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The erotic journey of a belly button and other bananas

Marc Asanov Archibald Sr.

The erotic journey of a belly button and other bananas

A portrait of the artist as a lover

BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
81669 Munich

The Erotic Journey





The erotic journey of a belly button and other bananas





Motto: “As long as we live – we love”

The book is based on the apocryphal intimate journal of Sir Dick Liebvoil. All entries in Liebvoil’s journal, as the reader will become aware, are using an indecent language. To please a censored mentality, I replaced some “offending” words with courteous ones. I realized that by doing that, the intimacy of the journal was partially wasted.

I am sure that the journal was not meant to be published. In fact, Liebvoil left instructions to his maid, to destroy all of his writings and recordings, in case of his unexpected death. His maid wouldn’t dare to do that, so she passed the decision to dispense of his writings to LIebvoil’s daughter.

There were so many bags to sort out, and then so many legal proceedings to clear out Liebvoil’s live will, that the least Liebvoil’s daughter had in her mind was to get rid of those yellow pads, filled with Liebvoil’s writings.

She always thought that her father’s writings were rotten. She never had any desire to read them. So, she sold the whole bunch of yellow pads on E-bay, for a meagre amount of five hundred dollars. I bought them.

In addition to twenty four yellow pads filled with Liebvoil’s minuscule writings, I was given as a “gift”, more than a dozen tapes of recordings.

For a short time, I had the noble thought to give the whole collection of writings and recordings, as a gift, to the Institute of Superior studies on Human Sexuality. I thought it could have been used as a source text for the heterosexual intercourse class reading.

I never ever imagined that an intimate journal, can put the author at risk, from being harshly judged by a phony Victorian tutored society. But also, I discovered, that his writings covered very sensitive and touchy truths about love.

I was writing down some page numbers that I thought were interesting, when I found a loose paper that talked about Liebvoil’s childhood. I guess he wouldn’t want to make it an entry in his journal. He described seeing his mother walking around, with her bare breasts and wearing just panties. What he thought at once was to run and hide. His mom saw him and told him that it was ok, those breasts were the same he sucked when he was a baby.

Also, he describe how his mom bathed him until he was twelve. “She’d soap and wash and mop me”, he writes, “and then help me put on my pajama and put me to bed”. Liebvoil writes that he didn’t mind it, and that he enjoyed his mom’s touches. I didn’t think such a motherly touch could create any Freudian sweats, unless it generated annoying thoughts that Liebvoil mentions: “I felt wonderful looking at mom, as she knelt down, with her bare arms and her plentiful breasts, as she soaped and cleansed my briefs”.

His confessions are never shy about stuff that, for my part, I’d avoid talking about with my best friend or make a note in my intimate journal. Though I’d have to say that sometimes he sounds genuine and pure to me. He writes on many occasions that “a fuck is always a pristine fuck – not like what people mistakenly think, that an old fuck meets a new fuck”. So, I read Liebvoil’s dirty entries, and I realized, all of a sudden, that he was practically talking about having a new sex experience with each new woman she came his way.

With this in mind I got a strange impression that his writings were as decent as any other. Besides vulgar commonplaces, the reader would easily discover pure happiness in his “sinful” pleasures, which would be difficult to judge as offensive. One could say that some entries are astonishingly blunt. What would then be the value of writings, about things that people keep locked in their closet, and never bring them to light. Not to say a word about such things, is also not right for an intimate journal.

I asked myself, what would be the usefulness, to publish a journal that would make a reader blush. There is not really sainthood in any intimacy. And intimacy is worthy to be revealed. My old “educated” ego would be ashamed reading it. Though, after I read a few journal entries, I recovered my composure, and understood that Liebvoil’s journal is just a delightful collection of “forbidden” words, a diversion from very lovely descriptions one can find in censored literature, that ask the reader to peep through the blinds at intimate happenings.

It’s as though sex is, by convention, a hidden pursuit, a vulgar pastime, rather than a spotless, beautiful and natural “endeavor” – as natural as any other highly regarded human interaction.

