My Sexual Memoir Ch. 02

Author's note: This is the second installment of Elizabeth Boyer's sexual memoir. The actual document is lovingly bound in a royal purple folio with a gold border. Each page is heavy linen stock and is written in Liz's small delicate hand. Pictures, when they've been included, have paper frames and are covered by acetate film. It's obvious that she has taken great pains to produce something that she considers larger than herself. I'm sure many would describe it as the work of a consummate narcissist. A charge that I think Liz herself might well agree with. I'm deeply moved by her willingness to share this with me, and my only regret is that I am unable to share the pictures which reveal a seriously beautiful woman.

My Life

It seems a bit silly to include a biography in my memoir, after all this is intended to be my secret and just for me. However, as much as I may wish to just go on to other, and more interesting, things I have a nagging feeling that this part is necessary. So I will do my best to keep it brief.

I was born in Savannah, Georgia in 1933. My father was a prominent businessman in the city and my mother was from one of the old line Savannah families that traced their roots back before the Revolutionary War. I had two older brothers and I was raised to be a southern lady. I attended St. Anselmo Prep and was a good, but not great student. I dated a few times before my debutante ball, but nothing serious.

I had never really thought about what I wanted to do when I grew up because my path seemed obvious. Like all of the girls in my circle, we were being raised with the idea that we would marry a man from our social class. He would earn a living and my role would be to bear his children and ensure his happiness. There was never any allowance that I might desire to walk a different path. Looking back on my adolescent years, I'm embarrassed by how shallow and self-indulgent I was.

As I blossomed into adulthood and stopped growing, I topped out at five-five and one hundred and twenty pounds. I had my mother's light brown hair and my father's green eyes. My pale skin was flawless and my breasts required a C-cup. I felt quite at home in the body that God had given me, and I rejoiced in my femininity.

After high school, I was admitted to the College of Charleston. I chose general studies because I didn't see my attendance as critical to selecting a career as it was to selecting a husband. But it was there that life threw me a curveball.

During a routine gyno exam, it was discovered that I displayed symptoms of polycystic ovary syndrome or PCOS. It was treatable but not curable. The bottom line was that I was infertile. I would never bear children. I cried for days and when I told my parents, I thought my mother was going to die. I withdrew from college and for the next two years, I worked for my father in the family business where I learned that I have a rare skill. It seems that I have a talent for explaining complicated things in simple and understandable ways.

In the mid-1950s, computers were just beginning to come on the scene as something that businesses could actually use and I got in on the ground floor. Over the next twenty years, I worked for eight different companies and my job was to explain their products to their customers. Today those people are called Tech Reps, but I did so much more. I was introducing a whole new concept to the business world and I got paid well for my efforts.

I traveled a lot in those years and I used the opportunity to indulge my exhibitionist fetish. I'll be describing some of my more memorable experiences later in this memoir, as well as some of the sexual partners I found along the way.

I was almost forty when I met Ben Boyer. Ben was one of the five commissioners in the Federal Trade Commission and I met him when they were investigating the computer industry for antitrust allegations. He was from Georgia like me and was married with three kids. We had a hot and heavy affair for two years before his wife found out. After their divorce, he asked me to marry him and like a fool, I did. I moved to Washington and quit my job.

It was Ben who introduced me to the Freyja Club and that ended up being a turning point in my life. Never had I felt so complete. I was finally able to fully explore all of the elements of my sexuality safely and securely and my happiness blossomed. For a while, Ben and I were regulars at the club until one day Ben told me that he was leaving me for his secretary. The divorce was messy. I hired the best lawyer in town and by the time we settled, I had the house in Washington and seventy percent of our investments. I had more money than I could ever possibly spend in this lifetime. Ben moved to California and I understand has squandered his money and become an alcoholic. I like to think I had something to do with that. I don't think very much about Ben anymore, but when I do the words that most come to mind are... "Good riddance."

