charming blonde

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

I met Shirley through a newspaper ad that basically said, "Glamorous blonde
seeking female companions, boyfriend on the sidelines." Hey! My boyfriend wanted to be on the sidelines too.

I remember the first time I responded to a female companion ad, I was single, and I had no luck. I wrote a short
letter with my name, phone number, and a photo. It was a black-and-white snapshot, me in
black , smiling, which I colored to make look like an art piece. It was like throwing a stone into the ocean; maybe
she backed out, or maybe she thought I was boring.

I tried another ad, and ended up meeting a girl playing softball at a sports bar.
I knew it wouldn't work out; I hate sports, and besides, her skin was awful.

After dating Gray, I decided to try again. Gray was the first
man , and the videos we rented were all "lesbian" ones. He was an expert in all-female pornography, never
choosing videos with men, which I didn't mind. Women aroused me, and besides, who enjoys watching
a bunch of men with nothing but big penises?

One night, after watching a sweat-inducing video, he said, "I'd like to see you do that with
another woman."

Some women might interpret this fantasy as a product of male selfishness and arrogance, a result of men watching too much
lesbian porn. But I think it's typical, absolute eroticism. I know watching two
women having sex is definitely a man's number one fantasy, but I enjoy it too.

Before Gray came up with this brilliant idea, I had slept with a woman, and the reality was nothing like
the scenes in porn. Her skin was astonishingly soft, like silk.

As we made love, I thought to myself, "Women are so soft. Does she think I'm this
soft ?" I was lost in her soft waves of pleasure, I loved the taste of her nipples in my mouth,
the scent of her genitals, her body both strange and familiar. And I loved thinking about how to control her body,
how to arouse her, how to bring her to orgasm, even if it took hours to satisfy myself.
Gray's interest was a green light for me; he encouraged my ideas, so instead of
accusing decided to put them into practice.

Finding a woman willing to go home with you and your boyfriend isn't easy, especially when
that boyfriend sometimes looks like Jeff Big Brun, and sometimes like a deranged rabbit—it all depends on
your perspective. It's not like in the movies, where everyone just wants to have sex with you after a little hint. Gray and
I often talked about this in bars. "She's cute," "What's she like?" But that was all; nothing
more .

I was getting impatient, hoping she'd rub against my thigh, letting her kiss my lipstick off. When Gray
silently paid the fare and led us to his apartment, we were both nervous, neither of us
having the courage to act.

So I wrote a letter, picking an ad from a clearly sexually explicit ad board.
This time I included detailed information, but no photos; I hate sending out my best pictures and
not getting them back.

A few days later, Shirley called. Her voice was like that of a tough, smoking woman, but very sexy,
and she got straight to the point. She was young, in her early twenties, like me. She detailed her
figure, height, weight, bra size, emphasizing how alluring she was, and making it clear that sleeping with "her
old man " was impossible, and she wouldn't sleep with my man.

We agreed to meet at my favorite art bar, *Café de la French*. "You'll recognize me,
" she said, "because I'll be wearing a black jumpsuit."

A jumpsuit? My heart sank slightly. You
could only find black jumpsuits at Army surplus stores or in Hollywood's *Fredrick*. I imagined it would look like a gigolo in *The Sneak Peek*
magazine : slicked-back hair, deep cleavage tucked into a low-

cut, elastic bodysuit. I was also dressed in all black—a black leather jacket, a dark sweater, and jeans. My hair seemed to
have turned completely black, trendily unkempt, with streaks of hairspray. Gray was still wearing his usual flannel
plaid shirt over a stylish t-shirt that seemed to say, "Is your 'Bin only good for dogs'?"
His long, dark hair was also styled with hairspray, and he had an expression that said, "I can't believe you did this."
I ordered a "Rh?ne Merlot," while he drank whiskey.

It was winter, late afternoon, still light out; I usually try to get up before sunset.

As soon as Shirley walked into the café, I recognized her immediately—deep cleavage, just as I'd imagined.
And she had a working-class allure. Her sexy attire was as expected, but very deliberate. She
wore dark eyeshadow and bright pink lipstick. I noticed the other customers turning to stare, not because she was that beautiful,
but because no one would dress like that in a "new French café."

