They were out at a barbeque at my Dad’s boss’s house, which meant they would be gone all day and would be pretty well drunk when they got home. I went into their room and started going through drawers, not really looking for anything. I was very surprised to find what my Mom and Dad kept hidden in their respective underwear drawers.
Under my Dad’s ratty boxers I found several raunchy magazines, a small baggy of weed and some rolling papers. The porno mags weren’t all that unexpected, but the pot really blew my mind. I had thought that my Dad was completely un-cool. I just couldn’t picture him toking up. In my Mom’s drawer, among her tasteful underthings, was an even greater surprise. A pearly-white plastic device the approximate size and shape of a flashlight. I was pretty sure my parents didn’t fuck anymore but, based on the evidence, I had to conclude that they both had healthy masturbation habits.
I pinched off a small amount from my Dad’s stash, not enough that he would notice, helped myself to one of the more interesting-looking magazines, and retired to my own bedroom with my mother’s dildo.
Prior to that, I had only masturbated with my hand (except for the time I tried spreading my legs under the bathtub faucet, but that took too damn long.) There was also a light heavy petting experience with Jeremy Tilden, during which he managed to get his hand down my pants for a little while. Like I said, I never really saw what the big deal was.
I was starting to get turned on, though, by the pot and by the pictures in my Dad’s magazine. Mostly it was airbrushed women with big fake boobs, and a few pictures of hairy unattractive men with very large penises. Somehow, though, the sleaziness of the whole thing made it more appealing. And the letters were interesting. After flipping through the pages for a few minutes, I was primed and ready. I switched on my Mom’s vibrator and slid it into my – – – -.
That’s another thing, I was never sure what to call it. My best friend Jane, we’ll get to her in a minute, talked about her “cooch” quite a bit. That always seemed trashy to me. My Mom, when she deigned to refer to female genitals at all, only called them “vaginas.” That’s about as sexy as Biology class. None of the names seemed to work. Cunt- that’s so blunt and obscene. Pussy- what is it, a little kitty cat? Most of the other words for it I associated with jokes told by guys at school, a total turn-off.
So whatever you want to call it, it was all of the sudden dripping wet and buzzing in a hysterically ticklish way. It was like, whoa baby. I only had time to think that this thing I had stuck inside mine had been stuck inside my Mom’s and that was a little fucked up, but weirdly cool. Then I got off hard. What I had took for orgasms before, turns out were only tremors. This was a full-on earthquake. My – – – – started clenching and twitching and I was afraid for one terrifying second that I wouldn’t be able to get the wonderful plastic toy out of me when I was done and how was I going to explain that? Then it slid out with a moist little pop and I was a woman.
“Jesus,” I said out loud. Blasphemy seemed appropriate.
I washed my first real lover off in the sink and put everything back where I had found it. Then I called Jane and told her all about my afternoon.
“That is so wild, Amelia,” she said approvingly. “I have to try it.”
Jane was my best friend, and we told each other everything. Or, that is, she told me everything. I never had anything to tell her. I was totally backwards when it came to sex, but she was the complete opposite. She had tried, or claimed to have tried, just about everything. I know for a fact that she had fucked Mr. Wilkins, our English teacher. And, according to Jane, the reason Susan Hanke didn’t speak to her anymore was because she had caught Jane with her Dad. Then, last summer at church camp she had sucked off four guys in an hour, and this feat had become the stuff of high school legend.
Jane was every guy’s dream; pretty, blonde, a model’s figure (big breasts but otherwise thin) and enthusiastic about putting out. I was the complete opposite; a plain-looking dumpy brunette with glasses, for all purposes frigid.
But for all Jane’s exploits, she had never tried a vibrator. I was proud that I was one up on her in even a small way. Later that week, she came over. My Mom was taking an art class at the college, and my Dad was working late.
“Let’s see it,” Jane said.
We had a joint on Dad, then took turns with Mom’s little friend. Jane went first, and the thing was still wet from her when I used it. I can’t say why that turned me on so much, but my orgasm this time was even more intense. Maybe the fact that Jane was watching had something to do with it. I don’t know, but I damn near passed out.
“God damn,” Jane said. “That was kinda cool.”
For a couple weeks after that, whenever the parental units were out I snuck down Mr. Buzzy (as I had started calling him.) I started to resent them when they wouldn’t leave. I was hooked.
Still, though, the prospect of actual sex didn’t seem any more enticing than it had before. Maybe it was just because all the guys I knew at school were complete morons. Jane and I went on a double date with Chuck Kaylor and Marty Horn about a month after I had discovered the joys of buzzing plastic. I got stuck with Marty, of course. We went to the park and, while Jane and Chuck got to it on a blanket a few feet away, Marty just wasn’t doing anything for me. He was all thumbs, for one thing. He groped my tits like he was trying to milk a cow.
“Do you swallow?” he whispered hopefully in my ear. That kind of ruined the mood.
“Maybe I’m a lesbian,” I said to Jane one night when she was sleeping over, about a week after the ill-fated date. The parents were in the room, asleep, so we couldn’t get at my Mom’s toy or my Dad’s weed, and had to make due with the liquor cabinet.
“Huh,” she said. “You wanna find out?”
We tried, honest we did. She was a good kisser, and better with her hands than any guy I had been with. I even kind of liked playing with her breasts, they were so much fuller than my own. But by the time she said, “Can I taste your cooch?” I was completely un-aroused. She licked me eagerly down there, but to no avail. I wasn’t going anywhere.
“You’re not into this, are you?” she asked.
“Sorry.”
“You want to taste mine?”
“No thanks.” I sighed heavily, very frustrated by the whole experience.
Jane shrugged, got herself off quickly and efficiently with her hand, then rolled over and went to sleep.
The next morning, I could barely look her in the eye, but she put me at ease with her characteristic directness. “Quit bein’ weird,” she said. “So we tried something different, big deal. At least you know now that you’re not a dyke. We just have to find out what you are into.”