Memories: Pleasure and Pain

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My understanding of Geek Day is that it is primarily stories of a geeky nature. Since I see things a little differently than many, my story is actually about two events in a geek’s life. A thanks to Chloe Tzang for organizing the event and to BlackRandl1958 for her editing.


She was a goddess. I was a geek.

It shouldn’t have happened even once, let alone twice.

They will remain as two of the greatest memories of my life.

Memories that until now had never been revealed to anyone else. Memories that I had kept to myself for 32 years.

Maurice Ramrocky died earlier that day, freeing me from a promise that I made 32 years ago. A promise I made so I could keep on living.

Thirty-two years ago, I slept with Maurice’s ex-girlfriend twice. He found out about it, kicked the living shit out of me and threatened to kill me if I ever went near her again or talked about what happened. When I awoke from the concussion, I figured he was serious, and indeed, stayed away from her for all these years and never told another soul about sleeping with her.

Maurice didn’t even wind up marrying the woman, breaking up with her even before our hook-ups, but I wasn’t taking any chances–ever. Maurice was 6-5, 240 pounds and played Division I football for Michigan State. I am 5-10, 175, after lifting religiously for 32 years, and the closest I ever came to Division I football was sitting in my TV room watching on Saturdays in the fall.

The woman in question was named Traci-Gayle Bilyew, 32 years ago. Last I heard, her name had changed to Traci-Gayle Rollins. I haven’t seen her since before my unfortunate run-in with her ex-boyfriend. My health has definitely looked up since that encounter, so, no, I wasn’t going to go looking for her.

My name is Reynolds Spencer. I’m called Spence by most people. In high school I was one of those faceless, nameless kids in a school of 2,500. Schools stratify into the popular kids, the smart kids, the jocks, the kids who got in trouble all of the time and then the rest of us–2,200 kids in the middle.

I was also one of the smallest guys in my class. I graduated at 5-6, 117 pounds. While I didn’t think I was that bad looking, the girls in my school had a lot of choices when it came to guys, and a guy my size wasn’t high up on the list. I also tended to be on the quiet side as a way not to draw attention.

Oh, yeah, then there was the hair. That was the one thing that Traci-Gayle and I had in common. I had a shoulder-length dark brown natural, and T-G had a mid-back-length black natural. In the 1970s, there were a number of white people who got perms for Afros; there were also a number of kinky-hair people who had the “Jew ‘Fro,” a small picked out white Afro. Then there was my hair: under normal circumstances, a true natural; under humid circumstances, a full Afro, no perm needed.

To some in school, I was “the kid with the hair;” to others, I had to be biracial. Either way, the hair was just one more reason for girls not to think that highly of me.

It’s not like I had zero dates in high school. I just didn’t have a lot, and almost no repeats. So, as my high school career was coming to an end, yes, I was still a virgin.

Prom was rolling around in two months. I had two potential dates lined up, one my choice, the other the choice of several friends who were trying to fix me up. Diana Ballesteros was a short, slightly chubby, dark-haired girl with big brown eyes and a bubbly personality, the kind of girl who had a bunch of friends of both genders. My friends thought I should ask Joyce Salters, a nice kid with wavy blonde hair who rarely went out with anybody, but seemed to be friends with everyone.

I thought long and hard about whom I was going to ask. Prom was a big deal back in the day, and was usually a weekend-long event involving the prom, a meal at a nice restaurant and some sort of outing the next day. It was common to spend $200 or more for the weekend, a lot of money for a kid in those days. Of course, everyone knew that prom weekend was a great opportunity to get laid.

While Diana was my personal choice, my friends thought I should ask Joyce because they knew nobody else would ask her, and she was so nice everyone wanted her to have a prom weekend. I thought Joyce was a great kid, but if I was going to spend that kind of money, I really wanted to go with my top choice. Unfortunately for me, my top choice turned me down in favor of Billy Sullivan. I was crushed, and decided I wasn’t bursa escort going to go at all. My friends really put on a big push for Joyce, but I just didn’t want to go at all once Diana turned me down.

Since all of my close friends had dates, I knew prom weekend was going to be a quiet time for me. I had grown okay with that. My plan was to hit a movie Friday night by myself–the ultimate loser move. So much for lifetime memories… until the impossible happened.

After parking my mom’s 1972 Ford LTD in the parking lot at the movie theater, I was heading in when I spotted her standing off to the side of the entrance. It was a nice May evening, and she was standing there in short shorts and a thin blue top–obviously braless. I know I did a double-take, and I’m pretty sure I drooled. What was Traci-Gayle Bilyew doing standing there by herself dressed casually when the prom was about to start? Where was her boyfriend, Maurice? Something wasn’t adding up.

“Hey, Traci-Gayle. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the prom with Maurice?” I asked as I walked up to her.

She started to look at me like I was vermin, then her expression changed to one of sadness. She knew me about a minute’s worth, mostly because goddesses like her didn’t hang out with geeks like me.

“You okay?” I asked.

I could see the wheels turning in her head. I assumed she was trying to decide if she should tell me the truth or make up a lie. Considering who I was in her life–nothing–I guess she figured she could tell me the truth.

