Flashback: Naomi , the Wild 1970s

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Author’s notes: This is a stroll down memory lane to a time when the world as we knew it was undergoing dynamic and radical social change. It was a time fondly remembered for we were young, life was simple, and love was carefree. I share with you recollections of a special woman and what it was like then.

The standard discloser of everyone being eighteen-years or older and fictional apply. Constructive comments and suggestions are always welcomed. Hope you enjoy the telling of this tale.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was the early-1970s when women’s liberation and empowerment were in vogue. Across the nation, women strove to cast off inhibiting social expectations and the subjugating roles of previous generations. For Naomi who was raised in a small farming community on the Kona coast of the island of Hawaii, breaking free was more difficult than could be imagined. As the eldest daughter, her entire world was steeped in her Japanese ancestry and customs, and her very support system of family and friends was often the source that held her back and restricted her individuality.

“Do you know, Mike,” Naomi once told me, “though out my entire life, every time I told my very traditional mother that I wanted to do something that was just an inkling out of the norm, she started with the admonishment, ‘Good Japanese girls don’t do that!’ Then after I exhausted myself trying to explaining, she abruptly ended the conversation with a heavy sigh and then shaking her head, she muttered the age-old conundrum of ‘What will people think?'”

To shed her cultural and familial constraints and gain the independence that she yearned for, Naomi had to leave her island of birth where it seemed that everyone knew everyone. To do this, she had one of two ways: marry and relocate off-island if she was lucky to find a husband who was so inclined; or attended the State’s University on the island of Oahu. Since Naomi didn’t have a boyfriend at the time and was impatient to walk on the unknown wild side of life, she chose the second means of escape.

To an eighteen-year-old from rural Hawaii, attending college was like escaping from a high-security prison. Rules about how to behave and expectations of conformity were replaced with unregulated freedom and uninhibited self-indulgence. It was a no-brainer that guys, partying, booze, pot, and sex were quickly discovered in that order, quickly filling and blurring her undergraduate years.

Along these lines, Naomi admitted that she couldn’t even remember how she lost her virginity. “All I remember was that after a night of wild partying,” Naomi shared when we were teasing each other about our ‘first time’ experiences, “I woke up naked the next morning; in bed with an equally naked guy whom I vaguely knew; with a terrible hangover; and a sore and bloody vagina that oozed with sticky cum. Sad, huh?”

That recollection was so like Naomi. Straight-forward to the point of being alarming, Naomi spoke her mind and told it as it was. It was her attempt to rid herself of her demure Japanese female image and to assert herself in keeping with the feminist movement of the day. It therefore made perfect sense that Naomi would gravitate to the School of Social Work for her master’s degree since that graduate program was the university’s hot bed for social causes, women’s liberation, and “touchy-feely-ness.”

What was surprising was that Naomi would end up working as a juvenile probation officer upon graduation. When asked about this seeming perils of her profession, she boldly espoused her expanded social consciousness, maintaining that she was contributing to the social good by helping young people who were in need or trouble. To me, Naomi’s choice of a potentially dangerous career was part of her on-going effort to prove herself to others (and herself).

Much of the concern about her being a probation officer might have been attributed to Naomi being a petite four-feet-eleven. Weighing in at ninety-five-pounds dripping wet, she had a slim figure that featured a flat stomach, nice hips, tight buns, and shapely legs. Her dark brown hair was cut in a carefree pageboy and except for a touch of lipstick, she projected an ‘I-am-what-I-am’ image.

I, however, had to admit that the only thing that I paid attention to was Naomi’s apple-sized breasts. You see, women in the early 1970s went “braless” to signify their disdain for and shedding of society-imposed constraints on women. Given her boob size, Naomi didn’t need the support of a bra and proudly went about as such as a symbol of social defiance and liberation. What she didn’t realize was that chauvinist men of the day (such as myself) really loved women-libbers and saw them as targets of opportunity — at least visual ones.

My first memory of Naomi was this diminutive Asian woman rushing to meet me. Her loose gauzy peasant’s blouse noticeably displayed her pointy nipple bumps that jiggled with each quick step of her wedge-clad feet. Just canlı bahis şirketleri as Naomi reached out to shake my hand, the case files that she had been carrying slipped from her grasp to drop in the ground between us. Naomi quickly squatted to scoop up her spilled papers and in so doing, gave me one hell of a terrific view of her naked pert boobs.

