Re: Proof Reading Sex Stories

by Mat Twassel

Re: Proof Reading Sex Stories

Dear Celeste,

The other evening I noticed one of your reviews of internet sex stories: you offered a sex-story proof-reading service. How does that work? I'm not sure I need proof-reading so much as I need advice on how to write a sex story. Let me explain.

Laura is the prettiest girl in my Intro to Philosophy class. She's medium-short with long legs and breezy hair and a figure pert and clean. She sits way down in the front row of the lecture room, and I sit far in the back, but she's so special no one could help but notice her. Of course I figured she's way out of my league, probably a sorority girl with tons of boyfriends or someone ultra-serious and special in her life; not the kind of person to give a second thought to someone like me, an ordinary freshman guy, the kind who went the whole of high school too timid to talk to girls much less ask one for a date. So I was awfully surprised when Laura came up to me as I was walking out of that Intro to Philosophy class.

"I liked what you said about Newcomb's problem," she said.

"It was just a question, really," I stammered.

"Well, it was a good question," she said. "The one I wanted to ask myself except I was too shy."

"You don't seem like the shy type," I said. That was about the boldest thing I'd ever said to a girl.

"Well appearances can be devastating," she said, and we laughed and started walking together. It turned out we both had free periods before next class, so we stopped in a little coffee place on the edge of campus and had a couple of cups of hot cocoa. Over the next two weeks, the after-class walk and the hot cocoa became a routine. But routine is completely the wrong word for it. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

In the coffee-house, Laura and I would talk about all sorts of things: the material of that philosophy class, mostly: ethics and morals and whether angels painted their toenails; but also we discussed ordinary stuff—what kind of cookies our moms baked, for instance, or what it was like learning how to ride a bicycle, or how it felt to bury our pets when they died. I studied the philosophy texts extra hard so I'd feel at least a little more comfortable talking with her— she was certainly much smarter and more widely read than me. Sometimes she teased me when I hadn't heard of someone, Abelard or Camus or Kant—well, I'd heard of Kant but I didn't know the first thing about him ... except his name. Emanuel, wasn't it? Laura seemed to like teasing me. But sometimes minutes would go by with us just sitting up on those coffee-house bar-stool type chairs around a tiny round table sipping our cocoa and letting our feet dangle and not saying much of anything. I'd watch Laura drink her cocoa, and she'd think her thoughts. I loved the way she'd press her fingertip into the dollop of floating whipped cream, swirl it around a bit, then transfer a taste of froth— fingertip to tongue. Eventually she'd take a full sip, leaving a light fuzz of foam above her upper lip, and then after a while, perhaps unconsciously, Laura would swipe off the milky fuzz with the side of her tongue, or suck it off with her lower lip, or best of all just leave it there. I wouldn't have minded tasting that cocoa-and-cream foam on her upper lip.

As far as my own cocoa was concerned, that little mound of whipped cream got in the way. One day I thought maybe I should offer it to Laura, but I wasn't quite sure how to go about this. If she'd accepted, then what would I do: scoop it out with my bare hands and plop it in her cup? No, I'd have to ask the waitress for a spoon, and I hate bothering waitresses. I truly wouldn't mind Laura using her fingers in my cocoa, not that I'm all that fastidious about my food, but I do have some manners. Anyway I couldn't figure out the right words. "Do you want my cream?" didn't seem quite proper, so rather than make a fool of myself, I said nothing.

I'm not sure where Laura would go after our coffee-house time. I had a physical chemistry lecture, and Laura remained sitting at our table. I'd have to hurry to get to the chem building in time; and then concentrating on the lecture was a chore. I'd catch myself thinking of Laura, wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking, whether there was any chance she was thinking of me.

After chem lecture I'd stroll slowly back to my dorm for lunch, and I'd promise myself that at the next philosophy class I'd gather enough courage to sit next to Laura. It was a promise I'd made and broken for the last three classes. I'd get there early, but invariably I'd settle into my usual place way in the back where I felt safe. Initially I had hoped she'd choose to sit in the back with me, or even better that she'd ask if I didn't want to sit up front with her, but neither of those things happened. Maybe the idea of us sitting together just didn't occur to her. Or maybe she didn't want to sit next to me. Or maybe she was waiting for me to make the move. If I could be brave enough to sit next to her, I thought, why then maybe later in the coffee- house I'd be brave enough to ask her to go out ... to lunch or dinner or a movie or maybe just for a walk. Something. Anything. Still, I was overjoyed with what we had. The semester was barely underway. I figured I still had some time. I didn't want to be rash and ruin anything.

You're probably wondering what all this has to do with sex-stories. Sorry to be so poky about getting to the point.

Angels. It started with angels. In the coffee-house this morning after class, Laura and I were talking about the expectations and preconceptions we'd had about philosophy.

"Is it what you'd thought it would be?" she'd asked me.

"I don't know," I said. "I knew so little about philosophy. Only that it sounded grown-up. What about you? Are you disappointed?"

"A little," Laura admitted. "I guess I was expecting something more meaningful, more relevant."

"Like what?" I said.

"Existentialism and stuff," Laura said. "You know: Rolling boulders up a hill. Making deals with the devil. Understanding the meaning or meaninglessness of life. Instead it's like we're trying to count angels dancing on the head of a pin." She swirled her forefinger through dark chocolate foam, took her finger out and brought it to her lips. I noticed her fingernails were neatly trimmed and shiny smooth.

"I wonder what kind of dances those angels do," I said.

Laura rewarded me with a little laugh.

"I imagine they know some divine little steps," Laura said.

It seemed to me Laura was pretending to be more cheerful than she felt.

"What kind of shoes do you suppose they wear," I said. "Ballet slippers?"

