I knew it was strictly a one-time thing because he was older than my brother and was not going to be interested in anybody fourteen years old. The kind of feeling we had for each other, we could be friends for a lifetime, we still are very close friends, but we couldn’t possibly be in love with each other. So I knew where I stood.
We went to bed and it was pretty nice. I was very glad that my first time was with somebody with experience. The pain wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. All in all it was a very nice experience.
He was surprised I was a virgin. It did wonders for my ego when he told me this, like I gave the impression of being more worldly than I was.
We only made it that one time.
Another time was with a boy I was in love with. He was a year ahead of me in school and I was really bent out of shape over him. He took me out a few times and then we made it. I guess we had sex three or four times and then he stopped calling. That really upset me because it was obvious to me that he didn’t care about me at all but just wanted to add me to his scorecard, and I was annoyed with myself for not having realized it, but sometimes where men are concerned I have this fantastic capacity for fooling myself and convincing myself that they feel the same way about me as I do about them. I guess this is something I’ll learn to outgrow. At least I hope it is.
Another time was on a church excursion. My mother let me go because there were some older people chaperoning it. Not really older, like two guys and two girls all in their early twenties. She wouldn’t have trusted me to go if it hadn’t been chaperoned, and that’s what’s so beautiful about it, because for three days I balled one of the chaperones. I suppose you could say that was just sex for the sake of sex. I wasn’t emotionally involved with him or anything, although we were friends and had a lot of rapport with each other. I think the whole idea of it was a turn-on, the concept of being allowed to go because of the chaperones and then going to bed with one of them. There was something really poetic about the whole idea of it.
Basically I’m more hung up on love than on sex.
My ideal is to fall in love with someone and have him fall in love with me, and it never happens that way. Guys will get hung up on me and I’m just not interested in them, or I’ll fall in love with them and they really couldn’t care less about me. I suppose I would have a much more active sex life if it weren’t for this. Because there are a lot of guys I would sleep with if they wanted, and there are a lot of guys who want to but I’m not interested, and what it amounts to is that I spend a lot of my time being hung up and dreaming about guys and nothing happens.
The guys I’m closest to are these platonic relationships. I don’t know whether this is an immaturity thing for me or a defense mechanism or what, but I don’t really relate to the dudes I fall in love with. But guys who I don’t have a thing for them and they don’t have a thing for me, those are the guys I can really be friends with. In a completely platonic way.
I guess it’s because I’m not threatened, and I know they don’t feel threatened by me, and it’s easier for all of us to be cool.
In a lot of ways I consider myself pretty screwed up. But not in the ways that my parents are concerned about. When I think in terms of what’s bothering them I consider myself pretty well adjusted.
Oh, I don’t want to stretch things out of proportion. I don’t want to make it sound as though I’ve got everything together, because I don’t. There have been times when I have balled a guy without feeling anything for him, either talking myself into thinking I feel something for him or talking myself into believing that it doesn’t matter whether I feel something for a guy or not. And there have been times when I’ve tried to rationalize sex for the sake of love or love for the sake of sex.
But all in all I would not say that sex is a major problem for me, I think people my parents’ age make too much out of it, and when you do that you miss out on enjoying it.
A Letter From Vicki
Dear Mr. Wells,
Well, I have just finished your book Doing It! at a time when I should have been doing my homework, so I shouldn’t even be writing to you, but your book was so fascinating I can’t help it! Before I say anything else I would like to note that I have noticed that while I am writing (which I do a lot of) is that if I happen to get sexually excited (or horny as we say) my writing tends to get larger and rounder. Does this happen to you also?
I am a senior in high school, sixteen years but I’ll be seventeen next month. One thing I noticed in your book is that a lot of old geezers seem to be kind of with it. They surely aren’t over here—I mean in Japan. By this I mean on this army base.
The Japanese people, as you may or may not have heard, are horny people. On the other hand they might be considered prudes from the fact that as much as twenty years back there were still women who tied their legs together before going to sleep. This was done so that in case a woman slept “funny” (as my mom, who by the way is Japanese, put it), her husband would not see anything he wasn’t supposed to. This is the truth—my mom told me once at dinner time, although I recall my dad shut her up quite quickly, saying it wasn’t the type of thing to talk about.
Incidentally, he was just on duty overseas and caught the crabs. He claimed he caught it in the barracks bed but my mom broke him down. She just told him if he had to play around to be loving enough not to leave clues around such as the crabs. This I found out from listening at the top of the stairs.
This letter seems to be just rambling around in no direction, doesn’t it? Oh, well.
I would like to clear up a couple of things that bugged me. One thing was the letter from the guy who says in his closing that he sees young kids nowadays and envies them because they are so open to new ways of thinking about sex, blah blah blah. Well, I think that probably the same number of people are like that nowadays as there were back in his younger days. My boyfriend for one is extremely straight and there are many more like him.