The image of her perky upturned tits was indelibly seared into my brain. Any thoughts of being gentlemanly and not ogling at her stiff pencil-eraser nipples that jutted from peaked areola instantly flew out of my head. The way I looked at it (and Naomi) was that if she was willing to show, I was definitely willing to look. I knew right then and there that that this would be the start of a stimulating professional, if not personal, relationship.

You see when I met Naomi, I was the head of a private non-profit social agency that dealt with troubled youth and was located at the juncture of several outlying rural districts. As things turn out, many of teenagers who took part in my social and alternative educational programs were Naomi’s charges. Because she had a long drive from her city office, I graciously let her use my place to meet with her charges and their families, write up her reports, and in general, take a break. As it turned out, Naomi ended up hanging out quite a bit at my agency and with me before heading back to the city.

As for me, I’m a Chinese guy who is okay-looking and can best be described by the oxymoron of a “workaholic couch-potato.” I spent much of my time (and life) at my agency which was a converted two-story, multi-roomed house. For my office, I had taken over the master bedroom in the back corner of the first floor. The room was big enough to comfortably fit a desk and chair, and two folding chairs on the other side of the desk. Off to the side was a love seat that most people didn’t know was really a fold-out bed. This was handy when I had an early morning or late night agency activity. In addition, what looked like a closet door actually led to the room’s small bathroom with a shower, sink, toilet, and small linen closet.

Naomi was quick to discover my office telephone (the only link with the outside since we didn’t have cell phones back in those days) and manual typewriter (we didn’t have desk top computers, printers, or the Internet too) for her reports which she could use whenever I wasn’t using them. In return, Naomi kept bribing me with pastries and lunches which as a bachelor who had to fend for himself, I wasn’t about to refuse.

However, when my “private accommodations” were discovered, Naomi, being Naomi, invited herself into first being allowed to use my toilet, and then my shower (when she had a date after work but not enough time to go home). Without even asking, Naomi took it upon herself to cleaning the bathroom (hey, no complaints from me) and added small things to my office like a radio and curtains to the window that made the room more “homey.” Somehow my office gradually became as much Naomi’s as mine.

However, despite our working relationship, Naomi and I weren’t romantically attracted to each other in the beginning. On her part, Naomi was drawn to tall, lanky, blond, blue-eyed haoles (whites, as us locals call them), the surfer-dude-types who were transplants from the mainland (the continental US); had a hang-loose attitude; and were into beer, pot, and sex. These guys were the tangible symbols of rebellion, an ultimate expression of her free will to choose, and everything her parents abhorred. Unfortunately, her so-called lovers had no problem banging a willing Japanese women’s libber, and then dropping her like a hot potato when she protested their callus use and lack of respect.

As for me, I was into Hawaiian women with their casual attitude about life and men. My brown-skinned beauties had a flirtatious way about them that intrigued my Oriental nature to no end. Unfortunately, the ones that I dated and bedded were into having children which was something that I wasn’t into at the time, and had large extended families that included some of whom my agency served. Most of my ladies barely made it through high school, but not many were interested in getting ahead in life. As a result, while sex was good, there often wasn’t much intellectual arousal. Deep down inside, I knew that I was looking for something more in a woman. The only problem was that I did quite know who at the time.

What I didn’t know was that Naomi found me interesting over the course of time because I was the only guy in her life who didn’t get riled at her outspokenness. I was the perfect foil for Naomi’s women’s liberation rants since in the Chinese culture, women were often domineering and quite outspoken. My knack of listening when she needed to vent; laughing at her when she got on her soap-box; or going toe-to-toe in arguments made me more and more indispensable to Naomi. When coupled with my lay-back personality, Naomi canlı kaçak iddaa found herself increasingly intrigued with me.

I, on the other hand, liked Naomi’s feistiness and her intellectual stimulation when it came to social role challenges such as the sexual revolution. However, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that what really attracted me to Naomi were those mouthwatering viewings of Naomi’s braless pert tits. I knew that she was careful around others especially her wards, their families, and my staff, but around me, Naomi was extremely casual about flashing me her small boobies. There they were whenever she was seated at my typewriter or leaning over to jot down a note while talking on the telephone. With each sighting of her tits, my interest in Naomi grew.

