Teen Humiliation

Exhibitionist Sex

I'm going to say more about age and sex, so I'll warm up with the following on Youth & Age:

The summer before starting college I'd worked for the Rockville Centre Parks Department, a political job, I was assured. (Why I should have gotten a political job has never been explained to me.) The following year there was an opening in the Sanitation Department, running behind the garbage truck. (There's more on that among my work stories.) The pay was slightly better and I was told the hours would be much shorter. No seven to three for the garbage men: get the job done and go home. I suspected that they offered me the job because many of the park people were not comfortable with me around. I was an intellectual, an esthete, an embarrassment. The majority of the park summer force were college kids, kids in college, or just on their way. I can't stand the anti-intellectualism of college kids (any more than I can stand the anti-intellectualism of college professors: or the public: of course that's better than the stupidity and ignorance of all three.). The one guy there I was comfortable with was the lifer who'd been kicked out of the army after twenty years: the year they'd instituted the army "intelligence" test. That guy had no pretensions, no attitude. I got along with him fine. The (Roman Catholic) Fulbright scholar was forever trying to convert me to something, didn't care for my brand of cynical Christianity at all. So I took the offer: get away from the "scholars" and in with the meat men.

First day was a killer. Man, did I ache. But I didn't mind. I needed to build myself up. Hoisting trash was a lot better for me than pushing a paint brush or holding a weed whipper. By day three though I had what muscle and what wind I needed. Most days we'd be done by one if not by noon. My mother had sold the house in Rockville Centre once my sister and I were gone except for vacations and moved into a neat little apartment on the Freeport River, right across the water from the stock cars races and the garbage dump. Commercial clammer on one side, a boat yard on the other. Right on Freeport's Main Street: a thriving slave port once, but then just a funny little road out toward the canals, barely two lanes. The landlord had a boat and a little outboard. I'd come home early, go out and catch me some flounder for breakfast. We could see the Jones Beach tower from the kitchen window.

As the one summer employee, my position swung from truck to truck according to need, who was sick that day, which route they anticipated would have extra heavy loads ... I admired the majority of the sanitation workers. Most drivers would get out at a stop and help with the dumping. All drivers but one had a helper. I was generally a second man on the back of the truck.

One day I'm picking up the route that included my old house, my home from ages three to eighteen. No, wait: I'll squeeze in another garbage truck sex story before zeroing on my target here. One day I'm picking up in a neighborhood I know well from friends living nearby (though I certainly didn't know any of the friends' neighbors). I hear a window open. Woman's voice requests that I stop by her back door. She has something else she hadn't had a chance to put in the can. I trot to the back door. The door opens. Very beautiful woman, perhaps thirty, is standing there, stark naked, offering me a wet tea bag. I nod at her, don't even smile, take the tea bag. She thanks me and closes the door.

Later I learn that her husband is in the can: bookmaking. Poor horny lady. Did I go back? Knock on her back door? Of course not. I was eighteen. Writing this reminds me though of a time a few years ago visiting friends who'd just moved into a nudist colony in Kissimmee. My friend, then in her eighties, our hostess, and I arrive at the new digs. I'm standing in the driveway: nice little trailer park: own lake and everything. A spectacular beauty, great face and plenty of meat in all the proper female places, comes walking out of her house in the nude, flashes me a big smile, says Hi, and delicately deposits one wet tea bag in her trash. Waves again and disappears behind her porch screen. What is this about female exhibitionists and wet tea bags?

OK. I'm in my old neighborhood, picking up trash. A slender beauty backs a baby carriage down the steps of a house on Lee Avenue, directly across the street from my old Morris Grade School. I almost fell and bashed me teeth on the hopper in back of the truck. This woman was exquisite! How could it be that such an elegant creature lived almost back yard to back yard with my last year's house and me not know it? My truck was moving up the street and I had to move with it but I kept looking over my shoulder at her. I hadn't picked up more than another can or two when I saw the last glimpse of her as she disappeared down a driveway. Now that section of Lee Avenue is a very short block. Locust Avenue intrudes an intersection only a half, three-quarters of a dozen houses north of Lakeview. The second to last house had a kid I knew. That kid's younger brother was noodling around the property. I grabbed the kid: Tell me, who's the beautiful young woman with the baby? Huh? The beautiful young woman with the baby, a few houses down, this same side of the street? The kid didn't know any beautiful young woman with any babies anywhere on the street. I begged my truck to give me another second. I squeezed the kid's arm. Look. I counted the houses backwards from his. That house. Young woman wheeled a baby carriage out of it.

The kid tells me that the only young woman around there lives in the next house past, but she's no mother: not married, just graduated from St. Agnes High School. Except for the Catholic part, that's the best news I could have hoped for. Maybe she was baby sitting next door. I shook the kid: What's her name? I don't remember what the answer was and though this story shouldn't be too incriminating to anybody, I say that the name was Bonnie McPhee. The Irish aspect of the surname is the truth.

