This post sets the context for the whole. It may be read first, last, or any-when.
The author SybaRight is standing in for seeded some sex stories into his domain among the long-standing modules of philosophy, information theory, education theory, anarchist-Christian politics ...
Complex circumstances including federal censorship knocked a stack of domains down like dominoes. Now SybaRight agrees with the author: the sex stories should exist independently, as a blog, and not rejoin the philosophy and science once, if ever, they're restored.
The sex stories are simple. Here they are now. The stories will be told in chronological order. That is, they will read as a blog in reverse order, the oldest posts telling the kiddie sex, old-age sex coming last.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Powers of Attraction Degenerating
Does anyone know how old they are? I don't mean do they know the date and can they tell you their birth year; I mean subjectively.
I remember my father telling me of going to a class reunion and asking himself who were all these old men: could he possibly look that old? I believe I've already told my story of bragging to a woman that even if I didn't get up from my desk for six months I could run two miles without gasping. Then I thought to myself, You unabashed moron: that may have been true twenty years ago, but you have no idea what's true now: you haven't run in ages. So the next day I started to jog the two mile loop of Hillsborough River State Park where I was staying. I hadn't reached from my pop up to the pavement before I was gasping. I kept going though — just a slow jog — and at the end of the two miles I wasn't breathing ... too hard. So there was still a smidgeon of truth in what I'd bragged.
I launched this sex section five years ago: blurted dozens of stories very fast, in a day or two. As I wrote them, the years peeled away. I relived the moments I was reporting. As I said, initially, girls came to me. It was the girl who suggested that we take our clothes off. It was the girl who wanted me to see her naked, who wanted to see my penis, play with my silly little empty scrotum. I told of the number of young women who planted themselves in front of me, the number of wetting females who'd offered themselves to me.
I write this today lest the visitor think that any of that is still true. It isn't.
We're born, we die. In between, we grow, we decline. Our abilities sharpen, then they dull.
The curves won't duplicate exactly between any two individuals, but statistically there are deep probabilities: we grow till we're twentyish, we start stooping when we're forty-five. After forty-five more and more people have poor vision, failing hearing, can no longer tie their shoe without huffing and half falling over.
When I was nineteen I was not only female bait, but fag bait. I'd count the number of propositions within a year on my fingers and need my second hand. Since turning fifty, I can count them all on one finger.
At fifty one a woman decades younger eagerly offered and gave me a blow job once I'd spent a little time with her over a period of a few days only. Believe me, it hasn't happened since.
Indeed, on those rare occasions when I pursue acquaintance with a woman, it starts off promising, but quickly bumps into a rut: promises broken. They don't keep a date, don't return phone calls.
At thirty I wasn't the only male without an income nevertheless finding pussy left and right. But somehow, after thirty, that changes: even for SybaRight.
Uh, actually, I've had some fabulous fucking a sucking with women recently met: but only online, only long distance, only without actual contact.
I'm not talking about whores. I mean women legitimately met: not in a sexual context. Life-long I've had only one experience with a declared pro; but in that case I'd been fucking the woman for months if not years before she declared herself pro. Only then (only once), did she ask for payment. (I never called her again: though had I, given the amount I'd volunteered to give her, she might not have agreed to come.)
Toothless Sex Scrapbook
I fish to be away from people, not to socialize, and certainly not to stalk women. Skiing, you could take a date, or pick up a chick, in the lodge or on the slope. But I'm recalling my past, my distant past. Now broke, half-blind, half-deaf, the lake could be littered with nymphs and what would it have to do with me? Still: I spend enough time on the water that I've now accumulated enough odd on-water runs ins with females that a couple of such might now get told here.
For instance, last night: did I get an eyeful of tit in a circumstance where I was just looking for bass. Actually I was casting for bass while very carefully surveying a highly tricky section of lake bottom.
There's a section of shore on Lake Jackson that used to be impenetrable weeds and brush. Houses on shore had views of tangle, not water. No one boated near it, and when I approached it wading, I see 'gators hiding but no hookable fish. Well, the municipality now wants a "scenic" lake. They've dredged, they've put in grass carp, they chopped the bushes just below the waterline ... Now you can see the houses, the houses can see the water ...
Every house there now has a realtor's sign in front, everyone's living on spec, everyone's hoping the price is tripling, not doubling. Two owners just invested in fancy boat docks, for sale signs up throughout the construction.
Understand: I'd given up on fishing those areas. Once "water" opened up, boaters found it illusory: you'd run aground, get free, run aground again. My recent attempts to wade those waters have encountered a variety of treacheries. I always worry about stumbling and getting impaled on something under the water line. Those who sheared the vegetation below the surface were "beautifying" the lake, not worrying about the safety of waders. But in this section, though there are plenty of stumps, full of bristles, there also seem to be rocks, even boulders. One moment I'm standing in water up to my chest, next to me is a structure, I can't tell whether natural or human accidental, certainly not designed, practically reaching the water surface. It seems to be a boulder, but there are no rocks in Florida lakes, none that I've known of. Within inches there will be low rock, easy to step up onto, which will suddenly let your foot slide into a crack. You can get skewered underwater anywhere in this area; specifically here you can break a leg, break an ankle, drown, amid the rocks.
I have yet to catch a really good bass in this section with the rocks but just this summer I have been finding a few bass here. One day last week I caught three bass in short order near this one dock here. Now I'm just trying to get closer, still upright, still in one piece, still functioning, to lob a finesse worm in closer to the dock.
The wind changes. From stiff in my face the wind now has the dock in my lea. And I'd just changed lures to a bullet-weighted Texas worm. And lo and behold there's a woman on the dock. I'm behind her. She's sitting, reading, with her back to a timber. My purpose here, other than teaching the rocks to my feet, is to steal close enough to the dock to probe its underside. These swirling winds could land my hook in this woman's lap no matter what I'd intended with the cast.
I'm thinking I'd better back off and try learning this treacherous area when it's unoccupied, when it occurs to me that if the woman lives here she just might know the history of human interference with this stretch of lake bottom. I'm not geologist, but I don't believe these rocks are native. And I can't imagine what history, natural or human, would have put them the way they seem to be. I want to ask her. But I'm now so hard of hearing I'd better be right next to the dock to hear her answer. But I don't know the bottom and don't know if I can get next the dock. Behind me there's not two inches of water over the boulder, but it could be dredged to eight feet right by the dock!
So I call out. "Excuse me, I'm not trying to sneak up on you." She jumps. I mean she starts. She turns. She's much younger than I'd anticipated — an adult, but not from the retirement crowd — and very easy on the eyes. "I want to ask you something. I no longer hear well, so if it's OK, I'm going to try to wade over there."
"Don't fall in a hole," she says, now watching my progress. Suddenly, between me and the dock, on this north side, there seems to be nothing but sandy bottom. Now I go right up to the edge of the dock. She moves over to the edge herself, hunkers down low, smiling, welcoming. I'm not shaved. I'm not wearing my teeth. Ah, but I was polite: she seems to be welcoming me.
I'll skip the part of our conversation about her name, whether she lived there or elsewhere. She did know something about the history of the municipal interference there; not about the rocks specifically, but that the city had worked to expand the lake there, "beautify" the shoreline. I'm interested in the rocks but neither the rocks nor the bass are why I'm telling the story here. The sun was shining brightly overhead. She was wearing a shorts and a halter. Clearly one could see the outline of some kind of a bra through her halter, but much clearer, utterly clear, was the impression in the material made by her nipples. This woman was hung. Her nipples articulated. Christsake, she had spigots.
She's being very nice. I'm trying to be nice. I'm trying not to state at her tits. But that's impossible. What I really can't help staring for is to decipher what kind of an undergarment she can possibly be wearing: bare nipples, but held up and pushed forward by a structuring garment. What the hell: if I can't take my eyes off her, it's deliberate on her part. Though she obviously hadn't expected company from the sea side.
No, one doesn't normally go wading toothless and unshaved in the muck to find prime female. But there's enough prime female in the world that you never know where you'll cross it. I now know, not too too much to my surprise, that there are some women who like to exhibit themselves sufficiently that they'll even exhibit themselves to an old fart in a boat, or an old fart standing in water up to his neck.
Yesterday's acquaintance let me come right up to her, but then I'd asked. On other occasions I've been careful not to say anything, not to get too close, to concentrate on presenting my lure to the relevant boat dock, and let the resident female choose how much of herself to show. One very comely blond had a vigorous catch with a frisbee and her Irish setter so long as I lurked by her dock. When I moved on, she went into the house, the dog stayed on the beach.
One blond walked her spaniel on her dock when I was faced toward her dock but from the distance of another dock. When I came to fish her dock directly, she walked her dog there again!
Her I talked to, came closer, found her continuing to be friendly. Though she did not continue to be friendly on a second occasion. Too bad, cause she had invited me to come back, said she was always walking her dog there.
As you get older you have to be satisfied with less and less; or be very unsatisfied.
I'm tickled to have stimulated some female behavior on odd occasions despite my age and non-existent social status, but I see it in other old farts too. I was fishing Lake Placid with my friend Ron a few years ago. A female fish and game warden approached, Ron running the trolling motor from the bow: obviously the boat's owner and captain. This gal put on such a display for him I couldn't believe it. I might as well have not existed for her. Her ignoring me was pissing me off enough for me to speak up and address her. She answered me: still looking at Ron. And Ron was damn close to seventy at the time.