Those, that are familiar with such journal content from sexual publications, know that every sexual pose is like something intimate is “happening” in front of their eyes. One may not like some scenes, and get nervous about or embarrassed, by their shameless sincerity. The fact that Liebvoil handles all those scenes, free of any concern for a potential witness, makes his voice sound innocent.

In my opinion, there is no vulgarity and no “dirt”, in his talk about the beauty of a vagina, and the blessing of fucking. Also, as far as having a preference for a word or another to be used as an alternative to “fucking”, Liebvoi himself talk about his preferences:

“I like intercourse better than copulation or fornication. Intercourse keeps an air of innocence in its sounding. Copulation is a word you could laugh about. Fornication, though it can be murmured, it has some secrecy in it, like what monks could do under the vaulted entrance of a monastery. Intercourse could be performed in broad delight. Copulation should be done behind a pine bush in the public park. Fornication though is vicious: who’d dare to confess of fornication, now that the word was erased from Encyclopedia Britannica? I prefer fucking, to any other fucking synonym for practical reasons. It performs well and doesn’t need an intermission”.

We’ll let this word in its soft and its hard form unchanged. We should mention that the notes put together in this book, may give one the impression, that Liebvol’s life was an uninterrupted succession of sex events, and sex talk. The reader would hardly believe that he did anything else alongside.

Though, witness to his genius, is his extensive publishing carrier and his eclectic artistic works, some of them still exhibited online.

From interviews with people that knew him, I found out that he was a decent man, like any of us, and that he never talked about sex in any way, when socializing. His pure intellectual conversations must have been very boring and painful to him. None of his friends heard him using dirty or “fresh” language. What this may show? That making love and writing about it are both private matters. Making them public would be like going to church to see a priest, and ask for forgiveness. And forgiveness as we well know, is nothing else by a hidden permission to sin again.

Meanwhile, one can read and experiment on his own, Liebvoil’s ways of sinning. Thanks to Liebvoil, one would learn that fucking is like dancing: you dedicate your mind when dancing so that you don’t step on your partner’s feet. Also, like in a dance scene, fucking at a faster pace could spread sweat over the place. I mean, a “quick step” dance, that isn’t over for hours, would ask both dancers to stick to their “lead and let go motions”, until the music stops. Remember Ravel? What a boring fifteen minute bolero. For those familiar with the bolero, boring is what Liebvoil’s journal is not.

“It is my belief”, he writes, “that when a man feels that there is nothing imaginary in his life and that every single moment is part of a routine that he knows everything about – he is on the road to passing away. You must have some ideals left, some hidden aspirations. If you don’t, life is going to knock you over. I wander what I really know about myself to keep me going.

Chapter 1. I can’t believe I grew up so fast

Liebvoil’s journal - First yellow pad

Today I celebrated my birthday. I am sixteen years old. Dad gave me a yellow pad as a present, and asked me to start writing stories. He also gave me a gold fountain pen and two ink bottles, one blue, the other one black. I thought that I would more willingly keep an intimate journal than write stories. Here it comes…

Declaration of intent: I realized already in my teens that my main interest in life, was to love women. I decided to keep a journal with a separate entry for each woman I love, and also make recordings to remember their voices and their stories.

This is my first entry in a journal that I intend to keep current for the rest of my life.

And this is the anatomy lesson as a much needed preface

Vagina is a sexual organ one could find between the legs of a woman. Its name exists in popular versions such as cunt, pussy or crack. It is one of the most beautiful organs ever created by God. It is composed of four main parts: the public hair, a passive part that adorns vagina like a crown adorns the head of a queen.

The public hair is in the shape of a triangle or rectangle. There are women that live in a contemporary world that shave their pubic hair, and allow their bare vagina get beautifully exposed.

The three active parts of the vagina are the clitoris, the two outer lips and the vagina hole. When rubbed, the clitoris brings the pleasure to a woman soul. This pleasure is called orgasm. The two outer lips look like the wings of a butterfly. When stimulated, they open and expose the vagina hole. A man could use his fingers or his penis, to stimulate a vagina. When a man is inserting his penis into the vagina, and rubs the clitoris by getting in and out of the vagina hole, he is performing what is called copulation, or ”sexual intercourse”, or, as this act is called in popular terms, fucking.

