I got my first assignment for my new gig as a cub reporter for the underground magazine!
Pete bought me drinks the other night and introduced me to Paige. She’s curious about S&M and apparently wants to be tied up with rope. Anyway, they invited me to come with them to a special adult party next weekend. Paige has never been to one either so we though it would be safer for us two girls to go together, if we can keep a leash on Pete. Sandra says it’s the perfect topic for me to write a story about. The article should be ready by the end of the month!
So at school today I started thinking about the party and how things might go. All this set me thinking about Pete and whether he would be a good chaperone or disappear about the time Paige and me are being asked whether we would like to try pegging. (I don’t know what pegging is yet but I intend to learn about it at the party.) I really do want to believe that he wouldn’t let us get into any trouble but I just can’t be sure, so I thought I’d tell you about how I met Pete and get your feedback.
When I moved here from Moralton I met Dan (I told you about him earlier). A few weeks after that the weather had turned nice so I went to the neighborhood pool to get some sun. It was about 4:00 in the afternoon on a Saturday so there were a few other people there. I commandeered a spot away from everyone else so I wouldn’t be in their way. An attractive man with dark sunglasses and a golf cap got up from his seat near a group of exuberant adolescents and moved to a chair near mine. He was probably twice my age but seemed OK.
“Hi, I’m Pete. I notice you picked a place far away from all those noisy kids. Getting away from your own kids while you’ve got the chance?” “Yes! You don’t know how good it can be when they’re not around.” Pete cocked his head a little as I continued, “But it’s OK. I mean, I have to watch the little devils during the day until they go home to their daddies but they know I love them and they always want to see me again the next day.” His expression changed again.
“You seem awful young to have so many kids with so many dads. Are you from Arkansas, by any chance?” He must of noticed my mid-west accent. “No, I’m from Statesota, one state up and one to the left on the map. But I have lots of cousins in Harrison!” Pete leaned back in his chair, lit a foul-smelling cigarette, took a deep draw and whispered, “I see. All your kids are in Austin, right?” I shot back, “Of course, silly! It would be hard to have them spread all over the place and see them every day.”
I tried to flip onto my belly and nearly fell off the folding beach chair; somehow Pete was able to move 10 feet and catch me before I landed face-first. His were the strongest yet gentlest hands I’ve ever felt, smooth palms with short, manicured nails and another quality I’m not familiar with that left me feeling, well, aware of my body. I was surprised when the instinct to wriggle free from his arms did not materialize. I felt like a lamb in the shepherd’s protective embrace. Pete allowed his hands to follow the curves of my back and hips as he set me on the ground, feet coming to rest on the warm concrete with no sensation of my own weight.
“I’m OK,” lingering in the spot he had placed me. Pete picked up his still-burning pot cigarette and gestured my direction, “After that, you probably need this more than I. Your kid situation must be tough.” I agreed and told him that I had to try really hard to get a roomful before I was too old or else I might never get to have any kids of my own. “Gotta go.” Pete politely bowed and disappeared. I wondered if he lived in the building or just knew someone there and whether I would see him again, though I wasn’t sure why it mattered.
Three weeks later I was so bored that I decided to get out and go drive around. I ended up in a Mexican restaurant that had a guy playing guitar and singing. Next to me was a group of lively women chattering about this Meet-Up group they had learned about and how exciting it was. They appeared to be young professionals, like me. I scooted over in my booth to hear what they were saying. One of the ladies noticed and asked me to join them, to which I readily agreed. Introductions were made all around. I just made some new friends!
“It’s all about the women. Any men that might be there aren’t in it for themselves, they’re only there to support the women in OM-ing.” Aha, something I knew about – yoga! “So it’s like yoga, and the guys are just there to help get you in the right position?” One girl spewed her draft beer across the table, then quiet Carol spoke up from her corner. “The guys probably have to pay to be there. Or at least they should,” evoking a round of giggles from the others. “Come with us,” implored fire-haired Brenda to the enthusiastic agreement of the rest. It was only 6:30 and I was ready for something different.
The six of us piled into a mini-van bearing obvious signs of young passengers. “You have kids?” Brenda wanted to know. “Yes, more than I need.” The other girls laughed and started talking about all the stress in their lives, perpetrated by the usual suspects: the kids, the husband/boyfriend, work or school, traffic, and how they never get time for themselves. I commented that this event, made for busy women like us, seemed just the ticket to getting a good workout and some quiet reflection time and did I ever need a good stretching. Each nodded in a knowing way.
Soon we arrived at a nondescript gray building in a quiet neighborhood. Inside, makeshift partitions with yoga mats and pillows had been set up. Several women were talking to our hosts, a nice-looking fellow and a woman that I guessed to be his wife. The meeting was called to order and the couple explained how things would work. We would do a few group exercises then be paired up with an OM practitioner that would be our guide for this night. So far so good.
The exercises were relaxing. The hostess invited everyone to enter one of the few partitions but to be patient as there were more attendees than usual. The first group of women went in and after a few minutes one emitted several high-pitched yelps that I recognized immediately – pain. The others made sounds too, and Brenda’s shrill shrieks were especially unsettling. After about 15 minutes each one emerged looking somewhat drained. Why would they want to be hurt? Is this S&M? A memory of Mom pinching my ear in church surfaced.
