Erotica from Penthouse (15 page)

I slipped his shorts off and scrutinized his member. Indeed, his Nipponese knob measured only about three inches long and two inches wide in its soft state. I tried to erect it with my mouth.

“Good blowjob,” said Shoji. “But my dick not standing up.”

“It's okay,” I said wistfully, attempting to be mature and understanding. “It's really okay.”

“Do you have vibrator?” Shoji asked enthusiastically.

I pulled out the magic wand I store beside my bed and handed it to Shoji. Zestfully, he moved it over and inside my cunt, and around my ass and thighs. He licked and sucked my cunt, clit and thighs while he maneuvered the instrument. He made an art of playing with the vibrator. His fingers, too, penetrated me. Soon, he had provoked me to another shrieking, screaming orgasm.

As soon as my spasms subsided, Shoji turned the vibrator back on. He gave it to me again and again until I couldn't stand it anymore. For the first time in my multi-orgasmic life, I felt satisfied.

As I lay gasping and shuddering, Shoji whispered, “I must go. I have early morning appointment. You sleep. I come back tomorrow and fuck you. I promise my dick standing up then. I sorry I not fuck you tonight.”

“Sayonara,” I whispered.

I spent the entire next day thinking about Shoji. His sexual expertise would have been remarkable for any man—but it was especially so for someone his age. I was also impressed by the fact that he wanted only to please me, and demanded nothing in return—not even a touch. In my experience, most men didn't develop that selfless approach to lovemaking until they reached their early 40s. Shoji was a natural-born lover, a genuine woman-worshipper. Only one question remained—how large would his erect cock be?

The next night, Shoji took me to his favorite sushi bar. He ordered in Japanese, and then fed me luscious, sensuous pieces of raw shrimp, eel and avocado with his fingers. I sucked the morsels into my mouth and kissed his lips.

“You so beautiful,” Shoji murmured. He fed me a slice of tuna sashimi and then sniffed his fingertips. “It smell like you—delicious.”

We made out in the taxi going towards my house. As he pressed against me, I could feel a hard bulge in his pants. This time we didn't bother with any preliminaries but proceeded directly to my bed.

Again, Shoji licked and sucked my entire body without requiring me to reciprocate. Again, he devoured my cunt juices and ran my vibrator all over my breasts, mons, slit and ass.

Only this time, when he pulled down his shorts, Shoji revealed a hard, slender cock that looked to be about 6 inches long. Happily, I Iellated him. As my lips slid over the head of his penis, I pinched his nipples.

“Good, good,” he moaned. “Erica, why you so sexy?”

Then, finally, we made love. Shoji gently maneuvered me into innumerable positions. I moved my hands over his slim, muscular body while he lifted my legs onto his shoulders, gave it to me from behind, penetrated me from the side.

We had a dynamic mutual orgasm, and then lay together, hugging and kissing. I felt that his only desire at that moment was my happiness and pleasure. He was so sweet, so adoring.

He whispered, “You my first American lady. I never forget you.”

I whispered, “And you're my first Japanese man. I'll never forget yon either.”

I lit a candle and studied Shoji's smooth white body. His chest was hairless, but he had a bountiful, silky pubic bush and his legs were covered with black hairs.

“You should wear black kimono,” said Shoji. “And put clips in your hair.”

I began to imagine myself as a Japanese lady. Suddenly, I wanted to have long hair piled on top of my head. I wanted to make up my lace as a geisha. Walking over to my closet, I pulled out a silk kimono someone had once given me as a birthday gift. On my way back to bed, I grabbed the fan displayed on my dresser. Climbing back to bed, I slithered around in the kimono and waved the fan in front of my face.

“How does a Japanese lady make love?” I asked.

“Japanese lady love to give blowjob,” Shoji replied. “My dick standing now.”

“Do Japanese girls have big tits?” I asked, opening the kimono and cupping my breasts in my hands.

“Some Japanese girls big tits. I had a Japanese girlfriend 17 years old, very big tits.”

“Do Japanese girls have tits as big as mine?” I asked.

“No, nobody have tits like you. Nobody have pussy as beautiful as you. Nobody coming like you. And now, please, blowjob.”

