Practice Makes Perfect

It had been a cold, icy Christmas, but the weather warmed up just in time for New Year's. A yellow van rumbled down the street and turned up my driveway, plowing through the knee-deep water that backed up from the slush-clogged storm drains.

The van was delivering Mom's old piano - now my piano - a mahogany upright that had been in the family for about a hundred years. It made sense that I'd get it when Mom died; I was the only one of the kids who took playing seriously. Not that I'd played much recently, of course.

Two guys in faded jackets dropped out of the van. The big guy went to work dragging out ramps. The short guy walked up to me with a clipboard in his hand.

"Where you want it?" he asked.

I had cleared a space for it in the living room, where I once kept a rickety wicker chair. The movers quickly wrestled the piano into place.

They also brought an old, beat up bench, which looked ridiculous sitting in front of the meticulously maintained piano. Mom must have planned to refinish the bench. She did that kind of thing a lot - she'd pick up old, broken down furniture and fix it up until it looked better than new. But she apparently never got around to the piano bench.

I took the piano for a quick spin, playing a few old simple songs. It was still in good tune. I stroked the black and white keys and brushed my hands across the shiny wood surfaces.

It would have been nice to sit and play for a while. But I had Andy's party to get to.

This was the second year running I was going stag to Andy's New Year's party. The year before, I'd just broken up with Sylvia, and I had to endure the constant queries: "Really? I thought you two were perfect for one another! What happened?"

Fortunately, I would not need to explain anything this year - Peggy and I split up months ago, and only a few of my friends knew about Peggy in the first place.

I dressed quickly and went back to look at the piano one last time. I found a bunch of old sheet music inside the bench. A lot of the stuff I used to play when I was a teenager. * * *

I gave up playing the piano in high school when I started going out with Pamela. Pamela was my first serious girlfriend, and we had lots of romantic notions, none of which included the piano. We were both virgins - or at least I was, and she said she was. Back then, I had doubts about her honesty concerning her experience. These days, I am more inclined to believe she told the truth.

I was endlessly fascinated by Pamela's naked body. Given the opportunity, I could have lain for hours just looking. My stares made Pamela uncomfortable, so I would fumble around, stroking her awkwardly, while I studied her on the sly.

I loved her hips, and the first time I went down on her happened by accident. I was kneeling between her legs, running both hands up and down over her bare hips. Pamela lay passively, and I wanted a closer look. I leaned closer while I caressed her hips and thighs, and as I closed in, I caught a whiff of her arousal.

Pamela protested meekly, but I was drawn inwards. I stroked her hipbones with my fingers, and my attention focussed at the warmth between her legs. I rubbed my nose through her dark hairs and inhaled her aroma.

"No," she whispered, and she placed her hand on my head.

I swept my head back and forth and settled my mouth between her squishy outer lips. I stuck my tongue out, pushed it between her hairy lips, and got my first taste of pussy.

"No!" Pamela said, and she wiggled out from under me. I was left with a lingering taste on my tongue and a hard-on that demanded relief.

Pamela and I split up after just one year because she said I was boring. "You are sodull," she said during one of our infrequent arguments. That hurt a lot. She apologized the next day, and she said she didn't really mean it. I accepted her apology, but the damage was already done.

It took me a long time to recover from Pamela. People always say there is something special about your first love. I suppose it's true, but I wonder what people mean by "special." I always assumed people meant it was special in some pleasant way. But for me, my relationship with Pamela made me acutely aware of my limitations. * * *

I plunked a single key. Middle C. I sighed.

It was time to go.

I drove to Andy's, where the party already thumped along with a boisterous rhythm. Someone had pushed the living room furniture against the wall, and people were dancing to some fun music played a little too loud. One couple was making out under a sprig of mistletoe. Women drank wine out of clear plastic wineglasses, and men drank beer out of yellow plastic cups.

I made my way to the kitchen and decided to try the wine, since it was a kind I'd never tasted before. I thought it was pretty good. I said hello to the people I recognized and made my way back through the house. I sat down in a folding chair and looked at the dancers. A girl on the floor was dancing wildly by herself and drawing quite a bit of attention.

