Free Mirrors of Narcissus by Guy Willard

crucified me for my true inclinations—that I was every bit as good as the straights, that I could compete with them at their game, even better them at it. If I couldn’t have what I really wanted, I might as well put up with what I could, and make the most of it. At any rate, I accepted the fact that I would have to at least be able to pretend heterosexuality. My first few times were clumsy, but I gradually learned the geography of a girl’s body.
    My lack of true passion gave me a certain clinical detachment in my explorations, and this in turn allowed me the objectivity that most boys were denied. Most of them, no doubt, became so overwhelmed by the feel of her naked skin against theirs, the taste of her lips, that they couldn’t keep back the rising tide of orgasm, which erupted much too soon, just when she was becoming aroused. Unlike those boys, however, I was able to last much longer, my secret sobriety allowing me to concentrate on her pleasure. It usually takes women so much longer to achieve gratification—even after a long session of kissing and fondling—that I really can’t blame those men who are unable to hold out that long.
    So I got a reputation among certain girls as the experienced one, the mature one. Little did they realize that I was only using the whole thing as a cover-up: going out with girl after girl and almost mechanically going through the motions, playing the numbers game, ranking the girls according to my own system of values, judging them by physical beauty, degree of sexual passion, the extent of their emotional involvement with me. Above all, I loved the irony of the fact that I, who had no true passion for girls, became famous in my school for my sexual expertise.
    Boys would sometimes confide to me that they didn’t know if their girlfriends had orgasms or not. They were either afraid to ask or worried that they would be lied to if they did. For some reason I had much more open communication with my girls, and I’d learned that most of them really weren’t as concerned about orgasm as the boys thought. What they cared more about was being held by a boy they loved, and giving him pleasure.
    Christine, always the eager explorer, had discovered orgasm when she was 16, through clitoral masturbation. She’d excitedly told her friends about this but most of them, to her surprise, were loath to try the experiment, either through prudery or fear. She herself found nothing wrong with masturbation; sometimes during our lovemaking, she would openly caress herself. Or I would caress her clitoris for her. I knew just the right touch she liked—it was different for every girl.
    Tonight, though, she seemed happy with standard coitus. Her lips had drawn back and I could see her teeth clenched together hard. The muscles in her neck were corded and she was emitting short, powerful gasps. Usually, the sight of a girl’s sexual excitement left me cold, even blunted my own. Christine had been the first with whom I normally didn’t have to resort to mental substitutes for the final effort, but tonight my mind was too stimulated to do otherwise.
    I pulled her legs up behind my hips, then pushed myself up off my knees, balancing all my weight upon my toes for a more steeply angled pivot. As her loosely crossed ankles came to rest on my buttocks, I began thrusting into her, harder, deeper, and faster. My motions caused her heels to rub rhythmically against my buttocks in a caressing manner.
    I thought about Jonesy, and how he’d crept into other boys’ rooms and fondled their valuables. This vision was somehow linked with the boy I’d encountered in the restroom today, whose naked erection had been so brazenly exposed to my view. The two images merged in my mind, and I had a vivid picture of Jonesy mischievously pumping his dick at me. It was going to be good. It was going to be very good.
    Christine had given up any attempt at suppressing her cries. I listened to them absently for a moment before