Seven Deadly Quims

Her body would go soft afterward, all limp and sweaty and relaxed.

She was lovely from every angle. I enjoyed especially the various shapes her curving breasts would take, depending on her position. Round, smooth, white, they hung, they swung, their movements were soft, delectable. They were especially alluring when dangling down over me, or from the side, shifting as she moved. She wished she was thinner but I found her perfect. She was active in kayaking and water sports, her physique strong and sturdy in the manner of her Eastern European ancestors, in no way not a healthy look.

Tara entered my life at a pivotal moment. Randi had moved away, I only was able to see her occasionally when I was able to visit or when she pulled into town. But in the meantime I had classes and papers and work to do to finish my degree, all of which complicated logistics. And there was this woman, Tara, who had emerged in a number of my classes.

Tara would have been one of the original Woodstock hippies. Barefoot, long dark hair parted in the middle, she saw no need for razors or shaving of any sort, a free spirit all around. Even better, from my view, she was whip-smart, with such an agile, perceptive mind that she would run circles around the rest of us in class or in outside discussions, and we all thought we were pretty sharp ourselves.

We talked, more and more, in between classes, then off campus too. Her smile was easy, dimpled. Things got interesting.

Why is it that you can go months, years, without any prospects, and then have two aroused lovers who want to sit in your lap at the same time?

Randi and I kept writing each other. In a long rambling letter she announced that we should each keep doors open for others, it did not appear likely that she would be moving back any time soon. It was best to think ahead and not be tied to each other. For a variety of insurmountable reasons I could not follow her across country so our future did not look promising.

I was not pleased to receive this communication but the logic was sound. And there was now explicit permission to pursue extra-curricular interests.

Tara was over visiting one night for dinner, two weeks past Valentine's day. I had made soup and bread. We talked way late, well past midnight.

We looked at each other. We agreed she should stay over.

Quietly and a bit anxiously we slid into bed.

Randi and Tara were both smart, dark-haired and Jewish. After that the differences accumulated dramatically. With my arm around Tara I could feel all the bones in her shoulder. Her ribs stood out, her legs were thin. You could hold an ass-cheek with one hand. Her chest was larger than one might have thought, guessing through the tee-shirts she tended to favor. Overall her body was vastly different than Randi's.

Hairy armpits, which smelled lovely, long legs, flat stomach, totally different.

For the next several months I conducted the oddest juggling act. Tara was over most nights of the week, except for the odd weekend when Randi pulled into town. Shifting between them was jarring. They each knew about the other. Randi was initially furious with herself for having made a declaration of "open season," thinking that she would have been the beneficiary of a free rein, not me.

That whole time was strange, disorienting. Sleep with one lover one night, another the next? While a dream in theory, it was impossible in practice. I might have expected to experience this situation in college but not in my mid-thirties.

Finally, the inevitable had to occur, and I voted with Tara, a wise move all around, both from my perspective then, and now, looking back. Randi and I experienced a last night together, then parted with tear-soaked kisses when I delivered her to the airport and the plane that would take her across the country.

For Tara and I, our first years together were electric. Intellectual and emotional discoveries took front stage. Physically she was intoxicating. Barefoot, unshaven, with dark penetrating eyes and an easy manner. I was able to get her to go topless indoors those first months around my place, or at least with her shirt unbuttoned, breasts drifting in and out of view. Her chest was round and firm, I loved the way her armpit hair stuck out, even her groin hair would emerge like wild weed growth from above the waistband of her shorts.

Tara's quim was incomparable, I shall need no other, ever. Triangular groin thicket, with errant tufts extending in all directions, no panties could hide the tangle completely.

Her quim was amenable to long kissing sessions, her damp lips arousing, her smell intoxicating. She had a few quirks, the most major meant a protracted arousal time. Fortunately when the end arrived it was noisy and vigorous. I also have never managed to coax two climaxes from her sequentially. Our record was three times in twenty-four hours.

Tara gives me marvelous "breast rubs." Perpendicular to my outstretched torso, she squashes her chest into me, firmly then softly, moving from my top to bottom then back again, dragging erect nipples along my body. She kisses flanks, armpits, groin, while I play my hands over her.

Now our head and body hair have gone gray, no longer so lush. Bodies are heavier, but hardly less alluring, at least for me. Arousal is longer, more complicated, but hardly vacant. My gratitude saturates me.

Our first night together back then, two weeks past Valentine's Day, became the date of our "first" anniversary. I am convinced that all married couples have two real anniversaries. The "legal" one, written down on paper and important for mortgages and documents, and the "commitment" one, the date of the origin myth that signaled true beginnings together and preceded the official one. For us the "C" anniversary is just past Valentine's Day when we celebrate with a dinner out. Our wedding date is later in the year.

Quimwise I have been extraordinarily fortunate. My regrets fall more generally into the "what I didn't do" category than what I did.

Each of the Seven Quims was enchanting, especially when right in front of me, capable of a moist kiss, a frantic, pushing excitement. Coaxing pleasure -- a noisy, wet, invigorating pleasure -- from a quim's folds and hidden coves remains one of the most essential wonders of the world. I offer my eternal thanks and express good wishes for all quims everywhere. May you all acquire a fond follower, a suitably admiring acolyte, someone to treat you well.