This is chapter two, part one of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here.
Chapter 2 – Part 1, Slutting through Europe
At the height of my hormone saturation years, Uncle Sam tried to draft me to kill gooks and commies in a far-off country with whom I had no quarrel. Said fate I avoided with college enrollment, a lucky lottery number, and the aid of senior-class anti-war counselors who comforted me within the coziness of their breasts and vulvas. This was not home-town high!
When I hit age 21, I jumped a cruise ship to Spain and spent a year traveling around Europe. I was young, hippie, stupid, confident, saturated with testosterone, swinging my penis successfully at the traveling American girls whom the birth control pill had just “liberated.” They were easy prey for the “free love” ideology in vogue at the time. I traveled a few days or weeks with one or another, fucked them until I became bored, then abandoned them when I saw another, fresher prey. I was a pretty righteous penis.
I traveled for a while in the company of a silver-haired German university professor, a die-hard Marxist whose favorite revolutionary quote was, “To make an omelet, you have to break some eggs.” In the Canary Islands, he introduced me to ex-students, two golden-haired fräuleins, who pursued making me into an omelet as ruthlessly as their fathers and grandfathers had invited the Jews to vacation in Auschwitz. The process was more enjoyable than the outcome. Seems like not all females are from the same mold.
In Holland, Spain, France, Italy, Greece, Morocco, and Israel, the traveling girls were all the same – easy sluts. I learned that females perceive men through their ears, and the right words, whether truth or lies, were the key to unlock their vaginas. They inadvertently taught me how to seduce them – the girls would ask me as I pawed at them, “Do you love me just a little bit?” The magic words, “I’m really crazy about you, I think I’m falling for you,” opened their legs. Notice I did not say ‘… falling in love with you’. I never used that L-word, that four letter obscenity, but the girls heard what they wanted to hear.
I had religiously avoided the “love” word every since that day when, just 5 years old, the preacher´s assistant in a little holy-roller garage church sat me on the altar, and sucked my entire genitals inside his mouth. Bunk whooped, “Yes, this is great, it feels good,” while a new female voice appeared in the back of my head, murmuring, “This isn’t right, don’t do it.” This was the first time I heard from Josey, who repeated the warnings I had heard from school, church, and parents. Yet if this was abuse, I liked it. The sign on the wall above the altar said, “God is Love”, and the preacher´s assistant said this is how we love each other as he pushed his penis inside my mouth. I didn’t mean to bite his penis, really it was just a nip, but I was spooked by this monstrous appendage pushing into my mouth. He jerked back and slapped me hard across the face – so much for “how we love”! Then he apologized and told me this should be our special love secret. But I was happy so I told my mom. My dad whipped me with his belt. He said I had defiled the church, a sacred place, and said he whipped me because he loved me. I spent an hour throwing up in a clinic after the whipping, fainting when the stomach cramps hurt too much. The doctor said I had an anxiety attack. My innocent view of religion was destroyed, and the true meaning of love has eluded me every since.
The hippie tourist trail was pussy paradise. The girls were passed around, traded, and sold among predator men, while the girls thought that it was their own choice to have sex freely. In the student hostels, we drank cheap wine, smoked hashish, and shared the girls among us, sometimes fucking two or three in the same night. On spreads of stained mattresses, we had the occasional group-sex tryst, often initiated by the girls trying to prove their liberation. We fucked the girls in plain view of their current partners, an awkward activity for some men until they realized the bragging rights it gave them – describing how amazingly intense their girlfriend had fucked another man implied that they got the same amazing treatment all the time!
My favorite position at these group fucks was from behind, the girl standing straight-legged, legs apart, bent over with her hands on her knees, her vulva protruding visibly behind. I would insert my penis, then stroke into them without touching them with my hands. This is the power-fuck position, where the penis asserts its superiority to the vulva. It’s the only position where a man can get a good ejaculation without any other part of his body touching the girl. Bunk, naked with an erection that reached above his head, would hiss as stroked his phallus, “Don’t touch her, she’s just a slut, give her the pure penis power-fuck.” If I waved him out of my head, I immediately regretted it as Josey chimed-in, “She’s a woman, beautiful, look at her perfect heart derriere – caress her, love her …” Bunk was right. I closed my eyes and Josey would disappear. The power-fuck is clean, no messy emotions, just pure male pleasure, what nature intended. I would power-fuck them with my hands on my hips or stylishly behind my neck. I liked to power-fuck in the presence of other men and women. I may not have had the biggest penis, but it was impressive enough, enough to create desire among the females and anxiety among the men. I always insisted on going first as I didn’t want to slosh around in other men’s muck. I was a righteous penis.
Some of these girls were quite fantastic, girls that I would have been proud to form a family with years later. The more I began to like these girls, the more I encouraged them to fuck around, my method of keeping them at an unattached distance. I was just stupid, caught up myself in the haze of free love and driven by testosterone. When I wanted to dump a persistent girl, I would insist that we be monogamous, which she always liked. Then a few days later, I’d get her high and drunk and bed her with another man. She´d wake up with him while I’d slip away in outrage at the cheating slut. I did meet a few girls that I really liked from the first contact, but these never seemed to like me; maybe I liked them because they didn’t want me?
I detested the couples that proclaimed that they were “in love”. They couldn’t possibly have any more idea of what love was than I; they were just slaves to their hormones. If a girl said she loved someone, I tried every trick possible to seduce her, just to prove love was a fraud. I was almost always successful, even if I had to wait until she came into heat – I could smell it! And I enjoyed the boys’ anguish about the betrayal. They always blamed the girl – she was a slut! There were a few married couples among the travelers, and I preyed on the wives relentlessly. Often they were easier to score than the singles, but they were discreet – their husbands never found out. So much for the sanctity of marriage! As time passed, I developed a definite preference for married women, even those with children. There was something special about them, some shared intimacy that the single women didn’t have. Unfortunately, married women on the tourist trail were scarce.
I didn’t pursue the true-believer religious girls. They were as easy to seduce as the others, but they felt guilty about the sex afterward, and tried to convert me to their beliefs. Actually, it seemed that most everybody had a deity they were sure gave them access to the exclusive truth. I thought the Mayan “Popul Vu”, or “The Lord of the Rings” provided as good an explanation of the world as the bibles of the major religions. Still, I needed a deity to bash them with when they proselytized me, so I investigated the goddesses of the ancient world: Inanna, Ishtar, Astarte, Isis, Ostera, and others. I chose Isis, the Egyptian Sacred Whore Goddess.
From these traveling experiences, I formulated two rules for females:
1) Fuck as many as you can before you get old.
2) Never tell a female you love her unless you really mean it. Of course, you have to know what love is first, a meaning about which I was clueless.
We didn’t use condoms much in those days, the girls were presumed to be on the Pill, and diseases were rare within the travelers. I caught lice and gonorrhea a few times, and yeast once, but these diseases were easily cured annoyances. Some of the older women seemed to be hunting for good genetic material – maybe they liked my looks. I’ve always suspected that I impregnated two or three of them, but I never heard from them again.
For the men, most of these girls were just mouths and vaginas attached to curvy bodies. The men used them as vagina-assisted masturbation, a superior mechanism to their lady-five-finger. For the men, free love meant easy sex, but for the girls, free love wasn’t love nor free, it was always at the expense of the girls we fucked. Their sexuality wasn’t real, wasn’t natural, they were really fearful, traditional girls bamboozled by the hippie hype. I proudly proclaimed my theory that the sole purpose of female’s existence was as recipients of a penis – that had to be why they were all sluts.
End of book content.
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