Chapter 7

Carla behaved for a few weeks after the Tommy incident. I think whatever occurred at the condo spooked her. I'm not saying that Tommy did something to her or threatened her in any way. Rather, I think that Carla's own desires and her capacity to go full-throttle into major taboo territory shook her up. In other words, she scared herself. The result was a strong attempt on my girlfriend's part to channel her desires into our own sex-life. Carla is the only woman I know whose libido matched mine. Scratch that: Carla is the only person I know whose libido surpassed mine.

I reflected back on the Carla I had met one short year or so ago at college. She had been fun and feisty, but that other Carla was a shy and reserved wallflower compared to the new woman I found myself living with on a daily basis. I think that Carla's own erotic blossoming dovetailed with my own home exposures. She loved to hear about my total nudity around my mother. When she saw me doing it, there seemed to be no turning back. The floodgates of desire began to crack and she contributed to my home shows by actually fondling my naked penis in front of my mother. Once we moved in together, the floodgates cracked completely. Carla discovered just how much fun it could be to be the object of desire. Rather than an outsider, a voyeuristic witness, Carla began to want to be the active participant and focal point of the exposure games.

Tommy had been the perfect audience, eager to see more of Carla exposing herself. But whatever happened with Tommy (it was never really completely clear to me) stayed in the past. We started having more fun together. We were inventive and had a blast in the confines of our apartment, but as the weeks stretched on and our sexual hunger began to ebb a bit, Carla began to grow restless. Oh, she didn't speak of it. She didn't have to. It was obvious. She still wanted sex as much as ever, but it took more and more stimuli to get her off.

She loved to spend long periods of time recounting our previous exposure incidents. "Tell me a story, Baby," she would say, tossing herself back on the bed and letting her fingers trail over her nude body. It was my cue to start recounting some of our previous exploits. Carla loved for me to simply tell her what I used to do at home. It didn't have to be explosively sexual, either. Just recounting the times I used to lounge around stark naked in front of my mother would pacify her, as did my stories of bathing in front of my mother and, eventually, masturbating in front of her.

Carla would lay back in bed as I told her the stories, her eyes glazed with lust, her nude body sprayed by a sheen of perspiration as she worked her fingers and hands expertly over her vagina and inside it, rubbing her clit from one thundering orgasm to the next. These sessions would always culminate by my flipping her over and banging into her from behind, my shaft buried hilt-deep in her wetness as it hugged me tight, my groin slapping into her more than generous buttocks, the room filled with the sound of smacking bodies and the scent of sex.

But eventually that wasn't enough for Carla. The stories were always treasures to her, but she needed to increase her sexual high. We started to frequent an X-rated bookstores on the outskirts of the city. We took to renting a few movies every weekend. That lasted for a few weeks. Then Carla started making solo trips to the store during the week.