Which leads me to a problem I have had for some time. My boyfriend. Do you have any suggestions on breaking a relationship that is almost a year old? By relationship I mean that we have fucked, eaten, licked, and sucked each other for that length of time. He was the first guy for me and I was his first chick. Which makes it harder than ever to break up, doesn’t it? Any suggestions will be greatly appreciated, I’ll tell you that.
One thing you might find interesting is that there seem to be a lot of girls losing their cherries at ten, eleven, and twelve years old. I don’t know whether it is just over here, but no doubt it is the same in the States . . .
Another thing I found interesting is that statement that it is quality, not quantity, that counts in terms of, as you put it, penises. (I hope I spelled that right. Anyway, I mean dicks. I think penis is a pretty gross word. By gross I mean unappealing. Can you just imagine a darkened room with two sweaty bodies panting heavily when the guy sits up and says, “My penis wants your cunt?” I don’t know, maybe you could, but to me it sounds so much sexier to say cock, dick, or something like that. Vagina is another cold word.)
Anyway, to get back on the subject, my girlfriend and I were talking one time. She said she thought big ones were better since you could feel them better. It’s logical anyway, right?
I know for myself that that is true because during the summer while my boyfriend was away I had my second guy, who told me he might be a homosexual. This didn’t bother me since I thought he really meant bisexual. But this guy touched my boobs about two times and didn’t kiss me that much either, he didn’t touch my body as a whole much either, or my “vaginal area” that much. (Now don’t you think that “vaginal area” sounds technical and gross?)
I sure was surprised when I saw his cock. My boyfriend’s measures nine inches long and five and a half inches around, and when he gets hard-ons it seems like you could smash it with a brick and it wouldn’t hurt him. This guy had about a five-inch long cock about four inches around and his hard-ons were like a half-hard-on my boyfriend.
What do you think? Was I stretched out too much by my boyfriend? Or was it all in my head? (Actually it was all in my cunt but I didn’t feel anything there.)
I have never yet had any experiences with lesbians although I do have a friend who is reputed to be a latent lez. Which I think she is, but she is really getting horny from what I hear. A friend spent the night there at her house and later told me it was a nightmare, from the time at dusk when the lez kept trying to burn her with hot flash cubes, kept trying to wrestle with her (during the evening), kept tickling and pinching and chasing her all over (early morning), until finally my friend bonked her on the nose with the camera and then went into the living room to sleep.
Well it is past midnight now so I have to close. In looking back this letter doesn’t seem to be much help in anything, but it must have been a hassle to read! Anyway, I would like to say that, since you answer all letters, if you have any questions I would be glad to answer them. Or if you have questions concerning a certain subject, if I know anything about it I would gladly tell you. I’m already starting to think of some of my boyfriend’s childhood experiences but I can’t go into that right now in this letter.
One last question: Do you think grass is a turn-on? To me it feels as though I am itching inside and that I am fiery hot-cold, if you can figure that out. But it only works if I turn my thoughts toward sex. I am enclosing a stamp but would ask one thing of you. Please don’t put your return address on the envelope . . .
Sincerely,
Vicki
The Girl in the Front Row Seat
Dear Mr. Wells,
Having thoroughly enjoyed your book Come Fly With Us, I was tempted to write to you. So here I am, pen in hand. I really don’t know why, but something has compelled me to write to you.
I hope you won’t be shocked or rather surprised when I tell you of myself. I am an unliberated female who really could not care less about women’s lib. I am sixteen, almost seventeen years of age, and I am awakening to all of my senses. What I mean is, for years I’ve had strong sexual fantasies, but not until now am I beginning to really find out about sex. I haven’t made much progress yet, but I’m getting there. I don’t know whether you’d be interested about my “life” as it is lived, but if you are, I would be glad to write to you. You see, I’ve always wanted to tell someone everything just to get it out, but thus far there hasn’t been anyone I could tell and still, in a sense, retain my anonymity.
Do you understand? I hope you don’t think me weird. Some things that I have done are really far out. At least, I think so.
If you’re wondering about how I came to read your book, it’s like this; my father works for an airline on the West Coast. My mother is divorced from my father and I live with my mother and little sister. We just recently moved to Detroit. The divorce was the result of an affair—or should I say several affairs—that my father had. Anyway, I’ve always wanted to be a stew just like the ones my dad knows. When I saw your book, naturally I had to get it. That’s the story.
Well, if you want, please write back. If not, then don’t. If you do, please don’t put anything on the return address that my mother would get uptight about.
Peace,
Julie
I answered this letter and encouraged Julie to continue to write me. For some time I heard nothing further from her—which is not all that uncommon, of course. A month or so after first hearing from her I found myself in Detroit with a few hours between flights. Her last name is an uncommon one, and I managed to get her telephone number and call her. She was unable to see me on such short notice but said she had already begun letters to me on several occasions and would finish one and get it in the mail. It was, however, a couple more months before I did hear from her again.