After she sat down, I wanted to reach out and touch her soft, powdered skin. However, her man was an
unpleasant fellow—awful haircut, a potbelly, and a short mustache. Let's call him John; I was very glad
I'd opposed the idea of swapping partners.

Just like on the phone, Shirley got straight to business. Basically, she said she and John had done a lot of
ads , but were always looking for new excitement. She wanted the four of us to go out for dinner one evening, "
to get to know each other," and then go back to their place to run errands. Gray suggested bringing a tape of his "women's" videos.

"But he can't seduce me, and you can't seduce him," she reiterated. Thank goodness!

She detailed very specific dress requirements: "I want you to wear a tight, low-cut top,
a miniskirt , a high slit, and high-heeled boots. Of course, stockings and garter belts too." Hmm, okay. I didn't have any of those
accessories, only a miniskirt, but I didn't want to tell her. While Shirley wanted me to dress like a slut, two men
were chatting and joking around, seemingly talking about beer.

We arranged to meet next Sunday.

The next evening, I received a call from Shirley asking if I'd like to come over to their place to get to know each other
, she said. I said okay, but Gray went to work, so if she wants me to do anything, I am...
No, I wouldn't. They picked me up and took me to their place in the suburbs of Minneapolis.

In the car, I noticed Shirley was wearing pantyhose: not the cotton tights, nor the colorful
stockings , but the old-fashioned, dark brown kind. I felt
guilty for secretly criticizing her pantyhose, but they were so outdated that I began to doubt whether I could really "know" someone wearing dark
brown pantyhose.

Their house was small, the living room parquet with a lemon-green rug. I sat
at the kitchen table in a chair with a cast-iron back and a printed, upholstered plastic seat. John handed me a Schlitz and asked
what I did for a living. "I'm in film school," I said. He seemed to work in a factory.

Later, Shirley wanted to show me the other advertising replies she'd received. She led me into the bedroom, threw a
large cardboard box on the bed, and showed me the photos and letters from the women who had written to her. I never imagined sending
a nude photo of myself, let alone one with my legs spread and a toy stuffed inside. I was utterly astonished,
genuinely astonished. I couldn't believe someone would actually mail something so damning to a
stranger with only a mailbox number. No wonder I had such bad luck the first time. The letter was equally detailed, emphasizing how much they loved eating toys,
how much they disliked anal play, and, of course, that they were all disease-free and incredibly attractive. Well,
who would admit to their unattractive side, right?

As we went through the applications, Shirley started rubbing against my calves. Her skirt rode up to her thighs
, and I realized she wasn't wearing pantyhose, but flesh-colored nylon stockings with a reinforced garter belt.
I couldn't say whether it was better or worse than pants.

She noticed me looking at her legs and leaned in to kiss me. Her lips were soft, and I loved
the way . Then, out of nowhere, the obese John appeared in the doorway, his hand on his groin. I said,
"I have to go."