I decided to go next and entered one of the partitions. There were the mats and pillows that we saw earlier and one other thing: Pete, the guy from the pool! He seemed surprised to see me but was warm and welcoming. “What do we do? Is it a massage?” “Yes, a massage. Just take off your pants and lie down.” I knew Pete was just kidding but it was a strange request, so I said no thanks and went into the next station where a woman of about 35 was waiting. We locked eyes. “Hi,” she said, standing to greet me. She removed my jeans and panties before I was really aware of what was happening. “Can I take off my top too?” I still don’t know why I asked that. She expertly liberated me from the confines of my remaining garments and motioned for me to recline on the mat. It made me nervous to be completely naked with no more than thin white sheets hanging on poles to protect my modesty.
She caressed my body and legs for a few moments then placed her palm directly on my vulva. No one had ever touched me there, not even the doctor. I even try not to touch myself there because I can never forget all the lessons Father taught me about such things. Nearby, the women in the other stations were beginning to make sounds like the first group did. After rubbing the outside for awhile she slid a finger inside me. Did she simply slip, was it an accident? Before I could decide whether to react or just pretend it didn’t happen she did it again. I opened my mouth to tell her to stop but nothing came out.
Before long, every muscle in my body had tightened up, teeth clenched, fists balled, and I was trying not to scream at the top of my lungs. It must have gone on for 10 minutes. It was like being tickle-tortured the way my brother Ronnie liked to do when we were little. I was sweating and breathing in short gasps when she found mercy and the tickling finally ended. It took five minutes to be able to move again. I thought about how I didn’t even know her name. I hastily put my clothes on and headed for the door. My legs were very wobbly and weak. Once outside, I leaned against the building to steady myself before reconnecting with my new friends.
Pete appeared next to me; I’m not sure how long he was standing there. He held out his arm, which I took without thought, and led me to his vehicle. He held my hand as we drove, both silent, pulling into a neighborhood bar off Lamar. I was still visibly unsettled when Pete set a glass of wine on the table.
“I take it that’s the first time for you. It’s OK, lots of women never make it there their whole lives. Even with as many kids as you.” My mouth wouldn’t quite move yet so I tilted my head back and poured the wine down. Pete’s eyes grew bigger as the glass emptied. “Another?” I just stared as he rose to visit the bartender again. I think this was repeated three times. Pete offered me a Winston. “I don’t smoke,” pushing back the pack. “Really? Seems you’re smoking to me…” I began to realize that Pete had done to Brenda what that woman did to me, and that Pete was originally going to do it to me, and that he knew what was going with me while he was doing it to Brenda, and that he must do this often and be damn good at it if women come to him to get it.
Pete explained how an orgasm can reach a plateau and be held there, keeping the woman in a holding pattern like a plane circling the airport. Orgasm? That’s what that was? Did I just have sex? With another girl? He went on, saying that the vast majority of women never experience what he and his friends do and how their lives are surely not as complete without it. A memory popped in my head of listening to a phone call when I was about 8, eavesdropping on a conversation between Mom and her younger sister. Mom was complaining that Father had never given her an orgasm despite all the things she did to make sure he got one, unmentionable things the other church ladies would be highly embarrassed and offended by. Now I understand why men and women staying in the same bed at night is such a big deal – nobody can see what you’re doing and you can do anything you want, like tickle-torturing one another.
There is little memory of much else that happened that night; the orgasm and the wine left me completely disconnected from critical thought or concern for what was happening. Pete eventually led me back to his truck and drove me home. Somehow he already knew which apartment is mine because he asked my neighbor Cindy if she could get us in but I managed to produce my own key. She was acting funny, sort of chuckling and grinning at him. Once inside, Pete straightened my bed, fluffed the pillow, and turned back the sheets. After undressing me he made sure I was tucked in, softly kissing my forehead as he whispered, “I will be your guide, Zen.” He then left, locking the door behind him.
I didn’t wake up until 2:30 Sunday afternoon and had missed morning church services for the first time in my life. Looking back, the whole evening was all sort of surreal, like I was watching a movie, except for the soreness in my abs that reminded me of the reality of the previous night’s experience. I knew somehow my life is different now, that I’m different now. I feel more confident and less concerned about what people are thinking. I have knowledge of something magical that I didn’t know humans could do. I now have knowledge of sex, the forbidden fruit. Father always told me that only my husband can know me in that way, but somehow a woman I’d never met knew this and other things about me that even I didn’t know. And Pete knows about me too. It didn’t even occur to me until this moment that I had been completely nude in front of him the night before.
I had made my first real friend in Austin, a friend I feel safe with and who knows all about this incredible new world I discovered that night: Peter Goerth. He gave me the first nickname I’ve ever liked, Zen. He said he would take care of me, though he has no obligation to do so. A mature man with vast experience making women feel that way, but it’s OK that he knows this about me. I am so in awe of him.
So, now I’ve told you how I met Pete and lots of other stuff about him since then. What do you think – can I trust him to look out for me and Paige at the S&M party?