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Her breasts were small.
Not that they in any way bothered me; I adored them. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about them for a couple of days.
I seem to have been lucky to not have noticed there was any woman that was my ‘type.’ I’ve never really worried about a particular hair color, nose size, or fashion style. In retrospect, there certainly have been commonalities. For a long time, among many other things, they were mainly tall, they were really nice, and they liked me. And for eight years they were all named Patricia.
(I don’t think the ‘Patricia’ thing was anything but coincidence, but it always makes for a provocative statement.)
This small breasts I’m talking about belonged to the second Patricia.
There were other reasons her breast size didn’t bother me, not all as flattering to me as “I didn’t really notice.” The first girl I felt up, at sixteen, was pretty flat chested. So was the first Patricia. This second Patricia was just the third or fourth woman who’d gotten naked for me, so it wasn’t surprising that her breasts were tiny. Other women I’d be with were much more built, but it didn’t matter. Actually, it still doesn’t matter. Any woman who takes her clothes off in front of me for intimate contact is sexy, beautiful, fantastic.
And Patricia, once we got it together, loved to have intimate contact with me. She just loved to fuck me, and I loved fucking her.
But let’s get back to her physical self, her body, because that’s what’s on my mind right now. Then we can get back to the fucking.
So, her breasts were small. Her face was small. Not small exactly, but narrow and long, and really pretty. Her torso was narrow too, downright thin, all leading to a really small waist. And an upper body that was the perfect setting for those cute little breasts with the just right sized, just right colored nipples. Nipples, that once we got to know each other, just begged to be fondled, licked, and bitten. They weren’t those gorgeous, puffy kind of nipples, they were those gorgeous, mature kind of nipples that just happen to be attached to gorgeous, mature, sexy little breasts. If you only looked at her above the waist, you’d figure Patricia to be about five four and a hundred pounds.
But her ass.
Her ass, her thighs, they were tremendous. Tremendous in every way that the word conjures up. Cheeks that were big, wide, round, kind of heavy. And they led to upper thighs that were just as enormous, until they tapered fast to calves and feet that were perfectly formed for the girl with the thin upper body with no breasts.
Now look, I know it sounds like I’m heading to a place where I’m saying I was repulsed by the big ass, and that’s the end of the story. But, in fact, just like her breasts, I didn’t really notice the big butt. Maybe she knew how to dress around it, I don’t know. Until one day she pointed it out. And even then I didn’t really give it a second thought. I loved her, I liked her, we had hot sex, what did I care? Once, we were listening to the radio and the oldie “Backfield in Motion” came on and she started a shy, embarrassed laugh. Me, I loved the record, but didn’t get what she was saying.
She said something like “My mother used to say this song was for me.” Huh? “The lyrics.”
Backfield in motion baby
You know it that’s against the rule.
Offside and holding yeah
You ought to be ashamed of yourself baby
I almost never listened to the words of a song (though now when I hear this one, they can’t be avoided). I felt kind of embarrassed for her, because in my repressed household my parents never, ever, ever, would have brought up such a thing to me or my sisters. Even though Patricia’s family was Roman Catholic I guess they were less puritanical. And anyway, it didn’t appear to bother her, she almost seemed bahis firmaları to enjoy it.
I don’t think I asked her to walk for me right then, so I could test her mom’s theory, but you can bet I looked from then on. And her mother was right. What a wiggle, what a shake, what a wobble. I could never again undress her without taking special interest when her panties came off. I could never again enter her from behind without grabbing on that luscious behind and bumping up and bouncing off her. And I could never again walk behind any other woman without noticing what she was shaped like, what she walked like, and wondering what she looked like back there. Never.
(In fact, one of the greatest girl-watcher nights of my life was the first Christmas party my first successful company threw. It was at a roller skating rink. Almost all the women were women I knew well and liked — I think even Patricia might have been there — and roller skating behind them all was sublime.)
Today, my only regret, a regret that probably everyone has about just about everything as they get older, was that I didn’t really know enough to make the most of Patricia’s fanny. How to make her know how much I loved it, how much more we could have done together with it. Not that we didn’t do plenty, maybe everything two people can do with a fanny, but, you know, now I have a deep desire to have even done more. I have a naked Polaroid of her dancing in one of my shitty apartments, facing front. And it’s enough to make me remember how she was put together and how great it was to see her naked. But it’s also enough to make me wish I had taken more pictures.
