Peppermint Panties

One day a couple of kids in the neighborhood and I are sitting in one of the neighborhood cars. Gene is a girl who moved across the street after I'd already established my harem, so I never played doctor with Gene. The other girl was much younger than Gene and I: and had volunteered her body to me after other girls well older than she (while still a year or two younger than me) had fallen away from our intimacies. This little "Bonnie" was an amazingly cute little blond who grew up into a New York international bombshell, having diamonds showered on her by foreign as well as domestic heterosexuals. Bonnie was the most uninhibited of all the Bonnies I've ever seen. She would strip and run naked unbidden. Her parents were forever yanking her back into the house to veil her exhibitions.

I don't remember exactly how old I was in this story, but I was old enough to know that I was super-attracted to this little girl, not just curious about the fact of her being female: so I store it in my "Puberty" folder. On this occasion Bonnie started flashing her crotch at anyone in eyeshot. Oh, Jesus: her panties were peppermint striped! She had amazing articulation between her thighs and her buttocks, between left buttock and right, between top of buttock and small of back, between inside of thigh and tendon to thigh ... an articulation that would only increase with maturity, an articulation that she would come to share with the world as a world-class belly dancer.

I was old enough to be surprised at Gene as Gene ignored her. Gene didn't smack her, tell her to behave, to be ashamed. Gene just didn't show the behavior as registering on her.

Now: Bonnie had already gone out of her way to show me her snatch and her butt and any of the rest of her that I wanted to see, but that had been long ago, not current: and we had been alone (however not unobserved). So what was I supposed to do? Gene was present. I had nothing but inhibitions with Gene (not being at all attracted to her) (with her funny teeth and gums). Bonnie meanwhile proceeded merrily along, waving her mons veneris and the candy wrapped cleft between her lips : the edge of the oyster : above the car seat.

So what did I do? I practically retched. Because of the reek that issued from beneath that cute candy-striped cotton. Bonnie hadn't sanitized herself very well after trips to the potty.

I remember kind of shrinking back as my mother eagerly unwrapped a block of Limburger cheese from its foil. God, how can she put her face near that crap? How can she put that stinking junk in her mouth? Ah, what a gulf between innocence and experience: between puberty and adulthood, between gourmet discernment and bumpkinhood. (02 17 2004 Updating layout, I am reminded that I plan a module on differences between thresholds: the man and the boy are not the same creature: neither is the childless the same creature as the parent.) I've already told of my reaction the first time I ever smelled shit on a girl. Bonnie was trying to spread herself open for me: and there was more there than pussy. Now here this Bonnie was flexing and sporting parts of herself she was supposed to keep passive, closed, hidden: and deodorized.

For love has pitched his mansion
In the place of excrement.
Yeats

I was bewildered. I was heartbroken. I am a man who had not ever spent any dollars on Playboy centerfolds. I'd taken my Esquire calendars off my walls before Playboy's first issue was conceived. But there was a time when I had several calendar girls pinned to my walls. One of them I kept for decades. I might even still have it. A young woman with her bosom bursting against a white satin blouse lay prone on a scatter rug. Christmas type stuff lay about. She touched her pen to her brilliant teeth: thinking (!) you see: about her Christmas list or her letter to Santa. Her black velvet skirt, ever so teeny, had flopped up over toward her minuscule waist, revealing toward the center of the composition a perfect pair of peppermint dumplings.

God, the number of hours, months, years, I spent staring at that ass! It was a drawing, not a photograph, and man, had the artist suggested the Platonic essence of female in that complexly curved package! The floor nearly flattened the pussy: making the mons resistance to flattening the more amazing. And in utter contrast, there were those twin mounds. But no matter where I was in the room, up close or at a distance, the cartoon ass didn't reek. Here was Bonnie, whose ass would indeed, unbelievably, come to rival that cartoon's perfection, and she smelled like an outhouse.

Now. I was nineteen before I ever had my face hovering just above an open vulva. I was twenty-one before I actually pushed my face into the body: probed it, sought the vagina. Since then, I have had my nose next to the anus many a time, maybe inside the anus for all I know. Have I ever tasted shit? Not knowingly. Certainly not deliberately. But who knows what I wallowed into while I was probing and licking and sucking? It all sort of flows together down there. Any women who's suddenly started rooting her tongue up into my ass has made me jump: and pull away from her. Only once, only with one particular woman, was I ever aware that my tongue was awfully near the wrong place. And even her, however much I adored her buttocks, her buttocks had nothing to do in my mind with her anus, her large intestine, or its contents. But having said that, I must add, that I have smelled shit on a woman : no matter how open I've had them (and I pride myself on how open I open a woman) : on very few occasions since those childhood experiences. You live with a woman for five years, for a dozen years, for fifteen years ... you make love to her three times a day, six times a week, five times a month ... whatever you're averaging at that age with that particular woman, and you have plenty of opportunity to smell her here there and everywhere.