"Hot yellow Capezios," Laura said.

"What are those?" I asked.

"Or else they go barefoot," Laura continued. "If I were an angel, I'd go barefoot. Why wear shoes when you can fly?"

"Would you paint your toenails?" I asked. "If you were an angel?"

She thought about it. "Probably," she said. "If you're not wearing shoes, painted toenails make a lot more sense. And if you're an angel, what else are you going to do between dances and carols and cooking God's supper?"

She said this lightly, but I knew she was glum. I should have asked what's wrong, but I was afraid. Maybe she was getting her period or something like that.

"Do you paint your toenails?" I asked.

"Not since I gave up angel-hood," she replied. "How about you?"

She grinned at me, and I didn't know what to say.

"Don't worry," she said then, "I won't make you take off your shoes."

"Thanks," I said. I was pleased with the way I said "thanks." I thought it sounded sort of grown-up.

"When I was a little girl once I used my mother's lipstick on my toenails," Laura said. "That was serious fun."

"Was your mother mad?"

"Not mad enough to spank me."

"Did you get spanked much?"

"Sometimes, when I was bad."

I couldn't imagine Laura being bad. Maybe mischievous, but not bad. I wanted to ask about the bad things she did. Instead I asked about the lipstick. "What color was it?" I asked.

She thought for a while. "I don't think I could read back then," she said. "Sunset-Peach, probably."

"Is that a real lipstick name: Sunset-Peach?"

"Sure," Laura said. "Lipsticks have the weirdest names. Red Red Raven. Ballpark Honey. Ballistic Pink. All-The-Way Red. Ruby Dooby Dew."

"You're making these up?"

"Not really." she said. "Want to know my favorite?"

"What?"

"All-Day-Cinema Pink."

"That does sound neat."

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind trying that, but I don't think they make it any more. I also like Hot-Apricot. Sky's-the-Limit. And Mumbo-Jumbo, which can also be used for barbecue sauce."

"You ARE making these up, aren't you?"

"No, honest."

"What lipstick do you use?" I asked.

"None, usually ... Well, when I'm really really serious about my lips I'll smear on a little Philosopher's Puce," Laura said. "And when I'm feeling a touch naughty, Playing with Pussy Pink."

I blushed.

She stared.

"It looks a little like that," she said.

I blushed deeper.

She smiled.

"You're not very experienced with this boy-girl stuff, are you?" she said.

Ah, Celeste, I suppose I should have mumbled "yes" or "no" or "I don't know," but her eyes were strangely hot, peculiarly beseeching.

"I know some stuff," I said hesitantly.

In fact my sexual experience had been limited to self- exploration and the words and pictures found in bookstores and on-line. I didn't know what to say—What could I say? That I knew something about masturbation?

"I've, um, written some stories," I said.

"Stories?" she asked.

"Sex-stories," I said.

Her eyes seemed to find this interesting. Deep-down I felt certain she knew it was a lie. I'm not a good liar. Maybe that is why I'm not too good at concocting sex fantasies. Words or hands, either one, get in the way.

"Have you had any stories published?" Laura asked.

Oh-oh, I thought. "Um, just on the Internet," I said.

"Oh," she said.

I tried to remember what we'd been talking about. Angels. I felt alone and lost, frail and uneasy, as if I were floating way off the ground in a haze of bright light, but with fog all around. Everybody could see me, and I couldn't see anything.

Laura looked at her watch. "Shouldn't you be going?" she said. "Else you'll miss your chemistry."

"I guess so," I said. I stood up. I didn't want to leave her, but I felt she was willing me to go. Or else she wanted me to stay. I wasn't sure. She stood up.

"You know what?" she said.

I didn't know. She lifted her face, touched my bottom lip with both of hers. Our lips touched for just an instant. There was a slippery hint of pressure. And heat. And everything, everything I ever wanted. And then she was a few inches away again.

"You're sweet," she said. "You should put me in one of your stories sometime. That might be fun."

I stood there. I wanted to kiss her again. I wanted to kiss her always and everywhere. But I didn't have the least idea how to go about it. The last thing I wanted to do was leave. But that's what I did. I said, "Bye, I guess," and then I turned and walked out of the coffee-house and down the street which led back to campus and chemistry. As I walked, I thought about the heat of her lips, and I shivered.

So that's it. Now I have to put her in a sex story. And I'm afraid to go about it. Laura needs to be in a poem, not a sex story. But God, I have no hope there; none at all. I need help, Celeste. Help.

***

I should have sent this to you. I know I should have. I wanted to include at least the idea of a sex story, at least a sketch, a scene, something. Maybe you would have put me on the right track. Instead, all weekend I thought about sex stories. About the kind of sex story which might please Laura. I wrote a few lines—an attempt to describe Laura, but they didn't look right. My poor words weren't what she was. How do you say about someone's lips that they're soft and firm and hot and icy and that just the idea of them touching ... touching each other makes you tremble? And when you add the air of her kiss, the breath which comes out of her, well, my imagination failed me. I thought about Laura putting on her lipstick. What would it feel like, that slim stick of slick colored grease sliding over the skin of her lips? Is it anything like a kiss? When you're wearing lipstick does it feel like you're walking into a warm wind? I wondered if next Monday at the coffee-house I'd be brave enough to ask Laura more about lipstick. Lipstick and kissing. Then I figured maybe I'd better not, or she'd get the idea that I was hung-up on lipstick. Sex and lipstick. Still, it'd be nice to watch her putting it on. And for a while I tried to imagine the specifics of Laura touching the lipstick to her lips while getting ready for her date. Those thoughts made me nervous. Well, sure she goes out on dates. She'd hardly be one to stay at home all weekend studying chemistry and reading philosophy and thinking about girls, I mean boys. I stopped. It's a funny thing about imagination—it doesn't go into reverse very well. I found I couldn't make Laura rid herself of the lipstick: scrub it, or blot it, or rub it, or whatever one does to get it off. Ah, well ... one thing for sure, Laura's date wasn't with me.

