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From: Carol <cobillard@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Sex and the Capital City
Date: Wed,  7 Aug 2002 07:10:06 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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I'm back with one last report for now. Perhaps when I get organized in my
new situation I will find the time to sketch out more of my years of diary
notes, it's hard to tell. It won't be soon. I've got so much else to do:
apartment hunting, clothes borrowing, Boy searching. Editing these pages has
not been an easy task: my diary was written as a kid, from a kid's
perspective, with a kid's shorthand and vocabulary. At the time, I figured
"everybody" knew what I knew, and thought what I thought, felt what I felt.
My later writings divide "everybody's thinking" into "girl thinking" and
"boy thinking". But many or most nuances are lost; I've got to write them
back in. I have rebuilt descriptions of events so that they make sense to
the outsider. I have to delete personal names and places. I have to check
the references and find a Web link if I think the reader would want one. One
conclusion that I can draw from the experience is that a young girl's diary
can be a dangerous weapon: truth as a sword, piercing hypocrisy, so to
speak.

I'm now in temporary digs in the Capital City. I've been given a really
grand welcome at my new job and I'm going to be really happy here even if,
for the first time ever, I've got to wear a bra every day. They say here
that the cosmopolitan Capital City is the center of the universe, but maybe
they mean only the center of the region. They say that everywhere else has
only primitive life forms, that everywhere else sex is suppressed, life is
boring. I could possibly disabuse them of that, but I won't. I'll tell you
instead. Now, in this extract from my diary, I'm going to go back to 1994, a
good year. I start this account from a time after my story about Seducing a
Young Boy on the Boat.

We left the houseboat because, for one thing, not only was the vessel not
seaworthy but it was not dock-worthy either and it was at risk of falling
apart. It also had vermin. And for another thing my mother had ended her
affair with the guy who owned it. We moved to a house occupied by a few
single parents, men and women, all of whom had, or claimed to have had, some
earlier connection with the Children of God. One always wondered whether the
former postulant's commitment was out of religion or out of sex. Actually, I
never cared which, but one wondered anyway. Our new house was, from the
outside, much more conventional than the pre-houseboat era community. But
that, in truth, was because unlike the first, it was located in reasonable
proximity to neighbors. I think there had once been a complaint to the child
welfare authorities concerning nudity. Nothing had come of that, but at
least from then on -- then being a time long before we arrived on the scene
-- clothes were mostly worn, at least in the home's public spaces.

That really didn't reduce anyone's sexuality or urges or practices. Some
rooms had no doors, and the doors to those rooms that had them were always
open. The curious or the interested would not have to look through keyholes.
Sex was still casual, consent the only criterion. I don't know about other
COG situations, although I've read what is said on the Internet about sex
and children, and of allegations against the Church. (I've also read the
counter-allegations.) I do know that in our communities, only loosely tied
to any supposed hierarchy anyway, it was accepted that a child could not
give consent to an older person. Sometimes I wonder whether our group
claimed affiliation with the Church just so that it could claim its style of
living and its beliefs, to the extent that anybody argued they were other
than mainstream, were protected by the First Amendment. Hadn't a Native
American church tried that with hallucinogenic drugs in the Supreme Court in
Employment Division v. Smith? Didn't the Church of Lukumi Babalu Aye
complain to the Supreme Court about local interference by city officials in
Hialeah with its animal sacrifice rituals? Am I being too cynical? It
certainly is a more sophisticated strategy than the one used by the 19th
Century Mormons who just hived off to Mexico to be in a more permissive
climate for practicing polygamy. As before, few persons who didn't have some
present or former COG connection were invited into our circle. When one has
a distinctive lifestyle it requires too much caution, preparation, evasion
and risk to allow possibly critical intrusion by outsiders.

To us, what same-age children did between themselves was fine and natural
unless one was being a bully. Bullying, especially sexual bullying, would
have led quickly to punishment, and even from exclusion in this house, since
it was owned by Mom's Friend (or more exactly, by Mom's Friend's trustees)
and she could send anyone packing at will. But our permissive environment
might not have made the social engineers happy. One had, therefore, to be
discreet. Even so, one knew that there were snickers among some outsiders
who felt they had "higher standards", but which we understood to mean that
they thought sex was "dirty", which in turn meant that they weren't getting
enough, or any, of it. We wondered, in fact, whether those outsiders didn't
secretly envy our openness, and weren't they hypocrites. After all, we were
happy and having fun, and they weren't. We wondered what they did, if
anything, behind their closed doors. And if they were so holy, why were they
harassing us girls, even demanding sex?

At our place there were various permutations of age and gender, but there
was no inter-generational sex going on that anyone could see and no
possibility of "inadvertent" incest because nobody was related to any
potential partner of the opposite sex. Not even by marriage as it happens,
but of course that kind of relationship isn't what I mean. You will recall
that the first time I touched a boy on purpose, to the extent of
masturbating him, was when I was 11. That was not long before I began
wanting and expecting to share sex with boys on a regular basis. Other
girls, then and before, my age and younger, had talked of mutual
masturbation and sex exploration with boys their age -- boys who lived
there, or boys who were visiting. I'd seen some of that going on, but it
hadn't involved or included me until the day of that experiment. Such was
the environment in both of the houses I lived in: permissive, but not
pressured. You could go about your own business or play unperturbed.

