Chapter 1
I guess I've always been real keen on sex, starting back a few years ago when I was thirteen or so, but it wasn't until last week, the day after I turned sixteen, that I found out what sex was all about.
That was when I got sexed up for the first time. Like with all my clothes off and going all the way.
And I mean all the way. Several different ways, in fact. Boy, was I dumb a week ago. Back then, when I was just a kid, I thought sex meant just one thing. Conventional, like.
Mr. Enright taught me different. With bells on!
He did more things for me-and I did more things for him-than I'd ever even guessed could happen. Than I'd hoped for plenty, believe me.
Since I mentioned sexing it up with a Mr. Enright, I guess you've figured out by now that I'm a girl or if you thought I was a boy, shame on you.
My name is Sharon Chablis, and I live-or used to live-in a crummy little fishing town in Maine called Denaquid. Honest. They have lots of funny names like that for towns in Maine.
Like I say, I'm a girl-and not badly built for a girl, if I do say so myself. 38-24-38. How's that for a sixteen-year-old girl?
Not bad, I say. And the only reason I say it is that a lot of boys and quite a few men have told me I have pretty terrific dimensions, and even though I know most of them were just trying to flatter me so they could get my panties off, I think they knew the score.
This Mr. Enright, the one who got my panties off and taught me all about sex-well, maybe not all about sex, but the first few chapters anyway-was my algebra teacher.
He went and drowned himself the next day, but that sure wasn't my fault. I only seduced him and did all kinds of things with him to make him happy. And keep me from flunking Algebra II.
I suppose if you're a normal human being with hot, sexy blood in your veins, you're more interested in what Mr. Enright and I did together than why we did it.
So if you're too hot-blooded and healthy to care why, I suggest you just skip the next few paragraphs and join me again when I start describing the sexy things we did in bed-and other places-together.
For other people, people who like to know who they're reading about and stuff like that, I should explain that I was born in Denaquid, Maine (population four thousand) on account of my old man and my mother lived there.
My dad was a lobster fisherman, which isn't too bad a life-like he used to make twelve or fifteen grand a year though he never told that to the tax people-but it isn't too good, either, on account of it's real dangerous fishing alone in winter, and that's what happened to my dad when I was thirteen: they just found his boat empty, so most likely he got his foot caught in a line and went over and drowned, which is real easy to do in March when the water is like close to zero degrees and you fish alone.
My mother brought me up alone after that. And the less said about my mother the better. Like my old man was bad enough, but at least he didn't nag me all the time. I'd a whole lot rather be beaten now and then, even if I didn't deserve being beaten, than be nagged all the time.
My mother was real good at nagging. Especially about sex. And boys. Which she figured meant the same thing. Which they did, more or less.
Like, one time she caught me in my bedroom reading after I was supposed to be asleep. I couldn't ever read with the light on because she'd see the light under the door of her room and yell for me to turn it off. So what I used to do was pull the covers up over my head and read by flashlight.
Well, this night she caught me the first time, I was under the covers reading about this girl-Candy, I think her name was-who had all kinds of exciting adventures with men and similar creatures. And what with being under the covers and getting all excited reading this book, I was naturally kind of perspiring. Also I'd been kind of fooling around with my hands, just rubbing and stroking a little where I itched, and that naturally got me a bit hot and bothered.
So when my mother all of a sudden yanked the covers off me I was kind of flushed and sweaty. Well. You wouldn't believe the things she called me-especially after she thumbed through the book.
After that she used to call me real bad names, like you little mould-be harlot and so forth. Would you believe it? I didn't even know what harlot meant then-I had to look it up, and it took me three months to find the word on account of I didn't know how it was spelled.
That's how innocent I was.
Of course, I used to fool around with boys. Even in Denaquid, Maine, boys know how to make a girl excited. I guess boys all over the world must exchange information, because they sure know a lot more than girls, at least the girls I grew up with.
Not that I did anything bad, really. I just used to sit and talk with boys and then, when they stopped talking, I'd just sit and say nothing while they felt me up.
How can that be bad-doing nothing? I didn't tell them to reach for my breasts and kind of stroke them and tickle them. I didn't tell them to slide their hands up under my skirt and fool with my thighs and my stomach and so forth.
I was always taught, when I was real little that bad girls were girls who did bad things. Me, I didn't do anything. I just sat there. While boys did things to me.