The turning point in our relationship was a Christmas potluck dinner at my agency for my staff and key supporters. I asked Naomi if she wanted to come and when she asked what she could bring, I said that she didn’t have to bring anything.

“Come on, Mike. I can’t show up to the party without anything,” she insisted in true Naomi-fashion. “Good Japanese girls like me just don’t do that. I mean what will your staff and guests think of me?” When I burst into laughter saying that she sounded like her description of her mother, a flustered Naomi blushed at the realization and then muttered, “You bastard, see what you made me do? Come on, Mike, what can I bring?”

I finally relented and said could make the wine cooler with red wine, 7-Up, and fruit slices. Although she had never done it before, I was surprised when she jumped at the opportunity. Then in true to Naomi-fashion, she proceeded to nag me as to the correct ingredients and proportions.

I was surprised when Naomi showed up that late Saturday afternoon dressed in this thin cotton slip-dress with thin straps, a hem that ended several inches about her knees, and her usual wedge-shoes. As she got out of her VW Beetle that she parked in the back of my agency, she flashed me her braless pointy tits before a beaming grin. I knew that this was going to be a memorable night.

To make a long story short, the potluck was a success with all having a grand time. The fellowship was jovial, the different foods were delicious, and Naomi’s wine cooler was heavily drunk by all. This meant that Naomi was required to replenish her concoction and with each batch made, she had to sample it to make sure the taste was just right. Given her size and weight, Naomi was close to being tipsy by the time the dinner ended and everyone left.

Naomi volunteered to help me clean up, but when she tried to lift the well-used slippery punch bowl, much of the contents spilled all over herself. Her slip dress clung to her like wet tissue paper, highlighting her pointed tits and the vee of her inner thighs. Naomi then proceeded to let loose a string of profanity that would have made a sailor blush while she sought to clean up the spill.

I finally stopped her and said, “Look Naomi — don’t worry — I’ll clean up. Most of the spill is on you anyway. So why don’t you take a shower in my bathroom? You better wash out the wine from your dress before it stains. There’s a clean towel in the linen closet and my ‘visitor’s’ shirt is hanging behind the door.” When she hesitated at my offer of my long-sleeve shirt that I wear when I get a supporter or possible donor, my response was, “It’s clean, kinda, but, hey, if you want to prance around naked, be my guest.”

With a chuckle, Naomi said, “God, Mike, you’re such a ‘perv.’ If I didn’t know better, I’d think you set the whole thing up. Hmmm, it’s a good thing I can’t prove it.” When I feinted total innocence, Naomi giggled, “Hmmm, I better get into the shower… and make it a cold one. Oh, Naomi, you better sober up before you do something stupid.”

I called out as she staggered towards my office and its bathroom to say that I didn’t know why she was so bossy and then let it slip how attractive she was for being so. At that, Naomi cocked her head as if seeing me in a new light, and then blowing me a kiss, she flashed me a Cheshire cat’s grin before disappearing into my office.

I had cleaned and locked up, and was relaxing in my office by the time Naomi reappeared looking squeaky-clean and with her shoulder-length hair brushed back. Although she didn’t have any makeup on, she somehow looked striking different… sexy…in my much-too-large shirt which draped over her small frame.

When I asked how she was, Naomi mischievously smiled and said, “My clothes are drying in the shower, and I don’t think I’m in shape to drive home. So, would you mind if I crashed here. I think I can sleep on this love seat. It’s a good thing I’m small.” I laughed and said that she didn’t have to scrunch up because the love seat was really a fold-out bed.

“Well,” Naomi murmured when I shooed her off the love seat and began to unfold the bed to straighten out the bedding, canlı kaçak bahis “You are full of surprises tonight. Are you sure you’re not trying to seduce me?” Then after a pregnant pause, Naomi assertively asked, “Do you want to — ‘make out’?”

I practically choked in my surprise. “Are you always so direct? Don’t you believe in foreplay? At least give a guy like a kiss before you jump his bones.” With that I teasingly brushed my lips against her before moving away to withdraw a bag of marijuana and some rolling paper from my desk. “I believe in setting the mood and taking my time to enjoy the woman I’m with. Can you roll us a joint or two?”