I remember my father telling me of going to a class reunion and asking himself who were all these old men: could he possibly look that old? I believe I've already told my story of bragging to a woman that even if I didn't get up from my desk for six months I could run two miles without gasping. Then I thought to myself, You unabashed moron: that may have been true twenty years ago, but you have no idea what's true now: you haven't run in ages. So the next day I started to jog the two mile loop of Hillsborough River State Park where I was staying. I hadn't reached from my pop up to the pavement before I was gasping. I kept going though — just a slow jog — and at the end of the two miles I wasn't breathing ... too hard. So there was still a smidgeon of truth in what I'd bragged.
I launched this sex section five years ago: blurted dozens of stories very fast, in a day or two. As I wrote them, the years peeled away. I relived the moments I was reporting. As I said, initially, girls came to me. It was the girl who suggested that we take our clothes off. It was the girl who wanted me to see her naked, who wanted to see my penis, play with my silly little empty scrotum. I told of the number of young women who planted themselves in front of me, the number of wetting females who'd offered themselves to me.
I write this today lest the visitor think that any of that is still true. It isn't.
We're born, we die. In between, we grow, we decline. Our abilities sharpen, then they dull.
The curves won't duplicate exactly between any two individuals, but statistically there are deep probabilities: we grow till we're twentyish, we start stooping when we're forty-five. After forty-five more and more people have poor vision, failing hearing, can no longer tie their shoe without huffing and half falling over.
When I was nineteen I was not only female bait, but fag bait. I'd count the number of propositions within a year on my fingers and need my second hand. Since turning fifty, I can count them all on one finger.
At fifty one a woman decades younger eagerly offered and gave me a blow job once I'd spent a little time with her over a period of a few days only. Believe me, it hasn't happened since.
Indeed, on those rare occasions when I pursue acquaintance with a woman, it starts off promising, but quickly bumps into a rut: promises broken. They don't keep a date, don't return phone calls.
At thirty I wasn't the only male without an income nevertheless finding pussy left and right. But somehow, after thirty, that changes: even for SybaRight.
Uh, actually, I've had some fabulous fucking a sucking with women recently met: but only online, only long distance, only without actual contact.
I'm not talking about whores. I mean women legitimately met: not in a sexual context. Life-long I've had only one experience with a declared pro; but in that case I'd been fucking the woman for months if not years before she declared herself pro. Only then (only once), did she ask for payment. (I never called her again: though had I, given the amount I'd volunteered to give her, she might not have agreed to come.)
Toothless Sex Scrapbook
I fish to be away from people, not to socialize, and certainly not to stalk women. Skiing, you could take a date, or pick up a chick, in the lodge or on the slope. But I'm recalling my past, my distant past. Now broke, half-blind, half-deaf, the lake could be littered with nymphs and what would it have to do with me? Still: I spend enough time on the water that I've now accumulated enough odd on-water runs ins with females that a couple of such might now get told here.
For instance, last night: did I get an eyeful of tit in a circumstance where I was just looking for bass. Actually I was casting for bass while very carefully surveying a highly tricky section of lake bottom.
There's a section of shore on Lake Jackson that used to be impenetrable weeds and brush. Houses on shore had views of tangle, not water. No one boated near it, and when I approached it wading, I see 'gators hiding but no hookable fish. Well, the municipality now wants a "scenic" lake. They've dredged, they've put in grass carp, they chopped the bushes just below the waterline ... Now you can see the houses, the houses can see the water ...
Every house there now has a realtor's sign in front, everyone's living on spec, everyone's hoping the price is tripling, not doubling. Two owners just invested in fancy boat docks, for sale signs up throughout the construction.
Understand: I'd given up on fishing those areas. Once "water" opened up, boaters found it illusory: you'd run aground, get free, run aground again. My recent attempts to wade those waters have encountered a variety of treacheries. I always worry about stumbling and getting impaled on something under the water line. Those who sheared the vegetation below the surface were "beautifying" the lake, not worrying about the safety of waders. But in this section, though there are plenty of stumps, full of bristles, there also seem to be rocks, even boulders. One moment I'm standing in water up to my chest, next to me is a structure, I can't tell whether natural or human accidental, certainly not designed, practically reaching the water surface. It seems to be a boulder, but there are no rocks in Florida lakes, none that I've known of. Within inches there will be low rock, easy to step up onto, which will suddenly let your foot slide into a crack. You can get skewered underwater anywhere in this area; specifically here you can break a leg, break an ankle, drown, amid the rocks.
I have yet to catch a really good bass in this section with the rocks but just this summer I have been finding a few bass here. One day last week I caught three bass in short order near this one dock here. Now I'm just trying to get closer, still upright, still in one piece, still functioning, to lob a finesse worm in closer to the dock.
The wind changes. From stiff in my face the wind now has the dock in my lea. And I'd just changed lures to a bullet-weighted Texas worm. And lo and behold there's a woman on the dock. I'm behind her. She's sitting, reading, with her back to a timber. My purpose here, other than teaching the rocks to my feet, is to steal close enough to the dock to probe its underside. These swirling winds could land my hook in this woman's lap no matter what I'd intended with the cast.
I'm thinking I'd better back off and try learning this treacherous area when it's unoccupied, when it occurs to me that if the woman lives here she just might know the history of human interference with this stretch of lake bottom. I'm not geologist, but I don't believe these rocks are native. And I can't imagine what history, natural or human, would have put them the way they seem to be. I want to ask her. But I'm now so hard of hearing I'd better be right next to the dock to hear her answer. But I don't know the bottom and don't know if I can get next the dock. Behind me there's not two inches of water over the boulder, but it could be dredged to eight feet right by the dock!
So I call out. "Excuse me, I'm not trying to sneak up on you." She jumps. I mean she starts. She turns. She's much younger than I'd anticipated — an adult, but not from the retirement crowd — and very easy on the eyes. "I want to ask you something. I no longer hear well, so if it's OK, I'm going to try to wade over there."
"Don't fall in a hole," she says, now watching my progress. Suddenly, between me and the dock, on this north side, there seems to be nothing but sandy bottom. Now I go right up to the edge of the dock. She moves over to the edge herself, hunkers down low, smiling, welcoming. I'm not shaved. I'm not wearing my teeth. Ah, but I was polite: she seems to be welcoming me.
I'll skip the part of our conversation about her name, whether she lived there or elsewhere. She did know something about the history of the municipal interference there; not about the rocks specifically, but that the city had worked to expand the lake there, "beautify" the shoreline. I'm interested in the rocks but neither the rocks nor the bass are why I'm telling the story here. The sun was shining brightly overhead. She was wearing a shorts and a halter. Clearly one could see the outline of some kind of a bra through her halter, but much clearer, utterly clear, was the impression in the material made by her nipples. This woman was hung. Her nipples articulated. Christsake, she had spigots.
She's being very nice. I'm trying to be nice. I'm trying not to state at her tits. But that's impossible. What I really can't help staring for is to decipher what kind of an undergarment she can possibly be wearing: bare nipples, but held up and pushed forward by a structuring garment. What the hell: if I can't take my eyes off her, it's deliberate on her part. Though she obviously hadn't expected company from the sea side.
No, one doesn't normally go wading toothless and unshaved in the muck to find prime female. But there's enough prime female in the world that you never know where you'll cross it. I now know, not too too much to my surprise, that there are some women who like to exhibit themselves sufficiently that they'll even exhibit themselves to an old fart in a boat, or an old fart standing in water up to his neck.
Yesterday's acquaintance let me come right up to her, but then I'd asked. On other occasions I've been careful not to say anything, not to get too close, to concentrate on presenting my lure to the relevant boat dock, and let the resident female choose how much of herself to show. One very comely blond had a vigorous catch with a frisbee and her Irish setter so long as I lurked by her dock. When I moved on, she went into the house, the dog stayed on the beach.
One blond walked her spaniel on her dock when I was faced toward her dock but from the distance of another dock. When I came to fish her dock directly, she walked her dog there again!
Her I talked to, came closer, found her continuing to be friendly. Though she did not continue to be friendly on a second occasion. Too bad, cause she had invited me to come back, said she was always walking her dog there.
As you get older you have to be satisfied with less and less; or be very unsatisfied.
I'm tickled to have stimulated some female behavior on odd occasions despite my age and non-existent social status, but I see it in other old farts too. I was fishing Lake Placid with my friend Ron a few years ago. A female fish and game warden approached, Ron running the trolling motor from the bow: obviously the boat's owner and captain. This gal put on such a display for him I couldn't believe it. I might as well have not existed for her. Her ignoring me was pissing me off enough for me to speak up and address her. She answered me: still looking at Ron. And Ron was damn close to seventy at the time.
Old Fogey
Just now, 7:30 PM on a Sunday, I'm driving from my Darling's back to my studio, all on little, rural-seeming Brunns Road, I haven't gone more than a couple of hundred feet, and a young girl, uh, woman, just as I come abreast of her, sticks her hand out, waving for me to stop. I do. What do you want,? says SybaRight. "Could you give me a ride?" she asks. She's thin. She has a pretty face with flesh in the female areas of it: oriental of some flavor. Where are you going? "Oh, just down the road."
