1968

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1968

The first time I touched Pat’s nipples was the most erotic experience I have ever had in my life. No contest.

We were in the ridiculously small back seat of my parents’ 1968 two door yellow Cougar at two o’clock in the morning, parked on some side street in town. I had on a rented tuxedo and she was in a sleeveless floral gown, wearing a panty girdle with garters and stockings.

We were out all night after her senior prom. Even though we were 18 and graduated (with honors!) from high school, her father had forced us to go to and we left after half an hour. It was the sixties and I thought we were too cool for a prom. For mine we’d gone to the city with a friend to see the concert film of Cream’s final concert. We were sophisticated.

So sophisticated that if her father was going to force us to go to a prom because that’s what normal kids did, we were sure going to do what normal kids did and stay out all night. And since we didn’t drink and we didn’t smoke and we didn’t do hallucinogens we were going to make out. All night.

The thing is we’d been making out since we started dating in December, but nothing else. Just making out. I don’t really know why, but that’s the way it was. And somehow we knew that prom night we’d go further.

So we found a dark spot where we hoped no police cars would come by, parked, crawled back in the cramped seats and went at it.

Pat was a great kisser, with big lips and a thick tongue that had a great time with my tongue. Since it was prom night we wasted no time and soon my hand was going up her dress for the first time. But, honestly, it was no fun because she was wearing that panty girdle. Part of it was that Pat was slightly zaftig, but it was the times, and girls who were a little round and wanted to be women wore girdles and stockings. The times were going to change fast, in months really, but right then that girdle dampened the moment.

So, I moved up. My hand was all over the outside of her dress, touching the bumps that her bra made, feeling them. All the time kissing, tonguing, pushing our mouths together so hard that our teeth cut us. I started to unzip the back of her gown.

To this day I have no idea whether Pat had been felt up before, no idea. She probably had. I had touched my last girlfriend’s breasts after all, and fingered her too. Pat let me unzip her all the way and she slipped her arms out and let me dress front fall. I was hard, not that that was part of the game. The streetlight let me see her bare arms and thick, white, lace bra, her pretty flushed face and her twinkly eyes. We went back to kissing and I fondled her bra.

Soon I couldn’t take it, and I don’t think she could either. I reached around and started to unhook her. I needed two hands then. I fumbled around and, pop, it snapped open. The bra hung on her shoulders, and we kissed some more. We were probably scared. I don’t know what it was. I had touched breasts before, she’d probably been touched. But we kissed.

My hand started. Her breasts were small, but right at that moment the roundness I felt was perfect. So I touched it all around the bottom, where it met her chest. My fingers sensed all around her perfect form avoiding the center, almost weighing her bosom. I didn’t look at them that night, just felt.

A??nd then, god, her nipple. Hard and little, right in the middle of the roundness, the perfect feeling. I died and went to heaven.

…..

I met Pat (or Patricia, she didn’t really care) briefly when my band played her high school. She was a friend of the drummer’s, from church of all places, the same church I sporadically attended. I barely remembered her from that night because I thought every girl at this high school was beautiful. I have no idea if they really were, but that night, it seemed like it.

But six months later, on an unbelievably hot summer night at my high school, my band was playing its last gig ever, a battle of the bands. We played shitty, we lost, I was pissed we were over, and I’d gotten a piece of glass lodged in my bare foot. I was not a happy guy while were tearing down.

And there she was. Smiling with a big, round, pretty face. With rosy round cheeks, dark hair, and pretty eyes. She was wearing a green, sleeveless dress. All I remember is her standing there smiling, like she was waiting for me. We talked.

Three or four months later we had our first date, at the end of December 1968, and we became girlfriend and boyfriend.

It was a grand time. For us, for life. We were in love, we had friends, the world was exploding. We’d lie and tell our parents we were taking the train to the city and drive in instead. We got free tickets to the Fillmore East from my friend Michael’s father and see three amazing bands every single week. We’d hang, we’d kiss. It was only ruined when her parents would try to get her to break up with me. But we ignored them. My parents liked her, liked that I liked her so much.

We graduated high school, I went to Europe for the summer with my family, so we missed Woodstock gaziantep escortlar and the Blind Faith concert. We went to college. Me to Columbia, Pat to Skidmore, upstate a few hours.

