Memories of Alane

As we were rutting, thrusting, and rubbing against each other and staring into each other's eyes, I would occasionally pull back farther and look down at where we were joined, and also at her glorious breasts bouncing and heaving inside that small bit of sheer purple nylon. Now and then I'd duck down and plant a lick or a kiss on some part of one or the other of those bouncing orbs. Soon my desire to kiss and suck on her nipples became overwhelming. But they were still covered in the thin nylon and not really accessible. I slammed into her and ground against her as I supported myself on one arm, then reached down to her left breast with my other hand, where the cup attached to the thin spaghetti strap over her shoulder. With a swift yank the strap parted company with the top of the teddy, and I could paw the material out of the way of that wonderful nipple. Soon my face was buried in her breast as I continued to grind in her, with her thrusting and grinding back.

After a minute or so of worshiping her nipple and the surrounding breast I pulled back and resumed thrusting and watching her facial expressions. Every so often I'd raise up a little higher so I could look down between us. Her left breast was bare for all to see, bouncing wildly with each thrust, but her right breast was still trapped in the negligee, and only heaving a little up and down. It seemed unfair to have one breast out and having fun while the other was still trapped inside. Besides, I wanted to kiss and suck on that other beautiful nipple, and the negligee was in the way. It had to go.

Again I pushed back, socketed myself firmly into her, and reached down for the restraining bit of negligee. Instead of snapping the shoulder strap, I hooked my fingers inside the cup and ripped a hole in the material. I pulled my hand out of the cup and reached down from the outside, grabbing the frayed edge, and yanked, ripping the material almost to her waist. Her left breast was now free, with dangling strings of the negligee on either side of it. I thrust hard into her a few times to make sure that the left breast could bounce and wiggle as much as the right breast. It could. I again socketed in, so that I could hunch down and appropriately congratulate her right breast on its newfound freedom.

Having done that sufficiently for the moment, I dropped down on my elbows and hooked my hands under her shoulders, so I could really start pounding her without driving her head into the headboard. In a while that led to the inevitable conclusion. After we calmed down enough that either of us could have any rational thought, we lay there, arms wrapped around each other, caressing each other with our hands and arms, and rubbing our sweaty and juicy bodies together. Her pussy squeezed me, and I realized that somehow I had not gone completely soft, so resumed lazily stroking into her as we lay in each other's arms, side by side. I wasn't trying to get off, I was just enjoying the available sensations. She was definitely enjoying it too, since she was matching my movements.

After some time had passed, perhaps half an hour or so, we eventually separated. She arched her back, supporting herself on shoulders and heels, and I pulled the completely destroyed and dripping wet remains of the negligee down her legs and off. I tossed it aside and we went back to kissing and nuzzling, then drifting off into a nap for an hour or two, before we reluctantly had to get dressed so I could take her home. Tomorrow was, after all, another school day.

We went to Disneyland, Alane and I. It was a warm summer day, so we were dressed lightly. We spent the whole day there, hugging, holding hands, swinging our arms while holding hands, smooching now and then, and of course going on all the rides, sometimes several times. And of course looking in all of the stores. There would be fireworks at 9 PM, and we had every intention of watching them from the best spot on Main Street. (Where is that, you wonder? On the right side of the street, facing the castle, one street light past Coke Corner.)

While it had been a hot day, evening started getting a little chill. As it got later, it started getting very chilly. There is only so long that goosebumps can be sexy, and then you are just cold. We ducked into the store to the right of the entrance to Fantasyland and looked for something to wear. Alane pretty quickly found a fleecy Mickey sweatshirt, and we got two of them, a matching pair. I didn't get to watch her nipples for the rest of the evening, but it was dark and I wouldn't have been able to see them anyway. But we were warm. And very happy. The fireworks were wonderful, and later we compared them to the fireworks we had when we got home that night. I'm pretty sure that I still have my sweatshirt somewhere. I've only worn it one or two times after it came home with me. It reminds me of that day with Alane, and without Alane that memory is painful.

