The first time it was really, really good for me, and lasted a long time....

May, 1968.  Friday night in San Francisco.   I was at that dangerous age, 25, when my pre-frontal cortex had, at last, achieved its maximal full adult growth, all four of my wisdom teeth had grown in impacted and I'd had them extracted, and things were tense on the home scene.  Living across the hall from the apartment I shared with two young straight guys, brothers, from Alabama, was my secret, masculine, very straight-acting gay lover--just my age, who had a beautiful cock (uncut, owing to his Appalachian Hillbilly origins), and with whom I dearly loved to lie, fondling and stroking one another, reading Milton--

                            Sabrina fayre, 
                               Listen where thou art sitting,
                               Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
                                In twisted braides of lillies knitting
                                     The loose train of thy amber-dropping haire....


A couple of blocks up the street, lived my girl friend, a lively, intelligent, voluptuous brunette, with whom, on weekends, I had hot, uninhibited sex--of whom, and of which, my straight best friend, Dennis from Birmingham (the older brother) was hopelessly, miserably jealous.  So many reasons for not going home and, instead, for walking up Market Street one evening after work, going into a rather crowded, but pleasant little bar I'd never been in before and ordering a beer that I stood sipping at the back, among a lot of other young men  who looked just like me: Jeans, jeans jackets, pull-overs (May evenings are chilly in San Francisco).  When lightning struck, I wasn't at all sure I wanted to go with the thirty-something guy from Los Angeles, who looked sort of  like a young Al Pacino--I hadn't even finished my beer.  But he was smooth and witty, and he was hot for me.  We walked out, hailed a taxi, and fifteen minutes later we were sitting on the bed of what was obviously the best guest bedroom of his brother's house, smoking amazingly stoney grass, whispering (because his brother and eighth month pregnant wife were sleeping in the next room, and the walls were very thin) and taking one another's clothes off.  I had no idea how things were going to turn out, who would do what to whom, or even really what I wanted to do. Having to whisper made it fun, and funny, like kids in the back yard playing 'doctor.'  But as our clothes came off, I began seriously to admire his body: big biceps, lean muscular thighs, and, when it appeared, a magnificent, uncut eight inch cock that I bent down and took in my mouth to the root like a pro. The secret of cock sucking is simple: Want it, want it with your whole heart, and no cock is too big--not Portuguese cock, not even Magna Grecian cock.  So I was blowing him and he was stroking and tweaking me, and he started talking about fucking me--real low, because we were being quiet--telling me how much he wanted to fuck me, and asking me please to let him.  He was so sweet, so earnest, so gallant, that before I'd half thought about it, I was on my back, with my feet locked behind his butt, and his cock was going into me--and, without touching myself, I started coming. Two, maybe three, hours later I was still coming--and he was coming for the fifth time.  We had to stop then, panting, sweat dripping off us, both of us completely exhausted.

Riding the bus home in the gray dawn light, knees up, hanging my butt over the edge of the seat because it ached, I asked myself, "Am I a woman now?"