Temmuz 17, 2024


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Fall of 1976. Senior year of high school.

Four words: French Club Christmas Party

Three more words: Rene Michelle Devlin

I spent all evening making lewd innuendo – hey it was the French Club – toward any girl who would put up with it. I paid special attention ot Mlle. Devlin, “Devi” to her coterie.

In addition to French Club, Mlle. Devlin was in Drama Club, Debate and lettered as a manager for the Track team.

Tall, willowy, flat chested. Mysterious. Intellectual, as in, way, way out of my class.


She talked in a breathy whisper, the unfortunate result of a car accident that damaged her vocal chords. Unfortunate or not, it added to her mystique. That is to say, it added to her mysterious sex appeal.

This particular night, despite an abundance of illicit cognac to go with the escargot, I was getting nowhere. Fast. I may as well have been a Visigoth for all the attention (well, positive attention) I was getting from Mlle. Devlin or any other girl that night.

So. I surrendered.

The roast pork in cognac was good. The bread and cheeses wonderful. The escargot was, well, they’re slugs in shells baked in garlic butter for cryin’ out loud. Come spring, me and my buddies would be pouring beer and salt on the slugs that come out in the evenings and watching them melt like the wicked witch of the West in “The Wizard of Oz.”

Snails. The French. A mystery of the ages. I was taking French to get the girls.

But I digress.

The party concluded. Somehow I wound up being chauffer for some of the less fortunate underclassmen.

Shortly after 10, three sophomores, bağdat caddesi escort a freshman and Mlle. Devlin and I bundled into my parents 1972 Toyota stationwagon.

The freshman was last out beside Mlle. Devlin. It was just “Devi” and me. But I had surrendered earlier. Given up all hope. I was going to take her home – right after I got gas.

Back in the day, they actually paid people to pump your gas. I was just getting ready to roll the window down and pay the attendant when Devi handed me a business card and sat back in her seat with the sangfroid of a true French woman in possession and control of her world.

The card simply read:

Keep in practice. Kiss me.

Well, I was 100 percent American boy who couldn’t even begin to control his own hormones. I was stunned. I looked her square in the face.

She smiled a coy smile and then did a “Groucho” with her eye- brows.

“Are you serious?!”

“Yes. Let’s get going. Christ, I thought we’d never get rid of the damned underclassmen.”

Soon we were in a dark corner of one of the parking lots of a nearby park, bucket seats reclined.

Mid December in the midwest.

Cold. Very cold. And there we were, bundled like polar bears in our coats and gloves in a 1972 Toyota. Bucket seats in full recline.

I didn’t give a damn.

I could have died right then and there, blissfull in the sight of Rene Michelle Devlin, wrapped in heavy winter coat, wool muffler and mittens smiling at me. Smiling at ME!

She leaned over me and kissed me. Slowly. I savored each second of contact. Her mouth bahçelievler escort was so warm and wet. She sucked my tongue, slowly, sensually, her lips cloying.

This was Heaven.

I was certain.

It is however, at this point, I must confess that I was completely unpracticed in the situation in which I found myself.

Devi wasn’t.

Several times she stopped us.

“You know,” she said in a husky whisper, “there is more than one way to kiss besides sucking tongues.”

Before I had to embarrass myself with an answer she took my face in her hands and ran her tongue along my jaw line and up behind my ear.

I felt that one all the way to my crotch.

“Oh God. That was nice.”

She responded by gently biting me at the base of the neck and sucking.

Simultaneously I felt my cock swell and my head get light. Her tongue lightly touched the skin she had trapped between her teeth. I closed my eyes and sucked air as every nerve in my body reverberated with her mouth and teeth and tongue.

I felt like I had to do something. Awkwardly, my hands moved past her now open overcoat and under her sweater, up the smooth skin of her long torso. I had just touched her bra when she gently bit again and I stopped to enjoy the sensation.

Before I recovered, her hand was on top of mine at the edge of her bra. Without breaking the rhythm of her kisses she moved my hand to the snap of her jeans.

Inexperienced or not, I knew what to do.

*Eagerly* I unsnapped the snap and pulled down the zipper. My palm slid flat along her flat belly, fingers sliding bahçeşehir escort under her panties.

She raised her leg and my fingers met her silky sex hairs.

Another little movement and my middle finger found her moist cleft.

Her hips twitched and she sought my mouth.

Things got intense.

I had no idea what the hell I was doing. Really.

Yeah sure, get in her pants but then what? But Devi did.

Her hip movements were very purposeful. Sometimes long and slow and other times short and quick. All to regulate the speed and depth of my finger along her slit.

She carressed my face and sucked my tongue with somewhat the same intensity and speed as she moved her hips against my hand.

Suddenly her body tensed. I felt little ripples carress my finger in her slit.

Something happened.

She laid her head on my chest, her breathing was fast and erratic.

“Oh, God, look at the time. I need to get home,” she panted.

I didn’t see her look at her watch and I knew she couldn’t see the dashboard clock.

“Uh, Okay. Sure, Devi.”

She brought the seat upright, quickly fixed the fit of her jeans and brought her coat around her.

I started the Toyota and drove her home.

It didn’t hit me til the next morning.

She had used me.

She got off.

I didn’t.

I’d like to bitterly complain I was used.

I’d like to say how used I felt.

Our trist, our rendezvous was never spoken of between us. There was no encore. I didn’t brag to my buddies – not that I had anything to brag about. She didn’t speak of it to her coterie.

Looking back, as I often have, on that night, I always gain a deeper appreciation for the marvels of the female of the species. Specifically for the beauty, brains and sangfroid of Mlle. Devlin.

And, as Bill Withers once sang, “If it feels this good being used, then you can keep on using me, until you use me up.”

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