Up to this point, all of my love interests had been girls I’d gone to school with. But Dot came into my life via a different route. Dot was a friend of Mom’s from work. Mom and I were both Star Trek fans. Dot was also a fan, but to a wholly different degree.
If you were to draw up a chart that graphed the level of interest that fans had in Star Trek, Mom would have been down at the line labeled “Interested Party”. I’d’ve been somewhere in the middle. Dot, however, would have been all the way down at the far end, and I think that her line would have been labeled “Cultist”.
Anyway, there was a two-day Star Trek ‘convention’ (I put the word in quotes because it was one of the relatively crappy Star Trek shows put together by the Creation company, it’s only real redeeming factor being an appearance by a big-name actor or actress from the series, and not an actual con in the sense of traditional science-fiction conventions) coming up in Portland that Dot was trying to convince Mom to accompany her to. Mom agreed, if she could bring me along. Dot hadn’t met me at this point, but most of however Mom described me apparently didn’t put her off, because she agreed. Given that she was hanging out with my mother at work, I should probably also mention that she was also only a year older than I was, and not a contemporary of the woman who birthed me.
Anyway, the day of the convention Dot and I finally met, and we seemed to hit it off. Dot was a little bit overweight, but not fat. Not even plump. She was somewhere in the self-professed “I need to lose ten pounds” category. She was also blonde, with her short hair cut very specifically in the style of Tasha Yar – Denise Crosby’s character on the first season of Star Trek-The Next Generation.
All three of us enjoyed ourselves at the convention. Come bedtime that first day, Mom went ahead and crashed while Dot and I stayed up most of the night talking. By the end of convention, Dot and I had decided that we were going to write a Star Trek—The Next Generation script and submit it to Paramount.
So, Dot and I started hanging out. She’d come over, and we’d figure out what we were doing, fine tune our plot, joke around, and have a good time. And not that I’m an expert or anything, but a lot of our interaction seemed a little flirtatious to me. I don’t know. I could be wrong.
Finally we began writing the thing. It was summertime, so the weather called for shorts and short sleeves. Usually once she got upstairs to my rooms, she’d take her shoes of. My first very careful move toward touching her was in the form of a(n as casual as I could make it seem) footrub on what seemed like a particularly flirtatious day. I got no protests.
So, I’d continue to play with her feet (using my hands only). The writing continued. When our brains would freeze up, we’d take a short break. Sometimes we’d watch a movie or something. Other times we’d just talk.
During one break, she was sitting across the room from me (it was a small room), leaning forward in such a way that gravity pulled her blouse slightly away from her body. When she leaned back again, the top of her blouse stayed forward. She didn’t seem to notice. So, I picked up a small 5” rubber-over-wire-armature toy skeleton and tossed it at her. She caught it and looked at it, the looked at me quizzically. “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked.
I told her that she wasn’t supposed to have tried to catch it, because I was trying to get it to go down her blouse. She looked down, saw that the top of her blouse formed a sort of basket, and then just kind of shrugged her shoulders. She tossed the skeleton back to me, and then reshaped the top of her blouse to make it a better basket for this weird little game of skeleton basketball.
So, I tossed it again. I missed, she returned, I tossed again. It took me a bunch of tries, but it finally went in. “Happy?” she asked. Before I could answer she fished it back out and tossed it to me again.
Hmm. “I’d be happier if I could have retrieved it myself,” I said, trying to seem like I was at least half-joking about the whole thing. But her response was to say, “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize,” and then to reshape the basket once more and tell me to try again.
It seemed like I made an almost infinite number of tries before it went in again. Once it did I got up and crossed the room, sitting down beside her. “May I?” I asked. She told me I could, so I reached in to retrieve the skeleton. My fingertips brushed against it, locating it immediately. “Hmm,” I mused aloud, “Where is it?” My fingers moved from the skeleton to one of her breasts, touching one bra cup very lightly, prepared to be told to stop. (Also braced to be slapped.) But I received no protest. So my fingers spread out across her boob until my palm came down on it and I was actually almost gripping it.
“Is this it?” I asked. She told me that she didn’t think it was, and that maybe I should continue looking. So I did. I went in the opposite direction and did the exact same thing with her other breast. Couldn’t find the skeleton there, either. So I trailed my fingertip along the edge of her bra, where it ran up against bare flesh. I asked if she thought that the skeleton might be down under there. She told me that she very much doubted it . . . but that I could check if I wanted to.
My fingers slid in underneath her bra, and I was now touching bare breast. I explored a little more, and the next thing I knew I was playing with a hardening nipple. She told me that she was pretty sure that the skeleton wasn’t in her bra, and that I should probably just go ahead and find it and take it out. She didn’t seem mad, just firm in her belief that my playtime was over. So I did what she asked. She then told me that she should probably be getting home, packed up her stuff, said goodbye, and left. [I always like to think that she drove about halfway home, parked in a secluded area, and then masturbated herself through multiple orgasms, screaming my name. Doubtful, but I like to think it.]
