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Men forget most “firsts” unless they really matter. First kiss? Women remember that—men, eh, maybe remember, maybe not, depends on who it was and how good it was. Actually men probably lie about the first kiss and “upgrade” the first to the first hot girl they actually kissed. The ugly girls aren’t really counted on the score sheet. First date? Women can tell you everything you were wearing and what happened second by second on the first date. Women can remember every word that was spoken. Women have phonographic memories. Men? Not likely. Men have pornographic memories. Men most likely will recall great breasts, their first shaved pussy, or maybe their first thick hanging pussy lips. And guys want to know does first date mean my date with chunky Erlene? Or does first date mean my first date with that hot chick. It’s a lot like the first kiss issue. A guy might remember his first little league home run. That’s important stuff. First high school touchdown, that’s important stuff. He probably remembers his first car, again, important stuff. But the one thing a guy will remember for sure is his first real blonde, that’s a rare treat.
First truth: the reason so called “blonde” women have more fun is not because their hair color somehow makes them more wild or sexy—it doesn’t—I can tell you from experience brunettes are probably wilder and naughtier than blondes. Brunettes have to be naughtier to keep men from thinking about blondes. Men chase blondes aggressively because men want to get them naked to see if the hair down below matches the hair on top. It’s like the quest for the holy grail. Men might want to get a brunette woman naked for a good fuck. Men feel totally compelled to get a blonde woman naked to see if she really truly is that precious rare natural blonde (and once she is naked its rude to simply stop without making her cum as a way of saying thanks).
I think the reason lots of women shave their pubes is not to satisfy the pedophilic urges of their man, as most commentators suggest, but so that the mouse brown woman can keep the man in her life guessing about her real hair color until she has a ring and a vow. Anyone who has been to a beach lately knows that even young women are shaving, “down there,” these days, else they couldn’t get by wearing those postage stamps thongs that pass as bikinis on most beaches. Hair would hang out of the thong and the fabric would bulge without a close shave. So even if a guy starts chasing blondes early in life, he has to work hard to discover the truth.
Confessional moment: I took out a personal ad in order to find a real blonde. I know what you are thinking—loser. And you might be right. But after working my way through seeming dozens of bottle blondes, I decided that I needed a more efficient way to search for nirvana.
My ad read: “SWM, 30-SOMETHING, ISO NATURAL BLONDE. PROOF REQUIRED. IF YOU THINK OF YOURSELF AS SLINKY AND SVELTE, OR BUSTY, OR BUFF, OR SLENDER BUT SLUNG—THOSE ARE GOOD QUALITIES TOO”
The radical feminist reader might be tempted to call me a sexist misogynistic pig at this point, but I don’t really care about what she thinks on the subject unless she can prove that she is a natural blonde. I consider my outlook to be reconstructed and enlightened. Why should I lie to a mouse brown woman and tell her that I enjoy her blonde moments—when they aren’t really blonde moments. How can honesty be offensive?
The ad ran for thirty-two weeks before I got any response other than an insult. Hundred of brunettes replied to call me a pig. Red heads called me unenlightened. Mouse brown women sent responses to the effect that no woman is really that blonde. What we see in magazines is a good dye job. Italian, Greek, Mexican, Korean and Japanese women suggested that I had a cultural problem. A few blonde gay men responded and wondered if they would do. I was about ready to call it quits when I got an answer from Betsy.
Betsy’s answer was simple. “Give me an address, and I will send you some hair.”
I got a PO Box fearing a letterbomb from some pissed off Irish girl experienced in bomb-making from the troubles.
I sent Betsy the box number. Two weeks later an envelope appeared from overseas. No return address but a postmark in the dessert. In the envelope a little bit of Saran Wrap, wrapped around a snatch of unmistakable curly blonde hairs. Not long hairs. Not the kind of hair one usually sees streaming down the back of a California beach blonde. But unmistakably very blonde hairs from “down there.”
I emailed back to Betsy, “loved the hair, now what?”
Our dialogue began.
Betsy and I traded dozens of emails, instant messages, and even a few phone calls. The world is sometimes very small, and we soon figured out that we actually worked for the same University and both had an office in the same building. We hadn’t met because we taught in different departments and because recently ataşehir escort she had spent most of her time overseas working on an archeological dig. She would be returning home sometime in the spring. She told me that she read the personals because she badly needed to find a real man who would treat her like a blonde cumslut, but who wouldn’t be intimidated because she could use multi-syllabic words correctly.
