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From: Carol <cobillard@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} First sex, first philosophy
Date: Thu,  1 Aug 2002 07:10:01 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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My mother was never willing to discuss who my dad is, to speculate on who he
might be. She just says she was on Church business and that she could not
know. Perhaps she could guess, but doesn't want to hurt someone she might
have loved, even if her "flirting" was on Church business. She will not, in
any case, ever talk to me about the years during which she was flirty
fishing in Washington. It does not seem that she is trying to protect any
particular individual but rather that she will not write a list or hazard a
guess. She seems not to be particularly embarrassed by the fact that she
spent (some would say wasted) those years giving herself and indeed her body
for her Church corporate (I won't say for her religion, because the Children
of God has changed so much since those days). Nor will she concede that
those years could have been better spent saving for her future and mine, or
that perhaps her frequent moves and job changes had to do with a sometimes
abrasive personality.

Mom loved her sex. She genuinely loved all those men who said they loved
her. Those who encounter her readily accept her, at first, as a lovely, open
person. Her problems were with longer relationships. She cannot accept that
she might have been used, taken advantage of. She insists that the Church
corporate has changed, but there are those who deny that it could or would
have joined the mainstream and ceased to be a cult
<http://www.caic.org.au/biblebase/cog-family/countercog_news_12.html>, but
we don't know those persons' personal agendas, do we. Every sect has its
detractors as well as its apologists: $cientology, Jehovah's Witnesses,
Seventh Day Adventists (and its David Koresh-type spinoffs), to name just
three. Only Jim Jones, of the erstwhile Guyana sect, has nobody left around
to support him. It's worth noting that Jones and Koresh used their position
to force women followers to have sex with them. I don't know about others in
the COG but I never encountered or heard of unwanted, forced sex in our
particular group. Encouragement yes, obligation no. Seduction was an art
form for the COG, it is true, and it that my mother's role for years. Now,
physically unwell, she is starting to be more philosophical and I think I
have influenced her -- as has the Catholic Church scandal -- to think less
of the welfare of the Church corporate, that is as an institution as
compared with a theology or philosophy, than her own welfare. I am
independent-minded and secular, now especially distrustful of organizations.
Mom and I no longer live in a communal arrangement, and anyway, now out of
college, I am about to go off to the Capital City to start my new job. I
will make new friends who will not know my past unless I tell them.

My biography is just that, a story of days gone by and my growth in
preparation for entering serious life. Yet I cannot help wondering about my
father. Today, even children of sperm donors claim the right to know their
biological history. Nobody can help me in my philosophical journey and in
the elaboration and extension of my diary adumbrations, some of them from
long ago and puerile indeed. Furthermore, I still want my privacy because in
my new career, where I will be just another anonymous staffer, promotion
prospects depend on merit: essentially on credit taken by the organization
generally for the specific accomplishments of anonymous individuals. There
may be a time for me to announce myself if one day I publish my biography in
full. Only these small parts, published here as a trial, concerns overt sex
acts. The rest, insofar as it relates to sex, concerns sex as theology and
the development of my personality in a highly sexed, sect-driven
environment. But it is not just my past connection with a scorned sect or
cult that constitutes my secret past. Nor is it any secret lusts, secret
passions or secret pleasures that I may have now or in the future. The
biggest secret is the identity of my Dad.

Every time I see on TV a bigwig alive or dead who was important in
Washington in the late 70s and early 80s, I ask myself, paraphrasing the
tile of that children's book, "are you my Dad?" I suppose I could go 'round
capturing the DNA of the likely suspects but I've not got the time nor the
inclination for that. I look at a middle-aged man and I think of a wrinkly
penis and I don't want to think of my dad in such terms. Of course maybe I
could have had a better life, or a richer today if I'd profited from his
child support. But more than likely Mom would have given it to the Church,
and there's no Jackie Coogan law to protect a kid's interest in child
support. The antics of Gary Condit haven't helped any. Perhaps Dad was
somebody like him. 

Flirty fishing is, at base, a charity auction for sex. Stick with the guy
who can do the most good for the Church corporate. But charity, like the
Clinton years is history; we are in the neo-Reagan years and supply-side
economics is again fashionable: greed is good. Wealth, like heat, rises to
the top. We all know about that creep and liar Jeffrey Archer ("Lord
Archer"), spending four years soft time for perjury that got him a Ł500,000
libel award in Britain -- over an accusation of having cavorted with a
prostitute. We know about the robber barons with keys to the White House and
presumably with pardons waiting for them while defrauded pensioners left to
drift. Such robbers would, I know, as easily steal my sex as they are
stealing those pensions. I want my sex to represent love, as well as to
support my future emotional, financial and social security. I want it to
support me and my future life partner. And I think I want a whistleblower's
law for sex workers, but that's another story. I don't regret my
nonconformist past, but I didn't control that and it's time for me to learn
to conform ... to a common urban norm that, judging from "Sex and the City",
has moved closer to my own beliefs and to those past experiences of mine,

