In the Student Union, along the wall farthest from the snack bar, at one of those tables that were usually empty, seven young women, of various styles of dress, their winter coats draped on their chairs, sat silently as papers were distributed.
Another meeting of the Tami Lickers.
They had tried other, more dignified names, such as The Priestesses of the Temple, or The Queen’s Court, but none had stuck. As a kind of code they had shortened the painfully obvious name to “the TLs”.
Georgene spoke. “This shows the full clitoris. As you can see, it’s not just the ‘man in the boat’.”
“Tami refers to it in the feminine,” Myra, a scholarly-looking black girl in glasses and a granny dress, said.
“That’s a good idea . . . But as you can see, it’s actually a pretty big structure. The clit is like the tip of the iceberg. The bottom of it is the G spot. You can feel it yourself.”
“Actually I hate poking around in there, at least in my own,” Marianne said.
“I know . . . But the important thing is, when you get into Tami’s front chamber, try to feel the G spot -- it’s like bifurcated.”
“I’ve felt it, when I licked her on Tuesday,” Jeane said. “It’s like two little grapes, almost, connected by a stem.”
Georgene said, “The important thing is, don’t be too poky. Tami responds well to stroking that’s gentle. As she gets excited you will feel the two ‘grapes’, like, get a little firmer and more prominent. Tongue the clit at the same time. I haven’t experimented a great deal, and actually I haven’t licked her all week.”
“Poor baby,” said Marianne in a pitying voice.
“Yeah I know, I’ve just been so damn busy. I only see her when she’s outside walking to classes.”
“Then just do her there!” said Spica, a freshman in a punk hairdo and outfit.
“You know she won’t let you do that,” Marianne said.
Barbara, a grad student who was about 30, spoke to Spica in her usual slow and thoughtful manner. “The administration tolerates what we do, because they know Tami needs it. But Tami doesn’t want to cause them embarrassment and all kinds of other problems by the sight of her being licked in public. That’s why we have to find her in semi-private spots like her library table.”
“I think Rosaria’s finding her there now,” Marianne said. “At least that’s what she told me she was going to do.”
“Jen McIntyre was in town, I hear,” Spica said.
“Really? Man I’ve been out of touch,” Georgene said. Jen, foremother of the TLs and a bottomless spring of useful information, was quite a celebrity to this bunch.
“She had to leave though,” Spica said.
“Damn, we’d like to talk to her about some pointers,” Marianne said.
“Next time I see Tami I’ll try to get Jen’s cell phone . . . Well, getting back to the G-spot, has anyone found whether alternate clit and G-spot strokes work better?”
Spica said, “I did simultaneous licks and strokes yesterday and she came and came and came.”
“That’s what Tami does,” Marianne said.
“I counted 17 times,” Spica added.
This met with calls of “Brag! Brag! Brag!”
“Just don’t tell her. Tami really hates it when people count,” Jeane said.
“Why is that?” Marianne looked at Barbara.
Barbara thought for a second and said, “I don’t know.”
“When you really get into it, you lose count yourself,” Teresa said. “You’re in such another world, just you and her.”
There was a general murmur of agreement. Except for Melissa, a blonde girl who looked like a model and was new to the club. She sat silently on the side and was taking this all in. She looked at the handout and studied it intently.
She spoke up. “I wonder how that feels like,” she said, “to come so many times, like that?”
Marianne said, “I actually asked her that once. She said it was like being lifted up into the sky, and looking down on all of life from above.”
“Strange,” Jeane said.
“I kind of feel like I’m up there with her at times,” Georgene said.
“It’s what it’s all about,” Marianne said.
Spica said, “That’s not how my own orgasm feels.”
“Well of course it would be different,” Barbara said. “If you have thirty or more orgasms a day, you develop a different perspective.”
“Oh gosh -- you think she has that many?” Spica said.
Barbara shrugged. “Just an estimate, between us and what she does at home.”