I open the door. She gets in. I'm giving you a ride, I say, so that no one else does. Don't you know that it's dangerous to ask rides of strangers?
She smiles sweetly. I'm only going down the block, I add. Where do you want to be let out? Hammock Road? Are you going to the Circle K? "That would be nice," she says.
Then suddenly she indicates a local side road going into one of the developments. "Here," she says. "This will be fine." We're still a few hundred yards from Hammock Road, not even yet to my park where I have my studio, but I stop. I tap her on the shoulder. Be careful, I admonish her. She has flinched a little bit. She smiles somewhat less sweetly. She gets out, crosses the street, and immediately flags the car going into the opposite direction: a couple of young men its occupants.
That car stops. She gets in. And off she goes: flat north instead of south.
Now I presume that she had seen the car turn onto Brunns Road, judged the riders to be male: maybe a little bit hornier, a little bit less fatherly, than this dud had turned out to be. No wonder she flinched from my advice if she was rushing to solicit a better prospect.
Looked to me by then like she was a road-whore: a possibility I'd considered in the first place but hadn't yet judged probable.
How long was she going to keep that sweet face? Unmarked? Unscarred?
How long would she keep that slender figure? straight up and down like a boy? This gal had more flesh in her cheeks than in her tits or her ass.
Reminds me of the whore in Fear of Flying who kept gaining weight and couldn't figure out why: she dieted so severely: until finally some advisor suggested that she keep track, write down, every single thing that she puts in her mouth all day long.
The first time a girl ever waved at me like that—got the same dialogue from me, by the way—was back in the 1970s when I was driving from Hempstead to Long Beach: along Long Beach Road.
I told her to be careful. She asked me if I liked to party.
No, not much, I answered. And I don't have any dope: I don't use it.
Still, she stayed in the car with me till we were almost crossing Sunrise Highway. Maybe she'd find more party people there.
Or by "party" did she just mean get a blow job while driving?
What happens to these girls? How many of them are there?
How many of our mothers and sisters and daughters are whores?
I presume a good number of them become mothers themselves: don't get cut up, survive somehow.
I'm a little bit better at recognizing road whores when I'm in the Apple, but I haven't been in NYC now in decades. In NY the road whores tend to hang more on particular corners: especially in certain neighborhoods. And they're not coy: don't waste time waiting for the john to initiate.
One night—could have been my very last time in the Apple—1986 maybe, down on West Street, underneath the Henry Hudson, I'm turning left, oh, onto 12th Street maybe, West Village somewhere, and a tall, good looking redhead, rushes the car like she's in trouble. I stop. Crack the window. Not much: I think it was coolish: night time, toward autumn maybe. She sticks her face up to the opening, smiles winningly, and asks me in a sweet innocent-enough-seeming voice how I'd like a nice blow job.
No thanks, I answer. She pouts. Seems sincerely disappointed. "Oh," she complains, "why not?"
I don't got no money, I explained. That lost her interest. Swiftly.
Actually, there was plenty more I'd have like to say to her. But I understood that she was working, that time counted. She may also have been under close supervision by a pimp ...
So I merely fantasized the rest of the conversation as I rode the tunnel, on my way back to New Jersey where I was crashing on a friend's "farm": in his wreck of a travel trailer: writing my novel. Yes, I would have liked to have said, especially if you'll sit on my face while you do it. Uh, provided you can convince me you're clean.
Maybe I should have narrated my novel to her. Maybe she'd give me a freebie—on scholarship.
Yeah, and maybe I'd wind up with my face cut wide open with a razor blade.
Shaish. Here we are: dangerous creatures: large, meat-eaters, wearing camouflage ... Sex requires vulnerability: especially for the female, but for the male as well. One is generally on top of the other. Even standing, or both seated, you have the other's genitals at your mercy.
No wonder some cultures have insisted on arranging marriages.
I open the door. She gets in. I'm giving you a ride, I say, so that no one else does. Don't you know that it's dangerous to ask rides of strangers?
She smiles sweetly. I'm only going down the block, I add. Where do you want to be let out? Hammock Road? Are you going to the Circle K? "That would be nice," she says.
Then suddenly she indicates a local side road going into one of the developments. "Here," she says. "This will be fine." We're still a few hundred yards from Hammock Road, not even yet to my park where I have my studio, but I stop. I tap her on the shoulder. Be careful, I admonish her. She has flinched a little bit. She smiles somewhat less sweetly. She gets out, crosses the street, and immediately flags the car going into the opposite direction: a couple of young men its occupants.
That car stops. She gets in. And off she goes: flat north instead of south.
Now I presume that she had seen the car turn onto Brunns Road, judged the riders to be male: maybe a little bit hornier, a little bit less fatherly, than this dud had turned out to be. No wonder she flinched from my advice if she was rushing to solicit a better prospect.
Looked to me by then like she was a road-whore: a possibility I'd considered in the first place but hadn't yet judged probable.
How long was she going to keep that sweet face? Unmarked? Unscarred?
How long would she keep that slender figure? straight up and down like a boy? This gal had more flesh in her cheeks than in her tits or her ass.
Reminds me of the whore in Fear of Flying who kept gaining weight and couldn't figure out why: she dieted so severely: until finally some advisor suggested that she keep track, write down, every single thing that she puts in her mouth all day long.
The first time a girl ever waved at me like that—got the same dialogue from me, by the way—was back in the 1970s when I was driving from Hempstead to Long Beach: along Long Beach Road.
I told her to be careful. She asked me if I liked to party.
No, not much, I answered. And I don't have any dope: I don't use it.
Still, she stayed in the car with me till we were almost crossing Sunrise Highway. Maybe she'd find more party people there.
Or by "party" did she just mean get a blow job while driving?
What happens to these girls? How many of them are there?
How many of our mothers and sisters and daughters are whores?
I presume a good number of them become mothers themselves: don't get cut up, survive somehow.
I'm a little bit better at recognizing road whores when I'm in the Apple, but I haven't been in NYC now in decades. In NY the road whores tend to hang more on particular corners: especially in certain neighborhoods. And they're not coy: don't waste time waiting for the john to initiate.
One night—could have been my very last time in the Apple—1986 maybe, down on West Street, underneath the Henry Hudson, I'm turning left, oh, onto 12th Street maybe, West Village somewhere, and a tall, good looking redhead, rushes the car like she's in trouble. I stop. Crack the window. Not much: I think it was coolish: night time, toward autumn maybe. She sticks her face up to the opening, smiles winningly, and asks me in a sweet innocent-enough-seeming voice how I'd like a nice blow job.
No thanks, I answer. She pouts. Seems sincerely disappointed. "Oh," she complains, "why not?"
I don't got no money, I explained. That lost her interest. Swiftly.
Actually, there was plenty more I'd have like to say to her. But I understood that she was working, that time counted. She may also have been under close supervision by a pimp ...
So I merely fantasized the rest of the conversation as I rode the tunnel, on my way back to New Jersey where I was crashing on a friend's "farm": in his wreck of a travel trailer: writing my novel. Yes, I would have liked to have said, especially if you'll sit on my face while you do it. Uh, provided you can convince me you're clean.
Maybe I should have narrated my novel to her. Maybe she'd give me a freebie—on scholarship.
Yeah, and maybe I'd wind up with my face cut wide open with a razor blade.
Shaish. Here we are: dangerous creatures: large, meat-eaters, wearing camouflage ... Sex requires vulnerability: especially for the female, but for the male as well. One is generally on top of the other. Even standing, or both seated, you have the other's genitals at your mercy.
No wonder some cultures have insisted on arranging marriages.
CyberSex
In the 1980s it was a kick to see my son in his college computer division, getting dirty jokes from Israel within seconds of their telling, downloading from France erotica displayed as graphics composed strictly of ASCII characters ...
Thanks to my son's hard/soft-ware, expertise, and to college mainframe connections, I had my first online experiences that actually meant something to me. Before that, my computing via modem had been limited to a session on a NYC terminal online with a main frame at Princeton in 1970, perhaps 1971. By the mid-'80s I had a modem for my Commodore 64 but got very little but frustration from it. It wasn't until the early 1990s that I had a Mac cum modem and my own 24/7 DSL connection.
But since seeing the ASCII erotica coming out of the college computer division's printer, I had no experiences of cybersex till 1998 when a fan, after only a couple of emails, phoned to say that she wanted to have my baby. This physics teacher then sent photos to make the offer both vivid and attractive. (But she didn't show up when she said she would be visiting.) (I certainly couldn't (and wouldn't) go to her.) First in her emails she was admiring. Then in her emails she was loving. But when she wanted to be sexy, she phoned. to Florida from Michigan! (Only after a time did I realize she was also drunk.)
But that's not what prompted me to start this snippet today. It wasn't until 2003 that I myself got heavily erotic over the internet. I cite one fond moment:
He (stimulating the woman with everything he's got): Ooooo ... I think your clit just curtseyed!
She: That was no curtsey — that was a salute!