So what's up? I remember walking past a tavern aged eight or nine and having to hold my breath, having to hold my breath again till I was safely past certain older woman types : older adult women who walk in a miasma of cheap perfume. Actually, the perfume could be costly and a young boy still can't stand it. Now I walk past women of all ages without noticing any perfume at all: no wonder they have to add so much.

I believe I've told how six or so months after quitting smoking (inhaling cigarettes!) I smelled a smell from my distant past: cut grass. I'd killed my smeller; now better habits were restoring my sense for me. Could the young boy smell the shit on the woman that the older SybaRight is just fine with? How much shit has to be under our honker before we notice? Well, the amount varies with age and habit, I guess. One way it certainly varies is according to the tastes one develops with experience.

I hated the smell of hashish the first time I smelled it. An hour later, it smelled good. Dangerous sign. The kid retches at the smell and taste of alcohol; the adult gulps it down. Maybe my mother smelled only good smells coming off the Limburger cheese; smelled like the toilet to young me.

There's a good chance I already had that peppermint butt on my wall at the time Bonnie inundated me with candy-colored latrine. The experience put me in a deep human, deep any-living-creature, dilemma. The cartoon butt looked so luscious to me even when I still had years to go of being a virgin. But Bonnie's real fair-and-foul fanny froze me in stasis.

Life does give us fair warning. We maybe should listen more often when our young bodies tell us that the alcohol, the tobacco, the hashish ... is bad. When it comes to sex though, nature doesn't give us a chance. We can retch, and puke, and shrivel, and flee all we want to: when the real estrus is really there, we don't stand a chance. Man will lay waste to continents to get at the pussy: women will undergo any hardship, endure anything, to get that magic fluid into them.

(I remember my dog, Angus, squeezing through the merest crack in the car window well before we had rolled up in front of the house of the bitch eleven days in heat. She launched her swollen yoni from a second-story window : over concrete. It was OK though, my dog's upward thrust impaled her before she hit the ground. He'd already come before they were on the sidewalk.

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Gag. Imagine what cheesy dicks whores have to put in their mouths on a regular basis without complaining. They can't pull the guy's drawers down, see the stains, and tell him to come back after he's been to the laundry.

If we were slaves who had to clean the latrine every day I can easily imaging us forgetting to wipe some offal off our face on occasion.

As a boy sitting next to the displaying Bonnie, I smelled shit. The man SybaRight might only have smelled pussy juice. Ooo, peppermint pussy. Give me some of that.

Notes:

To the Laundry:
I've elsewhere told about the time I was reading my third novel to a poet when she started puking her guts out: stomach cancer as it turned out. While she recuperated I went and did her laundry for her: she'd said her basket was full and I talked her into postponing it for my sake. Well her full basket had nothing in it but dozens and dozens of pairs of severely brief panties: no two the same. Every one had some nice little detail: a bit of embroidery, some design, a splash of color : nothing vulgar : right near the front part of the reinforcing for the crotch. I put them into her washer one at a time, having plenty of leisure to realize: they were without stain, without odor, without any sign they they'd ever been worn by a living creature. You don't have to pee in your pants to have yellow stains near the opening to your urethra : whether you're male or female. Whether you're male or female, you don't have to have pooped while dressed to have brown stains at the other end of the crotch. Maybe this poet changed her panties twelve times a day!
I was falling in love with her anyway because she was listening responsively, prior to her attack of stomach pain, even though I'd already read at her for upwards of six hours without a break. (I wanted to read it to her aloud you see.) Those pristine panties put me back on the wall with my odorless Christmas girl.
2008 05 09 Moving stories from one domain to another, the above memory calls up another: In the movie Cocoon we watch through a porthole as Tahnee Welsh steps out of her panties. The camera closes in, not on her snatch, but on the now empty panties. They are pristine white! Pristine!
It's a moments like that that you know that you are not altogether unique in your reactions. Everybody in the audiencee is there relating to female architecture, physiology ... desire, taboo ...