Nice things. Like touching me where it felt good to be touched. I didn't ask them to touch me-they just did. Was I supposed to stop them or something?
I suppose so. At least that's what my mother told me after she caught me sitting talking to Lew Carter back behind where my dad's old lobster pots were stacked.
You'd think I'd been having an orgy or something, the way she carried on. All on account of I'd been sitting on Lew's lap while he fooled around with me.
Just on account of he was kind of tickling me. So what if I didn't have any panties on? It was a real hot night. Why does a girl have to wear panties in August?
Girls who wear panties are frigid, anyhow. At least, that's what Ronnie Snow had told me the night before. So that next night, when I'd told Lew I'd meet him to talk after supper, I didn't wear any panties. I mean, I didn't want all the boys in town to think I was abnormal or something.
But you should have heard what my mother said!
Real bad things.
After that she didn't let me go out alone at all. Except after she was asleep. And my mother used to sleep real hard, on account of she has this heart condition and has to drink wine for her health. After about ten o'clock or maybe eleven you could set off a bomb and she wouldn't hear it!
At least, she never heard me open my window and wriggle out. To meet some boy I wanted to talk over homework with.
Not that I ever let any boy get real fresh with me. Like who wants to get pregnant at fifteen? Not me. And I couldn't find out how not to, so I stayed real virtuous.
Hands only, that was my motto-and you can't get more virtuous or less pregnant than with a motto like that.
That's one thing a girl has over boys. Like, a girl can fool around with a boy all she wants, and he won't stop her or chicken out because he's afraid of consequences. Boys can't get pregnant, which is an argument in favor of being a boy.
On the other hand, like I say, a girl can get a lot more fresh with a boy-have all the fun she wants without any fear of resistance.
Like the time I sneaked out the window to meet Larry Egars. Larry was a year younger than me, just a kid, and ordinarily I wouldn't have even spit at him, only he lived right next door and he was always buying me things, like sodas and candy, and he was kind of big for his age, so finally, after he asked me a dozen hundred times, I said okay, I'd slide out my window and talk to him after my mother was asleep. Which I did.
Right away he started acting romantic, only in a real crude way. He started pawing my boobies and then, a couple minutes later, he let out this funny kind of gasp and said: "Ain't-aren't you wearin' nothing' under...."
Then he stopped talking and slid his hand inside the shirt I was wearing and made this funny grunting sound. I mean, he really figured a girl would be wearing a bra after she agreed to meet a boy in back of her house close to midnight!
You'd think he'd never felt a girl's breasts before the way he kept pawing and squeezing mine! What a yeck he was. Finally I pushed his hands away and unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it wide apart so he could see what a real girl's boobs looked like by moonlight and said, "All right, are those what you want to drool over?"
I never spoke truer words. Right off he started to drool over them. He started kissing me and slobbering all over me and licking me like boobs were going out of style.
No finesse, if you know what I mean.
Sure, a girl likes her breasts to be touched and fondled and kissed and all that-but not by some young creep that acts like a dog slurping up gravy.
So after a while I pushed him away, thinking you can bet that I'd made a big mistake agreeing to meet him when I could be home under the covers reading a purple paperback book.
"What did I do wrong, Sharon?" he asked in a real sad tone.
"Nothing," I told him. "You just aren't doing things right is all."
"Well, what should I do, Sharon?" he asked.
So far as I'm concerned, when a boy has to ask a girl what to do next, that's the limit. I should have told Larry to go stick his head in a lobster pot or something. I didn't, though, on account of it was a hot night and I didn't really feel like reading under the covers.
So I told him to go on enjoying my breasts, but more slowly and sensuously (sensuous being a word I'd learned from reading paperback books).
Larry nodded and started rubbing my breasts again, but real briskly, like he was polishing a couple of doorknobs.
"Slowly," I told him. "Pretend-pretend you're rubbing suntan oil on my skin. Only in slow motion."
That did the trick. He started polishing an stroking just right.
"Yeah," I gasped. "Yeah that's just fine! Now squeeze me a little, like-ouch! I said squeeze, not pinch! Yeah. Yeah, that's better."
And I lay back on the grass and smiled at the moon and enjoyed the feel of Larry's hands kneading and fondlin' my breasts. A couple minutes later Larry kind of gasped.
"What's wrong?" I asked softly.
"Your-your things. They fed-different.