It’s usually a mistake to read too much into a short letter. The second-last paragraph of Julie’s letter did seem revealing, however—her interest in and identification with stewardesses, strong enough to persuade her not only to buy a book on the subject but to correspond with its author—stemmed directly from her father’s predilection for having affairs with stews. The Oedipal implications looked obvious enough, and one might have gone so far as to predict that Julie would find herself attracted to older men, and might have sexual relationships with men considerably older than herself.
Read on . . .
Dear Mr. Wells,
Although you had mentioned in your book that you write to everyone, I was rather surprised to hear from you. I thought that you might not want to waste time writing to a sixteen-year-old. Sorry for having doubted you!
Before I begin anything, I think that I should write about my background, boring as it may be. I was born———, which makes me a Scorpio—form your own opinions about that. I was born an illegitimate child to a thirteen-year-old girl. Against the wishes of her parents, the girl did not give me up. However, I must have been too much of a burden for the poor girl so when I was one-and-a-half, she relinquished me to an adoption agency.
For the following year, I was carted from one foster home to another. The last foster home that I was placed in was also the home of a potential adoptive mother who apparently had her eye on me. The adoption agency said that she could not adopt me because of her elderliness. Naturally this woman wanted to have a child so much that she made me hate all women except herself, so that when the social workers (who were women) came, they would have a rough time getting me away from her.
I guess she thought that eventually they would let her keep me. They didn’t. No matter how terrified of women I was, and regardless of the innumerable kicks I bestowed upon the social workers, they took me. Then followed the “un-training” of my phobia for women. Finally, I was adoptable again.
I was adopted when I was two-and-a-half. What can I say about my parents? I love them; I hate them. Really, my parents and I are so alienated, so “different,” that to just hack a day is a miracle anymore.
Since I’ve been adopted, a number of things have happened. My parents got divorced. My mother and sister and I moved from sunny California to Hick Town, USA. I’ve had eight school changes, among them two private girls’ schools, one coed parochial school, one boys’ school (how about that?) and four public schools. Imagine that—eight school changes and only one house move!
When I was little I had a number of babysitters. Some I remember vividly. One was a cousin of mine. He was about fourteen and I must have been six or seven. He took off all my clothes and then he took off his own and, to use his words, he wanted me to “play with his thing.” I did this readily as I must have had a crush on him. I can’t remember anything but that. Nevertheless, since then I have had a thing for penises.
In the fifth grade, a girlfriend of mine whose name was Lisa took me to her house. She took off the top part of her clothing and urged me to do the same. After we did we compared the size of our breasts—which is a laugh now, because how big could we have been then? We did a number of more insignificant things, also, and after a few more visits to Lisa’s house, that was that.
In eighth grade, another one of my girlfriends unzipped my dress and felt my breasts. To my alarm, when she kissed my breasts, I had a yearning to do the same to her. That’s when I started to get worried. I was afraid that I was becoming a lesbian. I had been going out with guys but all we did was kiss and that didn’t excite me half as much.
In tenth grade I was going to an all-girls school. Another episode occurred after gym in the showers. I was a little late in getting into the shower room. Finally I got in and there was no one else there except another girl who I didn’t know too well. I started to take a shower and soon she came over and asked me to wash her back. Reluctantly, I did. Then she started to get “cute.” I said no, she said yes. There was a s
houting match; the matron came in and that was that. Ever since, I’ve only had one best girlfriend, and that’s enough for me.
I was going to tell you everything, but I’m not out to write a book, and since the only way to tell you all is to, in fact, write a book, I shall skip around and not tell you everything. If I tell you everything now, what will be left for future correspondence except my latest escapades?
One thing I must admit—Detroit does have a little action. Although there’s not much to do as far as going out is concerned. But the parties . . . wow!!! The group that I got into over here really moves. I’m into the clique—football heroes, cheerleaders, etc. You know the route, probably . . .
There’s this guy in my French class who I sat in front of. His name is Greg. He is quite a character. Anyway, he has got it. Looks, charm, physique, and naturally he is on the football team. Secretly, I had my eye on him, although it really doesn’t matter. One day we traded books because he had some answers I didn’t and vice versa. Accidentally (?) he took my book home with him. A few days later I asked him about it. I told him that I absolutely needed it that night. He said for me to meet him after school and we’d walk to his house, get the book, and he’d drive me home.
Well, when we got to his house, he told me to sit down and he’d get my book, which I did and he did. When he came back he knelt beside the chair and started to play with my hair, which is rather long. Then he got such a look on his face! I’ve never since seen him look like that. I can’t really describe it except that his face was kind of distorted.
Then he kissed me and what a kiss! I got up and we went downstairs. He had to get some extra clothes for after football practice. He waved his jock at me and told me to hold it for him. I think he was getting a charge out of it!
Love at a Tender Age (John Warren Wells on Sexual Behavior) Page 12