Thanks to my son's hard/soft-ware, expertise, and to college mainframe connections, I had my first online experiences that actually meant something to me. Before that, my computing via modem had been limited to a session on a NYC terminal online with a main frame at Princeton in 1970, perhaps 1971. By the mid-'80s I had a modem for my Commodore 64 but got very little but frustration from it. It wasn't until the early 1990s that I had a Mac cum modem and my own 24/7 DSL connection.
But since seeing the ASCII erotica coming out of the college computer division's printer, I had no experiences of cybersex till 1998 when a fan, after only a couple of emails, phoned to say that she wanted to have my baby. This physics teacher then sent photos to make the offer both vivid and attractive. (But she didn't show up when she said she would be visiting.) (I certainly couldn't (and wouldn't) go to her.) First in her emails she was admiring. Then in her emails she was loving. But when she wanted to be sexy, she phoned. to Florida from Michigan! (Only after a time did I realize she was also drunk.)
But that's not what prompted me to start this snippet today. It wasn't until 2003 that I myself got heavily erotic over the internet. I cite one fond moment:
He (stimulating the woman with everything he's got): Ooooo ... I think your clit just curtseyed!
She: That was no curtsey — that was a salute!
Masturbation
I'd had my finger in a few wet places before I ever fucked. The boy I was once didn't know how much of the female was inside or quite where, being unable to tell the inside of the vulva from the front half-inch of the vulva: and I had no idea of the location, let alone the depth, of the vagina. But still I'd gotten my finger wet well into the vulva and fairly well in the vagina before I ever put the dick in too and then came there. Still, I'd fucked more than a few times before I discovered that even a great fuck is not a complete satisfaction for some women: they want to get fucked and they still want their pussy pulled. Maybe they want to be eaten, and fucked, and then still have their pussy pulled. (What they will not get from me is their pussy pulled, a great fuck, and then eaten. Once I've come there, I don't want to eat there. Not that same day anyway.) (Is any of my come still in the twat the next night? Would I recognize it if I tasted it?) (What I absolutely don't want to eat is some other guy's cum there.) I'd fucked a couple of girls on this and that occasion, and even fucked my favorite more than a half-dozen times on one single occasion, couldn't think of anything we could have left out (still not know the half of it), before I was with my favorite for a second, leisured, multi-bout session—at her place in Boston for a three day weekend, she having thrown her roommates out for the occasion—before my hand was guided to the pussy: a while after the fifth or sixth very-mutual orgasm.
Hmm. Just remembering, trying to remember, something else, something I hadn't meant to tell, just here, just now. Jackie had taken me in her mouth just prior to my putting it in her for the first time. That was my first experience of the dick in the girl's mouth as well as my first real fuck (one entirely voluntary and with a girl I wanted to be with: not one I was sorry I'd made a date with after she puked all over my car, after she wanted me to kiss her after she'd puked, after she wanted me to fuck her after I'd kissed her: and she had the gall to tell me the next week that she was a virgin! A drunk with no memory?) That weekend in Boston I found myself looking very closely at her pussy. There was my first real opportunity to kiss the snatch. I thought of it. She must have felt me thinking it. She had every opportunity to coax me closer. To coax my tongue there: if she's wanted it. If Jackie had coaxed me, I'd have wanted to, for her sake, however little I wanted to at that time in my life for my sake. If cunilingus had been important to her, she would have found a way to hint it. No, Jackie had sucked me: then I fucked her. She sucked me a couple of more times: just prior to slipping it in. These were none of them "blow jobs": they were just preparatory to proper missionary penetration. The sucking was an appetizer (and a lubricant), not the
entré. But there we were, and Jackie was guiding my hand to her pussy.
By the way: my son at high school age gave me a nice distinction which he'd picked up from the women's liberationists: who by the time he was fourteen or fifteen were becoming willing to say things to young males (whereas in my generation, men were excluded from such talk: even the founder of the Free Learning Exchange and promoter of free networking (unless the men went out of their way to act reverse-subservient: women in my experience were not ready for, or capable of, equality). He said that, for males, society talks about penises and testicles; for females, society only talks about vaginas. Uh, so? So the vulva—and with it, female pleasure—is excluded from consideration. Wham! Bulls-eye! Right. It had gotten me too. I never talked about the vulva. I had no separate word for it. So folks, these days, when I say pussy I mean the whole paraphernalia: vagina and vulva. When I say cunt ... uh, I don't say cunt much. Except to curse. Anyway, when I want to be specific I say: vagina here, vulva there. If I say pussy, I'm being general. Kiss the pussy means lick the clit and lick deeper. Finger the clit, shove the dick where it best belongs.
The dick belongs to the female. Isn't it funny that it hangs with the male? The pussy belongs to the male. The female has it only for safe keeping.
Back to pulling-it. Jackie guided my hand. I tried my damndest to touch her exactly how she wanted: to take guidance from her throughout. She had another wonderful little orgasm: all by herself. Except that I thought it was wonderful too: just as I expect women to benefit from my pleasure. Maybe she's not having my earthquake, but she's in it in a sense, even if I'm coming on the ground, my dick in my own hand, my other hand on her breast, or on her butt, maybe her hand on my knee, or her fingers around my balls ... or, she's doing it for me, her fingers wrapped around the shaft, her hand going back and forth, or her mouth: still, she feels the earthquake: she's "in" the earthquake in some sense.
Indeed: that's one of the things that I love about eating: I can concentrate wholly (or almost wholly) on her. I feel her orgasm. Mmmm. Closest I can come to having female experience.
I've simply adored it the few times that women have told me that I made love like a woman (ages 21 and again around 45 to locate at least two).
Now: to my own masturbation. I've already told how I never heard of it until some guy whipped himself in front of me around the eighth grade. I was quite a bit older before I tried it myself, but by age fifteen, I knew it well.
Now: When Jackie had come on my hand, she told me that that kind of an orgasm was "different" somehow: obviously also precious. Me too. Maybe by dint of long practice, maybe by a number of things, no woman can make me come the way I can make myself come. In a good fuck ... it's different again. The woman doesn't make me come; I don't make myself come; the coming comes from "god." But a blow job, or a jerk job ... they're artifacts: made by man: or woman. Anyway, if I'm living with a girl, if I'm married and living at home with my wife, if we fuck every night and sometimes in the morning ... I'll still occasionally need to whip it by hand. Or have her whip it by hand. And no matter how many times she whips it by hand or how well, I'll still need to whip it myself by hand on occasion. I bet Jackie pulled her own pussy for herself after I'd left Boston to go back to NY. I'll bet she was at least "1%" glad to be rid of me however well I'd bowed her legs.
When I was addicted to cigarettes, I'd feel the need for one right in the middle of a cigar. (I never inhaled cigars: or pipe smoke.) There I was, enjoying my cigar: and I'd "need" to suck on a cigarette. There I am, right in the midst of a world-class banquet on the girl's pussy, satisfying myself, and her, left and right, and I'll need to plunge it in her. Suddenly, no oral satisfaction can interfere with the urge to hump from the hips. Overwhelming. So. There's more than one thing in the world.
Thus: I have masturbated at least occasionally from age oh say around fifteen till the present: with one exception. And that was recent. I'd lived with this girl and that girl, and then gotten married—to the girl I was living with—and then lived with this other woman and that other woman: till at age fifty-three I took up with my Darling. Only rarely did we make love more than once a day, never more than three times in a day; but we did make love almost every day, every single day: for years and years. Having made love, I slept in that same double bed. And I think years had passed before I noticed: Jeez: it's been years since I've whipped it. With other women, I'd gone and whipped it when I felt like it: right while they too were in the bed. It didn't matter that I'd fucked them last night: or that they'd whipped it for me the night before. Sometimes you need your own hand. But not with my Darling. Until she got so old that I could no longer get a good night's sleep in her noisy, old-woman's bed: and I stopped sleeping with her: merely visiting her bed regularly.
Just had a memory I think I'll mention though it's irrelevant to the things I'd planned for this session at the Macintosh. On more than one occasion I've masturbated while in bed with a woman because she's not cooperating in any sensual joint venture. Girl doesn't want to fuck, that's her business, but if I can't get laid at sleep time, getting the orgasm I need becomes very much my business regardless of whose name is on the lease for the address that contains that bedroom. And on more than one occasion, my activity has warmed the girl to change her mind. "I don't want to make love tonight." "OK. Just turn that way and I'll hump up against your bottom." Humping her bottom, or humping her tits, or whipping it myself ... may just make her stir, get aroused, change her mind. It can be very nice to have your dick sliding with only half satisfaction between a pair of otherwise perfectly lovely buttocks and have the girl stir, slip her panties off, and guide your plunging just a bit lower. It can even happen that she catches up to you after her late start. Hell, getting bumped against the anus may itself be nice for a female.
I hasten to clarify. I have never been in the garbage shoot even of a female let alone that of a male. I was with one woman who kept talking about it: though she was quick to be clear that my size put her off the idea completely in my case: if I weren't me, she would want it. That talk put me off completely. I wasn't with her for long: as desperate as I was for food and shelter while writing my second novel. She had great tits though.
