Pussy Philes: Tits and traffic
Reginald Sleeth and I sat in his Pontiac, dully admitting our powerlessness against traffic. It wasn’t rush hour; just L.A. The ribbon of cars in front of us was inexorable, unmoving.
The evening before the roads had been open enough that we could flout the speed limit as the good Chief intended. We were young and stupid enough that we played all these risky sex games while driving: let’s see how many times you can get me off between the restaurant and movie theater; how fast can you go without getting us killed while I give you a handjob? I’m not sure if it was that teenage myth of immortality or the teenage reality of barely caring if we died.
That night, Reginald had been at the wheel and somehow me taking my top off came up. I think I said that I wasn’t too scared to, exactly, but I just didn’t really like the idea. I’m naked shy. (Yes, the crowing sex blogger is naked shy and has been for some time. But in all fairness, you’re not reading the intrepid pussy blog, so if you’re disappointed you have only yourself to blame.) I don’t remember if he dared me or commanded, but somehow the conversation didn’t get much farther before I was down to my bra.
It was nearing twilight but not dark yet, and I knew any motorist who cared to look could see a swath of pale skin where all respectable people were keeping their shirts in those days. It wasn’t much worse than wearing a bikini top, of course, and those were practically de rigueur in the California sun, but this was psychologically different. Also, my bra was a very sheer orange mesh, and the nipples underneath it blushed and reared, making a living, lurid, double sunrise diorama on my chest– orange and pink, effulgent to me in its blistering horror. But at least the bra wasn’t off. I still had something to hide behind.
“You’re not really topless,” Reginald observed.
“Errrmphlmsssht,” I groaned. I was as topless as I was comfortable with, but I had already committed halfway. Fuck it, right? I reached around behind my back and unfastened the single hook. I watched the tiny piece of cloth that protected me flutter to the floor mat.
Reginald’s speed slipped from 110 to 96 as his right hand strayed from its regular six o’clock position. Some guys like to roll nipples between their fingers, some like to pull, some like to brush them reverently with the backs of their hands, as if the pads are too common to provide the right type of touch. Oh, and there are others. There are countless others. But Reginald was all of those three, and he somehow managed to do all of them and not kill us. I squirmed, of course. Everything suddenly seemed thick, like how they used to photograph old film stars through gauze. Reginald, the dashboard, the road, all became remote as I felt the searing bliss/pain radiate outward from beneath his hand. I felt my eyes glaze over; I was no longer seeing anything. I often have orgasms just from having my breasts played with, but this one might’ve been just as much from all the eyes I didn’t want to be, and couldn’t even have seen, seeing me.
Nobody had been looking when just my shirt was off, but in between orgasms I thought I noticed drivers noticing my very bare and highly satisfied tits. But we passed them too quickly for me to be sure that it wasn’t just my paranoia, my arousal, my mid-climactic feeling that somehow the entire world was mine.
But now, the day after, we weren’t moving at all, and I wore a short little dress and big fuck-off boots, all very much still on. My bra and all that lurked beneath was safe.
We seldom ran short on conversation. Reginald loved to talk, and I loved to listen to him; I’d been infatuated with him since I was 15, and thought that everything he said was both marvelous and true. I was frequently wrong on both counts, but that’s all part of growing up more than it’s a part of this story. I got to talk too, though. Sometimes he’d ask me questions, although he often phrased them in the imperative.
“Tell me a fantasy,” he said as the car bumped forward briefly, like a sigh.
“I… I’ve always wondered about what it would be like to be with another girl,” I confessed shyly.
Stay tuned to The Pussy Philes to learn of Reginald Sleeth’s reaction to my earliest out-loud admission to same-sex attraction, which couldn’t possibly go wrong in this, an unhealthy relationship between two impossibly immature people. Could it?
