Saturday, September 15, 2012

Caught With The Meat In My Mouth

Fifty years ago, oral sex was illegal in all but one state of the Union.  Today, it’s a crime in just eighteen.  A story of law breaking, and its inevitable consequence.

“September 15, 1962.”

Well, at least they’d got the date right.  Now let’s see what else they said.  I picked up the charge sheet and read it aloud.

“The accused is charged that on the night of June 3, and on numerous occasions on either side of that date, she did take the plaintiff’s penis in her mouth, and in so doing excite him to orgasm.”

There was a bunch of other stuff on either side, comments on my character, my “lewdness,” my “perversions.”  There were officious, sniffy references to the abomination I had committed, to my sins against nature, against femininity itself.  But, although I had have argued a little about the actual language, and the fact there’s a lot of quicker, easier ways of expressing what I’d done, they’d just about got it right.

I sucked his cock.  Not once, not ten times, but just about every time we met.  And then his wife found out and she hit the roof.  But she was a calculating bitch, if ever I met one.  She knew which side her bread was buttered on, and there was no way she was going to walk out on this marriage.  So she delivered an ultimatum, and he... he agreed.

She would accept his apology, if he reported me to the cops.  And because her daddy was a buddy of the sheriff of the county, and favors always pass back and forth... like he and I did with his cum, most nights; I bet he never told them about that.... some names were kept out of the charge sheet and the press.  And others were broadcast for everyone to read.

Not, I giggled... not that the news would come as much of a surprise, at least to any of the guys who have dated me.  I don’t even remember when I first heard that there was more than one place for a man to stick his cockie, but I wanted it to happen from the moment I knew.  And since then... well, it’s the ultimate victimless crime.  In fact, if you ask me, it shouldn’t even be a crime; just another of those ridiculous things that rattles around on the statute book, because nobody in government actually has the balls to turn around and tell the moralists that really, it is none of their fucking business.

I wonder if there is a law against swearing as well?  

I sucked my first cock on VJ Day.  September 2, 1945.  I was eighteen, he was - I don’t know.  Young enough to look good to me, old enough to have spent the last two years in combat fatigues.  Now he was home and I wanted to thank him for fighting to save us from invasion and worse.  

Seventeen years later.  I won’t say I’ve lost count.  Not of the number of guys who I’ve been with.  But the number of times I’ve had them in my mouth, that’s another question.  Even Paul, “the plaintiff,” had lost count of that.  That’s why the charge sheet was so infuriatingly vague, and I wondered whether I’d have felt flattered or furious if he had been able to reel off all the dates on which I’d committed my crimes.

Well, there was his birthday, for a start.  My birthday, twice. Oh, and his wife’s birthday, too, and that was a hoot, him rushing out of the house because he said he’d left her present in the car, when really all that was in there was me.  He told me later that he’d bought his wife a pearl necklace, and I assume he meant one that was actually made of pearls.  Because the one he gave me just trickled down my blouse and stained a brand-new bra.

The door opened, a shadow walked in.  I’d not been taken to the cells yet, and I’d not been given a phone call either.  Somebody, I was told, had to talk to me first, and I heard a whisper from someone else, something about the psychologist.  That was something else I’d heard somewhere, that a lot of so-called sex crimes never get to court.  They are plea-bargained down to a state of mental instability, and the criminal is passed off to the hospital system.  Which is not an improvement by a long chalk, but I guess it’s an option to think about.

I wonder what the cure is for fellatio?

My visitor sat down.  Tall, mid-fifties, graying in a not-especially distinguished manner.  He might have been good looking once, but now he just seemed tired, banging out the last few cases before he could take retirement.  He pulled a chair round to sit at the table opposite me, then reached wordlessly across for the charge sheet.

His face did not flicker as he read it; and I might as well not have been in the room.  Neither, when he’d finished reading, did he shift his pose in the slightest.  He wasn’t staring at the page, in that melodramatic manner that you see people doing in novels and the movies.  But his eyes did not leave the charge sheet regardless, and so the minutes crawled by in silence.

I started off scared.  Then I got mad.  Now I was just bored.

They’d taken my watch when they brought me back here, bundled it up with my purse and my jewelry, so I concentrated on trying to see my visitor’s, to get some idea of how long I’d been sitting in here.  My movement must have caught his eye, and some idea of what I was attempting, too, because his arm dropped down on his lap out of sight, and I went back to staring at the walls.

Finally he spoke.

“You’ve got yourself in a lot of trouble, ma’am.”  He sounded like my gym master.

