Sometime after college my friend Alan tried a different graduate school tack. If I have my chronology straight, he started architecture at U. Penn. (An experience of his there provided material years later for my Model.)
Back to Columbia for more English was tack II. Alan invited me to share with him an apartment he'd just taken on Claremont Avenue. I am repeatedly told and easily believe that Claremont Avenue is more like Paris than any other street in New York except maybe Beekman Place or Sutton Place. It runs only between 116th and 123th Streets and amazingly for NY has only one street (120th) cutting through it. 116th is largely student housing. The west side of Claremont is almost all Columbia faculty housing. The entire east side of Claremont from 16thto 120th is Barnard building: dorms, the library ... None of the buildings are more than a dozen stories tall: too tall to walk up, but hardly sky scrapers. New York is halfway toward human scale on Claremont Avenue. Alan knew I had no money, and, with the army looming over my head, no plans to get any.
I'll comment elsewhere on post-college as a limbo for males in a kleptocracy with a standing army: this is a sex story and I only mean to be setting the scene before getting to the sex. Alan's father was a corporate lawyer. Alan had mooched plenty of money from me over the years: money he didn't need and that I couldn't afford to lend. I'd give up dinner so he could splurge on champagne with steak. It never occurred to me that someone would beg money from me without being in desperate trouble. It never occurred to me that I was already too close to desperate trouble to give aid to others. Anyway, Alan said he'd foot the bill: just move in: expense free.
Sure. Alan builds one of his famous book cases to separate our rooms: a shoji screen book case this time: truly beautiful. I throw a mattress on the floor, plug in my amp, table, connect the speakers, and I'm moved in. One day I come in and hear a female voice. Coming from Alan's end of things it's none of my business. I plop on my mattress to read whatever I was reading at the time. Quite likely Tolstoy. Heller would come soon. Clomp, clomp. Feet in the hall. A shining female face peeks in. "Hi. Remember me?"
Yeah, as a matter of fact. One weekend some years back, Alan had sported a date at a football weekend: a girl from his old high school: a girl still going to said high school: a fancy, expensive prep school in Riverdale. Trudy. "I'm Trudy," she says. Long dark hair pulled to the rear of her skull to show a lot of face. Dark jersey, dark slacks, dark shoes. She would have looked Existential were it not for her shining face.
Later, too late, I would remember something Alan had told me once: I was fucking Trudy, he said ... and she said something stupid ... and I lost my hard on ... and couldn't get it back.
She says, "My shrink thinks I should have an affair."
"Oh?"
"What do you think?"
"What do you mean, 'What do I think?'"
"Are you available?"
"Uh ... Sure."
Trudy, fresh out of high school, Alan's ancient friend, goes and tells Alan that she'll be staying at my end of the apartment for a while.
It was a disaster from the first hour. I've never seen a girl work harder at fucking than Trudy or to less avail. She'd shove her hips into the air, me teetering at the apex like Nessie had just come up under my boat. Uh, uh, uh. There she is, bucking like a whore. But there was nothing to it. No sensuality could possibly develop.
"I've never had an orgasm," she confesses. And you never will. And it's no wonder. If you won't relax, and won't let me lead, won't even let me co-lead, I can't show you anything. It was strange, but I finally came myself.
I love music. I've always loved music: have long been far from modest about my taste. Trudy's parents live up near the Cloisters. Choral music people. Jewish, of course, but the place is full of Bach and Handel, Fauré ... Tendentious, didactic, authoritarian. "Choral music is the only music," they inform me.
We go to Trudy's room. "My mother saw my strawberry," she giggles. She takes her jersey off. Throws her bra aside. Caresses the suck mark on her neck. Did I give her that? When? Oh, well. Possibly. Off come her shoes, her slacks. Off come her panties. She pulls me to her. Starts pulling at my clothing. Her face is red with excitement. "I want you to do something," she whispers. "What's that?" My clothes are all but off by this time. My dick is beginning to throb. Released from its confines, it thrums the air. A pearl of lubricant would have decorated the tip of the glans. She's on the bed. I'm standing at the bed side. My dick is throbbing over her. "I want you to lick me," she hisses.
