Close up of my fanny

Hi – As the bio says, my first name is Cathy. Let’s skip my last name. Like the character in this story, I’m in my twenties. That’s probably the only thing she and I have in common. I’ve never been married and I’ve never done most of the things she did in the month after her husband left her.

I’m not a virgin. But I haven’t had a lot of boyfriends either. And no one would ever pay me to model, especially naked. A few years ago I convinced my then current boyfriend to use his new digital camera to take pictures of me. No one other than the two of us would ever see them, since they wouldn’t have to be sent out for processing like 35mm. I wasn’t so worried about someone seeing my naked body as much as just being seen. I’m not photogenic.

I practically had to twist his arm to do it because he’d seen me enough times with my bra off. If it hadn’t been digital I’d have concluded the whole idea was a waste of film. I’m not bad looking in a heavy support bra. My face is my best feature. My breasts are my worst, especially without support. I think that’s why most of my heroines are small breasted.

For years I’ve been writing stories to amuse myself. Most of them aren’t that good when I read them a year later. But even the bad ones are fun to write. For a while I’ve been doing a series where a bunch of liberated women have formed a writing club that meets through the internet. The original core group lived near each other, but many friends of friends have joined who live in other parts of the country. The women submit entries to Laura by e-mail. If she likes the entry, which she usually does, after correcting errors she posts it on hidden pages inside a freebie website. The main page shows accidental viewers a story about a camping trip. But the women in this informal club know how to get inside to the posted stories. The stories are supposed to be submitted by many different women, but obviously I’ve written all of them. Since these women are all rather liberal, eventually they decide to call themselves ELG’s – Easy Lay Girls. The story here is number 34 in this series. If people like it I’ll go back and reread my earlier entries and pick out a few I still like.



Am I an ELG, an Easy Lay Girl? A few months ago I would have said, definitely not. I was a real prude about nudity. I was married, and my husband was the jealous type. I pretty much accepted that as his right. He bought exclusive rights to my vagina with his name on the marriage certificate. Then I discovered he was cheating on me. Then he asked me for a divorce!

For a few weeks I was bitter and rebellious. I equated my Puritan ethics with his desires. Scrap both! As luck would have it a man I knew at work asked me for a date. It was a coincidence because he didn’t even know I was married, nor in the process of breaking up. Harold didn’t care if I was married or not. Probably the only thing he cared about was whether I’d go to bed with him. He apparently had no qualms about fucking married women.

Harold was the kind of man mom had always warned me about. Loose and wild. My mom had loved my husband. When he married me he seemed pretty upstanding. At any other time I wouldn’t have given Harold the time of day. Before marriage I’d always carefully saved myself, a virgin on the marriage bed. Pretty old fashioned. By my values I was now damaged good. Karl, the love of my life, had popped my cherry, made me cook for him for three years, and discarded me when he got tired of fucking my cunt. Maybe it was because I wouldn’t do anal. I was so devastated I hadn’t even started thinking about getting even. No matter how much I got out of him, I could never again offer a prospective husband my unbroken hymen.

What was even more uncharacteristic than accepting a date with a man like Harold was going with him to a strip show. I was pretty sure that seeing other women naked up on a stage would embarrass me almost as much as if I were up there with them. Seeing pictures of women naked on the internet made me feel naked. Their exposure seemed like a threat to all women. Men could look at them and know what I looked like with my clothes off. At least in the generic sense. I probably wasn’t very sexy looking compared to them.

But even thinking about my body naked was embarrassing. My tits are small. I have freckles on my left pussy lip. My nipples have a tendency to swell up at embarrassing times. I didn’t really know what my clit was. It was supposed to swell up when you had an orgasm. But I’d never had an orgasm. Karl never seemed to care whether he gave me one or not. I didn’t want orgasms, I wanted children. He didn’t give me any of those either.

Karl had moved out the day after he told me he was leaving. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks, but had seen his lawyer three times. Now I had my own lawyer who was taking care of things like that. Since I earned a lot more than Karl it was doubtful I’d get any alimony. The main concern was the house. What would I have to pay him to buy him out? My lawyer had advised me to lay off dating for a while. No point in confusing the courts about exactly who here was the injured party. But I could have cared less. I didn’t want money so much as my hymen back. It never occurred to me that the majority of men today would think a woman in her late twenties who was still a virgin was an oddball, too prudish to be interesting. I wonder now what Harold saw in me? Certainly not my real self.

The date was supposed to be for Saturday night. On Tuesday I decided why wait so I invited him over on Friday night for dinner. I guess he liked scheduling two dates in a row. It was sort of off beat. I hardly cared what he thought. I was damaged goods, no better than a whore. If he raped me on top of the dinner table, it wouldn’t matter. I wasn’t a virgin and my husband didn’t want me so I was up for grabs. It didn’t matter much how I felt about it. My body no longer had much value. Eventually men would start fucking me if they cared to. I might as well get used to my new lack of status with this Harold.

Harold was amazingly nice actually. Sure he wanted to get into my pants. Or rather he wanted me out of them. He was willing to sweet talk me while seducing me. I couldn’t remember Karl ever sweet talking me after we were married, and not all that much beforehand. I knew from the minute Harold walked in my door that he was going to fuck me before he left. He warned me he would. But he also guaranteed me I’d love it. So I finished fixing the the supper, served it and ate it with him, all the time telling myself that I wanted what was obviously going to happen.