I was in heaven at the prospect of Betsy’s return. You have got to love a woman who weighs less than her IQ and loves to suck dick for sport. Six months of archeological dig had stroked Betsy’s brain and given her enough material to write dozens of scholarly articles, but six months of dig had also gotten Betsy thoroughly bored with only her fingers and vibrator to stroke her clit. She may be a stuffy academic, but she was also a blonde with hormones. She was frustrated as hell after working month after month digging relics in the desert with Professors Micropenis and Queerastheycome. Hard up hungry blonde with an attitude has to be the absolute best a guy could ever want.
She told me that she found my ad refreshingly honest. She felt that most men are afraid to say to a woman, “I actually prefer blondes.” Political correctness has sapped the strength in most men’s balls. I was up front with my expectations. She was also pretty up front with her’s.
Perhaps Betsy was horny, or I was persistent, or something, but I finally harangued Betsy into sending me a picture. Even though Betsy and had I realized that we sort of knew who each other were, I had never actually seen her smiling face trotting around grounds and I wanted to learn what she looked like before I actually committed to anything (I didn’t share that little detail with her of course). I kept pestering Betsy that she must have a digital camera at the dig and could email at least a snapshot. Everyone has a digital camera these days. She finally obliged.
How to describe the picture. First, Betsy is not a big girl. She stands about 5’ 1”. She is skinny as a fence post. She is one of those dedicated academic types who simply forget to eat. Think waif. In the very first picture that Betsy sent me I saw the full frontal naked picture of this skinny girl with a mass of golden blonde mane framing her face and with what had to be the hairiest blonde snatch I ever had seen. You take a skinny girl, narrow hips, tiny butt, skinny thighs, add in mound of hair, and it looks like everything from the navel to between the legs is a blonde forest. Maybe on a big girl that isn’t much hair. On a tiny girl, it’s like all hair.
I was in heaven—I hadn’t said naked picture. Betsy had to have a dirty mind. She could have sent me a picture of herself fully clothed in dessert khaki smiling standing on top of some statue or tomb or temple and I would have been happy; instead she sent me that picture of her naked body and giant swollen pussy lips framed by acres of blonde hair. She also sent me a few intimate close-ups of her furry blonde bits and enormous pussy lips dripping pussy juice all over an 8-inch vibrator. I got the message. She added a comment to the effect she was as blonde as they cum.
I promised to pick her up at the airport when she got back. She said thanks.
Digression moment—I realize at this point that I am violating all conventions of a blonde story. A blonde should be a silicone enhanced 38DD charmer. Her pussy should be shaved baby’s butt smooth but somehow we should just know she is blonde anyway. She should walk through her world so ditzzed out of her mind that she commits every grievous error that has become the fodder for blonde jokes. She should drink cumshakes from my dick, or any dick for that matter, every morning out of some religious belief that her hair will turn brown if she doesn’t swallow enough cum. She would wreck cars, have problems with toasters, not be able to change channels on the TV, not comprehend birth control, and be incapable of balancing a checkbook. The problem is, that Betsy is really smart. She likes sex and she likes intelligent conversation, she can balance a checkbook, and she knows how to work most kitchen appliances. She does in blonde fashion like a daily dose of cum shake, but for the taste, not because some guy convinced her at age 18 that a daily dose of sperm would make her hair shimmer.
When I placed the ad, I expected a ditz to answer the ad. I expected fifteen replies from bottle blondes who would dye their twats and who would think that they could fool me when they invited me to “inspect” the real goods. My ad was aimed at easy sex with mouse brown women trying to live the blonde life. That’s not what happened. Sometimes reality wrecks a good plan.
In the grand scheme of things that was not bad.
Something else Betsy reminded me that I had to look forward to—out on an archeological dig you just stop shaving. There kadıköy escort really isn’t much reason to shave out in the field. Betsy hadn’t gone “au naturale,” she hadn’t gone European, she wasn’t fighting convention, she wasn’t making a political statement, she just didn’t spend her scarce field time sitting in a bubble bath with a razor. The effect was dazzling.