Trudy throws her head back, launches her hips over the bed, throws her legs at the ceiling, kicking into a split. Dark pubic box as a frame. Flash of pink pussy. They were all there. But I didn't see them. All I could see was her nether eye staring blindly, unappetizingly, at me.
That one time in the cellar with Bonnie, age maybe eight, trying to stuff my little peanut into the little flap of flesh at the front of her legs, there'd been an acrid reek as she struggled to cooperate. Bonnie had no pussy smell yet. I'd just smelled the shit. Now here's Trudy wafting her pussy through the room ... but then blanketing it with the stuff of her colon.
A couple of months after scribbling this file at a breakneck pace I come back to add something, only to realize that it needs more work than that. I'd scanted over something. If you've read more than this file here you probably have the impression, correctly I assure you, that SybaRight adores pussy. I love to see it, to touch it, to penetrate it, to smell it, to taste it, to feel it respond to me ... But that was not true the first time I ever made cuni-lingual contact. I was asked. I did it as a duty. I did it with trepidation and utterly without enthusiasm. And yes, it was Trudy who asked me: but it was on an occasion prior to the scene reported here.
I remember my first really sensuous fucks with Jackie. She'd eaten me before letting me enter her. That wasn't my first fuck, but it was my first one where I was even half way relaxed, half way able to enjoy it. Later with Jackie, when I was fully relaxed, an old pro, I lay with my face between her legs, looking at her, contemplating the pussy, contemplating licking it. She didn't say What are you waiting for? She didn't' grab me by the face and jam me forward. She, bless her, let me find my own way. I wasn't quite ready. It would be another year or so before I found what I'd missed. I knew lubrication was good: I just wound up spitting in her, then rubbing it. She was a little dry, I already knew. It was with others that I would learn how very wet a nice kiss could make it. It was with others that I would learn how very wet some pussies came without a kiss.
So it was Trudy who first asked me to use my mouth and tongue on her. "I want you to lick me, is how she put it. I did. Brave, but reluctant. She seemed very proud of me, but more from the fact that I did it than from how I did it. She didn't come from the fucking. She didn't suddenly madly hump my face and come that way either.
We should have a forum of guy's memories of first diving the muff. Send me your memoirs: I'll attach them. Gals, your memories of your first gag on the bone would also be welcome. Do any women really love it from the first time? How much is duty and how much lust? With the dick, at least you don't have your face quite so much in the asshole as the guy's do. As a veteran, I find the dark hole a potent presence. It doesn't put me off, but I do try to let it mind its own business. God forbid a girl should leak in any way while I'm slavering on her. In my enthusiasm, things might run together but I never (but once) knowingly let anything of mine get knowingly near the anus while kissing. Fingering while fucking: that's different. But I won't put my finger there until I'm done with the kissing. I don't bring my face anywhere near the southern hemisphere once I've mounted, especially once I've come. The tongue is for fore-play. Fore means before.
The other point I want to insert I'll put below.
I don't waste much time in my life regretting doing this or not doing the other. But I'll indulge a little bit here. I wish I had puked all over her. No. Good little grin-and-bear-it SybaRight. I closed my eyes: focused my nose on the pussy: tried to block out the neighborhood ... And Trudy launches into a paean to how she feels when some old bearded guy in the Village eats her.
I tell you: it's a wonder I developed into the avid female-fluids imbiber I did after that dissuasion. My dick went limp. It stayed limp half of that whole summer.
Trudy did some summer-session work at Cornell that year. She invited me up to visit. Why? More importantly, why did I accept? Cornell has a great setting. We climbed around in the ravines. Back in her room, she wants to eat me this time. It was OK with me, but my dick knows best. He cringed from her.