If my past holds those dark secrets, they are secret that has never caused
me demonstrable harm: I like life and people, and people and life seem to
like me. So I am concerned about witch-hunts that fail to discriminate
between child victims of torture and murder and children who just happen to
live around parents who are different. We know that the COG included child
abusers but we now know that so did mainstream religions. One suspects that
certain accusers of pedophiles are busy dissimulating their own guilt:
persecution and prosecution often emanate from perpetrators. J. Edgar Hoover
and Roy Cohn, both closet homosexuals, so hypocritically pursued gays in
their day. Roy, dead of AIDS, has his mausoleum in Union Field Cemetery,
Queens, NY and J. has the FBI building in Washington, DC named after him.
But in real life neither did anything to help anybody except himself. Let
us, at least, distinguish degrees of pedophiles, the murderers from the
onanists. The antics and hysteria of hypocrites harping on pedophilia led to
witch-hunts and lies of convenience that rivaled the Salem trials and led to
miscarriages of justice, like the case of Bill and Kathy Swan
<http://www.ags.uci.edu/~dehill/witchhunt/ccla/pages/swan.htm>
where one of the "professionals" quoted in the CBS "60 Minutes" program
averred that 100% of men abuse their daughters. (As we now know, again
thanks to the "60 Minutes" program, J. Edgar was not beyond incarcerating
for life innocent people to "protect" his access to crooked stool pigeons
who were in fact fabricating accusations and covering up their own murders
and thefts, but in the process inflating FBI statistics with "easy"
convictions. I guess it's come full circle now, with the FBI investigating
the Knock (N) Shop bordello in New Orleans
<http://newstribune.com/stories/060902/wor_0609020014.asp> instead of
catching terrorists.

I don't know why they want so often to make a federal case out of sex, but
that's their hypocritical Victorian streak, I guess. And it's a strange
vindictiveness that will motivate someone to conceal or destroy evidence,
such as DNA, that could vindicate and accused or a convicted person. I think
of all those miscarriages of justice, and I wonder: what does "beyond a
reasonable doubt" really mean? But I digress.

As a kid, I got to see as much, or as little, sexual goings on as I cared
to. I would be welcomed if my curiosity caused me to come close and to
observe, an intrusion some others might think offensive, but that tolerance
was out of an honest belief in a methodology of education and childraising,
not out of intent to interfere with me or my body. This was not pedophilia
because the focus was not on me; I was not the intended source of arousal
and pleasure. Even later I only approached active sex enough to satisfy my
natural curiosity as a sexual being. Pre-puberty kids have sexuality, but
it's different from adult sexuality. One can play at it, but only a minority
of kids would want to do it for real. They accuse some COG parents took
David Berg's admonition to involve kids in sex literally, I'm sure that most
of them sensibly did not. David Berg was scarcely infallible in matters of
religion or in matters of life: he was no Pope. In our own sub-community
kids were welcome to look, listen, even to touch; but they never were
pressed to participate, never violated. Today's television, today's Internet
does no less. The move "The Mermaids" got it about right, when it showed a
young girl who wanted never to have sex ... having sex. Without her ever
realizing it, she had become ready and receptive. A penis had entered her
vagina, for that she was then lionized by her classmates. Every kid who
hasn't yet seen it wants to see a penis spurting semen. And after having
seen it he or she wants to see it again, until certain that what the kid
thought he saw was in fact what happened. Then kids want to go onto
something else, like playing ball or reading a book. Most kids will want to
see that "event" from a safe distance, and not be seen seeing it. They
assert the "right to privacy" that is curiously craved by a Peeping Tom
looking from behind his curtain.

With a dozen adults around, sometimes more, and in a prolonged '60s
atmosphere of free and open sex -- all in a house that was always far too
small to accommodate everyone and all the goings on properly and with
propriety -- there was always something to watch, or not to watch, according
to one's proclivity of the moment. Mostly we watched from the corner of an
eye. We went around nude anyway much or most of the time, so we knew a lot
about physiology and biology. To pretend that kids, from the age of 9 or so,
do not think of sex, or have erections, or get occasional mysterious sexual
feelings, is stupid. But kids can sort it out by themselves, or suppress
those feelings for better or worse. One problem, as Dr. Benjamin Spock
mentions in passing, is that a boy child may feel challenged or threatened
by proximity with an adult penis that he compares unfavorably in maturity to
his own. A girl child may feel inadequate for want of breasts, so she will
be given a disproportionate Barbie to compensate. Certainly any girl will
see how boys react to breasts. In our place any girl could remark on the
frequent erections brought about by casual contact, observation, inadvertent
caress. I never found this embarrassing, but then as I have written I want
men to be tumescent in my presence: I want them to desire my breasts and my
vagina. And my brain, although exchange of thought is a more complex matter.
In our place we felt no harm from casual love, even among adolescents. There
is an age of reason, and reason implies an ability to make judgments. The
problem is only where there is disparity of age, and presumptively abuse of
a position of authority. This I never saw happen.

