mistressq

Pavlov was really onto something with his salivating dog theory. (If you don't know what I am referring to, a quick Google search on the words "Pavlov's dogs" will undoubtedly clue you in.)

The other day, I was listening to an old Depeche Mode CD of mine on the bus ride into work and I became (seemingly inexplicably) horny. Fortunately for me, the combination of the thong, the seam of my jeans and my hood piercing rubbing together in time to the movement of the bus was satiating (if not completely satisfying) enough to help me make it to Midtown Manhattan without jumping an unsuspecting commuter and dry-humping him or her until I came.

Granted, I am indeed a "morning sex" person, but I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what got me so randy. I mean, I commute on the same damn 9x Express Bus from Staten Island to Midtown every morning and this was the first time in a loooong time that the commute had such an effect on me and forced me to spend a good part of the morning with a damp thong nestled between my labia.

When I arrived at work, I popped the Depeche Mode CD out of my walkman and into my computer's CD player. Within minutes, bitchy co-worker E. who sits adjacent to me and is forever complaining about my loudness (she should hear me during sex) squealed, "OHMYGOD! IS THAT DEPECHE MODE! OHTHATTAKESMEBACKTOHIGHSCHOOL!" She proceeded to tell me that she and her high school sweetheart used to make out to Depeche Mode all the time. Then it hit me ...

When I was 14, I met a boy at the local underage New Wave dance club who was a year older and went to the local Catholic high school (there were only 3 high schools in my town -- the public one where I went, the Technical High School and the Catholic High School). Anyhow, I met this boy after I had been in the back seat of some random guy's car with my then best friend Mande, drinking blackberry brandy until I was sufficiently drunk. I returned to the club barely able to walk (some things have not changed much since then, I'm afraid) and this boy -- Chris -- essentially took care of me until I sobered up. I remember him just holding me and stroking my hair (which looked exactly like THIS back then) until it was time for me to leave.

That sparked my first true boy-girl relationship of my junior high school career (I had played "doctor" and experimented with numerous childhood friends -- boys and girls -- but had never actually "dated" anyone). Chris came over my house to visit one day before Christmas that year, and we had a fine time styling the hair on my little sister's Barbie dolls, baking gingerbread cookies which we decorated to look like our punk rock friends, and spending hours on end locked in my bedroom, listening to Depeche Mode and fooling around.

I remember laying back on my white four-poster bed, my blue plaid skirt pushed up over my hips while Chris lapped at my barely post-pubescent cunt through the sheer black satin panties I had just purchased at Contempo Casuals. As songs like "A Question of Lust" and "Stripped" played on my cassette deck, Chris' tongue worked my teenaged pussy into a creamy frenzy until I came with a yelp (even at fourteen, orgasming was not a new phenomenon to me) and pulled his face up to mine so I could kiss him while the taste of me was still fresh on his tongue. This became a pattern.

Whenever we made out, at his house (where there was decidedly more privacy than at mine) especially, we'd crank up Depeche Mode's "Black Celebration" and go at it until all four of my lips were pink and puffy from being orally invaded for hours on end. We never actually fucked (although we discussed this prospect at length and even went so far as to purchase condoms at the local pharmacy -- "just in case"), but Chris was well-endowed for his age and he patiently instructed me on how to most effectively suck his cock until he came.

Depeche Mode's "World Full Of Nothing" became "our" song -- mainly because of the lyrics: "Close, Naked, Skin on skin, Tears are falling, Tears of joy, Her first boy, His first girl." As we listened to this song, I remember kneeling on the floor between his thighs as he sat on the edge of his bed, his trousers down around his ankles, as he guided my head with his hand and whispered instructions like "Take it in deeper. Faster. Suck on it a little harder. Just use your teeth ... gently." I learned how to swallow at the mercy of his careful tutelage and I credit those formative years of cock-sucking for my mastery of the skill today. I think men, regardless of their sexual prowess, are always rather shocked, yet pleased, when someone who describes herself as a lesbian can suck cock with the best of the straight women they've been with.

In fact, I once had a one-nighter with a shrink from Chicago. He was 39, well-off, and fairly attractive, so I had no reason to doubt that he hadn't had his cock sucked by a steady stream of women. I was 23, still in college, and cheating on my then-boyfriend of 3 years with this man. We went to a Quality Inn in Connecticut (he paid for the room) and after a night of delirious sucking and fucking (to my dismay, he wasn't into anal), he commented "Wow. I've never had anyone suck my cock like that before. I mean, you were really sucking it." I was like, "Duh. Isn't that the point?" He wanted to fuck me again the next morning before we left, but clearly, I was getting the shaft (no pun intended) end of the deal and was done with him, so I refused.

A couple of years later, Chris and I both came out of the closet, which explained both his deft instruction on fellatio and my zealous response to the feeling of a tongue on my cunt. "Black Celebration" was the soundtrack for probably the most important sexually-formative years of my life, and I owe it all to Chris.

So, if you happen to see me on the 7:45 am 9x Express Bus from Staten Island and are in the mood for a little rush hour foreplay, just have "Black Celebration" in hand and I'll know you mean business.

Now excuse me while I go pop in a Depeche Mode CD ...