We went on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Did I mention that I was a nerd, and a theater techie? I'd been on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride countless times before. I would go to Disneyland by myself on the way home from work, and had had an annual pass for years. I'd counted the worklights on Pirates. I knew every effect, and being a nerd, I knew how they were done and where the effects equipment was. This was before the Internet, before Newsgroups, and insider information like that just wasn't available to most people unless you did some digging, studied various theater books, and had conversations with employees, innocently asking leading questions and letting them think you already knew a lot more than you really did. The more you talked to them, the more you really did know, making future conversations even easier.

As we were going through the ride I was happy as a kid at Christmas. I always was, when I was on the ride, but having Alane with me made it very special. As we went along, I pointed out to her where there were projectors or lighting, and described how some of the effects were done. After a bit she turned to me and slapped my chest petulantly, saying "Stop it! You're spoiling the magic!" I stopped of course, and we thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the ride. But for me, knowing how everything worked was the magic.

We were in bed together. (Looking back, it seems like we were always in bed together, to the exclusion of almost everything else.) We were discussing movies. There was a drive-in movie theater in a town I drove through every day on my way to work. This was the twilight of the drive-in era, and the manager of this place had to work to make ends meet, but he had a sense of humor. He was playing double and even triple bills, and he always picked the movies, not so much on popularity or plot or tone, but on some interesting combination of the names of the movies.

I told Alane about the place and his penchant for picking movie names, and related to her one time he had had a quadruple bill. That would have been 8 or 9 hours of movies, if anyone sat or slept through the whole thing. In this case he picked what I thought was a really interesting set of names: "John and Mary", "Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice", "Pete 'n Tillie", and "Harold and Maude". Four movies with absolutely nothing in common beyond the names.

Alane was ten years younger than I was, so she didn't recognize a few of the movie names. She wondered what they were about. I wasn't much help since I hadn't seen any of them, but I did remember the TV commercial for "John and Mary". She hadn't seen it, so I described it to her. The commercial opens with a scene of two people in bed, who have very obviously just had a lot of fun together. He looks at her and says "By the way, I'm John." She looks back, says "I'm Mary", and smiles at him. Then there is a booming voice-over by the announcer, very portentously saying "This Is Not Your Mother's Love Story!" Alane thought about this for a minute, then said "Well, I suppose I should consider that strange. But I've done that."

There was another terrible mistake I made in our relationship. Perhaps this was the reason she eventually decided to dump me. More likely it just added to the list of reasons. I can't recall if this was before or after the memorable day I had squeaked out "Why!!?" to her. I think it was quite a while after. This is very hard for me to tell. It makes me look like the complete asshole I undoubtedly was. I know that now. I have access to all the world's Internet Porn, just like you do, and now I know how people should act. There was no Internet Porn to learn from at the time. Heck, there was no Internet. Playboy was as close as you could get to porn, if you were over 21 and could legally buy it.

Perhaps I need a bit of background so that you have at least a little idea of my mental state at the fateful time. Yes, I think I do. Long before Alane, ten or eleven years, I was 19, in college, and met the girl that would become my first girlfriend. She was 18, at a local highschool. She was also a virgin, and knew not much more than I did about sex, and didn't really know much more about boys than I knew about girls. Remember, no Sex Ed at the time. No internet porn. There was the Kama Sutra, everyone knew that it existed. But it wasn't going to be in your living room bookcase. Even your parents had probably only heard of it, and had absolutely no idea what kind of "nasty stuff" it had in it, though they knew by reputation that it was just filled with "nasty stuff" that Proper People shouldn't know. There would maybe be a copy at the town library. But it was in the Special Access room, and as a highschool student you were not going to get access to it, even with a parental note. Sex was what you "learned" from talking to equally clueless school chums. It's amazing that the human race managed to procreate the next generation, isn't it?