Remembering Trudy everting her pussy toward my face while I was still standing on the floor makes me retrospectively grateful for all the unnoticed anal modesty I'd enjoyed up to that point. As little kids we looked at each other's butts, but we never explored past the surface. I think I was forty-something before I felt a woman's tongue suddenly rooting in my large intestine. I jumped "a mile." "What the hell are you doing?" All women I've been with except Trudy have been very considerate of my delicate feelings with regard to the fundament. Neither of us can help it being nearby. I don't want it rubbed on my face. Out of mind, if not out of sight. Women who mention so much as the penis in the ass get no encouragement from me. Fortunately, maybe because of my length, no woman has ever made a fuss about it. Pussy is where the penis belongs. I resent the woman who doesn't kiss me back. Maybe one out of ten (or fifty) times a woman comes in my mouth I like a blow job--on principle--but there's no way the best blow job in the world is 1% as nice as an ordinary fuck (except that some girls are much more virtuoso ball caressers while blowing than on their back: that alone can justify an occasional blow job). It's the vagina that co-evolved gripping the penis, not the mouth, and not the ass either. I adore nice buttocks, but you can leave the asshole at home, thank you.
Feelings? I wipe my ass with your feelings.
Tony Soprano to Christopher Moltisanti
Tony Soprano to Christopher Moltisanti
One of my files not at this blog narrates my first experience with quantities of pornography. For years now I've thrown porno emails away just based on the subject line. It takes too much of my day to trash spam even wihout opening it. My slow old CPU and standard modem makes it worse. Recently I get a couple of faster machines and so just recently I've looked at some of the current porno offerings. (In at least one case I'm glad I did and you may see the
result here). [link to be added] The porno fliers I'd seen in 1970 showed ass fucking. Plenty of pussy shots show the bum nearby. But the current crop of internet porno is like nothing I've ever seen before. It's as though they're selling the asshole more than the pussy. (What good would puking on my own computer monitor do?) Is this practice really market-response based? Are there any people left on earth? Or am I the only freak?
Notes
Choral Music:
I remember one friend asking another, I don't remember whether or not as a straight man:
"Is it true that half the choir at St John's is Jewish?"
"No, I'd say it's nine tenths atheist (though half of the atheists are Jews)."
As to whether choral music is the only music, with Vince Lombardi the music master, I'll say this: Harvard is so that the world can fill up with Harvard assholes. Yale is so that the world can fill up with Yale assholes. America is so that the world can fill up with American assholes. But music is not so that the world can fill up with music assholes.
Everted Pussy:
My hyperbolic metaphor of Trudy turning her pussy inside out in her anxiousness to wrap her fundament against my face reminds me of a time decades later when a pussy that had had me enthralled moments before had me about to lose my lunch. An artist I published at PK Fine Arts, Ltd. had a party in his loft. I met his wife for the first time. The artist greeted my date with Rabelaisian enthusiasm: I met his wife with a groan. Oh, my God. Look at that flank, the texture of that skirt on that buttock, the sweetness of that blond face ... The next thing I know that artist recommends his wife for a tapestry commission I had. The tapestry was for the gallery, part of the company furniture, and she did a nice design on my "SybaRight." The next thing I know after that, she's dumping him and comes to me for sympathy. I'd just leased office space on Lafayette Street. I fucked her on the hard concrete floor, not one rag of furniture yet in place. Eating her was a heaven I forsook faster than anticipated for the heaven of being inside her. My knees and her butt ignored the cold concrete. Next thing I knew, I'd come. Next thing I knew, the hard floor was very uncomfortable. I watched as I withdrew. Her pussy was so sweet. Her public hair was the most angelic down. But yoiks! Her pussy turned inside out as my penis slipped out! I was still half swollen, and I was pulling her pussy as I withdrew. Her inner lips stayed wrapped around it, not wanting to let go. Barf. Some creature of the sea floor. Coral polyp pink. Blech.
My lust for her never came back.
Thinking about it now it occurs to me that that might not be an uncommon occurrence: just not commonly seen. The pussy welcomes the kissing face, but it doesn't clench on it. Typically, we don't watch the penis during withdrawal. Typically, we're facing her face. Typically, it's dark.
That vomituous moment reminds me of one in the next story coming up, one I don't think I'd intended to mention: we fuck for hours. the gal goes to the john. there's only candle light, but still: on her way back I see my cum hanging from her pussy like an elastic yo-yo, glopping down and blobbing back up as she walked: 4/5ths of the way to the floor! Glub! Retch.
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