Dear Penthouse,

…there I was with both Carol and Ginger on their knees at my feet.

Carol had long blonde hair and a wry grin. This was not her first rodeo; she had obviously done this before. She was probably younger than the wrinkles around her eyes may have indicated, but the job will age a woman. An old pro, she took control, telling me how she needed me to pull down my pants; I could not help but oblige her as I drew my pants down toward my feet.

Ginger? She was younger, with shorter black hair and cute dimples. She was still innocent; the job had not yet stripped of her youth as it had done to Carol, but for how long?  If we were to meet under similar circumstances next year, or the year after, would her innocence remain? Would she remember me? (I was after all her “first”)

Carol, Ginger’s “mentor”, raised her hand up assertively, reaching toward my manhood with the confidence that only experience can provide.

Ginger, on the other hand, was not as confident. I anxiously waited for her to make her move, but she did not. She looked up at me sheepishly, almost asking for permission (as if my lowering my pants down to the floor were not permission enough). I looked her in the eyes, nodded, and spoke softly, “Go ahead…”

Slowly and ever so gently, Ginger’s hand reached up to join Carol’s.

“Now turn your head to the right and cough.”


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