Cape Cod memories

Work just took me to Cape Cod. It was wintery and icy, with the ocean the color of lead. Despite this, the landscape brought back an amazing sense memory. I was 21, in college in Boston, with long red hair and, as a girlfriend said, a body to die for. In the late spring, a boyfriend and I spent a long weekend on the Cape. Everything was blooming and the sea was a deep blue, mirroring the cloudless sky. It wasn’t crowded with tourists yet, just enough people that things didn’t seem as desolate as the past few days in real time. He was tall, dark, athletic build, magical mind. He had dark, curly hair and a dick with a thick shaft and small head, which created an interesting sensation when he was inside me. We took a bag of books to read but ended up fucking what seemed the entire three days. I don’t think I read a thing.

The “tone” of the trip was set when we found a secluded beach, laid down a blanket and screwed. I had on a denim miniskirt, and he – a great kisser, this one – laid next to me and kissed my lips, face and neck while his fingers found their way inside my panties. By the time he pulled them off, they were wet and I was panting. He stripped off his jeans and slipped inside, riding me at an easy pace even though I was already moaning loudly, right on the edge of coming. The nature all around, from the sea bird calls to the breeze to the openness of the terrain only added to the arousal. My skirt was hiked up on my hips and he raised my legs over this shoulders and really started fucking me. The feeling of his balls against my hips was incredible. I came with a scream, which only added to his momentum. He moaned, shuddered and collapsed on top of me. We held each other with the ardent passion that only comes with youth and then laid side-by-side, staring up at the puffy clouds that had started to roll by. It didn’t take him long to get hard again, and I gave him a long blowjob; it certainly wasn’t given with the skill I later learned, but he didn’t complain. Those young balls gave me a nice full load that spurted all the way into my throat.

Later, we checked into a bed-and-breakfast and became notorious. As you know, dear reader, I am loud when I make love. It only took a couple of hours before there was a knock at the door and the yuppie-matronly owner told us to quiet down. Did I see a little smile in her eye? After that, I tried the “don’t wake the children” style that I imagine parents must learn, stifling my moans by biting my lower lip, and eventually screaming into a pillow as he was fucking me hard from behind. Oh, he wanted to fuck my virgin asshole, but I wouldn’t let him.

We ate lobster in Provincetown (I still have a picture of us wearing bibs and looking goofy). We were, ahem, in the minority as a straight couple. He dared me to pick up a girl at one of the bars, but I was too chicken then — even though I’d crossed that slutty threshold with Pam. It was tempting, though, and only added to the sexual vibe. I challenged him to pick up a guy; men were already eyeing him. "See how they're looking at your crotch?" I teased. He got all discombobulated, as men usually do, and refused.

The last morning, we made slow love in the bed of our notorious lodgings. Missionary style. My knees up and against him, and then my legs and feet resting against the backs of his thighs. The windows were open, birds were singing, and a cool breeze caressed our naked bodies. After he came and lay next to me, I thought: Could life get any better? Now I think, Was I ever that young? Back to the present, one night I did stop at a bar in Provincetown for a light dinner and a martini. I had a long talk with a woman next to me: Short blond hair, sweetheart face, buff body, about my age. As closing time approached, we made out a little — she had a snaky, inviting tongue — and she invited me to her house. I demurred. There’s a lot of truth to the old saw: What does a lesbian bring on the second date? A U-Haul. And I wasn’t looking to be her wife. Anyway, I was on the job.