Confessions of a Slut Ch. 17

I was forty-five years old when I achieved a lifetime total of one hundred sex partners. I don't keep a precise count -- but I've picked one as a symbol of achievement -- a Bronze Medal for sluthood. I may never win silver or gold, as I got off to a slow start.

One problem in toting up partners is defining "sex." Does it have to be vaginal intercourse? What about oral sex? Yes, oral sex counts. Masturbation? Only if it goes both ways. Thus, my count doesn't include a few men I jacked off. But mutual masturbation qualifies as sex. And so does the exertions of a few men who tried and failed to accomplish linkage with me not through lack of intention but lack of woodiness. Any attempted penetration, I decided, whether successful or not, qualified as sex.

I only counted one woman among my sex partners although a few other working women in Thailand had brought me to climax with tongue and mouth.

So I came up with 100 sex partners, and while my hundredth was unremarkable in most respects, he was the only United States Senator I have ever fucked.

I was living in Bangkok, Thailand. I'm a divorced woman who worked in American Embassies around the world. In that isolated and insular world long term relationships were hard to come by. The US government frowns on its confidential employees cohabiting with the locals and with each other, so my sex partners were mostly tourists and visitors to the Embassy, along with a sizeable number of young marines and peace corps volunteers.

My Senator was on an official trip to Thailand, and I was assigned as his "control officer" meaning that I arranged meetings, accompanied him, ensured that his visit was useful, and that he was suitably impressed with the efficiency of the Embassy -- so impressed that he would vote in favor of budget increases we were seeking.

I liked Senator Foghorn. He was about the same size as me: 5 feet, eight inches tall and 150 pounds. He had a good sense of humor and we laughed and joked as we went around town meeting with Thai officials. I have an accountant's personality so I'm not exactly scintillating, but I was comfortable with this Senator.

At the end of our work day, when I took him back to his hotel, he suggested dinner. I accepted. I wasn't thinking of sex. He was in his late sixties and he seemed like a little old man and he was married -- although that has never put me off.

We had a lovely dinner and over dessert he suggested that he would like to see something of Bangkok's fabled night life. He was polite and shy -- and so embarrassed at raising the subject -- that the thought of a night in bed with him first crept into my mind. I tossed my head and made my hair fly, crossed my legs, and turned off the professional me to become the personal me -- moderately attractive and sophisticated and quick to go to bed.

I was familiar with Bangkok's night life. It was wide open. Thai girls are dark, slender, willing, and cheap. Sex of any variety was readily attainable at moderate prices. This being 1987, prices were still low. A one hour massage with masturbation as the piece de resistance was ten dollars at the best massage parlors and for a tip of the same you could enjoy more than a massage. Most of the attractions around Bangkok were for men; a round-eye woman like me was a rare sight in a Thai bar, night club, and massage parlor.

I took Senator Foghorn to one of the better known bars in town, the Thai Beer Garden. It was (and is) a big thatched roof place with a rustic bar, wicker tables and chairs, and lit well enough so that you could examine the merchandise on display. About fifty women showed up every night to ply their wares. They were mostly non-professionals -- waitresses, maids, and secretaries who turned a trick when they needed extra money. Most were in their twenties, but a few were as old as me.

The men in the place were almost all Western. They came to drink beer and talk to the girls and make onward assignations. You saw a little kissy-feely, but, unlike the raunchier places, I never saw couples at the Beer Garden fucking on the tables. But, then, I always went home early...

The Senator and I sat down at a table and ordered Singha beer and the girls began to drift by to have a look at him -- and cast a wary eye at me. He was about twice the average age of men in the place. And what was I doing there? I quieted their concerns with a welcome smile and a wave to join us. Two girls sat down. Both wore provocative, slit-sided dresses of cheap polyester and push-up bras out of which their not-so-voluminous breasts protruded. That's catty of me. I've got big tits, which is about the only asset I can claim as superior to those sensual little Thai honeys.