How did I want to play this?  The bewildered maiden, tricked into lawlessness by a cold-hearted manipulative pig of a man?   That might have worked on someone who looked more grandfatherly, but something about this guy told me he wasn’t averse to some manipulative piggery himself.

The unrepentant bitch?  The lawyered up activist?  It’s funny, the ACLU were in the headlines all the time now, crying out for all manner of human rights.  And rightfully so.  I hated inequality as much as anyone else. But I couldn’t imagine them stepping up and fighting the rights of middle-class whites, or anyone else on God’s earth for that matter, to make love in whatever fashion they chose, regardless of whether it was “moral” or not.  There would be no marches on Washington by the Cocksuckers For Justice; no learned Harvard professors insisting that sodomy is a civil right.  No, the liberals would turn around and say that they were concerned with the bigger picture. Well, right now, this was the big picture.  For me, anyway.

American law in 1962.  Oral sex was illegal in forty-nine states.  It was punishable by twenty years in prison in one state, sixty years in another.  And life imprisonment in Nevada.  Even more bizarrely, that situation won’t really change.  Fifty years on, as I sit writing this, sucking cock remains illegal in eighteen American states, and they’re not all in the south and midwest, either.  Oregon.  Massachusetts.  Rhode Island.   The big difference is, nobody ever gets prosecuted.  Not now.  But then....

My visitor still hadn’t introduced himself, but he spoke as though I should know who he was.  Ten years.  Oral sex is punishable by ten years imprisonment.

For every offense?  He didn’t say.  And I didn’t want to think about it.  I just continued sitting silently, and he did the same.  Then he asked another question.

“Was it worth it?”


Like I said before, I don’t remember when I first learned that oral sex existed.  That a woman could, as my charge papers so delicately put it, take anyone’s penis into her mouth and thus excite him to orgasm.  I’m not even sure whether I did learn about it, or if it was something that I just thought of myself, somewhere during that odd teenaged hiatus that lies between finding out that sex exists, and actually being able to do it yourself.

I didn’t know whether men would like it... although in my masturbatory fantasies, they were almost as happy as I was when it happened; and I wasn’t really sure how it would work.  But soldier boy on VJ Day taught me a lot without saying a word, and though he seemed very surprised when he came in my mouth, and I swallowed it down with a smile and a sigh, he didn’t seem to object, so I guessed that was fine as well.  I hoped so, anyway.  I loved it.

And that was how it went on.  Guesswork.  My sex life started on my knees in an alleyway, while fireworks lit up the sky all around us.  It progressed to a motel, a hotel, a house.  Some of the guys I invited back for more, but just as many were passing strangers, people I’d meet when I was waitressing at Jimbos, businessmen with suitcases filled with the tools of their trade.  I blew an encyclopedia salesman in his car one day, and he was so relieved that there wasn’t any spillage that I got home with a full set of the books for myself.  It was a company car, and his boss was very particular about his vehicles remaining pristine.

I got a discount on a vacuum, and free installation of a new shower.  At one point, it felt as though I only had to smile at a visiting salesman, and a few minutes on my knees could earn me whatever he had to sell.

And that taught me a lesson of sorts.  It taught me, because so many of them told me, that the girls whom they normally spent their lives with,the  fiances and wives and girlfriends back home, had never... would never... could probably not even conceive of doing... anything close to what I did so well.

Or, it taught me that some guys were as uptight as their ladies, and would not let a mouth go below their chest hair, no matter what promises I purred into their ears.  It was a sin, it was a crime... I was probably twenty-seven or -eight when I learned that the game that I liked playing most with my men was one that could see me winding up in prison.  Which came as so much of a wake-up call that I was glad that I’d played it so much in the past.

Because I would certainly think about slowing down now.

Think about.  But not necessarily do.

See, it’s addictive, cock sucking.  Not addictive like a drug, but addictive like a TV soap that you could never imagine missing a day of, or addictive like a great novel you’re reading, and you don’t even sleep because you have to keep going.  Every time I got down on my knees, or lay on my back, or crouched over his lap... every single time, there was something else I wanted to try, something else I wanted to do.  A little twist of the tongue on his hot spot.  His balls in my mouth, two at a time.  How deep could I take him, how long could he last.  It wasn’t even as if I planned these things, or stayed up nights trying to think of new tricks.  They would just flash in my mind as my mouth opened wide, and consume me with a curiosity that was even more powerful than lust.

I learned the drinks to pour before we went to the bedroom, the tastes that would dance on my tongue as it touched him and communicate their flavor to his already inflamed nerve ends.  I swallowed ice and drank hot tea.  I learned so many ways to drive a man wild, because that was the thing that drove me even wilder.