I had to adjust my position to control the beginnings of an erection. Obviously, it was too long since I broke up with Peggy. I was horny. Maybe even too horny. Sometimes a man gets a little desperate. * * *

Sometimes I think Sylvia and I would have never got together had it not been for my sexual desperation. The fear of another rejection like Pamela's kept me out of circulation for a long time. And then Sylvia entered the picture.

Sylvia was the daughter of one of my mother's friends. After a polite introduction one day at my mother's house, we kept running into each other at random times: in the grocery store, in line at the movies, at the student union cafeteria. Sylvia was attractive, with dark curly hair and bright eyes, and I began to center every sexual fantasy around her. I would lie in bed and masturbate as I imagined stripping her out of her clothes. In my mind, our touches would begin softly and tentatively, and then grow bold as our arousal built. I invariably reached orgasm as I imagined my hand slipping between her thighs to touch her steamy cunt.

Although my sexual fantasies revolved around her, I was too afraid to ask Sylvia for a date. As we built a casual acquaintance, our circle of friends somehow combined. I often sat across a crowded table from her at some pizza joint, staring, while my penis rolled and shifted in my pants. When she caught me looking, I glanced away with embarrassment. Later, she told me she thought it was cute the way I blushed when she caught me staring.

Thankfully, Sylvia finally askedme out. We quickly became a couple, and I was deliriously happy that we did.

Sex with Sylvia was OK. I had built up a huge library of sexual fantasies in the months leading up to our first date, but there never seemed to be an opportunity to live them out. And it felt so good to finally haveany sexual relationship again that I wasn't prepared to risk it all with an out-of-the-ordinary request. So we had a pleasant, unremarkable sex life. And, as far as I could tell, Sylvia was not displeased.

Later, I learned that "not displeased" summed up her opinion pretty well.

We had spent several hours in bed one night. A long, slow bout of foreplay transitioned into a long, slow, undulating, missionary position fuck. I came, filling her pussy, and we slumped together, side-by-side.

Sylvia reached across my chest and hugged me. "I didn't expect us to have sex like this," Sylvia said.

"What do you mean?"

"Jon, you are a different person when we make love."

My face burned with fear of an up-coming criticism, but Sylvia did not elaborate.

It seemed like I was always trying to read women. And without much success. * * *

The girl in the middle of the floor danced like a whirlwind. She wasn't much like Sylvia. Or Pamela. Or Peggy. She was short, curvy, with honey-colored hair. She wore a T-shirt and a short skirt - more a summer costume than one for New Year's. She did not wear a bra, and her ample breasts bobbed under her shirt.

There was a lot about her to watch. Her breasts - I could tell she was proud of her breasts - were out for display. But I also liked the way muscles in her legs flexed as she bounced around. And when her back was to me and she shook her ass, I knew I would love to have my arms wrapped around her luscious thighs.

But those were just my fantasies talking. I wasn't the kind of guy who suddenly attracted women. It always took a month or two knowing some girl before I even had the guts to ask her out.

I was watching her and falling deeply in lust when Andy wobbled up.

"You need a beer, Jon?" he slurred.

I showed him my wineglass. "Nope, I'm set."

"Checking out the talent, I see."

"Who is that?" I asked, nodding towards the girl.

"Connie," Andy said. He grinned. "You like her?"

"She's cute."

"She's single."

"Yeah?"

"Come on, I'll introduce you."

Andy was drunk, which made him impossible to resist. He grabbed my elbow and dragged me forward until I stood right in front of Connie. He introduced us and made a quick retreat.

"Hi, Jon!" Connie said, grinning widely.

"Hi," I said. I tried not to say too many words, because I was sure I would stammer.

"I noticed you watching me over there." She panted slightly.

My face felt flushed. "I'm sorry if I was staring."

She laughed and reached out and touched my forearm. "That's OK! I was making a spectacle of myself, don't you think?"

I forced a smile. "Maybe a little."

"Maybe a lot." She laughed. Her laugh was light and penetrating.

We sat down facing directly at one another. "To tell you the truth, I like the way you look at me. Not like these other guys, these peepers. When you stare at a girl, Jon, you really stare at a girl."

"I do that, I guess. I've always done it. I can't help it."

She smiled. "Get me something to drink?"

"Wine? Beer?"

"Which ever is stronger."

"That would be wine, then," I said.

