Nostalgic Ramblings Ch. 02

Chapter 2: China Girl

What happened between me and China Girl? That's a question a big fucking percentage of you out there want to know. So I'm going to tell you.

If you happened to click on this story because you recognized my name, then it's likely you've read "Fingers of Fury," which was the first post I ever submitted to Literotica. It's a how-to article about giving a girl not merely multiple but continuous orgasms. I refer to China Girl at several points in the article, because she's the first girl I ever performed the technique on. You could say she's the one who taught the technique to me.

I'm always fascinated by the question of who exactly posts stories on Literotica. Are they writers who simply decided to select sex as their narrative topic? Or are they, like me, compelled or even destined to dwell on their own sexual nature and history to the point that they have NO choice but to write down their ideas and share them with other people?

Fact is, I hardly go a week without thinking about China Girl and our time together, because it was the first uninhibited sexual experience I ever had, and therefore the most profound of them all. When I started reading Literotica posts and decided I had something to contribute, there was no question in my mind that my first post would be about her.

Like I said, she is constantly in my thoughts, especially when my hand is around my cock and my mind goes wandering for an idea that will keep it hard. But tonight I'm sitting at my computer trying to finish a few written works of a type vastly different from online erotica, and it's just no use. Jacking off wasn't enough to get her off my mind, nor was turning on porn, closing the shades and beating myself to death for about two hours. No, my sympathetic nymphomaniacs, the problem is entirely mental. This memory wants to be voiced, and I'm going to oblige it. Oblige it, and oblige those of you who've asked about her.

..............................................

I was 23-years-old, a college senior who had just finished my fifth year and second major, hating every second of it. You didn't ask for my opinion on college degrees, but I'll give it to you: All you need to get the job you want, other than skill and will, is a single bachelor's degree; the master's is good for more pay faster, but that's it. A doctorate? Who gives a FUCK. MD's need them, but literary professors? Give me a fucking barium enema instead.

So yes, I'm bitter that I wasted my time and money that last year, but also, I'm bitter that so many of my good college friends left a year early. The fifth year was a devastatingly lonely time, and the summer following it was even worse. A college town in the summer? Try a college town summer after a year where you didn't know anyone anyway.

And for an additional kick in the balls, my girlfriend of the previous year continued to antagonize my soul that summer, even after she'd sucked all the blood from my heart via the artery in my dick. Turns out that once she got back home from college, roughly eight-hundred-miles away, she decided she wanted to "make it work," and I, being the slavish sex addict I am, agreed to not date anyone else. At the time, I didn't know I wouldn't see her again until goddamn Thanksgiving, and that this would be our last face-to-face. It wasn't her fault I was an emotional pussy, but I do have regrets, let's just say that much.

This is a very important fact to keep in mind as you read the story to follow. Most of you out there are saying, especially through the lens of adulthood which you and I share, that I was not really obligated to stay faithful to a girl who non-surgically removed my heart and then proceeded to spiritually lobotomize me from halfway across the country. But a handful of you are or were conservative Christians, and you know how your brain gets turned around when you think you've made a promise to someone and you're in danger of breaking it. The guilt is just too much! I see some of you nodding your heads and the rest just looking confused. You must trust me on this point, quickly now, so we can move ahead with the tale.

So I was lonely, but I did have two good pals, both performance majors with whom I'd spent some time on the stage. But they both had steady girlfriends and healthy sexual appetites, and I don't blame them at all for not returning my calls. Still, they did quasi-frequently invite me over for dinner and videos. Sometimes I bought the pizza. What a pathetic poser.

One such evening, I arrived at the bachelor pad to find that one of my friends had a guest visiting from out of town. Her name was Mary (or something that sounded very close to it, I'll let you choose which).