While my roommate was at the football game with his girlfriend, I risked logging on to the Internet. I read a few sex stories, hoping to get some ideas. I didn't really get any ideas. I got hard a few times, but that wasn't what I was looking for.

Monday morning I walked into the philosophy lecture room once again vowing to sit next to Laura. Perhaps, side by side in those small amphitheater-style seats our legs would touch. And afterwards as we walked to the coffee-house, she'd let me take her hand. Her fingers would touch mine. We'd hold hands. Our arms would swing easily, happily. At the coffee-house we'd order our cocoa, and I'd tell her—I'd tell her that I didn't really write sex stories. And she'd smile happily and say "I knew that!" and then she'd lean over and give me another kiss. Maybe a little kiss followed by a longer one. I was resolved.

She wasn't there.

I felt peculiar. Almost sick. Empty. How could this be? I was worried. Was she ok? Was she ill? Had something horrible happened? I scanned every face in the lecture room. I thought of a million things. What was wrong? Where was she? Why? Did it have something to do with me? With what happened last Friday?

A minute before the hour was to begin, certain she wasn't going to show up, on some strange impulse I got up and scooted down the aisle and sat in Laura's seat. A couple of kids probably thought I was queer, but I didn't care.

I had a hard time concentrating on the lecture, though. I kept thinking maybe Laura would walk in late. She'd be so happy to see me, she would slip into the empty seat by my side and put her hand on top of mine, just for a moment, and the world would be wonderful. After about ten minutes, when this hadn't happened yet, I thought maybe she'd taken my seat way in the back. Maybe she didn't want to disturb the lecture. I didn't dare turn around to look for fear I'd break the spell. The hell with rational thought, I said to myself: Intuition is more vital. Then I promised God that if only Laura were there I wouldn't masturbate for a week. That should clinch it!

As I stood up after class and casually turned around, I knew she'd be there, smiling at me, a bright wide grin, so teasingly happy, so obviously pleased. "You silly boy," her smile would say, "Did sitting in my seat let you feel what it's like to be me? Feel the essence of my inner being, my secret thoughts, my fears and hopes, my history and habits and etcetera? You silly boy." I knew she'd be there; I knew it in my bones and in my heart. But of course both my bones and my heart were wrong.

I hurried to the coffee-house. For another giddy moment I convinced myself I'd find her sitting at our usual table, waiting for me, that big silly smile on her face, and I felt weak and wonderful at the prospect. "Did you miss me?" she'd ask. And I'd grin at her, and take her hand, and she'd stand up, she'd just sort of float into my arms, into a sweet hard hug, and then we'd kiss, and her lips would be hotter than hot cocoa. We'd melt against one another, and her tongue would taste of warm chocolate, and lightly lightly we'd feel the want of each other. We'd ... Well, why go on—she wasn't there. I didn't really think she would be. That would have been a miracle. Or something.

I ordered a cup of hot chocolate anyway. The waitress had forgotten the lump of cream. I put my finger in the cup. It felt familiar and at the same time unlike anything in my experience. I sat there. All through chemistry class I sat in the coffee-house letting the cocoa go cold.

In the afternoon I decided I'd better find out. There was no way I could wait until Wednesday, our next class. Not that I thought Laura was in danger ... but still .... I started going through the University phone book circling all the Lauras. It might have taken forever, but I remembered that our University phone directory is on-line. I found eleven Laura's, seven of them undergrads, and I was pretty sure, don't ask me why, that Laura Eden was the one. I was prepared to call them all, really I was. After dinner.

***

Celeste, you probably think I didn't call.

It was about the bravest thing I've ever done. "I'll recognize her voice," I told myself. I can always hang up. I'll just say. I'll just ....

A guy answered.

"Um, is Laura there?" I said, trying not to squeak.

"Just a sec," he said.

I heard the phone clunk against some furniture. Then he came back on. "Who's calling?" he said.

"Adam Renner," I said, swallowing.

"Adam Renner!" I heard him echo. His voice made me feel small and hollow. Like a little bird.

I waited. My heart hammered.

"Hello?" someone said. It was her.

"It's uh, Adam, from your philosophy class?"

She didn't say anything.

"I was wondering why you were, um, that is, when you weren't in class this morning, I thought ..." This wasn't going well.

"I just wondered if you were ok," I said.

"Yeah, pretty ok."

"You sound a little sad."

"Do I? No, I'm not."

"That's good," I said.

I waited, hoping she would say something. She didn't.

"Will you be ... I mean, would you like my class notes? From today? I could type them up and e-mail them to you or something."

"Type them up?" she said.

"Should I do that?" I said.

"You would do that?"

"Sure."

"You are so sweet," she said. "Why don't you just come over."

"Come over?"

"Come over."

I set right off, philosophy notebook tight in my hand. Laura lived more than a mile beyond the other side of campus. I walked fast. Sometimes I trotted. Sometimes I ran. I switched the notebook from hand to hand so the cover would stay dry. I tried not to think about too many things, just to get there, but I couldn't help wondering whether I was dressed ok. Whether I had I written something stupid in my notes. I tried not to think too much about the man's voice. About how I was dressed. About how sad Laura's hello had sounded.