Even for younger boys, the occasional erection was a reason for delight, not
for shame or embarrassment. Masturbation was a normal response, until and
unless some boy and some girl were ready for each other. That is natural
law, a normal part of growing up and being alive, of feeling pleasure. And
when we, in particular, approached young adulthood, we knew that it was not
long before we would have the chance to give, to receive, to share, pleasure
and ecstasy. We had seen such sharing, it was already a part of our
environment.

Alone or together, we kids peeked often enough at adults cavorting and
having fun, having coitus. Only a couple of times, being for one reason or
another really close by, and since I was there anyway invited out of
politeness to come still closer, did I touch and feel my Mom's partner's
penis, wet and sticky just out of her vagina. It was show and tell: look,
touch and run away. Like those growing up the one-room quarters that much or
most of the world's family have to live in, exposed sex did us no harm. It
made me, I think, well adjusted. Mom was more afraid that, already at the
site of her sexual encounter, I would suffer from rejection if sent away
unkindly. She had, I maintain, a reasonable and an honest point of view. For
me, to have seen that penis in action was just a scientific observation: no
threat, no violation of my person. The wonder of a child was appreciated and
satisfied; then the child went to play with her toys, happy in the knowledge
that she was loved and respected, her innocent question taken seriously.

A bit later, for me, as for I think many pre-pubescents and early-pubescent
girls, there was a transitional period of embarrassment, quasi-shame, even
denial. For me, seeing other kids in my own stage of growth and sexuality
who may not have experienced such feelings and who expressed themselves
freely and showed their bodies proudly restored my balance. Even before my
body changed to any perceptible degree I had started to look discreetly at
those of my peers who already showed adult attributes with a different eye.
I envied their head start, their early beauty. The older kids were gentle,
never excessively flaunting their sexuality or their assets: beautiful
breasts, curvy shapes, handsome penises, pretty vulvas. They taught us early
confidence since we would soon own, share with others, enjoy and give
enjoyment through these bits of our bodies. It was reassuring to see how
they worked. If I would stare at a boy or a girl with pubic hair sprouting,
genitals changing, breasts growing, that boy or girl would turn to me so I
could have a closer inspection. I suppose I could have touched, for closer
examination, the private parts of any boy or any girl in the house, had I so
desired. Any of them would have been glad to explain the facts of life, the
mechanics of sex, the workings of body parts. But it never occurred to me to
ask; mostly in the presence of a sex act, I would not be paying attention.
This, as will be seen, left me ignorant on an import point at a time of
need.

My entry into sexual activity, into young adulthood, was unexpected,
accidental, sudden and it was in the midst of my own journey through
puberty. It came to pass that I was to masturbate a boy, and I did this
without any plan or intent on his part or mine; it just happened. I was just
there. I had entered a room where The Boy had begun fondling himself,
rubbing his scrotum, squeezing and stroking his penis which was slowly
coming to life, rising upwards. Neither of us was embarrassed by my
presence, nor was there any reason either of us should have been, given our
background. It was a natural and beautiful bodily function that he was
embarking on. His ecstasy, even his anticipation of ecstasy, should make me
happy vicariously. He was one of us, one of our extended family. That in a
minute I would have joined him on his chair and taken charge of his penis
was both reasonable and normal in our household; it was my voluntary act.
When, in the course of that, an adult passed through the room and saw my
hand on The Boy's penis, sliding up and down, she had only a smile for us.
Nodding approvingly, she moved wordlessly on her way. From that I felt a
renewal of the encouragement I had always known to feel out my own
sexuality. On that occasion, it would be by exploring The Boy's penis, its
workings and his pleasure. With academic seriousness, innocent curiosity,
latent passion. 

Our ordinary, common, casual nakedness anytime we felt like being
unrestrained by clothes -- which was much of the time, since we had no close
neighbors -- meant that our own childish genitals were generally accessible
to us on a whim, we could touch them or stroke them, accidentally or on
purpose, and nothing but approval would ensue. The genitals of others,
children or adult, were regularly visible to us, reminding us always of our
potential and our future. One could glance, look stare or ignore another, or
oneself, at will. One could admire, compare and comment. We, the extended
family, placed little value on privacy and discouraged inhibitions. When we
were naked it was in a naturist sort of way, except it was without
naturists' inhibitions and the adults, when naked, carried that nakedness in
a sexy and provocative way which they used for expression, for communication
and for gratification. This set of values transferred to the children as
imitators, and would be expressed by the adolescents. We all were proud of
our bodies, and had no reason not to explore and to use them. A casual touch
of a penis, an extended stare at a breast might remind a boy that he was
sexy. He could go away and masturbate, or could masturbate, as of right,
where he was. A bit older, and he would find a partner for his sex.