She reminded me of my agreed-upon attire for our next meeting. I admitted I didn't have thigh-high boots, so she forced me to try on
several pairs of hers. I hoped for black, but the only pair that fit was an ugly greyish-brown with a cracked heel. Wearing boots of that color was hardly sexy, but I reminded myself to be open-minded
about new experiences . A few days later, I received another call from Shirley; she wanted to take me shopping for lingerie. My mind immediately flashed to those kinds of letters published in *Penthouse* magazine, about two innocent girls being seduced by a lustful saleswoman in a bra fitting room . But I did need stockings and garter belts, so I agreed to go shopping with her. We ended up at a suburban shopping center, but neither Shirley nor the sales clerk seemed to have any intention of assaulting me. In fact, Shirley seemed quite indifferent to the whole thing. She didn't even widen her eyes when my bare breasts slipped out of my bra . She sat on a small stool outside the fitting room, casually pointing out her favorite styles, and I picked out a set of white lace lingerie. "Remember," she said, "always put on your stockings and garters first, then your panties. That way you can just take off your panties, without having to take off all your clothes." On the way home, she told me she occasionally worked as a stripper, performing at strip clubs or bachelor parties, and she also talked about her experience in private advertising. "But, you know," she said, "I just really want a friend, someone to hang , go bowling or something." The Sunday of our bizarre rendezvous finally arrived. I spent the afternoon getting ready for my new outfit. I put on eyeliner, sprayed a lot of hairspray, and styled my hair like a lion's mane. I remember wearing my panties over my garter belt , making sure to show as much cleavage as possible. Oh, and boots. All dressed up, I felt like an actor in an absurd and erotic stage play. My previous meetings with Shirley were just rehearsals for the opening night, and this meticulously planned sex scene both gave me anticipation of what was to come and reduced the element of improvisation. I wondered if I would feel this same prepared excitement if I picked up a woman in a bar ? In the evening, Shirley and John picked us up from my place. We had arranged beforehand for Shirley to choose a place for dinner . I thought it would be a nice spot, most importantly, dimly lit and with a good atmosphere. But it turned out to be a family-run restaurant. "Danny's Cuisine," right at the highway exit, was brightly lit, with bright orange seating, several noisy children, and the restaurant didn't even have a liquor license. I swaggered into the store in my high-heeled boots, looking like a Hollywood prostitute, feeling the burning gaze of a thousand eyes. I wanted to explain to every customer: Hey, I don't usually look like this; but that wouldn't be practical. The waitress looked at us with disdain, and I knew she was thinking: prostitutes. That dinner was incredibly difficult . Back at their house, after a few Schlitz drinks, I finally started to relax a bit. John rolled a few marijuana cigarettes, and Gray turned on the VCR, finding his favorite erotic content. Then the doorbell rang, and Shirley peeked through the peephole and immediately screamed, "Oh no, it's my dad!" She waved frantically at John and mouthed to Gray , "Turn that thing off." She opened the door, and I heard her say, "Hi, Dad!" Her voice was as sweet as a delicious pie. Her dad, carrying tools, had come to fix something in the house. Shirley gave him a quick , then hastily introduced herself. "Oh, how do you know Shirley?" he asked. I stared at him for what felt like ten years before Shirley finally made up a lie—we met at bowling, or maybe at a party. "Oh, since you have a friend home, I think I'll come back tomorrow to fix it," he said. "Oh no, stay," I thought. Stay to watch a porn movie, watch your little daughter play porn games! I held my breath until he left. I don't remember how long it took for the tension to ease, but eventually Shirley and I lay on a blanket in the middle of the living room floor, wearing only our underwear, while Gray and John sat quietly at opposite ends of the sofa watching. We groped around for a while, then slowly removed each other's bras. Having learned the new trick of wearing underwear as outerwear, I still wore the stockings and garter belts, although there was a moment when I did want to take off the stockings because they were all crumpled at the knees.

I thought it looked really bad. "Don't take it off," Shirley whispered in my ear.

I can't remember exactly how I licked her, or what she did to me; it was like
a hazy dream, except for this part: she took out a sling-type toy and wanted me to use it on her.
The toy was a pink rubber dildo, long and thin, with two white elastic bands around it. The toy itself was hollow
and looked strange, like a medical device.

Later I learned that it was actually a penis enlarger, designed for men to insert their penises
to "enlarge" themselves, which made me wonder if John had ever used it. Not wanting to reveal my ignorance, I
slipped my legs into the elastic bands, and Shirley lay prone on the ground. Only then did I begin to understand the trick. I mean,
manipulating a plastic toy tied to the groin with two rubber bands wasn't easy.

One of the elastic bands broke. "Oh, this happens all the time," John said, and offered
to fix it.

My orgasm wasn't particularly intense, and I think Shirley's was too. I remember we stopped when Shirley
heard John let out a soft groan. Strangely, neither of the men took out their
penises to masturbate while watching the performance, perhaps out of politeness. John didn't masturbate, so Gray
decided not to either. But in the end, John's jeans were definitely soaked in the front, obviously from
secretly rubbing them.

Our farewell was very polite. I thought I would have a hard time parting from this landmark moment, but
I really just wanted to be alone with Gray. We hailed a taxi and headed home.

After that, I didn't hear from Shirley for months. The erotic scene of that night was thus sealed
away, becoming a strange and not very sexy memory. Occasionally, fragments of those
scenes would flash through my mind, and I'd say to Gray, "Remember when her dad came?" or "I can't believe that toy
broke!" Nine months later, I interviewed my first porn star

for my photocopy-and-paste sex magazine, *Magnetic Academy*.

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