Men and women are using their sexual organs as they seem fit, on their own will, free of any social or religious restrictions or censorship. That’s why, there are other sexual practices that are widespread, such as stimulating the vagina by licking the clitoris.

Some sexual practices go even further, by using the anus as an alternate “vagina”. Such practice is external to the subject of this opus, and, if used scarcely, it is just with the intention to exemplify the exception to the general “vagina rules”.

Though, as any grown up knows, the sex practice starts, in essence, at the mouth level, and ends at the vagina or the anus level.

I read in an eighteen century book on sex education that to attain ecstasy, “the most important thing for a man having sex to a woman, is to make precise arrangements, and resolve the mystery of love in business terms, such as the time allotted to it and the kind of indulgence they both agree on. A woman has to be seen as an angelic creation through the eyes of a man’s passion. Happy events could score from encounters, that let woman’s angelic nature manifest while being penetrated, and also employed in a manner that would give her and her sexual organs in question, wonderful natural torments and pleasure”.

This text threw my imagination into Heaven. I used to read it, and then read it again, and I made an effort to understand the elegance of eighteen century penetration.

I wouldn’t have any idea if my penetration could result in a wonderful torment for a woman, and I thought that planning for it was a tedious thing. Also, I learned from that book that “before a virgin becomes a woman, her vagina is mysteriously concealed between her legs”. Because she had never been touched by another sex, her vagina smells like roses, and looks like a bouquet of cherry flowers. When touched by another sex and is penetrated by it, the woman’s sighs - sounding like bells and chimes - announcing the birth of a woman.

Today, I made a decision to learn everything about how a woman is built, and also to study everything I need to know beforehand, like how a woman gets ready for a copulation. My first attempt was to go to the Metropolitan Museum, and see all the art works depicting nudes, especially Rubens paintings and Rodin sculptures. I sat down and contemplated every nude painting, for long. At one moment, a woman sitting next to me, asked me why I liked so much those paintings. I blushed, though I told her bluntly that I was a student in art. I could tell how much I impressed her, from the way she moved her eyebrows. To be a student in art, is like leaving no trace while staring at a Rubens nude painting. It took a week of museum visits, until I knew what a woman is made of, and where she would like to be touched, also where I would like to kiss her, I mean her erogenous spots. Also, I knew precisely, that the clitoris is the place where women get excited and build up their orgasm. After I read a book on Kama sutra sex positions, I used a broom and a pillow to experiment some of those positions, and I realized that some of those positions were difficult and unreasonable as means to get an orgasm.

As I began writing my journal I had to establish some principles about its truthfulness and its style. I asked myself many times: is love just having sex, and if it is so, why we are not allowed to talk about it in factual wording, rather than scrutinizing the vocabulary to cherry-pick cultured words and talk from a cold distance about whatever is sexual, losing everything, the nakedness, the excitement, the very fine fusion of bodies in love, the ejaculation, the orgasm and all.

It is impossible to describe having sex, by using words that satisfy the idiotic, formal language, the grotesque anatomy vocabulary that we never, thanks God, use in intimacy.

Undress a woman, and what you see immediately is her breasts, her pubic hair and her pussy. And that is what I am talking about in my journal. All those things are delicate and delightful. If you have sex with a woman you need to use the word “fuck”, otherwise it sounds like there is nothing true in what you are doing.

Old Victorian censorship should be removed with no hesitation. No urge of pedantic prissy talk should stop us from assuming the natural discourse, with a stipulation: the larger a pussy is and the curlier the pubic hair, the friendlier the language used should be. In that case a penis getting-together with a pussy shall look like a friendly shake hand. For a small-hole pussy the words should be limited to Ah and Oh!

