Chapter 2: Sherry's Diary - In the Beginning...

Yes, my dear diary, I'm playing the old game of pretending to write to my best friend Jennifer. I'd love to tell her all the thoughts running through my head right now, but I can't, not yet, anyway. So I'll pretend to write to her instead...

Dear Jennie,

Well, yesterday I finally admitted my secret desire to myself. And, what's more, I actually told Kyle at the same time. He took it pretty well. He seemed more excited than surprised, which I guess is a typical male reaction... ? I don't know. I like to think that Kyle is better than a "typical" guy, but you can't fight hormones, I suppose.

He certainly enjoyed my dream about Trish appearing under my desk at work. That dream was so weird; what did it mean??? Duh, of course it means that, deep down, I'd love for a beautiful woman like her to kiss me in naughty places. But why did I dream that it happened at work? And why didn't anybody notice what we were doing? And why did I really really want them to notice? Do I want more attention to me? Do I subconsciously want to shatter the "goody-two-shoes" image that I've carefully built and protected for as long as I remember? Paging Dr. Freud...

Anyway, I think that maybe Kyle has suspected my "bi-curious" (gawd, I hate that word) impulses even before I told him ... or anybody else, for that matter. I pretty sure he's noticed that when we're out and about and a hot chica walks by, my head turns just as quickly as his to take a look. And he must have noticed that when it's my turn to flip through 102 cable channels, I can't help but pause a beat when the image of a hot babe goes by. It's just how I am; for as long as I can remember, I've always been a sucker for a beautiful girl.

My mother tried to put a stop to that line of thought a long time ago. You remember how she is, Jen; "prude" is quite the understatement. Sex was (and still is) a taboo subject in her house, something that is never discussed in any way. Even harmless fluff like "Three's Company" reruns were banned from our TV because of the silly innuendo, and my father risked a sharp elbow to the ribs if he dared to make a remark that my mother thought was out of line.

Since I'm an only child, it was easy for mom to keep her eagle eye on me. Did I ever tell you about the time she caught me browsing through the women's underwear section of the Sears catalog? I wasn't shopping; I was staring at the ladies, longing to see what they were hiding under those bulky bras. But when my mother found me intently poring over pictures of half-dressed women, she went nuts. I learned quickly that good girls do not look at other girls like that.

I'd already absorbed my mother's sexual hang-ups and guilt by the time I reached puberty. When I had my first period, I felt more comfortable checking out a hokey kid's book ("Your Body and You") from the public library than asking her what was going on. (And, of course, that book stayed well hidden under my mattress until I returned it.)

Throughout middle school, I never talked about sex with the other girls and was much too repressed to even flirt with a boy. But there was no way to stop my heart from going pitter-patter when I saw a hot guy or girl, or from fantasizing about them once my bedroom door closed.

In high school, it was my mother who made me sign up for marching band as my elective. I've always suspected it was because that meant I didn't have to take PE, which meant that I wouldn't be showering at school. That kinda pissed me off, because I always wondered what my friends looked like naked.

You never met my friend Dee because she moved away after 9th grade. She was Puerto Rican and olive-skinned and gorgeous. Once at a band car wash, she wore short jean shorts that showed off so much of her thighs that I'm amazed that the band director didn't send her home to change into something more appropriate. But she kept the cars coming in and we raised a lot of money, so I guess he thought it was worth it. I know the boys enjoyed the view.

Secretly, so did I. I volunteered to wash tires while she was doing windows so I could get right next to her gorgeous legs, all wet and brown and shiny with soapy water. Her shorts were so short that I could see the rise of her butt cheeks from my preferred angle near the pavement. And though it was hard to be sure, I never saw any panties or panty lines. The possibility that she wasn't wearing any made me tingle. Later that night, the thought made me come twice in the shower.

That was fun, but it made me want to see her naked, which I never did. I'd never even seen a good picture of another girl's body until one day after school a few weeks after the car wash. I've never told anyone about this so please keep your mouth shut!!

I was poking around in my Dad's closet looking for an old hat to top off a Halloween costume when I found an old Playboy magazine buried deep in the corner. It was pretty shocking; I never thought he'd own such a smutty thing. I couldn't stop myself from picking it up with trembling hands, and it didn't take much flipping through the glossy pages to find what every Playboy "reader" looks for: the nudie pictures.

My favorite feature was a spread of "California Girls". There was only one picture per model (contest winners or something) and the variety was incredible: golden-tanned, creamy pale, ebony black, busty, flat-chested, redheads, brunettes, blondes; you name it, they were in there. Most of the photos were clearly airbrushed here and there, but I didn't care; I was entranced.

I inspected those pages like a jeweler admiring precious diamonds, carefully examining the girls' gorgeous bodies and noticing the little things – a dimple on a lower back; a lovely curve between neck and bare shoulders; the differing muscle tones in their smooth thighs; the different angles at which their breasts rose from their chests; the relative diameters of their areolas; and the length of their nipples, some teeny, some large and obviously aroused.

The most amazing thing to me was that some of the women trimmed their pubic hair or even shaved it off completely. I had never thought of doing that and it made me consider trying it myself, though I was far too chicken to do it at the time.

One picture in particular grabbed my attention: a very athletic olive-skinned Latina with short jet-black hair lounging in a shallow bubble bath. The water was low enough to expose her muscular torso, the bubbles framing her small breasts (topped with teeny brown areolas and nubby nipples) and washboard abs. Her knees bent up out of the water about even with the edge of the tub, her pubic area just a dark rumor under the suds.

I've always thought female body builders looked gross. (Same thing with male body builders, actually.) This girl wasn't that bulky, but she was definitely more muscular than most women. I was intrigued by her sizeable wet biceps, the soapy wetness softening the bulges so that they still looked feminine.