When I was 34 years old I joined the State Department. I was assigned to work as an accountant in a small Embassy in a remote African country. There were about 20 Americans at the Embassy, including six marine guards who were responsible for security. I was one of three single women employees; the rest were men, mostly married, except for the marines who were all about 20 years old. I'm no beauty queen; I'm tall, big-boned, near-sighted, and my personality is typical of my profession, by which I mean I'm more comfortable with my head buried in a book than in a party dress. But I stay in shape and I'm open and friendly and I flatter myself that I'm urbane and sophisticated.
Before I joined the State Department my love life had been mediocre. One 10-year marriage and two long-term relationships ended with a whimper rather than a bang. Three one-night stands were interspersed among the LT relationships, and they had all been wonderful, perhaps showing me the direction my sex life should go -- although I still too dumb to realize that. .
At the Embassy my love life went from unexciting to non-existent. After six months there my scorecard showed no dates, no sex, and no prospects of either.
On my 35th birthday a girlfriend and I went out for Happy Hour at the Marine House, a large rambling villa where the Marines lived. They had a bar and a pool room in the basement and sold beer. We drank and played pool and flirted with the young marines -- and the next thing I knew I woke up in a bedroom with one of the Marines sleeping next to me. I didn't even know his last name.
The sun was streaming through the window into the small bedroom as I lay on the bed naked. I didn't know where my clothes were and I had to pee. The door was closed, but I could hear other marines outside the room walking up and down the halls and talking to each other, and even the rattle of pots and pans by the cook in the kitchen. I was trying to decide what to do when my bed partner woke up, rolled over, and, with hardly a word, climbed on top of me and slid his penis inside me. He entered me so easily that I realized I was still dripping wet from the night before. Vaguely, I recalled that he had spurted sperm inside me two or three times.
My tongue thick, my head aching, and my bladder full, I should have been humiliated. I was lying on my back on a bed in the brightness of day while a boy I barely knew -- 15 years younger than me -- lay between my legs and thrust his broom-stick penis up my vagina. Momentarily, I wanted to pull away from him and run. But where Out into the hallway Naked
With no other options, I submitted. He took a long time, pumping mechanically back and forth, straining to cum, still empty after the night before. He paused and said a few nice words to me and, suddenly -- a sucker for sweet nothings -- I felt a twang of pleasure, and then more pleasure, and I began to move with him and soon I had my first man-made orgasm in more than six months. It was a good one. When we had both finished and he rolled off, I relaxed happily and, suddenly, all the pee inside me spilled out and soaked him and the bed.
He jumped up cursing and wiped pee off himself with a sheet and shouted that I had to go. He opened the closet door and threw my clothes at me. I dressed while he stripped the bed and mopped up pee and when I went out the door he didn't even turn his head to say goodbye. It had not been a romantic experience -- but, on reflection, it hadn't been that bad either. The marine was an immature asshole, but I had gotten laid, and I told myself I had performed pretty well. If only I hadn't had to pee so badly. A lesson learned. And another was that I wasn't going to find love and romance while working in a small country in Africa, so I had better be satisfied with sex. In other words, after long years of being a good girl who restrained her horniness, I decided to become a slut.
I'm now 50, so it's been 15 years since my night with the Marine. I've had sex with 120 men. Most of them were one- or two- or three- night stands. My rule of thumb is: if I like a man and he's willing, I fuck him -- and not a few times that's happened minutes after meeting him.
Not that I don't have standards. I don't have sex with men I work with; nor married men whose wives are present in the same town; and I only fuck young Marines when I'm desperate -- and they feel the same way about me, especially as I grow older.
Most of the men I'm had sex with are the people who come to the Embassy for a week or two to work: security, repairs, research, auditing, medical, etc. They're usually married -- but their wives are thousands of miles away -- and they're fair game. One man I'm especially fond of has showed up 10 times over the last 15 years and we've enjoyed a couple of nights together on every one of his visits. But that's another story.
Not being beautiful or young, I've worked on my technique. My specialty is "Around the World." Start with a nervous or tense man -- nearly all married men are -- and work your way over his body, touching and tasting every part of him. Fifteen minutes of Around the World and a dead man would stand up like a flagpole. Not that I've ever had sex with a dead man -- although some were nearly dead. The oldest man I've fucked was 68 and the youngest was 19.
I've suffered through lean times -- months without a man -- but I had one wonderful vacation in Greece when I had sex with 6 beautiful men in 18 days. I can't say that my sex life is ideal. I still dream of having a man to come home to every day, but I doubt that's going to happen. In the meantime I'm not going to lose any opportunities by being hard-to-get. That's the life of a slut. I chose it and I'm not sorry that I did. At least, I've got some good stories to tell.
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