My grandmother pulled me close against her, as I cried. I could smell her perfume, and feel her warmth. Her hand rubbed the back of my head gently, and I kept crying.I was fifteen, kissing a girl, behind the school. My first kiss. I remember the girl, too. Her name was Helene. She was beautiful. I loved her. I could feel her soft, inexperienced lips, and her soft breasts. We broke off, and she smiled.We walked towards home, I to my grandmother's house, her to her parents apartment a block further down. At my door, we kissed gently again.I went up the steps and opened the huge front double door. I could feel the massive doorknob, I swear, in my hand."Geoffrey?" my grandfather called from the front room. I turned left and entered the front room from the foyer. He was sitting in his chair, smoking a pipe."If you are going to kiss the girls," he smiled, "You should be more discreet." Yes, Grandpapa," I replied, red gushing to the front of my face. I could feel that."Now run along, before. I don’t even think it was completely religious on the part of either family. No, just more a culture. Regardless of the reason, we couldn’t seem to convince ourselves to change. Then why didn’t we just get married? Again I can’t say completely. I think it is just that it was so ingrained in us that marriage was a one time thing and we had to be sure it was the right partner before committing. We both had talked about it and were almost sure. But something just held us back from a final decision. It might seem strange that with such strong views on marriage and actual sex that we had no problem with the activities in which we did engage. I mean, like I said, we weren’t prudes. We had no problem with a lot of petting, getting naked with each other, and even manual or oral stimulation. I really can’t say what it was or why, but somewhere in our natures the two were separated. I could give Tom a blow job, let him eat me out or finger me, and feel no guilt. But the idea of taking that.
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