Betsy’s picture had not done her furry blonde body justice. The legs I met when Betsy stepped off the plane would make a true hair fetish guy cum on the spot. You normally don’t think of blonde women as “hairy,” ‘cause the hair is usually sparse and hard to see on a blonde’s pale skin. But nearly 6 months of no razor coupled with lots of tan skin from working out in the sun, and blonde hairy legs can be very striking. Betsy is anything but pretentious. She stepped out of customs wearing cargo shorts and a sweatshirt. And running down her deeply tanned and muscled legs was this mass of thick golden blonde hair.
Betsy needed a place to stay for the night. Being my usual lustful self I offered my place. She accepted. That was a no brainer. It would be far more romantic to say that I picked Betsy up and we kissed, and fondled, and fucked right there in customs, but you have to remember that this is a story about two otherwise stuffy academics who are not likely to strip naked and fuck in public. It would fit blonde story convention to say that once we got into my car, Betsy went for my zipper, pulled out my rock hard dick and sucked me silly while we drove to my house. It might even be romantic to say that Betsy and I drove at warp speed to my house and fucked like bunnies the moment we walked through the door. It didn’t work that way. Betsy was hungry after the trip. So we stopped off at a little off-campus restaurant, Cadillac Willies, to grab some burgers and a few beers.
I got another hair fetish cum in your shorts moment when Betsy shucked off her sweatshirt. She was wearing a wifebeater, obviously no bra, and a veritable fruited plain of blonde hair stood ripe and ready for harvest in her pits.
“So Wheatfield, what have I missed ‘round these parts?” Betsy asked over a beer. Our conversation was appropriately academic, dry, and WASPy.
It dawns on me that I haven’t properly introduced myself. I am Hogan Wheatfield, the bright rising star in the aesthetics department at Hemmings University.
“Not much Betts. The inquisition is in check. The football team is mediocre. It seems as if they raised another billion dollars for the endowment, not that anyone ever actually sees that money. Professor talk a good game just published yet another book about the decadence of decadence in popular culture. How ‘bout yourself? You have been gushing in all of those emails about the great dig and all of those delicious relics you found, but you haven’t told me much about your plans for your time home?” If you can’t tell, we traded mostly college gossip over dinner.
“Wheatfield,” Betsy sighed as she finished the last bite of hamburger. “Six months digging relics with Professors Micropenis and Queerastheycome tires a girl out.” She smiled and winked. “Sometimes a girl just wants to go to bed.”
I took the hint. A quick burger and beer was a sufficiently polite interlude between airport greeting and some serious rutting. We could both now explain to friends who may ask how we met that we had actually spoken in person for a socially proper bit of time before we fucked ourselves silly.
The waitress obliged and Betsy and I were on the road to my house.
We weren’t two feet in the door to my house when Betsy’s blonde side kicked in and she shoved me against the wall and stuck her tongue deep down my throat. Her hands went to my belt and zipper and then to my now rock hard dick. She squeezed my balls and ran her hand up and down the shaft. She pulled her tongue from my throat long enough to say, “Seems like enough dick to satisfy the blonde in me.”
I pushed her across the hall and back up against the other wall. I pulled wifebeater over her head in one motion. Betsy’s very flat chested, like a teenage boy, but she has thick puffy pink nipples. My mouth found its way to a nipple then the other. Betsy cooed. Down came her shorts and I stuck my tongue in that blonde fur patch between her legs.
“Blonde!” I pronounced with total shameless glee.
I am not a hair fetish guy. Although I am not a fan of that prepubescent pretend teenaged virgin shaved smooth look, I also usually don’t go for more than a mouthful of hair because I hate the afterglow of hair stuck in my teeth. But this was a think blonde forest and I loved the taste, and the smell. Betsy hadn’t showered since before boarding her connecting flight from Athens and her blonde bush smelled of woman, not perfumed soap. Her bush was thick but strangely not coarse and brittle.
I kissed my way down bostancı escort bayan Betsy’s thigh and ran my fingers through the thick blonde hairs on her ankles. Betsy cooed some more. I kissed my way back up the golden treasure trail to her navel. I sucked her nipples and ran my fingers through the golden growth in armpits.
“Bedroom.” She ordered.
