Re: Proof Reading Sex Stories
The other evening I noticed one of your reviews of internet sex stories: you offered a sex-story proof-reading service. How does that work? I'm not sure I need proof-reading so much as I need advice on how to write a sex story. Let me explain.
Laura is the prettiest girl in my Intro to Philosophy class. She's medium-short with long legs and breezy hair and a figure pert and clean. She sits way down in the front row of the lecture room, and I sit far in the back, but she's so special no one could help but notice her. Of course I figured she's way out of my league, probably a sorority girl with tons of boyfriends or someone ultra-serious and special in her life; not the kind of person to give a second thought to someone like me, an ordinary freshman guy, the kind who went the whole of high school too timid to talk to girls much less ask one for a date. So I was awfully surprised when Laura came up to me as I was walking out of that Intro to Philosophy class.
"I liked what you said about Newcomb's problem," she said.
"It was just a question, really," I stammered.
"Well, it was a good question," she said. "The one I wanted to ask myself except I was too shy."
"You don't seem like the shy type," I said. That was about the boldest thing I'd ever said to a girl.
"Well appearances can be devastating," she said, and we laughed and started walking together. It turned out we both had free periods before next class, so we stopped in a little coffee place on the edge of campus and had a couple of cups of hot cocoa. Over the next two weeks, the after-class walk and the hot cocoa became a routine. But routine is completely the wrong word for it. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.
In the coffee-house, Laura and I would talk about all sorts of things: the material of that philosophy class, mostly: ethics and morals and whether angels painted their toenails; but also we discussed ordinary stuff-what kind of cookies our moms baked, for instance, or what it was like learning how to ride a bicycle, or how it felt to bury our pets when they died. I studied the philosophy texts extra hard so I'd feel at least a little more comfortable talking with her- she was certainly much smarter and more widely read than me. Sometimes she teased me when I hadn't heard of someone, Abelard or Camus or Kant-well, I'd heard of Kant but I didn't know the first thing about him... except his name. Emanuel, wasn't it? Laura seemed to like teasing me. But sometimes minutes would go by with us just sitting up on those coffee-house bar-stool type chairs around a tiny round table sipping our cocoa and letting our feet dangle and not saying much of anything. I'd watch Laura drink her cocoa, and she'd think her thoughts. I loved the way she'd press her fingertip into the dollop of floating whipped cream, swirl it around a bit, then transfer a taste of froth- fingertip to tongue. Eventually she'd take a full sip, leaving a light fuzz of foam above her upper lip, and then after a while, perhaps unconsciously, Laura would swipe off the milky fuzz with the side of her tongue, or suck it off with her lower lip, or best of all just leave it there. I wouldn't have minded tasting that cocoa-and-cream foam on her upper lip.
As far as my own cocoa was concerned, that little mound of whipped cream got in the way. One day I thought maybe I should offer it to Laura, but I wasn't quite sure how to go about this. If she'd accepted, then what would I do: scoop it out with my bare hands and plop it in her cup? No, I'd have to ask the waitress for a spoon, and I hate bothering waitresses. I truly wouldn't mind Laura using her fingers in my cocoa, not that I'm all that fastidious about my food, but I do have some manners. Anyway I couldn't figure out the right words. "Do you want my cream?" didn't seem quite proper, so rather than make a fool of myself, I said nothing.
I'm not sure where Laura would go after our coffee-house time. I had a physical chemistry lecture, and Laura remained sitting at our table. I'd have to hurry to get to the chem building in time; and then concentrating on the lecture was a chore. I'd catch myself thinking of Laura, wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking, whether there was any chance she was thinking of me.
After chem lecture I'd stroll slowly back to my dorm for lunch, and I'd promise myself that at the next philosophy class I'd gather enough courage to sit next to Laura. It was a promise I'd made and broken for the last three classes. I'd get there early, but invariably I'd settle into my usual place way in the back where I felt safe. Initially I had hoped she'd choose to sit in the back with me, or even better that she'd ask if I didn't want to sit up front with her, but neither of those things happened. Maybe the idea of us sitting together just didn't occur to her. Or maybe she didn't want to sit next to me. Or maybe she was waiting for me to make the move. If I could be brave enough to sit next to her, I thought, why then maybe later in the coffee- house I'd be brave enough to ask her to go out... to lunch or dinner or a movie or maybe just for a walk. Something. Anything. Still, I was overjoyed with what we had. The semester was barely underway. I figured I still had some time. I didn't want to be rash and ruin anything.
