1. The Hangout


    Date: 11/3/2015, Categories: Fantasy, Consensual Sex, First Time, Job/Place-of-work, Male/Female, Oral Sex, Author: wantsomefun, Rating: 89.1, Source: sexstories.com

    go back to school.” “My car could stand some highway miles. I can visit. I need to help you paint your apartment.” “Yes, you do – the ceiling over my bed. When we’re done, I’ll inspect it lying on my back while we have fun.” She kissed me and went in the house. *** About “The Hangout”: The real name of the place wasn’t that, but an eighteen-and-up club did, in fact, open when I was a college kid in the small city near the town where I grew up. An entrepreneur bought an abandoned quonset hut that had been used as a heavy truck repair shop. The new owner steam-cleaned everything and turned it into a dance hall with a disc jockey and small-time bands. The character in my story is nothing like the real man, a legitimate business owner and developer. My guy is a caricature of several sleazy promoters I’ve seen in my day and is portrayed as he is for scene setting and comic relief. I’m “Jeremy”. “Martha” went to my high school. She was our graduating class’ only hippie – skinny, funky hair, bell bottom jeans, peace sign jewelry, and anti-Viet Nam war slogans on her clothes. She was the first person I knew who tried that dangerous narcotic Mary Jane, a.k.a. whacky weed or grass, which was still very much a dirty Commie pinko radical thing way back then in our conservative little east coast town. By the time we were sophomores in college, many people our age smoked pot. Martha was a brilliant artist, good with every medium and style. She loved abstract, psychedelic, and ...
    surrealist art. Before the club opened, the owner hired her to decorate parts of it, not nearly as much as in the story, but enough to make the place very “cool” for its time and a true novelty in the region. The owner supplied people to help with the project, so I wasn’t involved. I did, however, see the inside of the place before, during, and after she did her work. Very “far out”. Martha dressed as I described for opening night. I ran into her there and admired her work with her for a few minutes. The setting was real. The protagonists were real. The actions were not. We never made love. Martha and I didn’t have as much contact after high school graduation as we did before, at least in part because she went to a prestigious art college in a city a distance from me. She aced every class. She was hugely successful in the local and collegiate art worlds, earning grants for several advanced degree programs, including study abroad. She was also chosen as valedictorian for her college graduation. When it was time for the ceremony she didn’t show up, so people went looking for her. They found a note pinned to her folded cap and gown on the roof of her ten-floor apartment building saying she had realized all her dreams. Her broken body was in the parking lot below. “The Hangout” was her Sistine Chapel, her defining work, the one thing most people remembered about her after she was gone. This romanticized fantasy is a sort of tribute to a brilliant, creative, and troubled young woman.
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