An exposed outside stairway climbed Laura's two story building. I stood on the landing in front of her door, 2B, looking for a doorbell. Eventually I knocked. I feared the sound wouldn't carry through what looked like heavy wood, but soon enough I heard someone shout, "It's open, come on in." It was a girl's voice, not Laura's. I hesitated— suddenly almost certain I was in the wrong place. The doorknob was slippery. I tried to firm my grip. "Push hard if it's stuck," the girl's voice said. I pushed hard. The door popped open.

It was strange. A big bright living room empty of all furniture. No drapes nor blinds. Just a big bare window to the left looking out over Twilight Park, and inside bright bare walls and a gleaming bright hardwood floor and on the ceiling a sizable chandelier with dozens of flame-shaped bulbs grinning with glittery light.

A guy sat semi-sprawled against the facing wall. A girl sort of lay in his lap. The girl was not Laura. The guy was enormous. The girl was long and lovely. She was sipping from an old-fashioned Coke bottle and feeding the guy popcorn, and he was apparently reading a book. I stood in the doorway not knowing what to do, not knowing what might be expected of me. The girl plucked one piece of popcorn from the big ceramic bowl and poked it into the boy's mouth. It was almost as if she were feeding a baby bird, except this baby bird weighed close to 300 pounds.

"Shut the door and come on in," the girl said. She had red hair, fiery ringlets cascading all over the boy's lap. "I'm Rikka," she said, "and this oversized galoot is Bob."

"Hiya," said Bob.

I recognized him. Bob (Big-Guy) Guy, all-conference nose-guard from our football team. Even slumped against the wall he was immense, like a corn-crib or missile-silo or mountain-peak rising up over everything.

"You want Laura, right?" Rikka said.

I nodded.

"She's on the phone," Rikka said, "Want some popcorn while you wait?" Even across the room, her green eyes glittered with something I couldn't name, and it made me tremble.

"I'm Adam," I ventured.

"We know," Rikka said. And then to Bob she added, "Adam writes sex stories on the Internet."

"Cool," Bob said, looking up from his book.

"Say," Bob continued, "You aren't that Madam Adam, are you? I really dig her stuff."

"He's a guy, you boner-brain," Rikka said. "How could he be Madam Adam?"

"What do you mean?" Bob said.

Rikka pinched his nose.

"You think Madam Adam's not a guy?" Bob said.

Rikka didn't say anything. She just pinched Bob's nose again. Harder.

"Ow," Bob said. He caught Rikka's wrist. She put the little Coke bottle on the floor and used her free hand to pinch Bob's nose. She held on. "Take that Mr. Smarty Pants."

"Leggo," Bob said. She didn't. "Leggo," Bob said again. Rikka giggled and hung on. Bob moved his huge hand, took hold of one of Rikka's breasts, and squeezed. "Miss Smarty Tits," Bob said and soon Rikka let go of his nose.

"That hurt," Rikka said.

"You liked it," Bob said.

"Shows what you know," Rikka said. She sat up slightly, untucked the pale yellow work-out blouse from the matching sweat-pants, and pulled the bottom of her shirt-front all the way up. Her little breasts bobbled wonderfully in the empty air. I could see some red marks around the one Bob had pawed, and the small nipple, pale and plump.

"Want me to kiss it and make it better?" Bob offered.

"Ha!" Rikka said. She took hold of her Coke bottle, and for a moment I thought she might bash him. Instead she did the most wonderful thing. I don't know if I can describe it. She scooted herself forward on her bottom until she was a few feet from Bob. Her knees were up and she almost looked like she was kissing the top of her knee. And then, in slow- motion, she let her legs stretch out along the bare floor without taking her mouth from her knee—the far forward position of an especially supple sit-up. She stayed that way for a moment, stretched out soft and tight, as graceful a line as I've ever seen, and then she lay back, letting her head rest on the floor next to Bob's hip.

"Rikka?" Bob said.

Rikka brushed Bob's hand away from her face, and again in exquisitely slow motion, she brought her legs over her head, so now she was in the same position as before except upside-down, her back flat on the floor, her body folded over itself, at once elegant and exact, soft and smooth as cake batter, jack-knife slim and sleek.

Bob reached over, began to put his hand upon the pale yellow curve of her firm little haunch, but before he could touch her bottom, his fingers still an inch above the precision of her butt, Rikka simply snapped into standing. Her spring was unexpected and perfect and over in an instant, like a snake striking. I had never been this close to something at once so athletic and graceful.

"Sorry there's nowhere to sit," she said to me, brushing a waterfall of red hair away from her eyes. "We're thinking of painting."

"Oh," I said.

I tried to avert my eyes, but it was impossible to do anything other than fasten them upon Rikka's bold little breasts as she walked towards me. The right one had remained uncovered, its nipple tilted towards the light. The other nipple, still covered, poked hard against the cloth. Rikka, apparently unconcerned, handed me the Coke bottle. The glass was vaguely warm, half-empty, nowhere near as green as Rikka's eyes. I stood there, holding my philosophy notebook in one hand, Rikka's Coke bottle in the other. "I'm not all that thirsty," I mumbled.

Rikka chuckled. "So you write sex stories, huh?" she said.

I nodded, a single guilty nod. She stood only inches away, and her eyes blazed. Her exposed nipple seemed to twitch, to lift itself almost imperceptibly, and I remembered Rikka a moment ago kicking herself into the air. I shivered.

"I make you hard, don't I?" she said. Her voice had the barest hint of a laugh in it.

I nodded again.

"There is one thing I've always wondered," she said. Her green eyes were wide and gleaming. Her hands were doing something at my front, nimbly working the buckle, the snap, the zip.

