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Missionary Position

There are more positions I like than dislike. In fact, I have trouble thinking of one I genuinely dislike. I know some of the ladies out there will complain about 69, but while it may seem like a low-difficulty move, it actually takes skill. Skills I'll outline in some other post.

But a missionary? Missionary is basic, simple, and the best for a reason. It's skin-to-skin. Face-to-face. Perfect for slow, sensual intimacy. If it's a mutual orgasm you are looking for, then looking in each other's eyes, him atop you, should be the goal of your mission.

But have you ever done missionary work with a missionary? I checked that box years ago.

I was attending college in Boulder when BYU came to town. A bunch of twenty-something blond-haired athletes, fresh off missions and looking like they'd stepped out of a recruiting brochure. It was a day game. They beat us, which wasn't surprising, considering their average age was about 23, while most of our players were 19.

Win or lose, Pearl Street was usually where the party happened afterward. Visiting players often showed up and hooked up with a future NFL Hall of Famer, the goal of the evening. The BYU guys, however, did not leave their hotel.

At the time, I worked the front desk at the Marriott and managed to flirt with just about every Calebe Jared who came through the lobby. Later that evening, room service was short-handed, so I volunteered to help with deliveries. One order was a mountain of cheeseburgers. Looking at the receipt, I figured it had to be a lineman's room.

Nephi answered the door. Yeah, that was his name. I set down the tray and asked where his roommate was. Was he really planning to eat all those burgers himself?

"No roommate," he said. "And yes."

Then he offered me one. Going back downstairs meant running more room-service orders, so I accepted. We talked. He'd recently returned from a mission in South America. One thing led to another.

To cut to the chase, I called the front desk, told them I wasn't feeling well, and said I was heading home. Then I turned to Nephi and announced, "I'm going to make a man out of you."

I'd stolen the line from Rocky Horror.

He was big in every sense of the word, but also gentle and remarkably kind. I went in assuming I'd be the experienced one, introducing him to things he'd never done before.

That assumption didn't survive very long.

It became increasingly clear that somebody had been giving Nephi a few "lessons" in Bolivia. I joke about doing only the missionary position, and he flipped me over to show me there was a lot more to his repertoire.

We tried a lot of positions, and both decided it was really the missionary position we liked best, and we spent the rest of our time in that basic but perfect position, where I was putty in his capable arms and could look into his piercing blue eyes. If he'd asked me to move to Utah with him that night, I honestly might have considered it.

I slipped out before the coaches did the bed check.

The next day, the BYU team flew home. The following year was an away game, so I never saw him. But two years later, BYU returned to Boulder. Caleb was now a senior. He arrived with a wife, a baby, and what looked like a very happy life.

We exchanged a smile in the lobby. And that was that. My night of missionary with a missionary.
 
WendyTrilby said:
There are more positions I like than dislike. In fact, I have trouble thinking of one I genuinely dislike. I know some of the ladies out there will complain about 69, but while it may seem like a low-difficulty move, it actually takes skill. Skills I'll outline in some other post.

But a missionary? Missionary is basic, simple, and the best for a reason. It's skin-to-skin. Face-to-face. Perfect for slow, sensual intimacy. If it's a mutual orgasm you are looking for, then looking in each other's eyes, him atop you, should be the goal of your mission.

But have you ever done missionary work with a missionary? I checked that box years ago.

I was attending college in Boulder when BYU came to town. A bunch of twenty-something blond-haired athletes, fresh off missions and looking like they'd stepped out of a recruiting brochure. It was a day game. They beat us, which wasn't surprising, considering their average age was about 23, while most of our players were 19.

Win or lose, Pearl Street was usually where the party happened afterward. Visiting players often showed up and hooked up with a future NFL Hall of Famer, the goal of the evening. The BYU guys, however, did not leave their hotel.

At the time, I worked the front desk at the Marriott and managed to flirt with just about every Calebe Jared who came through the lobby. Later that evening, room service was short-handed, so I volunteered to help with deliveries. One order was a mountain of cheeseburgers. Looking at the receipt, I figured it had to be a lineman's room.

Nephi answered the door. Yeah, that was his name. I set down the tray and asked where his roommate was. Was he really planning to eat all those burgers himself?

"No roommate," he said. "And yes."

Then he offered me one. Going back downstairs meant running more room-service orders, so I accepted. We talked. He'd recently returned from a mission in South America. One thing led to another.

To cut to the chase, I called the front desk, told them I wasn't feeling well, and said I was heading home. Then I turned to Nephi and announced, "I'm going to make a man out of you."

I'd stolen the line from Rocky Horror.

He was big in every sense of the word, but also gentle and remarkably kind. I went in assuming I'd be the experienced one, introducing him to things he'd never done before.

That assumption didn't survive very long.

It became increasingly clear that somebody had been giving Nephi a few "lessons" in Bolivia. I joke about doing only the missionary position, and he flipped me over to show me there was a lot more to his repertoire.

We tried a lot of positions, and both decided it was really the missionary position we liked best, and we spent the rest of our time in that basic but perfect position, where I was putty in his capable arms and could look into his piercing blue eyes. If he'd asked me to move to Utah with him that night, I honestly might have considered it.

I slipped out before the coaches did the bed check.

The next day, the BYU team flew home. The following year was an away game, so I never saw him. But two years later, BYU returned to Boulder. Caleb was now a senior. He arrived with a wife, a baby, and what looked like a very happy life.

We exchanged a smile in the lobby. And that was that. My night of missionary with a missionary.
Click to expand...
Love this! I went to Boulder, miss that place!
 
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