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When I was 34 years old I joined the State
Department. I was assigned to work as an accountant in a small Embassy in
a remote African country. There were about 20 Americans at the Embassy,
including six marine guards who were responsible for security. I was one
of three single women employees; the rest were men, mostly married, except
for the marines who were all about 20 years old.
I'm no beauty queen; I'm tall, big-boned, near-sighted, and my personality
is typical of my profession, by which I mean I'm more comfortable with my
head buried in a book than in a party dress. But I stay in shape and I'm
open and friendly and I flatter myself that I'm urbane and sophisticated.
Before I joined the State Department my love life had been mediocre. One
10-year marriage and two long-term relationships ended with a whimper
rather than a bang. Three one-night stands were interspersed among the LT
relationship, and they had all been wonderful, perhaps showing me the
direction my sex life should go, although I still too dumb to realize
that.
At the Embassy my love life went from unexciting to non-existent. After
six months there my scorecard showed no dates, no sex, and no prospects of
either.
On my 35th birthday a girlfriend and I went out for Happy Hour at the
Marine House, a large rambling villa where the Marines lived. They had a
bar and a pool room in the basement and sold beer. We drank and played
pool and flirted with the young marines -- and the next thing I knew I
woke up in a bedroom with one of the Marines sleeping next to me. I didn't
even know his last name.
The sun was streaming through the window into the small bedroom as I lay
on the bed naked. I didn't know where my clothes were and I had to pee.
The door was closed, but I could hear other marines outside the room
walking up and down the halls and talking to each other, and even the
rattle of pots and pans by the cook in the kitchen. I was trying to decide
what to do when my bed partner woke up, rolled over, and, with hardly a
word, climbed on top of me and slid his penis inside me. He entered me so
easily that I realized I was still dripping wet from the night before.
Vaguely, I recalled that he had spurted sperm inside me two or three
times.
My tongue thick, my head aching, and my bladder full, I should have been
humiliated. I was lying on my back on a bed in the brightness of day while
a boy I barely knew -- 15 years younger than me -- lay between my legs and
thrust his broom-stick penis up my vagina. Momentarily, I wanted to pull
away from him and run. But where? Out into the hallway? Naked?
With no other options, I submitted. He took a long time, pumping
mechanically back and forth, straining to cum, still empty after the night
before. He paused and said a few nice words to me and, suddenly -- a
sucker for sweet nothings -- I felt a twang of pleasure, and then more
pleasure, and I began to move with him and soon I had my first man-made
orgasm in more than six months. It was a good one. When we had both
finished and he rolled off, I relaxed happily and, suddenly, all the pee
inside me spilled out and soaked him and the bed.
He jumped up cursing and wiped pee off himself with a sheet and shouted
that I had to go. He opened the closet door and threw my clothes at me. I
dressed while he stripped the bed and mopped up pee and when I went out
the door he didn't even turn his head to say goodbye. It had not been a
romantic experience -- but, on reflection, it hadn't been that bad either.
The marine was an immature asshole, but I had gotten laid, and I told
myself I had performed pretty well. If only I hadn't had to pee so badly.
A lesson learned. And another was that I wasn't going to find love and
romance while working in a small country in Africa, so I had better be
satisfied with sex. In other words, after long years of being a good girl
who restrained her horniness, I decided to become a slut.
I'm now 50, so it's been 15 years since my night with the Marine. I've had
sex with 120 men. Most of them were one- or two- or three- night stands.
My rule of thumb is: if I like a man and he's willing, I fuck him -- and
not a few times that's happened minutes after meeting him.
Not that I don't have standards. I don't have sex with men I work with;
nor married men whose wives are present in the same town; and I only fuck
young Marines when I'm desperate -- and they feel the same way about me,
especially as I grow older.
Most of the men I'm had sex with are the people who come to the Embassy
for a week or two to work: security, repairs, research, auditing, medical,
etc. They're usually married -- but their wives are thousands of miles
away -- and they're fair game. One man I'm especially fond of has showed
up 10 times over the last 15 years and we've enjoyed a couple of nights
together on every one of his visits. But that's another story.
Not being beautiful or young, I've worked on my technique. My specialty is
"Around the World." Start with a nervous or tense man -- nearly all
married men are -- and work your way over his body, touching and tasting
every part of him. Fifteen minutes of Around the World and a dead man
would stand up like a flagpole. Not that I've ever had sex with a dead man
-- although some were nearly dead. The oldest man I've fucked was 68 and
the youngest was 19.
I've suffered through lean times -- months without a man -- but I had one
wonderful vacation in Greece when I had sex with 6 beautiful men in 18
days. I can't say that my sex life is ideal. I still dream of having a man
to come home to every day, but I doubt that's going to happen. In the
meantime I'm not going to lose any opportunities by being hard-to-get.
That's the life of a slut. I chose it and I'm not sorry that I did. At
least, I've got some good stories to tell. |
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