Today's internet porn strikes me that it's trying to make me puke. One came this morning that has me shaking with indignation these several hours later. The girl's face was a dream. She looked like Rebecca deMornay in her prime: you know, mid-1980s. She was naked except for her shoes and socks. They were both pristine white: that was nice: virginal socks: we don't want to think that a girl who shows her snatch to strangers is a whore. Her feet and ankles were tangled in her panties—also white, pristine—but her panties were stretched as thin as rubber bands as she tried vainly to tug them past her Nikes. Her hips were cocked sideways. Neither her shoes, nor socks, nor white fingers, nor white panties blocked our view of the fundamental facts. There, pleasingly pink and all in an oblique row were her gaping vulva, that mystic threshold of pussy flesh where pussy plunges, plunges as her vagina (not gaping but parted), a teeny-weeny bridge of crotch tissue, and big as life, her brown sphincter: with her brown aurora, the nether aureole, bigger than the ring around a polar bear's ass.
I reduce the obscenity of this picture by quoting just enough of it to show the girl's angelic face.
Christ! I don't want to see Rebecca deMornay looking like she's about to poop in her lover's eye. I want to see Rebecca deMornay wearing prim little gloves and riding on the bus with that poor old lady who wants to go home to the farm in Texas.
I've had my eyes open, in daylight, around enough crotch, to know that the brown ring does not in itself mean that the girl hasn't been introduced to Charmin bath tissue, but I can't imagine anyone, not a proctologist, ever outgrowing that first reflexive association. The garbage I find in my mailbox is sent to millions!
And that reminded me of the demented libber who ground her hips in the park dog shit as she pulled her pussy under my nose.
The last of my series of apartments on or near Morningside Heights was a little south of the Heights: Riverside Drive at 103rd Street, right across from The Masters with its Little Equity Theater. Rollo May was in there. Bogart had lived mid-block. I conceived the Free Learning Exchange at 39 Claremont Avenue, worked out many of the details at Riverside and 116th. My first apartment after getting married was on Riverside at 97th. But 305 Riverside Drive housed FLEX, entertained FLEX volunteers, saw a wife and a parade of girl friends come and go, saw me rebirthed as a once-again art dealer, hosted PK Fine Arts, Ltd. ... Manhattan we all know is on the Hudson: east bank. The West Side Highway and then Riverside Drive keep New Yorkers from their river. North of 96th Street and ribboning past Grant's Tomb, Riverside Park separates the highway from the drive. Along the drive almost all of the apartment buildings have the sense to open onto the side street and not onto the drive. I remember visiting a girl directly on the drive and this then nineteen year old couldn't open the entrance door against the wind with three adult neighbors trying to help. People can be sealed in their buildings for hours. 305 Riverside opened onto 103rd Street, facing north. So, to walk the dog, it was: debouch onto sidewalk, quick left (west) for a dozen or so paces, check traffic on the little utility road that stitches the apartments from the mini-park east of the drive that gives the drive dwellers some greenery directly below their windows as well as in the distance. Don't move to Connecticut; live on the Drive.
Though if you do move to Connecticut, I doubt that you'll encounter quite the concentration of dog shit that west-siders endured: at least prior to scooper laws. (This anarchist hates laws penned by humans but has to admit that they're not all equally intrusive. And some, even though intrusive, are the only thing that makes overpopulated humanity viable.) (I'd still rather have under-populated humanity. Then we wouldn't need scoopers. We wouldn't need plumbing for ourselves. Go ahead. Poop in the river. If no one lives within a hundred miles, who cares?)
So, the hound can get a moment's relief the second he's at the sidewalk's curb. Ease the body's receptacles a bit more amid actual greenery with actual living-thing smells in the mini park, wait for the Walk light in somewhat greater comfort, trot over to the upper park that waxes as wide as a hundred or so feet in some sections, then descend into Riverside Park proper: more than two miles of grass, and trees, and rocks, and hills, and paths where the dog can portion his scent markings as he pleases.