"What I wonder is ..." She paused, and her eyes smiled a little, and I could feel air on my penis just before her top teeth caught the plump bottom of her lower lip. Her fingers gripped me, her touch was soft and hard, icy cool and wickedly hot at once, and her thumb brushed the top solemnly, smearing the skin of wet around and around.

"What I wonder is ..." Rikka repeated. Her fingers held a moment, then tightened and moved slowly, almost imperceptibly: the slimmest fraction of movement, excruciatingly intense.

She paused, offered the flicker of impish grin before her face turned serious. "What I wonder is ... does pre-cum have a hyphen?"

Then, grip full and firm, she whisked her fingers up and down, three or four brisk strokes, thumb still on top, trembling across my slit, and in no time I splattered hard and full and practically forever.

"There," Rikka said, and her grin grew wide again, and she freed her hand, letting my underwear snap hard against the head of my penis just as Laura came around the corner.

I ran.

Well, not ran exactly. First I twisted away from Laura's eyes, and then I tried to buckle myself up and open the door. I have no idea how I managed to do this without letting go of my notebook or the Coke bottle, but I did. I'm sure Laura saw me. Of course she saw me ... in all my gloriously hopeless shame. What can she think of me now? I couldn't imagine. Maybe she laughed. Maybe she cried. Maybe she thought nothing at all. I did not know. I did not know which would be the worst.

I stood outside at the edge of Twilight Park and watched Laura's window. I waited for something to happen. The window remained bright and golden, filled with the light of that flaming chandelier. I thought maybe someone would come to the window, or maybe the light would go off, but no one came to the window, and the light did not go off, and eventually I left.

As I trudged glumly back to my dorm, I tried to understand what had happened, but I couldn't make sense of it. If only Laura hadn't been so long on the phone. If only she could have come out twenty seconds earlier. I wondered who she was talking to. I wondered, too, if Laura had actually glimpsed my penis, the tip of its head peeking above the waistband of my underwear, gleaming with slipperiness. I thought: that detail shouldn't matter. And yet it did. It seemed to cement the disgrace. I was sure the smell of my semen must be all over the room, not just on Rikka's fingers.

Likely the three of them were laughing about me. "What a silly boy! He sure can't hold his sperm. Ha-ha. Ha-ha. Ha ha ha ha ha." I felt ashamed and slightly ill. Why were Rikka and Big-Guy Guy in Laura's apartment anyway? Helping her paint? How come I hadn't smelled any paint? How come I hadn't seen any buckets or brushes? And, if the phone were in Laura's bedroom, how come earlier Big-Guy answered?

About half-way home I began to feel indignant. It wasn't my fault that Rikka did what she did. No way could I have stopped her from walking towards me. I remembered the little tilt of that pale pink nipple ... It all happened so fast. I tried to slow things up, to put them in order, to figure it all out, but everything blurred together. Could I have stopped Rikka from reaching into my pants? I remembered her thumb circling, her fingers tight, stroking. Her teeth biting her plump lower lip. And then ... and then the look on Laura's face. Angry? Sad? Puzzled? I don't know.

It's not as if I had slipped my hand inside Rikka's pale yellow sweat-pants, into the slot of her sex. Found her clitoris between my fingers, and ... Oh, Celeste, how can I write a sex story when I don't even know what a clitoris feels like? How can I write a sex story when I don't even know what it feels like to touch someone's clitoris. When I don't even know what it feels like to have one's clitoris touched. Is it at all like an earlobe, or the tip of a nose, or a nipple, or the tippy-top of a penis? Does it feel like a dried pea, or something even smaller, scant seed? Maybe a pumpkin seed slippery with that semi-slick pumpkin goo? Or dry like a sunflower seed? But less elongated? Slightly fattened? A little knot of flesh, a mere nodule as small and hard and firm as an unpopped popcorn kernel? And beyond that: how does a clitoris feel to knead, to be kneaded? If my experience with Rikka is anything to go on, it's a million times better, I mean more exciting, to have someone touch you than to touch yourself. But does that apply equally to the clitoris? Does it swell so quickly then, and explode with feeling if not juice? Can I write a sex story without involving the clitoris? I'm sure you could tell me, Celeste, you could tell me everything I'd need to know about the clitoris. But would it do me any good?

By the time I'd reached the middle of campus I decided I'd write a sex-story after all. I'd show her! I sat down on the steps of the English Building, my underwear still sticky, and tried to think where to begin.

Rikka's popcorn bowl. Her fingers picking up a single piece of popcorn. So light and white, it must feel like nothing between her fingers. Slyly weightless, with a film of butter imparting a hint of slipperiness. And then into Big-Guy's mouth. She can feel the tip of his tongue against her fingertip. He can feel her fingertip with the tip of his tongue. Her fingertip, and then the morsel of popcorn. Fingertip. Tongue. Tongue. Fingertip. There must be a thousand or more morsels of popcorn in the bowl. And he's going to get them all, one by one. Would he rather have her take a whole handful and stuff them at once into his mouth much the way I imagine he'd eat them on his own? I can almost hear Rikka's voice telling Bob not to be greedy.

"One at a time is next to nothing," Bob insists.

"One at a time is all you're going to get," Rikka teases.

The next thing you know, Rikka is on her back, her hips turned up, her lower body bent way over herself, in that doubled-up, upside-down sit-up position: breasts squashed against thighs, face touching between the knees, one long smooth line of girl-body; only this time Bob Big-Guy Guy is on top of her, fucking her, his silo-fat cock jammed inside her girl-slim cunt, his cock coming and making her come. The image is there for a moment, there for the taking, wonderfully clear in my mind, and then it disappears. Bob is so big he's made Rikka vanish. I realize I know almost nothing about sex.