On this particular day The Boy whom I had found fondling himself alone had
doubtless encountered some transient thought which reminded him of sex. The
penis was at hand and unclothed, he could reach for it. Or perhaps he had
touched it inadvertently, reminding himself of its presence and of its
potential. Either way, that pubescent penis had started filling with blood,
rising progressively while he encouraged it along.

At that point I walked into the room, turned on the TV and sat down near to
where he was, not even noticing him. But, sensing a motion of his hand in
the background that revealed his presence, I turned around to say hello. And
then I saw him, semi-erection of smallish penis in hand, still concentrated
on his task more than on me, giving the penis light, slow strokes. Now, with
those further caresses, the penis was becoming well engorged, less a
boy-penis than a half-man penis. It struck me then as beautiful, and his
self-fondling an obvious response to its beauty. I felt something that had
never occurred to me before: that this event could be shared. Inspired and
now curious I thought back to other things I had seen: boys masturbating
alone or in pairs; girls on occasion stroking themselves. In the past I had
paid no mind so such sights.

But now The Boy, he and I, were alone and close; he was aroused and I was a
girl who knew that very soon I would be capable of arousing and of arousal
and that I would be wanting to do both. I should be paying attention and
building knowledge and experience. Still at an early age and development, I
could act in the role of kid, as quasi-brother.  I knew I could still be so
accepted by this boy who would show me his boy-secrets. The Boy was by fully
aroused, his penis high. He turned towards me, proud of his firm if
not-yet-mature erection. He looked towards my own body, at my stubby nipples
with promise of breasts to come, then cast his eyes between my legs at the
crack that hid my sex parts. His eyes suggested now an indecision as between
me as quasi-brother and me as sexual partner.

Perched as he was at the edge of his armchair, he had only to spread his
legs and move slightly forward for his penis to be front and center. He did
this; and I felt a challenge. He took the base of his penis between thumb
and forefinger and pointed it at me. Had I been a boy, the implication might
have been for me to copy him. As it was, his meaning was less clear, but it
was certainly non-threatening. I took it as a search for approval and an
invitation to join him, to help him. But when I asked what he wanted he only
cleared his throat. Released by that from any residual embarrassment, I
accepted the invitation to share in his boy-secrets. Both 11 years old, it
was maybe our last chance to share secrets in such manner, to share child
experiences and to learn innocently.

I sat down next to him in the armchair, lifted his hand away and grasped his
penis. I tried rubbing it. It was dry and hard to manipulate. I knew that
the place of most sensitivity was in the head, that this had to be rubbed:
I'd seen other kids at work and I had seen in adults at sex that the head of
the penis held the key to intercourse, oral or vaginal. The Boy offered
neither counsel nor explanation, only silence. I was on my own; he would
just express himself in noises and smiles of pleasure; he was teasing me and
challenging me. I was at a disadvantaged by my prior aloofness out of "girl
superiority" when young boys had been at sex play in my presence. We girls
did not need boys, we could take them or leave them ... for now. Still,
there had been so many naked boys about, so many penises seen, penises seen
growing, penises seen in use. If only I had paid more attention to
technique. Now I felt it was essential for me to look closely and to learn
what made the loins of a boy or a man give forth a stream of semen. That
knowledge would be useful for me to have.

I had not taken the initiative. He had invited me and asked for help. I was
about to perform a selfless and generous, but one involving no invasion of
my person nor of my body. I knew that in clutching My Boy's stiff penis, I
had just joined him in an innocent ritual. But I was proceeding without full
information, yet I would not show weakness by asking for instructions. I
tried to move my hand up and down on the shaft as I had seen him do. His
penis was dry, the effort neither gave him pleasure nor me satisfaction. I
spit on my hand and again rubbed his penis, but the saliva was quickly
absorbed: my hand was no substitute, even with saliva, for a moist vagina.
Then I recalled that there was lubricant that adults might use for sex; I
went to the bathroom to get it.