One of the girls settled in next to me, indicating a willingness to travel the lesbian route if that was my desire, and the other squeezed into a chair very close to the Senator, ensuring that her little body pressed against him. Both girls spoke a few words of English and I spoke a little Thai and we attempted to communicate.

The Senator was jolly; he asked me about the Thai sex scene and I enlightened him, although protesting -- not in complete candor -- that I knew little about it. I warned him, however, that you should always ensure that the girl you're planning to engage for an evening is really a girl. He laughed and told me that was not on his mind.

Girls came and went to our table, each trying their luck at hooking up. The Senator enjoyed himself and tipped each one generously. I liked him even more. So many rich and famous men are mean -- with money as well as people.

Well, a slut I am, but a pimp I am not and after about an hour I said to the Senator, "It's about time I called it a night. You may stay if you wish. I'll tell the owner to make sure you get home safely."

He ceased diddling with the girl cuddled up next to him and gave me a long look. "I think I should go also. This is interesting, but it's not my scene. Let's go back to the hotel."

Hmm? Being a typical woman I over-analyzed that remark. Was it an invitation? If it turned out to be I decided to accept. Screwing the Senator was not in my job description, but it sounded like fun to the non-professional me.

We caught a taxi back to his hotel and chatted amiably, turned just a bit toward each other and with his leg barely touching mine in the small back seat of the Toyota taxi. I didn't move my leg.

When we got to the hotel, I bid him good-night -- if that was the way it was it be -- as we stood beside the taxi. He searched for words. It was endearing how shy this glad-handing, talkative politician really was. Finally, he came out with, "Shall we go to my room and look at the schedule for tomorrow?'

That was lame. But I've always liked men who fumble a bit, rather than the slick, smooth sorts. "Certainly," said I, innocently. "We can discuss what you want to say to the Foreign Minister."

We got to his room; he offered me a drink; I said no and I sat down on his bed, hiking my skirt up over my knees and smoothing out my blouse over an impressive bosom. He sat down beside me with schedule in hand and we discussed our meetings for the next day, our bodies touching each other oh-so-lightly. Our heads came closer and closer together and he said, "You know, I don't really want to talk about these meetings."

"Nor do I." Our lips locked, his hand sought my breast, my arms wound around him, and we reclined together on the bed. He took my clothes off slowly and gently and laid them carefully on a chair beside the bed. They were expensive, so I appreciated that. Soon, I was naked and I worked on getting him that way.

Most married men like blow jobs. Wives fuck as a duty but don't give out many blow jobs. So, men want to be blown -- and that's what I did to the Senator. I kissed and caressed him from head to toe, and I hardly touched his penis when he exploded in my mouth. I've given oral sex to a lot of men but few who enjoyed it as much as Senator Foghorn. He whistled like a banshee as he writhed in pleasurable agony and, considering his age, shot an impressive load of semen into my mouth.

Afterwards, he apologized, "I didn't do much for you -- and at my age one climax is all I've got in me." He looked down ruefully at his limp penis lying comatose on his stomach. "An act of Congress wouldn't make it hard again."

We laughed together and I said, "That's all right." And I turned him over on his stomach and massaged his back until he went to sleep. Then, I went to sleep.

The Senator woke me early in the morning. "I'd like to try to give you something more to enjoy than I did last night." He was a considerate man. He really wasn't up for fucking, but he felt an obligation and his reluctant penis got hard as he climbed on and gave me his best -- which wasn't very good, but I don't have any problem finding my way to a climax with a man I like. I think he faked his. There wasn't anything left in him after the night before.

And then we showered and went to work and we were around other people all day and both of us were very cool and professional and when I bid him farewell at the airport we shook hands. The next day a beautifully gift-wrapped gold orchid pendant was delivered to me with a card that said only "Thanks."

The Senator wrote the Secretary of State a nice letter telling him how useful his visit to Thailand had been and how much he appreciated all the work I had done. A few months later I got a promotion. Senator Foghorn knew how to service a constituent.