Surely Rikka and Bob have fucked. Maybe they have fucked so many times it's almost meaningless. Just another morsel of popcorn. A thousand fucks. Bob's cum filling Rikka's cunt. For him it's just another tackle. For her it's just another sit-up. There they are in that empty living room, fucking, while Laura is in her bedroom, talking on the telephone, her sweet lips whisper-close to those little holes, her ear gathering in the soft sounds of ... Maybe it's just her dad saying hi, while Big Bob's cum overflows Rikka's cunt, surges up into the red ringlets of pussy-hair, as he continues to fuck her and fuck her and fuck her. The sticky sex-juice drenches her.

Maybe that's what would have happened, if I hadn't rapped at the door, interrupting the flow of the evening.

"What happened?" Laura asks, moments after I've closed the door and scurried into Twilight Park.

"It was that Madam Adam guy," Bob says.

"Adam Renner," Rikka corrects him. "That shy sex story boy you were telling me about. He has a nice enough cock, but he comes awfully quick." Rikka wipes her hand on her bare breast and then pulls the shirt down. "I wouldn't have minded a little taste of him. I was about to kneel down and take him all the way out when he shot."

"Oh, Rikka!" Laura sighs.

"Well, I couldn't help it," Rikka says. "He was just too ... something. So innocently out of it. It made me mad. No, not mad. It made me ... It made me ... I don't know ... horny."

"You're always horny," Laura says, her hands on her hips.

"I know," Rikka admits. "I know ... I shouldn't have done it. But, really, I couldn't resist. It's not like I expected him to be the fuck of the century or anything, but Goodness-gracious-McGoo. What I really need now is a good hot fuck. What I'm gonna do is have Bob here fuck me. I'm gonna have him fuck me until there's no tomorrow. Wanna watch?"

"No thanks," Laura says. "I think I'll just take a shower."

Even with the bathroom door closed, Laura can hear Rikka and Bob. "Oh you're so big! Oh yes. Put it in. Put it in me now. Oh yes. Oh that feels good. Oh you fill me so good. Oh. Yes. Oh, baby, yes." Laura turns on the shower and the thin spattering sounds cover the sex words, and the steam quickly clouds the mirror. Laura pulls off her top, steps out of her trousers, slips off her socks, picks everything up and puts it all atop the toilet tank. Last she draws down her panties, adds them to the pile of clothing. She notices the tiniest circlet of moisture in the center of the crotch. She bundles the panties inside her shirt just in case Bob or Rikka should come in to pee while she's showering. She stands on tippy-toe to take two large fluffy towels from the top of the towel cupboard. She makes sure her bathrobe is on the hook of the bathroom door. It is. She swings the curtain aside, steps into the tub. The spray is hot and fine. It pelts down, a thin slow stream, hot, but without the volume she'd really prefer. She takes the soap from the soap dish and quickly lathers her shoulders and arms, and under her arms; her breasts, her belly, and the crack of her bottom. She rinses and then lathers again, turning herself in the hot spray, and then decides to wash her hair after all. She squirts a puddle of shampoo into her palm. "Is this what cum looks like?" she wonders, and she works the creamy shampoo into her hair, her eyes squinted shut, her shoulders tense. She bends into the spray and rinses out the soap. The water is still hot. The soapy water streams down between her breasts, across her belly, into the fat little wedge of pussy fur and then down between her legs. I shouldn't use so much soap, she thinks. She squirts conditioner into her palm and rubs it into her scalp. The water sprays against her breasts. Her nipples are soft and puffy. Her skin is red where the hot water has been striking. She steps back and lets the water caress her belly. She wonders if Rikka and Bob are done fucking. She reaches behind her and gently presses her middle finger a quarter inch into her asshole. It feels good. She works her fingertip in another quarter of an inch, not quite to the first knuckle. She thinks about what a boy's penis might feel like pushing against her hymen. She wonders what it might be like to take a boy's cock into her mouth, to feel it explode against the back of her throat. The water feels good against her belly. It is still hot. Her finger feels good where it is, especially when she clenches herself. She wonders if someday she will put it all the way in. She takes a deep breath, then takes the finger out of her behind, sniffs it briefly, finding no more than the shyly spiced scent of shampoo, and then she washes her hands in the hot spray. She rubs the conditioner out of her hair. The water is still hot. She lets it rain upon her for another minute, her back, her breasts, her face. The spray is little more than a mist. She opens her mouth, lets the drizzle play upon her tongue. It is almost too hot, and getting hotter. She turns off the water. She stands there dripping. There won't be enough hot left to shave her legs. She lifts her right leg and runs her fingers along the front from the knee down to the ankle, and then back up the back of her calf. Not too bad. It should last for another few days. A few beads of water sit on the top slopes of her breasts. With her fingertip she gives one a nudge. It flattens and flees. With the same fingertip she touches the flesh just above the nipple. She presses in slightly so that the puffed nipple leans against her finger. Her fingertip circles the nipple. There is just enough exposed nail to scratch the nipple skin. Laura contracts her center. The pleasure makes her lift her chin. She takes a deep breath, lets the air out slowly, and steps out of the tub, quickly takes a towel from the top of the sink and wraps it around her body above the breasts, then takes the other towel and gently pats her hair. "I feel so relaxed now," she says to herself, "So very very relaxed."

Maybe I should have just said "Laura takes her shower while Rikka and Bob fuck."

Mostly dry, Laura slips into her robe. She opens the door a crack. The air feels cool, especially on the backs of her legs below the knee-length terry-cloth robe. Laura turns and notices that the window is open an inch—tendrils of fog climb the frosted window-glass. She gathers her clothing in her arms. Barefoot, the robe loosely cinched about her, Laura steps into the hallway. No sound comes from the living room.

