Learning to juggle

I started masturbating at age thirteen (back off, pervs). It seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Even though our family was very repressed -- I swear my parents only had sex three times, resulting in me and my two siblings -- I was fascinated by my body, its urges, the changes I felt coming over me, and the outside world saturated with sex. The bad girls in school fascinated me, even though I was, sadly, a very good girl. But late at night, when the house was quiet and dark, I would lie in bed and explore. When I accidentally found my clit and got my first baby orgasm, I was hooked. One night my mother burst into my room, as was her wont, and found her eldest daughter naked and spread wide, fiery pubic hair and all, hands down in private parts. I could see her blush even in the dark. She closed and door and stomped off, never saying a word.

I'd fantasize about guys and none more so than Steve. He was tall, with wavy dark hair and wine-dark eyes and that indefinable and unlearnable gift called "cool." In a high school of suburban achievers, he was a hood: ran with the wrong crowd, spent lots of time in the city, drank and dealt pot, rode a rice rocket and drove a hot car. And yet he was very funny and clever when he chose to be, much more mature in many ways. I had a monster crush on him even as I spent my senior year in a steady relationship with Mike. Steve was a year older and unapproachable (I didn't have the confidence I would later acquire, or realize the power of even average-looking women). Steve noticed me, especially when I wore my cheerleader outfit. But we barely knew each other. He was also pussynip in the way of certain dangerous guys and never lacked girlfriends. As I moved into cocksucking with Mike, keeping my virginity technically intact, sometimes I imagined I was fellating Steve the bad boy.

I went to Boston for my first year of college while Mike stayed in Seattle, attending school there. We visited each other and that summer I lost my virginity to him. No complaints there; he was the perfect starter boyfriend. Definitely cute and with a future. Other girls envied me. But one night at the supermarket, I ran into Steve. He knew my name. We talked and he asked me out. My panties were getting wet just standing there.

The next night I wore a little black dress and he wore torn jeans. He took me across the floating bridge into Seattle on his motorcycle, my dress flopping wildly and no doubt revealingly, my clit feeling the vibration of the bike, my arms wrapped around his muscular middle. We bar hopped through Pioneer Square, him drinking three beers for every one I sipped. When we ended up at his apartment in an old four-story brick building in an iffy neighborhood (now gentrified), it just seemed a given. He didn't ask my permission as he put his strong hands on my shoulders and guided me into his bedroom. It was little more than a futon on the floor with iffy sheets, but I was dizzy with arousal. We'd been making out in the bars and he was an incredible kisser, a little forbidden cigarette smoke on his breath.

I was soon down on the futon, my panties tossed aside, black dress still on and his dick pushing into my recently virginal pussy. My breath went out with an "oooph" and my pussy walls alternately opened and tightened. God, it felt good. My abstract brain was thinking: Moving very fast here...second lover in two months... The rest of me just wanted to be fucked, which Steve did expertly. He raised himself on his arms and danced his pelvis up and down, swiveling. This was definitely not Mike. I was moaning and having little orgasms when he came with a loud moan and collapsed on top of me, falling asleep. I just ran my hands through that dreamy hair and thought, wow. In an hour, he was ready again and I sucked him off. He recovered in no time and got the dress off, worked over my breasts and nipples and fucked me more.

That's how much of the summer went: juggling Steve and Mike. I felt guilty but always aroused. More than once I slept with one while the other's semen was inside me...I was a sore Susie some weekends. It was impossible not to compare the two, from anatomy to how they loved on me. Steve taught me to fuck with my legs over his shoulders, doggy style. He'd fuck me like I wasn't there, and then like I was the only woman in the world. It was a scary magnetism. Mike was solid and dependable, sweet. But there was the backbeat of expectations: come home and go to college here, visit his parents, get married, have kids. Steve didn't give a shit. He just wanted to fuck. Neither one lasted. I went back to Boston and entered a life that Mike couldn't have handled ("Sorry, Honey, it's classified. How was your day?"). I wasn't going to be Steve's biker chick, either. Last I heard, he was serving ten years for drug dealing. And Mike got married, had kids, got divorced, remarried. But sometimes, when the night is right and I see a couple of kids on a motorcycle, I think of Steve and he still thrills me.