Justin Caas - The Third Sex

Kate looked up in annoyance.

“What?”

“I’ve got nothing to wipe with.”

“It’ll dry by itself.” Yet I sympathised. I knew rather accurately what she was feeling. Kate paused indecisively then with a gentle gust of wind, I caught a waft of her pee and the scent affected me powerfully. It seemed at that moment as if my sense of smell had been augmented a thousandfold. I detected a vast number of hidden messages in that scent, most of which I could not identify, but overriding all was a compulsion to get closer. I felt dizzy and disoriented. Hesitantly I suggested I could lick her dry. I don’t know why I suggested this. It was the compulsion speaking. Kate recoiled in distaste.

“It’s okay,” I hastily reassured her. “People do it all the time, it’s…” I cast about for a plausible reason. “It’s natural, sort of good for you,” I finished lamely.

Kate was far from convinced but I could see in her expression that the concept also intrigued her. Kate has always been a bit daring, ready to try anything new. “How will we do it?” she temporised.

“I’ll lie down back in our nest. You can squat over me, okay?”

Kate was still not convinced, but she objected only half-heartedly. My tongue snaked out, lapped at the slit of her sex. Kate shivered and I had to reach up with my hands around her waist to steady her. “Is it dry yet?” she wanted to know.

“Not really, I’ll need to do it some more.” I guess boys learn early, don’t they?

“Well hurry then, it’s making me shiver.”

This proved to be a big understatement. One of the other peculiarities that came with my Third Sex status was an unusually long tongue and it was evidently doing tumultous things to Kate’s emotions and when, on an impulse, it lapped up against her anus, she shuddered violently and muttered something inaudible. I was completely carried away, running in automatic mode and acting entirely on instinct.

Strangely enough Kate did not feel guilty about our naughty behaviour. It was daring and probably forbidden, therefore exciting. We decided to keep it our secret. When Kate suggested thereafter a game in our grass house I detected in her words a frisson of exhilaration that accompanied them, the secret acknowledgement that afterwards we would wet together and I would lick her dry. The attraction for Kate was the tumultous sensations that my tongue sent through her body, the sensations which I later learned were the throes of orgasmic pleasure.

For me the compulsion was harder to define. I just knew that it was something I was driven to do. This urge led on to a more daring concept and one afternoon I suggested to Kate that she save a little and do the rest in my mouth as I licked her.

Kate remained silent as she considered this radical concept. “Why?”

But I think we both sensed why. When something that starts out as novel, exciting and daring becomes repeated often enough it loses its glamour and becomes commonplace and even dreary. Licking up the drips was daring in the beginning. This new prospect seemed a whole lot more exciting but also a bit scary. So it had all the ingredients of setting off into the unknown again and of course we couldn’t resist it.

We had always been attuned to each other’s moods and now Kate seemed instinctively to sense that she would have to release it in little spurts lest I were drowned in a flood. I could feel her body tremble faintly as she prepared herself. My heart pounded more strongly as I waited. When the first spurt came hotly in my mouth it was both familiar yet unexpected. It was a taste that was both ordinary yet ancient; and rather unexpected that I found it so desirable. Swallowing Kate’s offering just seemed both natural and enjoyable. So with lips pressed firmly against her vulva I drank steadily from her and felt flooding through my whole being the intimacy of being connected to her as some intimate part of her own body mingled and spread throughout my own.

Naturally at the age of eight or nine, I couldn’t express these concepts in as many words, but they were there as a glimmer of an inner understanding. Of course we were both drawn to do it again, picking a time when we could indulge ourselves without fear of being interrupted. No one had actually said such a thing was wrong but from an early age children usually sense what is socially acceptable and what is not. For some reason we were both drawn to this private secret that we shared and thereafter we repeated it many times.

Of course I also felt a vague sense of guilt at times because I was sure that drinking from your sister wasn’t really a socially approved activity. I don’t think it bothered Kate and she never raised the issue as a moral one. It wasn’t until some years later that I chanced upon an article that changed my thinking. It was headed ‘The latest news – old knowledge. Urine is the perfect medicine!’

That startled me a bit. I read on: ‘Used for thousands of years, urine therapy is being rediscovered and proves repeatedly to be the perfect medicine it has always been.’

Who says so? Some high profile doctors apparently, although it is hardly a mainstream medical position. Yet was practised by some high-profile believers such as Moraji Desai a former Prime Minister of India. The English actress Sara Miles was also a keen advocate, citing Gandhi, who was also an adherent of the belief, and she followed the tradition of drinking her own urine for thirty years, saying that it has kept her healthy and vigorous.

Well perhaps, or perhaps not, but the biggest relief to me was that I was not alone and more importantly there was perhaps no need to feel guilty about it. However I was later to discover that my motivation did not arise from any intellectual human decision about such things. It ran deeper than that and was a byproduct of how I came to be born the way I was.

I had a few friends at school but not as many as other students. I think most pupils were wary because I was different and because of this I also came in for a fair share of teasing. Before long I came to the attention of Pudding and his two cronies, the school bullies.

They caught me as I was leaving school one afternoon. Pudding blocked my path, “What are you staring at?” he demanded.

“I wasn’t staring,” I apologised. I thought of running, and looked frantically around me. There was nowhere to run to.

“You calling me a liar?” he replied belligerantly.

“No, I’ve …” But it was at that moment that I discovered that words although outwardly reasonable do not always work in your favour. In fact words only work in the favour of people who are receptive to them. Pudding apparently, was not.

“I’ve had enough of your smart talk,” and the next moment a stinging blow caught the side of my face. It was followed by another to my stomach and I collapsed to the ground. This made it easier for Pudding’s two cronies to join in, which they did with fists and feet, especially feet. Then without warning they disappeared. I looked up to see a teacher glaring down at me. It was Master Preborne, known to be one ready with the cane and short on philosophical insights.

“If I catch you fighting again you’ll be in big trouble,” he warned then departed without a backward glance.

Of course when I arrived home there were questions about my bruised and battered state. As it happened father was sharing a drink with an old friend, a man of middle years but with a fitness that spoke of an active life. His friend looked at me quizzically, “What happened?”

I told him and to his next question, I agreed that it wasn’t the first time.