report I was desperately trying to hide what was happening but Ella was so involved in her own fantasies, she didn’t notice my body stiffen and shudder as I climaxed. She didn’t react when I almost collapsed back into her embrace after the orgasm was done, and I did manage to cover the wet spot I’d made on the bed before she saw it.
“Hailey, are you even listening to me?” she asked happily as my heart rate began to slow. “We need some rules for dating so that we can have some fun, but still maintain our respectability.”
Neither Ella nor I were promiscuous, but at the age of nineteen we both started to fool around with boys in the backs of cars on Saturday nights. Sometimes we would double date, but Ella was in a different league than I was. We would usually lay in our bed after the dates to compare details and boys. At Ella’s insistence, we drew up a set of rules that she and I would abide by and not break, on pain of death.
No kissing on the first date.
No touching of breasts before the third date.
No bearing, kissing, or sucking of nipples before the fourth date.
No boys’ hands allowed to travel below the belly button, even with clothes on.
If a boy’s pants came down, only handjobs were allowed. Absolutely no oral sex.
Because we were saving ourselves for our husbands, we swore to hold true to the code above. I believe Ella did, but I have to admit that I broke rules four and five on a few occasions. In my defense, Ella had a lot more to offer than I did. Her breasts could make a satisfying meal for any boy whereas mine were barely appetizers. If I wanted to travel in the same circles as Ella, I occasionally had to add something to the menu that would attract the more popular boys.
The main reason I dated boys at all was to appear normal and to be able to talk to Ella about something she was obviously interested in. I didn’t find boys sexually attractive and the sight of an erect penis usually made me want to giggle. On the other hand, the sight of Ella’s naked or partially naked body would send shivers through me that seemed to originate from my crotch.
It wasn’t that I disliked boys. I loved my father and brother and most of my close friends were boys, but it got awkward by eighteen because I never felt any physical attraction to them but they started to have sexual thoughts about me. As unfeminine as I appeared, I was still female and my male friends began to treat me differently. I would catch them staring at my ass when I bent over and sometimes it seemed they would brush against me when there was lots of space to pass. I would see bulges in their pants when there were no other girls around and wonder, ‘Did I do that to them?’ Do these boys, who I’d known since we were children, think about me when they lay in their beds at night and play with their dicks? When I dated one, the first part of the evening was fine. We’d go to a movie and then maybe get something to eat. At the end of the date though, he would ask if he could kiss me and then his hands would start to roam over my body.
I won’t deny that being desired was flattering and good for my self esteem, but when his dick came out and he wanted me to play with it, the situation felt more like a science experiment than a passionate or erotic experience. I would probe his erect penis in different ways and observe how he reacted. I’d listen to the odd noises he’d make when I touched him this way or that, and I would try not to laugh at the moment of ejaculation when guys grunt and say the stupidest things. But I never even got wet during any of these encounters and never thought about them while masturbating.
I worried that sex with my husband wouldn’t be satisfying for him. He would see the lack of interest and passion in me when making love, and that would eventually cause him to stop wanting me, and loving me. At nineteen, boys were so horney they didn’t care how you felt during sex, but my Momma told me that passionate lovemaking between a married couple was a gift from God and an essential part of building lifelong bonds between a man and his wife. She warned me that when the fire dies in the bed, unhappiness spreads through the entire relationship. It was an old fashioned way of looking at marriage, but she was basically saying that I had to be a good sex partner to be a good life partner. I understood that sex and love and happiness were all intertwined. I could see them threaded through my parents’ relationship and, in a small house with thin walls, you know when your parents are doing it. I was happy for what they had together but I was convinced that my lack of sexual interest in men was going to cause me great troubles in trying to live a normal and happy Christian life.
As my nineteenth year came to a close, I seldom dated anymore, but Ella was out most Saturday nights. She was a vivid story teller and described her actions, her feelings, and the guy’s reactions in minute and erotic detail. When she’d start describing one of her dates, I would feel a combination of arousal and jealousy, but I couldn’t admit to either of these feelings, so I pretended to be casually interested.