Gives me another thought: once I was at the movies with a Puerto Rican girl I'd helped look for her lost dog. She too was a nut for Japanese film. We were at a double feature: a Kurosawa I knew from several viewings over and a feature by a vastly lesser name. Usually I'm at the movies to concentrate, not to screw around; but this time I couldn't help it. For some reason it was easier for me, given the position we were in and the kind of trousers she was wearing, to put my finger in her ass than in her pussy: either vulva or vagina. I kept realizing I was off target, tried again, and it kept going into her ass. She was writhing around to it just the same so I finally gave up and left it there. I didn't even need to move my hand. Once she warmed to that presence in her ass, she warmed indeed, and she thrashed herself to a shuddering climax right there in the Riviera Theater on Broadway. I was just moving from one place on Riverside to another: corner of 103rd. I'd yet moved nothing, not a rug, not a chair, not one stick of furniture. But I had the key. After the movie we went and rutted on the floor. I've fucked here and there but only twice on a hard floor without so much as a towel underneath us. Four times I fucked her: that's on top of her orgasm in the theater. Come to think of it, I'd shown her my empty apartment before the movie time approached. She'd had me by the balls. When she crawled away to reach for her purse or something, she showed me one hell of a lovely rear end pussy target and I'd lush-smacked her bulls-eye right below her buttocks. I am hardly an ass kisser, but that time came close. At least she had on a couple of layers of cloths. The only thing open at that point had been my fly.
Also just remembered: After the fourth fuck we were really sore. And sticky. We took a bath in my "new" tub: even though there was not a towel in the house: not so much as a handkerchief, and certainly no soap. Wiped the water off with our fingers and just got dressed again: in time for dawn.
My God ... I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.
Marla Singer, Fight Club
Marla Singer, Fight Club
Hmm. Just remembering, trying to remember, something else, something I hadn't meant to tell, just here, just now. Jackie had taken me in her mouth just prior to my putting it in her for the first time. That was my first experience of the dick in the girl's mouth as well as my first real fuck (one entirely voluntary and with a girl I wanted to be with: not one I was sorry I'd made a date with after she puked all over my car, after she wanted me to kiss her after she'd puked, after she wanted me to fuck her after I'd kissed her: and she had the gall to tell me the next week that she was a virgin! A drunk with no memory?) That weekend in Boston I found myself looking very closely at her pussy. There was my first real opportunity to kiss the snatch. I thought of it. She must have felt me thinking it. She had every opportunity to coax me closer. To coax my tongue there: if she's wanted it. If Jackie had coaxed me, I'd have wanted to, for her sake, however little I wanted to at that time in my life for my sake. If cunilingus had been important to her, she would have found a way to hint it. No, Jackie had sucked me: then I fucked her. She sucked me a couple of more times: just prior to slipping it in. These were none of them "blow jobs": they were just preparatory to proper missionary penetration. The sucking was an appetizer (and a lubricant), not the
entré. But there we were, and Jackie was guiding my hand to her pussy.
By the way: my son at high school age gave me a nice distinction which he'd picked up from the women's liberationists: who by the time he was fourteen or fifteen were becoming willing to say things to young males (whereas in my generation, men were excluded from such talk: even the founder of the Free Learning Exchange and promoter of free networking (unless the men went out of their way to act reverse-subservient: women in my experience were not ready for, or capable of, equality). He said that, for males, society talks about penises and testicles; for females, society only talks about vaginas. Uh, so? So the vulva—and with it, female pleasure—is excluded from consideration. Wham! Bulls-eye! Right. It had gotten me too. I never talked about the vulva. I had no separate word for it. So folks, these days, when I say pussy I mean the whole paraphernalia: vagina and vulva. When I say cunt ... uh, I don't say cunt much. Except to curse. Anyway, when I want to be specific I say: vagina here, vulva there. If I say pussy, I'm being general. Kiss the pussy means lick the clit and lick deeper. Finger the clit, shove the dick where it best belongs.
The dick belongs to the female. Isn't it funny that it hangs with the male? The pussy belongs to the male. The female has it only for safe keeping.
Back to pulling-it. Jackie guided my hand. I tried my damndest to touch her exactly how she wanted: to take guidance from her throughout. She had another wonderful little orgasm: all by herself. Except that I thought it was wonderful too: just as I expect women to benefit from my pleasure. Maybe she's not having my earthquake, but she's in it in a sense, even if I'm coming on the ground, my dick in my own hand, my other hand on her breast, or on her butt, maybe her hand on my knee, or her fingers around my balls ... or, she's doing it for me, her fingers wrapped around the shaft, her hand going back and forth, or her mouth: still, she feels the earthquake: she's "in" the earthquake in some sense.
Indeed: that's one of the things that I love about eating: I can concentrate wholly (or almost wholly) on her. I feel her orgasm. Mmmm. Closest I can come to having female experience.
I've simply adored it the few times that women have told me that I made love like a woman (ages 21 and again around 45 to locate at least two).
Now: to my own masturbation. I've already told how I never heard of it until some guy whipped himself in front of me around the eighth grade. I was quite a bit older before I tried it myself, but by age fifteen, I knew it well.
Now: When Jackie had come on my hand, she told me that that kind of an orgasm was "different" somehow: obviously also precious. Me too. Maybe by dint of long practice, maybe by a number of things, no woman can make me come the way I can make myself come. In a good fuck ... it's different again. The woman doesn't make me come; I don't make myself come; the coming comes from "god." But a blow job, or a jerk job ... they're artifacts: made by man: or woman. Anyway, if I'm living with a girl, if I'm married and living at home with my wife, if we fuck every night and sometimes in the morning ... I'll still occasionally need to whip it by hand. Or have her whip it by hand. And no matter how many times she whips it by hand or how well, I'll still need to whip it myself by hand on occasion. I bet Jackie pulled her own pussy for herself after I'd left Boston to go back to NY. I'll bet she was at least "1%" glad to be rid of me however well I'd bowed her legs.
When I was addicted to cigarettes, I'd feel the need for one right in the middle of a cigar. (I never inhaled cigars: or pipe smoke.) There I was, enjoying my cigar: and I'd "need" to suck on a cigarette. There I am, right in the midst of a world-class banquet on the girl's pussy, satisfying myself, and her, left and right, and I'll need to plunge it in her. Suddenly, no oral satisfaction can interfere with the urge to hump from the hips. Overwhelming. So. There's more than one thing in the world.
Thus: I have masturbated at least occasionally from age oh say around fifteen till the present: with one exception. And that was recent. I'd lived with this girl and that girl, and then gotten married—to the girl I was living with—and then lived with this other woman and that other woman: till at age fifty-three I took up with my Darling. Only rarely did we make love more than once a day, never more than three times in a day; but we did make love almost every day, every single day: for years and years. Having made love, I slept in that same double bed. And I think years had passed before I noticed: Jeez: it's been years since I've whipped it. With other women, I'd gone and whipped it when I felt like it: right while they too were in the bed. It didn't matter that I'd fucked them last night: or that they'd whipped it for me the night before. Sometimes you need your own hand. But not with my Darling. Until she got so old that I could no longer get a good night's sleep in her noisy, old-woman's bed: and I stopped sleeping with her: merely visiting her bed regularly.
Just had a memory I think I'll mention though it's irrelevant to the things I'd planned for this session at the Macintosh. On more than one occasion I've masturbated while in bed with a woman because she's not cooperating in any sensual joint venture. Girl doesn't want to fuck, that's her business, but if I can't get laid at sleep time, getting the orgasm I need becomes very much my business regardless of whose name is on the lease for the address that contains that bedroom. And on more than one occasion, my activity has warmed the girl to change her mind. "I don't want to make love tonight." "OK. Just turn that way and I'll hump up against your bottom." Humping her bottom, or humping her tits, or whipping it myself ... may just make her stir, get aroused, change her mind. It can be very nice to have your dick sliding with only half satisfaction between a pair of otherwise perfectly lovely buttocks and have the girl stir, slip her panties off, and guide your plunging just a bit lower. It can even happen that she catches up to you after her late start. Hell, getting bumped against the anus may itself be nice for a female.
I hasten to clarify. I have never been in the garbage shoot even of a female let alone that of a male. I was with one woman who kept talking about it: though she was quick to be clear that my size put her off the idea completely in my case: if I weren't me, she would want it. That talk put me off completely. I wasn't with her for long: as desperate as I was for food and shelter while writing my second novel. She had great tits though.
Gives me another thought: once I was at the movies with a Puerto Rican girl I'd helped look for her lost dog. She too was a nut for Japanese film. We were at a double feature: a Kurosawa I knew from several viewings over and a feature by a vastly lesser name. Usually I'm at the movies to concentrate, not to screw around; but this time I couldn't help it. For some reason it was easier for me, given the position we were in and the kind of trousers she was wearing, to put my finger in her ass than in her pussy: either vulva or vagina. I kept realizing I was off target, tried again, and it kept going into her ass. She was writhing around to it just the same so I finally gave up and left it there. I didn't even need to move my hand. Once she warmed to that presence in her ass, she warmed indeed, and she thrashed herself to a shuddering climax right there in the Riviera Theater on Broadway. I was just moving from one place on Riverside to another: corner of 103rd. I'd yet moved nothing, not a rug, not a chair, not one stick of furniture. But I had the key. After the movie we went and rutted on the floor. I've fucked here and there but only twice on a hard floor without so much as a towel underneath us. Four times I fucked her: that's on top of her orgasm in the theater. Come to think of it, I'd shown her my empty apartment before the movie time approached. She'd had me by the balls. When she crawled away to reach for her purse or something, she showed me one hell of a lovely rear end pussy target and I'd lush-smacked her bulls-eye right below her buttocks. I am hardly an ass kisser, but that time came close. At least she had on a couple of layers of cloths. The only thing open at that point had been my fly.
