Wednesday, April 25, 2012
The Hottest Girl I Never Fucked; or Almost-Sex in the Infancy of the Internet
I'll call her Joan. That's close enough to her real name to make me think of her, but not so close that anyone who knows her would make the connection.
We were nineteen years old. Actually, that's not right. I was nineteen, but she had just turned twenty. We had known each other for years, briefly attempted to date sophomore year, and stayed friends. She was cute, an Irish girl with red hair and freckles. Sometimes she'd come over so I could help her write English papers. She would bring Taco Bell or some other fast food, though I never really needed the bribe. I liked her.
On this particular night, she came over to use the internet. This was 1996, and the 'net wasn't yet in everyone's home, let alone on a smartphone in everybody's pocket. The vast majority of Americans had yet to visit an internet site, and for most people the concept of "surfing the web" was as intangible as abstract art. Joan wanted to try chatting online; she'd heard of cybersex, and being a pretty adventurous girl, she wanted to see what the big deal was.
Bear in mind, kids, that AOL Instant Messenger was still a year away, Yahoo! Messenger two years away, and MSN Messenger three whole years away. Chatting online meant using an IRC client to connect to a server. Unlike the three aforementioned instant messaging programs, IRC wasn't backed by a major corporation. There was no monitoring, no accountability, or quality control. IRC chat was the no man's land of online communication, a place where lonely pervs could exchange a bit of sexy chat with people who claimed to be female but probably weren't.
Webcam? What's a webcam? That's Jetsons technology.
Joan showed up at around midnight, bearing a bag of still-warm takeout from McDonald's. The drive-thru line at Taco Bell had been too long, she reasoned, and at any rate, McDonald's was just as good. (Note: No it's not.) We sat at the kitchen table, eating and talking about nothing in particular. Just before I could finish the last of the salty fries, Joan asked, "So can I get online?"
We went into the bedroom, where my Macintosh Performa 550 sat on my old faux-oak desk. I turned on the television for background noise; Tom Snyder was on. Joan stood behind me and watched as I connected to the internet using a 14.4 kbps modem attached to my computer via a PS/2 port. In minutes, I had connected to an IRC server, entered a chat room, and gave Joan my desk chair. She sat in front of my computer with her fingers on my keyboard, then asked me, "So what do I do?"
She didn't have long to wait before men began coming to her, undoubtedly attracted by thoughts of the sexy blue eyes to which she referred in her username. After evaluating the many "Want to chat?" and "a/s/l" requests that came her way, she settled on one guy who wasted no time before offering a place to stay - and a cock to ride - if she ever made it out to Michigan.
I enjoyed reading the conversation over Joan's shoulder, in part because whenever she got turned on she would touch her thighs through her jeans. She was turned on pretty much the whole time, actually, and with good reason: Michigan Guy sure seemed to know what he was doing. He described to Joan in explicit detail how he wanted to fuck her mouth until he came down her throat; how he wanted to strip, eat, and fuck her; and how he wanted to rim her, finger her ass, and then fuck it too.
Despite how it sounds, Joan did manage to get an occasional word in edgewise, but I'm certain the turn-on for her stemmed primarily from Michigan Guy taking control. The chat lasted an hour, and by the time it was over she had a hand down the front of her jeans, typing with a single finger like a bird pecking at seed. When Michigan Guy came, he told Joan that he wished she was there so they could shower together. He even gave her his phone number, though as far as I know she never called him.
When she logged out of IRC, we were both very aroused. Joan sat down on my bed, then leaned back, her head coming to rest on my pillows. Her jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped.
"Wasn't that fun?" she asked.
I agreed: "It was really hot."
Joan's hand slipped into her jeans now. "I'm so turned on." Her fingers began to move rhythmically, and my heart jumped as I realized what she was doing. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets, and she groaned with pleasure. My own eyes went wide as I watched her withdraw her hand, bring it close to her mouth, and lick her fingertips.
My cock bulged within my pants. I clenched my hand over it, feeling it throb in my grip. I watched Joan lower her jeans, leaving them bunched around her ankles. She wore a skimpy pair of lacy black panties, a hint of her red curls peeking out over the top. Her fingers returned to her pussy, caressing her soft lips through her panties.
"Is it okay?" she asked, without the slightest hesitation or shame in her voice. I nodded wordlessly. "Good," she continued. "I kind of want to have an orgasm on your bed." She didn't take her panties off, though I wanted her to. Instead she continued to touch herself through them, making the air sweet and fragrant with her scent.
Before long, her hand was inside her panties, two finges spreading her lips while her middle finger danced over her clit. "I wish you could help me," she said. The thought made my cock throb even harder, and while I really wanted to, I knew I couldn't. "If you're not going to help me," Joan said, "maybe you ought to help yourself."
I liked the sound of that. I could do that, couldn't I? There was no reason why I couldn't enjoy the show and get off at the same time, right? I opened my jeans and took out my cock. She didn't gasp, didn't lick her lips at the sight. She might not have even been looking at me, so focused was she on her own pleasure. I stood at the edge of the bed, watching my guest play with her swollen clit, my own movements matching hers stroke for stroke.
When Joan came, she brought her legs in close to her body and held them there. Her fingers, still nestled inside her panties, stopped moving altogether. And she didn't moan, opting instead to make this stifled "ooh" sort of sound that I found really hot. So hot, in fact, that I climaxed too, my cum pooling in the hollow of my hand. She might not have moaned, but I sure did.
"Did you cum?" she asked, finally looking up at me. I showed her my sticky hand and my still-dripping cock. She handed me a tissue from a box on my nightstand, and I cleaned myself off. After she pulled her jeans back up, I showed her to the door.
So why didn't I fuck Joan? The simple answer is that I had a girlfriend. Not a serious girlfriend, but a girl I had been dating for a couple months. A girl who had seen fit to leave some clothes and stuff at my place, for whatever that's worth. Actually, my girlfriend was the sort who would have been mighty upset if she learned that Joan had come over for any reason whatsoever, much less for the purpose of cybersex and masturbating on my bed. She was the type of woman who suspected every man she dated of cheating at some point - if not constantly - and I was certainly no exception. Though I'm not the sort to cheat, it occurred to me that if she was going to accuse me of infidelity anyway, I should have just fucked her.
Unfortunately, it didn't occur to me until the next morning.
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