Fact
May 1, 2015


The fringe alternative sexual activity called “dogging” is once again becoming quite popular. “Once again?”, you ask. “Why yes”, I answer. You see, “dogging” is nothing new. It’s been around since Homo Erectus first got erect. Only the name is new. I am an old lady now, and like most old ladies, I enjoy reminiscing about the excitement of younger days. So here it is. My sexual life story from an old cumslut. What I post here (and in subsequent parts to this story) is absolute fact as far as decades old memories will allow, however, for the sake of continuity, I did take some liberties to fill in gaps in memory with some minor fanciful prose.

I’ve been an aficionado of dogging in its many incarnations over the decades. Oh yes, decades, for I’m an old lady who was (and still is) obsessed with sex. How old and how obsessed? Well, let’s put it this way – I remember historic events through my sex life. For instance, the first penis to ejaculate in my presence was the day Judy Garland died. The first time a penis went up my vagina was 20 minutes before Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon. I gave my first and second blowjob the day Governor George Wallace was shot. My first gangbang occurred the day President Nixon resigned from office. It was a small one, just three men and me. But all three came twice, so I think of it as six and me. And I went “dogging” for the first time while serial killer “Son of Sam” was still roaming the streets of NYC shooting people.

I put “dogging” in quotes because it wasn’t called that in 1977. Back then, young folks my age were dancing in discos, snorting cocaine, popping birth-control pills and enjoying the most indiscriminate sex. In fact, serial quickie sex was the purpose for going to the disco. You would meet a guy that you liked, and “do” him right there. The stalls in the women’s bathrooms were sometimes used for quickies, but the parking lot is where most of the anonymous sex took place. But wherever you did it, if, by the end of the night, your vagina wasn’t holding at least two cumshots, it was considered a bad night.

I hung out with two girls that were absolutely boy-crazy. They loved meaningless sex, but were mostly looking for a “relationship”, and they would go to the discos looking for a “boyfriend”. And if they didn’t find boyfriend material, they would still retreat to the parking lot for a poke up the pussy with pretty much anyone … if he was cute. I, on the other hand, just wanted meaningless sex, and he didn’t have to be cute. For me, all he had to be was horny.

Unfortunately, in 1977 the age of admission to the discos in NYC was 18, and I was a year shy of that, but the girls still took me with them because I had a car and I supplied the marijuana. Occasionally a doorman would let me slip by, but most of the time I was denied admission. So I would hang out at a nearby McDonalds waiting for “rendezvous time” – exactly 10 PM. At that time my friends would come to the parking lot with three boys of their choosing.

It was impossible for anyone to have sex in my Fiat Spider, let alone three couples. So after some brief introductions and a round of pot smoking, we would walk to the adjacent parking lot where there was an industrial warehouse with several loading docks. Each loading dock had an open-frame staircase of perforated metal, much like what you’d see on a fire escape. We would pair off and each of us would take one staircase on which to enact the standard sequence – start with gentle kissing which quickly escalates to rather vigorous French kissing while tit, leg and ass groping, followed by the insertion of the boy’s finger into your anatomy, followed by the administration of a blowjob until you start tasting precum, and ending with the grand finale up the vagina.

The metal staircase wasn’t the most comfortable place for sex, but we didn’t care. For a college boy, the lure of vagina is so enticing that it could be done on a bed of nails. And for my friends, the prospect of potentially snagging a cute boyfriend nullified any degree of discomfort. But for me, sex was something abhorrent. It was a temporary remedy for a void in my spirit that I couldn’t identify. For me, the thought of being liked by a boy was horrible. I didn’t like intimacy. I didn’t like kissing. I did it because it was the standard prelude to what I really wanted – the penis up my vagina. All other preliminaries were done simply as a way to get to that end. And even with intercourse, I never did it face to face with any of them. My typical way of doing it was to kneel on one of the steps and bend over in a kind of kneeling fetal posture, with the boy standing with his penis up the back of my miniskirt. And really, the only part of intercourse I liked was the cumshot. The back and forth pumping part never appealed to me. It was just a necessary ritual to induce the cumshot. Through said ritual, the boys would pant and moan and emit the occasional “oh yeah”, but for me, it was always just another form of friction … until …

