Four Erotic Tales Read Online Free Page A

of moisture at the crotch. Nipples like old fifty-cent pieces stamped on her swelling chest.
    I tried to say something, to thank her, but she stammered that it was late, and that she had a midterm the next morning, and she’d see me at rehearsal the next night. Bewildered at the sudden change of mood, I tucked myself away, gave her a peck on the cheek, and wished her a good night.
    As I passed the RA’s room, the door was once more open; she was leaning against the door frame, a short, dark-skinned woman with her arms crossed over what looked to me — hyper-horny as I was — to be an impressive chest. “Good night,” she said, her black eyes following me once more, her eyebrow raised.
    Walking back to my dorm, and all through the next day, I kept thinking about Bridget, trying to work out what the hell was going on — what she wanted, what I wanted. Did I want to fuck her? Well, sure — she was pretty, and I liked her, and the idea of planting myself in that soft, pale flesh, of kissing those large, pale breasts, of watching her brown eyes turn dark and hungry as they had for a moment that night…
    But I knew that doing that — pressing my body inside of hers — would mean something very different to her than it did to me. The problem was, I wasn’t sure what the hell that difference was. And I couldn’t tell whether she wanted me in there or not.
    I probably don’t need to tell you that Bridget’s upbringing was Irish Catholic. I probably also don’t need to tell you that mine absolutely was not. Between my liberal, secular parents and the loose mores of the time — this was the early 1980s, before AIDS had cast its pall — I’d grown up believing that sex was good, that love was better, and that the two, while related, weren’t the same. And so what Bridget was struggling with was as complete a mystery to me as sexual feelings seemed to be to her.
    I think too that it was more than a bit disconcerting to me to find myself suddenly the sexually experienced one.

    The next night, throughout rehearsal, I was a bit surprised to find that Bridget was acting exactly the same as always. I could almost have convinced myself that the previous night’s experience was all in my head — that I had never had those freckled fingers wrapped around my cock, that I’d never felt her cunt pulsing through her jeans while she screamed obscenities. She smiled, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and made embarrassing comments about my looks to Tony, which amused him enormously and me not at all.
    It was a Friday, and company tradition demanded that the cast go out for beer afterward. We went to one of the old local college bars, shared pitchers of cold beer and nachos. I found myself seated between Bridget and Tony. Bridget’s best friend, the costumer Marya, was sitting on her other side. The two women were giggling about something; in the loud barroom, I couldn’t hear, so I turned to Tony.
    “So, Ken. What is going on between you and my AD?” Tony was a short, bearded cherub, very Jewish and very gay.
    “You jealous, Tony? I didn’t think she was your type.”
    “Neither are you, Ken. You’re not straight enough.”
    “Uh. Thanks?”
    “You’re welcome. I like them so straight they don’t even know they’re straight, because they don’t know there’s anything else to be. Also, you look old enough to go to college. So no, not my type.” He looked at me over his glasses. “And you didn’t answer my question. What’s going on with you and Bridget?”
    “Nothing,” I muttered.
    “Nothing?” Tony smirked at me. “When Sweet Polly Purebred there starts making racy comments about what you have between your legs, something is going on.”
    “She…?” I glanced over my shoulder; on Bridget’s far side, Marya was looking at me appraisingly. Not sure I wanted to know why she was staring at me, I turned back to Tony, ready to repeat that nothing was happening between Bridget and me, but instead I found myself