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Tales of Moral Decline

It happened back in those nasty days, the ones you couldn't pay me enough to go back to, the days at the end of childhood when adulthood had not quite settled in. There were burdens, leftovers from my family, the chiefest of which were the Ten Commandments. As a Southerner, I was more intimate with those LAWS than I presently am with the tattoos which reside in my skin. The sexual laws, especially, carried a certain weight and haunted my conscience as I began to have dealings with more and more young women who were, simultaneously, potential sexual partners. Thou shalt not put it to any wenches without benefit of matrimony, the end, period, no court of appeal, next case please.

As I said, though, childhood had slipped away even as my hormones lashed me hard. Toward the end of high school, I fell in with this girl four years older than me; we had one set of things in common - we were both horny as Hell and repressed as shit.

Puberty had been at work on me for several years by then, erasing my young John Denver-esque face and replacing it with a certain "look" - thick, arched eyebrows, piercing blue eyes. Some girls began openly admitting they liked the look, more said they found it disturbing. Having little in the way of self - confidence, I found it difficult to fathom why the older girl in question threw herself at me in a way I could not avoid; she was attracted to me because of the "look." For her part, she was overweight and had lips like a razor; for all the world she looked like a painting of a woman from the Victorian era and sometimes dressed the part, long hair up in a knot, long skirts, boots. Very odd. But, as I have alluded, I didn't take up with her because I admired her looks. Rather, it was because she was perpetually hot, almost always ready to oblige sexually or demand satisfaction. So, there I was, about 17, practically living with this college girl who made up for her strange looks in spades with her molten libido. In no time I graduated from the nearly innocent act of breast fondling (which I didn't think violated the "no fornication" clause in the moral contract) to less innocent fingering; from fingering, we moved to masturbating in front of one another and from that to actually masturbating each other. So far so good, a normal enough progression. One night she pushed my head down between her thighs and, having nothing better to do, I allowed my tongue to explore, all the while my heart thudding with dread, knowing that, for sure and for certain, I had crossed THE LINE. God had to be pissed - I was going to die. My mouth was tasting the Fruit of the Tree of Good and Evil so the Fall from The Garden was the inevitable next act in the play.

Trust me, though, in the next scene as she pushed me onto my back and began to work the head of my cock with her mouth, I could have cared less whether Hell's Gate had opened wide or not. That girl may have had a nose like a hawk's, but those razor lips caused my eyeballs to roll back in my head as she sucked down every drop of come my pleasure-wracked body could fire down her throat. Then, fascinated, she wanted to do it again and again and again - I came seven times that night and was so sore I could barely walk for a week. And this level of activity became the norm in our relationship, a union explicitly founded on sex and nothing else.

Well, I say "sex," but in the back of my mind I was still hedging my bets. Those Commandments were still effective, so in our sex life I somewhat paradoxically drew the line at vaginal intercourse. We could, and did, everything else imaginable, including anal sex, bondage, s&m - she was a beautiful and willing submissive - but no fucking, thank you very much. It never for one moment occurred to me that our activities were actually even kinkier than anything the Ten Commandments were designed to condemn. However, being a fine Pharisee and a future philosopher, I thought that a strict definition of fornication equaled "penis in the vagina" and nothing else, so, technically, I was not fornicating when spewing gobs of sperm all over this girl's upturned and eager face. (It's amazing how warped a religious upbringing can make one, isn't it?) In the end, we all do whatever magic we need to make our consciences rest and I performed my rites by redefining the Western moral tradition to suit my private carnality.

I graduated high school (I don't see how since all I did every night for two years was fall into an hours long 69 session) and entered the local college my girlfriend was already attending. Well and good, but the school was filled with... more girls, foreign flesh, and much of it looked delectable seeing as I had been subsisting on an unswerving diet of neo-Victorian girl for a couple of years by that point. Slowly, it dawned on me that some of these girls would talk to me, flirt with me - not because they were desperate, but because they wanted to. Possibilities I hadn't previously considered opened up and for the first time in my life I began to fantasize about dating like a "normal" human being....

Then the traditional morality clamped onto me again. One aspect of traditional Southern morality equates love with exclusivity. If you love someone, then you must devote yourself to them in a manner that is chivalrous, romantic - in other words, in a way that is utterly unreal. Oh, and if you want to make love - and I do mean here, fuck - with someone, that means you must "love" them. See the conundrum? Sex equals marriage and marriage equals... fantasy land.

