My stories rename girls underage: I'll invent an alias for this particular adult too. I'll try Heidi. Oh, wait. I've got a couple of Heidi stories to tell: one where the girl's name really was Heidi: only I don't care whether that actual Heidi sees this or not.
First the story, every so briefly, that gives this file its title.
Much of my life I have been a student. I made more money as a student, much more, than most students, but that is not to say I made a living. The university took every penny: if not all this year, then this year and next. When I taught, the university gave very little back. Offering networking to the world by founding the Free Learning Exchange cost me: it didn't earn. My writing didn't earn: it too cost. I've made money in business, but only sporadically. Always suspending business to pursue my real activities till desperation drives me back to business: in which case I have to start over. Even when I was rich, I was poor: because the money was for making money; not for living. Women who want me, and there have been a number (however much that number has dwindled as I've aged), if they also want to go to the theater, have to buy the tickets. I don't believe there has been a single time in my whole life that I have bought theater tickets: yet I've been: numerous times.
Sometimes the woman buys the tickets and invites me, expecting me to spring for dinner. That women do get from me: but not often. The woman who wants me has to buy the tickets and pay for dinner: unless she lets me cook at home.
Not in the Convent
One thing I like about English women is that they are so reserved. They've got the same pussy as everybody else: but they don't permit themselves to know it. One thing I like about German women is that they are so unreserved. An old German girl friend recently took my current girl friend and me to lunch. She brought her adorable young blond niece along. And there, in the Red Lobster, in Sebring Florida, in conversational voices not even pretending to whisper, they talked about Monica Lewinsky's blowing Bill Clinton in the White House! And my friend - aged ninety - didn't even seem to blink.
Well, back a few decades. 1970s. The Alvin Ailey troop is the hot dance troop in town. Heidi gets tickets. Heidi invites me. Heidi is blond. Heidi has the most amazing knockers I've ever seen in my life. Walking on Broadway with me, guys have come up to Heidi and proposed making bronze castings of her breasts right in front of me! while she's with me!
So Heidi takes me to the ballet. Judith Jamison was at her most magnificent. And one of the young dancers ... man, what a bod! That Caribbean heinie! Face both angelic and sensuous. Boobs to inspire a luau. I don't doubt that the male dancers were healthy and in shape and "normal" as well, but I couldn't take my eyes off that one girl's hips. Naturally, I was assuming that my thoughts didn't show. Heidi was a great one for grabbing my cock as we paused at the street corner for a light, for grabbing my balls a second later, right in public, for opening my fly and jerking me, as I drove ...
But at this moment Heidi's hands are to herself. So I'm hoping she doesn't know how much I enjoyed watching that one particular dancer. We stand. We applaud. A few of the audience have moved into the aisle. We join them. We're pressed by the crowd on all sides. Heidi's gaze meets mine - surrounded by numerous group-indifference - and Heidi says
and fuck zem.
How I met this woman (whose name wasn't really Heidi) ties directly to how I met a real Heidi. In my skiing-adventure narration of how I was blinded in a freak blizzard I refer to a spectacular blond sitting next to me on a bus. I'd gone to visit my old college buddy, John, who, starting in the military, had become my old ski buddy. He and his wife had gone native: moving to Vermont. She was New England to begin with: Boston, to be specific; John was strictly New York. But now he's in ski country. I take the bus. Snow conditions were poor - Magic Mountain wasn't even open, but we drove around and made do. Sunday evening I get on another bus and, for a couple of hours have that conveyance almost to myself. We stopped at the northern border of Massachusetts, and several new passengers struggled aboard: everybody bundled up for winter. I'm one of maybe three passengers already aboard. There's nothing but empty seats. I take in the new arrivals with indifference till I spot a creature born to stand out. Dressed as an Eskimo, her blond North-European beauty will still have shone through, but she was not dressed as an Eskimo: slacks, a sweater, a leather jacket ... What others were there, saw her, noted her with a start, and quickly looked away. I noted her, and held my gaze on her ethereal features. I saw her eyes register that mine had not turned aside. I smiled. I held that smile on her as she made her way to the aisle, past empty seat after empty seat. I didn't despair as she went on by me: I knew I'd made contact: sometime before we arrived at our destinations, we'd speak. That was my aim. I retained every confidence that it would be achieved. And that would be enough. This girl wasn't for me on a regular basis. She was too tall. Too strong looking: probably stronger than me. Apart from my being married, I wasn't right for her. I was an intellectual, a revolutionary, an anarchist, an artist ... She was too spectacular. She needed maintenance: beauty creams, membership in a spa, credit at Sachs: suits anarchist artists aren't long in.