You're probably wondering what all this has to do with sex-stories. Sorry to be so poky about getting to the point.
Angels. It started with angels. In the coffee-house this morning after class, Laura and I were talking about the expectations and preconceptions we'd had about philosophy.
"Is it what you'd thought it would be?" she'd asked me.
"I don't know," I said. "I knew so little about philosophy. Only that it sounded grown-up. What about you? Are you disappointed?"
"A little," Laura admitted. "I guess I was expecting something more meaningful, more relevant."
"Like what?" I said.
"Existentialism and stuff," Laura said. "You know: Rolling boulders up a hill. Making deals with the devil. Understanding the meaning or meaninglessness of life. Instead it's like we're trying to count angels dancing on the head of a pin." She swirled her forefinger through dark chocolate foam, took her finger out and brought it to her lips. I noticed her fingernails were neatly trimmed and shiny smooth.
"I wonder what kind of dances those angels do," I said.
Laura rewarded me with a little laugh.
"I imagine they know some divine little steps," Laura said.
It seemed to me Laura was pretending to be more cheerful than she felt.
"What kind of shoes do you suppose they wear," I said. "Ballet slippers?"
"Hot yellow Capezios," Laura said.
"What are those?" I asked.
"Or else they go barefoot," Laura continued. "If I were an angel, I'd go barefoot. Why wear shoes when you can fly?"
"Would you paint your toenails?" I asked. "If you were an angel?"
She thought about it. "Probably," she said. "If you're not wearing shoes, painted toenails make a lot more sense. And if you're an angel, what else are you going to do between dances and carols and cooking God's supper?"
She said this lightly, but I knew she was glum. I should have asked what's wrong, but I was afraid. Maybe she was getting her period or something like that.
"Do you paint your toenails?" I asked.
"Not since I gave up angel-hood," she replied. "How about you?"
She grinned at me, and I didn't know what to say.
"Don't worry," she said then, "I won't make you take off your shoes."
"Thanks," I said. I was pleased with the way I said "thanks." I thought it sounded sort of grown-up.
"When I was a little girl once I used my mother's lipstick on my toenails," Laura said. "That was serious fun."
"Was your mother mad?"
"Not mad enough to spank me."
"Did you get spanked much?"
"Sometimes, when I was bad."
I couldn't imagine Laura being bad. Maybe mischievous, but not bad. I wanted to ask about the bad things she did. Instead I asked about the lipstick. "What color was it?" I asked.
She thought for a while. "I don't think I could read back then," she said. "Sunset-Peach, probably."
"Is that a real lipstick name: Sunset-Peach?"
"Sure," Laura said. "Lipsticks have the weirdest names. Red Red Raven. Ballpark Honey. Ballistic Pink. All-The-Way Red. Ruby Dooby Dew."
"You're making these up?"
"Not really." she said. "Want to know my favorite?"
"That does sound neat."
"Yeah, I wouldn't mind trying that, but I don't think they make it any more. I also like Hot-Apricot. Sky's-the-Limit. And Mumbo-Jumbo, which can also be used for barbecue sauce."
"You ARE making these up, aren't you?"
"What lipstick do you use?" I asked.
"None, usually... Well, when I'm really really serious about my lips I'll smear on a little Philosopher's Puce," Laura said. "And when I'm feeling a touch naughty, Playing with Pussy Pink."
"It looks a little like that," she said.
I blushed deeper.
"You're not very experienced with this boy-girl stuff, are you?" she said.
Ah, Celeste, I suppose I should have mumbled "yes" or "no" or "I don't know," but her eyes were strangely hot, peculiarly beseeching.
"I know some stuff," I said hesitantly.
In fact my sexual experience had been limited to self- exploration and the words and pictures found in bookstores and on-line. I didn't know what to say-What could I say? That I knew something about masturbation?
.... There is more of this story ...