We were in love.

…..

We were both virgins. We were in love. Which is probably why it was so disconcerting that the first thing Pat saw after we did it was a giant sign painted on a building:??”The wages of sin is death.”

After almost a year of making outside, nipple touching, and blue balls we had decided our time had come. It probably helped that Pat’s three roommates seemed to spend all their free time talking about sex. They talked about who did it, how they did it, when they did it, where they did it.

Pat and I were going to do it the Friday after Thanksgiving. In my dorm room.

We were kind of quiet for the hour it took to drive into the city. And kind of giddy. Quietly giddy. We got to my room. We kissed. I took off her blouse and bra. She took off my shirt. We made out half naked for a while, as naked as we’d ever gotten, before we got the nerve to start pulling our pants off. Neither of us knew where to look, and we tried not to stare, but it was pretty difficult not to when I rolled on the condom I’d gotten at my parents’ drug store.

She lay down on my single bed and I got on top and started shoving. We didn’t know that I should rub her vagina to get her wet first, but it didn’t really matter. She was soaked and I was stiff, so I slipped right in. She grunted. I slowly starting pushing and she kind of moved around.

We were fucking.

“Stop.” ??What? What had I done wrong???

“Stop. I want to feel you. Don’t move.” I stopped. She took a deep breath, she moaned. “It’s feels amazing, right?” Oh yeah. “OK.”

We were fucking again.

I started pushing in and out fast. For some reason, my cock had never ejaculated during our make-out sessions, but Pat had been getting me worked up and hot for months, so it was no surprise what my breathing was like when I was aroused. She held on tight.

I came.

“How was it? Did it feel funny in the Trojan?”

I was rolling off while I answered “Amazing” and “No” but she held me in.

“I want to feel it.”

My penis was shriveling but she clutched to my back. We were kissing, talking, laughing, kissing, “Iloveyou,” giggling. I was hard. Again.

We fucked again. I came. Again. And I’ve never come twice like that again in my life.

…..

While we walked off our exhilaration around my city neighborhood we saw the sign and Pat gasped.

The wages of sin is death

But the Gift of God is

Eternal Life

In Christ Jesus Our Lord?

Somebody had painted this famous biblical reminder on the side of a building at 111th and Broadway. Pat gasped because she had a religious streak in her. And her pussy was aching from the new penetration, so she thought maybe we’d done it wrong or that maybe it was her retribution for doing wrong. And I had just convinced her that no wrong had been committed, just a right. A loving, sexy, horny right. It was the sixties, after all.

It took the whole drive home, and a little nipple massaging, for her to forget the sign.

And I saw it almost every day for the next 23 years I lived on that block.

…..

There were a lot of things I liked about Pat.??he was pretty. And there was always a twinkle in her eyes and her smile. You never knew whether she was just plain happy or whether she was up something naughty.

She was smart. Thirty some years later I look back and seem to have ultimately always been attracted to the smart girls. Kate Jackson always seemed prettier to me than Jaclyn Smith or Farrah Fawcett. But Patricia could and would talk about anything with anybody.

She was her own person. It was the sixties and all the girls were becoming women, dumping the girly things for serious things. The first thing were the hairdo’s, next the bras, next the dresses. But Pat told me she didn’t wear pants to school, no matter what everyone else was doing. And even though I liked what everyone else was doing, I told my mother that this girl was special. She just wasn’t going to wear jeans.

She was into art and music. She wanted to be an artist, then a photographer. She was up for any concert I wanted to go to, and I wanted to go to them all. Eventually, I think we did.

She had those nipples.

There were a lot of things I liked about Pat that made me love her.

…..

Pat and I fucked like bunnies every time we were together for the next five years. We saw each other at least once a month and we’d jump into bed before we did anything else. She’d come home for holidays and we’d find a place to park a car and find a way to maneuver my penis into her vagina.

We had a wonderful time together. We discovered life, love, art, literature, music, movies. And sex. Every kind of sex I hadn’t yet imagined, we discovered together.

…..

There were only two bad parts the whole five years.