Until those magic few seconds just before HIS orgasm. Those few seconds when the boy feels that “point-of-no-return” sensation. I could always sense it through its powerful subtleties. I could feel the head of the penis bloating and the shaft stretching inside me. I can feel his thighs begin to quiver against the back of mine. I can feel that “tightness” in his belly against my butt cheeks. Hands that were enjoying the feel of my legs and breasts, are now devouring said feeling. And I can hear those little sighs and moans that were once expressing joy, now sounding like the frantic whimpers of a man strapped helplessly in a wheelchair that’s about to roll off a cliff.

If sex was food, that point instantly transforms a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of water into a 7-course lobster dinner and a bottle of vintage Cabernet. A jolt races through me that’s more akin to a cocaine rush than anything sexual. In an instant, I can feel my body taken over by someone else – a little girl who’s lived in my head since my childhood. SHE is now in charge, I am only a spectator. I feel her lift my butt a tiny bit higher and begin to subtly reposition it in search of whatever angle will accept the intruder into my insides as deeply as physics would allow. I can feel HER start rippling that tube inside me up and down along the shaft of the intruder, literally jerking the boy off with my insides to assure that his orgasm hits him like a steamroller. SHE is doing all this, not me.

Then, for those magic 6-8 seconds, SHE tells my hands to grip the stair step and hold my body still to maximize the effectiveness of his last few pushes. And SHE whispers in my head “here it comes … here it comes … here it comes”. It’s a feeling of anticipation like when the rollercoaster is just starting to crest that first big drop. You don’t know exactly when it’s going to happen, but you know it WILL happen, and any second now … and it’s going to be huge. And huge it is. That first squirt inside me is very much like that first drop on a rollercoaster. That’s what it feels like to me. It’s a thrill that starts in my vagina, spreads into my abdomen, then races up my back and into breasts, hardening my nipples into rocks. As many times as I’ve felt that rush, I’ve never tired of it.

And then, it’s done. The little girl in my head was never satisfied. The young woman on the staircase feels the thrill quickly subside. Afterwards I would go home and replay the boy’s cumshot over and over in my head while masturbating. Sex was never satisfying, but I kept doing it at that disco if for no other reason than fodder for masturbation.

Then, one night in mid July of that year I noticed we weren’t alone in the parking lot. I noticed we were being watched by a man with binoculars in a car parked nearby. Thinking it was an undercover police officer, I informed the boy I was with. The boy told me “they’re not cops … just perverts”, and he continued our early foreplay activity. “THEY”? As the boy was preoccupied feeling me up, I began studying the nooks and crannies of the warehouse complex. It was peppered with men hiding in cars, behind ledges, in shadows, etc. Apparently it was common knowledge that “perverts” lurk in the dark and watch the action in the lots.

It was also common knowledge that these men were harmless. “Ahhh, don’t worry ‘bout them. They’re more afraid of us then we are of them”, the boy said with a dismissive tone. But I wasn’t afraid of them – I was fascinated by them. There was something about their desperation that I found very arousing. I wanted to watch them watch us, but they kept themselves very well hidden, and all I could see were outlines.

Suddenly I became quite interested in foreplay with the boy, not because I wanted foreplay, but because I wanted to titillate the “perverts” with it. Normally we didn’t undress for quickies in the parking lot, but I knew the perverts needed to see “girl skin”, so I unbuttoned my blouse and removed my bra. I hate oral sex being done to me, but this time I allowed the boy to do it because it enabled me to lift my skirt and remove my panties. I noticed the man in the car was holding his binoculars with only one hand. I surmised he was jerking off with the other. I also noticed the other men were gradually moving to closer hiding spots.

Normally I performed oral on the boy to ready him for intercourse. But this time I performed very deep slow oral because I knew it make him moan and pant … and I wanted the perverts to hear it. And when it came time for intercourse, instead of doing it up under the back of the skirt with my panties pulled to the side, I kept my panties off and lifted my skirt above my hips. All the time I kept my attention not on the boy, but on the perverts. The boy was no longer my sex partner – he was just a prop. THEY were my sex partner.