Beyond physical relationships, every group of people living together, like
every family, has its internal dynamic, its family politics. In our case,
since there was no longer any basis for a theological hierarchy, it was, in
a manner that would make George W. Bush proud if he had been there, a matter
of "money talks". Those who supported the group the most, who brought in the
most money, talked the loudest. Never mind the nominal connection with the
spirit of the old COG, it should be unsurprising that, given the publicity
coming out about the seedier side of the Church corporate, certain members
lost their faith, were skeptics. One of the women, a friend of my mother,
the owner of the house and the person who'd invited her in, was a trust fund
brat who once upon a time had been taken into the COG and, like my Mom, had
got herself pregnant along the way. Badly treated, as she felt, she'd left
them. And that was even before David Berg died, which was in 1994, just
before we moved in. Of course Mom's Friend's real complaint was that she
didn't get proper respect and appreciation from the Church or anyone else
who was benefiting from her money. We learned from that, and we were
properly appreciative and respectful. Anyway, I at least found her rather
nice and rather open. Others, perhaps envious, spoke differently, sometimes
behind her back, and that may have led to there being space in the house for
us to move in. People who have money do tend to assert right of control,
some would say to become control freaks. And another point: in the land of
the blind the one-eyed man is king: her trust fund did not bring Mom's
Friend a lot of money, but it was more money than anyone else around us had.
Mom worked, but not at anything that brought her great salary.

Years later when I met my lawyer friend, who knew Mom's Friend, I was told
that the best thing her parents had done was to put an anti-alienation
clause in her trust fund so that nobody could take away her money; she
couldn't even give it away. She only got the income, every month, paid to
her at the discretion of some trustee in Delaware. Or maybe it was Alaska.
They kept changing, she said. And it's kind of funny, but Mom's Friend had
always complained that her trustees had been looking after themselves first
and that they'd cheated her. In recent years she complained they hadn't
ridden the stock market boom. Now it turns out that the truth is they never
bought her any WorldCom, Enron or Global Crossing stock. Her trust fund was
in money market stuff and in bonds, and today her EFT still arrives every
month, her plastic bank card still magically produces money at the ATM when
she wants it. 

I thought lawyers were supposed to keep secrets. But then I know something
about the secrecy of the confessional. It doesn't work. My girlfriends tell
me everything. And what they don't know I can probably find out using
google.com. This is not a commercial.

Anyway, to get back to the main point, the description of our new abode:
again, for reasons of efficiency and dearth of rooms, boys and girls lived
in separate rooms, bunk beds, etc. But in real life, anybody slept wherever
he or she felt like it, which was sometimes doubled up, sometimes not. After
all, many beds were too narrow or uncomfortable to accommodate for two
people on a long-term basis. As before, we lived without shame for the way
we expressed our nature, our urges, our sex. One cause for complaint did
not, as I see it from this distance, come not from anything to do with the
accommodation but from the fact that more clothes were worn: that meant lots
of laundry, and nobody wanted to wash it. As a newcomer, I wound up with
diaper duty most of the time, and kitchen work; fortunately the diapers were
disposable. I wasn't going to do laundry as well, unless I had to. Least of
all to match socks.

Of course diaper duty got me back in the habit of seeing nakedness, albeit
small nakedness, which doesn't count. I would just look at a boy or a girl
baby's sex parts and wonder about how and when that child would come to put
them to use. I would powder a baby's penis and blow him a kiss to wish him
future happiness and hope that he would bring delight to girls like me. How
remarkable, I thought, that this tiny thing would, in just over a decade, be
a Big Thing, producing and delivering semen and bringing joy to two people.
Did others think and wonder as I did? I never knew. I would immediately
think of changeling boys I would meet, how I would have them lie back on a
bed, I would pull down their shorts, take their soft big-small penises in my
mouth, make them hard, bring the boys to ecstasy, and they would repay me
with their semen and the knowledge that they would remember me forever as
the girl who had showed them what they were capable of. I would think of my
favorite moment: when My Boy would approach and pass his point of no return,
when he knew he was about to ejaculate his -- soon to be my -- semen, and I
would love him. I would think of how My Boy would be learning from me the
secret of life and of sex, and how he would teach other girls what I had
taught him, and how the circle of life would go on.

As for grand nakedness, or rather nudity of grand, or Beautiful People: as I
found, once one has a perfect knowledge of external human anatomy, clothes
are little barrier to the imagination. At least for those who transmit and
receive magnetism and electricity, the signals are there. I used to worry
that My Target might not have an erection when I wanted him to be having
one, when I was signaling to him in my subtle way with breasts and hips
(and, as you know, "hips", like "legs" is a proxy for "pussy"). I never
understood why any boy or man should be embarrassed by his erection any more
than I am unembarrassed by my sex parts. Perhaps it relates to the machismo
view that men should not display their emotions. Frankly, that's not the
kind of man I want to know; I think a man should be proud to display
himself. To me, and I think to all my friends, there was no sweeter, no more
beautiful, no more manly sight; and this for a male person of any age. In
the old place, young as I was, a boy's response to my approaches could be
judged and if he was not responding enough, I could take things a step
further by slowly moving my legs apart, by attracting his attention with a
question or a glance. My body could speak to, relate to, his body from a
distance. The worry now was that with you and The Boy wearing clothes, and
with him unable to see your beautiful parts, how would you exchange sex
signals? How would one get the message? Did this sentence me to celibacy? Of
course not. One knew, as I discovered, that even if The Boy did not adjust
his clothing (and, sometimes, especially if he did not adjust his clothing)
that he had that Hard-On, and that it was for You. Clothing was an excuse to
move over next to him, to confirm you suspicions with a touch, and to
provide assistance and comfort. And, even in the public spaces, clothes did
not have to be worn all the time, or on all parts of the body.

Like the old, in the new place kids were taught about their sexuality from
the youngest age, leaving it to the kid to pay attention or to ignore the
lesson. As I wrote earlier, in other countries where people spend life in
one-room houses and where they have animals around who are having sex all
the time, kids know almost from birth what sex is all about. The knowledge,
and the experimentation which results from it, is good for them. Of course
in some religions they are forbidden to do anything about it, but that's
another story. The COG had no such inhibitions; it was just the opposite and
we were encouraged to have fun. It has always struck me as odd that in the
USA kids who grow up on farms are allowed to know so much about
reproduction, but kids who grow up in the city aren't, and if their parents
allow them to see their siblings being manufactured the morals cops get
excited. My lawyer friend told me that she was advised in law school, in her
criminal-law class, that if she ever had a sodomy-bestiality defendant she
should try to get his case tried before a jury of farmers. Well, I don't
know about that, and I mention it only because it supports my point: birds
do it, bees do it, etc.