My Boy was waiting for me to return, but to my surprise his penis had
softened. It hardened again when I touched it just under the tip and began
to spread the jelly over it. It was just at this moment that the adult had
entered and left. Was her nod of approval a comment on my use of the jelly?
With the lubricant spread over the penis, my stroking was easier. The
caressing felt satisfying for me and it seemed to be engaging and exciting
him. It showed in his eyes. With a gesture, he urged me not to change my
cadence and told me to pay more attention to his bright and shiny glans. I
wiped some of the jelly from my palm onto the tip, rubbing it specially. I
stroked at a constant pace, but it was too brisk for him: My Boy put his
hand on mine as a signal to go slower. Then he changed his attitude,
stretching his arms back to support himself, and raised his haunches in my
direction. His penis still pointed at me, my hand continued its motions.
Nothing seemed to be happening. Without stopping my cadence I bent my face
over to look more closely, to look for some signal. I looked closely at that
little slit of an opening in its tip, as if it could speak. My Boy was
silent and inscrutable; he said nothing of what was to come. But then a
small stream of semen spurted out onto my face, then another bubbled over
and ran down my hand, down his scrotum. Some semen from the first spurt had
entered my mouth. I had tasted my first sex, my first sex fluid. It was a
positive experience: I liked the taste, I liked the cannibalistic
connotation. I licked a little more off my hands to remind me of what I had
just tasted. I wondered if anybody didn't like the taste of semen, if
anybody didn't like to feel a warm and throbbing penis. How could anyone be
repelled by a life force? We smiled at each other My Boy and I; I wiped up
his mess, cradled his sex parts for a moment. Then my mind turned to the
television program I had just missed.

That day's event was only an incident, an accidental encounter that happened
to involve a penis. It didn't represent a watershed, it was scarcely sexual.
It hardly engraved itself in my mind as a life event or a rite of passage. I
couldn't recall any of my outside girlfriends speaking of such an incident;
I would not be speaking of it to them. Boys had penises, penises were fun
for them. Some girls masturbated too, many did not. Sex was, for kids, was
just a casual thought, part of a private life of older kids and adults. That
much was universally known. The COG approach of openness and invitation to
early participation was our secret and even the smallest kid could
appreciate that.

After my first encounter of with My Boy's penis it was inevitable that I
would be drawn to thoughts and dreams of real sex, and that such thoughts
might lead to arousal and passion. But this was more a matter of my growing
up than of our accidental experience. A build-up of sexual conscience and
receptivity to passion follows no particular timetable, it just happens, on
its own schedule for each girl or boy. It was to be some months before I
again encountered a challenge to act on that build-up. I was still aged 11.
My secondary sex characteristics had progressed. I loved my new breasts,
however small they were; I was proud of the shapely hips and happy with my
maturing vagina. I could squat on the floor and there would be my vagina,
surrounded by a frame of lovely soft public hair. Without being crude, I
wanted to show off these things. I needed to compare my progress with the
silhouettes of others, and I would glance, even stare, at the more shapely
breasts of an older teen or an adult, envisaging myself with her carriage of
body and her self-assurance. I wanted others to see me not as I was but as
my future, grander self: with a womanly vagina that promised the most
essential of pleasures and was the source of fecundity. Then I would look at
a boy's or a man's penis with a new awareness and a new expectation,
wondering when I would again feel one pulsating and if perhaps some
accidental contact could be contrived.

 From then on, with new awareness and my new hopes, the secrets of
adolescents living or visiting the house had started to be my secrets too; I
realized that I now understood their codes, their innuendo. More and more,
adolescent sex teasing was likely to include me. Unlike teenagers who meet
each other only fully dressed and who see each other mostly in a public
context, in our house we were safely behind closed doors and fully or
partially naked much of the time. To tease might be to arouse. There was no
parental control or opposition, indeed nothing but a positive atmosphere. We
could begin our adult life as soon or as late as we happened to be ready for
it. Now that I had some insight into the mechanics of those who were born
boys I could guess a boy's emotions, deducing not only from his facial
expression but perhaps from his penis, from his pulse, from his carriage.
These should, I thought, reflect a boy's visual or tactile encounter with my
lovely breasts. My beautiful nipples, more handsome than most, demanded
appreciation and invited arousal. They are large and puffy. I was proud of
my pubic hair, my vulva, which I wondered if a boy would like to kiss, the
way I constantly thought of kissing a boy's penis. I would practice walking
with a provocative gait, the better to emphasize my growing breasts and the
fuzzy vulva. Seated, I would spread my legs sufficiently so that others
would see that I, too, had those pink parts.

An older girl might hit and run, encouraging a boy with suggestive movements
but then go off to do homework. Was it fair to leave him frustrated? Perhaps
then one might catch him masturbating: a perverse victory that left us out
of the game. Our family games were different from those of others. Guest
children and teens might be like-minded or not; if like-minded they would be
familiar with our games, and might join us and have fun of a sexual sort. If
they were not of our conviction, of course we'd all be wearing clothes.
There were still plenty of things to do: sex was not our only sport or
concern. From time to time, flirty fishing brought COG prospects to our
place. There might be children; the children might join us or not. There
might be sex, or not. If there was sex among visiting adults, we might see
it or might not; it didn't matter. But it required diplomatic sensitivity to
now how to treat any adolescents who might visit, when status was in doubt.
I got to be good at discerning such visitors' attitudes, avoiding
embarrassment and anything counterproductive to what flirty fishing might be
going on. 