Also we could say about philosophical categories, like time and space, as far as sexual acts are concerned: once inside a pussy, one could not sense the time passing by. Time doesn’t matter; environment doesn’t matter. That is, if you are in love, nothing could stop you from proceeding. All obstacles are removed. While a woman lies with her legs outstretched and her mouth open, as she gazes upon the dangling penis, and as the romance ripens, and love blossoms and flourishes, the audience erupts in applauses and whistles…

I would like to write one day, a history of copulation, in which cover girls, centerfold beauties, queens and hookers would answer questions about fucking positions, and the remainder. It would cover also advices about the best fucking strategies during menstruation and menopausal periods.

Why there is so much adversity towards open sex writing and adult movies? I don’t get it. A man goes to bed with a woman and as they fuck the whole miraculous process is thrown into secrecy. It is like we get instructed by religious and social studies to forget that such a phenomenon we call “fuck” exist.

Fucking stuff is a legal activity, not a Freudian or Jungian myth. A skin covered organ is inserted in another skin surrounded organ! Also, the history and philosophical treaties don’t mention sex: Why? You read the history of moeurs and it talks about kissing hands and curtsies, and bowing, and delectable glances. Nothing about sexual moeurs... Without a sexual pursuit a life is wrecked. A priest might say that this is not true, that having sex is an unbearable sin that impede one to go to Heaven and get reincarnated. Ok then, what is the purpose to be reincarnated? To have more sex experiences

Chapter 2. Danelle: If only you had loved me the way I loved you…

I just finished the ninth grade and, as far as I am concerned, I’m still a virgin. The other boys are talking about fucking, the way they’d like to do it, like the one that was talking about “ballerina style” or the other that was saying something about “doggy style” to the amusement of those that must have known something about it.

It is very difficult for me to confess that I am still a virgin, but I know that there is still time to catch up, I think. Mom told me that I was a precocious boy in any endeavor. I like very much a girl that graduated her ninth grade class this year. Her name is Danelle. Everybody would like to kiss her and fondle her big boobs. She looks like Swedish to me. She has deep blue eyes and a platinum blond hair that gives her an unusual look, and makes her stand out among other girls.

I learned so much, from what my colleagues and friends are saying about copulation, that I feel like ready to go to bed with a girl and satisfy her. I thought that I should go directly to a girl, and tell her that I wanted to copulate her, or something similar stuff like that. I figured out that once I tell to a girl that I want to copulate her, she was going to figure out that I am not a virgin, and that I could do her successfully.

“You sound like a man,” she’d say, and then she’d say ok, let’s go, and we’ll go to bed, and I’ll start first by kissing her, and then chewing her nipples, and push gently her legs apart to look at her vagina, and find my way inside her. I know it sounds easy and it has to be easy. If, by any chance, it is not easy, it means that she is also a virgin, and knows that things like that are not easy.

Also, I learned that the only way one could feel the natural love in action, is neither to wrap a penis in a condom suit, nor to put a sponge or foam inside a pussy.

I remember Danelle on a spring day. She was wearing a light yellow blouse. That day was a little bit chilly, and she took the chance not to wear a bra. I could see her prickly swollen nipples, protruding her blouse. It made me nervous, and I felt my prick getting fatty. It was like it was going to break open my fly.

I met her again a couple of days after. I asked her, when she was going to wear the yellow blouse again.

“What’s the matter with you?” she interjected, “are you one of those fashion guys?”

When she sensed that I was getting upset, she tried to mend her response:

“Could you tell me why you like that blouse so much?”

“The last time you wore that blouse, I saw your nipples sticking out. I felt so corny, and depressed somehow, that I couldn’t touch them”.

She got so surprised and troubled by what I said that she bend backwards. Then she touched my hand and said in a hurry, before running off:

“You are a bad boy!”

I thought the whole day that she wouldn’t have touched my hand if she got offended?

The next day I saw her again. She was wearing the light yellow blouse and lipstick. I thought - what was obvious - that she liked me. I couldn’t believe that the most beautiful girl in school would do something to please me. She barely looked in my direction. I was smart enough to know that she didn’t want to encourage me, like allowing me to touch her nipples. In general she must have gotten excited by my interest in her tits.

