Blown in the Book Room
How I Got Fantastic Head in Public for the First and (Sadly) Last Time
She stood out in front of the campus coffee house, a worn, rag-doll of a girl in a large, fuzzy fake fur, with dust in the razor-sharp creases of her face. Thin, with dirty blonde hair and bright pink lips. Or were they a sort of off-red? I can't remember the tiny details.
"I'll have sex with you. The little desperate guys with the big bellies turn me on."
This was hardly a come-on designed to elicit the bolstering of the male ego, but my libido was stoked. She had a fucking absolutely smoking little bod, tight blue jeans, lace-up canvas sneakers. Pigtails. A face that said that, one day, she would be a punching bag for some meth-head boyfriend in a trailer park, somewhere out in BFE. But, as of right now, she was THE PIECE OF ASS OFFERING.
"Dude, she was giving me the heebie-jeebies," a sort-of friend said later. I suppose so. Still, I wanted a crack at her crack, and so, and so...
"You come back about five, okay?" she said, her voice competing with the rumbling fart of trucks rattle-clattering down University. "And we can go somewhere... and we'll fuck. And fuck. And fuck."
I could feel Mr. Happy stand up and salute. Wreathed, we were by thick clouds of blue smoke, coming from cigarettes the state had taken off the market because they said the tobacco companies were using flavor to market cancer sticks to kids. Maybe so. I'll always associate the smell of smouldering cloves with being young and having TOTALLY IRRESPONSIBLE AND VIRTUALLY ANONYMOUS SEX.
"Okay," I said, slurping some godawful two-dollar coffee I used to pay for the privilege of loitering every day—for two years. "I'll be here. Five on the nose." I was hoping something I owned would be stuffed just under her nose.
I don't know if I thought she was joking, joking and insane, or just insane. She looked like every stereotype of a streetwalking runaway you ever saw on an 80s cop show. Like her name might be Bambi, or something.
So I waited and waited, and wasted time. College time. Time I should have been doing college things. I'm paying for it now, I suppose. But, ah, the thrill of easy, casual sex—just the possibility of it—was too intense to allow me to concentrate.
Finally, six o'clock rolled around. I made it back to the campus coffee hacienda. Outside, unbelievably, there was my Angel of the Gutters, my Dirty Juliette. Waiting. Smoking nervously with long, pale, womanly fingers—chipped nail polish, naturally.
I was really too stunned to speak. But I think I said, "Well, here I am. Do you still want to?"
"Oh yeah. Yeah..." she drawled out the last.
We went inside and upstairs. Upstairs were a few couches and tables. The smoking section. Indoors. This was 15 years ago, maybe.
There were two young women in the corner, getting cozy. I was annoyed, watching over my shoulder, wanting them to leave.
(You know, so the sexing could commence on broken-down coffee house couches. In a quick-as-fuck [no pun] manner, before the barista caught us.)
But the women wouldn't leave, and so I scooted up to her in a rickety old chair, kneecap to kneecap, and put my hand on her thigh. Want that pussy, my mind screamed madly. Want. That. Pussy.
Gorgeous. We proceeded to deep kiss. Best fucking deep kissing I ever got, I swear before the GAOTU. She tasted like sweet clove cigarettes, coffee, and whatever spicy dish she had eaten a few hours before. She was scrumptious. I still want to have her for snacks, 15 years on.
"Oh, man. That's really, really good. You got a hell of a tongue going there."
"It does tricks."
"No shit? Maybe you should demonstrate."
"That's kind of what I had in mind. But, hey, let's get out of here. You know where we can go?"
Honestly, I didn't. But I thought we might have better luck at the Student Union, which was big and dull and empty, my God.
"We have to make this quick, hon," she said, her voice suddenly lifting into a too-happy, corn-fed inflection. "My boyfriend gets home about seven or I'd say we could go back to my place."
The idea of getting beaten to death (or even shot) by someone's irate boyfriend—who happens in while I am stationed between the legs of his lover—didn't really appeal to me. As it was, I said, "Maybe we can go upstairs at the Student Union. It's usually vacant this time of day."
It was THAT time of day, too. Late afternoon, a time when energy crashes or revs up, depending on your personal routine, schedule, or lifestyle choices. Students were going to various campus eateries, bars, and other assorted dives and hangouts. The sidewalks through the university village were bustling with beautiful young guys and gals, with beautiful young guy and gal ass crammed into shorts, jeans, and sweatpants, khakis and skirts, and even the occasional fire-breathing thing in a patterned dress. C'est la vie.
