Memory Lane

Memory Lane
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“So, do you remember Terry?” Jill asked me. She was taking me on a trip down memory lane over the phone. Although I’ve always felt I had a decent memory, there were people from our college dorm I couldn’t recall. Not their names. Not their faces. They might never have existed—or Jill might have been making them up to tease me and make me feel old.

“You have to remember Terry,” she continued.

I had only just heard from Jill for the first time after hooking up online nearly two decades after we’d last seen each other. That’s something social media is good for: Making connections with people you were never really that close with in the first place.

“Terry,” I said, trying to place the name with a face, even if it was a face from twenty years before.

“You know. Terry. Terry who would sneak into the girls’ showers and act as if he’d accidentally walked into the wrong bathroom.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Terry.” The shower story had jogged my memory, but I recalled the situation differently. I didn’t remember him sneaking. I remembered inviting him to come into the shower with me on a day that we decided to skip classes. We’d spent a lazy morning soaping each other all over in one blue-tiled stall, and I’d gotten one of my first real tastes of enjoying the male form. Prior to that, most of my erotic encounters had been fumbles in the dark. Terry and I, beneath the fluorescent lights and hot shower spray, had explored each other’s bodies endlessly.

The freedom of being away at school had not only gone to my head—it had gone to my libido. Terry had been one of the first college boys I dated. And by dated, I meant fucked.

I was on the University’s reunion page with Jill now, and over the phone we tried to refresh each other’s memories with snippets of our misspent youth. One of the problems was that we remembered these people from two decades prior, when they’d walked around in ripped jeans and t-shirts with obscene slogans, not business suits and designer brands. Back then they’d had all their hair and none of the middle-aged spread. Sure, some looked the same—and some clearly had been toying with Botox and other avant-garde fillers. But who among us looks like they did back in college?

“What about Danny?” Jill asked. “Did you ever do Danny?”

Somehow, our trip down Memory Lane had taken an X-rated side street into the red light district of our youth, and we were now not only talking about our former friends and acquaintances, but also our former lovers—and the different kinks they’d enjoyed.

“Danny…” I repeated. “Was he the one who only liked to fuck girls during…”

“Their periods!” she squealed.

“I don’t know how he was able to always nail my time of the month. He had an uncanny sixth sense. He always knocked on my door as soon as I went on the rag.”

“Crazy,” Jill said. “I went on a date with him and I tried to tell him we couldn’t, because, I was, you know…”

“And he liked it!”

“’Like’ isn’t even the right word. The aftermath was historic. My sheets looked like something Jackson Pollack would have created.”

Didn’t seem so off the wall now, but for an eighteen-year-old, fresh from the farmland, I had been baffled by the concept. I didn’t think you could do it when you were having your monthly visitor. Danny had changed all that.

“I got into it, too,” Jill confessed. “I felt totally like a woman, or something. I wanted to stand up on the mattress and call out ‘This is who I am, take me or leave me.’”

“And he took you.”

“Every month.”

“Like clockwork.”

“There were a lot of pretty kinky co-eds on our floor, weren’t there?” Jill continued. I realized we’d left the detour that was Danny and returned to the main drag. And speaking of drag, Jill was already talking about the shy boy who liked to cross-dress when he thought nobody was looking.

“You do remember him, don’t you?” Jill asked.

“I think so,” I said, stalling for time. “Why. Did you find his picture? Is he dressed like a girl?”

“No, he’s sort of… androgynous in the photo online.”

I caught up with her. Marcus. Sweet Marcus. When he’d come into my room during a progressive party, he’d drunkenly slipped on my cobalt satin bathrobe and asked if I’d do his makeup. We’d all thought that was a gas until I’d noticed he was hard. After the rest of the students had left, Marcus and I had made love. I’d gotten off looking at his dark eyes ringed with shimmery liner, his lips all red and glossy like cherries. I found his photo now, and I saw what Jill meant. He was good looking as ever, but there was a definite feminine sex appeal to the way he smiled for the camera. I got a little shiver remembering how it had felt to apply the lipstick to his full lips while sitting on his lap.

