Micki was not my girlfriend, despite her efforts to convince me otherwise. I didn't call her in the evenings to talk, I didn't spend a lot of time with her at school, I didn't hold her hand at lunch, I didn't look for her on the sidelines during our games. She was a receptacle for me, a cum receptacle. She did the work for me so I didn't have to use my hand to jack off. Every Friday night, every Saturday night, and one time on a Sunday afternoon, we managed to meet somewhere to jump each other's bones. I ate her out, she gave me head, I fucked her or she fucked me. But there was no feeling of affection there, no inclinations of romantic attachment, no murmurs of love afterward from me. Animal instinct took over as soon as I felt her tits, or she shoved her hand down my jeans, and we just let it happen. The only time any real emotion was shown was one Saturday night when, having already blown my wad once down her throat, she turned her slim ass toward me in invitation and said, "You. I’m pretty fierce too. I like to win.’ She was charming the pants off me. Mystery girl, who probably didn’t weigh much over a hundred ten pounds. ‘How come you are so skinny? Even on a trapeze, I don’t know how much good your weight will do.’ ‘I’m a runner. We don’t carry much extra. If you are sailing well, you don’t need a ton of weight out there.’ I looked at her and saw the challenge in her eyes. Sailing well, eh. She was at least going to get a trial. ‘I have to go to the car to get my gear. The sails are under that counter. We’ll use the small jib and the regular main.’ When I got back, the boat was almost ready. ‘What’s the best way to get out of here?’ She looked around and said, ‘The jib will take us downwind out of the basin and we can do the main in clear water.’ ‘Right you are. Hoist it and I’ll cast off.’ I had barely got the stern line free when a big gust hit us and we scrambled for control. She was down in the cockpit with the jib sheet with no prompting from me. I.
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