I went to sleep that night, enveloped by sort of euphoria, and I imagined kissing her nipples, and licking her armpits. On sunny days her armpits looked wet and swollen. Besides that, I thought of touching and squeezing her navel and her hips…

The last time I met Danelle, was a month ago, a couple of days after we graduated. She was accompanied by a big guy, whose strange name, Frank Kamburov, made him a rarity. He was muscular, and wore a huge empty head, surrounded by a round hairy shell. I was watching them window-shopping next to a Nike store. She noticed me. I think that I am honest when I say that she was pleasantly surprised, when she saw me. She smiled, glancing in my direction, because she knew that I’d die to touch her nipples, or anything else, like pushing her against the wall and penetrating her.

I thought that if I got an opportunity, I’d tell her that I knew everything about women, inclusive their vaginas. She reminded me of Venus, the bourgeois woman that showed her naked body to artists like Rodin. It is well known that Rodin made out of her body so many idealist marble sculptures sold for million dollars at actions.

Today I saw Danelle’s whole family, her mom, her dad, and her Aunt Delia, eating chicken wings in a McDonald joint. Her dad looked like an overdosed alcoholic, with his red nose and white rushes on his ears, and his fat and unmanageable hands. As I moved to the counter to pay my hot chocolate cookie, Danelle came by and asked:

“Would you still like to see me wearing that yellow blouse?” and giggled.

I had a clump in my throat, out of so many things I did in bed thinking of her. To my surprise she wanted to give me her phone number. I didn’t have a pen with me. I had the inspiration to ask the clerk to write down the number for me. He wasn’t willing to do it. I had to grab the pen from his hand and write the number on my palm. Danelle began laughing like crazy. She left while whispering:

“Call me tomorrow morning between 7 and 8! Dad leaves for the office before 7 and mom goes back to sleep.”

There was something very beautiful about that time, which I could not put in words. I thought of calling her all the time, incapable to wait until next morning.

The first time I met Danelle, she was sitting on a bench in the park, waiting for me. That day, of deep happiness, still flickers in my memory. Though it feels like yesterday, I cannot sense those moments being still available in my memory, for grabbing. When I approached her she stood up and said: “I missed you!”

We spent one full hour kissing and feeling each other and talking about sex, about stuff associated with that, like menstruation, and she said that she felt hot when she had her period, and that she read that men avoid making love when women during their period. She’d insist that she learned a lot about sex from sex magazines, and that is why she could have discussions and articulate her thoughts in a way that is probably common to women with bed experience. We talked for a while, where we should go to feel each other. She suggested going to Barns and Noble building on 12th Street, and kiss on the stairwell.

“Nobody would find us there.”

We passed up and down the street in front of Barns and Noble bookstore, waiting for somebody to open the entrance door to the residence wing of the building, so that we could sneak in. Once in, we took the elevator and got off on fifth floor. She propped herself on the wall and let me feel her vagina. Her vagina was all wet. She let me touch her outer lips and told me that she expected some romance to come with my touch.

“Sorry,” I said, “We’ll have some romance whenever time will permit.”

So, she pulled my hand out of there and stared in my eyes.

“You are talking in such a dry fashion. I am not going to let you put your hand again between my legs. There is nothing you can do to me, if you don’t tell me that you love me.”

The next time we met, she let me discover more of her vagina’s beautiful aspects. She let me touch it more and feel her outer lips for a longer time. They were floating in juice. I’d find out later that her outer lips were always wet. That day she opened her legs, let me put my penis between her legs and rub her vagina with it. She wanted to remain virgin until she’d marry, so she’d not let me insert a finger in her vagina. Though, the innocence of my life and of hers seemed like crumbling.

As soon as I got home, the only thing I thought about, was to get back to that stairwell, put my penis between her legs and rub it on her outer lips and feel her body shaking under constraints.

