hands went through my hair and down my back. He slid them into my pants and under my panties. I jumped almost to the ceiling.
“Oh, Peter. That’s — “
“What? Too much? Not enough? Talk to me.”
“You want too much from me too fast. Can’t we just, uh, cuddle?”
“No. You chose to be with me, although you can leave any time.”
Then he squeezed my buttocks and pressed them down against his hardness. I was breathing heavily by now. He started to move his hips up and down.
“Dance with me, Mary” he said. I followed his movements and discovered the wetness between my legs that I’d experienced only when I pleasured myself.
Peter rolled me off and we stood up. I was quivering as he unbuttoned my blouse. He finished the buttons without my protest but didn’t pull it off.
“Take my shirt off,” he said quietly. I rolled his polo shirt up and over his head as he held his glasses in his hand. He pulled me against him and I felt his hairy chest against my blouse and bra.
“Take off your blouse.”
“I, eh, shouldn’t you? I mean — “
“Mary, you are a participant in this, not an observer.” I shrugged my blouse off and folded it carefully, laying it on the chair.
“Quiet now,” he said, and he reached to unhook my bra and tossed it on top of my blouse. He raised my breasts to his lips and kissed them.
“You are lovely, Mary,” he said, surveying me like I was a piece of marble sculpture. “You’re round where you should be round, and firm too.”
He knelt to remove my shoes and socks, kissing my instep as each foot became bare. He softly ran his hands up my legs and unzipped my pants, pulled them down and I stepped out of them.
“Please help me out of my clothes, Mary.”
I mimicked each step of stripping him and shortly we were standing opposite each other in our underwear, breathing heavily.
“You’ve never made love, have you,” he said (not asked). I heard reproach in his voice and started to deny it, but he cut me off.
“It’s okay. Will you let me teach you?”
I had to take a breath to form the word. “Okay.”
“Are you taking any birth control?”
“Sure. I wouldn’t have gone this far if I wasn’t.”
It wasn’t an erotic exchange, but I was excited. Peter hooked his fingers in my panties and slid them down and off, then kissed inside my left thigh. My chest was heaving and seemed as though it could barely contain my heart.
“You —” but I was already moving for his jockeys and quickly had them on the floor. I was face-to-face with his hairy erection and testicles. Then, nude, we faced each other.
He laid me down on the bunk and we lay facing each other. He kissed my lips, my nose, my neck, my throat, then moved across to my breasts and played with them to where my nipples were very hard and exquisitely sensitive. And then he stopped.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said. “Do the same thing I did.”
I started with his lips and plowed through the hair on his chest to his nipples. His soft “ummm”s encouraged me to continue on to his belly. I let go of any hesitation.
When I got to his erection he said “please kiss my cock.”
Myra had told me about being surprised the first time she encountered a cock. He had ejaculated all over her face, without warning. I hesitated.
“It’s okay, we’ll get back to that,” Peter said. “But touch everything. Please.” I smelling smells I never knew existed. Musk, dank sweat, a hint of urine.
Peter had me lay on my back and he began to rub me with oil. As he was working around my pussy, Atalar Escort I suddenly realized THIS IS IT. I pushed his hands away and tried to sit up.
“Are you okay?” Peter asked, stopping in mid-caress. I couldn’t get words out of my mouth but he seemed to understand my panic.
He said we should use the slang terms for our sexual parts and had me describe them, slowly and with emphasis, as I touched each part.
“This is your cock. The head is large and very sensitive.”
“These are your two balls.”
“My slit is here, and my clit is here. Together they are my pussy.”
“And you like to kiss my two tits and play with my nipples.”
“And the rest?” he said.
I finished the recitation so relaxed that I felt I could handle anything that was to come.
I began to stroke his cock. I angled it toward my mouth and kissed it. I even took it partly into my mouth. This got a little pleasure squeal from Peter, and another, then he went “ummmm.” I pulled off with an exaggerated “pop” and we laughed.
“Will you lie on your back, Mary?”
He shifted to give me as much room as possible. He moved down and kissed inside my thighs, then began fingering my opening, as he had said he would. I responded by pushing against his one finger, then against his two fingers, and finally against his three fingers as they went deeper. Then I felt the pain.
“Yes. Is that my hymen?”
“Yes. We’re going to work to stretch it. Tell me how it feels.”
He went back again, first with a single finger but deeper. When that didn’t hurt, he tried two and I felt a slight twinge, but nothing I couldn’t handle, and I told him so. He pulled his fingers out and ostentatiously licked the juice. After working some more with three fingers he said “We’re going to become lovers now, Mary.”
He knelt between my legs and folded them so that my knees were against my chest, then spread them apart. His cockhead was in before I told him it hurt. Myra said that the pain could be anywhere from excruciating to merely uncomfortable, so I assumed the worst.
When I said that it hurt, Peter pulled back. Then he pushed in and got the whole head inside before I said it hurt. Again he pulled back, then suddenly pushed hard — and he was completely inside. It hurt but not that much. In fact, I was surprised more by how full I felt than the pain, which soon dissipated.
“Rock with me, Mary,” he said, and showed me how to raise my hips to meet his thrust. He started very slowly, telling me how much pleasure I was giving him, how nice I smelled, and other sweet things. After several minutes he started to increase his pace and I had to concentrate to keep up with the rhythm.
Suddenly he stiffened and said “Oooooh! Ahhhh! I’m cumming! Mary I’m cumming!” I grabbed his back and was surprised as he slowed his thrusting, but I kept humping up against him. His thrusting slowed, then stopped. I felt the warm pleasure of his cock in my pussy.
As Peter rolled off and lay beside me, I realized how much we were both sweating. We lay there, saying nothing, side by side, just breathing. I felt his cock soften and then slide out. Then I felt his cum trickling out of me, and I knew that I’d had The Experience.
Later that night Peter took me very slowly through my first man-induced orgasm, using his mouth and my clit. I stayed with him that night and we fucked again in the morning. I went back to my cabin to change clothes and tell my roommate that I hadn’t fallen overboard. We left the ship and became tourists.
Each night we returned to his cabin and made love. It was exhilarating. Peter insisted that I experience every position and learn things that he didn’t necessarily find pleasurable so that I knew what was possible.
We were lovers until my period came, the third day after we left Istanbul. He said that it was a natural time for us to part, that now I could choose among the guys I met with confidence. I am surprised to this day that I wasn’t angry with him, but I wasn’t. We remained friends for the rest of the voyage and I actually consulted him the two times I took a new lover.
Years later I met Peter on parents’ weekend at my daughter’s college and we chatted quietly about our “sin cruise.” He was her professor, but not her teacher.
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