Also just remembered: After the fourth fuck we were really sore. And sticky. We took a bath in my "new" tub: even though there was not a towel in the house: not so much as a handkerchief, and certainly no soap. Wiped the water off with our fingers and just got dressed again: in time for dawn.
Male / Female Reflections
Comments on male female similarities and differences, beyond those obvious to any pubescent drooler, abound at my regular personal domain but they tend to bear somewhat importantly on evolution and our biological survival. Here I just intend to gather a few reflections either frankly erotic: or close. That doesn't mean that evolutionary points won't also apply.
I assume that male and female in all species are "equally" sexed; but that the symptoms won't show at all equally. The male's pursuit of getting it off is obvious, direct: almost pathetic; the female's pursuit is more oblique, better camouflaged: easily confused with some associated behavior. For example, a man staring at a female bosom is obviously staring; a woman changing a male infant's diaper is not. Society keeps some sort of records of males (of the wrong class) helping themselves to so much as a glimpse of females (of the right class). There are no statistics of how many baby boys had their genitals rubbed by their mother, their nurse, their wet nurse, their baby sitter ...
Of course differences are hard to measure. The male's sexuality is "90%" located in his genitals (and vastly unevenly distributed there: the glans being 90% more sensitive than the shaft, the testes some other unequal share); the female's sensuality is more distributed over her whole body. Sure her clitoris or her nipples are highly sensitive: but so is her forearm, her triceps, the back of her hand: not just the inside of her thigh. A woman gets fractional orgasms from a spring breeze that a male doesn't even register on a male.
I further observe (and suspect further yet) that ... whoops, lost that thought: I'll return when it re-rears its head.
We see dogs on the street, in the park, in the yard. When not in heat, all "females" might as well be neuter. Virtually all males are grab-assy faggots. The moment a female nears heat however, every male becomes a mad pussy-eater. Fine. Me too. Although it's annoying after a while how one-sided the activity seems to be. You see males scampering after indifferent-seeming female hind ends as the female cycle nears; you do not come upon dogs paired up in male / female 69s every other hour. The female goes about her business while the male tries to eat.
One summer visiting the Catskills, artist Cuca Romley, her daughter, and I stood at the side of a meadow and watched two cows, female of course, gang up on a poor bored bull. The cows kept backing their hind ends against his nose. He'd back away, seeming mildly annoyed, and resume his foraging for grass. Was he very young? Were the "girls" just mocking him? That is, would they have been playing indifferent to a mature bull sniffing their snatch? Were these two cows near their ovulation? don't Know: but I've never seen that behavior in dogs.
Anyway, I've mated my dog more than once and watched carefully on those occasions where the mating was supervised (as distinct from opportunities he found on his own). Angus walked perpetually after the fragrant bitch to lick her. He'd get the merest taste and she'd walk off: indifferent seeming. At no point did she throw herself down, spread her thighs, and wholly (pun) indulge both herself and Angus: in her early days, that is. Around day nine her behavior would change. She'd walk away after three beats, not after one. And every other time, just as she'd walk away, she sneak a quick lick at his maleness. Now: I never saw a bitch dog take the male in her mouth and finish him there. Dogs don't waste cum. But at least the male did finally get a lick or two after offering hundreds himself.
And on day eleven? I've already told elsewhere how both penetration and orgasm were accomplished in a mid-air meeting before any of eight paws touched the ground! No fuckin' around: she was pregnant.
Dogs aren't people. Neither are cows. But we're all mammals. I've watched snakes fuck, and been utterly amazed. Nothing humans do can compare to totally sensuousness distributed over eight or twelve feet times two, lovingly caressing every micrometer of the way. Anyway, there are certainly analogies: close analogies among the mammals. I closely courted a young mother for a day or two a couple of decades ago in a Florida state park when she suggested that we leave our separate campers where they were in Jupiter and drive in one car to the Keys for a couple of days, sharing expenses for a motel. That night, in Islamorada, she put her son to sleep in one bed, tucked him on one side leaving plenty of room for her on the other and went to the shower. I got into the other double bed and doused the lights. When she emerged from the bathroom in a robe she came to "my" bed, not her son's. She whispered oh so quietly, "I'll visit here but sleep there. You may make love to me once, but only once. Then, never again. Don't forget that I'm here with my fiancé's leave. As soon as we're done, I'm loyal to him again." (This fiancé was not the boy's father: neither was her first husband. I'd come to know her pretty well in thirty or so hours. Fortunately for me, I (with my SybaRight Newman blue eyes, reminded her of the boy's actual sire.)
"Agreed," I said.
"Are you naked?" she asked.
"Yes." She drew back my sheet. I scooted over to make room for her. She instantly shed her robe, and, as she lay down next to me—here's my whole point, her right hand unerringly did the fastest, neatest, but somehow most complete, once-over of both my erection and balls! First, (she had radar) the dick, up, around, and down. Then, the balls. Then, she never touched me again: she just received me.
No, not my mouth. That she was clear and firm about. She wanted me to mount her; not eat her, not 69 her. I was similarly quick in kissing her breast. And then we were merely the beast with two backs.
(That fuck lasted a good while, but once I came I wasn't quite sure she'd come as much as she might. She stayed in my bed while I offered her my hand. She'd refused my mouth, but she accepted my fingers. And masturbating her was simply wonderful. What a pussy! What an ass. Though I still ache that I never tasted her. This girl was young. Astonishingly beautiful. And very rich. (She was in Jupiter partly to shop for beachfront property on which to build a house: that's right: next door to J. SybaRight Getty! or the Burt Reynolds.) I've been with beautiful women. I've been with rich woman. I've been with beautiful and rich women. But never before had I seen a woman of any degree of beauty with such a wardrobe for travel. I never saw her wear anything, including years later on a separate visit to Florida, that didn't look like an original from Rodeo Drive. Even her panties looked like they'd been designed by Salvador Dali: hardly more than a tea bag to cover the vulva and nothing at all to cover the ass: yet, there was nothing obscene about them. No, these were not Las Vegas pants.)
I tell the story with different details than I'd previously told elsewhere: to emphasize how fleeting was her female touch of the male genitalia, yet to emphasize that the touch was there. I also emphasize how amazing it was because we had never been together before: how could she have known my coordinates, my locations so perfectly in genuine dark. She didn't know if I was naked, but did know minutely where everything was. She touched all of everything: once: and then onto her back to get fucked.
So: men and woman do the same things: but in grossly different proportions: and at vastly different times: frequencies, etc.
Like a dog, I want to eat: almost all the time; the girl, seems indifferent; but will use her mouth at least once: and when it counts most!
Oh, I've been blown by women as I walk through their front door. She'll have my pants around my knees, my drawers around the tops of my thighs, my balls in her hand, and my dick in her mouth, before the door has finished closing. But that's unusual. I want to dive on the muff before the door is closed "all the time." And even the time I just describe, the blow job was prelude, incomplete, a minute later she had me in the bed, on top of her, fucking away, and not blowing my load the first second, indeed, finally coaxing me, quite the opposite of reigning me back. "Oh, you're so full," she murmured as again her hand found my balls: this time to trigger me over the edge. Ka-boom.
I assume that male and female in all species are "equally" sexed; but that the symptoms won't show at all equally. The male's pursuit of getting it off is obvious, direct: almost pathetic; the female's pursuit is more oblique, better camouflaged: easily confused with some associated behavior. For example, a man staring at a female bosom is obviously staring; a woman changing a male infant's diaper is not. Society keeps some sort of records of males (of the wrong class) helping themselves to so much as a glimpse of females (of the right class). There are no statistics of how many baby boys had their genitals rubbed by their mother, their nurse, their wet nurse, their baby sitter ...
Of course differences are hard to measure. The male's sexuality is "90%" located in his genitals (and vastly unevenly distributed there: the glans being 90% more sensitive than the shaft, the testes some other unequal share); the female's sensuality is more distributed over her whole body. Sure her clitoris or her nipples are highly sensitive: but so is her forearm, her triceps, the back of her hand: not just the inside of her thigh. A woman gets fractional orgasms from a spring breeze that a male doesn't even register on a male.
I further observe (and suspect further yet) that ... whoops, lost that thought: I'll return when it re-rears its head.
We see dogs on the street, in the park, in the yard. When not in heat, all "females" might as well be neuter. Virtually all males are grab-assy faggots. The moment a female nears heat however, every male becomes a mad pussy-eater. Fine. Me too. Although it's annoying after a while how one-sided the activity seems to be. You see males scampering after indifferent-seeming female hind ends as the female cycle nears; you do not come upon dogs paired up in male / female 69s every other hour. The female goes about her business while the male tries to eat.
