“Aaawggh…shiiitt…yeeeeaah!” she yelled, her firm hips thrashing away at mine in a blur. “It’s…it’s…it’s…now!” she screamed, then collapsed on my chest as I hammered her through a stunning orgasm. Before she was finished, I let loose as well, filling her clasping vagina with all the semen that I had. Afterward, a few French people walked past us as we lay on the bench, kissing and hugging. I assumed that in the dark they couldn’t see the naked parts of our bodies that were covered by Lindy’s skirt.
Many minutes later, as if our tryst had been a regular thing, she giggled, wiped herself clean with my handkerchief and started chattering again. I couldn’t remember having been treated nearly as matter-of-factly by any of my erstwhile high-school conquests.
I remember staying quiet as we rode home to her mom’s apartment on the Metro. Lindy’s head was on my shoulder and her hand was on my crotch. She’d somehow staked a claim on me that week, and told me a story about a bet she’d made with Carolyn, a friend of hers and that of my sister. When in high school they’d wagered on which of them could get into my pants first. Lindy had clearly won. I’ve forgotten how I responded as she prattled on, but I did look forward to seeing her again. After all, her luscious little body was now mine for the asking, and I’d suddenly ceased viewing her as a mere giggly teenage friend of my younger sister. I also met her mother, Maureen, that night, who invited me in for a chat.
“Of course I remember you, Nick! You were in Lindy’s sister Allison’s class and spoke at the graduation. My goodness, how you’ve grown!” Maureen said, appraising my six foot plus frame with what I considered sincere parental appreciation. “You were such an earnest boy…so full of youthful energy and political idealism.”
Maureen may have been forty, but she looked a lot younger. That night she was drinking…and smoking…but it didn’t bother me. She was an older, seasoned, version of Lindy, with a deep, early-Summer suntan she’d gotten on the beaches of the Cote d’Azure. Each languorous move of her smooth, trim, arms and gorgeous legs on high heels rendered me numb, and seemingly calculated to stimulate my libido. Lindy was very quiet as I exchanged social pleasantries with her mother, then she walked me down to the building entrance after our brief conversation, reminding me of her sexual intentions when I returned from my journey north. Before I left, she slipped a hand down my jeans, stroked my slick, stinking genitals, and gave me an aggressive kiss so that I wouldn’t forget her promise. And, as I rode home on the Metro, I remembered reading about the new birth control pill that was available. I thanked the gods for living in a time when sex was so easy for enlightened, privileged people with prescriptions.
The next several weeks were busy as Bill and I took trains northward to Copenhagen, Stockholm, Oslo and other cities. I added Lindy to my postcard list and kept in touch when I could, since she was waiting for me to return. In Oslo I met a woman, Anna, on the way to Narvik, Norway, and enjoyed her sexual favors on the train which – in Narvik – she continued offering me. The result was that my travel schedule fell two weeks behind. Even Bill returned south as I continued to feed my horny appetite on Anna’s sturdy, indefatigable body. As my stay grew longer, she finally offered me, her “American lover,” to her fellow student girlfriends in a typical, sophisticated Scandinavian way. I was in heaven! Paris and Lindy could wait, I thought, until one morning I woke up and realized that I’d been placed in sexual exile above the Arctic Circle, which required only youthful energy and very little political idealism. I’d become Anna’s novel California plaything and I wanted out.