As before, the gap was between the sexually active, and those who weren't
ready. Of course even the sexually inactive were active in a certain way.
More hypocrisy: the "experts" no longer try to ban masturbation and contrive
to keep boys perpetually busy and tired. In our place all the boys from,
say, 9 years on, and many of those younger, as well as a number of the
girls, would masturbate. And, as before, they say no reason not to do it in
public because they'd, most of them, been shown how to do it by the very
people who would see them. It made an older kid feel wise to have younger
ones imitating them. It made the younger kid proud to be imitating the kid a
year or so older. After having discovered her- or himself and the wonderful
sensitivity and versatility down there, no kid could go more than a few
minutes without thinking of sex. The invention of team sports by adults was,
of course, something of a conspiracy to keep kids, especially boys, busy and
tired all the time so they wouldn't engage in self-abuse. What nonsense. Not
the sports of course, which are fun, but the social engineers' motivation in
keeping the kids busy and tired all the time. What twisted logic would
suggest that touching, or having touched, a penis or a clitoris, yours or
someone else's, could be a bad thing?

This all made sense to me once, at 11 years of age, I was inspired to push
that boy's hand away from his penis and to try my hand at masturbating him,
at seeing how good I could make him feel. To see him so ecstatic as semen
spurted out of the tip of his penis and onto me made me happy in a way I
scarcely understood or could explain. I spent a couple of months ruminating,
not so much about the particular event as about the notion of "sex and me",
of where I stood in relation to sex. And then, without any obvious epiphany,
I was ready. I knew I could interact physically with a boy. My tumble to the
floor, and my first occasion of a boy's penis in my vagina, flowed from
that. Then, up to the age of 14 or 15 I entered a stage where I thought I
should be a missionary and share what I had learned. I had a constant urge
to hold and to feel a boy's penis, perhaps to put it in my mouth, but if
not, then in my vagina: not any boy, but a boy who appealed to me, whom I
wanted to love. I wanted to make that boy and his penis to be dependent upon
me. Other girls may have had this urge too, but obviously most managed to
suppress it before it reached the state of impulsiveness. I felt a calling
to introduce sex to certain sort of boy -- my "natural partner", a quality I
could not articulate but which I would recognize at sight. Such a boy
desperately needed me too; I was sure of that. By definition, he would be
cute and smart, in other words, like me, only a boy. There was an urgency
about seeing his penis quickly. I might, if need be, rely on someone else in
the house, boy or girl, to mount a plot, to contrive a happening to get the
boy's pants off. That could be a game, cooling off on a hot day, a shower, a
dare. Once nude, I might make the next move myself, challenging the boy's
penis to an erection. How could such a boy, one bound to like me the way I
liked him, resist my breasts, my figure, my vagina? Already I was thinking
of feeling the boy's ecstasy, his ejaculation, his semen spurting into my
body. 

My scheme for a boy didn't always happen according to script, but it played
out often enough for me to feel confident about my attributes, my sexiness,
my self-worth. That's helped me ever since. Do not take me for promiscuous
because I was not and am not that. I like love, long term or short term, and
it's because I like love that I like the physical parts of boys, and what
those parts can do. I want to be looked at and admired, but I direct my
attentions selectively. I also want to share what I love, and like most
people, I'd like others to agree with me, and I'd like to teach the
generation following behind me what I know.

One of the things I learned to spot early on, something of which many girls
never take notice, is the source of the nervousness of a certain type of
young boy. Or it could be a young man, because it's true of many, maybe all,
sexually inactive males: an identifiable nervousness in the presence of a
girl, a nervousness enhanced if the girl is sexy, although perhaps
suppressed in some situations and environments but still noticeable if a
girl is on guard for it. Such a boy is a fair target for the predatory
female, which is, I guess, how I have to describe myself at that age. But he
is not a victim; he is rather a beneficiary of her love. Let me add for the
benefit of any who don't agree that I lost my vocation in that regard by the
age of 15. I like to relate to guys my own age, more or less. I suppose that
some age gap can be compensated for by wealth, but I'm not Anna Nicole
Smith, and I've not yet had the opportunity to link up with a millionaire.
(According to tax-news.com, quoting the World Wealth Report, there are more
than seven million millionaires in the world, so there's hope.) And, as my
Mom told me, predatory females, few as we are and if that's what I was, are
not the risk to health and safety that predatory males are. And Mom has met
more than one or two of those in her lifetime.

Like all girls, I shared my feelings with my girlfriends: those who grew up
in an open environment and were free to explore sex seemed to me to have an
inherent advantage, a head start in life. Whatever their views on my
eagerness to awaken the latent sex in various boys, they all were leading,
themselves, active and happy sex lives. And more, they liked the product of
that sex: I have always been dismayed that any girl should be repelled by
the thought of swallowing semen. My immediate girlfriends would normally
have seen adults, old and young, at sex from an early age and would
associated semen and sperm with the ecstasy that produces them. They would
have seen semen close-up beginning at puberty, from touching and teasing
boys and from being around boys while they masturbated. And of course an
early beginning to their own sex lives would have reinforced that positive
image. 

I remember when I was little, and I was playing near my Mom, and she was
playing too, on her bed with her boyfriend, and she was so happy and smiling
and they fit together so well. And when they were done playing, I walked
over to see better what they had been doing, and Mom said I could feel her
boyfriend's penis, and it was warm and sticky and began to shrivel as I
touched it. I touched it and then ran off to play outside, but I was
thinking that the penis, and the stickiness too, had something to do with
Mom's happiness. Later she explained to me better how her man's penis worked
and why it made her happy. I knew that she loved that penis because I had so
often seen her kiss it lovingly. I hadn't realized, then, that she was
making it ejaculate and that she was swallowing that same sticky semen. But
I new she was making her man happy, too. I think a girl can scarcely have a
really fulfilling sex life if she fears or abhors its immediate product. I
note, however, that Net Nanny and other barrier software notwithstanding,
the Internet may be opening up a whole world of knowledge to young girls,
who now have access to information their Puritan parents won't tell them. I
am reliably informed that <http://www.oralsextips.com> is a site well
visited by pubescent girls. After a young girl told me this, I verified it
by checking the cookies on computers girls use. That's hardly scientific
proof, but it's plausible.