I wanted to give Shoji as much pleasure as he had given me. So I began by kissing his lips and cheeks. Then I stuck my tongue into his ear and blew into it. I nibbled on his earlobes, and began tonguing his neck.

“Good, good,” moaned Shoji. “Erica, you so good.”

I worked my way down to his nipples. I squeezed one and sucked the other.

Shoji grabbed my vibrator. He ran it all over my body as I gently bit his nipples.

I felt completely uninhibited with him. I knew that he thought that sex is beautiful, women are beautiful, and anything sexual was permissible.

“Lie still, I'm going to fuck you,” I said.

Still wearing my kimono, I climbed on top of Shoji's hard cock. I opened the fan and spread it over my face so that he couldn't see me. Like a savvy geisha, I flirted and teased. I coyly covered my breasts and then my cunt with the fan. Whenever I withdrew it, he touched me in the spot I had hidden.

While I pumped up and down, he ran the vibrator over my clit.

“I want you come very strong,” he whispered.

Squeezing his cock with my cunt muscles, I orgasmed repeatedly. While I came, I imagined myself as a Japanese geisha. I fantasized that I was serving my man. When he finally shot into me, I experienced an Oriental serenity.

The next day I gave my battered old sofa to the Salvation Army. I replaced it with colorful tatami mats. I stocked my cupboards with plum wine and sake. I hung a set of tinkling windchimes in my window.

Shoji came over to cook for me last night. We ate our tempura sitting barefoot on the tatami mats. Then he carried me into the bedroom and initiated our lovemaking with another shiatsu massage.

Today I bought the complete works of Yukio Mishima. I rented “The Seven Samurai” and played it on my VCR. I borrowed Shoji's Japanese-American dictionary. I'm studying up for my trip to Japan.

FEAR OF LESBIANISM

By Marcy Seeger

I no longer remember why she was stripping, outside, late at night, on the quiet street near the parking lot; only that she was. I held her clothes, watched her raise her arras under the streetlight, shake herself and say how good it felt to be naked. Shyly, I stood there and let her taunt me.

Over a year before we had gotten drunk together on the stairs of my lover's apartment. Mark was hosting a Christmas party and Annie and I, still strangers, wound up with a gallon jug of wine and each other. We sat close together, brushing shoulders, laughing as the conversation turned into mist. Through the alcohol I saw that she was beautiful in an antique way, with mellow skin, large eyes with perfectly symmetrical brows and a long, aquiline nose. Her body was slender but wide-boned and full.

She got sick that night and we spent the early morning hours sitting on the bathroom floor. Annie leaned over the toilet and I stroked her back and whispered to her. With Mark's help, I put her to bed in the spare room. She kept whispering, “Thank you, thank you” and, still drunk, turned on her side toward the wall. I covered her with a blanket and went to my lover's bed.

We were juniors that year at a small school in New England. Three years earlier I had fled a conservative high-school for a college campus that boasted a large gay minority and a strong feminist community. I met my first gays and my first feminists and began to embrace the thinking of die latter.

As a young straight woman, feminism presented me with real problems. I had always been saddened by my relationships with men, including those with my father and my brothers. I felt weak with them. And behind the as-yet-unnamed feeling of vacancy I had when I was with a man, I was angry. My freshman year was full of slow realizations about my and all women's lack of freedom. I saw that women had always been forced to choose compromising affiliations with men, whether husband, lover or boss, that put us into competition with each other. To fight our own oppression, to emerge from the very sorrowful, frightened and angry solitude in which we found ourselves, we had to find each other. Salvation lay in other women. Thus, we no longer wanted to say to women friends that they were secondary to male lovers. In philosophy, even in reality, women came first.

But love and sex were not so neatly packaged. As long as men provided me my sex life, I would give greater importance to them even though they were the source of the problem. But how could I, how could I still date, fuck and fall in love with them? With women I was strong and honest. Why wasn't I able to make the leap from emotional to physical intimacy with women? Why couldn't I really love them, why couldn't I sleep with them?

