One month ago, I promised to continue this theme in the “Sex tips for brides” series. We’re back in 1988.
February came to pass. Snowbells dared their modest spring symphony to the sun, chasing away the piles of snow on the roadsides. I was humming notes and fragments from Vivaldi’s Spring, waiting for the Fridays when he will come to visit me. Again and again. Then we spent entire weekends together in and around the campus. Hostels weren’t coed at that time. And ours was guarded by a draconian little woman who used to work at the penitentiary time before. Eventually he learned her weak points, so he started to bribe her for an eye closed and a wink when he came to visit. But until “befriending” the hostel Cerberus-woman, he had to escalate the outer wall. Luckily my room was at the first floor.
And I wasn’t alone in my room, sharing it with three colleagues. Lucky me (again, have to admit), some other colleagues were only two in a room and they both took weekends off, traveling to their home towns which were much closer to the city than mine. I traded their room for my “secret” weekends with Don.
Locked in, just the two of us, we listened to the students’ radio single-channel, blaring from a loudspeaker fixed on the wall, above the door, in every room. We danced on whatever music they broadcasted. Willy-nilly, we had to make a blues out of any tango. Plus there was just enough space for tight chin to chin slowly rotation. Food was scarce but we didn’t mind because we had each other. And I always kept my pantyhose on me. Most of the time with leggings too because the hostel was quite chilly in early March.
To me, all this subversive romancing was perfect. Butterflies frolicked in the air all around. I was in heaven! He was with me but he wasn’t alone. Remember from last episode that he introduced his “little man” to me. Well, having no comparison, I found it quite big. However, in spite of the total giggling, I remained firm: pantyhoses will stay tight on me. He can endure the cold in the nude if this makes him happy, but the best I could do was staying topless with him. And when the blaring radio speaker turned mute on the wall (there was an imposed sleeping hour!) then he dimmed the lights and we cuddled under the sheets of an iron pipe hospital bed. He showed me how to stroke him (for the first time in his den at home). I learned to do that with much care and few bits of fear, not to scratch his penis with my nails. But impatiently, he always asked me to move faster, which I did. I love to listen! That’s how I learn new things, by listening…
When he came in my hand, then I saw — for the first time in my life, ever (we took this habit from his den to my hostel) — what’s that an orgasm. I didn’t bring myself to orgasm before and he was my first boyfriend. With curiosity and a moderate amazement, I studied his reactions and I learned (again!) something that I never forget: with a whisper and a stroke I was given the power to turn the world around for him. A woman may be fragile but her fingers wield a tremendous clout.
Then he had to wash. You may imagine that there was only one commonly shared showers group on each floor. And that I stayed in a girls-only hostel. How could I send him alone to the girls’ shower? So I gave him a robe of mine and kept him company, to make sure no one will pry on him. It was a proud feeling of possession. The shock came for me when I noticed that he wasn’t the only boy using the showers.
Although I chatted with one or two colleagues who were guarding their “boys” in the shower, I didn’t mention to them that I had no sex with him, other than between my stroking hand and his frantic hose. If the others had real intercourse of not, I cannot tell because they were also using scarce and subtle words hidden under suggestive looks.
to be continued…