Erection
Hark back to the sixth grade: summer following. The girls had gotten scarce for a while once news got around the neighborhood what the little girls were doing with that one little boy. (I was never chastised. I never heard of any of the girls being punished. But they'd had leashes put on them. By the parents, certainly, but by something else too. We were getting a little older. We were becoming social human beings with all the neuroses and taboos that that implies.) Trying to stuff my peter into the front fold of Bonnie's lips was a ridiculous chore. Neither of us had a clue that that flap only started the real stuff: like thinking the outer skin is the onion. Neither of us had ever heard of an erection.
Somewhere along in there I'd started getting my first erections. Bonnie is at my house. She's about to leave. Wait a minute, I say. She does. Something has happened to me, I falter. I want you to know about it. Bonnie flushes. 'Bye. And out of my house she goes. Never came back: my once constant companion.
So in the summer after the sixth grade I'm hanging around my house. Always something to do. Climb the tree. Stare at the junk in the cellar, in the attic. My childhood society had limited itself fairly much to my immediate section of My Street. Even once I could cross the street to the south, a major intersection for a child, I seldom did so: except when marauding on my bike. Those rampages were solitary, not social. My society was my immediate neighborhood: My Street, eight houses on my side, similar number on the other. My Side Street didn't cut the east side of My Street, but in my mind there was a juncture there too: "Smith" on one side "Jones" on the other: a border. North of the Jones' was another country. A girl I'd gone to school with since day-one lived merely a half dozen doors away: but the trip would have involved turning one of those corners. I wouldn't have had to cross a street, mind you: just turn the corner. Nope: might as well go to the moon.
Besides; in general I returned visits: I seldom initiated them. Never spoke to this Bonnie. Never visited her. Alien turf. But this one day I'm bouncing around the front yard. Bonnie sees me. She comes over. Hi. Whatcha doin? We go climb my tree. My poor lone tree. We'd had several when we moved in, me age three, but early 'Forties hurricanes took care of all but the apple tree and the nice maple all the way in the back shading the garage. Bonnie and I climb onto the roof of the garage. We hang out there: hidden within the shade. Bonnie says, Wouldn't it be great if we woke up one morning and everyone else was dead? No parents, no school? We'd have everything to ourselves. We could do anything we wanted.
I recognized her drift. Who wouldn't? What kid doesn't feel the same way? Billions of people in the world: what an imposition. Culture like a straightjacket. Not too thickly veiled however, I could also see Cops and Robbers coming.
... It was not woman's fault, nor even love's fault, nor the fault of sex. The fault lay there, out there, in those evil electric lights and diabolical rattlings of engines. There, in the world of the mechanical greedy, greedy and gushing hot metal and roaring with traffic, there lay the vast evil thing, ready to destroy whatever did not conform. Soon it would destroy the wood, and the bluebells would spring no more. All vulnerable things must perish under the rolling and running of iron.
DH Lawrence
Sequel
The piece coming soon about my dance partner will tell how the onset of puberty made me shy away from intimacies that had been easy as a kid: I saw Dorla's pantied crotch and went paralytic. Actually, that reaction already had a parallel. Other files here tell how the above Bonnie wanted me to steal one of my mother's Kotex pads so she could feel something of what her older sister was experiencing: and that was the end of our closeness. I never cooperated with her on the theft, she stopped coming around, I never went after her ... SybaRight the moralist makes a nice explanation but maybe my non-action can as well (or better) be explained as my first example of freezing up with pussy under my nose.
I never even spoke to Bonnie again until senior year: on one occasion only. A high school charity jazz concert story of mine tells how I contracted the music for a concert in which Duke Ellington had been promised but, through circumstances beyond my control, rock 'n roll delivered. For my date for that evening I chose a girl from my class, Carol B., my actual girl friend living way out toward Montauk Point. After the event I took Carol B. to an R'nR club over in Hempstead. Seated at our table, shadows fall on my shoulders. Bonnie (above) and another girl from our class have shown up at the same club. They've left their dates, guys from Brooklyn, at their table and come to schmooze with SybaRight: the big man of the event just concluded. The big man stretches out his arms and encircles Bonnie and (I'll call her) Belinda's waists. My wrists rest on the tops of their buttocks. Holy Jesus! When did Bonnie get such a perfect heinie? And Belinda's is its equal! Gradually my wrists slip and my hands caress the rounds below.
The girls didn't flinch. Carol B. didn't seem to notice or care. The hard guys from Brooklyn didn't attack me from behind. No, no: Mr. Cool has all the girls by the ass.
We chatted. They left. And I've never spoken to Bonnie again: and I'd never spoken to Belinda before or since.
Cheez, all the movies, all the sitcoms these days show high school kids as friends, or enemies, or at least mutual snipers ... In my high school most kids just ignored most kids. And there was next to no interaction between the genders: except for dating.
We're all like seventeen. Those girls' visit gave me a small taste of what I was missing. Luscious, both of them.
Carol B. was another story, but I'll slip that in here. I'd asked her to be my date at the concert sort of out of charity. I'd decided to ask a class mate to our senior prom. I'd decided to ask one who might not get a date otherwise. I'd chosen Carol. First I asked her if she wanted to go to the concert with me. After, leaving the club in Hempstead, was the time I chose to invite her to the prom. I began my sentence ... she farted. Loud. A real stinker. I sat stunned in her stink, didn't roll the windows down, didn't start gasping from the confines of the car. Her fart was one of the worst I've ever smelled. It at least equalled the offensiveness of the farts of John, or Boss: two guys in my click.
Fuck! Now what do I do? I got my breath and invited her anyway.
After the prom I bought her the obligatory drink, and took her straight home.
She wanted to be kissed. I think I brushed her cheek.
After graduation she shows up on my doorstep. I hadn't signed her yearbook. Oh. I invite her in, I sign something.
Aren't I going to invite her to sign mine? No. There are no signatures in my yearbook.
She left. I'd never spoken to her before inviting her to the concert. And I never spoke to her again.
High school for me was a prison. I cherish few memories from it.
But I've had plenty of fantasies about Bonnie and Belinda since then: just about my only fantasies involving more than one female at a time. I dream away the guys from Brooklyn. I dream away Carol B. Or I dream of seeing the two of them together on another occasion. I take Bonnie and Belinda to the beach ...
Common among all such fantasies is that I never ever actually fuck them. At least I don't come inside them. Indeed it's part of my fantasy that I lecture them on how careful we should be; but care shouldn't prohibit exploration: indeed we should all three endeavor toward everyone having at least one orgasm: save mine till last in case it's the only one you get out of me.
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