My sex life changed dramatically after that night. All I could think about were those men the boys called “the perverts”. It would be years before a psychologist would explain to me the nature of my pathological attraction to this type of male, but that summer at age 17, was the start of my lifelong obsession with them. For weeks after the revelation of that night, I masturbated to imaginations of what it would be like for one of THEM to climax inside me. The disco boys fuck for sport. A disco boy’s orgasm is a culmination of fun, not much different than the pleasure of shouting at a baseball game. But to a “pervert”, orgasm is something else. It’s an imperative, it’s the culmination not of 2 minutes of fun, but of a lifetime of pent up desperation that no normal man will ever feel.

When a disco boy cums, he squirts out the remnants of optional pleasure. But what squirts out of one of these lurkers? All the girls they watched? The miles of girl skin they saw being felt up? Perhaps the 8 year old niece he was lusting for since she was 6? Maybe the cheerleader he watched give a blowjob behind the bleachers? THIS is the kind of desperation I wanted to feel burst out inside me. I don’t like sex. I don’t like intimacy. I don’t like foreplay. I don’t like the sensation of intercourse. But I am totally addicted to the thrill of the male orgasm inside me. It’s the only reason I do sex at all. The disco boys give me a fun little “kick” when they climax inside me. But something was always missing. Something intangible. Something not just felt in the body, but in the spirit. And I knew instinctively that these “pervert” lurkers were the key to unlock that “something”.

Within a few days of that night I began wondering if the lurkers inhabited places other than just the disco parking lots, and Hudson Park came to mind. Hudson Park is a large public park with lots of alcoves and hidden paths. There was a large densely wooded area that ran the perimeter of the park through which ran a number of cross-country ski trails. In the summer this wooded region was unpopulated and essentially isolated from the rest of the park.

Well … it wasn’t completely unpopulated. During summer months kids from the neighborhood high schools would use the open areas of the ski trails as “lovers lanes” – hidden “nooks” where they can make out and experiment with sex. I was there myself with boys on a few occasions. My first thought was to wonder if the pervert lurkers are there too. And that was my second thought, and my third, and … the more I thought about it, the more I realized those lovers lane areas would be perfect for the lurkers. They could easily hide in the surrounding woods and have a perfect view of the open areas – and in broad daylight. I just HAD to know if they were in that park.

The wooded areas were invisible from the roadways, so I knew I would have to walk through the ski trails if I was going to find lurkers (if any). So I took a notepad with me and strolled through the ski trails pretending to look like a college student doing a civics project. It didn’t take long for me to find what I was looking for. There were men everywhere. They roamed the trails looking like ants. They were all men between the ages of about 35 and 70, they were all dressed in dark clothing, some were in camouflage clothing, and a few were carrying binoculars. One actually had camouflage face paint. They were all VERY shy. As soon as one saw me, he would instantly change direction as if I was coated with repellant. In fact, they even avoided crossing paths with each other.

This subculture fascinated me so much that it became an actual research study for me. I was in that park every day for a week watching them from my own hiding places, and learning every nuance of lurker subculture. I learned that lurkers are in that park all day long, from 8 AM to after sundown, and many of them in the park the whole day. Some of them are in the park for a couple hours at a time, several times a day. Most of them leave around sundown, but a few remain after dark. One of them appeared to have a type of goggles that could see in the dark. They would roam between each lovers lane area in search of one that’s active. It was clear these men were completely addicted to the titillation of this behavior.

There was activity in the lovers lanes areas on the average about three times a day. On the average a couple would spend about an hour in a lovers lane area. Most of the activity was high school couples “making out” and groping, in which the lurkers got to see a LOT of thigh, butt, and bare breasts. About 30% of the time, it ended either in intercourse or in the boy getting a blowjob to completion. Thus, on the average, the lurkers watched about three hours of girls getting felt up, and one full sexual event per day. And on the average, the lurkers would search for about two hours between events.