In our early days there I seduced two boys at the new house. Who would
complain, in a house committed to liberal principles and to early and full
education concerning the body and all its parts? Sex was to be seen and
felt; healthy urges were to be responded to and fulfilled. What kids saw,
one knew they would imitate when they felt ready for it. Nobody saw anything
wrong with that, and I do not today. Parents were always delighted to see
their children having fun -- all kinds of fun, sex included. There it simply
didn't hold the taboo that it does in other places. In one sense, for us sex
was just one new sport to try, albeit one that once tried is not willingly
abandoned. One is left curious over how many parents would be happy to watch
from the corner of an eye their boy or girl enjoy a first sex experience. I
suspect many would, and I do not mean an arranged viewing in the ritualized
fashion of Arab mothers attending their daughter's Night Of Defloration.
<http://www.renebooks.com/TragedyOfIslamicWomenExcerpt.htm> I mean it rather
in a subtler, more discreet and happier way, a boy, especially, happy to
share his ecstasy and show his growth and experience. That differs from some
pagan ritual of forced bloodletting. How many fathers have been known to fix
up their sons with a prostitute as a thirteenth or fourteenth birthday
present? It would be better for the son to find his own match from among
girls of his own age, without hindrance, resistance or shame. I knew girls
outside of our groups who were afraid of or repulsed by hand or mouth
contact with semen and sperm. This is something that could never happen if
they had not as toddlers and infants been excluded from the places of
lovemaking and the sight of lovers, their parents, making love. The point is
not to involve them, but not to exclude them from familiarization as if it
were a shameful and sinful, rather than a beautiful and sacred, event. To
corrupt life- and lovemaking with guilt and shame is a social and
psychological tragedy.

Regardless of how brought up, just because a boy or a girl is physically and
mentally ready does not mean that he or she will have the courage to take
the initiative. Someone else may have to point out the obvious. That's what
I did, at least for a few, in situations where the joy would surely be
mutual. I wasn't a charity or social worker: I was for a brief time in each
boy's life, lover and advisor. I not only introduced boys to my body, but I
encouraged shy girls to be less bashful and to take charge. There's no
reason why the girl cannot assert herself; she doesn't have to wait for a
boy to make the move. That's one of the useful things that breasts can do,
as it happens. At the changeling age, there may be a problem of emotional
and mental readiness and, occasionally, delayed physical maturity. As I
discovered, oral sex is perfect for the young boy whose penis is just
developing, who sees sex and sexuality around him, and who is otherwise
ready for it and wants it, but who is shy. Oral sex is not a challenge for
him: he doesn't have to do very much, it isn't so important for him to have
a full erection. He is unlikely to wind up in a situation that will
embarrass or frustrate him, which will only make things more difficult the
next time. Assuming the girl is happy with the situation, who else has
standing to complain? My point is that forbidding consensual sex of
similarly-aged kids is not just stupid, it's impossible. Sex between
contemporaries is not bad, it's good. There's an article from salon.com that
supports my point. 
<http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2002/04/19/levine_talks/print.html>

My views on all of this are borne out by my own experience. It was a few
weeks after we'd moved to the house. I had seated myself next to Boy No. 1
because he looked cute, and I thought it was time. But he started to shiver.
I'm sure he didn't know why, but I did: he was feeling my proximity, my
warmth, my sexuality. He was responding to me as nature intended; it's just
that he hadn't expected it to happen that day. So I touched him, admired his
haircut or something, rumpled his hair. I found some reason for my breasts
to rub against him. He said something hesitantly and nervously, I don't
remember what; but I reminded him that he'd seen breasts before, in fact he
saw them every day of his life, and Didn't he like mine? And I took off my
top and drew his hand over to them. He didn't pull away. I think if he had
he would have lost face with the other kids there, and the adults too.
Nobody around us told me to stop. I think they pretended not to notice. So
he caressed my breasts in his boyish way, and in doing that he realized that
he loved touching breasts, that it was making his penis stir. And I moved my
hand to his penis, which was indeed halfway erect. I feared that if I tried
to put his penis in my vagina he might lose his erection. It was much better
idea for me to put that penis in my mouth. Although a semi-mature penis
doesn't have to be fully erect to fit in a mature vagina, at least not in
mine as I found on several occasions, it may still takes some patience to
see it through, and it could be embarrassing to the boy who has been led by
insensitive society to believe he must be Potent at all times. Yet once a
boy has had happy and successful oral sex his self-confidence will carry him
along and help him keep his erection though intercourse thereafter. Or so I
found. Therefore usually I would just slide a Target Boy's penis in my mouth
at whatever stage of erection I found it and take it from there. Nearly all
the time I would be rewarded, in due course, with as much semen as he had
available to offer me. I would always savor that, and make the boy aware
that I loved its taste and smell and viscosity. Because I did, and I do. But
only, it goes without saying, if the boy is loving, respectful,
appreciative, gentle.