We met again next day. We’d rush out of the elevator and hide behind the stairwell wall. Once there, Danelle would take her panties off, and let me rub her vagina with my fingers and my penis. Her outer lips felt like wet oysters. To my surprise she took my hand and inserted my finger into her vagina. Her breasts had the shape of grapefruits, fragrant and firm. To be alone with her and feel her sex, and insert my finger in her vagina was amazingly beautiful. I thought that I’d have to keep the memory of those events forever.

Every day, we thought that tomorrow we may not have another chance to meet again, and be alone. I didn’t have enough time to get my orgasm. We just had to hurry to get some raw pleasure out of it. Danelle’s parents were so strict, that we barely had time to kiss and feel each other before she ran home. I knew that she risked to be punished for her “liberties” to be with me.

I remember that she called me one day, and told me that we’d have two hours together.

“Aren’t you happy? My folks think that I went to a movie.”

Our passion meant something more serious than fucking. She began criticizing my life, like a wife would do to her husband:

“You live a bohemian life devoted to writing. Everything else is evasion, elusion. I mean you never expressed one serious thought about us. Shouldn’t that rub of yours mean more than pleasure to you?”

When she came to see me that night, she kept on saying that it was better for us to be lovers, and keep our word that we’d get married when times is suitable. Then she got very upset, when I told her that it was ok with me to be just lovers. I would never regret that I said that. I realized later on that I wasn’t willing to marry her.

She took off her panties and held my penis in her hand for a while.

“It’s pulsating,” she said.

After a while she put spit on my penis, and placed my penis between her legs. She’d keep my penis in her hand and control my movements. I asked her to let me get inside her. She let me put a finger inside her vagina.

“Don’t get too deep. I know that you want to touch my maidenhead.”

Then I began rubbing my penis between her outer lips. She’d keep her eyes closed in wonder, until I ejaculated. As I finished, she scattered my sperm on her hips. I remember those moments clearly: I’ll withdraw and she’d say:

“Now I go home, and I’m going to miss your prick.”

Before we met again I missed my finger touch of her vagina hole. The next day we met again. She’d come with the only purpose to give me pleasure. I don’t think she got ever her orgasm. I’ll get mine and she’d say: “I love you love.”

We went back again and again to our stressful routine,to kiss and jerk off on the fifth floor downtown building. She told me that her mom caught her washing her panties of sperm stains in the kitchen, and asked her why she didn’t put them in the washing machine with other cloth. She had a silly laugh.

We were there only for a couple of minutes, when we heard people descending the stairs. It was strange to see people walk down the stairwell from the six floor, rather than using the elevator. There were three men carrying down a huge canvas. They laughed when they saw us. Danelle hid her face behind her scarf.

“Sorry for interruption,” one of the men said.

My penis went flat. As they went down the stairs and we couldn’t hear anymore their feet tramping, Danelle took my penis in her hand and began laughing. I had to make an effort to have a hard on.

“I enjoy this night more than yesterday’s,” she said, “With the idea that somebody saw us. They knew for sure what we were doing here,” Danelle said.

She’d rush me on the way home, holding me by hand. She mentioned, smiling, what her parents told her, that walking hand in hand with a boy is permitted.

One day she showed me two tickets to a movie: “Mom bought them,” she said smiling. As soon as we got into the movie theatre, we seized two back seats and began kissing passionately.

Once the movie started, I began fondling her teats and squeeze her nipples. Then she widened the opening of her legs and pressed my fingers tight on her vagina. I bent and put my head between her legs. Her pussy was flooded with vagina juice. I tried to lick her outer lips to no avail. I also failed to insert my tongue inside her pussy, while holding tight her buttocks in my hands. She pushed my finger in her pussy and whispered:

“Don’t get deep. Just play with it.”

Her giggles echoed her moans.

”I want so much to get a real fuck,” she whispered. “Touch my clitoris, rub me there.”

Next day, Danelle asked Aunt Ethel to let us use her house, over the weekend. At first she said no. She said that she was not going to betray Danelle’s mom trust, and that she intends to preserve Danelle’s virginity until she marries. Also, George (Aunt Ethel’s husband, and Adel’s uncle by definition, that she called Dwarfly), had to be convinced to stay away from the house. Only after Danelle told her about our sexual escapades, and persuaded her, she said yes.