But getting back to my first girlfriend. She was a nice girl, and had a rack that preceded her. She walked out onto the stage in a rehearsal for the school play. I was in the control booth, 80 feet away. Even before she was completely on stage my eyes shot over to her, and I was probably drooling, with my tongue dangling half way down my chest. I had absolutely no idea who she was, but I knew I wanted to correct that oversight. Desperately. She was on and off stage several times during the next two hours. But I couldn't drool over her all that time. For one thing the guys around me would notice, and they most likely did know who she was. I didn't want that getting back to her. (Yes, I was still young, and very immature.) Also, I was here to do a job, and that took concentration, quick thinking, a lot of work with the lighting console, and taking copious notes. I only had time to take quick glances at the stage every few minutes.

I was an alien in this school, having attended and graduated from another school in the district that was about 15 miles away. But by the time I was a senior I'd spent enough time at every theater in the district that almost all the teachers and administrators in the district knew me, and welcomed my help when I showed up. But while I knew the faculty, I knew almost none of the students, only those that had some technical job on the show. Did I mention that techies and actors don't spend that much time together? It was a big school, and there was a good chance that many of the people I knew didn't even know her name.

It turned out that she knew one of the techies at the school, and a couple of times she and a few of her friends (she didn't have a lot; maybe it had something to do with her chest) went out when the crew would go down to McDonald's or Arby's for a bite of food. To say that I was 'socially awkward' was like saying the Taj Mahal is a 'nice building'. Despite that, I eventually managed to talk to her a little, and we shared names. I'm pretty sure I was able to look her in the eye on these occasions; she tended to wear an industrial bra and a conservative blouse, so there was no distracting movement when we talked. (Did I mention that I'm a second generation descendent of a frog prince? If you see me, this becomes completely obvious pretty quickly. My eyes snap to the slightest movement that might show up in my peripheral vision, and my tongue wonders if it can unroll far enough to reach.)

But getting back to my first girlfriend. We talked and got to know each other a little better. Eventually I got up the nerve to ask her out to McDonalds, and rather to my amazement she smiled and accepted. Happy days! We had a few of these meals together, and one day she asked if I could give her a lift home after rehearsal. I could, and did, and then it was the inevitable Meet The Parents time. I did. I managed to behave myself. Her parents thought I was a pretty nice guy, and were all for me dating their daughter. They thought I might be good for her, being 'so much more mature' (I was a whole year older). (Is there somewhere a book with all of the sayings that you should memorize that mean "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!"?)

We dated. We saw each other at her school. She started asking me for rides home so that she didn't have to put up with the bitchy girls on the school bus. After a while, we got to the point that, if we found ourselves alone in a dark place, we would rather tentatively fool around a little. At first this wasn't any more than me copping a feel and her groping at the front of my pants. At first I didn't even try groping at her under her dress. Girls didn't have this big Pleasure Stick that showed up down there, and I had no idea what they did to feel good.

One day we found ourselves alone in her bedroom. Or rather, the bedroom she shared with her slightly younger sister. We were lying on the floor, not far inside the closed door, kissing, caressing, and tentatively exploring each other. She had my dick out and was feeling it, getting some idea of what this strange tubular thing felt like. I had partially satiated my lust for her breasts, and my hand was starting to venture down farther. I had just got to unzipping her jeans when there was a knock on the door. Like a flash she had her pants zipped back up, and said 'come in'. Her sister did. I had had no chance to try to stuff a dick that wouldn't fit back into my pants, to say nothing of zipping them up without catching myself in the zipper.

So there I was, lying there on the floor facing away from the door, about four feet into the room, with a rather obvious dick pointing straight at the desired target in front of me. And her sister, looking over my shoulder as she talked to my girlfriend for a couple of minutes, before closing the door and leaving. I was young and stupid, and it would be years before the overdose of modesty I had been taught had worn off.

