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Ten thousand years ago, when I was twenty, a virgin, and in college, I fell in love with a man who bore an unbelievable resemblance to Riff Raff.
And thus began my long lust-affair with bald, nearly-bald, soon-to-be-bald, mostly-bald and shaven-headed-bald men. God I love ‘em. Smooth and stubbly and slick…I know some women find the bald thing highly suspect, but I love it.
I was such a virgin back then. When Riff and I first began seeing each other, he couldn’t have managed to slip a piece of paper between my thighs. My arm clamped onto my ribcage so firmly that not even a flea could have gotten up into my bra.
Eventually, oh-so-patiently, he softened me up. He kissed me for hours, day after day, week after week. He grabbed the hair at the back of my neck and pulled me in, laying me down on my skinny college bed. I soaked through dozens of virginal little pairs of panties before he finally was able to slide his hand, immediately followed by his mouth, onto my bare breast.
And then it was all over. He could have asked me for anything, anything at all, after that, and I would have agreed, if only to keep his tongue on my nipple. He was a smart man, my Riff. He didn’t stop at the breast. Oh no. Before my poor brain had begun to function again, he’d slid me out of my panties.
Where had my resolve gone? I was supposed to be The Good Girl, and suddenly there was a man with his tongue between my legs.
You’d never know it now, but way back when, at twenty and virginal, I could not come with a partner. Riff worked it, I have to give him credit. He showed amazing stamina that night.
And many following nights.
It took weeks of effort on his part. He swirled. He thrust. He fingered. He pinched. He licked and sucked and hummed and flicked.
And nothing happened.
Until one night when I’d had a tiny bit to drink. It must have been just enough to relax me, because I was suddenly grasping the sheets and trying hard not to arch up against his mouth (remember, I was still trying to be “good”). I made a valiant effort not to spread my legs any wider. I kept my hands off my own breasts. Good girls don’t do those things, you know.
My orgasm arrived with a tiny “oh!” and nothing more.
He’d made me say “oh!” and I adored him for it. Is it any wonder that I love bald men?
