Photo by Booty Girl, remixed by me, subject to this creative commons license
Two sets by Booty Girl: Her First Set & Blonde Pics
Let’s call her Gail since that was, in fact, her name. She was blonde. A honey blonde with high cheekbones, skin the color of cream, luscious full lips and green movie star eyes. She was blonde. Beautifully blonde. Hypnotically blonde. Gloriously blonde. Seductively blonde. And, as I would too soon discover, heartbreakingly blonde.
I was twenty; so was she. We met at a political meeting in late spring of 1968. After she walked into the small, drab conference room in the UT student center she paused to survey the sparse crowd of antiwar students. I spotted her and fireworks immediately filled the air and the New York Philharmonic launched into the opening fanfare from Thus Spoke Zarathustra (think the beginning of 2001: a Space Odyssey).
I forgot how to breathe. My heart became a frantic jungle drum. My face burned like desert fire. I was rooted to where I stood yet felt light as a small child’s birthday ballon. Time stood absolutely still; everything and everyone else in the room vanished like trees in a moist early morning fog. Soft golden rays of celestial light embraced her and she glowed like Botticelli’s Aphrodite.
Was it love at first sight? You betcha; and it took only about five seconds.
She would be only the second woman I had sex with. Kathy, my first, had been a tame little kitten; with her I felt safely in control. Gail was a frightfully wild, beautiful green eyed lioness. My fear of her ferocious blondness was quickly overwhelmed by my unthinking, potent desire. All ten trillion cells in my young body instantly wanted her.
Our relationship lasted less then three months. What a roller coaster ride it was! She quickly rocketed me up to the dizzy heights of love and lust. She bewitched my body – every single one of those ten trillion cells. When I was with her the sun shone and angels sang. I was her enthralled, witless puppet; she could easily pull all my strings and make me dance for her amusement. Just one of her wickedly blonde and green-eyed smiles and my cock would swell and leak like an old, corroded faucet (embarrassing if others were in the room; my pants got washed a lot). When I wasn’t with her my body ached and I would plummet into a chill, enervating despair. I would spend all my time counting the hours, minutes and seconds till I could once again bask in her blinding blondness.
The first time I saw her naked breasts I nearly passed out. It was on a early summer saturday; we were out on the lake on her family’s ski boat when, with no warning, the top of her polka-dotted bikini fell off and fell into the green water. Lit by the early afternoon sun, her modest breasts were milky pale with dark, enticing nipples. She slowly smiled at my shocked expression and made no immediate effort to retrieve her floating top. To this day I imagine the water at that spot in the lake boils every now and then on the summer solstice.
Oddly, the sex was not so compelling and I realized later she never reached orgasm. My memories of our few couplings are faded; they don’t compete with those of her smile, her musical voice and that electric effect she had on my flesh, all of which remain as shockingly bright as midnight lightning even now forty-four years later.
It ended badly. Very badly. Crushingly badly. It was of course my fault; I became ridiculously jealous of any guy who came within one hundred yards of my blonde love. I became afraid I would lose her and grew sullenly suspicious of her when she was out of my sight. Finally, in mid July, after one too many of my ugly jealous tirades, she left me for one of my close friends.
My agony when she left my life matched the ecstasy I felt the day she entered it. For two days I wanted to die. I cared for nothing; my world was black and grey, lit only by faint yellow sparks of childish hope she might return. The rest of that summer was, at least in memory, cold and sunless. I vowed I would never love again.
Of course I did not die. The summer warmed and the sun returned. Just before the autumnal equinox I met Terry, a short, sultry brunette from Chicago. She wasn’t a blonde, but I fell in love with her anyway. She, too, would break my heart, but that’s another story.
And now, forty plus years safely removed from the torrid summer of 1968, and despite my memory of the hideous pain of her leaving, I am surprisingly grateful to Gail for allowing me those few, precious weeks of bliss. She was – and still is – my one and only magnificent blonde obsession.
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