I later came to enjoy, at least for those few years when I was of their
cohort, introducing pubescent boys to fellatio and to intercourse. I took
this as a pedagogical mission, but also as a source of personal satisfaction
and, of course, intense sexual pleasure. I dwelt ever more deeply on boy
physiognomy and on penis mechanics. Watching differences in people and in
their attributes surely was interesting and fun. As Devine Brown said of
Hugh Grant, "I've seen bigger and I've seen smaller; his was cute"; perhaps
she meant that wisdom counts for more than brute force. Junior high school
kids have been discovering in increasing numbers that the penis is fun,
visible, responsive; that boys and girls can enjoy oral sex. Whatever
parental shock there may be today, there is an unstoppable, an immutable
trend to lowering the age of first sex and to widening the scope of that
sex. More and more, oral sex is first sex. That the penis is taboo makes it
all the more delightful for a girl to play with it in private or in public.
The Washington Post wrote about oral sex in middle schools in 1999
<http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/style/features/students070899.htm> and
there was a slew of articles published in learned journals thereafter. We
need to wait a generation to see if every young adult will come to think and
to be like me. 

For most of us in my teen-hood, for my peers, first sex was not the major
event it might be to more sheltered kids or young adults. It was just a
sideways move from watching, fondling, teasing, exploring. Typically it came
about once one had a sexy body: passable breasts, a nice and proud penis.
Our environment prepared us psychologically and emotionally. To see adults
expressing their passion and their bodies with encouragement, not restraint,
from their religion was wholesome. We young people, having seen that, would
want to frolic not with adults but among ourselves. At that, penile entry
could happen almost by accident, a boy horsing around, lying on top of a
girl, suddenly realizing that emotions and anticipation were present, that
there was physical capacity, that there was no obstacle to penetration
except the girl's desire. Every girl comes to the day when she realizes,
quite probably without advance warning, that her time has come and she may
claim her birthright. For us, physical interaction, a tumble, a tease, a
grasp, could mean a face falling on a breast, a penis rubbing against a
girl's thigh. Such events were an opportunity and an invitation. That's how
it happened to me, at age 11. I didn't mind then, and forever afterwards
I've been glad of how it took place, pleased with the memory of sudden,
serendipitous recognition, unexpected ecstasy.

 From innocent banter and accidental stumble, a boy knocked me to the floor,
both of us naked. There I was: and instead of getting off me, instead of my
asking him to get off, we both confronted our readiness, our desire and our
need. A shared glance became a studied look, a body movement so that his
legs were between mine. He stared at my growing breasts: what before had
been an incidental appurtenance became a source of arousal. He put his face
onto my breasts, sucked at my nipples, massaged them gently. I smiled; he
was encouraged. He spread my legs further apart with his own. I went
further: I grasped his penis and felt his scrotum. His penis became hard and
pulsating. With his excitement, My Boy's breathing turned labored. Without
particular thought I copied what I'd seen my Mom do: I hooked my feet over
My Boy's ankles, pressing his loins into place opposite my crotch. He moved
his elbows over, raised himself, fumbled a bit, and began to maneuver his
erection to where it should go. He caressed the soft hair around my vulva,
ran his finger into the slit and beyond that into my vagina. But in trying
to place penis inside my vagina he found me dry. He put some saliva on his
penis and tried again. It slid in quickly and we were as one together. The
first penetration brought just a slight pain: His penis was smallish, if
growing. My Boy was gentle, he proceeded slowly. Now we found together that
inside I was well lubricated and his movement was unimpeded. I saw his rump
heave and fall, I felt friction against my clitoris. His penis rubbed me
along the sides of my vagina, I heard the noise of penis in wetness. He
continued at a varying pace, all the while looking directly in my eyes. We
kissed occasionally. He tensed; I felt a stream of semen flowing inside me,
dripping out of me, warmly wetting my thighs.

My Boy had finished, and he moved aside me. I was unsatisfied, and he knew
from my glance that he had work to do. What should have been our foreplay
became our afterplay: he stroked my clitoris, the semen he had given me
provided lubrication and perfume. As my excitement rose I sought to grasp
for my climax, it must not slip away. I clutched his arm. Then came orgasm,
bringing ecstasy and relief. I pushed My Boy gently aside, fondled his
penis, gently massaged his testicles. Looked him over, lying back in his
tiredness. My hand remained cupped over his scrotum, I felt his balls move
and his pulse race. More and more those genitals were intriguing me, just as
had the penis of That Boy on that day when I had first masturbated him. I
kissed the soft penis beside me and it quivered. I licked it and it tasted
like love. I wondered what would happen if I licked it more, and I put it in
my mouth: my first oral sex. I wondered if a boy could have another
ejaculation soon. It took some time, but I was in no hurry and neither was
he. If he seemingly got bored once or twice and lost his erection, I had
only to work more intensely, to stroke his balls and the base of his penis
and he would be hard again. At last his penis seemed to stiffen further and
as it tensed his glans puffed out a bit. I continued my pace and My Boy's
penis jolted as just a little semen spurted out of it and into my mouth. I
had my reward: semen I could savor was in my mouth. I swallowed grandly and
smiled at him; he smiled back and we embraced. We had made love. Then I
noticed that somebody had been watching; an adult smiled; in a corner a
young boy rubbed himself. I was proud to have had witnesses to my finest
hour, approval for my handiwork.