“I’m surprised Rod isn’t dead by now,” Jeane laughed.
“What about her nipples?” Melissa asked.
“Gentle rubbing between the fingers, after you start the buildup,” Georgene said.
“Can I suck them?”
“Of course, she responds well to that, even a little mild biting. But watch where you are. It can’t be too public. That’s why it’s best to work from below.”
“What if somebody comes by? What if they want to talk to her?”
“Just continue. She can converse through an orgasm. She doesn’t want you to stop. It’s hard to explain, but she kind of feels that asking us to stop would be impolite to us.”
“She’s very considerate. I would hate to have my Tami licking interrupted.”
“A very good, kind Queen,” said Marianne, with equal parts of whimsy and seriousness.
After a brief lull, Georgene brought out a little plastic box. “O.K., let’s get the beat.”
Spica started snapping her fingers in rhythm. Others followed, some trying to push the beat faster, others trying to slow it down, but all snapping more or less together. Far across the room, some guys at a table looked over momentarily.
“O.K., stop.” Then Georgene pushed a button on the box. It was a metronome. Tick - tick - tick - tick -
“Shoot. Too fast again,” Jeane said.
This was part of the training they gave themselves. The metronome was set to tick every 0.8 seconds -- the length between orgasmic contractions, according to what they’d read. They knew that, by licking just ahead of the beat, they could extend Tami’s orgasms by a few spasms. So predicting the next spasm was key.
After the business of the meeting was over they got back to regular small talk.
“I got a dress code letter yesterday,” Jeane said.
“Oh God. The crackdown continues,” Barbara said. “What did you do? Show a bit of ankle?”
“I had on a pink tee and they must have seen my navel poking out,” Jeane said. “All this, under my coat that was probably open for a few seconds. That was the part they underlined, anyway.”
She was referring to the campus dress code, which this year was starting to be actually enforced. It was an old dreary document prohibiting bare midriffs, backless or strapless tops, torn jeans, very short shorts, and the like. Any student seen violating it would get an intracampus note with the relevant provision underlined.
“Last week I took off my shoes in the library and they dinged me. I couldn’t believe it,” Spica said.
“Were you wearing socks?”
“Well there you have it. Is that a big deal to wear socks?” Marianne said.
“Claudia got dinged for wearing a tube top -- under a shirt!”
“Was the shirt open?”
“All she has to do is keep it closed. Her own fault.”
“Remember back in October on that nice day when they dinged Roger because he was playing frisbee in bare feet on the grass?”
“That was ridiculous.”
“If they enforce the no flip-flops part when the weather gets warm, there will be a massive revolt.”
“I don’t think they’d be that stupid.”
“Well what did you expect? This is still basically a conservative Baptist college. Us, and Congi, we’re practically the only exceptions.”
The conversation was halted by the approaching sound of bare soles on the cold tile, and the clip-clop of boots. It was Tami and Gretchen with sodas, Tami also with a hero sandwich. Gretchen was toting an umbrella and her overcoat and boots were wet. Tami’s hair was disheveled and wet but her skin was already almost dry, just a few drops on the small of her back.
“Guten tag,” Tami said, placing her soda and hero down. As she stood there she stretched and sighed, apparently unconscious of the near-swoon that the TLs underwent upon seeing her tanned, concave tummy and navel.
The TLs worshipped Tami’s body, had made drawings of it, taken pictures of various parts of it (with Tami’s permission), knew every naked inch in detail, inside and out. Jeane, whose proclivities were in that direction, even had pet names for each of Tami’s toes. Other common nicknames for her various body parts were “nubs” (nipples), “forest” (pubic hair), “winkie” (anus), “slopes” (the bottom curves of her breasts), “knob” (cervix), and “vault” (rectum). Tami’s body was not only their place of worship but also their playground. As Spica once inartfully but enthusiastically put it, her pussy was their soccer field, her cervix was their monkey bars, her anus the slide into the play shed, her rectum the shed itself, her pussy lips the ropes. Her clit and G-spot together were the see-saw. The TLs celebrated Tami and in so doing celebrated themselves, the beauty and strength and capacities of the human female.