One, her parents really hated me and constantly tried to break us up. They thought I came from the poor side of the tracks and they didn’t like that my mother was foreign (her mother was in denial about being Italian.)

And two, every single month until she went on the pill (and even then sometimes) she thought she was pregnant.

But those two things didn’t stop us.

…..

I was really skinny. Not attractive. Like 98 pound weakling skinny, with my ribs showing all the time. With longish hair. And I always dressed in a work shirt and jeans (it was almost the 70’s.) It never seemed to bother Pat. She was tall, five foot nine, with a pretty face and permanently reddened cheeks, beautiful large eyes that matched her open smile. I was a lucky guy. ?

Her figure wasn’t really too great. Tiny breasts on a big frame, a thick waist, not really big hips, and round, protruding ass cheeks. Her legs were muscled, a little stumpy, and not too short or too tall. But I didn’t care. I was a lucky boy with a girl who liked me, loved me, and wanted to fuck me every way we could figure it out.

…..?

We both knew that guys ejaculated. Who didn’t? She loved watching me come and when I wasn’t coming inside her she wanted to watch me jerking off and she wanted to learn to do it to me. She always screamed when the goo got on her hands. Happily. She screamed happily. And she loved with when I pulled out and came all over her stomach. Soon she wanted me to spray her breasts, since they were too small for me to fuck. We know. We tried.

One day she told me about some of her sex reading from a book one of her roommates had. At the time most of the books on the subject, at the least the ones we’d seen, were very clinical and described things in almost medical terms. From what we could make out in this one book, it seemed like it was saying that women might have orgasms too. Amazing.

Next time we were in my room we took our clothes off and started playing around. The book had specified a technique, so as we were getting hot and bothered Pat climbed on top of me.

“Raise your knee.” And she straddled my leg, somehow. And began to dry hump my leg. Not dry, exactly, but you get the picture. We had absolutely no idea what we were doing, no idea what was supposed to happen. But we kissed, she humped, my hard-on bouncing. I kept encouraging, she kept humping. Maybe I rubbed her nipples.

Nothing.

So she mounted my penis and we fucked a while. Before I could come she jumped off and started up on my leg again, leaving a wet trail.

The humping went on for a half an hour before she exploded. She came, for the first time. All over my leg. She fucked me fast and I came inside her. She loved it. Me too. She cried. Happily.

And it was just a moment before we discovered that my finger could make her come. And what cunnilingus was. My face was never dry again while we figured out that I could crawl between her legs, I could lick her from behind when she was on her knees, she could sit on my face and open up her lips. She never came just from a straight screw, but we didn’t really care.

Girls could come too!

?…………………………………………………………………………

It seemed to me that she and her friends talked about sex endlessly. Because other than what I read for myself, all our new sex information came from these conversations. Positions, techniques, diseases, they discussed it all. It only surprised me because the conventional wisdom was that guys always talked about sex. Not my friends. Other than a few times here and there, we were too embarrassed.

One piece of female intelligence from the front has stayed with me for years. Pat’s roommate was a pretty redhead from private school who loved taking it up the ass. It seemed that the private school girls were the most sexually experienced since they were the least supervised. So they got felt up, pussy licked, and worshipped penises on their knees. But what they were the most experienced at was anal sex because it was the most reliable birth control that allowed for actual intercourse.

………………………………………………………………………………

Our favorite position was missionary. She liked the pressure on top of her chest. I liked being able to pump like crazy. When we didn’t have a rubber we both enjoyed my pulling out and creaming between our bodies. It was fun finding different ways to put her legs. Knees up, or feet up in the air, or her angles locked around mine, or up on my shoulders.

But we tried every other position we could. We looked in books, asked friends, and tried to invent our own.

We liked it doggy style, with her on all fours, and me holding her hips. I liked watching my cock slip in and out of her this way.

When she was on top I couldn’t really master the upward thrusts. But I adored watching her teeny breasts bounce when she was sitting up. And she wanted me to pinch and pull and bite and tweak her nipples while she was riding. And she liked peeking between her legs to watch the tip of my penis as it came out. And went in.