My Boy and I grew together and grew up together from that point. His penis
grew bigger, my breasts larger, we two in parallel. Our bodies matured and
we meanwhile learned infinitely more about sex and how to please. Mom
guessed right away; I had a lecture on birth control, got pills. That was
the extent of her intervention. I was free to signal to My Boy at will my
readiness. I could throw my shoulders back, and sitting cross-legged open my
vaginal opening to his inspection. His penis would respond by degrees,
pulsing, moving upwards, tensing. Then, perhaps, a drop of pre-cum for me. I
could grasp and play with it; with his penis in my hand and then in my mouth
I felt I could control My Boy's emotions and his love. But our relationship
was not to last long. Within months I would be moving on.

Our family lifestyle was unpredictable, as group families tend to be. Mom
and I moved away after a year and we lived for a while on a houseboat on the
lake. That put me, while it lasted, into mainstream life, wearing clothes
all the time and being secretive and private of thought and lifestyle. Later
we were to move to another shared place with other like-minded, which is to
say open-minded and openly sexy, persons from the post-Berg COG. Again there
were naked people large and small: it is not that COG people are mostly
naturists, but Mom's friends invariably are.

While Mom and I were on the houseboat there was scarcely any privacy for her
and for me, nor for Mom's partner of the time or and any boy I might want to
cavort with. Our partners would have to put up with risk of intrusion or
observation. Since Mom supposed that she knew all there was to know about
the methodology of sex and the maximization of sexual pleasure and
gratification, I would be subject to her post-event critique. But I'm not so
sure that Mom knows more than I do about sex. I am probably more liberated,
and maybe even wiser. I have grown up this way; she grew up repressed and
joined the COG out of rejection to that. We are all victims of our
experience and our surroundings. Furthermore people talk about "openness" in
relationships, and couples are supposed to tell each other where it pleases
and what they should do differently. In fact, most don't; and anyway Mom
never had a particularly long relationship with anybody. She'd met and had
sex with too many important and influential men and she couldn't recapture
that class of man in her later life and her subsequent locale.

I think one needs not only to be adaptive but perceptive and inventive.
Because I really love and respect a penis -- in the right place and the
right context -- and because I think they and the other instruments of sex
are the epitome of sculpture, beauty and delight, I have infinite patience
to explore and to learn, to enjoy. Like Mae West I think the basic enemy of
sex is haste, and I think haste is born of arrogance and ignorance. If a boy
resents my teasing him, my working on him slowly, perhaps licking the tip of
his penis oh so softly however long I feel like it and until I'm ready for
him to produce his first stream of semen then I have no time for him. If he
will not, almost without prompting, explore, kiss and love my vagina then
ipso facto we are not compatible. I like to experiment and of course
different boys respond differently. In the old house and in the days and
weeks following my First Real Sex, I took the initiative with My Boy's
penis. Of course he lent it to me when I wanted. He was eminently teasable.
I think his best orgasm was when I did nothing but lick the underside of his
penis, just below the glans, for what must have been an hour. By that time
his tension had build up so that, yet a boy, he delivered semen in an adult
quantity, but more liquid than usual; the challenge for me was to catch it,
or as much of it as I could. By then I had become a self-appointed
connoisseur of ejaculation, professional critic of my private lover's art.

Later, we would play a game. While doing other things, watching television,
doing homework, with others present or absent, we would see how long and
hard his erection could be without distracting him from what he was doing.
Of course the answer was that he could scarcely be free of distraction and
if he was to get anything done we had to have sex. I would want to have
orgasm too, yet by then he'd have had a head start so he'd have to spend
most of the time on foreplay and on kissing my sex parts, running his tongue
along my pink places, making love to my clitoris as much as to me. At the
appropriate moment I could signal to him that I was ready, that he should
enter me; with luck we would climax together. I love to grasp a solid penis,
a penis ready to enter; and I love to fondle the balls of a man who has just
given me the love product they create. With My Boy I learned to bring a
penis to its optimal state, and I learned to appreciate its worth. He
reciprocated and willingly took care to make me feel good, to excite me, to
make me shiver, to climax. From those early days my greatest puzzlement was
over how any girl or any woman could be indifferent to the opportunity for
such happiness.