So look, enough. She had a truly fantastic ass. I’m not sure it completely matched her truly fantastic tiny breasts, but, you can’t have everything.
This all started with me thinking of those breasts, which got me to thinking about that ass, but the best thing they got me thinking about was the sex.
Patricia loved to fuck me, and I loved fucking her. Actually, I uncommonly loved her, and I uncommonly loved to fuck her, and she seemed to love it back. But I was her first, and our break-up was devastating to me, so maybe she didn’t groove with me as much as I thought. But, for my memory’s sake, I leave it at:
Patricia loved to fuck me, and I loved fucking her.
The variations of “fuck” might seem kind of crude in describing the coitus with someone I loved so much. It’s always seemed there was plenty of room for all the variations like “love making,” “sex,” and “the old in ‘n’ out,” and they accurately depict the way I’ve had intercourse with almost every woman I’ve been happy to be with, but when it comes to remembering sex with Patricia it’s really “fucking.”
The earliest existent memory I have of Patricia was her sitting in the back of my car between Laura and someone else constantly pulling up her knitted halter top over her tiny, bra-less breasts. We met because she worked with Laura, who had taken my mainly unrequited crush and turned it into a weekly situation where we would go out with a group of my friends or her friends, and then we would all become friends with each other. Over the course of a year Patricia and I became talking buddies and when she moved in with her grandmother in the city we started hanging out. One night when I was standing on her grandmother’s landing after spilling my guts out about Sally, who I thought maybe I loved, Patricia grabbed me and kissed me. Solid. On the mouth.
I don’t know what happened. It was amazing, stunning. You know that horrible Phil Spector record “He Hit Me and It Felt Like a Kiss?” It was like that but all turned around. “She Kissed Me and I Felt Like I’d Been Hit.” It was out of the blue, from nowhere, we’d really, truly, just been friends. I swear I kaçak iddaa did not think anything more, even when I stared at the halter top slipping. (I’m a guy. I look at any woman who’s calling attention to her breasts, even small breasts, even inadvertently.) At that point in my life, more of my friends were women than men, and even though a lot of my women friends were women I would liked to do something, anything with, Patricia, for some strange reason, wasn’t one of them. Until that kiss.
I took the subway home from Canarsie, a two hour trip late at night, in a complete daze. No girl had ever shown that kind of interest in me before. Even though I’d had sex they were still girls-turning-into-women until that moment. And maybe that kiss is when I started hanging with a woman.
Like it happens, from then on we were girlfriend and boyfriend. We hung out in the city and weekends we both went home to Long Island and hung out some more. We made out and that’s when she shyly and frighteningly told me she was a virgin. It was OK with me, I’d only lost my virginity a few years before. But she was a little embarrassed that she was twenty one, I guess she thought it was late, and that maybe I was too experienced to be interested. Yeah right. I’d never gone in for the idea that it’s better to screw a virgin, though as I look back I’ve always had a great time with more inexperienced women, but Geeez! She’d grabbed me and kissed me. I wasn’t going to let a little virginity get in the way of the woman who wanted to kiss me that much.
I couldn’t tell you how long it took for that virginity to be gone. At the time it probably felt like forever, but finally we made love in my loft bed in my apartment I had in Manhattan. I don’t remember if my roommate was home, but it didn’t matter. I remember a shy, sweet, loving, very sexual moment. Patricia was scared, a little, but not too scared to want it. She didn’t know what to do, but she laid naked on her back, let me guide the activities. When we were finished she smiled, big. Maybe we did it again. Maybe I’d like to think we did it again.
I don’t know how, but the shy, sweet, loving, very sexual moments animated into fucking real quickly. Patricia liked being together, she liked getting naked with me, she liked having her surefire orgasms. But none of it explains how we got to have such raw, passionate fucking kind of sex.