To be honest, I didn't berate myself with these questions. I was new to feminism and, as much as I was learning, I still liked men. I liked the way they looked, smelled and moved. I liked the way they felt against my body and under my fingers. I liked them in much the same way men have historically liked women—as sensual/sexual experiences. I wasn't pleased with my schizophrenic uses for the sexes. I wanted a man who would treat me right or I wanted a woman in whose body I could revel.

Throughout my first years of college these boundaries kept shifting and crossing but were never eradicated. I fell in love with men, several of whom were working diligently against their own sexism. And in the middle of my third year, I fell in love with Annie.

Annie and I shared similar backgrounds and similar misgivings about our intellects, our relationships with men and our beauty. As I grew to know her better, I began to have dreams about her in which our names were confused. Slowly I realized that I felt differently about her than I had ever felt about a woman. We hugged a lot, aware of each other's body through our clothes, safe with our clothes on.

In the front seat of my car one evening after dinner Annie opened the conversation by saying she'd been thinking about lesbians. For a silent moment we looked at each other and then I started talking last about Denise, a woman I had recently met at a party. Denise was a campus legend, famous for both her brilliance and her brutishness. She liked soft, beautiful women and she came onto me with aggressive and obsessive machismo.

For weeks Denise followed me all over campus. She appeared throughout my days as though she had memorized my schedule. I was afraid of her but even as I spoke I was more, differently, afraid of Annie.

When I stopped talking, Annie was silent, looking at her hands clasped in her lap. I was shocked at my reaction to her—shocked at my fear. We said goodnight; she kissed me and opened the door. I waited for her to reach the dormitory entrance before pulling away. She did not turn and wave.

I thought I had lost her, but the ensuing days proved that I hadn't. The issue had just been opened; it rested between our words when we spoke. We started to tease each other; Annie openly began to seduce me. I fantasized about her, touching myself as though my body were hers.

In fantasy I am still wary, but not afraid. I lie in bed. The night feels alive the way summer nights do, but for me, the excitement is Annie. Her skin is white in the dark. She lies down on top of me, breasts to breasts, toes to toes. I am curious about her body. My hands stroke her length, trying to find out what she is like. Her breasts are bigger and differently textured than mine. I slide down, still beneath her, licking her breasts, sucking the nipples. I run my palm down her stomach, over the slight outward curve of her belly and touch the hair just starting there. And stop. Even in fantasy I can't quite bring myself to her cunt.

I told Mark about it one night as we lay next to each other in bed. He was holding me, running his fingers up and down my belly, as a prelude to his mouth. “I've been thinking about Annie,” I said as his fingers circled my breasts. “She wants to sleep with me.” I paused.

“Are you asking me for my permission?” he said.

“No, I just want you to know and that it confuses me.”

He started to squeeze my breasts and pulled me on top of him, my legs straddling his hips, his tongue in my mouth. He ran his hands down to my ass, pushing our hips together. “Well, you've got to know that it turns me on,” he said, “you and Annie.”

His cock was rigid. I bit his neck, walked my mouth down his body, felt the tensing of his muscles, his cock wanting me. I bit his stomach, I licked around his hip bones, teasing. Taking his cock into my mouth, my mind a blank, I felt only the need to fill my mouth with him. Suddenly, the image of making love to Annie became impossible, a fantasy removed from the actuality of her real body. It was something I didn't think I could do, or even wanted to do.

But when I was alone with Annie I wanted her once again. It was as though I was two women with two different sexualities, the boundaries of which refused to meet.

When I thought back I realized there was a precedent for this. The feeling was familiar. In my sophomore year I had roomed with a woman whose name was Janice. Though not sexual we had an intimate physical relationship. Jan loved massage and was practiced in its subtleties. I was less generous and far less interested, but Jan never tired of giving backrubs. She would light candles, close our curtains and heat oil on our hot-plate. Naked, I would stretch out on the bed face down and, with warm, oily hands, Jan would begin the massage. My relaxation was total, and Jan was uninhibited about touching me. Her hands would slide to my inner thighs and my ass and the sides of my breasts.

When Jan slept with a woman for the first time and came to me the morning after, her face shining with pleasure, I wasn't surprised. And when she added that it was the first time she had felt love for the person she was having sex with, I was happy for her. And while I did not wish I'd been the other woman, I was jealous. I envied the closeness she had shared with someone else.