"Excuse me," she says as she hikes her tight skirt practically up to her panties so she can get her leg over the seat behind me.
"Oh, nice," she added: "love handles." She'd put her hands on my waist to hold onto me for the ride and felt what a decade of beer drinking will do to an otherwise skinny guy.
She was studying something at Columbia but lived all the way over on the East Side, right across from the Rockefeller Institute. So she sure hadn't come out of the Barnard housing. She shows me her hideaway on her roof. She offers to make us some lemonade. Sure. With her seated at her kitchen table, I'm about to do down on one knee to rest my cheek on the top of her thighs, maybe nuzzle up toward her public mound a little, and "Oh no," she says.
"Hmm?"
"You're wearing a ring," she says. "A wedding ring. You're married.
"I'm sorry," she continues. "It's my fault. You weren't concealing it. I just didn't see it."
Now maybe that's what I should have said in the following circumstances. But I didn't.
These days when the world is too much with me I go fishing. (If the fish don't then bite, then the world is with me too much the more.) Back in the late 60s when the world was too much with me, I went skiing. If it was well on toward spring, I headed for Mt. Washington and Tuckerman's Ravine. On the occasion in question I was living in New York, back at NYU after a couple of years teaching up in Maine. I'd recently discovered Ivan Illich and deschooling. I'd mentioned founding FLEX to Illich but hadn't actually done it yet. As clear as it was to me how no-good schools were, I hadn't yet totally despaired: I was still trying to figure out a way to communicate with the NYU faculty. A few days of climbing and skiing, scaring myself witless skiing near vertical wilderness alone, was just what I needed to rededicate myself. The day of my orals was fast approaching.
I arrived at Pinkham's Notch and decided that I'd sleep in the car that night and not start my climb till the morning. I'd eat a civilized dinner in a restaurant. Besides, I needed a bit more equipment and maybe I'd find a hardware store before ascending. So I drove another couple of miles to a town where lo and behold I found a Japanese restaurant. The martini was dry indeed and the menu offered a section of Don Buri dinners. "Another martini, please, and the Don Buri shrimp."
The waitress kept checking on my martini, made conversation. Oh, I knew what Don Buri was without asking. Oh, I used chopsticks like they were my own hand. Oh, he's had a dozen of these martinis and can still speak English. At closing I took her and another waitress across the street to a disco. The three of us drank beer with our knees jammed together at a table the size of a bottle cap. Throughout dinner I'd been imagining the waitress's crotch under her skirt. In the night club I got a glimpse, then another of her panties. God, was I drunk, but I was dripping just the same. At closing we stood in the frozen parking lot, unwilling to part. Her friend gave up and drove off alone. Grab her ass. Kiss her, you fool. I prompted myself to no avail. Finally, she drives off and I head back to Pinkham's Notch where I don't expect anyone to arrest me when they see the car's windows fogged from my sleep.
I slept and slept. My hangover was terrible. I couldn't get going. Finally, I have breakfast and find a hardware store. I'll get up the mountain today, but I sure won't get to ski a single turn.
"Hi there. I thought that was you."
It's Barbara: the waitress from last night. The one who graced me with two or three beaver shots in the night club. "Come visit," she says. I do.
And that's when I got to see evidence of children. And a husband. Uh oh. Now what do I do? Nothing. It's too late. You've already slid. I do however ask about her lack of a ring. (I'm wearing mine.) She doesn't wear rings while waiting tables. I think something was also said that most of the waitresses don't: tips are better if the girls seem unattached: or something.
Our conversation continues very Platonic as before, yet the signals are all there: we're both leaning and harkening toward the other. The doorbell rings. It's one of those magazine salesmen pretending to be supplementing his "scholarship to medical school." Barbara settles in for the spiel: a woman, too polite to call a bluff. Her settling leans toward me a bit. I brush her buttock with the back of my hand. She settles in a little bit further. I turn my hand to palm her bottom. I thrust myself at the salesman. "Let's see your ID." I grab his papers and pull out the hidden lists of magazines. "You're no medical student," I say. "Get out." Barbara looks at me admiringly. How masterful. She bends over the kitchen counter, looking out the window. I come up behind her. I fit my erection to the split in her buttocks. "Oh, I think you're getting aroused," she says.