I'm home early. I catch my flounder, take a bath, spruce up, and zip back to Rockville Centre, head for the Downstairs Bar. My high school friends had and still did hang out in a number of bars in town. I hadn't liked it much when the Downstairs became one of them: too much of a college hang out. But that's where I went then: it was the only one of our many bars that St. Agnes kids also hung out in. I recognize one of St. Ag's prime cocksmen. I've seen him with heartbreakingly cute little Catholic girls sitting on his lap while he got drunk. I collar this guy I've seen but never spoken to before (no reason to: St. Agnes was a different world). Hey, you went to St. Agnes, right? Yeah? So you know a Bonnie McPhee? Yeah? She married or anything? Not that I know of. Pretty fabulous looking girl, right?

Ouch. I could kick myself. No use stimulating the competition. Um ... err ... His tone became political. Well, there are those who might ... um, err ... think so. What, is the guy a faggot? At least he's clearly not competition. Listen: she just graduated, right? Do you know if she's steady with anybody? don't think so.

I rush to the phone booth, find McPhee in the book, something or other Lee Avenue. Ring. Ahem. My name is SybaRight. I'll soon be starting my sophomore year at Columbia College. This summer I'm working for the Municipality. I was on Lee Avenue this afternoon and saw a girl I'd really like to know. A neighbor of yours told me that her name was Bonnie McPhee.

Papa McPhee sounded ready to pull out the checkbook for a wedding. "Yes ..." warm as chopped liver. "We have a daughter Bonnie." The car salesman about to sell a car. "Well, I'd really like to meet her. Would it be possible for me to speak to her." "Certainly. Bonnie's at home. ... Oh, Bonnie ..." singing bells. "Telephone for you." And then I heard floating sexy and feminine down the star case the voice of an angel. "Coming ..."

She picked up. The voice was too wonderful to believe. But how could she sound like the bedroom like that right in front of her parents? Hell, they sounded, Papa sounded, like the bedroom!

I repeated my spiel. I added details about seeing the baby carriage back from the house next door, but that the kid further up the block had ID'd her. She assured me that it couldn't have been her. She certainly wasn't wheeling any baby carriages that or any other day. We agreed to meet though. At the least she'd try to help me figure out what I was talking about. Great. I'd pick her up and take her for coffee, a beer, whatever she wanted.

I pull up at the McPhees. Papa answers the door grinning with what I presume was pride. He announces my presence. Same sexy voice floats down the stairs, only more wonderful in person. God, if she isn't the same girl, she's fabulous. One can fall in love with a voice. Who was that actress that played opposite Danny Kaye: I certainly fell in love with her voice. Only a month or two before I'd paid the most extravagant compliments to the woman who narrated reports at a construction site over telephones specially set up for public snooping. She'd been very cheerful in accepting the flattery. (Males aren't the only con men.) My heart is pounding. I hear steps, hear skirts rustle, here she comes ...

Oh my God! What a cow! A dog. A veritable dog. Now papa sounded like a used car salesman. My smile froze on my face. My smooth spiel developed a sudden halt. Um, err ... I bowed to the parents and guided this elephant out to the car. Flashes of shame burned through me as I recalled my eager questioning of that St. Agnes cocksman, his fumbling, embarrassed, political, answer. Jesus, I can never go into the Downstairs again, can never be in the same room with a St. Agnes male. I opened the door for her. Got in myself. Slumped behind the wheel. Couldn't crank the ignition. "You're right," I said. "You're not the girl."

"I told you." She didn't seem terribly uncomfortable. I was dying. Actually, she was being pretty nice. The syrupy voice was gone. In its place was a pleasant enough, intelligent-seeming enough voice, a voice not at all uncomfortable with being who she was: a nice, homely girl bemused by the antics of some crazy man. "Let's try to figure out who it is that you saw and would rather be with. Let's see, the woman across the street and down a door has a baby, but you said slender: this woman is a little ... er, heavy." If Bonnie McPhee was calling this other woman heavy, I didn't want to contemplate her. We sat there: her thinking and talking; me paralyzed, getting increasingly embarrassed but utterly helpless to start the car and get the hell away from her grinning parents.

Time passes. In the dim recesses of my mind I'm regretting Bonnie's humiliation more than my own. But she didn't seem offended. I'd never said I wanted her; but the woman with the baby carriage. Bonnie might be a nice person to know. But I wanted to get out of there and never come near Lee Avenue again. "Oh ... I know ..." Bonnie said. She touches my arm. "I know who you saw." "Who? Please. Tell me."

Bonnie could have done voices for the Simpsons. Syrupy sexy. Then nice and sensible. Then intimate in a nurturing way. Now fish wife:
Hey brat!