When a lurker finds action, he instantly takes a hiding spot, then carefully creeps to progressively closer hiding spots. They usually can get to within about ten feet of the couple. In bright daylight, this is close enough to see the texture on the girl’s skin and to hear the couple’s discussions. I never saw any lurker get noticed by a couple.

If the couple wasn’t engaged in sex play, the lurker would patiently watch and listen to them while grabbing at his erection either through his pants, or by placing his hand down his pants. As soon as the conversation got quiet and the sex play started, the lurker would take his erection through his zipper and begin to masturbate while watching the couple intently. Interestingly, the lurkers never masturbated to completion. Instead, they would jerk off for a few seconds, then stop and just sort of squeeze the penis. It seems the titillation of how the sexual encounter escalates, and the promise of better and better “things” happening as every minute progresses, is enough to dissuade them from cumming … and therefore ending their lust to watch.

It’s clear that these men find tremendous arousal in watching the escalation towards intercourse. But once intercourse starts, it’s actually anticlimactic for the lurker. With the boy’s penis now inside the girl, the lurker can no longer see it. And with the boy on top of the girl (the usual position for novice high school lovers), the lurker can’t see more than the girl’s naked knees. The lurker can hear any sounds the couple make, and can hear when the boy cums, and this is titillating for him, but then it’s over. And unless the lurker was unable to hold back orgasm, he then goes in search of another active site.

Thus, the nature of these lurkers’ addiction keeps them on the verge of orgasm for hours on end while they absorb a tremendous amount of what is essentially live hard-core teenage porn. The lurker finally jerks off to completion when he literally can’t take anymore.

In late July of that year I began taking boys to the lovers lane areas in Hudson Park, selecting spots where the lurkers had a perfect view of us. I wasn’t interested at all in the boys. I was there for the lurkers. During sex with these boys, my eyes were fixated on whatever bits and pieces of lurker I could see in their hiding places. And the more I watched them watch me, the more I wanted to “serve” myself to them. I wanted to feel lurker penis go inside me, and I wanted to feel lurker perversion squirt into my guts. But I instinctively understood that simply giving sex to a lurker the way I give it to normal boys wouldn’t work, for that takes them out of their “pervert” mindset, and puts them in the mindset of a sport fucker. Somehow I would have to become an unwitting part of their world … or at least have them think of me that way. But how?

The answer came one bright sunny day in early August when I was sitting on a bench in Hudson Park near the lover lanes. A man sat next to me and started talking. He was about 50 years old, very overweight, smelly, and it looked like he hadn’t washed his hair in a week. After a few minutes of small talk and introductions, he came right out and told me that he watched me “make love” to my “boyfriend” the day before … and he noticed I was aware of him watching. He asked me if I liked watching men jerk off.

At first I was frightened. I thought I was in big trouble. But there was something in his jovial demeanor that comforted me. Nevertheless, I denied it, and even tried to act shocked at such a vulgar suggestion. But he kept at it. He told me he would jerk off for me if I wanted him to. Although we were on the outskirts of a desolate area of the park, there were playing children and their parents in a distant playground, and I felt confident that I could easily outrun him to the playground if need be. I just sat there and didn’t say anything to him. He put his hand down his pants I could see a slow rhythmic motion through the front of his pants. I just sat still and pretended not to watch. In a few seconds his hips were squirming and he began panting. I was wearing shorts, and his other hand started feeling up my thigh. In about 15 seconds he said “here it comes”, and he started huffing and squirming wildly. He then took his hand out of his pants and said “see” as he showed it to me glistening with semen. He then wiped his hand on my thigh, and I just stared at it.

His name was Erno. Afterwards we talked openly about our sexuality. I confessed that I was indeed watching the lurkers, and that I was fascinated by them. I told him about the lot at the disco, and I told him all about the sexual exploitation in my childhood. There was something about Erno that made me feel both excited and secure, and he made me feel very comfortable opening up about the deepest darkest secrets of my sexuality. It was about 9 AM when this happened, and Erno asked me to meet him in the park for lunch at noon. I agreed.

