Erotica from Penthouse Read Free

weekend.
    The following Saturday night we met at a movie theater and spent about 119 of the 120-minute movie with our tongues in each other's mouth and our hands in each other's pants, trying to suppress gasps of lust. This time she hopped into a cab right outside the movie theater and didn't even let me get in with her—though she practically had to slam the door on my, uh, hand to keep me out.
    The next weekend she invited me over to her place and answered the door wearing just her camisole. Pulling me over to her couch, she opened my fly and we had probably the most furious spasm of sex I'd ever experienced. Since then I've held out on
her,
with equally intense results.
    It's my opinion that the artfully delayed seduction is the way to have the best of both worlds, the hot, feverish lust that's bred of repression and resistance, and the playful intimacy of post-Victorian sex. Now there are some who might say this is artificial, that it's not spontaneous. And that's true. I am talking about
artfully
delayed seduction. Perhaps it might be better if people put up more resistance to seduction “naturally”—if their resistance was sincere.
    And perhaps with the return of repression in the 80s, with the shadow of herpes hanging over everyone, women will make it more difficult for men to get into their pants, and vice versa. And then I'll probably be lamenting the loss of the Golden Age of Easy Sex.
    But I don't think so. I think both men and women should put up more resistance to seduction, not out of fear, but because of the pleasure principle. The longer people take, by the time they finally get around to actually doing it, the more they will have eroticized every sensory nerve, every look, every glance, every touch, every signature of the other's being.
    And so when they finally do it, the sex will be not only less impersonal, but more exciting. Impersonal sex has gotten a kind of down-and-dirty reputation for being more exciting than genuinely intimate sex. If people would only learn to take longer to seduce each other, that first fuck—so often anticlimactic—would be infinitely hotter and more personal.

Not Just Your Average Relationship

    OUR FIRST VIBRATOR
    By Michael Fletcher
    When I asked Liz what she wanted for her birthday, I expected her to say perfume or jewelry. But she had something else in mind.
    “A vibrator? Are you serious?” I said. She giggled nervously, but I knew that she meant it.
    Liz was easily embarrassed and almost virginal in style. But her lascivious streak never failed to surprise me. She could charm dinner guests while playing with my cock under the table. I looked forward to shopping.
    A few days later I visited a store called the Pleasure Chest, a 7-Eleven of sex toys and paraphernalia. Men in three-piece suits with blond, manicured girlfriends perused cock rings and crotchless panties. A gay couple in black leather and studded chokers examined a giant two-headed dildo with “lifelike veins.”
    The vibrators on display ranged in size and color from monstrous flesh-colored models to butt plugs that resembled night lights. Some were expensive semi-orthopedic devices with sponge-covered balls affixed. Others were strap-on affairs that promised stunning orgasms for me woman daring enough to wear one. Options included variable speeds and intensities, hand crank, AC-DC adaptors, kits with lubricants and spikey rubber sleeves.
    I eventually decided on two sleek, white missile-shaped models like the ones that turn up occasionally in drugstores. Each package portrayed a woman smiling beatifically as she held the little bullet to her cheek. “Eases muscle tension,” the copy proclaimed. The big one, about 10 inches long, was an inch-and-a-half in diameter near the ridged bottom and tapered to a point. The other was no longer than four inches and nearly the same thickness.
    When I handed the boxes to a clerk in black leather and crew cut, he looked up in mock horror. “Two?” he intoned.