We tumbled into bed with a sense of urgency. Betsy shoved me on my back and straddled my raging cock. Her pussy swallowed me in one gulp. Betsy was virgin tight, but very wet. From the way Betsy moved I could tell that pussy was very very hungry and I was giving her a satisfying meal. She rode me hard. Juices ran from her cunt down my cock and balls.
Neither of us said much we just fucked. Girls who spent their college years in thin walled dorms never make much noise during sex.
The most remarkable sensation that I remember from our first time was that of Betsy’s long pussy lips and her thick bush tickling my balls and the seeming gallons of pussy juice that ran down my thick shaft as Betsy moved up and down. I fought the good fight to keep from going squirt too soon, but eventually Betsy’s prehensile pussy milked gallons of cum from my very happy cock. I was her fuck toy.
As I came Betsy yelled, “Swim little spermies, go men, go, go, onward, onward!” She had a wicked wry and darn scary sense of humor.
Satisfied (but only for the moment), Betsy lay next to me in bed. I took a second to enjoy the sight of blonde hair everywhere.
“Now that my men are swimming valiantly up your womb, I suppose I should ask, birth control?”
“The shot,” she said. “No little blonde babies this go-round.”
I digress but I was once with a woman who was eagerly encouraging me to cum inside of her when I finally thought to ask “birth control?” She said none, but who cares. I cared, thought to cum all over her breasts and face and not in cunny, and that was our first (and last) night together.
“Shower?” Betsy asked. I pointed at the bathroom. She smiled. “I promise to keep the legs and pits furry for at least a couple of days. You seem to like them that way.”
I smiled, Betsy seemed to be inviting herself to stay for a while and I might be able to get used to that. I also nearly came again at the sight of Betsy’s teenboy tight furry blonde butt scurry off toward the shower.
I napped while Betsy showered. I woke to find Betsy’s lips coaxing my manhood to attention. Betsy’s full lips were wrapped around the head. Her tongue licked and teased. One hand stroked my shaft and the other gently massaged my balls and worked my prostate. I love a woman who knows how to poke the prostate. A thirty-something doesn’t have the recycle time of a twenty-something but Betsy’s tongue and fingers were working magic. I groaned and Betsy said something about needing to put something in my mouth to keep shut me up and to kick her mood up a few notches. She kicked her leg over my head and planted that forested blonde twat over my mouth. The hair was thick and it ran up and around her asshole and over her butt. I thought I would drown she was so wet. I tongued her clit for all I was worth and I felt her body tense and shake as she came. I slowed my pace and paused for just a microsecond to drink in her juices. I sucked in one long pussy lip, then the other, and then licked hard on her thick clit to push her over the line again, and then again and again. Betsy was not shy about cumming hard. I moved from clitty to Betsy’s furry asshole and poked and probed my tongue deep at her puckered brown hole. Betsy’s body shook. My tongue slid back to her clit and Betsy’s strong athletic legs clamped tight on me as she came hard again.
Because this is a blonde story I can say that Betsy was quite single-minded and kept sucking me for all she was worth as cum after cum ripped through her body. She had this incredible way of hanging me on edge slowing, then sucking hard, then slowing. Soon enough, though, it was my turn to go boom and Betsy didn’t waste a drop of sperm as I shot gobs of delicious spermshake down her eager throat. The girl must have been thirsty—she didn’t waste a drop.
Betsy kissed me deeply as she lay down beside me. I ran my hands over her boyflat breasts and toyed with her impossibly thick pink nipples. Betsy smiled and drifted off into a jet-lagged sleep.
This being a blonde story, I should say that I was instantly hard again (that blonde magic and all), and that Betsy somehow found a second wind and screamed I need you hard up my furry blonde ass now. But that wasn’t how it worked. Although Betsy was blonde, lusty, and cum starved after six months digging relics, she was just a normal girl at heart and was happy with one spermshake and one good sperm douche for the evening. A good buttfucking and sperm enema would have to wait for another day.
I must confess that over the next several weeks I learned about all of Betsy’s delightful kinks, but that’s a tale for another time. As we lay there on my bed and Betsy drifted off to sleep I looked over at the mane of blonde hair framing her contented face and smiled. Betsy was truly a blonde to remember.
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