So on this occasion I slid my hand behind Boy No. 1's waistband, and I
started to massage his penis and his scrotum. He cooperated in my effort: he
slid back in his chair a bit and sucked in his tummy to give me easier
access. I could then easily grasp his testicles in my hand, warming and
caressing them, feeling the soft and wrinkly skin of his scrotum, before
running my hand along the length of his penis, massaging and tickling it. I
encouraged him to caress and play with my breasts. And then, when I felt his
penis to be hard I told him in an excited way that I wanted to see it. I
finished unfastening his jeans. He was 13 years old, but late to mature, and
I knew him to be self-conscious about his still-smallish penis and his lack
of experience. I wanted this to be a positive event. I slid his underpants
off. Anybody who cared to look away from the television screen could see the
object of my project: an erect penis finding its vocation, a penis still in
mid-puberty proud and ready to show its potential to me and to everyone.
This is not an awkward exercise in creative writing; it is exactly how I
felt at the time. And understand, Dear Reader, that these words, transcribed
today, represent as accurately as my notes allow me to discern, my thoughts
more than eight years ago, when I was 13 years old. Boy No. 1's penis had
become irresistible to me. I was genuinely excited in every sense of the
word as I held it and worked with my mouth towards bringing it to
ejaculation: his first orgasm with a girl. I wanted his flowing semen in my
mouth to enjoy. My own building up of emotion must have been clear to him
and clear to all in the room, watching television or keeping track of us.
His penis looked so vibrant, his scrotum gorgeous. I felt his wisps of pubic
hair. 

We all had seen the boy unclothed many times before, and we knew where he
was in his passage to adulthood. But his half-nudity here and now was
different. He faced a rite of passage, a sort of graduation. It might not be
proper protocol for those around to stare, but they could glimpse and
perhaps smile. They could admire him and make him feel good. I do not think
anyone could have kept from smiling: really, everybody was happy for Boy No.
1, and for me as well as they saw me in my anticipation. The person with the
next most critical interest in the event was casual about it. Boy No. 1's
father glanced over, nodded, and went back to watching television. From his
point of view, from the house's point of view, Boy No. 1 and I were just
engaged in a game or sport like any other, harmless fun. But had I seen the
boy's Dad rubbing his own penis now, or was he just scratching? Meanwhile, I
stroked the boy's tight and bouncy erection. It confirmed to me that I was
needed, and it made me want to have it more deeply. I moved over, kneeled in
front of his chair and took his half-big penis in my mouth. I went to work
on it with confidence. As I did so, I sensed others in the room were
starting to look at each other in a different way, some couples approaching
each other, touching ... touching. Sexual electricity was now to be felt,
and I had caused it, just as I later was to cause it in the shower incident
at college. And I was still only 13.

I needed to proceed with caution. I didn't want Boy No. 1 to lose his
erection, something that could happen if he lost courage. His orgasm would
be better if his penis remained at maximum stiffness, and a firm erection
would also add to his self-confidence. I therefore went about my work slowly
and deliberately. I took his penis out of my mouth every so often to let it
regenerate its blood supply. I inspected it closely each time. I told Boy
No., 1 how handsome it was and how I loved it and him. It did not matter
that he was not fully mature; I loved him the way he was. Anyway, we were
close in age. I resumed my strokes of lips and tongue along Boy No. 1's
penis, maintaining a steady cadence. I kissed the tip, licked the glans,
slid my lips over the shaft. I used my tongue to massage the most sensitive
parts, especially the underside below the crown. Boy No. 1 gained in
confidence as I proceeded; now relaxed, he watched me intensely and
intimately. I looked him in the eyes. After just a few more minutes, when
his body and his penis tensed once more I knew ejaculation was imminent.
Seconds later he had erupted: his semen was in my mouth. I collected it on
my tongue and opened my mouth so that it could be seen. It was a small
amount, but it was a source of pride for us both. I swallowed.

I always knew how important it was first boy-girl sex be good sex. A boy can
control the pace and friction of his masturbation with absolute precision, a
self-induced, masturbatory orgasm will invariably be good, because the boy
will always continue stroking until the last spurt of semen has passed. A
girl, unless knowledgeable or told, might not know that. Likewise, in oral
sex if she is not giving the penis her full attention and if she stops too
soon the boy's orgasm may be curtailed. A girl must continue to press with
her lips against the penis, and continue her movements as the boy
ejaculates. A full ejaculation, with a maximum number of spurts of semen,
depends on continuous massaging of the glans until the boy has finished
ejaculating. To interrupt the cycle interrupts the pleasure. I knew that: I
had had discussed with boys how to maximize their pleasure right from the
time of my first sex. One of the problems with "deep throat" and
"aggressive" blow jobs is that they are really theater, not sex. A girl
should want to be sexy; being sexy means being modest and slow, not
aggressive and adversarial, not showing off. She should want to give and to
receive optimum pleasure and shouldn't allow herself to be taken advantage
of. That said, giving pleasure can be its own reward. In my environment, no
boy or girl would hesitate to explain, to share knowledge, to help another,
especially with something so important in life as sex. As it was, Boy No. 1
may have ejaculated very little semen, but now he knew he could have sex
with a woman, he knew that his body functioned properly, that he was normal.
He would get bigger, and he would have a lifetime of opportunity. Early
years suppressed are years missed, never to be recaptured. Therefore, to get
a head start on sex activity, even before full maturity, is a fantastic
opportunity, and for those around a boy or girl it is a sacred obligation to
facilitate it without in any circumstances forcing it.

I much enjoyed my encounter with Boy No. 1's cute penis. Boys do not remain
at that stage long. He will remember the event forever, and he will always
hold a bit of love for me I his heart. In the coming months I loved watching
him, and watching his penis grow, seeing him join his peers and becoming
girl-competitive. I knew I had helped him, in a way that only a girl could
have done. And, interestingly, a girl growing up doesn't need that kind of
help from any boy: what she needs is support and advice from other girls so
that she can know what to get from her Target Boy, what initiative to
encourage him to take. Now that's an oxymoron, but you get my point.

The circumstances of Boy No. 2 were different. I had found him in the
bathroom when I went in to take a shower. There wasn't a functioning lock on
the door and I hadn't knocked. I had walked from my room to the bathroom
fully nude with just a towel around my neck, so when I opened the door Boy
No. 2 and I were face to face, both of us naked. I always walk about as if I
am being noticed, as my Mom told me to from an early age. That's because I
want to be noticed, I want my body to be admired, even by those who can't
have access to it. As I have written, I want every boy to have an erection
in my presence and to want me to love him. Whether I will or not is up to
me; I will decide that when things have progressed.