Laura steps barefoot down the hallway. Almost at the corner, she calls out, lightly, "Is the coast clear?"

There's no answer.

She's not absolutely certain she wants to see. "One living room surprise a night," she says to herself. "You guys better not be tricking me," she says aloud. She steps around the corner.

She sees Rikka, lying there spent and sticky.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

"I don't know," Rikka says sleepily. "I'm a sticky mess."

"But you're ok?"

"I guess," Rikka sighs. "I feel sort of like I took on the whole team. I feel sort of like I'm just one big puddle of cum."

"Is there anything I can do?" Laura asks.

"Maybe help me get into the shower?" Rikka says.

"Oh dear," Laura says. "I'm afraid I used up the hot water."

"Little piggy," Rikka says, a tired grin.

"I could wash you off a little bit," Laura says.

"Clean me up?" Rikka says. "That would be nice."

"I'll fill a bowl full of hot soapy water. You won't have to move a muscle."

"That sounds nice," Rikka sighs. "And do you think maybe you could ..." She trails off.

"What?" Laura asks.

"Do you think maybe you could shave me? Shave my pussy? I feel so sloppy and slutty. I want to be a little girl again." Laura takes the popcorn bowl to the kitchen and empties the last of the popcorn. Then she rinses the bowl with cold water. Next she fills the tea kettle with cold water and sets it on a burner to boil. Then she carries the popcorn bowl to the bathroom. She lets the water in the sink run until it's as hot as it's going to get, and then she sets the bowl under the spigot. While the bowl is filling, Laura finds a soft cloth, and then her razor, the double-edged Gillette that was her dad's, and she opens it up and shakes the old blade into the trash basket and unwraps the new blade and holding it carefully by the ends deftly fits it onto the razor and tightens the top down by twisting the fat handle, four succinct turns. Now the bowl is almost full, the water almost all the way up, mildly cloudy, the sound of water running into water strangely comforting. Laura twists the hot-water handle stopping the flow, all but two last drips, and then it's quiet. Laura picks up the wash cloth and puts it over her shoulder and then she sticks the shaving cream can under her arm, and with the razor in her fingers, she's still able to lift the water-filled basin and begin to carry it back down the hallway towards the kitchen.

The water is hot and clear now, all the cloudiness has eased away, and as Laura walks, the water wobbles. Could it be that she's nervous? The kettle is whistling in the kitchen. Sex juice is drying in Rikka's bright red pubic curls. Some of the water sloshes over the edge of the bowl onto Laura's light-gray bathrobe. It isn't much of a spill, not enough to burn her through the fabric of the robe, but it makes Laura overly conscious of her balance; and not wanting to spill again, she brings the bowl against her belly. This is probably a mistake—now the water sloshes over with each small step. Her robe becomes wet. She attempts to make an adjustment, and what happens is her robe begins to open. She stops too suddenly, and an over-sided splurch of exceedingly hot water flows down her belly, rushes through her pubic hair, trickles into the heart and heat of her pussy.

If Laura were to read this would she get excited, or would she think it foolishness? Forgive me, Laura, but it makes me hard to think of scalding hot water trickling against your clit. Shameless stupidity by one who obviously knows nothing of sex? Do girls masturbate when they read sex stories? Does Laura masturbate? I'm fairly certain that she doesn't, that she's innocent that way, and that these words abuse her. Or maybe I am kidding myself. Maybe she loves to touch herself. Maybe she has a hundred ways of making herself climax, each more delicious than the last.

If I weren't in a semi-public place, sitting on the steps of the English Building a few minutes after dusk, I'd probably touch myself into orgasm. Oh, Laura.

In the kitchen she pours the boiling water into the bowl. "I'd better not spill this," she thinks. She re-cinches her robe, and then she carries the water to the living room.

"You're really going to do it?" Rikka says in a happy little voice. "To clean me and shave me?"

"Yes," Laura says. "I'm going to clean you and shave you and make you into a little girl again."

First she cleans Rikka with the cloth, mopping as much of the cum as she can out of the tangled hair. The water is exceptionally hot, but Rikka seems to like it.

Then Laura jets a big billow of shaving cream onto her fingers, and she works it thoroughly into the delta of hair atop Rikka's plump little mound.

"Should I go top to bottom ... or?" Laura asks.

"Whatever," Rikka says.

Laura's touch is firm but gentle, her stroke careful and exact, and gradually the lather and Rikka's red pubic curls disappear. After each careful stroke, Laura cleans the razor by wiggling it briskly back and forth in the hot water, making a wrinkle of noise which pleases her. Her daddy's Gillette scraping quietly across Rikka's most private skin also makes a nifty little noise, frayed electricity, or burnt toast getting lightly scraped.

"You're all smooth now," Laura tells Rikka. "All but this last little part."

Rikka sighs.

"I don't want to cut you," Laura says. "If you could just spread a bit, and hold the skin to stretch it a little, to tighten it so ..."

Has Laura seen Rikka's clit before, or is this the first time? How easily does a clit come into view? Does it vary from woman to woman? Does the shaving excite them? Does Laura want to take Rikka's clit between her fingers, pinch it this way and that? Does Laura get wet thinking about this?

Rikka's outer labia carry a faint fuzz of light red down. "Should I shave here, too," Laura asks.

"Where?" Rikka says.

"Here," Laura says, touching the fuzz of these lips as lightly as she can with her fingertip and the tip of her thumb. Rikka's cunt opens. Contracts. A liquid bubble of Bob's cum pools at the opening. When Rikka contracts again, the cum-glob begins to slide quite slowly towards the wry wink of Rikka's asshole.

"Oh," says Laura, entranced.