The smell of food, sweat, smoke, and diesel all mixed beautifully in the air as we made our quickly (time being of the essence) way to the student convenience store cum record emporium cum souvenir and smoke shop, and purchased...
"Condoms. I need a package of condoms. Lubed."
She said this as if she were ordering cheesecake. In a kind of weird, vacant sing-song. I was standing next to her, an inch shorter. The cashier looked non-enthused and I can't believe I used to have these things happen to me.
Head and Breakfast
Upstairs at the Student Union was one empty white hall, with a few offices and a large sort-of book room in the center. At one end was a gymnasium where they used to have dances and convocations. Across from that a subdued, very brown lounge. Through a doorway, into the white, another sort of lounge. The hallway before the stairs snaked off into a set of offices and meeting rooms. There was a kitchen for catering the upstairs hotel.
In the wee hours of the morning—while I was busily fulfilling my role as custodian—you could feel the spent energy of yesteryear, the old ghosts of the Eisenhower Era and before; this whole section of campus dated from the Roaring 20s, in fact. Dead flappers wailing in the air conditioned breeze, the tired tread of professors who don't know, who haven't realized yet, that—for them at least—class has long since been dismissed. Ghosts.
The book room smelled musty and moth-eaten, worm-eaten; perhaps, it was the high cloying funk of an anticipated, one-day, bed bug assault that was still decades in the future. I don't know. The volumes were castoffs and obscurities—collections of revolutionary feminist doggerel. Old textbooks. A hardcover book of a novel from the 20s that had been made into a silent film with Nazimova. (I opened that one up to find 60-year-old newspaper clippings falling out, with rusted paperclips and faded photos of the unknown dead.)
At first, we went for the shower rooms in the basement. Down from the student bowling alley. No dice. The lights were too bright. The idea of fucking her in the ass, her split open brown bootie crack exposed, like a salivating forest critter, between two pasty, yet undeniably succulent lumps of white woman flesh—seemed too coldly, clinically stark.
In the book room, shoved up as we were against a tottering bookcase, we were taking a risk that—even at this dead hour—someone might well walk in. And see her gobbling my cock. And call the police.
She knelt in front of me, her sweet, wet hot little red lips taking my stiff member in between her high, beautiful cheekbones, working her head up and down; her pigtails flopped as I stared at the greasy part of her unwashed scalp in her dark roots. But it was all the same to a man experiencing the thrilling, liquid ecstasy of fabulous head while crouched in a public sphere... which, in the whole, only added to the additional taboo pleasure of nearly anonymous oral pleasuring.
Deeper, deeper, ah! Her lips disappeared to the base of my cock, my copious pubic hair forming a fetching mustache for the so-obliging young lady. She never, like some women, raked her teeth slowly and painfully across the shaft, but, instead, let pure cheek fat and lip flesh deliver me to gluey and warm perfect exaltation.
I felt it build, volcano-like, and I knew it was—
"Ah! I'm coming... I'm coming... I'm..."
I held her head, shoving it up and down, manipulating her greasy bangs as my eyes rolled back in their sockets, and my secret sauce shot like a particularly salty cake topping past her clenched teeth and down her pale, pretty neck. Where it swam in her gullet, mixing my DNA with hers, joining us—in a sense—in a union that imprinted me atop her own febrile form.
Oh Jesus! The agony and the ecstasy! The pure pleasure of feeding her myself, as the pleasure receptors went on overload, and my eyes rolled back in their sockets. She. Was. The. Best. Fucking. Head. I. Ever. Got.
I had had my hand stuffed down the back of her jeans, cupping one delicate, smooth, fleshy cheek. Now, I lifted her shirt, saw two pierced titties, and began to suck.
"Come on," she said, after a few minutes, my nut still dribbling off her chin. "It's almost seven. My boyfriend's gonna be home and wonder where in the hell I'm at."
And what? I thought. If he thinks you've been with another guy, will he beat you?
I didn't know. We walked down University and stopped at the Scramble Light. I pulled her to me, roughly, kissed her again. She was a tall girl and had a delicate bone structure that was purely beautiful.
"I want to see you again," I said. "When can I see you again?"
She didn't really answer. She said, in that same eerie, distant, sing-song, "Yeah, okay, we can do that."
And then she just walked away, a lonely figure. In her tight jeans and her big, cheap, fuzzy coat, she could have passed for the World's Loneliest Prostitute.
Later, I saw her in a student dining commons with her boyfriend. He seemed a pathetic shrimp. I hadn't even guessed she WAS a student here.
And I never saw her after that. And I never got head in a public place again.
But, as the song goes, "Those were the days!"