Mom knew that since we were nude much of the time we had only our bodies to
show off, not fancy clothes, and that we should therefore carry ourselves
well. I walk the way I would like people to see me: with my breasts forward
and high, my legs just slightly apart to emphasize my pubis. If I am
standing naked, I may touch my vulva from time to time, pat my pubic hair so
that attention will be drawn to it. If I think it serves my purpose I might
run my finger along the split of my vulva and absentmindedly touch my
clitoris. I always remember Mom's admonition to watch my posture, her
warning that if I slouched so would my breasts. On this occasion, as I
entered the bathroom I surprised the boy in the process of fondling his
scrotum and his penis. His penis was already semi-erect; it stood straight
out, pointing at me. He was not the least embarrassed. I had seen naked boys
do this uncountable times; I could only smile in response to the sight.
Seeing a boy at work that way always made me smile, and for the past couple
of years it had made me want to help. Under the circumstances, with Boy No.
2 aroused and with me in front of him nude, things took their natural
course. I walked over close to him, hugged him, pressed my breasts against
his body by way of assurance, and told him how lovely his body was. Still
holding him close and without any objection from him I took his penis in my
left hand, then moved my hand lower to his scrotum. I watched his eyes for a
signal; he was smiling, encouraging, happy. I dropped to my knees and put
his big-small penis in my mouth. It all happened quite fast. Neither of us
needed any further warm-up.

After a minute or so of fellating him, his penis sliding in and out of my
mouth, my tongue rubbing against it, flicking across its tip as it passed, I
thought it might be nice to have mutual oral sex. I didn't so much ask him
as just lead him to the floor and have him lie on his back. I mounted him,
my mouth above his penis and my vagina above his mouth. I put his penis back
in my mouth and continued doing what I had been doing before. The challenge
for him was now to figure out what he had to do to me when I couldn't tell
him. (Actually, with a younger, smaller penis it works best with the boy on
top, but that requires somewhat more experience on his part.) While he was
lying beneath me, puzzled, one of the older girls walked by. With the
bathroom door still open, she could see his frustration. She tried to give
Boy No. 2 an anatomy lesson and instructions on how to caress a girl's
vagina and clitoris with his mouth and his tongue, but her interference
turned out to be disconcerting for both of us. All the time she was talking
("kibitzing", Mom used to call it) I had his penis in my mouth and was
trying to concentrate on bringing him to ejaculation. But he was having
trouble with his concentration because she was telling him so loudly what to
do, and was criticizing him for missing the right places. Boy No. 2's penis
threatened to become flaccid. A boy walked by, and even he saw the problem
and told her to stop. She didn't and I had to take Boy No. 2's penis from my
mouth just to shout at her. I told her that she could watch if she wanted
but not to interfere, and she went away. With that, Boy No. 2 got stiff
again, and in due course he had his orgasm. As usual, I could tell it was
coming as he and his penis became tense and shivery. Semen didn't exactly
spurt; he hadn't developed enough for that yet and it dribbled out in a
small quantity, which I caught with my tongue. I told him to wait a minute,
then slid off and sat beside him. I made sure he saw the semen on my tongue
and that he saw I was happy to swallow it. I wanted him to know I thought it
was precious. I suggested it might now be easier if I lay on the floor on my
back and he could have a go at my vagina from below. I picked up with his
instruction from where the other girl had left off and he proceeded to put
his tongue deep inside my vagina, then massage my vaginal opening with it,
flick over my clitoris, and massage my labia with his mouth the way the girl
had told him. It was easier for him this way and it didn't take me long to
reach a climax. In fact, I had been almost there already just from having
his penis in my mouth all that time and enjoying his flavor. I didn't invite
him to put his penis in my vagina at that point, although I would have liked
to and although I was really well lubricated with his saliva and my mucus,
and it was fully dilated from his efforts. It seemed unlikely that his
erection was up to it. We had vaginal sex the next day; it was not so good
for me but he enjoyed it. I really didn't have to have an orgasm in the
bathroom any more than any girl needs or even wants an orgasm every time: I
was satisfied just to lead Boy No. 2 to his first girl-sex. But I thought,
and still think, that his seeing himself able to bring a girl to climax is
an important life event, perhaps in the scheme of things one of the most
important life events. That significance to him outweighs, not just
compensates for, any selfish insistence on my part. It was for the same
reason that I was happy to have vaginal sex with him later, even though our
relationship had to stop there: an affair was out of the question.

Boy No. 2 was a perfect example of how a healthy exposure to happy sex
prepares children and adolescents for a happy and well-adjusted life. I
would not have approached Boy No. 2 if I hadn't known with absolute
certainty that he was ready for girl-sex, just too shy to ask. I wanted to
help him out of his shyness. If he could masturbate, he could have sex, at
least oral sex. Not long after his event with me he connected with another
girl in the house, a girl just a bit younger than he. That is the way it
should be. I would see them masturbating each other: she knew her own mind,
and that obviously was what she wanted to do, and it was the limit of what
she wanted at the time. There was never any compulsion in the places where I
lived. That was forbidden; sex was to enjoy and there should be no sense of
obligation. Perhaps for married couples there is special sort commitment not
to be read as "sex on demand", but that subject is a legal and philosophical
minefield, isn't it, and, not being married anyway, I won't pursue it.
Besides, there were no married couples in Mom's Friend's house.