She leaned back in her chair and fanned her face. Her T-shirt stretched across her breasts, and I imagined snuggling my face between them. Connie had lovely breasts.

I left to get her a drink, and returned to find her tapping her foot to the music as she watched the other dancers. I gave her the glass of wine. She smiled, thanked me, and quickly downed the entire thing. "Whew!" she said, staring at the empty glass, and she laughed.

"You're not driving, are you?" I said.

"Nope. Are you?"

"Yeah, I drove. Do you have a friend who is driving you home?"

"Are you offering?" she grinned.

I stammered something and she laughed. "Am I embarrassing you?"

I forced a grin. "Yeah, I guess."

"You know what?" she said, leaning towards me conspiratorially. I leaned close, and we were only a foot apart. "I came here to get laid," she whispered.

I felt foolish, leaning and grinning. "You did?" I whispered back.

"Uh huh." She giggled. "You're blushing."

No doubt. I knew she was trying to shock me, but I also knew I was on the verge of something good. If this had happened to me when I was younger, I would have definitely fumbled it. But with age and a little more experience with women, I felt a certain confidence that I might pull it off. I was more anxious than nervous. If she wanted to play flirting games, I could play flirting games.

I took her hand and pressed my lips to her knuckles. Her hands were hot. Her nipples tightened under her T-shirt.

"What are you looking at?" she breathed.

My eyes rose up to meet her eyes. "I'm looking at your breasts," I said quietly.

Connie giggled. "Do you want to dance?" she said.

"I'm not much of a dancer, I'm afraid."

"That's funny," she said. "You look like a dancer." * * *

Sylvia and I used to dance a lot, but not in public. We always danced when we were alone with something soft playing on the stereo. A familiar old tune played, like "My Funny Valentine" or "Someone to Watch Over Me," and we stood up and held each other close. She nuzzled into my shoulder, and I smelled her hair. Our bodies swayed and rocked together in time to the music.

I marveled at my good fortune. A gorgeous woman was in my arms, her body against mine. I tried to feel every inch that was in contact with me: her hands on my back, her cheek against my shoulder, her breasts pressing my chest, her legs brushing my legs. Her physicality overwhelmed me. Her scent. Her touch. The way her body felt. We had danced that way a hundred times before, and with each dance Sylvia's bounds wound tighter and tighter.

The song ended and she tipped her head back to look at me. Her dark eyes moistened and flickered in the dim light.

Her hand slid over my crotch. The corners of her mouth tipped upwards. I had become erect without realizing it.

She nuzzled close and stroked my penis through my pants. "Do you like me, Jon?" Sylvia whispered.

"I love you, Sylvia," I said.

"But do you evenlike me, Jon? Do I turn you on?"

I didn't understand how she could ask such a question. Of course she turned me on! I had never felt more aroused, never felt more pleasure, never longed for anyone's touch as much as I did for Sylvia's.

"I want tofeel you, Jon. I want to feel what you are feeling."

I thought hard about what she said. I parsed and re-parsed the sentence and thought about the meanings of the words. I wasn't positive, but I thought maybe I knew what she meant.

But I had no idea how to do it. How do you make someone feel what you are feeling?

We went to bed, and we followed the ritual we usually followed when we made love. Whispers, soft kisses, and slow strokes. She lay on her back, I kneeled on top of her, and I teased her with fingertips feathering across her legs. I moved my hips so my penis rubbed on the top of her smooth thigh.

"You don't love me," she moaned.

"Yes, I do," I breathed. I touched my lips to hers. She grabbed and pulled me into her and opened her mouth wide. She sucked my tongue right out of my mouth.

I'm sure I made some noise of surprise, but I sucked back. She twisted away with a wet smack. "No," she panted, "you don't."

She grabbed my cock and pumped me hard. "Do you love me like this?" she said. Her knuckles turned white with the force of her grip. My cock was so hard that it felt like it could pierce metal.

I was excited. Sylvia had never acted like this before. I was excited, and I needed to spring. I was thrilled and terrified. I wanted to use the spear clutched in Sylvia's tight fist.

The pounce was almost unconscious. I was between her thighs in an instant, my cock jammed painfully up into her crotch. She wouldn't hold still - she kept squirming underneath me.

