“In Hippy Sunshine I Trusted” by Shannon Barber

To understand the grave implications of what I’m about to say, we’re going to need to take a trip back in time. Yours truly, age   twenty-one,  worked a supposedly cool retail job and  felt pretty damn sassy about myself.  Single, I  looked for sex. I thought I had  the secret workings of my own genitals figured out.

Around that age, I read a truckload of delicious and filthy queer porn. I spent many nights reading one-handed with books by people like: M. Christian, Bill Brent, Cecilia Tan, Patrick Califa, Laura Antoniou, and many others. Their stories were raw and rough; they  wrote about the kind of sex I wanted to have .

That summer, I met a girl whom  I’ll call Hippy Sunshine. We became fast friends. We were into each other, we wanted to screw, and we didn’t want to be girlfriends. I fell in lust with the golden fur on her legs, she loved my big boobs, and everything was  set up for baby dyke frolic.

She worked a few blocks away from my job  and I’d frequently walk out to find her lounging on the corner, waiting for me. We walked down the street holding hands, we snuggled on the bus, and we went to every sex shop  we could find.

What we lacked in experience, we made up for with adventurous bouts of sex. Often, I ran out of her house–still sex-funky and giggling–already late for work. Many nights I worked in a happy haze thinking about her lush golden bush and tiny hard ass. I remember putting away  DVDs and wondered  if I could spank her with one.

Most of the time, we tried to contain our various yelps and joyous hollering due to her  roommates, four boys who were all uncomfortable with the reality  of girls fucking in the house. One glorious weekend, the boys  were out of town, neither of us had to work, and we had a plan. Shit was about to get real.

Armed with several kinds of lube, new toys and lots of time, we spent an entire Saturday in bed. We did everything we could think of, including  Hippy spending a good hour  manhandling me into a position that would allow her to t fist me in an easy fashion.  The attempt, however, failed–more so because of positioning than patience..

After a break for snacks and re-hydration,  Hippy announced that she was going to see just how many times she could make me come with her fingers and the small bullet vibrator we’d bought together.

As she did  things to my pussy (none of which I could have told you then or tell you now), something deep inside started to happen. She thrusted with two fingers in a way that made air visible and colorful. . I felt it in my belly; it felt like I was being impaled and turned inside out.  Another few strokes and I lost all language skills.

Hippy  had her head down, sworking hard, and I was so enveloped in the strange and possibly cataclysmic things happening in my pussy, I didn’t have the sense to tap her. My breathing went deep, I felt all those years of school band coming to me and I used my diaphragm to bring in more and more oxygen  My soul was full of my own heartbeat.

During those lucid moments , one tiny part of my brain tried frantically  to signal that danger lay ahead. That little part of my brain thought I was about to pee all over Hippy  or possibly have a heart attack.  Pressure built outward from where her crooked fingers rubbed and prodded at what I would later understand was my G-Spot. I thought she was going to break my cunt. I was going to go insane, the universe was going to implode and I couldn’t stop.

I didn’t want to stop.

She hadn’t even gotten to the vibrator yet and I’d forgotten about it, I was suspended in some kind of hot place full of light and insanity, then it happened. She touched that powerful little vibrator to my clit just enough and the apocalypse was nigh.

My pussy contracted hard enough around her fingers to slow them and I felt huge pressure and spasmodic release. Liquid leaked out of me and around her fingers. She removed her fingers and the liquid just kept coming. The orgasm was so overwhelming, I  made bestial, primordial sounds I didn’t know I could make.  She stared open-mouthed at my pussy.

For a few minutes, neither of us said a word . She smiled her huge, gap-toothed smile and I covered my face with my hands. I could hardly breath and I burst into the kind of loud, noisy tears that I’d always found  embarrassing.

I was  certain I’d just pissed all over Hippy , her bed,  and myself.. Hippy took charge; s with her sweet, gentlemanly butchness , she put her arms around me. and cooed into my ear, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

She rubbed my belly and once I stopped the louder part of my crying, she investigated. She put her nose against my pubic hair.  She sniffed, she tasted, and she pronounced  that I had not, in fact, peed.

“I made you squirt.”

We had read about that. Neither of us had any real idea what it was prior to that moment. I stopped crying and laughed.  Hippy knelt between my legs with her scrawny chest puffed out, then jumped up and did a little dance. She strutted around the room crowing while I lay there helpless with laughter and amazement.

After that,  she was  on a mission. For the next few months, all she did was make me squirt again and again. That girl made me come like it was her job and she was good at it. Meanwhile, I  contemplated what  happened that first time.

Often,  I think about Hippy Sunshine and her workman-like attention to making me squirt. I wonder if she’s off somewhere with a wife, a few kids and the house she always dreamed of. Part of me envisions that Hippy Sunshine has gone on to form some kind of Sacred Pussy Whispering School where she teaches people how to make their partners squirt.

Alone after the first time, I  held a mirror between my legs and  marveled that something  so powerful, — so sacred, could happen in my cunt. For the first time, I  understood the holy power of pussy. I got it.