Most of the tops had hoods, and I grew rather adept at slipping about like a monk engaged in espionage. It was handy to wear Mother's tennis shoes as well.Long hair meant fewer trips to the barbershop. My mother gave in to my desire to look like the popular singers of the day, and allowed me to grow it long. After a period of increasing neglect of my part, resulting in tangled strands and desultory attempts at shampooing, Mother took me to her hairdresser. A sweet and motherly woman, Nancy taught me how to take care of my hair. My hair grew quite long even for a girl, falling below my buttocks slightly.In my grooming, I was guided by an ideal that was centered around my Mother. I'd watched her prepare herself to leave the house countless times, and the picture of her voluptuous figure perched on her dressing stool in front of her vanity is a picture I'll always remember.She was the very paragon of feminine pulchritude. Others may idealize movie stars and other celebrities, but I have. I had long since lost count of the orgasms I’d had before Mila finally got up from between my legs, slid up my sweat-soaked body, and kissed me on the mouth. I could taste and smell myself on her lips and tongue.“You were great,” she murmured. “It felt great to be giving you such pleasure.”“I...I want to do it to you,” I said. “Show me what to do.”So she did. In the years since then I’ve probably had sex with fifty women, and I’ve done a lot of things that I never did with Mila the whole while we were together. But if none of the women I’ve fucked had any reason to complain about my performance in bed, it was due to Mila.I still remember her smooth, hairless vulva, the inner labia demurely folded within the thick bulge of her outer lips, and how she unfolded like a bud as my fingers spread her apart. I remember her gasp of pleasure as my fumbling tongue found her clit. I remember how her vagina felt to my finger, the ridged moistness of it clenching down as her perineal muscles.
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