I keep my eyes and smile on her as she comes abreast of me, but don't turn to follow her: only my mental radar turns, aware of her position at every moment. She reaches the back of the bus. Turns. She saunters back the other way: a hair slower, more staccato. I feel her at my shoulder. Holding herself just out of my casual gaze. She speaks. Her German accent is strong, but her tone is fine, her ease in English graceful enough. "Is this seat taken?" she asks me. I stand and offer her my window seat. She accepts it. She too is traveling light. Suddenly I can't remember where my skis were: I must have rented. Her suitcase fits easily with mine on the overhead rack. I'd seen the mass as well as shape of her bosom the moment she'd mounted the bus's first step. Now as she adjusted herself in the seat I got a gander of her hips, her legs ... God, all that female perfection right next to me on the seat. Her thigh and mine were a skin width apart. I tuned my mind to the frequency of her pheromones. My throat resonated with her hormones. I had already heard that this girl wasn't altogether stupid or ignorant. But however close she came, it was all right. Physically, she was pure poetry. She easily compassed both epic and lyric.
She was going to New York. Ah! Me too. She was going to the upper west side. Ah, me too. Within minutes I began, very gently to move the back of my hand against the swell of her thigh. The conversation continued as she luxuriated. My hand explored the amazing articulation of space that related her left buttock to her right, her two buttocks to her waist, her waist to the small of her back ... She leaned toward me as she emphasized some minor point of her story: she pressed her breast against my arm. Even through my sweater and parka I could assess every molecule.
Any one on the bus could see that she sat with this audacious stranger. No one could see where my left hand was. I never went near her bosom: nor anything "up front." What anyone with a mind to could hear was that she was telling me about Bergman's new movie: had I seen it? Cries and Whispers it must have been. The mistress of the house in the film breaks a wine glass and inserts the glass shards into her vagina. Then she shows herself all bloody to her husband.
Heidi can't have know that I'd been a Ingmar Bergman maven since the mid-fifties. I'd seen one early Bergman film numerous times while in high school: the Long Island art houses had repeated it as a staple because the actress runs bare ass in the water. So much for that. But since then, I'd seen and adored Smiles of a Summer Night, The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, Through a Glass Darkly, The Silence, Personna ... I nearly worshipped Bergman: but that doesn't mean I enjoyed sitting still for all of his neuroses and perversions: suicide, self-mutilation, particularly sexual mutilation. His very first movie featured a self-castration followed by suicide.
Heidi was impressing the hell out of me that she'd tell a stranger, even one who looked directly into her soul from the fist second, about bloody vaginas in Bergman. You know, I still may never have seen that particular one. Nevertheless: it must have made some impression on that bus's public.
As we pulled into New York's Port Authority, Heidi told me that her boyfriend was picking her up. They lived at 470 Riverside Drive. You don't say: I live at 305 Riverside. Oh, great! Géorg would drive me to my door. She sat up front. I took the back seat. Now I did something really stupid: very risky, unnecessarily. I held her hand by sliding my arm between the passenger side of the front seat and the passenger door panel. On the bus, everything I did I did sitting erect. Here I had to practically climb on top of her. Still, that's not the stupid thing: the stupid thing was: I kept my left hand under the car's front seat to massage whatever of hers was in contact with the seat. The seats were bench, not bucket. I could have been massaging his testes while I aimed for her vulva. I don't know this Géorg. He might be a knife man. He might carry a gun.
As we sped up the West Side Highway, Heidi tells me that Géorg is having a party Friday night. I'm invited. Will I come? "Yes. Thank you very much, Géorg."
God! That was the closest I'd come to blue balls since I was fifteen or so. Once again, I was in a situation of constant erotic stimulation with no possibility of natural relief. Heidi either accepted or ignored my every physical attention; but she hadn't straddled and mounted me. When I had my hand under the car seat, she didn't have her hand wrapped and yanking at my dick, or cupped and urging me by the balls. I hadn't blown a wet hole through the back of Géorg's seat. Pscheuwww! It was hard to wait for that Friday.
I've lived at 440 Riverside, at 305, at 190 ... All my apartments were on the back side of the building: or deep inside. Géorg's was one of the big old ones smack on the drive: on the river side. He was within a window or two of Babe Ruth's old place. No matter where you are in the Apple, somebody great or somebody famous or somebody important has lived next door to you. Bogart lived up the block from my then current place at 305. But the Babe had lived in one of New York's greatest blocks: Riverside between 116th and 119th. Ruth wouldn't have had "The God Box" - at his elbow just at 119th, but Riverside Cathedral would have been there, just the other side of 120th. Across the way there's the mighty river. At one's back is the ultra-civilized Claremont Avenue, bordered by Barnard College, with Barnard swallowed beyond by Columbia. There's the park, there's Grant's Tomb, the Foreign Student Center ... But even if there were nothing, the old riverside-Riverside Drive apartments are great. Spacious, high ceilinged, well-windowed. I knocked at Géorg's door. Heidi opened it. She wore a tank top. The nipples of her amazing jugs showed. "Ah, SybaRight, come in. Welcome." She took my arm. She pressed both breasts into my arm. I let her lead me, but something was wrong. Getting on the bus, her hair was haloed by the New England winter night. Back home, she was frizzy. She had glistening sweat rings under her arms. She stank: like a goat. Oh man! I recognized the stench: amphetamines! The girl was all A-d up.