From that point on, I usually spent a little bit of time playing with her breasts when she was over. Usually during breaks. Less frequently while we were still working. (Apparently she finds having her breasts played with while she’s trying to type to be distracting.) Every now and then the bra even came undone to the point that I could even see the sexy pair of tits I was fondling.
I started writing poetry again. A little bit of love poetry. A lot of lust poetry.
I made a reference to having some porn hidden in my video tape collection, and a few days later she asked, “Do you really have porn movies?” The next break from writing we sat there watching a very white very blonde woman named Lily Marlene taking a big black cock in the ass while getting fucked in the pussy by a large rubber snake (with a condom over it’s head). From that point on, the words “rubber snake” were the crux of a huge private joke between us.
She told me that since I showed her some of my porn, she wanted to lend me some of hers, and handed me a couple of (what else would it have been?) X-Rated Star Trek fanzines.
One day after playing with her above the waist, I asked if she minded if I undid the button on her shorts. She shrugged her shoulders, which I took as an indication that she didn’t care. I unbuttoned her shorts, and made the same request of the zipper. Got the same response. And so on. She kept her ankles crossed so that her shorts and panties wouldn’t come completely off when I was pulling them down, but did lift her ass up off of the chair to ease their removal from what they traditionally covered.
Once I let go of her clothing, she uncrossed her ankles so that she could better spread her knees apart, giving me my first real up close and in person look at a vulva. Beautiful pink pussy lips beneath a nest of brown pubic curls (which betrayed her blonde hair as a dye-job). I wanted to finger her. Lick her. Fuck her. I needed to take it slowly.
I played with her pubic hair for awhile (running my fingertips through it) while I looked at her girly parts. There was all kinds of tension in the room. I didn’t want to just start fingering her. I wanted something to break the ice. Something to help us ease into things. Inspiration hit, and I told her to wait there, then stood up and went and got what I felt was the perfect object. I brought it back, held behind my back, and sat down crosslegged in front of her. When I held the familiar 5” rubber skeleton up so she could see it she just raised her eyebrow at me. But it worked. Once I spread her lips apart and began sliding him in, head first, she cracked up. “That doesn’t go there,” she said through laughter.
“Sure it does,” I told her as I slid it into her, pulling it a little bit out, pushing it a little bit farther in, and repeating until all I could see was it’s bony rubber feet. “See? It fits perfectly?”
I left it in for a few minutes while I continued to play with her pubes, then decided that it was time. I was going to pull the skeleton out and replace it with my finger. I swear, that’s what my plan was. But . . .
Okay, before I continue, I want to say something in my defense. Everything that I knew about sex I knew from watching porn and reading Letters to Penthouse. Sex education at my high school (in my Catholic, Catholic town) was a four day long unit in health class that just happened to take place when I was out with the flu. And nobody ever gave me ‘the talk’. So, I built my sexual expertise by watching people fucking on videotape, and by reading implausible fantasy situations from dirty magazines.
I knew that girls got wet. When girls got aroused, they got wet between their legs. But in my head, wet meant . . . well, ‘wet’. Liquidy. The wetness was for lubrication, so wet and slippery. (Slippery when wet.) That was what I was expecting to find. I had never seen a reference anywhere to an aroused female being gooey.
So there I was. 21 years old. Faced with my first ever exposed vagina. And I when I pulled the skeleton out of her, I found it completely covered in goo. It looked like it had starred in one of the ectoplasm scenes in Ghostbusters. I had a little ‘WTF?!’ moment.
My first thought was, “How did this goo get in there?” Obviously it didn’t ooze out of the skeleton when it was inside of her. So the skeleton must have picked it up from inside her pussy. How did this goo get in there? Nobody had told me that an excited and aroused girl will generate actual goo, which meant that – to the best of my knowledge – goo was unnatural. Not something that a girl could generate using only her lovely pink girly parts.
How did this goo get there? Someone must have put it there? Hmm. Who would have put it there? Who could have put it there? Who had access? Who has the greatest access to Dot’s pussy? Well, that would be Dot. So the chances are that Dot put it there. Dot must have filled her pussy with goo.
Why? What would Dot goo herself up like that? The key had to be the goo itself. What kind of goo was it? What kind of goo is there? Hmm. Where does goo come from? Not originally, but immediately prior to application. Goo usually lives in a tube. What kind of tubes of goo are there? Medicine! This isn’t simply goo coating the rubber skeleton – it’s medicinal goo!
Why was her vagina filled (yeah, FILLED at this point in my thought process) with medicinal goo. Obviously, some sort of medical problem between her legs. Probably some kind of rash, or fungus.
When I pulled the skeleton out of her pussy (I bet that’s not a phrase you read often) and saw the goo, my brain immediately went through the thought process outlined above. It did this in an instant. And once that conclusion was arrived at, there was no need to think on it further. She was currently having some kind of rash or fungal problems ‘down there’, and it wasn’t really safe for me to be sticking my body parts inside of her. At least, not until whatever her problem was had cleared up. Playtime was over.