Since Ben left, I've become involved in a number of social and philanthropic associations and my network of friends has expanded. One of my more enjoyable endeavors is finding young men for the position of steward in the Freyja Club. I will be discussing this new and interesting activity in much more detail later in this memoir, but now, at the age of fifty-four, I am as happy as I've ever been. Sometimes I do look longingly back at the roads not taken and I do wish I could have experienced motherhood, but all-in-all, I am content.

My Mirrors and a Camera

Are all exhibitionists narcissists? I think so and I know that I am. I am fascinated with the image of myself that I could see every day in the mirror.

The closet door in my bedroom was actually two doors that were hinged on each side of the opening. For years I had a four-foot-tall dressing mirror on the inside of one of the doors. I would strip naked and adopt various poses that I thought were erotic in front of that mirror. Then one day it dawned on me that if I had a mirror on the other door I could see myself from other angles. When it arrived, I noted that it mounted to the door with clips instead of just screws. I could easily remove it if I wished and put it somewhere else and I suddenly realized that I knew the right place to put it.

I slept in a beautiful twin-sized brass bed with high rails at both the head and foot. It didn't take me long to figure out that if I took the four-foot high dressing mirror and placed it horizontally against the foot rail and crawled into bed, I could see myself just as someone else could from that position.

I remember the very first time that I lay looking at my nude reflection in that mirror. My legs were bent with knees together angled slightly to one side. My back was propped up with a pillow and the curves of my hips hinted at the treasure that still lay hidden from sight between my closed legs. I stared at my image for a long time imagining what a man might be feeling looking at my nakedness. I tried various expressions and wondered how they might look; confident, hungry, desirous. Oh, I didn't know, but I yearned to find out.

What I wanted was the thrill of the look in his eyes, when he knew he was the one that I wanted. I practiced lowering my head and raising my eyes in what I thought of as my most seductive look, and when I felt that I had his undivided attention, I practiced slowly spreading my legs just as a flower opened its petals. I imagined that he would first see the alabaster skin of my inner thighs and then a hint of my pubic hair before my pussy would be displayed for him. Sometimes it would appear as a deep slash bisecting the space between my legs, but if I was aroused, the lips of my labia might be slightly parted and moist evidence of my lust would be seen as a velvet sheen coating my pussy.

I played out this fantasy a thousand times seeking the perfect match of look, anticipation, exposure, and fulfillment. Occasionally I would use my fingers and spread my juice along my slit and across my aching clit or I would finger my hole and imagine that I was preparing to be mounted, and I would notice the tension ripple through the muscles of my inner thighs open for him. When I removed my fingers, I saw that my vulva would remain open for a time, and in those moments I could actually see the dark entrance to my vagina.

I also had anal fantasies and sometimes got on my hands and knees and looked back through my legs at the wonton image in the mirror. I inserted various phallic-shaped objects in my vagina or anus and wondered if those poses would be as arousing to my unseen voyeurs as they were to me.

A favorite pose was to lay across the bed parallel to the mirror. I practiced various poses that either exposed me completely or hid my charms in seductive and tantalizing ways. Often my hair flowed down and partially hid my face, and thought that gave me an earthy kind of wontoness.

Other times I used a makeup mirror that I had received as a birthday present to get a closer look at what I looked like down there. I think it's unfair how nature has hidden the very essence of our femininity so far over the horizon that I have to use a mirror to see it, but that's the way it is. I'm told that some women think that their pussy and vagina are "ugly." Well, I'm not among that group. I think it's beautiful and I'm entranced by that gateway that each of us traveled just to be here. The design is wonderful; soft outer lips that invite a closer look, a warm moist opening that welcomes the thrust of a hard male cock and my clit, that sends me to heaven when it's touched and stimulated.

Lest you think that my dalliances with my mirrors are only for my visual pleasure, let me disabuse you of that notion. I have used my own naked image a thousand times to rub and finger my cunt - yes! When I play with myself, It's my cunt, not my labia or my pussy... it's my cunt!

I'm going to add two pictures that I took with a Polaroid camera. They're now a little faded with age and are only in black and white, but they eloquently capture my obsession with my flowering womanhood at the time. I only took the two shots lest it be discovered that the film cartridge had been used.