Erno showed up with a shopping bag of food, and we had a picnic for lunch, during which time he convinced me that he knows what my “soul yearns for” (his words), and he knows how to provide it. By the end of that lunch date I knew that Erno held the secret to what I couldn’t define. And so, when he asked me to be his “girlfriend” … I accepted. I had meaningless recreational sex with nearly a hundred boys, some without even knowing their name, but Erno became my first actual boyfriend.

Our first date was dinner followed by a sexual encounter, ironically (or perhaps deliberately) in Hudson Park. The sex was fairly normal, going thought the “standard sequence”, with the exception that he ejaculated before it actually penetrated me. We then talked about what our second date was going to be. He told me that there is a place where I can get the “kind of cock” (his words) I seek, and lots of it. He told me he would take me there the next day (which was a Sunday), but I have to keep an open mind and do what he says. He told me to try it once, and if I didn’t like it I don’t ever have to do it again. Of course, he never told me what “it” was … until “it” actually happened.

He told me to wear a short loose-fitting skirt with nothing underneath, and go braless with a top that can be pulled over my breasts without having to take any clothing off. He asked me if I was keeping up with my birth control pills. And he told me not to wear any jewelry. All this mystery was already exciting to me. That Sunday afternoon we drove about an hour, and ended up in a dingy parking in a distant suburb of NYC. Erno told me to wait in the car and watch the back door of what looked like an old brick factory building. In about five minutes the door cracked open and Erno was frantically waving me in. I blindly ran into the door and was instantly submerged in near total darkness … which became total darkness once Erno snapped the door closed behind me.

I could hear music and strange whining, and although I couldn’t see anything, I could tell I was in a cavernous room. Erno took my hand and led me deep into the darkness. After a few steps I could see faint light in my peripheral vision. I turned my head and saw a movie screen with what was obviously an X-rated movie. Now I knew – I was in a porn theater.

As Erno was leading me further towards the back of the theater, I could hear jostling about, as if men were getting up from their seats, and I could sense a number of people following us. However, with my eyes still burned out from bright sunlight, I couldn’t see anything. We stopped, and Erno sat in an aisle seat about half way into the theater. At this point, the aisle extended into a large open area between blocks of seats. Erno gently pull me towards him and whispered for me to bend over his lap. As I did, he rested my head on the adjacent seat and my legs extended into the open area. Erno whispered to me to “just relax and keep your legs closed”.

Within seconds I felt a hand on my leg, which very quickly multiplied into a mass of hands all over my legs and up the back of my skirt. I felt Erno bending over me and heard the typical “ahhhh” sound a man makes when he’s getting close to orgasm. I turned my head to see behind me. My eyes were now sufficiently adjusted to the dark to clearly see what was happening at my backside. A mass of men had gathered into the open area and were clambering to get a hand on any square inch of exposed leg skin. One man was standing next to me (and in front of Erno), and had both hands on my butt cheeks, and his penis was in Erno’s mouth. The man’s eyes were wondering all over me, and occasionally gazed at the movie screen. Sometime he looked around at the crowd, and sometimes even at the ceiling … but he never looked at Erno. It was like he was trying to blot out Erno, even though it was Erno’s mouth that was delivering the heaven this man so desperately seeks.

There were men trying to couch my legs open, a few even to the point of trying to pry them open. But I kept them closed at Erno’s request. There wasn’t a single patch of my skin that didn’t have a hand feeling it. There were men pushing their penises into the seat where my head was, but I never liked giving blowjobs, and didn’t want to do it there. There were hands trying to reach under Erno to get at my breasts. There were even hands feeling up my shoulders and neck. In about three minutes the blowjob man’s hips began to pump widely into Erno’s mouth and his hands began to grab hard at my butt cheeks. A few seconds later the man let out an “uhhhh” sound, and I felt Erno’s erection harden like rock under my belly. Erno swallowed the man’s entire ejaculation.