As we came upon others I saw a pattern. The women were mostly German: absolutely all European. A large contingent of the guests were black. Unfortunately, they were blacks that I knew: not to pal around with, but from the West End Tavern. They were moochers, con men, petty drug dealers, poseurs: and, among other things, aggressive (undiscriminating) pussy eaters, every one. I hadn't yet said two words to Heidi and she's whisked roughly, tittering, into a broom closet for a frantic grope. My own urgency to grope her evaporated. I'm a competitor, but I lure my trophy into privacy. I don't eat on the battle field. Regardless, vibrations from me can't have been the first Géorg ever felt around his girl friend.
I'll say now what I learned only latter. Géorg helped European women to get a green card. He put them up, helped them out, got them started ... They all got work, sometimes good work. A high percentage of them wound up marrying millionaires. Géorg knew a lot of rich men who (quite sensibly) didn't want anything to do in the way of marriage with American women. I don't know the details of how Géorg made his living: but the reader can imagine as well. If he didn't get anything so crass as a percentage of the marriage, he no doubt got some sort of material present more often than not. It's not that Géorg was a pimp; it's that something akin to pimping was one of many things that Géorg did. I never saw Géorg again: but I did continue to meet female graduates of his apartment: all very nice. And all very attractive. Nelly was a French girl, but I swear, she had a butt like a prime negress!
So. I didn't think I'd stay long. There was still the big living room to explore. I'd go there. See what was what. Then leave.
What was what was a German blond woman I took for an airline stewardess. She wasn't long and slender like Heidi; she looked like she could throw the discus; pierce it midair with the javelin; and then model the lingerie. Especially if the outfits had a lot in the way of bosom. This girl looked like the original inspiration for the Brooklyn Bridge. She was hung. And it all suspended. I mean it hung, straight out. She looked like you could climb onto her nipple and yodel and the tit would still stand horizontal! You could sell it by the pound and still have enough left over for a starving army.
I asked if she wanted to dance. She asked what I did. I told her about my just founded Free Learning Exchange. "You mean if I need help with something like my English, I could call you and you'd hook me to a coach?" "Yes," I said, "to a choice of coaches: if there are enough resources in the data base to afford choice. In the case of English, I happen to be one of the choices possible." "Ooo, would you help me with my English?" "I don't think your English needs much help, but insofar as I can, yes, I'd be glad to." "Oh." She stood a bit taller and looked steadily into my face.
I myself can hardly believe what I did next. I danced her into the corner where her bosom was not facing the crowd, and I caressed it with my hand: my good right hand. Never before or since have I felt up a girl without knowing her yet for five minutes. (I've groped strangers maybe, but not first acquaintances.) Neither her tit, nor her face, nor she flinched. "I run the Free Learning Exchange from just a few blocks downtown of here. Would you like to visit? I'll show you how I do things." "Yes," she said. "Now?" I asked. "Now," she said.
My wife was away somewhere for the weekend. Probably in Washington where she had a father and also the friend who'd been her bridesmaid at our wedding. My new Heidi wasn't so surprised at how swiftly I got my tongue into her pussy as she was at how enthusiastic I was in doing it. "You don't do that just to be courteous?" she asked, sounding surprised at how un-skeptically she was asking it. "Very unusual. For a white American," she added.
I must say that the most amazing thing about Heidi was that once her blouse was off and her bra removed - said bra weighing perhaps 30% of the total mass of her clothing: including her shoes, belt, and jewelry - her tits cantilevered just as horizontal. I still see her these thirty years later: and her tits still stand right up and stay standing.
Such boobs are impressive whatever your normal attitude toward boobs. My normal attitude is, Nice, but very over-rated: and size matters not not-at-all but very-little. It's their living sensitivity that gets me: just like the pussy. If it doesn't kiss me back, it's boring. Nothing is more boring than a tit that just sits there, posing. And a pussy that doesn't rear up and convulse is a crime against nature.
But the most impressive thing of all: wasn't the topological coordinates of her bosom, wasn't how rich her late husband was ... The most impressive thing of all was the strength of her forehand: I swear - if I was thirty-five when we met and she was say twenty, and I was sixty when I visited her in south Florida ... she had to be at least forty-five: the tennis racket was practically ripped from my hand by the velocity of her strokes from the baseline.
Once last thing about the Heidi I met on the bus I learned from the Heidi who's still my friend: Heidi-on-the-bus was a cover girl. Her color picture was on the cover of the brochure her brothel sent around the world: to Iranian princes, to Japanese CEOs. So many thousands of dollars a night, and Heidi — or another choice — would ship immediately. (2004 11 27: So funny: I just read a novel in which a German mail-order brothel brothel has a cover girl Heidi: Case's The Eighth Day. I may as well tell you: in the case of the whore, Heidi is not a fictitious name I've given her for anonymity; it's the name she gave me: real or professional name I can't know. Case's Heidi and my Heidi can't be the same female—too many decades apart for the good of the business; by my Heidi could have inspired subsequent generations! (or been herself part of a chain).)
Notes
Undiscriminating Pussy Eaters:
The word on the guy called Tiger was that he would suck the cunt even as the girl came dripping from another's bed.
I'd long known another of the guys there as a voyeur. At my party the evening before I was drafted, I'd gone to my room to fuck. I had my face between my girl friend's thighs, her hips arched high into the air. The door opened and in peeked ... this same hustler who'd just bundled Heidi into the closet!
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