Mostly, other individuals who happened to be around us at such times would
leave us alone. Young or old, they respected our private joy and were just
happy to be present to share our ecstasy. Adults would go about their
business; or perhaps they would be aroused by My Boy's erection and my
excited response to it. Only younger kids, out of curiosity, might stare,
might want see the process. Show and tell. Once in a while a small or
medium-size kid would masturbate: he or she (mostly he) was learning, and
learning was a good thing.

In another game, My Boy and I might sit for watching television, I on his
lap, his hands over my breasts. I would feel his penis under me, and I could
tickle it by simple movement. Stimulating him, I could bring him to erection
and make him want me, and I could do this in the view of others and either
make them know what I was doing or keep them in ignorance until My Boy would
groan and seek relief. To bring him to orgasm in my mouth might arouse every
adult and every adolescent who watched, causing them to seek their own
satisfaction. I have style, and I know that an orgasm and its product is to
be seen as well as felt, its aroma shared, its excitement advertised.
Sexiness itself might be a dare and a sport: showing off, expressing pride
in body, pride in one's partner's body, pride in the ecstasy one brought to
both bodies. Sitting naked, just like sitting clothed, implies infinite
options for subtlety or for its opposite. But naked a girl simply by moving
her legs apart by imperceptible degrees can excite the males around her as
her secret place becomes visible. The trick is to attract My Boy and only My
Boy to the sight and to the opportunity. I love to see My Boy's penis awaken
in stages, greeting me, finally shedding a drop of seminal fluid, of joy
juice, the penis tense and quivering, waiting for me to assent. I want my
Target to shiver not just with desire but with need and necessity. But of
course I want foreplay. And to bring my boy to a crescendo, for him to
appreciate me more, I will want to tease, to play, to move step by step,
with restraint. Although I grew up in an open and largely nude environment,
which made arousing and being aroused matters of imperceptible but visible
physical movement, I know that the same can be accomplished in a public
space: with attitude, motion, voice. Even veiled, I would be a sexy person.

If at any particular time I didn't feel like sex, but, being naked or nearly
naked aroused a boy, especially if it aroused My Boy, I would have to deal
it. This is the universal problem of girls and women. I had either to
satisfy the boy or turn him off. Satisfying him was generally easier and
quicker, which is why girls today have turned without embarrassment or
hesitation to fellatio to simplify their lives. I knew that long ago, before
it got its new publicity. What I didn't know, and what has surprised me, is
that cunnilingus is reported as more common than fellatio. I should have
thought it to be the other way 'round; but that's what the statisticians
say, and I have to assume they've adjusted the figures to account for liars.
I have my own ways of discerning a boy's views on the subject early on in a
relationship and it's just one of a number of litmus tests I use. As with
anything in demand, there has to be a system of exclusion and rationing. My
body and self are in demand, ergo I get to set the criteria. As Gypsy Rose
Lee pointed out, some women are more desirable than others: some can't even
give it away. I'm not one of those.

And the more technological society gets, the easier it is for me to verify a
boy's credentials in a non-intrusive manner. How many seconds do you think
it takes to check the cookies on his computer, or to google him? Or look at
his collection of books, or do the due-diligence routine on his degrees and
licenses? I don't need to fake it; some of them out there do, and they don't
deserve to have me. Sex technique is another thing: I have never encountered
boy or man who wasn't ecstatic over my lips and tongue enticing, encouraging
and then extracting bodily fluids from his penis. I love to kiss the head of
my chosen penis, the penis of My Boy; I love to work upon that penis and to
bring ecstasy to My Boy, and to see the proof of that ecstasy in a pulsating
stream carrying millions of bits of his being. But I want reciprocity: my
entitlement is to have his tongue in my vagina and for him to show his love
for my body and my soul. Thus I am by right selective of the penis I shall
enjoy. I want a lifestyle in keeping with my own merit. Not enough men are
sufficiently respectful or passionate and my personal war is against sex
arrogance. A penis is lovely, but only as the appurtenance, the organ, of a
man who is considerate and worthy of me. Then it is a sculpture of beauty,
and its product a treasure.

I need to add that this has been an account of only one aspect of my past
life and current views, the sexual aspect. I shared an economic, an
academic, an intellectual, a religious, a sporting and a recreational life
too. I play the piano; I hike in the mountains and hills. Sex and sexuality
made up only one source for our inspiration, but we were willing and able to
develop them to their maximum potential. To this day, that gives me pride,
satisfaction and inspiration. I write to defend my past, even as I exercise
my own option to draw away from it and move closer to the secular American
mainstream -- but that American mainstream has already co-opted much of what
was for my mother avant-garde. I have been raised to be comfortable in
today's hyper-sexual, hyper-competitive environment, more so than many of
those whom that environment has left insecure and with uncertain prospects.
I have gone to college to prepare me to compete there.

This has been, Dear Reader, not just a biographical account of early sex
experiences but a political manifesto as well.


Carol 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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