But: if you're in a rush ... if it's late and you're tired of the muggers ... you can always just confine the dog to the upper park: east side. At 103rd Street the mini park was wide enough for a whole bunch of dogs to chase each other and folic. Past midnight nearly all the dog-walkers hung out in the mini-park. Many a New Yorker has no idea who his "neighbors" are, but the dog walkers know the dog walkers.
Just at 103rd Street the mini park runs south unbroken by the utility road all the way to 97th Street: that is, southward: downtown. Just at my "intersection" there were a few square yards of scuffed ground: broken glass, bottle caps, so much foot traffic that nothing could grow. Then there were some bushes. Another little scruffy patch. And then: green sward: enough to throw a Frisbee on as far as a champion can manage.
I had things to do. The mini park was as far as Angus was going to get that afternoon. Angus drove me nuts as a pup. I thought he'd never get trained. I thought I had no talent with dogs. I was mean to him, made myself look and sound like an ass-hole, an ogre, as I failed to get him to learn. I punished him for chewing my slippers: so he just chewed my wife's slippers. Once Angus turned two he showed that he'd understood perfectly all along. He just wasn't ready to cooperate. After two, the dog was a marvel. Once, when he was old and blind (a cop had attacked him with mace), he lost sight of me in the park. When I finally found him he was sitting alert as an eagle at the top of the steps to 305 RSD! That's means he'd crossed the drive itself, where hoards of traffic derby 'round blind curves at 55 mph! day and night! But the gal with the Doberman (what a pair of knockers, one of the few gals who ever succeeded in getting me to toke her damn reefer) told me she'd witnessed it.
Angus came pounding up the steep steps out of the park, barreled across the park strip to the drive ... traffic was roaring up ... And Angus put his rump straight down and sat at attention till a woman with children and a baby carriage came and pressed the button for the light to cross. Angus meekly crossed the drive with the family, then posted himself at the top step to Home.
I carried a leash: just in case. It was woven of leather: braided. and Angus loved the chew and pull on it. As a pup I'd swing him around like the carousel until someone warned me that as he grew it would break his teeth. I may have looked to strangers like the cruel disciplinarian in a snuff flick, the chewed braiding hanging free like the nine tails of the cat. But Angus cavorted back and forth and around me till he came to a curb. There he go from full tilt to Sit! Right at the precipice of the lethal street. I'd saunter up, check the traffic, whisper OK, and Wham! like a bullet, Angus marks a new trajectory. On the other side, he might bolt left, or right. Once I arrived, I determined the new direction. He'd catch on and catch up within a minute or two, having who knows what adventures in the meantime. Only rarely did he go a distance further than he could correct course from: and those were the times when a separation could occur: as climaxed above.
This time Angus is going to have to take care of his entire business in the first little mini park. He'll have plenty of time to empty the bladder, clear the colon, but not much to scent-mark or to explore scents. Of course there are so many dog scents anywhere in residential Manhattan that a square yard ought to have enough information to send a dog to Bedlam. We cross the utility road. Angus takes his second or third emergency leak at the bushes to the side of the worst scuff of grassless glass-ground earth, and a woman follows us through the gap in the bushes and places herself stage-center of the bush curtained DMZ II, the bare ground almost as scuffed, glass-ground, and excrement-saturated as DMZ I. She turns and faces me. Angus resents the intrusion and lifts his leg against the bush nearest her. The woman is larger than normal but not by any gargantuan margin. (This would have been 1975? 1976?) I'll say she's five-eight and has more flesh on her than Vogue would ever show. But whatever she has in the way of boobs or butt she masks with loose, floppy clothing. I'm not saying she was dressed like Ché: not camouflage exactly, but it blended till the effect was olive drab: the different tones and prints canceling each other. She had some kind of a rope around her middle. In 1955 I would have expected her to be male and an existentialist. In 1976 I guessed she was "liberated," and maybe a dyke. Her business, not mine. Guess for only a moment: because a dyke might display for males, but only their leather, their studs, their boots, their switchblades ... This woman began to display something more. She loosened her rope-belt. She stuck her hand down her now very loose pants front. The outline of her hand was very clear as its caress descended over her belly, palmed her bush, palmed her pubic mound ... Now her fingers began to massage the whole vulva. Even through all the layers of rayon I could imagine the lips being separated and closed, peeled back, and pushed together ... But her masturbation was manic, not sensuous. I wouldn't want this monster handling my apparatus and I can't imagine flesh and blood getting pleasure from what she was so grossly, so mechanically, doing.