She even said:

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? You could have got infected doing dirty sex.”

Waiting for that weekend, was like breathing with my head under hot water.

“Listen! Calm down. Cool off,” Danelle would say. “I’m just as excited as you are. I’m also nervous. I don’t have yet an alibi for dad and mom. I thought of telling them that I was going on a trip with the school. I tried to find a teacher that would cover up my story. The Physics teacher is the one I trust, but sometimes she’s crazy. If she calls my folks we’re in trouble. How could I tell her that I want to have sex? She’d throw me out. I don’t think she has sex anymore. You could tell from her complexion that her hormones are running like crazy in search of a fuck.”

Danelle’s aunt came to the rescue. She was going to arrange for an alibi, by telling her parents that she was taking Danelle with her on a hiking adventure to the Catskills.

“When God judges one’s sins, He makes a pile of all sins, and after he punishes the sinner, he puts the pile of sins on fire. One more lie for me wouldn’t make a difference,” Danelle’s aunt said.

She was a wonderful lady. She lived through three divorces with famous husbands, all dancers, and she was ok. The interesting thing was that, she kind of enjoyed the thought that we were going to use her house for sex.

The alibi was almost ruined by Danelle’s mother that wanted to accompany her. Then, only two days before that weekend, Danelle’s mom changed her mind. Climbing hills was not appealing to her.

I met Danelle early morning on Saturday, in a coffee shop. The shop was a few blocks from her aunt’s house. We were sitting at a table with two cups of coffee that we didn’t touch. Danelle was all smiles.

“The thing is that I want this date to be perfect. Don’t rush. I mean, you may rush and give me lots of pain and spoil the whole thing,” Danelle warned me.

As we got into the house, I felt an unfamiliar smell around. I thought of what Danelle mentioned, that everything should be perfect, so I said nothing.

“Do you smell a strange odor around?” she asked, which made me laugh.

Danelle went to the kitchen, grabbed a garbage bag and put it outside. Then she looked at me:

“What are you waiting for? Take me in your arms, carry me to the bed, and make love to me,” she shouted, laughing.

I couldn’t say a thing. I had a knot in my throat and monarch butterflies in my belly. I carried her in my arms and deposited her on the bed.

“Come here,” she said.

As I came next to her, she pressed my head on her breasts. Then we began to undress. I was faster. I knew how she looked, there was nothing to discover or invent. I felt like we were together forever.

“I shall be light like a feather; you shall be hard like a stone,” she said. “I am going to keep my panties on. You have to pull them down.”

She looked at my penis.

“I am afraid you are going to give me lots of pain, when you put that stick inside me,” she said..

“Well,” I said, “You wanted to make love.”

“Yes, but I am afraid you are going to hurt me. My vagina is so tight, that I can’t wash it inside, without having pain.”

“If it is so tight it is a good thing. My penis is elastic,” I said.

“It looks like a hard wooden stick to me.”

“You can take it in your mouth to feel it,” I said

“God forbid. Did it ever happen to you to read Freud? Or the Bible? This is a sin.”

Then she looked at me with an expression of unsettling disappointment.

“Let me lie down on my back. Try to put a finger in my vagina first, very slowly, just like you did when we made love on the stairwell,” Danelle asked.

She opened her legs and then put them up. Her vagina, with her pink outer lips open, looked like a Japanese chrysanthemum, soft when touched, shiny and succulent. At the beginning, her outer lips were not open, but facing each other. I parted them, and I inserted slowly my finger in her vagina. Her vagina hole was indeed very tight. I could feel the grip of her vagina, when I moved my finger in and out. It made her sigh.

“There is no room to insert my finger deeper,” I complained.

“What are you talking about? Get deeper, slowly…”

I inserted slowly my finger a little bit deeper, and I moved it in and out.

“Lie next to me and let me play with your penis,” she asked. “It feels so strange,” she said, “to let it get inside me.”