One summer visiting the Catskills, artist Cuca Romley, her daughter, and I stood at the side of a meadow and watched two cows, female of course, gang up on a poor bored bull. The cows kept backing their hind ends against his nose. He'd back away, seeming mildly annoyed, and resume his foraging for grass. Was he very young? Were the "girls" just mocking him? That is, would they have been playing indifferent to a mature bull sniffing their snatch? Were these two cows near their ovulation? don't Know: but I've never seen that behavior in dogs.
Anyway, I've mated my dog more than once and watched carefully on those occasions where the mating was supervised (as distinct from opportunities he found on his own). Angus walked perpetually after the fragrant bitch to lick her. He'd get the merest taste and she'd walk off: indifferent seeming. At no point did she throw herself down, spread her thighs, and wholly (pun) indulge both herself and Angus: in her early days, that is. Around day nine her behavior would change. She'd walk away after three beats, not after one. And every other time, just as she'd walk away, she sneak a quick lick at his maleness. Now: I never saw a bitch dog take the male in her mouth and finish him there. Dogs don't waste cum. But at least the male did finally get a lick or two after offering hundreds himself.
And on day eleven? I've already told elsewhere how both penetration and orgasm were accomplished in a mid-air meeting before any of eight paws touched the ground! No fuckin' around: she was pregnant.
Dogs aren't people. Neither are cows. But we're all mammals. I've watched snakes fuck, and been utterly amazed. Nothing humans do can compare to totally sensuousness distributed over eight or twelve feet times two, lovingly caressing every micrometer of the way. Anyway, there are certainly analogies: close analogies among the mammals. I closely courted a young mother for a day or two a couple of decades ago in a Florida state park when she suggested that we leave our separate campers where they were in Jupiter and drive in one car to the Keys for a couple of days, sharing expenses for a motel. That night, in Islamorada, she put her son to sleep in one bed, tucked him on one side leaving plenty of room for her on the other and went to the shower. I got into the other double bed and doused the lights. When she emerged from the bathroom in a robe she came to "my" bed, not her son's. She whispered oh so quietly, "I'll visit here but sleep there. You may make love to me once, but only once. Then, never again. Don't forget that I'm here with my fiancé's leave. As soon as we're done, I'm loyal to him again." (This fiancé was not the boy's father: neither was her first husband. I'd come to know her pretty well in thirty or so hours. Fortunately for me, I (with my SybaRight Newman blue eyes, reminded her of the boy's actual sire.)
"Agreed," I said.
"Are you naked?" she asked.
"Yes." She drew back my sheet. I scooted over to make room for her. She instantly shed her robe, and, as she lay down next to me—here's my whole point, her right hand unerringly did the fastest, neatest, but somehow most complete, once-over of both my erection and balls! First, (she had radar) the dick, up, around, and down. Then, the balls. Then, she never touched me again: she just received me.
No, not my mouth. That she was clear and firm about. She wanted me to mount her; not eat her, not 69 her. I was similarly quick in kissing her breast. And then we were merely the beast with two backs.
(That fuck lasted a good while, but once I came I wasn't quite sure she'd come as much as she might. She stayed in my bed while I offered her my hand. She'd refused my mouth, but she accepted my fingers. And masturbating her was simply wonderful. What a pussy! What an ass. Though I still ache that I never tasted her. This girl was young. Astonishingly beautiful. And very rich. (She was in Jupiter partly to shop for beachfront property on which to build a house: that's right: next door to J. SybaRight Getty! or the Burt Reynolds.) I've been with beautiful women. I've been with rich woman. I've been with beautiful and rich women. But never before had I seen a woman of any degree of beauty with such a wardrobe for travel. I never saw her wear anything, including years later on a separate visit to Florida, that didn't look like an original from Rodeo Drive. Even her panties looked like they'd been designed by Salvador Dali: hardly more than a tea bag to cover the vulva and nothing at all to cover the ass: yet, there was nothing obscene about them. No, these were not Las Vegas pants.)
I tell the story with different details than I'd previously told elsewhere: to emphasize how fleeting was her female touch of the male genitalia, yet to emphasize that the touch was there. I also emphasize how amazing it was because we had never been together before: how could she have known my coordinates, my locations so perfectly in genuine dark. She didn't know if I was naked, but did know minutely where everything was. She touched all of everything: once: and then onto her back to get fucked.
So: men and woman do the same things: but in grossly different proportions: and at vastly different times: frequencies, etc.
Like a dog, I want to eat: almost all the time; the girl, seems indifferent; but will use her mouth at least once: and when it counts most!
Oh, I've been blown by women as I walk through their front door. She'll have my pants around my knees, my drawers around the tops of my thighs, my balls in her hand, and my dick in her mouth, before the door has finished closing. But that's unusual. I want to dive on the muff before the door is closed "all the time." And even the time I just describe, the blow job was prelude, incomplete, a minute later she had me in the bed, on top of her, fucking away, and not blowing my load the first second, indeed, finally coaxing me, quite the opposite of reigning me back. "Oh, you're so full," she murmured as again her hand found my balls: this time to trigger me over the edge. Ka-boom.
Still Older Women
Four years ago I mentioned my Darling in a series of sex stories on sex in relation to aging. Now that my beloved Catherine is dead I want to review everything I've said about her however casually. I therefore temporarily decommission this piece.
Old women are one of our most wasted precious resources.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Older Women
So: a few years later I was ready. Let me quick sketch the context. In my twenties, I'm a student. In my late twenties, I'm a teacher. In my early thirties, I'm a teacher, writer, reformer, revolutionary. In my later thirties, I'm a businessman. By my forties, I was a businessman who'd just been through a recession and decided, that rather than get over it and recover financially, to instead retire and catch up on some missed youth. When business went south, I stopped drinking in hope that a few recovered wits might make things better. They did. My recovered wits made things altogether better by allowing me to admit that I didn't give a shit about business. It interfered with reading, writing, thinking, everything. I started to play music. I took up golf. I wrote new fiction. I took up chess. Ah, but I still had to eat. So every once in a while I'd try to do some business. Once the rent was paid, I'd go back to the golf course. Take my flute with me.
An old girl friend sends some German artist from South America to me. Oh, hell, OK. I'll promote you. So I take off finally on my forever delayed sales trip to Florida where I guess the South American's blown glass wall hangings might appeal. As usual, I sell a few things along the way. Otherwise I'll never arrive. I have never left for California with any more money than would get me to Philadelphia. If I don't sell something in Philadelphia, I don't go onto Washington let alone to Memphis and LA. Neither do I get back the New York without sales along the way. Make a sale. Go play golf. And on to the next leg of the journey. Well I'm running out of gas by the time I'm in the Carolinas. Gotta make a sale or I'll hitch back to an apartment from which I've been evicted. It had been a few years since I'd put $70,000 in the bank in a day, made $200,000 in six months. But that had been work. I'd read six hours a day, drink another six or eight, but work at least two. Very bad for someone like me.
I stop at Hilton Head Island. Gotta make a sale or abandon the car and put out my thumb. I make a deal with a gal. She gives me a grand. Forget Florida. I gotta go home and pay my rent. But not till tomorrow. Tomorrow I gotta see this gal's bank and cash this check. Otherwise I don't go anywhere. I'm exhausted. I've got to find a place to sleep. I've got this check, but no money. I find a sign for a camp ground and follow the directions. With any luck I can sleep, shower, strike my tent, and duck back out before anyone notices I'm there and thinks about making out I bill I won't be able to pay.
A voice awakens me. "Tents are not allowed on Hilton Head Island by County Ordinance XYZ12blah. Please strike your tent immediately. You are welcome to use the shower before you leave, but please strike your tent immediately."
Jesus. The one thing more important than all else when broke, in a hurry, and camping in a tent, is to get up, pee, and get out before anyone notices you. Too late. Sounds like she's gonna send me off without a bill. That still leaves the problem of peeing. It's broad morning light, for chrisake. I'd deliberately hidden myself and my little alpine tent way in the back of the campground. Campground, hell: I could see by daylight what I'd gotten only a hint of by dark (despite the million lightning-bug-size bulbs that covered the whole place like a net): it was a resort: marina, tennis, quarter million dollar Blue Bird Motor-Homes ... I crawl out. Bladder bursting, I strike the tent. Not put it away, just flatten it on the ground. Now where do I pee? Only one motor-home in the neighborhood. A berm to its rear with a kind of an arroyo on the other side. I slide down among the cactus, screened by not much more than the motor-home itself, hope no one's watching, do what I gotta do. Find the shower and find my new client's bank.
I climb back over the berm to survey the layout and I hear singing. Someone is moving around in the motor-home: the same motor-home I've use to shield my peeing! Jesus, I should have used my car door as a screen. I don't know where the damn bath house is. Maybe this singing lady is singing because she liked what she saw.
"Hello!" She comes out the door in a one piece bathing suit, smiling and waving. "Would you like some coffee? That must have been a rude awakening you just got."
"Ma'am, I would love some coffee. But would you mind if I take one sip and then find the showers before finishing it?"
She directed me to the showers, gave me several cups of coffee, breakfast, and a great deal more. Maybe I'll tell some of those details: some perhaps here as "sex stories." Right now I want to target the theme that induced this story. The woman wore a one piece bathing suit. The woman had a truly attractive body under the beacon of a rarely fine face. But I could see instantly: the woman was old. That is to say, for a fact, I was forty-two; for a similar fact, she was fifty-nine. Almost sixty is very old to a forties newbie. But: I'd been chiding myself about my all but ignoring the old woman who's stuck her tits under my face and talked about them. I didn't plan to be so rude twice.