I'll never forget Mary's first reaction when she saw me. She ran up to me and hugged me, asking me how I'd been since we last saw each other. You see, I knew Mary, and I didn't know Mary. She was two years older than I was, and for a time earlier in my college career, she had been in the same performance group as I. I knew her face, as I did all sixty students in the group, but I don't think I really knew her name. For one thing, she was an older student, and most of the older kids in there tended to be uber-confident, self-righteous artistic egomaniacs, and being friends with them was like signing up for a perpetual penis-measuring contest. (The metaphor works for the girls, also.) Plus, she was EXTREMELY quiet. I tended to gravitate toward louder kids, because I made noise myself and that's who I thought I got along with best. Why try to defrost a quiet (perhaps shy but deafeningly quiet for whatever reason) girl I hardly knew?

But she saw me that night, and she was thrilled, and that's the kind of girl Mary was - she knew you to whatever degree, she lost you then found you again, and she was very happy to have you in her life again. With the emotional state I was in throughout that summer but that night in particular, it was a powerfully good feeling and a great first impression for her to make.

Mary stayed in town for about three weeks, floating between jobs and content to wander free-spirit style around her old stomping grounds. She slept on my friends' couch, and they showed her proper host courtesy by only fucking their girlfriends at an off-site location. Meanwhile, Mary and I and the two guys would hang out every night for the next four nights.

What happened next in this story is one of those moments that's just too fucking outrageous to be true, and that's why you roll your eyes when you read a fiction work and the characters do shit like this, because if you'd been sitting next to the author when he typed that, you'd have said, "Dude, that's ridiculous. Nothing like that ever happens, and it will only sound unbelievable if you leave it in." But this is my story, my memory, my nostalgic rambling, not yours, so you can believe me or go to hell or both, because I'm leaving it in the story.

On the fourth of the four nights, the two bachelors, Mary and I sat watching a movie. It was "The Long Kiss Goodnight," which is exactly the kind of movie you want to watch as you sit next to a pretty girl, because who the fuck cares why that chick lost her memory or whether she'll ever get it back, so let's fuggedaboudit and make out instead. (No, we didn't make out, but close.)

Another piece of exposition before the plot continues: The bachelor who was friends with Mary had never dated her, but he was fiercely protective of her. Let's call him Bachelor No. 1. The other guy, Bachelor No. 2 is a great guy and a closer friend, but he's not really part of the story, except for the fact that he's the one who told me the following: Bachelor No. 1 simply and deeply wanted to kill every man who had ever touched Mary, looked at Mary, fantasized about Mary, or breathed toward Mary. He never laid a hand on her himself, I know this for a fact, but that's how lackeys are with the goddesses they worship.

This fact, Bachelor No. 1's profound hatred toward anyone pursuing Mary, was the fourth reason why I never thought I'd have a chance with Mary. The third reason, as you'll remember, was that I had a "girlfriend" keeping me on a leash that was simultaneously short and long. The second reason was Mary's age; again, you adults reading this know that two years is nothing in terms of age separation, but kids figuring out the world sometimes get hung up by the tiniest social misconceptions.

And the main reason why I thought I could never ask Mary on a date: She was hot. It's so easy to explain it all in hindsight, as to why she radiated sexual energy like a leaky nuclear core, but at the time it was a complete fucking mystery. So quiet, so very quiet all the time, and yet she had this look in her eyes as though she wanted to eat every ounce of food on the nirvana buffet but couldn't because of the damn karmic diet she was on. Plus, there were little choices she made that gave her a dangerous, charged feminine air - the too-short shorts, the too-tight T-shirts, the scrunchy that kept her long black hair from blocking the view of her perfect neckline, the tastefully sparse but meticulously applied makeup.

And above all this, she had the physical attributes of a... god, I'm at a loss for words. I was about to say "Playboy model," but that's not fucking right at all. How to sum her up with a metaphor? She had a purely Chinese form, the result of immigrant parents, so her dark eyes were eternally hidden behind long-lashed slants. Every visible portion of her yellow-olive skin was absent of flaws. Several inches shorter, and so very thin. A Playboy model? No, more like a fairy from the ancient tales of a primal earth filled with magic, where nymphs and spirits crafted emotions with their hands instead of their words. Mary wasn't just sexy; she was a representation of all that sexy was meant to be. I've been with big women, tall women, pale women, and they were all beautiful in their way, but when I close my eyes and imagine the perfect woman, she looks so very much like Mary.