"Getting aroused?" I sputter. "Honey, I could have been spiked horizontal to the ground any time these last fourteen hours." Yet somehow we still stayed dressed. I had my hand in her pants, then in her panties. I had my finger up the hole that came easiest from the rear side. That too was oozing lubricant. I was assuring her how much I wanted to eat her when her kids came home.
I did manage however to make arrangements to see her the next day. I'd set up camp at HoJo's: just below Tuckerman's Ravine. I'd come back down to Pinkham's Notch in the morning. She'd meet me there and I'd show her the way up the mountain. Typical, Barbara has lived her life in the shadow of Mt. Washington, but she's never climbed it. She'll be experiencing her own landmark for the first time.
I spend the evening shifting around in my tent, trying to compose a poem. I've written all my life, but not verse. Counting lines, rhyming in patterns ... these are disciplines I do not have. But I managed to fake something. There she is in the morning. I show her the poem. "Shall we start up?" "Let me show you something first," she says. Take me for a drive."
She turns us onto a wooded trail. "You can park here," she says. "I don't think anyone will come along."
Women never grant every favour to a man but one, without granting him that one also.
Tom Jones
Tom Jones
Her breasts were very nice. Very. We were in my Saab station wagon. My wife and I had christened that car by driving it across Canada to Vancouver and down the coast to Big Sur, camping out of it. But I'd never made any attempt to screw in the car itself. There's always a first time. I hoped she was right about privacy because we were both soon totally naked. Myriad leaves dappling the light or not, we were in broad daylight.
As nice as her crotch had looked covered with white panty-nylon, it looked much nicer covered by nothing but blond down. I guided my lips to her nether lips. I gave little guppy kisses to the moistest area amid her pubic pelt. "No, she said. "I brought you here so I could kiss you."
It took me a second to decide how to respond. I'd been savoring the idea of eating her for two nights and two mornings now, but the idea of getting blown was rapidly colonizing my mind: the more so as the idea seemed to come from a near desperate desire on her part. I probably have had women spasm against my face one hundred times for each of the many times I've held their head as I jet down their throat: it was time to let the imbalance resolve itself a little.
Besides: as I drove down the highway, she'd palmed my inner thigh: high up toward my balls. I jerked like a colt: almost drove off the road. Only once before, when I was eighteen or nineteen, had a girl driven me straight out of my tree that way: both times driving. Twice lucky to still be alive. (The best thigh grab I'd ever gotten was at least done while I was seated at a typewriter, not the wheel of a car. I was in the midst of training a WAC private on interviewing Cubans for the FBI. She was the most amazingly luscious Puerto Rican I've ever seen, and suddenly she's got her hand between my legs.) Still alive, how I'd not squirted then and there, I don't know. Now she wants me in her mouth.
"Yes, yes," I say. "But I have to eat you first: for just a second."
"I'm still in my period," she informs me.
Ah. I love women whose mouth gets active when their pussy gets mucky. Well, I'll find out how mucky directly. I tease her lips apart with the tip of my tongue. I don't taste any blood. I don't see any blood. I don't smell any menstrual smell. One good suck and I remember my promise. Her mouth finds me.
I now find blood all over me after all. But that's OK. I don't smell it, I don't mind it. Barbara is going to work on me.
I'll step aside from the action for a moment to recall it already synthesized. From how it went and from things she said later, I got the impression that she was new to fellatio. Her husband had had the bother of encouraging her: I came along just as she was ready to decide she liked it. Either she did like it, or she wanted to like it; but she hadn't yet learned to be graceful at it.
Afterwards she told me she just wanted to make me happy. I assured her, truthfully, that she had: very. I did not reveal however how much my mind had been present throughout. I was sucked off, yes, but swept away, no. I was probably more swept away for the moments I'd had my face planted in her vulva that when she'd been earnestly sucking and stroking.
Once I'd come I could feel fully how ludicrous we must have looked had any one stumbled by. The doors of the Saab were open. The seats were pulled up toward the dash. Two naked people had limbs sticking here and there out of the open doors, windows, lifted hatchback ... The guy would have had a pussy imprint in blood on his face. His dick was lucent with this, that, and the other fluid ... And I realized what this woman had just done for me: and perhaps for herself. She'd broken a mold. She'd done it deliberately. She'd done it outside her marriage. More traumatic for the female I don't doubt than for the male: males are expected to be "no good"; females are expected to "behave."