“No, I’m not okay,” she practically whispered. “Maurice dumped me last week and he’s at the prom with Mahalia Freeman. I was just thinking of going into the theater. There’s absolutely no one around to do anything with.”

Yes, I totally understood where I fit into T-G’s life. You get used to it after a while.

“Well, how about we both do nothing together and watch the movie? I’ll buy,” I said.

She looked around almost as if she was hoping nobody was seeing us together. Fortunately for her, it was just the two of us in front of the theater.

“Might as well,” she said. “Awfully nice of you to buy.”

I bought our tickets, snacks and drinks. We sat in the back row in the sparsely-filled theater. I couldn’t tell you what the movie was because we spent the whole flick whispering back and forth. I was in heaven. I had never before been this close for this long to someone so beautiful.

The movie ended about 10, but I didn’t want the evening to end. One of my favorite bars was just around the corner, so I invited Traci-Gayle to grab a beer with me. She accepted.

The drinking age in New York in those years was 18. Of course, at my size I always got carded whenever I walked in to any bar. I had been to this bar enough, though, that most of the staff at least knew my name, which impressed Traci-Gayle for some reason. It was obvious that the bartender and our waitress were also impressed with my partner, and Sarah, our waitress, gave me an approving wink when she took our orders.

We split a pitcher of beer, and while we were drinking and talking, the strangest thing happened. Little by little, T-G started shifting her chair closer to mine, and she started getting touch-feely. It was not hard to notice that her nipples were standing proud through her top.

Although I was a geek, I was far from an idiot, so when the opportunity presented itself five minutes later, I snuck a soft kiss from her beautiful, soft, full lips. She didn’t recoil in horror, so after another five minutes, I kissed her again, this time a little harder. This time she kissed back. We spent the rest of the time in the bar kissing and drinking beer.

My car was parked in the back of the lot, and we left the bar hand-in-hand. We got into the back seat rather than the front seat because, as I said, I’m not an idiot. The back seat of a Ford LTD was almost as big as a single bed. We lay down, me half on top of her, and resumed our kissing. She was rubbing my back, then pulled my shirt up and off. I took the cue, and her top came off next, revealing her wonderful breasts. They were firm, large, pert and wonderfully sensitive, with areola a couple of shades darker than the rest of her caramel-colored skin. When I gently bit her stiff left nipple, I had to put my hand over her mouth to stifle her scream.

I lifted my head to see if anyone heard us, and seeing no one else in the lot I turned myself around to directly face her wet pussy. I said a silent prayer escort bayan of thanks to Hugh Hefner. While most of the young males who read “Playboy” were just looking at the photos, I was the geek, reading the articles as well, including the ones that explained the value of being a good pussy eater. Even though I was a virgin, I knew what to do with my mouth on her pussy, and after shoving her panties into her mouth to muffle her yells, I proceeded to eat her to the first half-dozen orgasms I have ever given a woman. I felt like King Kong.

I then turned around, took her panties out of her mouth and kissed her hard, driving my tongue as deep as I could get it in her mouth. I then lined up my dick with her pussy, rubbed it along her pussy lips, and impaled her in two strokes. I felt her pussy pulse around my dick, then she shrieked out another climax before I emptied what felt like a geyser of cum inside her with an animalistic growl.

“Sh-i-i-t-f-u-u-ck! Wow! That was fucking amazing!” I practically screamed.

“Ssshhh!” Traci-Gayle stage-whispered to me.

We laid there in the back seat, panting like sprinters for about five minutes before we figured we should get dressed. We both noticed the rather large wet spot on the seat at about the same time and grinned at each other.

“I guess I know what I’ll be doing tomorrow,” I said with a huge grin on my face.

“That was absolutely amazing! Maurice has never done that to me. Who taught you how to do that?” Traci gushed in one breath.

I gave her my best smile.

“I’m a geek, remember? I do a lot of reading,” I replied.


Monday morning at school, everyone was talking about the prom and the weekend. I listened quietly to the stories of my friends with a quixotic smile. I might have had the best weekend of all, but my father always told me that a gentleman never talks out of turn.

While I never said a word to anyone about my weekend, I’m sure Traci-Gayle said something to someone, because several of her close friends sought me out Monday morning to say hello and smile knowingly at me, two things that have never happened before. I didn’t see T-G at all until lunch time, when she came over to me, took me by the arm and led me over to a quiet corner of the cafeteria. I’m sure virtually everyone in the room did a doubletake when she walked off with me.

“Could we do Friday night again?” she whispered. “I’ve got permission to use a friend’s apartment this Friday so we can be more comfortable.”

To say I was shocked was the understatement of the year. Thank you, Hugh Hefner.

“Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh fucking yeah!” I whispered back. “Do you maybe want to get something to eat first? I can pick you up.”

“Aren’t you the gentleman? That would be wonderful,” she answered.

Traci-Gayle’s father answered the door Friday night when I came calling. He didn’t seem pleased as he literally looked down on me. The man was probably 6-6, 250 and had hands the size of meat hooks. His hand completely swallowed mine as I stuck my hand out to return his handshake.