But back to night four. We were watching "The Long Kiss Goodnight," and I sat on the same sofa as Mary. How do you plan these things? Sometimes you don't; it's just her picking a place to sit, and you doing the same, and you both ending up beside each other on the sofa.

The next part is complicated to remember and almost impossible to describe. The main gist is this: My fingers stroked her pussy lips, and she allowed me to do it. What the fuck? I mean, one minute we're sitting there watching Samuel L. Jackson deliver some paltry soliloquy, and the next, Mary is sitting so close to me that she's on top of my hand. I'll try and piece it together... My palm was face down on the sofa. After a while, I realized she was sitting on-slash-against my hand, and I was surprised to not have noticed it before. With those shorts she wore, my hand felt nothing but the toned flesh of her thigh. With my hand falling asleep, I wiggled it. Mary verbally apologized and sat up so I could move my fingers. I said, "That's okay," then I flipped my palm upward and allowed her to sit back down on my hand.

God, how did we pull that off? A lot of subconscious shit at work here, folks, with a bit of self-denial thrown in for good measure. Anyway, the rest is pretty obvious. My fingertips started to press against the insides of her flesh, and she didn't seem to mind. I thought (or felt), "There's no way she doesn't know I'm coping this feel, so she must not mind." My fingers worked their way up her legs until they stroked her crotch along the panty line. Now, I'd paid my share of visits to that special place between a girl's legs, but this was the first time I really noticed that the female pussy radiates its own heat. Mary's crotch was literally warm and growing warmer.

Suddenly, I felt her pubic hair. Listen, listen very carefully. You know as much as I do about the nature of memory and the games our minds play; there's no such thing as a truly honest memory, only the closest approximation our minds can construct without our mental limits. But fuck, I mean, I REMEMBER exactly how it felt. Her flesh was satiny smooth and warm, except for an area of single hairs that were so widely spaced they seemed to be individual in nature, and soft to the touch. If I'd spread her knees and examined her with a microscope, I wouldn't have a better memory of what she looked like than I do from what my fingers felt in that moment. If this memory is a close approximation, then I want every memory to be that clear, the good and the bad and the ugly. My life is made up of my memories, and that means this moment is my life.

She came. I'm certain of it. At least, in retrospect. I wasn't interested in getting her off, but rather going as far toward stealing second base as I could go. But when she shifted her body to pull my hand away, I swear she was shivering and very tense, and if she wasn't trying to suppress the evidence of a minor orgasm, then she was at least very close. In any case, she didn't move very far away at all when she repositioned herself and went back to watching the movie. Indeed, the bachelors never had any clue, nor will they.

Oh, I just remembered something, about why Mary was in town, and it's important. (Should I go back and revise the text so that it's factually accurate, or just admit that memory has holes sometimes and it's filling up with recall before your very eyes? Fuck editing, and fuck editors. I'm an artist, goddamn it.) Mary had to come back to get some stuff out of storage, or rather, from her old bedroom in the old house where she'd lived for two years with her old college roommates.

The reason that's important is because, on the following night, Bachelor No. 1 called me up. "Hey man, we're all going over to Mary's old place to help her pack and move it all to her new apartment. Are you free to help?" Not only am I someone who genuinely likes to help others, but I was also damn lonely and looking forward to being around other people as much as I could. You're thinking to yourself at this point, "Yeah, and he wanted to jump Mary's bones as well." But I meant what I said about those four reasons why I thought I had no chance with Mary. Besides, wouldn't it be enough for a girl to just want to take advantage of a sexy moment and then pretend it never happened, so as not to lead a poor collegian down a path of mistaken intention? What I'm trying to say is, I really only went to help her move.

By the time I got there, three cars were filled with boxes and junk including furniture that had been bungee'd in the trunks. While they put the remaining few boxes in my backseat, I went in to see what was going on. Bachelor No. 1 said, "We're all done except for the cleaning." You see, the place had to be spotless or the girls wouldn't get their deposit back. The biggest problem was the bathtub. Holy fucking shit, have you SEEN what girls can do to a bathroom? I mean, guys leave pubes and piss all over the linoleum around the commode, but with girls, it's just fucking EV-ERY-WHERE. Hairs, soap scum, a layer of makeup on the mirrors and counters... and the nastiest yellow tub ring I've ever seen in my life.