The two stories raise an important point of general interest. I read in the
autobiography of a prostitute some years ago (I dearly wish I could find it
again, or remember who wrote it, because it contained a wealth of good
points) including that (1) smallish, or at least other than large, penises
are better for oral sex (in fact that's easy to see: just look at any
Internet free porn site and see the distorted mouths of the models with
giant penises in their mouths and tell me if they're having fun. I don't
think sex should ever hurt or distort), (2) oral sex is the best kind to
have with young and small penises. This latter statement is, surprisingly,
not because a girl can't get a proper orgasm with a small penis (the answer
seems to be "it depends") but that is owner -- if you let him know how happy
you are with him and with his penis -- will be motivated to give you the
best orgasm of your life, each and every time, each one better than the one
before. You are unlikely to be the target of the sexual arrogance that every
girl has to suffer through too much of the time. (When I do encounter
arrogance I wonder to myself how arrogant the guy will be after he starts
needing Viagra.) Anyway, I read that 85% percent of adult penises are
"average", whatever that means.
<http://www.terranovamed.com/ArticlePages/PenisSize.html> I don't think it
means anything, but if contrary to my view it does mean something it has to
be that Darwinian selection has concluded that average is best. All of this
is not something I dwell on, but it seems to be important to some.

For my steady relationships I preferred boys my own age or a little older,
with mature bodies and a bit more education than adolescents are likely to
have on offer. After all, my body compares favorably with any girl's, and I
want a boy to have chosen me over all those other girls that he could be
associating with. Using age as an excuse avoided the problem of destructive
competition within the house. Even in an environment of open and free sex
there can be serious conflicts, not only over sex, and somebody might have
to leave. That person would likely have been me, with Mom included, which we
couldn't afford to let happen. And the adolescents were not likely to get in
the way of a 16-year-old. One of them came to live at the house ("for a
while"; in fact he stayed a year) very soon after; he was related in some
way to the Mom's Friend, and he became my next Target Boy. Right away the
younger boys knew they were excluded from my particular attention and they
didn't get in our way. I did sense sexual tension in their demeanor, and
they made no secret of masturbating, I thought sometimes to make me sorry
for them and make me want to help out. My lawyer friend told me about the
lawsuit brought by the farmer who'd gone walking on his land and left a
corral gate open. A bull heifer was able to get out through the open gate
and have sex with the cows; from then on, having experienced cow sex, he was
ruined for whatever other purpose the farmer had in mind, and probably much
more difficult to manage, to keep in the corral. It's not all that much
different with boys, and I needed the 16-year-old to keep me from being
pestered. I want sex only with the person of my choice, and only at the time
of my choosing. I will try to be civil, even cheerful, in saying no, but my
no does not mean maybe.

That's my story: it was not intended to shock, or really to be an expos�:
just to present what I think is a legitimate point of view, but one that is
suppressed. It's suppressed by the threat of being mistaken for the
promotion of pedophilia, which, as I've explained, is something completely
different. In fact, those who decry pedophilia the most -- and I'm not
talking about pedophilia in the sense of horrendous cases of murder,
torture, forced sex and children used as sex objects, but of plain sex
education, open-mindedness and refusal to close doors -- tend to be pushing
their own agenda and using the cudgel of political correctness to do it. I
am appalled at the miscarriages of justice that have occurred because of the
venality of prosecutors, the private agendas of wicked, spurious
professionals, and the incompetence of defense counsel. There has been a
fraudulent expansion of the definition of pedophilia to include happy,
consenting sexual relationships between minors of approximately the same
age, brought about by silence of the majority, fearful of themselves
becoming targets if they speak up to point out the obvious. As a result some
of the innocent, loving acts I have described could not be allowed to occur
by parents or older siblings today, at least in their presence. Kids, young
people, will have to do "underground" and out of sight what they are anyway
going to be doing. They may do it less safely, perhaps even too
aggressively, because out of parental observation and control. The whole
point of "permissiveness" was to ban "obligation" and to prevent any child
or other person from being forced to do anything against her (or his) will.
To criminalize sex is to return to an earlier dark age. Under the "new
rules" I can still talk to and advise any kids I might one day have. But I
must not watch, even from afar if they wish to express their loves and
desires the way I did, and at the age I did it. They cannot freely enjoy the
natural experiences I would sincerely wish for them. They will have to
pretend that they, and their friends are without sexual capacity and sexual
urges; or they will have to act in secret and in guilt. And, when they are
young, if I am to allow them to see me in coitus or oral sex, I have to be
careful to make it look like an accident. Which means it can't be a regular
opportunity for them to learn and reinforce their knowledge of important
life processes and human feelings. If I in fact allow them to observe, for
example by leaving the door ajar, like Richard Nixon I must try to maintain
plausible denial: I must pretend that the dog opened the door. Society has
regressed.

It might be useful for me to add that most of my friends from childhood were
similarly minded: they had the same background. At college, girls' attitudes
were predictably more variable, but those with whom I had most in common
tended to be liberal in such things.

I wrote earlier that I'm not going to have much time to keep up with the
project to of memorializing my old diary. Landing in the Capital City, I am
starting a new life, going out, having fun. I started writing this at the
airport and on the plane, but as soon as I landed there were things to do. I
must be the only person I know who got a real entry-level job with prospects
of a career after graduation. I'm not flipping burgers here. I was one of a
handful hired by this organization out of thousands who applied. They expect
me to keep studying, and to get qualifications. It all takes so much time.
So little time, so much to do.

There are other disclaimers I want to make: this has been a stylized
expansion of my diary, and that diary was mostly written when I was a kid. I
don't want to see myself quoted in some sociology textbook or in the press
as an authority on the COG or on anything else except my taste, or the lack
thereof. It should be obvious to anyone that I've left out descriptions of
people who weren't Beautiful People: there were lots around who were, well,
fat and ugly, droopy and sagging, who had emotional problems, who were only
there for the sex, who were unwell or perpetually cranky. OK, people get
like that sometimes just by reason of getting older; but they don't make a
Beautiful Story, which is what I was trying to make. So also I don't much
discuss clothed people because it wasn't the focus of the points I was first
trying to make, and I just carried on from there. I don't talk much about
girls and boys who didn't like oral sex, or who insisted on spitting, not
swallowing, because I'm not Virginia Johnson (of Masters and Johnson), and I
like to write about folks like me, who like what I like, which is not the
kinky stuff either. Some might say that kinky is in the eyes of the
beholder; let them say that. To me it's objective. It may be that not
everybody happens to share my enjoyment of oral sex, but I know that much of
my generation does, all my friends do, and a generation of girls now in
middle and high school does, as the press has reported and as I have earlier
discussed. 

