Lubricate a Locomotive

The girls must have felt like Uncle Albert themselves, because moves occurred rapidly. If we weren't fertile, ready-to-conceive Uncle Alberts we were fertile Uncle Alberts who merely smooched. We're only there for a week? two weeks? a weekend? No time to waste. I want to tell about another Bonnie and my comic humiliations with her, but first I'll tuck in Singing Raven. (note)

That was humiliating enough: and comic too, I believe. I'm at Denton Lake for a week. Some girl from Queens comes on to me right away. I let her. Then I see the girl I really want: but it's too late. Queens was tall, bony, and raucous. Singing Raven was dark, a very fair dark: long raven-shiny black hair, athletically slender: and when she turned to walk away, she showed an ass whose flex and pucker would have swooned Cupid from the clouds. Beautiful long-boned face. Eyes deep with dark mystery. Full blooded Pueblo Indian. Ah! We'd be "friends." Some other guy takes up with Singing Raven and the four of us, after Bible study, after lunch, after meditation, after Vespers ... would walk in the woods and neck.

Passive SybaRight never tells Queens to get lost. At least Singing Raven is nearby. Queens' abrasiveness becomes strident. I patch some booboo for her. She calls me "her Florence Nightengale." Please.

We have a reunion that next winter in Jamaica. I truck in from the Island. Queens is there: it's in Queens after all. "Florence!" she shrieks. I shrink from her. She does go away. Singing Raven has trucked out from Manhattan. I dance with her. I see the chaperons grinning at us from the sidelines. It takes a while for me to guess why. I'm wearing my best approximation of a zoot suit. Light blue suit, dark blue shirt, dark blue socks, blue suede shoes, white knit tie. I wore my hair with a precipitous wave: on the "wrong" side cause I've got a cowlick at my hairline above my right eye. I'm dancing with Singing Raven, doing my moves. Shuffle, cross-over, dip back, releasing her waist so she can dip back the other way, then spin back into me. Before she does, I see it. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The left leg of my light blue pants has a broad dark wet streak from my groin to my knee.

I sure didn't know what it was at the time, but I bet I do now. No, I hadn't come in my pants. This was no waltzing wet dream. I'd lubricated though: enough to grease a locomotive.

And that should set up my story about Bonnie nicely enough. I walked Singing Raven to the subway. Learned she lived on Which New York Avenue. No pencil but her father's distinctive name in the phone book was easy enough to remember (though I've forgotten it now). Dry humped her against the wall. Let her go.

No further contact, though I still think of her, dream of the time she rode on my shoulders. It had been the previous summer. She wasn't my girl then but it was my shoulders she was riding on, those thighs around my neck, her pussy bussing the top of my spine. I dream of turning my head, getting her to hold onto a tree branch or something, to relieve just enough of her weight for a second so I can turn and wear her as a face muff.

Never fucked any of these Bonnies and Singing Ravens? Makes me remember them with longing.

Note: Singing Raven:
I call all my standard neighborhood girls Bonnie to save possible embarrassment to the women they're grown into. Where the female isn't standard vanilla, I ethnicize the "Bonnie."