I laughed. "Silly boy. Didn't you know a girl's nipples swell and stick out when she gets excited? It's a known bilogical fact that certain parts of the human anatomy get all swollen with passion if they're sexually stimulated."
"Girls too, huh?" said Larry. "Gosh, you sure know a lot, Sharon.
"Shut up," I said quietly. "Shut up and start kissing me. Here." I touched my nipples. "Uh-huh. That's it. Just-ouch! I said kiss, not bite!"
"Sorry," said Larry. "Did T hurt you?"
"No," I said. "And it's even okay to bite a girl where you bit me-only start with lots of kissing. And then bite gently. Pretend-pretend you're a beagle carrying a bird in your mouth."
"Huh?" said Larry.
"Never mind," I said, realizing that poetic images were wasted on a yeck like Larry. "Just don't bite too hard."
Larry muttered something in reply, but I couldn't make out what he said, mainly because his mouth was back on my left breast. He was improving fast, technique-wise I had to admit.
Now he was kissing me with more suction, just about inhaling the whole front end of my boob. Also he'd started using his tongue, circling my aching nipple with its tip, teasing and sliding against both the soft and the hard flesh of my breast.
Oh yes, I thought, it may be true that old beagles can't learn new tricks, but young boys sure can. And then some!
Meanwhile Larry was making happy grunting sounds through his nose (I did wish he sounded a little less like a pig), and had clamped the vacuum cleaner of his lips to my other breast.
"You're doing fine," I encouraged, still staring at the moon and wondering if it really looked like the pictures I'd seen on TV or had they faked the whole thing in Hollywood to make the Russians feel small.
(That's a bad habit of mine-thinking of other things when a boy is making love to me. Though ii only happens when I'm just starting to be made love to. When the going gets really exciting, I don't think about astronomy or things like that at all.)
Larry went on pulling at my flesh with his kisses, and his tongue went on stroking and poking me in pleasant places.
"That-that's very good," I complimented him, hardly looking at the moon at all now. "But it's more fun if you use your hands and your mouth. At the same time."
The reason I said this was that Larry, like lots of inexperienced boys playing games with a girl, had the bad habit of feeling me up just with his hands first, and then with his mouth while his hands did nothing, and then with just his hands again.
Larry relaxed the iron grip his hands had taken on my shoulders. At the same time his tongue stopped tickling my nipple.
"No, Larry," I said patiently, staring at the moon again and feeling some kind of insect crawling up my bare leg, "don't stop kissing me. Or using your tongue. Use your hands and fingers as well."
Larry gurgled and began kissing and tongue-stroking my breast and nipple again while his hand-his right hand at least, and one hand was better than none, I decided-reached for my other breast and began to knead and fondle it.
"That's more like it," I gasped. "Keep it up. Yeah! Now just slide your other hand down here-I guided his hand down to my stomach. I'd already pulled my skirt up to my waist to make things easy.
Larry began to pat me on the belly.
"Don't pat-stroke," I urged him and pretty soon he was stroking me with a gentle, circular motion that made my flesh tingle all over.
First he began stroking me in a small, shy circle centered on my navel. Finally he began to widen the circle, his hand sliding up to my waist, over to my hips, then down-but not far enough down. He avoided my most torrid zone like it was out of bounds or something. Finally I just grabbed his hand and placed it where I wanted it. He let it just lie there, and everything else stopped too. He was sure a shy one!
"You paralyzed or something?" I asked, kind of annoyed, as any red-blooded girl would have been in my place.
"Gosh, Sharon," he said, "I-I never got so so fresh with a girl before!"
"You call it fresh?" I said. "I call it being friendly. I kind of itch there, Larry. Won't you scratch my itch?"
He did just that. "Ouch!" I snarled. "Not with your fingernails! Use the ends of your fingers. Be gentle. Forceful but gentle. Yeah, that's better.
But it wasn't much better, to be honest. Larry really lacked finesse. Finesse being a French word meaning delicacy of manipulation, at least according to the Oxford Universal Dictionary.
I thought about asking him to kiss me instead South of the Border, that is. But if he was so shy he could hardly get his hand going, I didn't figure he'd show any finesse in that kind of kissing.
That's the trouble with a lot of boys-young boys. They come on like the U.S. Cavalry, but when the chippies are down (joke!) and the skirt is up they get cold feet. Or fingers.