The look on her face was one men seldom see and few women ever. It's a look I image we miss in the dark: because our attention is elsewhere ... It's always frustrated me that I can't have my head stuck in the woman's crotch and also see her face at the same time. If I were a camera freak I'd be tempted to film the girl as I blow her, as she comes, watch the film as she blows me ... Midway through fucking I might also wish that I were eating, midway through eating, I can't wait to get the dick in the ultimate place ... but don't want to stop what I am doing ... Etc.
This woman was showing me the look. Come to think of it, I now daily see that look in the porn emails. It's the look the actress wears for the camera as she poses with Jergens lotion or Cool Whip or whatever they use for the copious cum of the porn pics all over her face, her breasts, in her hair. She was showing me the drugged look of sensual surfeit. Her eyes were open but she saw only inward. She knew where her audience was though from other senses. She lowered herself to the ground, keeping her box aimed at me the whole time. She pulled her pussy. She groaned. She writhed on the ground. She drove her head with its limp, drab brunette hair into the dirt, into the ground glass, among the bottle caps, into the dog shit ... She arched her back, hefting her pussy, arching like a wrestler in a wrestler's bridge.
Bull shit, she wasn't coming: not that fast. This was an actress: unpaid, uninvited. What was her motive?
I wanted no part of it whatever it was. I moved back the other way: yield the display ground to her and her exertions. I didn't care whether she imagined her display was attractive: it was repelling me.
Had it attracted me, it would have been so easy to say, Hey, get up out of the dog shit. My nice clean apartment is right upstairs. You won't be arrested if you take your fatigue blouses and harem pants off. If you take a shower, and I like what I see, maybe you'll even get to watch my dick weep while I watch. Maybe you won't have to maul yourself. Maybe I'll offer my own manipulations for you. ... Maybe you'll have real cum spattering you everywhere.
Had Angus and I gone through the gap in the bushes opposite, we would have had the whole green sward to romp on. But she commanded the bottle neck. If she remained there, we'd have to pass her again. Angus sensed that the territory was not ours this day. I started back around her. She swiveled on the ground to follow me with her yanked pussy. I had to practically step on her to get back through the first gap. "Excuse me," I said politely. Angus pissed on the bush right by her head.
Years latter I'd recall that move as Angus pissed against the tree bole he'd just imprisoned a mugger against till I was safely passed, his hot stream just missing the guy's pants. Those pants where still stained with Angus' saliva foam, right on the crotch, where moments before, Angus had held the guy certain his balls were history, Angus' loud foaming frenzy stunning him right in the testes.
Now. Have you ever heard the like? I never had. Neither have I since. What was her story? Had she been flashed as a girl, and now wanted revenge? Did she pick me at random? or had I been targeted? (Maybe Angus, ha ha, was her target.) ?
If this is a daily occurrence, who before me has told the story?
Cultures are as dishonest as individuals. Fortunately for knowledge as an at least partial possibility, no two individuals will be dishonest or secretive about exactly the same things. This guy covers his crotch, that guy covers his face. Between them, you can get an image of both a face and a crotch. One station house misrepresents the number of rapes; another reports no genital assaults for either gender. If the Italians lie about "suicide," then the Swedes lie about "censorship," about something. But worldwide, one can ferret some sense of suicide and censorship; genital assault, and rape.