The camera was large and unwieldy and I knew almost nothing about photography, but for a novice, I was pleased with the results. First I laid on the bed intending to just shoot my pussy displayed in the mirror.

The shot is down my naked body and I had no idea about how to adjust the focus. I guess it was just beginner's luck that the picture turned out to be perfect. The camera is obscuring my face, but in the mirror, my spread legs and open labia are sharply defined. What I hadn't expected however is that the camera also captured my legs and lower torso in the foreground. The white alabaster columns of my thighs create a kind of frame on the sides of the picture while my pussy mound is revealed at the bottom in just the way I see myself. If ever there was a pictorial representation of the "nothingness" that so appealed to my first lover, this was it.

The second picture was taken at my dressing table. I'd fixed my hair and added my pearl earrings and necklace. The camera was placed on the dressing table next to me and the shot was taken into the mirror at forty-five degree angle. It is very similar to a lot of glamor portraits that I've seen and eerily close to my picture in the school yearbook, but of course, the big difference is that I'm naked from the waist up. I had pinched my nipples to the point that they were painfully erect and the fullness of my bosom was erotically displayed. Over the years I've had some opportunities to show these pictures to some of my lovers and, without exception, I've not only received nice compliments, but they always seemed to ignite my partner's passions and our subsequent lovemaking was always most satisfying.

Masturbation

I've always known that it's pleasurable to rub my pussy mound on hard things; the corners of tables or the arms of chairs for example. I also remember feeling a delicious tingle when I'd peddle my bike, but I didn't think much about these sensations until later.

Do I remember my first orgasm? You bet I do. I was reading an erotic passage in a book that I hadn't anticipated would be so arousing. It was a Saturday morning and I had been dallying about getting up. I rolled onto my back, my head settling into the lush pillow where it had been resting, my auburn hair flowing around me. I could feel a slight morning chill in the air and before I pulled up my duvet I felt a stiffening of my nipples and could feel them pushing against my baby blue tank top that I was wearing. It was way too short and tight to wear out in public, but I loved sleeping in it, loved the way my boobs filled it out and rubbed against my erect sensitive nipples.

I breathed deeply sinking further into my bed as my right hand began to stroke my stomach playing with my belly button, slowly working its way along the toned center of my stomach causing my skin to prickle and my breathing to increase.

Without conscious thought my other hand had slipped down my body and pressed the crotch of my pink pajama bottoms against my mound. I felt a tingling in my trimmed auburn pubes against the cotton fabric and a spreading moistness in my crotch.

I became aware that I was biting my bottom lip as my right hand made its way under my top and cupped my breast. I played with the soft fat of my tit for a moment before deciding that I wanted to see it. I raised my body and pulled the top over my head, carelessly flinging it off the side of the bed. I held my breast and gauged the weight of it. Then I hooked my fingers under the waistband of my pajamas and pushed them down exposing my wet pussy. A wiggle of my hips and legs was enough to push the pants down and off, leaving me totally naked.

My mind was flooded with the images from the book. I wanted to feel what she was experiencing in the pages that I'd just set down. My sex was crying out to be touched and I crossed my thighs and squeezed them together searching for that warm friction to satisfy the lust that I was feeling rise from every pore of my body. I had no idea what was happening to me, but whatever it was, I didn't want it to stop. One hand cupped my breast and my fingers pinched and twisted the nipple as my other hand pressed into the junction between my still clenching legs.

It was too much, my mouth felt dry as if all moisture had flooded my wet sex. I released my nipples and both hands fought to push into the wetness between my thighs. I couldn't understand why I seemed to be fighting myself, but I couldn't seem to unlock my legs. The pressure was so pleasurable that even though I desired more, I was hesitant to abandon the sensations that I'd just discovered.