Sitting here at the keyboard 16 years later, I honestly couldn’t tell you how I segued from about to start fingering her to being done with her femalia for the day. I’m sure I didn’t just say, “Sorry, too much goo,” and walk away. But I can’t tell you what it is that I actually did. It’s like my memory has blocked it all out.
Throughout all of this, the writing continued. Finally, we declared the script finished. Printed it out. Made copies for each of us to keep. Mailed it off.
I called her a few days later to see when we were getting together again. She couldn’t give me a definitive answer. Didn’t know. Had to check her schedule. Gonna be busy. Stuff to do. None of those answers bothered me as much as the way that they were delivered.
So, I played to what I perceived as my strengths, and I wrote her a letter. I wrote about how I felt about her, and asked how she felt about me. (By this time it was starting to occur to me that she’d never really said.)
I sent my letter off, and got a letter back in response, in which she basically laid out our relationship from her point of view. She never had any emotional attachment to me at all, outside of simple friendship. We started as friends, then moved to co-writers. As co-writers, I started pawing at her. Which she hadn’t wanted. All of my physical advances had been both uninvited and unwanted. But she let me continue to grope and explore her out of a fear that if she told me to stop that I’d quit writing the script out of spite, and she couldn’t bear to lose the project. And now that the project was finished and mailed off, she didn’t want to be around me because of how far she’d allowed things to go between us, physically.
Well. That was certainly nice. The more I read her letter (and I read it over and over again – I couldn’t stop myself) the more I started to feel like I’d raped her. Just thinking about how she made the situation sound from her point of view made me sick to my stomach.
I was contemplating writing her a letter apologizing for my behavior when Casper and Johnny Dirtnap got to me. One held me down while the other slapped me, and then they traded places. (Metaphorically, that is.)
They pointed out that I hadn’t done anything wrong. (They’d both been getting nightly updates about the situation, because, well – My God, I was playing with some naked girl parts for the first time in my life, and needed to talk to someone about it!) She had never discouraged me. Sometimes encouraged me. THEN turned around and tried to make me feel that I’d molested her against her will? They were convinced that she was either completely unhinged, or a devious mindgame player. Either way, I was “better off without her.”
I obviously didn’t discuss any of the details as to why Dot wasn’t coming around any more with Mom other than to not deny that we may have had a fight. Mom talked to her about it, and apparently, the story that Dot told her that she DID have serious feelings for me, but was trying to overcome self-esteem issues, and as a result of which, couldn’t bring herself to ‘settle’ for a guy who was (at the time) fat-headed-for-obese. (Much, much later I also discovered that Dot also confirmed for Mom that yes, we had indeed been having sex. Huh. I’m sorry, we’d been doing what? Wow. I’m really sorry that I missed that.)
I sometimes wonder (because I’m a big giant geek) what I’d do if I ever got access to a time machine and could travel back through time to periodically give myself advice. Obviously, I’d explain the whole ‘goo’ thing. But would I just let the situation with Dot play out naturally . . . or would I warn my younger self that she was just basically letting me use her body so that I’d continue letting her use my writer’s brain? If I knew back then what I know now, would I have stretched out the writing time for as long as I could, while being bolder in my explorations of her? Going ahead and sucking on her toes while I was playing with her feet? Actually licking and sucking on her tits? Stripping her completely naked (instead of letting her expose her titties, but keep the bra on, and expose her pussy but keep her shorts and panties around her ankles instead of off)? Fingering, licking, and fucking her? Licking her to orgasm, then telling her, “Your turn,” and putting my cock in her mouth? Putting my finger up her ass? Fucking her in the ass? Jacking off onto her face and telling her that she’s a worthless slut? [Hell, if I knew that she was going to basically accuse me of molesting her anyway, I might as well, right?]
Yeah, probably not. Knowing that she’d say ‘no’ (even after the fact), I’d take that as a ‘no’ and leave well enough alone. I’ve got scruples. No forcing my cock into her. (No forcing my cock into anyone, outside of a negotiated scene or a relationship with a “surprise play rape anytime” clause.)
I would have sucked her toes and fingered her, though. If I’d’ve know then what I know now? Definitely would have had her toes in my mouth and my fingers fucking her hot little pussy. Maybe even at the same time. Good Catholic boy? Uh . . . try extremely horny Catholic boy, who just couldn’t help himself.
Anyway, Dot continued to sit on the “Girl I Love” pedestal for another two full years and change, even after all of that. Yikes. All the way up until I found somebody else to sit there. Until I found CJ.
Dot showed up at my mother’s funeral back in 2002. (What is it with old love interests and funerals?) She hadn’t seen any of us in years by that point, and she was all teary-eyed and sniffly over Mom’s death. She cornered me before the service began and asked if I was still living where I had been the last time she’d seen me. I told her I was. She then asked if she could stop by in the next week or so, because she really needed to talk to me. I told her that was fine.
I don’t know how many days she thinks are in a week (or so), but I haven’t seen or heard from her since the funeral.