In The Silence of the Lambs Hannibal Lecter's neighbor in incarceration smacks Starling in the face with his jetting semen. Some significant minority of little girls have had some clown come up to her with hairy legs showing under his trench coat. Flash. Maybe they get squirted too. There's no calculating the incidence of neurosis beyond admitting that it's huge. Just remember: Freud found societies, not just individuals, to be neurotic. Yet society maintains some normalcy, some degree of sanity. The little girls know that that happens. They also know that it's not standard.
If everyone told their stories as candidly as I try to, how many other stories would group around my pair here: getting whispered at over my shoulder, getting an eyeful amid the dog shit? Why don't you chime in? Send your emails. I'd love to hear from doers as well as from witnesses. Gals, if you've whacked yourself in front of some stranger, confess it now.
Feel compelled to lie? Go ahead? How do you know I'm not lying? You can't. What we need are statistically significant stories.
In the summer of 1989 I was sitting at my Toshiba, just as I'm now sitting at the Mac, write, write, writing away, except that then I was in a pop-up tent trailer and had nothing between me and the environment but unflapped screen. A large woodpecker with a red crown and a white steak up her otherwise black head perched on a nearby slash pine stump. I got out the Peterson's. Hmm. Not a Piliated. Only one match: Ivory Billed; female ... "Believed extinct"! Well, it's hard to be extinct and perch on a pine stump at the same time. I had no camera with me. I have no document of my experience.
I wrote the Audubon Society. They passed my observation onto some specialist. He wrote acknowledging the claim. Between the lines, the sense that he had no reason to trust my observational abilities was strident. That's science's strength. It's also it's weakness. Science has no competence with unique, unduplicated events. Until virgin births become commonplace, science can have no commerce with them.
Understand: by scientist, I don't mean government employees in white-frock costumes. I don't mean the actor in the ad who introduces himself as a doctor. I mean someone who has some sense of evidence (better sense than a lawyer) and some sense of falsification.
2005 04 28 Hooray! A sighting has been confirmed! in Arkansas. (Reuters article.) Science is wise to require a coordination of evidence, but some truths thereby get excluded: or at least delayed.
There's no reason to believe the guy who reports having been abducted by aliens (or the ten thousand with similar claims) until testimony is backed by additional evidence. Then there's still no reason to believe it until the falsifiers have at it: unencumbered. (Until falsification gets "50%" of the budget (and the budget is independent of a central administration), there is no science.) (That is, the "devil's advocate ought to actually work for the devil, not work for the Church and pretend to work for the devil.) (In other words, science and central authority are incompatible.)
Anyway, let's have a clearinghouse of experiences where females offer lewd displays in public. The bushes at Riverside and 103rd were still public as would be an alley way or the parking lot behind a school yard. The woman didn't knock on my door at home. I didn't knock on hers. She tracked me or just came upon me, then cut me off by a convenient screen.
Your experience was with some gal on a flag pole? some gal in the middle of the street? Let's tell a bunch of them. Then we might have some better way of comparing males and females.
Don't bother with stories about males: we all know what men are like.
Notes
Sexist Language:
Back in 1960 sometime I decided that there was no way to delete the sexism from English without butchering an already crazy language. I decided to go on saying "his" where gender was interterminate. Allow the contradictions to contradict. Stop assuming that the language is anything but what it is, stop pretending that people are anything but what they are. If we wish to improve, we should improve our behavior (and perhaps our genes as well) and let the language worry about itself.
It's an argument no one ever let me make clearly. My son embarrasses me by reminding me that my argument resembles a published rationalization by the meretricious William Safire (one of Nixon's sycophants). Ouch! That's a strange bedfellow for SybaRight!
Anyway, said son says that "their" skirts the issue nicely and also has historical precedent, backpedaled away from by the prescriptive grammarians. I don't know that particular detail, but I'm certainly familiar with the phenomenon and have long taught vehemently against it. But this is the first time I've remembered to actually make the switch: their.
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