The Girl Who Taught Me How To Eat Pussy
© 2003 by Robert Buckley

It's funny, the things that ignite a memory.  Here I stand with my friend in the midst of Manhattan as we sample the best street cuisine the city has to offer, one of those big, doughy pretzels sold from a pushcart.  I raise it to my lips and the steaming vapor fills my nostrils.  I close my eyes and imagine myself nose-to-clit with Rachel.

I hadn't thought about her in years.  She's probably a grandmother now.  When I met her I hadn't quite cracked twenty and was mournfully behind the curve when it came to sexual experience.  She was a year older than me, but she seemed so much wiser and worldly.

We hit it off mainly because we shared a slanted sense of humor that escaped most of our friends, who just rolled their eyes and shook their heads when we sniggered over some irony only we two appreciated.

To my everlasting gratitude, Rachel also liked to share her body.  She wasn't a striking beauty.  But she was pretty, despite a lumpy nose.  She had wonderful dark eyes and hair, and bee-stung lips—and she liked to kiss.  From kissing, we segued easily into mutual explorations of each other's body; although, I always felt she was two steps ahead of me and leading me where she had already gone.  She was patient while I was fumbling until we settled into an agreeable rhythm.

It was always understood that our sex play was strictly for fun, no strings, no commitments; no declarations of undying love were necessary or encouraged.  Anything serious was unthinkable.  I remember walking her home and coming face-to-face with her grandmother, who gave me the evil eye.

Later, I told Rachel, "I don't think your grandma likes me."

She laughed, "Don't take it personally, she's just worried her favorite granddaughter might fall for some goy.  She thinks the Irish are especially mishuga."

So, that was our unspoken arrangement; we'd stay friends and be careful not to fall in love.

At parties we always seemed to end up on each other's arm, sharing snide comments about our friends, and their oh-so-serious affairs.  At one party in particular, after we had run out of gossip, we snuck upstairs and found a room a bit bigger than a closet with a cot.  No words exchanged, we nodded and fell into what was called back in the day, Heavy Petting.

Time passed unnoticed as we swapped warm wet kisses, and our hands slid beneath each other's clothing.  My finger found its way to her pussy and burrowed inside.  I was content to finger-fuck her in a steady, monotonous pace.

All at once she said, "Lick my pussy."

I must have made a face, because she scolded me. "Don't be a baby—c'mon, you'll like it."

I have to laugh at how I was then, and wonder how I managed to get along, as sexually ignorant as I was.  The prospect of eating pussy held no appeal.  It was solely a warm, wet portal through which you inserted your finger, or if you were really lucky, your dick.  It was a place you visited tactilely, not a place you eyeballed, much less put your mouth to.  I wasn't even sure what a clit was, much less where it was.  In fact, I thought it was way up inside and you had to stretch pretty far to reach it.

But then Rachel instructed me to get on my knees as she swung around and dangled her splayed legs off the edge of the cot, her back against the wall.  I leaned in as her aroma and humidity caressed my face.  I recall at the time I thought she smelled like really fine pizza dough.

Patiently she gave me a tour and a tutorial, and bade me to lick her here, kiss her there, and stroke my nose along her folds.  I was seduced by this new experience and enthusiastically lapped and slurped until she tapped me sharply on the head and ordered, "Slow down, for crying out loud, I'm not an ice cream cone about to melt.  Now, lick me in that spot, just the way you were before.  Oh, yes ..."

And I sensed her body react as she guided the pace of my exertions, every so often saying, "Higher ...  softer ...  harder ...  now, like a French kiss ..."

And then her thighs clenched my head and she grabbed handfuls of my hair so hard it hurt, but I didn't care, because her body vibrated like a tuning fork and she moaned so sweetly.  I was proud of myself - proud that I could do that to a girl.

Eating Rachel's pussy became a regular activity, and she would chuckle at how eager I was to please her.  And once she rewarded me by declaring me an "expert clit-kisser."

All good things end.  Rachel transferred to a West Coast college when her family moved.  We wrote for a while but eventually got caught up in new lives and lost touch.  But I remember our kiss goodbye, and her advice: "Remember, not all girls like the same thing, what works for me, might not work for them—don't forget to ask."

Odd advice? I think it was her way of letting me go, even though we were so careful not to fall in love.

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