By Robin S. | Contributing Writer

Last month I had the unique experience of attending a Facebook reunion. Kids from my old neighborhood, kids from my grammar and high school all converged at a T.G.I.Friday’s on a Saturday night. It’s always fascinating to open the time capsule and see how people turned out. Who’s been married how many times? Who’s successful and who’s trying to appear that way? Who’s under indictment; who’s gay; who looks much younger than they should, and is it Botox?

As I looked around the room, crammed full of old friends, rivals and uncredited extras in the movie of my youth, I couldn’t help thinking what a curious generation we are. Watergate children raised by World War II babies, our impressions of adult sexuality were scored by the tawdry disco beat of the libertine 70s. Back then, I expected my sex life to follow the narrative of a Rod Stewart song; I couldn’t wait to be old enough, say, 15 or 16, to join the pool party. If I had to hitchhike to California to do it, so much the better. In the 1970s, there was no greater goddess of erotic adventure than the short-shorted, roller-skating teenage runaway. I wanted to be that girl, with a denim-jacketed young hustler as my running buddy, played by Matt Dillon.

But when the time came for us 70’s kids to actually have sex, the Reagan 80’s came down like an iron curtain: AIDS, televangelists, the threat of nuclear annihilation. Even Top 40 radio spread the fear. Men At Work’s “Who Can It Be Now” was an ode to paranoia, describing the horrors of that dreaded knock at the door while you’re doing coke off your glass-topped coffee table and trying not to let your nose bleed onto your alligator shirt. Who can it be now? The Russians? Nancy Reagan? A homosexual hemophiliac from Haiti?

It’s no wonder that at times, my generation seems so conflicted and caught between. Of course, one of the secrets to a satisfying sex life — something neither Rod nor Reagan told us — is to embrace your fucked-up contradictions and make them work for you. For many years, I was a proudly lapsed Catholic until I realized I was missing a steamy opportunity. Catholicism, for all its paradoxes and thou-shalt-nots, is one hell of a sexy religion. So, I’ve come back to the Church. I’m back for the sex.

I had another revelation at my reunion: that some of the hottest sex of my life happened before I knew what I was doing. I’ll take that one step further: one of the most memorable sexual experiences of my young life didn’t even happen to me. But I was there. Here’s what happened.

Imagine if you will, an abandoned factory parking lot on the shores of a polluted river. The scent of creosote and burning tires fills the air; the lights of the oil refinery twinkle like toxic stars. For certain young people in the mid-1980s, this setting means only one thing: romance. By 10 pm the parking lot is packed with family cars, and timing your arrival is critical. Besides the social implications, there are practical concerns. Get there early and score a prime viewing spot by the water’s edge, but the other cars will block you in. Get there late, park by the lot’s only entrance, and you can leave whenever you want to, but you’ll also be easy pickings for the cops when they inevitably arrive.

Dave B. and Liz R. were high school’s über-couple; just a little more in love than the rest of us. Dave routinely demonstrated his devotion by eating chewed food straight out of Liz’s hand. Though they, nor I, nor anyone knew it at the time, Dave and Liz were living a D/S lifestyle: he followed her around slavishly, and she cock-teased him mercilessly. During the day she was the perfect Catholic schoolgirl; plaid skirt, cotton knee socks, penny loafers. Come sundown, her wardrobe would have made a French hooker blush. Her parents knew nothing about the nighttime Liz; like Clark Kent and his phone booth, she changed into Superslut in the bathroom of a strip-mall donut shop. It was widely rumored, and therefore true, that she’d once been picked up by the cops while she was shimmying across the parking lot. I use the term “picked up” to underscore the ambiguity. Arrested or propositioned for sex, it depended on who was telling the story.

But for all she had to offer, there was one thing Liz wouldn’t do… put out. Even the pre-engagement ring didn’t earn Dave more than a titty suck. Liz and her magnetized knees would not budge. Over time we saw poor Dave deteriorate into a meek, desperate, blue-balled version of a once-robust American male. Publicly lapping lunch out of her hand started to look like more than a gross-out show; it was a man demonstrating how good he would eat her pussy, if only she would give him the chance. Just once. You don’t have to do anything back. Pretty please?

Anyway, one summer night, beneath a fog of pollution and pheromones, one hundred sedans bounced up and down to the rhythm of two hundred dry-humping teenagers. Radio stations were synchronized. The volume was low, but loud enough to muffle the occasional moan or murmur. Then suddenly, a scream pierced the air like a hymen tearing apart. It sounded like pain. A wounded animal? Police sirens? Was this a raid?

It was alarming enough to make us stop and see what was the matter, and what we saw was poor Dave B. launching himself through the passenger-side window with tremendous force. His pants were down; his naked cock jutted out like an angry exclamation point. Luckily, the window was open, because if you saw the way he shot out of that car, you know the glass wouldn’t have held him back. He landed flat on his stomach and proceeded to hump the filthy ground. We watched his pale but muscular ass cheeks flex with the intensity of a thousand orgasms deferred. Grunting and yowling, he relieved himself of his pent-up load into a thatch of weeds and broken bottles. As soon as he came, and he came for a long time, the crowd went wild. Horns honked. High beams flashed. People clapped and cheered.

I might be making up the applause part, I’ve watched one too many teenage sex comedies, and my memory is prone to enhancement. But the next thing that happened is absolutely true: Liz popped her head out the window, took one look at her quivering, spent, bare-assed paramour… and started to laugh. Not a coy, girlish giggle, but the castrating cackle of a pitiless bitch. It was so malicious we rolled our windows tight and returned to making out, but with diminished fervor. Can you imagine? Teenagers, the cruelest of God’s creatures, passing up an opportunity to mock one of their own. Instead, we let the guy keep his last shred of dignity.

A lot of people will say they were there that night, but I actually was. I realized that being a cocktease was a far greater sin than being a slut. Sluts were fornicators, a victimless crime. You could even argue that by putting out, they were giving unto others. Cock-teasing, however, was a form of promise-breaking, which made it like telling a lie — another mortal sin — and one that hurt not only the liar, but the deceived. Dave B.’s tortured, road-rashed penis was a testament to that.

I saw Dave B. at the reunion. He knew more about what I was up to than an ordinary civilian should, and he did admire my 7 denier Secrets In Lace stockings, so I suspect he’s a TEMPTRESS reader. Dave B., if you are reading this, I want you to know that I always thought it was a shitty thing that Liz did to you, and I hope that your appetite for denial has found a healthier outlet. You were so cute back in high school. I totally would have fucked you… with just enough begging to make it fun. Because that’s the Christian thing to do!

2013 © Temptress Magazine Issue 4

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photo: Jellyfish Jones –

model: Melissa Dee