After Tami stretched, Myra said, “Your forest is beautiful. I like that color.”
Tami looked down and slightly parted her legs. “Thanks. It’s called ‘plum’, according to the box.”
“Wow, did you get every single hair? Even the ones near your winkie?” Spica asked.
“I sure did,” Tami said with pride. She turned around and bent over, spreading her butt cheeks, cheerfully displaying the last hairs on her perineum. They were plum color, every single one. Further down, a space of clear, tanned skin, then the darker brown skin around her much-photographed anus.
“Thanks, it took a long time,” Tami said as she turned back around, again not seeming to notice the near-swoon of her audience. Or perhaps having gotten used to it.
Tami and Gretchen pulled up chairs. Tami got right to work pigging out. As she did, a couple of the TLs leaned over and kissed her on the forehead as she smiled through munches.
Sessu, an architecture major from Japan, walked by. He waved to the TLs and bent down to kiss Tami’s knee. “My Queen,” he said, smiling good-naturedly, then walked on. No male had tried to become a TL, it being unspokenly clear that Tami, faithful to her husband, would never accept it. It was a standing joke that the Queen’s male subjects were restricted to kissing her on the knees, though in fact friendly hugs and kisses on her cheeks (the cheeks of her face, that is) were permitted as with anyone.
Tami practically inhaled the sandwich. As she was finishing she said, “Sorry Gretchen, about that class report.”
“That joke about the guns. I was trying to put you at ease but it was stupid.”
“Oh . . . Well that’s O.K.” Gretchen was glad she hadn’t had to bring it up herself. She had been really quite embarrassed by the presentation, more than she expected, and Tami’s little joke hadn’t helped. She decided to add, “Apology accepted.”
“What’s this about?” Marianne said.
“Nothing,” Gretchen said.
Some more small talk. Seeing a book half-out of Spica’s bookbag, Jeane said, “What is that?”
“The Kama Sutra,” Spica said. “It’s an Indian book of sex positions.”
Gretchen looked at Tami and rolled her eyes.
Looking at the pretzeled couple on the cover, Barbara said, “How could you possibly do that without throwing your back out?”
“Well you old folks have to worry about that,” Spica teased.
“It looks painful to me,” Jeane said. “Tom and I tried something like that once and I almost broke his dick off.”
Talking about sex again. What girls do when they’re together, at least some girls. Gretchen politely excused herself.
“I’ll catch up with you,” Tami said.
After Gretchen left, Marianne said, “It’s more like an athletic event than making love,” looking at the cover.
Barbara said, “Call me old-fashioned, but there’s no getting around the fact that missionary is the most intimate position.”
“I think it’s when we go down on each other,” Jeane said. “He looks up at me, and I look up at him.”
Some thoughtful silence. Then Barbara said, “What do you think, Tami? What’s the most intimate position?”
Tami thought, leaned back on her chair sipping her soda, then swung her foot up onto the table, wiggling her toes slowly in thought. Playing with the straw, she said, “Anal sex.”
“Akkk,” Myra said. “That’s painful.”
“It takes some practice,” Tami said.
“How can you say that’s the most intimate?” Myra said.
“Because you’re opening yourself up to him totally, surrendering your body to him, above and beyond what nature intended, a place not designed to accept a penis.”
That thought stilled the conversation for a bit. Then Tami said, “I have to go. Auf wiedersehen.”
“Bye, Queen,” Marianne said.
Tami smiled and stood up. After tossing her empty soda into the waste can with a breast-jiggling jump shot, she gave them a royal bow, then grabbed her bookbag and walked out with a relaxed, upright pace that was decidedly queen-like, regal.