Fishwife voice from within the house: Wha?

Come out here a minute. I want to ask you somethin'.

Slender, elegant, poised one moment like a runway model, shambling the next like a ... well ... brat, came my dream girl. She threw herself onto her lovely arms at the passenger window, snapped her gum, pouted: "Wha?"

Bonnie asked her some innocuous question. The vision of female perfection winced her perfect brows at the inanity of the question, snapped an unpleasant answer, and retreated back to the house. I could watch her perfectly sculpted thighs, buttocks, moving away from me. "You saw my fourteen year old sister," Bonnie explained.

What would Bonnie have done, right in front of her own house, if I had taken her hands in mine, wrapped her fingers around my throbbing cock, asked her to rip it off for me, beat me over the head with it?

"Fourteen?" I croaked. "Don't feel bad," Bonnie consoled me. You're eighteen? Older men chase her all the time. Her current boyfriend is twenty-one. She says he abuses her. My fourteen year old sister says she's 'an abused woman'."

I didn't get over the humiliation for a while, but get over it I did, and now I see my young man's embarrassment as just another silly vanity. What's to be embarrassed about? The girl was gorgeous. No question about it. I saw her up close. She looked better than I'd thought. Seeing her with a baby carriage suggested that she was at least in her twenties and no virgin. But even if I guessed her true age: people buy Coppertone because of some four year old's ass. Brooke Shields got her ass in the slicks when she was only six or eight. I bet a lot of jissom fell on a lot of magazine pages, and there, there was no question but that she wasn't even ten.
Later insert: The other day at my.yahoo, browsing my sports news, I got sidetracked by a story of Britney Spears getting snapped giving photographers the finger. Several months back my son was flabbergasted upon realizing that I didn't know who the blond kiddy diva was and set me straight with a selection of JPEG attachments. Hell, let's see what she looks like these days in Mexico. A pic comes up of a little blond girl: kiddy belly, ballet-print jersey, hole at the knee of her blue jeans: a Spears all right, but it was Britney's little sister. This girl wasn't fourteen, this girl might not have been eight. But I bet I wasn't the only one who couldn't take my eyes off her: She looked exactly like Britney! Oh, she didn't have the 'plosive butt, the dynamite snatch; what she did have was this big-square-skulled, big fat, congenial, utterly empty face. The girl was somehow ultra female and yet utterly without consciousness: not just of Evil; this girl didn't look conscious of anything. Very appealing, irresistible, to a marauding predator: like all of us. You could squirt jissom in her face and tell her it was ice cream.

Now I'm sixty-two. [Perspective: the author is now seventy.] I'm still in love with a twelve year old from decades ago. [Perspective: stll true, though less so: partly perhaps because the author has just spent a month and a half fucking herself and his partners half-blind, their ages ranging from a youthful sixty to a very youthful eighty-five, while flirting with several ninety-plus-year-olds.] Not many days go by without my picturing her. I'm not embarrassed at all. She was a beautiful girl. What difference does age make except in terms of the feasibility of a politically and economically sensible liaison? So? She was never gong to be my girl friend. So what? I can't help that. I also can't help acknowledging how sexy she was, twelve years old or not. And I'll add this: if she had been my girl friend: if she had come on to me the way a seventeen or eighteen year old comes on, if I had statutorially "raped" her, I wouldn't be remembering her now. It's only women I never fucked that I remember with nostalgia. (Therefore, fourteen is a common age for girls I remember: girls I wanted to fuck, but never touched. Or only touched. The ones who gobble it down I forget completely. Finished business. Closed file. Thus, the majority of the heroines here, may have seen me, may have been aware of me, may have touched me or been touched by me, but never had me inside them.

Note:

Marauding Predator:
Yes, girls, I mean you too. I once had a brief relationship with a fag-hag. I had my face on her mound: it meant nothing to her. I bet her husband hadn't been laid in years: not by her. She just loved to sleep with fags: watch them fuck each other. Her only sex life seemed to be voyeuristic. I take her to dinner. MacLean was her town: I let her choose the place. The young hostess seats us, frouncing along in front of us, smiling enormously, and then slinky-toying away.

Sssthrrr'lurp!
My mind had been very much between the hostess's thighs until I was deafened by that obscene sound. No, she wasn't making fun of me. It really sounded like a call of her own lust. Only in a black ghetto have I heard sucking sounds better mimed than by this--seemed-to-me hors de combat--middle-aged, aristocratic-Virginia fag-hag.
So: I submit: the human female may lose the arm-wrestling match, but she's just as much predator as the alpha-male. (Among hyenas, the females are more alpha than the males: the males aren't alphas at all.)
(By the way, that gal's weirdest perversion in my view was her avid breeding and showing of some strange race of brown cats. They looked like feline chocolate labs.)