I grabbed her hips and held her down. She hooked her heels around the backs of my legs and squeezed me into her. "My love is stronger than yours," she said, and she contracted her legs powerfully, pinning me right up into her crotch. The underside of my cock smashed right into her pubic mound and scratched around in her crinkly hair. She grabbed my chest muscles, then pinched my nipples until I yipped out loud.

I reared over her. I ground my thigh between her legs.

"Yes!" she cried out. "Oh God, yes!"

Is this what she wanted? Did she want to feel the physical strength of my lust?

I raised up above her and put my hands on top of her wrists, pinning her arms down. She panted heavily through her nose, and her hips rolled beneath me. Her nipples were tight knots. My cock stood up hard and purple with its sexual anger.

Did she have any idea how strongly I lusted for her? Did she have any idea at all?

I slid into her, one long, firm stroke, driving all the way in until her bellies touched. And I pressed into her. "Feel me?" I said a voice loud enough to surprise me. I ground down hard, reaching for the greatest depth. She was all liquid and heat.

I hung by a thread, my cock deep inside her, our breathing synchronized and ragged. I pulled out until just the head was still inside her. And then the thread broke. I dropped down on her like an elevator with its cable cut, hurtling towards the ground in total free fall. * * *

I drove carefully through the slushy streets while Connie bounced in the passenger seat, singing along with the radio. When I parked in the driveway, she jumped out of the door before I could turn off the engine. She waited for me on my front doorstep, with her arms wrapped around herself.

"Hurry up!" she complained. "It's cold!"

I let us in and she walked ahead of me into my house. She made a side trip through the living room. "Nice piano," she said.

"I just got it today," I said.

"So where's the bedroom?"

I nodded towards the back. She smiled.

"Naughty boy," she said when she saw my bedroom. "You didn't make your bed." She turned around with the backs of her legs against the mattress.

I shifted close to her, moving slowly and relentlessly forward. I put my hands on her arms, my knees against her legs, bumping, touching, until I was pressed all against her. She grinned like girl with a secret she couldn't wait to tell.

And for the first time we kissed.

We kissed feathery soft, and I tickled the sides of her neck with my fingertips. She whimpered between kisses, and when I opened my mouth for a deeper kiss, she suddenly surged into me, her mouth wide and sucking. My right hand found her breast, and my left hand found her butt. We kissed hard with wet lips, and saliva dripped down my chin.

She worked the buttons of my shirt and kissed down my neck. I tried to pull her T-shirt up - I wanted to feel her bare body against me. But she eased out of my grasp and pushed my shirt open. We tumbled together on the bed. She crawled over and rested her chin on my breastbone. Her eyebrows arched and she grinned widely. She grabbed my chest muscles, one in each hand. She pinched both nipples.

"Come here," I said.

She slid up and we kissed again. I got my hands up the back of her T-shirt and felt the hot skin on her back. She squirmed against me as we kissed, pressing harder and closer.

I sucked on her neck and licked her skin and went up and bit her earlobe. She squeezed my chest, and my fingers found the backs of her legs. I drew down from her ass to the backs of her knees. "Oh God!" she said, her voice raspy. The skin behind her knees was as soft as a silk.

She lunged against me and pressed her mouth hard against mine. She broke the kiss and quickly unzipped my pants. Once loosened, she slid down so her head was next to my hip. She grabbed hold of the waist of my pants and pulled them down.

My cock popped up fully erect. She stared at my erection for a couple beats, then gently lifted it in both hands.

"Wow! You have a nice one!" she said.

"You excite the hell out of me," I said.

She kissed the underside of my penis and gave me a tongue tickle. Then she dropped my cock, stood up, and quickly stripped off her clothes. Naked and smiling wide. Skin. Breasts. Tummy. Pussy. Thighs. Pussy. Breasts. Pussy. All that naked Connie. She climbed on top of me.

I loved the way her naked body felt against me. I loved touching her skin and pressing my torso against hers. I loved the way her stubby little nipples rubbed against my chest. I loved the feel of her naked legs on mine. I loved the way my cock felt trapped against the soft skin of her belly.

We kissed and felt each other up. The desire surged inside me, and I wanted to grab her, hold her tightly.

She tipped her head back and I kissed the front of her neck. I got my hands between her legs and rubbed her inner thighs. I stroked the soft skin between them. And it took every ounce of will power to not touch her cunt.