During this tumultuous time in my life, I didn’t understand, or at least I couldn’t accept, what I was feeling and struggled with the conflicting emotions of lust, guilt, jealousy, and shame. I knew I was sexually aroused by Ella’s elaborate descriptions of her sexual encounters but convinced myself that it was arousing because it described sex between a male and a female. That was normal and, though it was outside of marriage, God condoned sex between men and women. I certainly couldn’t be getting aroused by the sinful thought of sex between two girls. That was not within my realm of possibilities. I convinced myself that I was jealous because the boys were stealing Ella’s attention from me, though that wasn’t true. But my attraction to Ella, and to women in general, confounded me and truly caused me much consternation.
At nineteen years old, I knew what a lesbian was, and I was not a lesbian. I had been on enough dates with boys to know that I must be heterosexual, so these extreme waves of arousal that Ella ignited in me were a mystery and I just told myself it was normal and part of God’s plan for me. After all, Ella was amazingly beautiful and incredibly sexy and I imagined that all girls were getting those same feelings of arousal when seeing her. I was normal. I was sure of it. God tempts us to test us, and we must rise above these temptations and live a proper Christian life. But it’s so so hard! In hindsight, the fact that I am a lesbian is so apparent, but at the time, I could not acknowledge it without deeming myself totally worthless.
Regarding Ella’s dating, I told myself that it was just meaningless fun and something that all girls our age must do. Normally, I could convince myself of this, but sometimes there appeared to be an emotional connection between Ella and the boy she dated. I felt threatened by this and foresaw the day that Ella’s time and attention would be stripped from me in order to spend countless hours with some boy she fell in love with. I didn’t like hearing about how these young men touched Ella. I didn’t want anyone else’s hands on her breasts. I hated the thought of someone else’s tongue between her lips or someone’s mouth on her nipples. I dreaded the intimacy of the act and what romantic bonds it might lead to. Even worse was hearing about how she touched them. I particularly hated the part where she described opening their fly and fishing out their already erect cocks. After each date, she would describe its size, shape, its look and its feel in her hand. She’d tell me how hard it was and how it throbbed and jumped when she caressed the head or ran her finger up the shaft.
Even worse, Ella would describe how excited she became and how she felt heat and moisture between her legs while the boy pawed her breasts and shoved his tongue into her mouth. Eventually, through the telling, she would relive the actions of holding his erect cock in her hand and stroking it until he ejaculated. The thought of sticky white cum squirting out of his dick, landing on Ella’s chest and dribbling down all over her hand was repulsive. It meant nothing to me when I jerked off a boy, but I found it excruciating when she did it.
After one particular date, Ella came home with an actual glob of cum in her hair. She had dated this boy before and really liked him, so she decided to go a little further with him this time. After working him up to a frenzy, Ella actually leaned over and kissed up and down his shaft, but swore she didn’t touch him with her tongue or put it in her mouth. The boy lost his control and came without warning, spaying his filth all over the face and hair of the girl I loved. It sickened me to see the remnants of his orgasm, one short drying rope of cum on the side of her head where she hadn’t brushed it from her hair.
I wanted to scream and I wanted to cry, but instead, I was cruel to her that night. I chastised her viciously on the pretense that my Mom might have seen the ugly deposits and figured out what Ella was doing on these dates. In reality, I couldn’t contain my jealousy and it was so painful to me that I had to lash out at her. I was constantly tortured by the image of my Ella being so intimate with another person while I only got the occasional hug and peck on the cheek.
Before every date, I emphatically reminded her of rule number five because, if she ever told me that she put a boy’s cock in her mouth, it would have crushed me. On that night, her lips slid along the hot sensitive skin covering the boy’s prick, undoubtedly lubed with copious amounts of his precum, which she would routinely spread over a boy’s erection before jerking him off. She was just one small step away from giving him a blowjob, and breaking our pact. I felt like she betrayed me, or was about to, and it created a rift in our relationship that took weeks to move past.
I barely spoke to Ella for days after our fight, and I could see the pain in her face each time we crossed paths and she tried to make eye contact. There was a lot of apologizing, quite a few tears, and an abundance of sadness on both sides, but eventually, my love overcame my hurt, I forgave her for what she didn’t actually do, and things slowly returned to normal.
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