Like I’ve said, I’d had sex before. For four years after the first Patricia and I lost our virginity together we had done it every time we could everywhere we could. In the bedroom, on the patio, on the beach, in a car, in the back of a van. And we’d done all the in and outs two people could do. Her on the bottom, me on the bottom. Doggy style, standing up. In her pussy, in her mouth, in her ass. In her hand, in my mouth, up my ass. Bodily fluids. We did a lot. But, you know, we made love and had sex, it wasn’t fucking. We did all the dirty stuff, but it was about trying these new sex toys we had discovered, our genitals and our brains, and it felt incredible. We had the greatest time together, with and without sex, but I suppose once we’d done everything a few times, maybe we didn’t love each other enough.
In between Patricias there was sex with Angie and sex with Sally, maybe a feel up here and there. But I was still waiting.
One day I was inside Patricia (I’m back to Patricia number two) and I said something innocuous like “I love being inside you.” No big deal, but until then I had been a silent player in the game. I think that before I started having sex I’d had years of masturbating in my childhood bedroom and silent orgasm was the best defense against a prying parent or sister. And maybe I’d said something to someone in some bed. But when I talked out loud to Patricia she reacted. She moaned, she gushed, she writhed, I don’t kaçak bahis know what exactly, but it was something to let me know she was more turned on than she was before I talked.
So I talked again. Maybe it was a little more. “I love having my cock inside you.” More sensuous contortions. “My dick loves moving in and out of you. It’s moving faster. Faster.” She’s moaning big now. She pushes my hand between us to rub her. “Patricia, I don’t know how deeper my prick can go. I feel like it’s about to explode. Inside you. Deep.” My hand is moving, my cock is moving, my girl is rocking. We both come big.
And it was like the kiss all over again. “She Fucked Me and it Felt Like I’d Been Hit.” There’s nothing that can replace the moment you lose your virginity, but I can tell you now, that the moment of that orgasm was, well, it was, that’s what it was.
From then on we talked, both of us. What could be said, what buttons could we push to trigger an orgasm? It was harder for her, she was a girl, she was Catholic, but just like sex, once she started, she couldn’t stop. Once she was thinking dirty, talking dirty, she wanted more, and better, and more still. I say dirty, because that was definitely an element. But it was more than just that, it was an in describable thing that moved it past the sex and past the making love and all the way to what I’ve been saying it was. Fucking.
And that’s how we did it. Like fucking animals. It began kind of easy, like I said, but, really, what did I know? I’d started this thing and Patricia was looking to me to be her sex guide, and I knew the positions I knew the words, but I sure didn’t know much else.
I started searching. She seemed to get wet when I said “cock” and got really wild with “dick” but “prick” held absolutely no magic. “Pussy” made hers leak like a faucet, and since it was the age of feminism and I was sure I was feministly correct I was a little frightened to go anywhere further, except eventually it was clear that “cunt” really took her to sea.
So it started with dirty words and was unbelievably incredible, but soon I realized that that was just the beginning. “What would you like me to say?” started leading to orgasm inducing suggestive descriptions of off-color situations which led to smutty personal characterizations which led to lewd storytelling where one of us was in an extreme, obscene, and thoroughly nasty sexual situation where the only escape was a vulgar, happy, hissing “I’m cccoomminggg.”
Believe it or not, being that it was twenty five years ago, I cannot remember the yarns Patricia spun me to turn me on. But I can recall a lot of the situations that made her squirm. She liked stories where she watched a man masturbating. Stories with a lot of naked men standing around her rubbing their dicks while she was masturbating. She particular enjoyed them spurting come while three of them plowed her holes. There were others. My earlier sexploits seemed to juice her, and she moaned and hollered when she heard the one where she was ravished when a loving stranger encountered her outside the elevator.
Just to be clear, the dirty talk and the stories weren’t all there was to our sex life, it was just that they were the key to the fucking part of it. I loved asking her to undress for me, turn around so I can see your ass, save your bra for last. It made me so hard when she tugged my clothes off before sex. We discovered sexy lingerie together, even though it was way politically incorrect for the day (she really liked black lacy stuff) and she started enjoying vibrators and double headed dildos. I couldn’t get enough of those petite breasts and she swooned when she realized that her finger in my ass made me come fast.
But you know, when it’s was all said and done, it was the talking that made the fucking. The talking, those breasts, and that ass. When she left me for my best friend, and she told me that she talked to him to turn him on, all I could remember was the talking, her breasts, and her big, ole, swingin’, swayin’, please let me fuck your ass.
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