Chapter 1

Things with Bronwen started off on the wrong foot. I was still relatively unaware of the women's movement and made the joke that if feminism won we would be forced to use unisex bathrooms.

"That's sexist," she replied to my joke.

This plane ride, I had discovered since my freshman year, was a great way to meet women. Sometimes something came of it, sometimes not. They said women need men like fish need a bicycle but I can vouch that some bicycles attract more than one fish.

In any case, Bronwen was going into the "not" column, I thought, until she actually offered me her number.

I waited the requisite three days, rang her up and she invited me for dinner at her place. She lived in a quarter of the city known as the "student ghetto." Never palatial residential row houses had been hastily refurbished to break up a family dwelling into small, one-room apartments with a tiny kitchenette and bathroom. They went cheap. I had a similar place a good ten-block hoof away.

During the cold walk there I composed the witty dialogue I would use to entrance her. No jokes about women. She had casually said she was having a friend over and maybe we could play a board game. Anything. My goal was to slake the desires of a groin that, although cold because of the snow and ice, had its needs. To my aid, I'd bought a bottle of wine. A little alcohol, a little joking around, she'd ditch her friend and...

When I got there, however, it was hard to decide who was more beddable, Bronwen or her friend.

Bronwen was a slim, blue-eyed young woman with the long brown hair of a folksinger framing an oval face whose pulpy lips I just knew could kiss up a storm. Roberta's hair had been coiffed to a fuck-me fake blonde, her former curls flattened, it looked like tinsel; however, she also had blue eyes and good lips, as well as, underneath her tight turtleneck, a buxom figure that cried out to be explored.

The personality department would decide who would be the bedmate.

Unfortunately, both turned out to be interesting, good conversationalists. In addition to the game, the jokes and the wine, a joint Bronwen generously passed around convinced us all that we were stellar and hilarious. As for munchies, well, we were there for dinner. We sat cross-legged on her purple shaggy rug, busy strutting out our best repartee to impress one another when, seemingly out of nowhere, Roberta leaned over to Bronwen, put an arm around her shoulder and smacked her lips in what was an unmistakable romantic kiss.

Now this was not in my script.

Bronwen put an arm over Roberta and kissed her back. Again, this was unmistakably passionate. They began making out a hurricane right in front of me. Was this my cue to leave? Should I have another glass of wine and enjoy the show? Should I harrumph as if to call attention to the fact that my anatomy could better fulfill what theirs had to offer?

I sat agape. Not a word crossed my lips.

It was surprisingly sexy: two women making out, two pairs of breasts rubbing against each other, two female bodies twisting each other in passionate knots ... you get the idea. Were their nipples standing at attention? I knew vaguely the theory of what lesbians did with each other ... hey, were they lesbian? ... but try as I might I could not put myself in their shoes. I could only put myself invisibly between them, their sweat and heat arousing me to drilling hardness. But how did this work?

A combination of these and other thoughts were going through my mind when they both turned to me, as if I had spoken. Had I?

"Aww," Roberta said. "He's all alone there."

Next thing I knew, they were each at one side of me, kissing and caressing me all over. I fell back and they continued, taking turns at my mouth. I had been right: Bronwen could kiss up a storm. Roberta nipped at my throat, went up my cheeks.

I just went with the flow. The kissing and caressing and rubbing went on for a while until Roberta interrupted to ask Bronwen, "Do you know how to give a blow job?"

Now, OK, I was no virgin. But I didn't think I knew anyone who would do that. That was for prostitutes, right?

"Oh, sure," Bronwen replied. "You want me to show you?"

Then she turned to me. "You wouldn't mind, would you?"

Mind? Mind? "Oh, of course not. But could we all get a little more comfortable?"

A new scene had been written into the script. So what? A good director adapts, right? We disrobed and climbed into Bronwen's spacious queen-size bed. I was the corpse, Roberta was the med student, Bronwen the experienced doctor. Let the lesson proceed.

"First, you caress it a little, to warm it up." She took my penis in her hand and ran it up and down in masturbatory fashion, but very gently, enough to titillate but not to engage the throttle.

"Then you lick around the balls. Make sure the guy has bathed," then turning to me, "You bathed, right?"

Of course I had bathed. I'd planned to fuck, for fuck's sake! "Uh, yeah, this morning."

Bronwen shrugged. "Good enough."

Then I saw her mane descend on my groin, felt her hand lift my penis gently and the tip of her warm and wet tongue slide first around the edges of my testicles. Using the full flat surface of her tongue, she lathered one ball.