Not that it wasn't pleasant feeling Larry's hand kind of touch me-like I might explode-and feeling his lips and tongue fool with my breasts. But I pretty soon reached what they call a plateau, which means I wasn't getting any more excited.
So I sat up. Larry kind of scrambled away, figuring he'd hurt me or insulted me, I suppose.
"You ... you mad or something?" he whispered.
"No", I told him, "just bored."
Poor Larry. The yeck sat there in the moonlight with his eyes looking as sad as a kicked spaniel. I noticed his hands were kind of trembling, too. He'd sure got nervous. Most likely I was the first girl he'd ever played with in the moonlight without any bra or panties.
All of a sudden, instead of being mad at him I felt sorry for him.
"Lie down," I told him. "On your back."
He stretched out really stiff, like I was preparing to operate on him or something.
"Relax," I told him. "I won't hurt you. Just want to see what you have in your pocket. This pocket, for instance." I grabbed a zipper tab, pulled.
Larry kind of gurgled. "That-that isn't a pocket," he gasped.
"Sure it is," I told him. "What you got in your pocket?"
Larry just gasped some more while I fumbled around. And then, "Hey," he said weakly.
"Doesn't look like hay to me," I said.
"Uh-look!" replied Larry as I began to fondle and caress him. I let my fingers grip him, tease him, squeeze him, tap him-where I figured he'd most like to be touched.
And he responded. Right away he responded! He began to kind of squirm and writhe around on the grass, moaning low-but happy.
I went on tickling and touching him.
I got hold of his right thumb, and first I gripped the base of his thumb, kind of shaking it around. Then I began to slide my fingers up his thumb, slowly, squeezing and teasing as I slid.
Pretty soon I reached the tip of his thumb, and I squeezed and tickled there. I licked the ends of my fingertips, so they'd be easy sliding, and I slid them around and around the tip of his right thumb.
Larry began to grunt like a little pig again.
I slid my fingers back and forth, then around and around, keeping one hand around the shaft of his thumb while the fingers of the other slid back and forth, around and around at the tip.
Larry began to gasp and gurgle up a storm.
"Like that, huh?" I said. "How come you boys all know what you like done for you, but you get all bashful about doing the same favor for a girl?"
He didn't answer me. He was too busy writhing and gurgling.
Me, I kept on fondling, squeezing, tickling.
Not for long, though. Pretty soon he made this funny kind of real strangled gasp, and then began to kind of jump and twitch like he was being jabbed in the rear with a gaff hook.
"Oh!" he gasped. "Ah!"
I sat back and grinned. "Thought you'd appreciate that. Now, how'd you like to make me happy-the same way?"
Larry didn't say anything for a while. He just lay on his back gasping. His face was real flushed. I couldn't see any colors by moonlight, of course, but I could tell his face was flushed on account of it looked so much darker than it had been.
"Well?" I whispered.
Larry sat up and kind of wriggled until he was facing away from me, then began adjusting his clothes and zipping his zipper.
"I-I got to go now, Sharon," he said at last, getting to his feet none too steadily. "It-it's late."
"Hey!" I blurted. "You aren't going to just go off and-and leave me here? Didn't you like what I did?"
"Sure," he said in this real low, real funny voice. "Yeah, I guess I liked it okay. Only...."
"Only what?" I demanded.
"Only, well, I don't think it's the kind of thing a nice girl would do. And I promised my folks that as long as I lived I wouldn't have anything to do with girls that weren't nice."
And with that he lurched off into the night, leaving me-well, unrequited, you might say.
Well.
It was a good thing for Larry Egars that I was so surprised I didn't know what to do for a few minutes. Otherwise I'd have like killed him.
As it was I opened my mouth to yell just what I thought of him, only I remembered just in time that I was right behind my house and my mother would hear me for sure if I yelled.
So I shut my mouth.
But you can bet I was mad enough to kill inside. I wanted to kill Larry Egars in all kinds of horrible ways.
Right then and there I swore to myself that never, ever again would I waste my time on boys. Young boys. From now on when I fooled around, I'd fool around with men. Grown men. Grown men like a girl to play around with them-they appreciate a girl who goes out of her way to make them happy. Sexually speaking, that is. At least, all the grown men in the paperbacks I've read felt that way, or anyhow acted that way.
So after calling Larry Egars every filthy name I could think of-though quietly, so as not to wake anybody up-I went back to bed.
And thought about grown men and sex.