“Who else?” I asked, and my voice was shaking a little bit. I hoped Jill wouldn’t notice.

“Matt,” she said.

“Which one?” There had been two Matthews on our dorm floor.

“Take your pick,” Jill said. “They each were freaks in bed.”

“I only did the one who thought he was going to be the next David Bowie,” I told her. “He sang for me after we fucked.”

“Oh, Cool Matt. You didn’t do Matt the Stud?”

“No, what was he like?”

“He had to do it in front of a mirror.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“He actually positioned a mirror on the ceiling over his dorm bed. He had the top bunk.”

“I don’t remember any of this at all.”

“And he liked the girls to be on top, so he could see them and sort of see himself if the angle was right. He didn’t like dirty talk, but he requested that girls talk to him about how hot he was.”

“Damn. That’s all sorts of insecurities wrapped up in one hot package.”

“At least he was good,” Jill said with a sigh.

We both silently clicked for a minute, paging through the photos. One stood out for me, and I could tell when Jill had reached the page at the same time I did.

“Oh, there’s Rhonda.”

“Rhonda,” I breathed.

She’d been my first girl on girl experience. From the way Jill said her name, it sounded as if she’d been Jill’s, too.

“How did she get you?” Jill asked.

“You make it sound as if she was a predator.”

“Wasn’t she?”

I was quiet for a moment, remembering. How had I hooked up with Rhonda? There had been a party on the floor—there were parties every night in somebody’s room, students celebrating As or drowning their Fs, pretending to study or having a fuck studying event. Now that I thought back, I’d skipped that particular get-together, reading in my room in spite of the noise from down the hall. Rhonda had come looking for me, a bottle of wine in her hand, which had struck me as classy. Usually, we drank beer or hard liquor. She and I had spent the evening in my bed, taking sips out of the bottle, then taking sips from each other.

She’d undressed me with a finesse that belied her years. She had made me feel special, pretty, the way she’d been so delicate as she opened up my pussy lips with her thumbs, going right for my clit in a way the boys never did—the way the boys didn’t seem to know how yet. They were so focused on finding the right hole.

Rhonda. I remembered how she’d gotten between my thighs and licked my pussy in rapidly reducing circles, tighter and tighter around my clit until I came, until I thought I might actually pass out from the pleasure. She’d made a ring with her lips and sucked hard, then tapped the tip of her tongue right against my clit until she’d spiraled me into an unexpected second climax, something that had never happened to me at that point.

I realized I’d lapsed into silence. Jill had, too. What sort of experience had she shared with Rhonda? When I asked, she said, “You know, I was so fucking naïve. I thought that the encounter meant I was a lesbian, meant that she and I were destined to be together.”

I laughed.

“I’m serious. I wondered how I was going to break the news to my parents. Would I have to dress differently? Become a vegan? And then I saw her the next night with her arm around a different girl, and understood that although I’d had a fabulous night, I hadn’t had a transformation and neither had she. Rhonda simply had a fetish for deflowering.”

We moved onto another page of alumni I could not for the life of me remember.

“So who was your favorite that year?” Jill asked. “Did one lover stand out for you?”

I hesitated, and she said, “I know who was my favorite.”

“Tell,” I demanded, knowing it would give me time.

“Do you remember Jason?”

“The R.A.? You fucked the R.A.?”

“Of course. Didn’t you?”

“Well, no. I didn’t realize he would have. I mean, he acted like a boy scout.”

“Yeah, that’s what he was so good with the knots.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was a bondage geek. He loved tying girls up. God, I miss college. Everyone seemed to wear their fetish on their sleeve. Do you know what I mean? You could tell when people were discovering something that worked for them.”

“I don’t know…” I drawled. “There was also a lot of shaving cream fights, and bringing beer into the dorm in big suitcases, and that incident with the Jell-o in the washing machine.”

“Sometimes people need a little beer to discover what works for them,” Jill said matter-of-factly. “Like after one of those shaving cream fights, Jason tied me down and shaved my pussy.”