It never really worked with her on top, facing away from me. I liked watching her ass, but it wasn’t too comfortable. Sideways, lying down, face to face wasn’t too good either. But we could both get into sideways, lying down, me entering from behind. I could pinch her nipples, rub her clit, bump her rear, and we could both come at the same time.

In a car’s backseat she’d wear a skirt. We’d scootch her panties off, unzip my fly and she’d have her ass facing me when she sat on my erection.

I fucked her standing up against a wall.

We did it sitting in a chair. And sitting up in bed.

I stood and she jumped up on my hard-on while I held her ass and she pushed up and down.

On her knees over the edge of the bed. And over the back of a couch.

I’m trying to think of a position we didn’t do.

…..

We weren’t always naked when we fucked. Given all the places we had to grab the moment, we couldn’t be. Sometimes I’d just lift her dress and pull her underpants down, undo my fly and plow in. That was hot, especially if she was bent over, her ass sticking out, her panties at her ankles, her arms againt the wall. Or she’d pull one pantleg off and I’d sneak it in. One time we were in a van in the middle of winter. She was wearing a raccoon coat and I had on a ski jacket. Somehow we had intercourse.

It got to the point where I couldn’t figure out what was better. Undressed was sumptuous, intimate, hedonistic. Dressed was illicit, hot, hedonistic. I guess it worked any way I could put it in.

…..

Bras seemed to disappear during the summer of 1969 at the same time as boys’ short hair. In June girls had two unmoving round lumps on their chests, and in September they jiggled around in peasant blouses with little bumps sticking out. Guys couldn’t believe it and walked around with more woodies than usual.

Patricia always wore a bra. Little breasts notwithstanding, her bra was on. I wanted her to be braless. I wanted to see her hard nipples under her shirts in public. And there was absolutely no way Pat was showing those nubs to anyone but me or the girls in the locker room.

Eventually she changed from the hard white bullet bras to the new style “braless bra” with shear material and no seams or lace that the manufacturers came up with for women like Pat. So there’d be a hint of nipple every once in a while.

I could dream.

…..

I’m not sure how long it took for us to stumble upon blow jobs. But I know the first time was in my car one night. Her parents’ house was down an affluent stretch of land, miles from anywhere, the last house on a cul de sac in the woods, facing the Long Island Sound. We were parked a ways up from her driveway when we decided to try. She took out my dick. And looked at it. We both looked at it. She looked at me. And she bent her head down and put her tongue on the tip of my penis’ head.

And I came all over her mouth.

She choked a little, sat up grinning and giggling, scooped a little in her mouth, and Patricia kissed me the deepest, wettest, tongue kiss she’d ever given me. ?

…..

Patricia would sneak up behind me when I was pissing. She’d reach around and hold my cock and shoot the pee in any direction she chose. She wanted to watch me piss outside against a tree. She wanted to lick me afterwards. I liked to watch her pull her panties down and squat next to the tree and let it rip. I licked her afterwards. ?

…..

We were home on school break and went to see the Rolling Stones in “Gimme Shelter.” But on our way we decided the theatre in Hicksville was too far away.

During a winter break my dad had been looking at the movie ads in the paper with me and pointed out that the Walt Whitman Mall had just broken a record by playing a picture for eleven weeks. I ignored him the way a twenty year old always ignores his father. On our way to see the Rolling Stones in “Gimme Shelter” we decided Hicksville was too far away and we detoured to the mall.

No wonder it had broken records. The porn chic of the 70’s had finally reached the suburbs with “The Stewardesses,” in 3-D no less. Pat and I looked at each other and, neither of us having ever seen a “stag” film before, went in.

“What if we know someone?” she asked as we gave the tickets and received our cardboard, red and blue, 3D glasses. I was a guy, wanted to see some on-screen, naked women, real sex, and I didn’t really care.

“We won’t.” “But what if?” “We won’t.”

The theatre was packed. I mean, full. We got the last two seats, in the middle of the second row. And I should tell you that as harrowing as any movie can be from that close, try a fuck film in three dimensions where the shots are set up for maximum effect (or maybe, affect). It’s almost dangerous to have a women facing you with huge, hanging gazongas, her holes being pounded like crazy from behind. In 3-D those hooters are flying over your head and you feel like if one of them wacks you, your skull will separate from your spine.

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