The joy of his orgasm flooding my throat, that wasn’t even the icing on the cake.  It was the cake itself that I wanted the most.  The cake and his cries and the fury of the act.

And maybe, just maybe, the knowledge I now owned; that every time I sucked a guy off, I wasn’t just breaking the law.  I was shattering it.

Where reality led, my fantasies frolicked.  Arrested for some half-ass misdemeanor offense, I’d suck the cop off as he drove me to the station.  In court for some reason that I didn’t even remember, I’d blow the whole jury, or at least all the guy.  The women I’d teach to blow the guys with me, until the twelve good men were one writhing mass of flesh, and then I’d slip out the back door to continue my crime spree.

Until I was finally caught in the dumbest way possible, by a stupid jealous woman who couldn’t even keep a grip on her own fucking husband.  No wonder she had never had his cock in her mouth.  She’d probably have chewed it off with her nagging.

Which would have been a shame because it really was a nice one.

I realized my interrogator was still waiting for an answer to his question.  I raised my eyes slowly.  “Yes.  I do believe it was.”

I met Paul, of all places, in a department store.  He was head of security, I was... well, I was shoplifting.  He knew it and I knew he knew.  But he merely winked as I made my way out of the store, and it was only when I went back the next day that he spoke to me, a teasing “you should be more careful,” and a nod towards one of his colleagues.  She’d been watching me, too.

So I stayed talking with Paul, then he took me to lunch... and the following weekend, I had him for supper.  He never hid the fact he was married, nor that he was for the most part very happy,  Or as happy as you can be in one of those semi-socialite marriages of convenience that are schemed out over a game of golf by the city’s rich and powerful.  He wed into money, his wife wed into influence, and together they lived a storybook life.  Assuming you read the kind of stories where sex is a peck on the cheek before work, and orgasm is... do you remember those novelty picture books that used to be all the rage?  An innocuous sentence would be spread across three pages, then folded to reveal only a few of the letters.  “Orgasm” was one of the first I saw, but when you opened it out, it  was a guy from the power company, asking “is your stove electric or gas, Mrs Jones?”  Very funny.  And oh, so true.

We crept around, him because he had to, me because it was fun.  It added to the sense of adventure.  Forbidden adventure.  Law breaking adventure.  Adultery was a crime here as well, and... I should tell you that I was talking now, telling my interrogator the whole sordid story, and helpfully pausing if I saw that his note taking was falling behind my tsunami of words  

At some point he reminded me that I was making a statement, that would and could be used in evidence against me.  But I simply nodded, and kept on talking, so he started asking some questions of his own.

Things like....

What goes through your mind when you are performing these acts?

Hunger.  Lust.  Excitement.  I love the way a man tastes in my mouth.  I love the way he feels.  The strength, the heat, the dozen different flavors.

Who usually initiated the first contact?

Usually me.  I knew what he wanted and I knew what he liked as well.

And what did he like?

Slow licks and bites. He liked me to suckle him, and to suck on his balls.  He liked to hear me moan in my throat as I took him deep inside.

Did you ever gag?

Once or twice when I was younger.  But I learned how to control it.

Did you always bring him to climax in this way?


And did you swallow his ejaculate?

A wide grin and a sigh for emphasis.  Always.  Then a pause.  Unless he jerked so hard that he fell out of my mouth.  Then I’d lick it all off his cock instead.

I bet Mr Interrogator’s wife had an interesting night when he got home.

Paul had given them just one date and time.  I gave them ten, and then because I relished the shock on their faces, I offered them a few dozen more.  And that surprised them, so then they surprised me.  I was expecting probation and a slap on the wrist. I was given two years in prison.  Two years, that is, for each one of the charges.  All thirty-something of them.  I was thirty-six when I went inside.  I’d be 108 before I got out.

Less time for good behavior, of course, and time for a few other favors I did.

Like agreeing to make visits to the men’s jail down the road.

Like agreeing to attend parties that the wardens threw after hours.

Like... well, I probably don’t need to spell it out, do I?

And so fifty years have passed me by, and tomorrow they let me out.  Somebody asked me where I intend to settle down next?  

Good question.  But I have eighteen states to choose from.  I just need to find the one that has the hardest-assed police force.  I may be eighty-six, but I still know all the tricks.

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1 comment:

AFare24Get said...

-clapping- Bravo. Bravo. Is an audio version coming (no pun intended) out soon? It would drive the listeners crazy.


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