Even when I was very young, I seemed to have more than my share of messy experiences. However, I remember the first time I made a contemporary connection between messy fun and sexuality. Where I grew up, summer money can be made by manually removing the tassels from vast fields of corn. Planning a little travel before my final year of high school, I joined the young workforce doing that sort of thing.
The previous day there was much rain, though then I resisted any urge to get messy. In dull gray sweats and a plastic poncho, I trudged through miles of mud while remaining clean above my ankles. On this day, the rain was light but the fields remained heavily waterlogged. Wearing faded jeans and an old jersey, I set out looking forward to a thoroughly filthy day. Offered a garbage bag to be worn as protection, I happily declined.
It almost came to nothing, as one farmer refused to have work done in wet fields with possible storms yet to come. As we sat in the bus wondering if the crew would see any work that day, I spilled a little soup on myself as if it were consolation prize. Then we found the end of the rainbow. A short ride had us all disembarking on the edge of a muddy field stretching out to the horizon.
Better still, for the past few days I had been working alongside the prettiest girl in the fields -- at least my own age, flawless tan, irresistible smile, and on this day wearing a nice red shirt along with a denim jacket and jeans. At first I was so overwhelmed by my situation that I forgot to pair up with her. We called out across the field while working several rows apart, quickly completing that first pass.
We approached each other, knee deep in thick dark gray ooze. About to embrace, she hesitated and complained that her hands were muddy. When I replied, "I don't mind," she reached down and scooped up a big glob of the stuff, menacingly waving it at me. Her smile only grew as I seized her wrist and guided her in smearing the muck all over the front of my jersey. When we finally did embrace, I felt the wet mess squeezed between us, and I wiped my own muddy hands on the back of her jacket.
Neither of us could ignore my arousal, pressing at her through layers of damp cloth. Just then, other members of the crew started emerging into the clearing on this end of the field. She pulled away, but I did not want to put my excitement on display like that. A little playful struggle had us down and intertwined in a rich wallow. Writhing to escape my grasp gave way to writhing hard against my unseen engorgement. I pressed back, ignoring the mud pie fight that had broken out amongst onlookers.
I'll abandon elaboration at that point save to note about an hour later there was an organized "mudslide contest" while waiting for transportation out of that field, and my unexpected playmate joined me later still for more intimate wallowing in a flooded gully adjacent to a different field. I believe I already had a WAM-minded predisposition, as I know I had been excited by such thoughts in the past. Yet that was the first time actual WAM stimulus and my arousal crossed paths.
Regards,
messydom
That's HOT! 