Since I got there to late to help pack, I thought I'd contribute by fixing the disaster in the tub. I took off my shoes and socks, grabbed a steel wool pad and some Comet, and got to work. Mary walked in the bathroom and discovered for the first time that I was on the premises. No joke, she squealed with delight to find me cleaning that tub. I suspect there are several reasons for this. First, I'd already made a dent in the project, and she was happy to know the deposit was actually going to be in her possession. Also, it must have been a pleasant surprise to know that there are still men in the world who will clean a woman's bathroom and not expect sex in return. (Women, don't forget, just because a man doesn't expect sex doesn't mean you have to not offer it to him; he'll still accept.)

But I mostly like to believe that she was most happy to see that I was the guy who was the guy cleaning the tub. She was, I feel, looking for reasons to justify the strong attraction she felt toward me. At the same time, I was overwhelmed by the gratitude she showed to me, and because I think gratitude is such an important component of getting along with others in society, I immediately found my reason to be attracted to her as well. That, and the fact that she was a fucking hottie.

Now, here's another part of the story that strains the bounds of credulity but is indeed completely true. You've heard the phrase, "So incredible you couldn't make this stuff up," right? This is that.

Because I was the last one there, I happened to be the only one with an open passenger seat; the other cars were crammed with boxes and shit. Now, the drive we were about to make, from Mary's college town residence to her new apartment in her new town, was about an hour drive, which is nothing in New England. She and Bachelor No. 1 had left her car at the new apartment, so they could talk together for the hour drive, the intention being that they could continue the discussion on the way back. But for some reason, Bach. 1 had stuffed his passenger seat with shit as well. Why not pack my car instead? I suspect he wanted Mary to ride with me, but not for the reason you think. You see, Bach. 1 was a notorious emotional busy-body, and he loved to ask me every time I came over to the house, "You doing alright? I know it's a hard summer for you." He felt bad for me, you see, the bastard. So when he saw that Mary and I were getting along reasonably well, me must have "convinced" her that I need someone to talk to during the hour drive back, and perhaps he asked her to "do him a favor" and cheer me up. Little did he know.

That was one great car ride. It was one of the most honest conversations I've had with any person in my entire life, male or female. (The majority of my soul-searching has been with male buddies; I just don't trust myself to discuss deep emotional matters with girls without turning it into a manipulate-her-into-the-bedroom situation.) I told her I was in a relationship that stifled me; she told me she'd just been dumped but was glad for it.

At some point, I asked her if she'd like to go on a date. Those are the words I used, but it's vital you know the context. Mary explained that she spent a lot of time in our old college town, and it was sort of crumby because Bachs. 1 and 2 were always off fucking girls and, although they tried to keep her entertained, they didn't really have the stamina to devote time to Mary during her visits. I told her, "Well heck, if you want to call me when you're in town, we can go out and eat a bite. Call it date or whatever." It was just that sappy and plutonic.

No, I'm not forgetting that I nearly fingered her. You think I'm contradicting myself by saying that I wasn't coming on to her, and that she knew it. But you've got to understand the power of denial. I really really thought I was in a committed relationship, and she really really respected that I was. Yes, we both wanted to jump each other's bodies like lightning striking a radio tower, but neither of us could be the first to admit it. There was a pervasive air of... let's say, politeness. I swear to god, social conformity is such a fucking waste of time, and no one tells you this. You either figure it out on your own, or you never do. All that to say, I wish I knew then what I know now, in regard to so many moments in my life. Except this one. The tenderness of it all was just so perfect, like a fly trapped in amber - an event resulting from exact influences converging at once.

Mary smiled and seemed very appreciative that I would be so gentlemanly as to keep her company during her visits. The agreement of future meetings made the second half of that car trip much sweeter, much more honest. We talked about every topic we held dear - music, drama, books, philosophy - but NOT sex. Not yet. You see how the subconscious works, especially with someone you truly understand from the start?