We got back our breath, wiped ourselves off, covered ourselves up, drove back to Pinkham's Notch, and had an easy climb to the tree line: my camp already being set up for us there. (Relating an incident of that climb is what prompted me to narrate this file.) I'd gotten no skiing done the day before, thanks to meeting Barbara, and I'd get none done this day either. I never did show her the Ravine. We arrived at my tent (two-man alpine). We crawled inside (no standing, not even much sitting, in a two-man alpine). The days eating was done for both of us, but the fucking was just getting underway: rocks and roots in her ass, under my knee, but what the hell. Finally it was time for her to go home and receive the kids back from school.
I came down the mountain again a few days later and we went to a motel. The fuck in the bed was nothing compared to the blowing in the car. She did say that our sixty-nine on that bed that had been prelude to the fuck had been her first experience of eating and getting eaten at the same time. She nearly swooned when I told her of my frustration that I couldn't eat her and fuck her simultaneously.
Do you want to fuck? or to eat? Yes. Blow? or be blown? Yes.
I saw Barbara only one more time after that. I told her I'd be at the Ravine for Memorial Day, that same year or the following: I'm not sure which. I didn't plan to bring my skis; I brought my family, carrying my son up the mountain on my shoulders. She and her husband were in the crowd at Lunch Rocks. I waved. She came over, said Hi, returned to her husband.
That unfortunately wasn't the end of it. Some time later my wife found one of her letters. That fire, like the fires underground in the Everglades, never did burn out.
Years later I called New Hampshire. A woman answered. Didn't sound like Barbara, but answered Yes to Barbara. Something was wrong. Mrs. So-and-So? Yes. But not the Mrs. Barbara So-and-So of x years ago? Oh, heavens no. Mr. So-and-So threw her out. She wasn't a very good wife.
Down in Florida somewhere. Don't know, don't care.
Poor Barbara. I hope she's OK.
Was I essential to what happened? Or was it due? I have no way to know if the adulteries were single or multiple. She could have tumbled with me and then built a habit. Or maybe she already had the habit when I came along. I don't think so though. I think she was just starting to really discover cock. Small Town NH was no longer the right place for her.
I called this piece "Sex Sur L'Herbe" and now realize that none of it took place "on the grass." The screwing was in a car, in a tent, in a motel room ... But the car was in the woods, the tent was up the mountain, on pine needles, on moss, on lichen, in the snow ... I do however love to screw on grass. But the grass isn't the important part: it's being out of doors that counts. One spring on Mt. Tremblant in the Laurentians my date and I paused our downhill skiing to fuck on a patch of grass the snow had melted from and the sun had dried and warmed. Anyone could have come wedelning by (or schussing by) but no one did. I've fucked on beaches where the girl's sunburned crotch turned out not to have been out of sight of the flying bridge of the yacht that came cruising by. I've fucked on rooftops in the winter, on the Lieutenant's desk while on duty ... Maybe I'll start a piece on Weird Places to Fuck.
Maybe you know what I mean from your own experience. Or maybe you've seen Risky Business where Rebecca deMornay's whore takes Tom Cruise's suburban kid onto the Chicago subway at night. I think I've already mentioned that scene in one of these files.
Notes
Ho-Jo's:
The warm-up shack at the tree line below Tuckerman's Ravine was called Ho-Jo's when I first saw it. I don't know how far back the tradition went: a joke on the once ubiquitous restaurant chain, I presume. The shack had no ice cream, neither could you order fried clams; but you could pay to store your skis through to Memorial Day.
Lots of skiers ski the Ravine till May 31. I don't know anyone who skis it June 1st.
Underground Fire:
My wife assumed I wanted a divorce: getting love letters from out of state. My wife assumed I was leaving her for this other woman.
No, why would I do that? I was married to my son's mother: the best blow job in the world couldn't change that.
Once separated, I was separated from my son's mother. Nothing can or should change that.
As Father Capon said, "divorce isn't immoral, it's impossible."
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