These days, in a situation like that, I'd just grin, roll over on my back, and let her sister get a good look if she wanted to. If she complained, I'd casually put myself away and zip up, letting her watch as much as she wanted. In those days though... The only thing I could think of was to put my hand down on my hip to try to shield her view from my private bits, and try to be cool. Right. Riiiight. Her sister didn't say anything, so I thought I'd gotten away with it. Nope, of course not. A week or two later the three of us were sitting in the living room talking, and the subject of me 'being cool' came up. Her sister laughed hysterically at the very obvious way I'd tried to hide myself. Lesson learned. Well, Step 1 of the lesson learned. I'd be that sort of goofus a few more times before I realized that there was no reason I should be embarrassed. Whoever wandered in could decide for themselves if they should be embarrassed. Not My Problem.

A few days later I finally managed to get my hand under her skirt and in her panties. I had no idea what I was doing. Absolutely no clue. But I explored by touch, trying to figure out what was there. After a bit I discovered a slippery slope that seemed to lead to an area that just might fit that cock in her hand. I managed to get one finger in, and then after a bit a second one. I couldn't do more than that, she was still lying on her side facing me, and didn't think to spread her legs a little. Tight quarters for my wayward little fingers. I wiggled them around a little, and this seems to have pleased her, so I did it a bit more. I tried pushing them in and out, and that pleased her a bit more.

I hadn't yet discovered her clit. I didn't even know that such a thing existed. It would be an amazingly long time before I made that discovery; something every six year old is now taught in preschool. It would have been nice if one of my girlfriends had sometime told me they had one down there, and wanted me to play with it. But none of them did, they were seemingly content to let me do whatever I wanted, without any direction. (You're thinking that this is proof that I don't know jack shit about girls or sex? You're right.)

After we had finished playing and I pulled my hand out of her, I pretty quickly noticed something interesting. The smell of my hand. No, not the smell that just permeated your mind. This was a nauseous, rotten smell. Dead cats eating dead meat kind of smell. It kept wafting up to my nose from my hand over the next ten minutes or so. Eventually I excused myself to the bathroom, not so I could pee, but so I could wash my hand with soap. Even after washing it, the smell was still there. It would take a couple more washings later to get most all of it off.

That sort of experience was repeated a few more times. I remember driving home from her house, my hand on the steering wheel. Stinking. To the point I was nauseous. The steering wheel stank the next day. Or going home with my dick stinking in my pants, and using Comet cleanser to try to get it clean when I got home.

One day I was talking with her father. I have no idea if he knew or suspected we were fooling around, but he decided to casually mention that his daughter had always been a bit of a problem. She absolutely refused to wash between her legs when she took a shower. I think it might have been at a family get-together, and when he described that, his wife, her stepmother, chimed in brightly, saying that they had been trying to cure her of that for years. I don't recall if she was around during this interesting discussion, or maybe in another room. A dim glimmer of knowledge started to glow, and I thought these two things might be related.

We continued to fool around. We continued screwing around. I continued to be nauseous, with a stinking hand, when I went home afterwards. Needless to say, I never even thought of putting my nose down there. (Yea, you think I'm a total idiot. But you can't smell her coochie. I can. Almost 60 years later and I still can.)

Eventually she got tired of her somewhat overbearing parents (especially her stepmother), and one day she moved out, and moved in with me. We continued having fun (or at least I thought we were), but things never got smelling any better.

After about six months of living with me, I came home from work one day and she and her bed weren't there. I found out the next day that several of our mutual friends had helped her move out, and into a communal house in an old tumble-down building, where she was sleeping with her new boyfriend, a VietNam vet with PTSD. She had his child six months after she had moved out of my house. Maybe he forced her to wash herself. Don't know, don't care. It had been an interesting year with her, but it was very definitely over.

I had two more girlfriends after her, and before Alane. Yes, two more girlfriends in almost eleven years. Actually both in the first three years, and none after that. Both were unfortunately also virgins, so I learned almost nothing about sex, since at that point they knew less than the tiny amount I did. It did take up two more years of my social life. One of them ran off with my best friend and married him, for a while. I don't recall what the other did after she broke up with me. I'm not sure I remember her name.