“Are you serious?”

“He didn’t even tell me what he was going to do. He simply asked if I was okay being bound, and I told him I’d never been before. He took four ties—university ties, I swear—and he bound me down on his bed. Because he was an R.A., he didn’t have a roommate. We could hear the rest of the heathens running around like maniacs in the hall. But Jason very studiously used shaving cream, a bowl of water, and his own razor and shaved off all my pubic hair and then dried me tenderly with a towel.”

“And then?”

“Oh, God,” Jill sighed. “And then he went down on me for what felt like hours. I’d never shaved off everything before. I’d toyed around with a little patch, but I hadn’t ever gone totally bare. The first feeling of his tongue on my naked skin was electrifying.”

I sighed.

“Of course, the stubble grew in right during finals, and I had to try not to squirm in all of my classes.”

We laughed together at that, and then Jill said, “College is a time for firsts, isn’t it?”

“And lasts,” I said.


“Do you remember Bill Waters?” I asked her, finally ready to come clean.

“Bill?” I heard her clicking on the computer. She was obviously trying to find him on the alumni pages, hoping to jog her memory. “What did he look like?”

I smiled to myself. “Well, he’s six foot four, dark hair, blue eyes. Very well muscled. Handsome as a movie star.”

She was still clicking. “What was his deal?” I liked the way Jill thought. We all have our buttons, don’t we?

“He was the one who liked to know what everyone else was doing.”

“Oh, studious, right? Always watching.”

“And listening.”

I thought of Bill, one shower over, listening while Terry and I fucked. The image sent a shiver through me as it had two decades earlier. Bill had said to me, “Ask him, love, and I’ll sneak in before. And while he’s fucking you, I’ll be jerking off in the next stall. Think of that, Betty. Think of my hand working my cock while he fucks your sweet, slippery pussy. Think of me splattering the tile wall with my come while I picture the two of you fucking.”

“Listening?” Jill asked.

“Yeah.” I thought of the times Bill had been in the closet, door cracked open, while I’d had a lover in my bed. Sometimes, that had taken a little bit of effort. The night with Rhonda, I’d had to make an excuse to get her out of the room and him into the room before she and I had gone all topsy-turvy on the bed. But it had been worth it. He told me later that watching Rhonda eat me out had taught him more about going down on a woman than any dirty video he’d ever seen. He had forced himself not to come, so that when Rhonda ultimately left for her own room, he’d climbed into the bed with me and done me right, fucking my pussy that was still all slippery from her tongue.

“Oh, I found him,” she said. “William Waters.”


With Marcus, Bill had tried something new. He’d asked me to set up a tiny video camera surreptitiously on my desk. Bill was always good with gadgets. He hadn’t known Marcus would be my next lover, but the boy had worked perfectly. The fact that Marcus had his own kink—the full face of makeup—had made our amateur X-rated video that much sexier. Although the camera was fixed, we were still able to get a fairly decent movie of Marcus and I together, even if we were out of the frame from time to time.

“Wait,” she was confused, I could tell. “You’re Betty Waters now?”

“Uh huh.”

“You married him?”

I giggled. “Yeah.”

I looked at Bill, who was on the bed next to me, his big thick cock in his fist, stroking fast and furious. Our talk of prior lovers had definitely amped him up. He’s always been like that. Ever since college. What turns him on more than anything is seeing me with other lovers. Hearing me talk about fucking other people is a close second. The whole conversation with Jill had been foreplay to Bill.

Now he pushed my skirt to my waist and pulled my panties off. For a moment, I thought he’d start fucking me while I was still on the phone, but instead, he began to lick my pussy.

“So I’ll see the two of you at the reunion?” Jill asked.

“I don’t think so,” I told her, happy to keep the past in the past. I worked to keep my voice steady as Bill lapped at my clit. “But thank you for the trip down memory lane.”

Then I hung up the phone and fell back onto the mattress as Bill took me on a reunion of our own.