I knew I threw Naomi for a loop, but she had often lamented that her various haole lovers were strictly “North to South” men in that their love making was a quick progression from her mouth (being kissed or sucking their cock) to her tits (being groped and then sucked), and ending with her pussy (with their cocks being just shoved quickly in for the proverbial “slam-bam” session).

It was little wonder that Naomi sat there stunned, trying to figure out what was different as I closed the window curtains. Turning on the radio to some soft mellow music, I placed and lit two oil-floating-wick-candles on the end tables on either side of the bed and then lit some mellow incense. When I turned off the lights, my office was transformed into a cozy and dimly lit bedroom.

“You know I bust my kids for having this much weed on them,” she said as her fingers deftly filled and rolled a rather fat joint. “Hmmm, maybe I should cuff you and subject you to my patent interrogation.” Then lighting up, she took a good hit before passing it to me, and after exhaling giggled, “Who knows — maybe I’ll conduct a thorough frisking ….” “Why Miss Probation Officer, you’d best be careful,” I said as I took a toke or two from the joint before passing it back. “You might find yourself being strip-searched, handcuffed, and subjected to some form of devious Chinese torture if you keep this up.”

“Mike, you sure are full of surprises tonight, you kinky weirdo.” Then taking a big hit of the Maui Wowie joint, Naomi laughed and said, “Shit, I really need this. The work this week has been a butt-busting downer. Plus, that I’ve had this hell of a kink in my neck and shoulders that I just can’t get rid of.”

I told her to turn around on the bed so that I could massage her neck and shoulders. Between the wine cooler in her system, the pot, and my massage, Naomi’s tension melted away under my kneading hands. By the time my thumbs worked their way down and then up her back, she was leaning casually into my embrace.

Lifting her damp hair aside, I kissed the back of her neck, sending a shudder down her petty form. By the time I got around to nuzzling her earlobes and neck, Naomi eyes were dreamily closed. She moaned softly and let her limp arms and resistance fall to the side. I took my time to slowly unbutton her shirt but once it was undone, let it fall of its own accord instead of ripping it off as her previous lovers would have.

My lips, tongue, hands, and fingers freely roamed the exposed portions of her writhing body. However, I deliberately avoided her perky tits and black-thatched pussy, driving Naomi crazy in anticipation. As I blazed a switchback path of wet kisses down her now bared back, my hands glided over her firm buns to caress her behind her legs. When she flipped over in response to my stimulation, I lapped my way between her legs, lingering just before reaching her inviting musky cunt.

Naomi cried out when I suddenly cupped and squeezed the juncture of her inner thighs. “God, Mike, what the hell are you doing to me? I’m so sopping wet,” she cried out as her liquid excitement drenched my hand. She whimpered as my finger tips forked, then stroked, and finally quickly strummed her stiff hooded love button. “Oh, hell, please don’t play with me. I’m…going…to…” Naomi squirmed wildly as her breaths came in short hot pants of building excitement and tension.

I quickly slipped one finger and then another into her slippery molten love tunnel, pumping and churning her liquid excitement. Her hips thrust upwards, and my lips thatched on to her exposed clit, lashing it furiously with my rigid tongue tip. Naomi jerked wildly and then thrashed uncontrollably in orgasmic release, her spread legs now clamping my trapped head and hands between her tender thighs.

“Arrgh…nummhh…arrgghh…ooh…fuck,” Naomi finally gasped as electrifying jolts shot through her small frame. “That was…fucking incredible! Ooh, shit, shit, do you always do this to all your women? Oooh…”

“Who says that I’ve finished your full body cavity search, Missy Probation Officer?” I slid up her writhing body to rub and fondle her enticing small boobs as I kissed her. Naomi kissed me like a woman possessed, her tongue danced a lively jig inside my mouth. When I broke away to inhale her small pointy tits, her stubby nibbles were stiff, fully extended, and bursting in indescribable flavor. I sucked first one and then the other, mouthing her tits to pull and tug her stiff cylindrical nipples from her heaving chest until she whimpered pitifully.

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