Soon, one of my fingers was able to slip into the notch that formed my labia, and as it slid through my now damp, short brown pubes my legs finally relented, spreading like a flower. The scent of my arousal filled the air and I was suddenly aware of the seductive scent of sex and the joy of being a woman. I emitted a long moan when my finger found my clit and I pushed down hard. The girl juices from my vagina were creating a slick sheen coating my fingers and I found it easy to curl them up through the folds to find that sensitive bud and flick over it, into it, and scissor it between my first and second digits. I bit the base of my thumb to muffle the sound of an involuntary moan and clutched my hair as if that reflexive movement would stifle the sounds of my arousal.

My pussy was on fire and I began to become aware of a new and strange feeling that began to arise from my groin. As my, as yet unnamed, climax raced toward me, only one thing seemed to be missing. I was unconscious of the need, but when two fingers of my other hand invaded my pussy and pushed into my hole. I had no idea why the fingers rubbing my inflamed clit and the fingers penetrating me were both necessary, but it seemed to be the case.

I was becoming overwhelmed by the stimulation and I suddenly flipped over on my stomach. My body pressed down on my hand trapped between my cunt and the bed. I ground my hips savagely and pushed my face into the sheets. One finger was busy marshaling the juices from my hole as the other ground against my hardening nub. Oh, how can I describe the feeling? It was a buildup of tension that arched my back and curled my toes, it was almost as if all of the muscles of my body decided to clench at once and just when I thought that I couldn't take it anymore, suddenly all that tension released like a coiled spring and shot wave after wave of pleasure through my body. I realized that I could hardly breathe. Short staccato gasps were about all that I could muster as I felt my body curl into a ball as I collapsed onto the bed.

My brain was consumed by my self-absorption and it was impossible to focus on anything other than the intense sensation of my release as it seemed to ricochet from one part of me to somewhere else and then back again. I had heard about the pleasure that women feel during sex, and the book I had been reading certainly had fueled that notion, but until that day I had no fucking idea of the potential that it had until I experienced it myself.

The moments after, as I slowly drifted from heaven back to my now rumpled bed, left me dazed and confused. There was no way that I could touch my sex, it was far too sensitive and I also found that I had no desire to do anything other than to let the waves continue to wash over me. When I finally recovered and sat up on the bed, I glanced to my left and could see my image in the mirror on my dressing table. My hair was a total mess, but what startled me the most were my eyes. In my reflection, I saw a woman who looked like she had just seen a ghost. To this day, I will never forget the haunted expression and tear-stained cheeks of the image that looked back at me that morning.

My first experience was followed by a brief period where I couldn't keep my fingers out of my panties. For several weeks I remember my frantic attempts to duplicate those feelings and explore all of the other ways that I could think of to bring it about. Of course, I used my mirrors and discovered the joy of finding phallic objects to insert into my hole; the first was the handle of my hair brush, but I also enjoyed cucumbers, bananas, and eventually dildos, but those had to await the sexual revolution of the 60s before I discovered them. Today I own several and my favorite is an eight-inch phallus that is battery-powered and has a nub that presses against my clit when it's inserted in my vagina.

I've also discovered the joy of mutual masturbation with both men and women and I have several memorable experiences that I will certainly be including in this memoir as we go along.

One final thing that I should mention here is that it wasn't long after my first experience that I found that I can be multi-orgasmic. Had I relied only on my first time I would have said that it would be impossible since I remembered the hyper-sensitivity all too well, but I soon learned that I have a measure of control that I can use to both prolong the build-up of my orgasm, but to ride a continuous wave of sensation that seems like independent events. I've learned that only some women have this ability, but I'm grateful to be included in that group.

I still prefer to share sex with others and in that regard, I masturbate much less frequently than in my youth, but I still regard it highly.

Even still, there are moments when I feel a compelling urge to validate or celebrate my femininity. Every morning as I awake, I've adopted the habit of placing my hand on my stomach and slowly sliding it down across my pubes and between my legs as if to assure myself that I am indeed a woman. Also, while it might seem heretical to use this comparison, but I will occasionally masturbate in front of a mirror and as the sensation between my legs begins to rise, my thoughts become prayerful and I whisper thanks God for my life and his gift of allowing me to experience it as a woman. When my climax finally washes over me, I sometimes think of it as him whispering back, "You're welcome."