Within one second of the man leaving his spot, another one jumped into it with his penis extending straight out through his zipper, and he began running his hands frantically all over my butt and upper thighs. Instantly Erno bent forward and I saw the man’s penis disappear in Erno’s mouth. But this time Erno only administered oral for about 30 seconds, then he pulled his head back and whispered to me to “let him in”, as he gently gestured my legs apart. With one hand Erno shushed away the men who were trying to get between my legs, and whispered to the man at my side “go ahead”.

As the man was nervously positioning himself behind me, Erno applied a gob of Vaseline to my vagina. I felt the penis slide around between my labia for a couple seconds, then I felt it go in. I felt 4 or 5 pushes, then I felt him ejaculating inside me, and heard him moan. I heard a few different voices whisper exclamation such as “oh god” and “holy shit”. After him there wasn’t a period of more than about 5 seconds when my vagina wasn’t being penetrated. I remember one of the penises trying to push into my face ejaculated all over my cheek, and I decided to turn my head towards them. I just kept my mouth open so they could put it in without me sucking.

I was bent over Erno’s lap for about 20 minutes, and I estimate that I had about 25-30 penetrations with internal ejaculation (I don’t know if they were all different men or if some came back for “seconds”), a few ejaculated between my butt cheeks, 2 or 3 came either on my butt or on my legs while trying to put it in, about 8-10 came in my mouth, and about 10 more climaxed without getting behind me – either just from feeling me up, or from the anticipation, or by jerking off.

On the drive home from the theater, something happened that neither Erno nor I anticipated – backflow. A HUGE amount of semen oozed continuously from my vagina and soaked into the upholstery of Erno’s passenger seat. So much came out in the hour trip back home that it left a soaked area with the impression of my entire butt and backs of my thighs. When we got to the parking lot at Hudson Park, I could see in the sunlight that my skirt was blotched with areas of semen, and some of it had already dried into large areas of powdery residue. There was dried residue on my face and in my hair. As I walked I could feel my butt cheeks slide against each other in the lubrication of the semen that completely filled my butt crack.

Erno looked at the mess and his jaw dropped. He said “look at it all”, in the voice of a little boy in awe of his Christmas present. Erno quickly led me into the trails, and told me to bend forward against a tree. He put his penis between my butt cheeks and slid is around in the slime. This seemed to excite him intensely. Every once in a while he would dip his penis into my vagina, then pull it out and go back into the butt crack. He did this a few times, then left it in my vagina until he had an orgasm.

I remember being awestruck at what happened in the theater. What I loved about it was the type of male there – sexual weaklings that can’t withstand any prolonged vagina without cumming. The vast majority of those men will go right to orgasm instantly upon insertion. A few will manage a few pumps. None of them will survive longer than about 15 seconds. I had always viewed intercourse as a form of investment. And like any investor, I want to get as much return on as little investment as possible. I crave the male orgasm inside me. That’s the only reason I do sex. All other aspects of sex are just a means to that end. In an adult theater, I can get a LOT of male orgasms inside my vagina for nearly no accumulated investment.

After that day, the adult theater became my sexual mainstay. Erno was a latent homosexual who wanted to be surrounded by “furious cock” (his words), and “nothing puts fury in a cock better than a girl” (his words again). Immediately after a man penetrated me, Erno would secretly ring his finger around the base of the man’s penis so he could feel the semen pulses ripple up the shaft. Erno would usually cum during the onslaught, but if he didn’t, a quick journey up my vagina or between my butt cheeks while he was sucking a penis would finish him positively.

Before that summer was up, Erno took me into the woods at Hudson Park and “served” me to his fellow lurkers. They are the same ilk of male that frequents adult theaters, except that in broad daylight, they are quite a bit more inhibited than in the near total darkness of an adult theater. That started my lifelong venture into the world of what has become known as “dogging”, although back then it didn’t have a name.

Erno didn’t make me a dogging girl, or a cumslut. I was all that before I ever knew what an adult theater of dogging site was. I was a cumslut before I ever knew what the word meant. Erno simply showed me what was already in my head.

In Part 2, which I will post soon, I will tell you how I got this way.


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