In my diary I didn't write about the internal politics of each place, the
rivalries and the other Games People Play. Therefore I'm not writing about
that now. I didn't discuss the problem of sex and age balance in the houses,
or of kids and adults who had to, or chose to, look for partners from
outside, frequently from like-minded or other COG groups. In reality that's
what happened most of the time. Don't assume that people were undressed most
or all the time, even in the first house, even if my story said they were.
They were naked if they felt like it. The earlier stories have been based on
"kid's truth" as I wrote it down, which might not be absolute truth. And it
depended upon bits of fact that struck me at that age as important. What I
would encourage the reader to draw from my stories would be the anecdotal
evidence of lifestyle propagation: the effects in youth and young adulthood
of growing up amidst sexual permissiveness. It's anecdotal rather than
scientific because I have written only of the surroundings I knew, and only
about myself and my housemates.

I did not want to be too repetitive in my exposition even though sex is, at
base, a repetitive act. One finds, if you are all watching television naked,
and a girl is sitting on the floor and a boy she likes is seated next to
her, there's going to be a boring part of the movie or the baseball game or
whatever, and she's going to look over at him, and her head is going to be
at the level of his penis, and that penis may wind up in her mouth so that
she can get his attention diverted from that TV to her. Because when a boy's
penis is in your mouth you have his Undivided Attention. Trust me on that.
The Event can also be distracting for everyone around, unless others happen
to be tuned to that frequency. Such an incident occurred in my presence,
indeed at my instigation, more than once. It's not always as in the story of
the shower (a story by the way which happened only last year, and thus is
fresh in my mind and accurately reported) that the others who are present
get turned on too and follow your lead. But that happens often enough when
conditions are right.

The old stories were true to the spirit of what was going on, as that spirit
affected me contemporaneously. But as a kid I was little concerned with
Church issues, especially as we began to have such a tenuous connection with
the COG. If you want a comprehensive account of the history of the COG there
are serious Web sites for that (although I found all of them biased and
distorted in one way or another). Meanwhile, if you want to know about the
Church's practices with infant sex apart from the show and tell aspect, and
if you want to know about small children masturbating themselves or
masturbating each other, there are Web sites for that, too. Unless I was
babysitting, or a small child myself, I didn't pay much attention and it
didn't get into my diary.

As for the future:

You may watch this space, but it may be a long while before I can get back
here. Transcribing my diary has turned out to be very time consuming, and I
really am busy getting on with my life. I started the project during a week
of boredom after leaving college and before flying off to my new job. I
thought I really might get a book written soon, and I didn't quite know what
to do with the sexiest parts. I hadn't realized I would be so busy in the
Capital City. I've got to choose my priorities. Also, I need to justify a
nice bonus for myself next January: I've got to impress people at work as
well as at play. People say there won't be any, or much, bonus this year;
but I've got to go for it. Of course, one isn't supposed to ask about
bonuses or promotion the first week on the job, is one? I'm just over a week
away from my first paycheck. (Talk about being one paycheck away from penury
and insolvency!) I don't need to copy Karyn of <http://www.savekaryn.com>
and do Internet begging. Even if I did, I have my pride, which takes
priority even over my student loan. Meanwhile it's been fun trying out my
diary transcription style. I can benefit from the practice if I ever do get
to try writing a print version of my do-and-tell diary.

Dear Readers, some few of you may be reading my writing in the future, my
writing for my new employer, reporting on subjects very different. Only you
will never know. If it happens to be a serious essay written by Carol
So-and-So, all you can do is to wonder if it's really by me.

It's been fun.
 

Bye & Love, 

Carol

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Epilog

I finished the above last weekend. This week I have been busy being
processed for my new job, meeting everybody, getting my first assignments. I
could cry. Mom and Mom's Friend walked out on their families on a matter of
religious principle, to follow a Prophet. Today, some call him a false
prophet. Mom lived in penury forever after that. I was lucky enough to be
able to go to college, and to recapture some of the culture Mom had left
behind. I never expected to get this far. But here I am. And my new
colleagues have so much: a fun job, travel to Europe, money to buy clothes,
theatre and concerts, dinners in fine restaurants, nice wines. Like the old
song about trying to keep them down on the farm after they've seen Paree...
I am reminded of the boy from Our Town who got into the Air Force Academy
and never came back to Our Town, out of shame. His parents had to go visit
him in Colorado. I have set forth my beliefs in this series. But I have to
say that I will not be a martyr for anyone or for any principle. My
potential here in the Capital City is unlimited. I have been told to get a
passport. Next week I am being sent with a few other trainees to New York
for training. I have invitations from men to go to dinner, to shows, to
concerts, to parties ... invitations from men with no straw behind their
ears. When I went home after graduation, it seemed that the two years I'd
spent at College would turn out to be just a brief cultural and scholarly
interlude. Now, for the first time, I see that it may prove to be the key to
a better life for me and for my future children. I may have to compromise
with my philosophy of sex. I already see that there is Sex in the Capital
City: happy sex, legal sex, ecstatic sex. Rich, sexy men for me. For the
rest I shall have to work out my philosophy as I go along. Shall I find
parallels in Gigi (daughter of a courtesan made good?), Gypsy (of Witchita's
One and Only Burlesque House?) or is it just out of gender equality that
I've got my education and am on the verge of making it in the Capital City
and does nobody need to know my secrets? My likes and my politics are
unlikely to change, but the price of my new opportunity is, I think,
discretion. How many other apparently mainstream people have a secret inner
soul? All? Many? A Few?

I am sooo happy. I hope you are too.

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