Without thinking about it, she puts her forefinger on the glob of semen, pushes it back into Rikka's cunt. Rikka moans softly. Laura adds a finger. The fit is snug and hot and completely slippery. Laura moves her fingers together. "I'm making you into a little girl again," she tells Rikka.

"It feels like fucking," Rikka says. "It feels good."

"Yes," Laura said. "But it's not fucking. It's unfucking. My fingers are your hymen. Squeeze and feel how tight you are, all new and girl-good. That's it, squeeze, squeeze good and hard."

"Oh," Rikka says. "I'm coming now. I'm coming so hard and good."

"Mm," Laura says, feeling Rikka's coming. "You're a good girl. Such a good girl."

After a long quiet time, Laura removes her fingers from Rikka and brings them to her lips. Rikka is asleep. Laura carries the basin of tepid water along the hallway back towards the bathroom. Small hills of spent shaving foam slosh in the tepid, faintly pink water. She pours the water into the sink. She gives her dad's razor a final rinse. She takes a deep breath, and walks back towards the living room to help Rikka to bed.

When I get back to my room, the telephone is ringing.

"Hullo?" I say.

"Adam? It's Rikka."

"Hi," I say. I fear I sound dreadfully stupid. There is a long silence.

"You're not mad at me, are you?"

"No," I say.

"You left so quickly and all."

"Well," I say.

"I'm sorry if I ..."

"That's ok," I say.

"I'm sure Laura would like it if you'd come back."

"She would?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Please come, come now, ok?"

"I guess so," I say.

"Good," she says.

I have my finger on the top of the Coke bottle. Pressing in a little. Before I can ask Rikka if I should bring it along, she's hung up.

I know I should shower, but I don't. I just change my underwear. I hurry out taking the philosophy notebook, and at the last second I decide to take the Coke bottle, too, not because I think Rikka wants it or cares about the deposit, or because I'm afraid that my roommate might mess with it. I just take it.

Rikka answers the door. I give her the Coke bottle. "Thank you, kind sir," she says. There is no sign of Bob Big-Guy Guy. His book, Mechanical Man, the Physical Basis for Intelligent Life, lies on the floor next to the popcorn bowl, which is empty.

"We won't need this, either" she says, taking my philosophy notebook. She sets the notebook on the floor, and places the Coke bottle on top of it. "Come with me." She takes my hand in hers. As we walk, I wonder if she's washed her hands since earlier this evening. Despite myself I grow hard.

Rikka takes me around the corner. The hallway looks familiar. I can hear the noises. The bedroom door is not all the way closed. Rikka pushes it open. We stand in the doorway. The bed is right in front of us. Bob Big-Guy Guy is fucking Laura. She is underneath, nearly obliterated by his huge body. Her toes touch the mattress above her head. Bob's hands pin her ankles—her middle rises to meet his plunging prick. Otherwise she is immobile as he jack-hammers into her.

"Our girl sure does grunt when she's getting a good fucking," Rikka says. It's true. The noises are clearly Laura's, deep grunting gasps quite unlike anything I've ever heard before.

"They've been at it a long time," Rikka says. "They're both close to coming, so close." Rikka leads me to the foot of the bed.

"Isn't her little asshole pretty?" Rikka says. "What I like to do is stick a finger in ... a finger in her and a finger in him. When they start coming it's incredible. Here, why don't you put a finger in Laura's pretty little asshole while I put one in Bob's. It'll take them right over. You'll see."

Part of me really wants to do it. But I don't do it. I don't wait around for Rikka to do it, though I'm sure she does. As I leave Laura's apartment, I hear a high keening cry.

Halfway back to my dorm I realize I've left my philosophy notebook under the Coke bottle. I have no need for it—I'm going to drop the course. I feel sad, but it's not a sadness about anything that has happened, it's a sadness about what now will not happen.

Can you tell me, Celeste, would anything be different if I hadn't said I wrote sex stories? Would Laura and I still be able to meet for cocoa? Talk about philosophy and life and ordinary feelings? Would we walk across campus, hand-in-hand, thinking shy, sweet, sometimes sexy thoughts? And one day would we fall in love—fall fully, deeply head-over-heels in love? I'm just curious, that's all.

I pass that little off-campus coffee-house. It's dark in there, locked up for the night. I stare for a moment at my reflection in the dark glass. I look ok, I think. But then as someone I once knew said, appearances can be devastating.

Sincerely yours,

Adam Renner

PS It's three weeks later now. Nothing much has happened. Life goes on without Philosophy, without Laura. I did see her this morning. I went back to that coffee-shop. First time since ... well, since. I don't think anything special drew me there. I was just walking around. I've been doing a lot of that lately, and I happened to be passing. Laura was sitting at that same table. Her back was to me. I recognized her right away, of course. I was used to looking at her back. She was sitting with a boy. Just an ordinary guy, probably an underclassman, not someone I recognized. The boy had Laura's hand in his on top of the table. He looked immensely happy, as if the world were a wonderful place. I thought about walking right out, but I didn't—I took a chair at a low table along the back wall. The waitress came over. She looked confused at first, and then she recognized me. "One cocoa?" she said. "I think I'll try the coffee," I told her. The waitress had a really nice ass. Full and firm but not too big. A few minutes later when she brought out my coffee I thought she had nice tits, too. She poured the coffee. It was good.

Oh, and one more thing ... pre-cum ... does it have a hyphen?

Author's note: Celeste, for those of you too young to remember, was the premier Internet Sex Story Reviewer from about 1995 to about 2001. In her "100 Best Stories of 1997" this story, Re: Proof Reading Sex Stories, came out #2.

Many thanks to Denny Wheeler for catching a number of errors.

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