“Well, at least the jockey knows how to shake hands like a man,” he said to no one in particular, but particularly to me. I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew it was a warning.

I practically forgot everything as Traci-Gayle came to the door. Not yet being the sophisticate I was later to become, I didn’t know that what she was wearing was the legendary “little black dress.” All I knew was it was fairly tight across her braless boobs and showed an unimaginable amount of gorgeous caramel leg. Easy, boy. Getting killed by her father before the date wouldn’t have been a good thing.

Traci chose a soul food restaurant. She could have chosen Pop-Tarts for all I cared. She looked like a walking wet dream, and knowing what was coming later, I was amazed my brain was still working in any capacity.

When I wasn’t looking at her boobs as she was breathing or checking out those muscular, toned and impossibly long legs, Traci’s big brown eyes looked almost liquid throughout the meal. I knew I was the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

We had barely got in the door to her friend’s apartment when T-G laid the first kiss of the evening on me. We were both naked seconds later, and I have to admit that having a regular bed was easier than the back seat of a car for an evening of carnal pleasure.

I remembered what Traci liked best from the last week and went at her pussy like I was a starving man. I added in a couple bursa escort of new moves like sucking on her clit and using my fingers as well as my tongue. She screamed, she writhed, she locked her thighs around my head. She came multiple times on my face and even twice on my cock before I finally pumped what felt like a gallon of cum inside her. We lay quietly in the afterglow for about 10 minutes, just playing kissy-face, before T-G slid down, took my dick in her mouth and got me hard again.

“I can’t take anymore of your mouth, Spence, but make love to me again. Please.”

Like I really had a choice. Of course I made love to her again.

I admit to not knowing what Traci-Gayle and I had at that point, but I wasn’t too concerned as we laid together whispering sweet nothings to each other. Was it budding love, lust or something else? All I knew at that point was I had two great Friday nights of sex with an absolute goddess. I was going to ride the bus of good fortune until its very last stop.

There was only one problem with my plan: the big fist of Maurice Ramrocky.

Although I still hadn’t told a soul about my liaisons with Traci, I knew she had told several of her friends, and I’m guessing that word got back to Maurice, who must have taken exception to his former girlfriend having sex with someone he probably considered a midget. At the time, I didn’t see my hooking up with Traci as any concern of Maurice’s because he had broken up with her, but I was apparently wrong.

I wasn’t paying attention to anything in particular the next Monday morning at my locker when the right side of my face exploded in pain. I was knocked off balance and I heard Maurice threaten my life before I saw a huge fist coming right at my face.

I woke up two days later in the hospital with a broken nose, a fractured cheekbone and a concussion. I missed my graduation.

Maurice was suspended, but that didn’t make any difference to him at all. He already had his scholarship to Michigan State, and they certainly weren’t going to rescind that offer based on him beating some little kid senseless. That’s just the way it was in the ’70s.

Traci-Gayle sent over a get-well card, but she didn’t try to see me in the hospital. I found out later that Maurice threatened to hurt me more if she didn’t stay away from me. He wouldn’t dare threaten her because her father would have gotten involved, but her father wasn’t going to go to bat for me. I was on my own, and if it’s one thing I had learned, it was the art of survival. I stayed away from Traci-Gayle.

Six years later I was at an accounting seminar in Chicago when a familiar face appeared in front of me. Her wavy hair was longer and now auburn, her curves a little bigger. I hadn’t seen Joyce Salter since late in our senior year of high school in New York. I had gone to college in Iowa, she had gone to school for the same major in Michigan. I was working for a firm in upstate New York and Joyce was working for a firm in Chicago.

“I know I’m not your first choice, but how about buying an old friend a drink after today’s class is over,” Joyce crooned as she approached me during a break in the class.

“Wow, you look stunning for a vengeful harpy,” I said.

“And you’ve grown from an ill-advised munchkin into a full-sized despot, I see,” she fired back.

At dinner that night, I found out that Joyce knew about all the people who tried to get me to ask her to prom. She told me that she understood why I didn’t ask her, but she admitted that high school Joyce was a lot less understanding. I apologized profusely to post-high school Joyce.

At that point in time, there were only three people alive who knew why Maurice beat the fuck out of me, and none of us were talking. Joyce asked me that night if I had any clue about that, and I did what any sane person would do: I lied my ass off.

Dinner that night was the first of many that Joyce and I shared. We shared bodily fluids after our third date. She continued to show me by her actions that I made a huge mistake when I asked Diana to the prom six years earlier.

I found a job in Chicago six months later, and Joyce and I were married a year after that. We’ve had three beautiful children in the ensuing 25 years.

I never told Joyce about Traci-Gayle. We’ve never really had a deep discussion about our pre-marriage love lives, and after 32 years, I didn’t see the necessity to talk to anyone else about it.

I hadn’t seen T-G since our second adventure. I was told she never returned to town after her second year of college someplace in Texas. I’ve forgotten exactly where she told me.

I will always treasure my short time with her, even if I took a beating in payment for it. I hope her life has turned out as good as mine.

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