As she touched my penis I watched her. She was sure that everything was going to be ok, as if she knew what was coming to happen when I was going to get inside her. I thought that I was going to work my penis in and out and up and down in her vagina, the way the anatomy book described copulation.

As I rubbed gently her clitoris, her outer lips bloomed and displayed a bulbous surface, pleasant to touch and offering an ideal prop up for a penis in his quest for pleasure. She began to move her ass following the movement in and out of my penis, helping me get deeper inside her.

“Do you like it?” I asked. “That is how my penis is going to move deeper, inside you.”

“The feeling is like the one I have when I pee,” she joked.

I saw that look of happy expectation in her eyes. The best way to get deeper inside her was to let her hold my penis with her hand. I felt so much pleasure when she held my penis with her hand.

“Your penis is throbbing. I wish we could be together for the rest of our lives. If you say yes, and you promise to marry me, I’ll put your prick in my vagina, and let it go through”.

Then she closed her legs tight and refused to let me fuck her. After she did that, my erection got South. We were both too young to get married. That was the thing I wouldn’t want to happen. I felt my penis getting flat.

“You killed my dick,” I said. “What kind of request is that, to ask me to marry you? We are sixteen years old.” I said.

“Sorry! My mistake... Don’t worry. I was just kidding…. Come on…Forget it. We came here to have sex,” she insisted.

I found out that time that my mind is stupid or tricky, at the very least. After she asked me to marry her, my penis wouldn’t get up again. Danelle didn’t understand why.

“You got inhibited by the feeling of too much happiness,” she said. “I read in a book that the blood doesn’t fill up the penis cavities, when a man is overwhelmed by emotions,” she said.

And this was it. I couldn’t get in her vagina with my sleeping penis. I didn’t feel anything, like frustration or disappointment. I would walk naked around and see Danelle glancing with a hungry look at my penis.

“Such things could happen,” she’d say. “Probably it wouldn’t happen, if I didn’t say that stupid thing. There is a way to get it up,” she said, and began rubbing it.

“Look at him,” she said. “It is deep asleep. I hope it is going to wake up tomorrow. He’ll better be up. We’re not going to waste a weekend like that, struggling to get your penis up. My aunt is going to be disappointed, if I tell her Monday, that I was still a virgin. How come you’re still a virgin, she’d ask. She’d be sorrowful. Somehow I feel very sure that we’re going to get through this thing, and you’ll be successful. It is that I wanted you to make me a woman.”

I felt horrible. I couldn’t sleep that night. I thought of calling off the weekend and go home. But I also knew that I wasn’t a coward. So I gave myself a chance to get back to my senses by Sunday morning. It didn’t happen. I didn’t even feel like wanting to have sex. Danelle looked depressed. She’d insist that she was joking, and she swore that she wouldn’t want to marry me. Then she sat on bed, and holding me by the shoulders began to cry.

“What’s the heck...? Use your finger to get through my maidenhead.”

As I got inside her vagina with my finger my penis got up. I began kissing her breasts, and I went down on her and I kissed her navel, then I kissed her vagina but I couldn’t lick it. Her body was trembling terribly. I was getting worried, so I began repeating at a fast pace my morning prayer while kissing her vagina.

“You have to stick to your promise to not give me pain,” she said. “You bit me there. Why did you bit me?”

Then I got on top of her, and I did what we usually did when we met on the stairwell, rubbing my penis on her vagina. Her legs were trembling relentlessly. I thought that she’d not want to get inside her.

“Get in, for God sake…” she said.

She opened her legs and put my penis inside her vagina. As I got inside, just with the head of my penis, she complained of pain.

“Get out,” she said and then she propped her ass on a pillow. She began rubbing my penis. She put spit on it and placed it between her outer lips holding her buttocks tightly closed and sighing.

“Try again!”

I thought that we planned to have two days to get through all that she-bang. I got inside her again, and again I heard her screaming of pain, so I stopped moving.

“It’s too late to stop now. Keep going,” she said.

Then, as I got inside her just a bit, I ejaculated.

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