John Holmes - Porn King

Out of the corners of my eyes I saw the mini-skirted girl signaling for the instructor. Then he was at her side and I overheard her say, “The model has moved his eyes, sir, and I’m trying to draw them.” Her message was quickly passed on to me, along with a few reminders of his own that stopped just short of chastisement. His words had a chilling effect, just what I needed.

When I looked back at the girl, she had a playful smirk on her face. She was at it again. Now her legs were spread even farther apart, well beyond proprietary bounds. She didn’t even bother to close them. This deliciously humpy number was playing games with me, deliberately trying to turn me on!

Somehow I made it through the rest of the session without embarrassing myself more than I already had. Then I was off the stool, reaching for the towel and whipping it on. No longer was it my exposed front side that concerned me. After sitting in one position for nearly an hour, I had the uneasy feeling that I resembled one of those flame-cheeked African baboons.

“Next time we’ll try a different pose,” said a voice at my side. I turned to find the instructor clearing the area that had been my stage; he was working with several other students in straightening the room. After a slight pause, he looked up and said, “I think we’ll have you standing— what do you think of that? With your legs it should be interesting.”

He’d already answered his question so I just nodded. I doubted seriously, however, that my legs would be much of a factor if the sitting proved to be as “interesting” as the last one.

“Oh, before you get away, Mr. Holmes, I have something for you.” From the inside breast pocket of his designer jacket he retrieved an envelope that contained a voucher—not a check or cash, which I was expecting—and typed instructions that directed me to the cashier’s window in the Student Union. The thought of having to trek halfway across campus for a few bucks before heading home depressed me, but not enough to postpone the long walk till another day. I wanted the money now. I needed to feel my fingers wrapping around it. That was a fact of life, my life. I can’t remember a time when the promise of money hadn’t been a driving force in me. One that has too often led to trouble!

I had only to dress quickly and be off. However, it didn’t quite work out that way. No sooner had I stepped into my little cubbyhole, discarded the towel and reached for my pants than the door began to creek open, so slowly that I thought I’d neglected to shut it tightly. That wasn’t the case. Through the crack I saw two long, shapely legs and a miniskirt. “I’ll be right out,” I said instinctively, turning to step into my pants. The next thing I knew the door was opening wider, then closing, and she was standing inside, smiling vaguely and looking me over from head to toe. “I forgot something,” the girl said quietly. Her voice was soft and feminine, edged with a touch of desperation. In her hands she carried a small paint box and the canvas she’d been working on in class. At that moment, as I struggled with one of the pant legs, I couldn’t have cared less what she was holding. My eyes were on her gorgeous thighs, and my mind was filled with visions of gently fanning butterfly wings.

She leaned the framed canvas against the others that lined wall, then stepped forward to place the paint box on one of the narrow shelves. As she brought her hand down, it gazed my exposed groin, rather accidently, I figured, until it fell back again, this time lingering there. God, my classroom fantasy was coming to life! That, and a flashback to the time when I dreamed of banging my sexy third grade teacher, Mrs. Pryor, in the cloakroom. I’d never made it with “Pussy” Pryor, as the kids jokingly called her, but here I was with very much her equal—a younger version, actually—in much the same secluded setting. “Careful how you handle that, darling,” I warned. “It could get out of control.”

She wasn’t careful, and it did get out of control. Her craving for sex matched mine. We were two desperate animals in heat. We both knew what we wanted, and nothing could hold us back.

What were we doing? It was one thing to be naked in a dim campus closet with a knockout coed, and quite another to have her on her knees with her head buried in my crotch.

“I think we’d better make sure the door’s locked,” I gulped nervously.

She pulled away and looked up sharply. An impish grin crossed her face as she said, “And take away the thrill?” I smiled back, knowingly. She wasn’t the first girl I’d met who had been turned on by the threat of getting caught. It was like having sex in a car on Hollywood Boulevard in broad daylight. Not my idea of a hot time, but if that’s the way she wanted it I was certainly primed to go along with her.

We went at it for a solid ten minutes, oblivious to our cramped surrounding, before she drew back her head and let out a low, choking moan. My hand clamped tightly over her mouth as a searing sensation flooded my groin, jolting me once, twice, again and again with such driving, pounding force that we were left clinging limply to each other, struggling for air. A moment later she slipped quietly away without saying a word. I pulled up my pants and reached for my shirt. It wasn’t on the shelf where I’d placed it earlier; it was under my feet, having fallen to the floor unnoticed. Clean and freshly pressed that morning, it was now trampled, wet and sticky in places and gave off an unmistakable aroma. I held it at arm’s length, flapping it to dry. A few seconds of that and I gave up, put the shirt on, and flicked out the light. I’d already delayed much too long.

The race to the Student Union and back across campus to the bus station on Hilgard Avenue nearly did me in. I wasn’t in the best of shape anyway, thanks to the steamy session in the changing room. My legs felt weak and wobbly; I needed time to rest and recharge. I got more than I had bargained for at the bus station. Sometime between dropping my pants and cashing the voucher, my regular bus had arrived and departed.

Having to take the bus each day infuriated me. It wasn’t so much the ride as the wasted time. I had a car, a borrowed one that I drove to school. What I didn’t have was a permit to park on campus. Without one, and with the hundred-dollar parking fee, I was forced to park two miles away. I could have walked the distance, I suppose, but that too would have eaten into my schedule. Five nights a week, I washed dishes at a small hotdog stand in Hollywood. I was due on the job by four-thirty, which meant I had to hustle, not sit on bus benches.

The car belonged to my roommate, Linda, a magnificently put-together 22-year old with a sharp mind and a quick wit. Linda was a real crowd pleaser, in more ways than one. When we first met, she was working as a secretary for a high-rolling attorney in Hollywood. She was also on call for evening activities with her boss’s clients, a money sideline she kept to herself during the earliest days of our friendship. Apparently she enjoyed her evenings more than her days, for she soon left the attorney’s employ to concentrate on a less restricting career, one that put no demands on her shorthand and typing skills. Her office became the topless joints and clubs along the Hollywood strip, where she met an endless supply of horny men with money to spare. Linda’s new occupation worked fine for me, too. With her days reserved for sleeping, she had little use for her car.

One day, following the Life Drawing class, I returned to our apartment to drop off the car before heading to the restaurant. Linda was waiting for me, anxious to talk. “Not now,” I said, rushing. “I’m late for work.”

“How would you like to make a hundred bucks?” She asked with a sly smile. I slowed down.