Now, I had never loved my girlfriend in this sense. I had never even been seriously tempted to fuck her normally, thus the ease with which I drew the line at straight intercourse. Colleen, however, was a different story. I recall the first thing I noticed about her was the fact that she had large breasts with nice hips and thighs to balance - she actually had one of those legendary hourglass figures so out of style, now. The second thing I noticed was the fact that she tried to hide, via bulky clothing, all her glorious curves - as if terrified someone might sneak a glance. The third thing I noticed was her face which, in comparison with my girlfriend's, was beautiful - skin clear and white, soft, eyes so dark as to almost be black, nose small, upturned a little, mouth set in a permanent smirk. Her voice was laced with a Virginia drawl that sounded anything but ignorant and nothing if not seductive. To my mind, she was perfection. I was in "love." All I could think of for days after meeting her was "loving" her in every position of the Kama Sutra. I wanted to bury my cock deep, deep, deep in her warm, wet flesh; I wanted to fornicate in the strictest sense of the word.

I was certain I could work up the guts to violate the last of my childhood sexual taboos so long as my partner in crime was Colleen. There were two impediments to my seducing her, though. A) I still had a girlfriend; B) Colleen, as luck would have it, was an old friend of my girlfriend's from her high school days. They had rekindled their friendship and that's how I'd met Colleen.

Things became strange fast. My girlfriend and I began to hang out at Colleen's place - they did aerobics four nights a week while I pretended not to notice how firm the girl's body was, even with the roundness. She was not Rubenesque - rather, she was closer to the Sophia Loren body type. And once she got used to me, she flirted, making off-color jokes, speculating on the size of my erection. After excersizing one evening, Colleen kicked my feet out from under me, threw me to the floor and followed me down. We wrestled like mad for a good half an hour, my nose filled with the fresh smell of her brunette hair and her clean sweat. She, feeling through my jeans, got to learn about how large my erection really is. Her smirking smile and burning eyes said it all as she rested atop me, my girlfriend sitting patiently to one side seemingly oblivious to the fact that whatever had once tied me to her had just been severed.

A few weeks passed. We spent more and more time with Colleen and, when the girlfriend wasn't looking, Colleen's tongue was in my mouth and her hands were in my pants. On the other hand, when I came to Colleen's place alone or openly proposed that we go rent a hotel room and get the sin train in motion, she played it as cool and coy as any virgin. This, of course, enflamed me further and made our dangerous play that much more enjoyable. In the end, in a tearful scene, I simply came right out and told my girlfriend that she was no longer my girlfriend (what did I know of tact?). Her response was to drop to her knees and give me head between muttering promises that things could be interesting again if I would stay. I did not stay.

Colleen's yo-yo approach to our (non-)relationship, on the other hand, took its toll on my mind as more time elapsed. To fill the emptiness, I tried to throw myself into college courses, but in every class there was at least one girl who could get me hard just by running her long fingers through her hair or licking her lips. Instead of turning my attention to these new temptresses, I saw my refusal to even attempt conversation with them as a sign of my commitment to and "love" for Colleen. So alcohol became my primary pastime. That and masturbation. Anything to numb the ache of desire.

I am one of those people blessed (or cursed) with the ability to do a number of things, and one of the things I can do fairly well is draw. When spring quarter swung around, I figured that I could take a drawing class because it would be enjoyable and because I needed something I could do drunk or hung over. Colleen was avoiding me half the time, groping me the other half, so confusion reigned. A nice, quiet drawing class would be quite the antidote.

Her name was Betty. Deadly Betty, the guys in the department called her. She was tone of those "girls who could get me hard" with just the flick of her wrist and I had to face her every day in Drawing 101 because she was the student assistant.

"Why do you call her Deadly Betty?" I asked one of the older art students.

"She poses nude for the figure drawing classes. She's a freakin' knockout. And she's one frigid little goth chick." He grabbed his stiff index finger in the vice of his other hand and pretended to break it off.

"Frigid?"

"Doesn't date. She goes out drinkin', but goes home alone. Blows off everyone who makes a pass."

"Maybe she has a boyfriend somewhere."

"If she does she never sees him. She lives in that big historical house across the street - she's the caretaker. She's there almost all the time. Alone. Trust me, dude, I've noticed."

I noticed her, too, every day as I wandered in and started drawing the still life de jour. She was indeed a goth girl, clad head to foot in black, sometimes with black lace; she had a pierced nose and eyebrows. Her short, straight hair was dyed jet black, her lips were painted dead black, and her fingernails were all glossy black. She wore thick black eye makeup, but her eyes were grey in color - the black makeup caused them to stand out startlingly. Then there were the necklaces, the mystic charms, the pentagrams, the sigils, and the rings, pinkie rings, thumb rings, nail rings. She was an exotic, ...


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