Jeano was fifty-nine. (Adults get their real names used.) I went to the bank and planned to help her move some pots she was complaining about before heading back north to save my home. She'd complained of a bad back, but when I returned to say Hi and Bye, she'd already moved them herself. I stayed for lunch. We went for a drive in her mint condition 1960s Buick convertible. I learned that Jeano was the oldest still employed model in the United States (that's her in the Doan's Pills back pain commercial). I learned that Jeano's home before her semi-retired widowhood had been on the Connecticut shore of the Sound, that she's moored her thirty-foot sloop at the foot of her yard. I learned that Jeano had been the blond that Perry regularly sang to on his Perry Como Show. I learned that she had dated heroes of mine: Al Capp, for example. When she showed me her portfolio I recognized her as a Miss Rheingold candidate I'd favored on subway rides in my youth. Jeano was fifty-nine, but Jeano was very beautiful. And Jeano was very rich. (Whether the $300,000 credit limit on her Master Card was actually all the money she was allowed in her late husband's Trust or merely the limit on that particular credit card I never did learn.) When Jeano suggested that I spend the night and get a fresh start north the next day, it sounded like a good idea from more than one standpoint. When Jeano that evening stood before me in her one piece bathing suit, I sitting on the edge of her couch, I told her that I was going to put my arms around her. I told her that I was going to kiss her. She stood back to give me room to stand up. "No, No," I said drawing her back toward me as still I sat. I drew her towards me. I put my arms around her waist, around her thighs, around her buttocks. I cupped her buttocks in my hands, oh so gently lifted them, fondled them. The one piece bathing suit was a bit constricting: very well tailored, but still, constricting material or not, it was a very well shaped butt over very well shaped legs. I leaned forward. I brushed my cheek against her mons veneris. I tightened my hold on her bottom. My lips found the crease of the front of her labia. I shook my head like a dog pulling on a sweater. I pressed in and nuzzled her ... She pulled back before the pressure could reach much more of her vulva. I apologized for my presumption. Make a little speech about maturity and opportunity.
Jeano's inscription on her Perkins Agency brochure,
In bed, I got naked, made sure she saw that she could hang a flag from my rod: do chin ups if she'd a mind. She wore a nightie, assured me that whatever might come between us, it wasn't coming that night. I got a better kiss on her panties-covered vulva, poked her a good poke with my rod, and tried to keep still the rest of the night. Just at dawn, her hand cupping my balls and stroking the penis (that instantly sprang erect) woke me. I got her panties off in a flash and had my tongue far enough inside her to try to kiss her navel from inside her vagina. We fucked a good several times before I got in the car and drove off to save my apartment and my business.
And all else about Jeano will have to wait till another time. It was the first time I'd ever made love with a woman more than a year older than I. My first love (not my first fuck) had been a year or so older. (Come to think of it, my first fuck may have been a bit older too: she was my older sister's college buddy. Thought nothing of puking all over the car, then asking me to straighten her out from inside.) All other liaisons till then had been coeval or had had me the senior.
Details another time, but let me hasten to clarify: I've been intimate in one sense or another with many young girls but never, ever fucked a girl under eighteen until I was thirty-five: and then only one: she pursuing me from the opposite end of a different borough. Rachel was seventeen, a senior in an alternate high school — Coney Island — when she first decided to seek out the founder of FLEX — upper west side, Manhattan — and reward him. Even then, I think she mostly just blew me. She may have been damn close to eighteen before I ever actually put it in her.
An old girl friend sends some German artist from South America to me. Oh, hell, OK. I'll promote you. So I take off finally on my forever delayed sales trip to Florida where I guess the South American's blown glass wall hangings might appeal. As usual, I sell a few things along the way. Otherwise I'll never arrive. I have never left for California with any more money than would get me to Philadelphia. If I don't sell something in Philadelphia, I don't go onto Washington let alone to Memphis and LA. Neither do I get back the New York without sales along the way. Make a sale. Go play golf. And on to the next leg of the journey. Well I'm running out of gas by the time I'm in the Carolinas. Gotta make a sale or I'll hitch back to an apartment from which I've been evicted. It had been a few years since I'd put $70,000 in the bank in a day, made $200,000 in six months. But that had been work. I'd read six hours a day, drink another six or eight, but work at least two. Very bad for someone like me.
I stop at Hilton Head Island. Gotta make a sale or abandon the car and put out my thumb. I make a deal with a gal. She gives me a grand. Forget Florida. I gotta go home and pay my rent. But not till tomorrow. Tomorrow I gotta see this gal's bank and cash this check. Otherwise I don't go anywhere. I'm exhausted. I've got to find a place to sleep. I've got this check, but no money. I find a sign for a camp ground and follow the directions. With any luck I can sleep, shower, strike my tent, and duck back out before anyone notices I'm there and thinks about making out I bill I won't be able to pay.
A voice awakens me. "Tents are not allowed on Hilton Head Island by County Ordinance XYZ12blah. Please strike your tent immediately. You are welcome to use the shower before you leave, but please strike your tent immediately."
Jesus. The one thing more important than all else when broke, in a hurry, and camping in a tent, is to get up, pee, and get out before anyone notices you. Too late. Sounds like she's gonna send me off without a bill. That still leaves the problem of peeing. It's broad morning light, for chrisake. I'd deliberately hidden myself and my little alpine tent way in the back of the campground. Campground, hell: I could see by daylight what I'd gotten only a hint of by dark (despite the million lightning-bug-size bulbs that covered the whole place like a net): it was a resort: marina, tennis, quarter million dollar Blue Bird Motor-Homes ... I crawl out. Bladder bursting, I strike the tent. Not put it away, just flatten it on the ground. Now where do I pee? Only one motor-home in the neighborhood. A berm to its rear with a kind of an arroyo on the other side. I slide down among the cactus, screened by not much more than the motor-home itself, hope no one's watching, do what I gotta do. Find the shower and find my new client's bank.
I climb back over the berm to survey the layout and I hear singing. Someone is moving around in the motor-home: the same motor-home I've use to shield my peeing! Jesus, I should have used my car door as a screen. I don't know where the damn bath house is. Maybe this singing lady is singing because she liked what she saw.
"Hello!" She comes out the door in a one piece bathing suit, smiling and waving. "Would you like some coffee? That must have been a rude awakening you just got."
"Ma'am, I would love some coffee. But would you mind if I take one sip and then find the showers before finishing it?"
She directed me to the showers, gave me several cups of coffee, breakfast, and a great deal more. Maybe I'll tell some of those details: some perhaps here as "sex stories." Right now I want to target the theme that induced this story. The woman wore a one piece bathing suit. The woman had a truly attractive body under the beacon of a rarely fine face. But I could see instantly: the woman was old. That is to say, for a fact, I was forty-two; for a similar fact, she was fifty-nine. Almost sixty is very old to a forties newbie. But: I'd been chiding myself about my all but ignoring the old woman who's stuck her tits under my face and talked about them. I didn't plan to be so rude twice.
Jeano was fifty-nine. (Adults get their real names used.) I went to the bank and planned to help her move some pots she was complaining about before heading back north to save my home. She'd complained of a bad back, but when I returned to say Hi and Bye, she'd already moved them herself. I stayed for lunch. We went for a drive in her mint condition 1960s Buick convertible. I learned that Jeano was the oldest still employed model in the United States (that's her in the Doan's Pills back pain commercial). I learned that Jeano's home before her semi-retired widowhood had been on the Connecticut shore of the Sound, that she's moored her thirty-foot sloop at the foot of her yard. I learned that Jeano had been the blond that Perry regularly sang to on his Perry Como Show. I learned that she had dated heroes of mine: Al Capp, for example. When she showed me her portfolio I recognized her as a Miss Rheingold candidate I'd favored on subway rides in my youth. Jeano was fifty-nine, but Jeano was very beautiful. And Jeano was very rich. (Whether the $300,000 credit limit on her Master Card was actually all the money she was allowed in her late husband's Trust or merely the limit on that particular credit card I never did learn.) When Jeano suggested that I spend the night and get a fresh start north the next day, it sounded like a good idea from more than one standpoint. When Jeano that evening stood before me in her one piece bathing suit, I sitting on the edge of her couch, I told her that I was going to put my arms around her. I told her that I was going to kiss her. She stood back to give me room to stand up. "No, No," I said drawing her back toward me as still I sat. I drew her towards me. I put my arms around her waist, around her thighs, around her buttocks. I cupped her buttocks in my hands, oh so gently lifted them, fondled them. The one piece bathing suit was a bit constricting: very well tailored, but still, constricting material or not, it was a very well shaped butt over very well shaped legs. I leaned forward. I brushed my cheek against her mons veneris. I tightened my hold on her bottom. My lips found the crease of the front of her labia. I shook my head like a dog pulling on a sweater. I pressed in and nuzzled her ... She pulled back before the pressure could reach much more of her vulva. I apologized for my presumption. Make a little speech about maturity and opportunity.
Jeano's inscription on her Perkins Agency brochure,some of the writing visible here on her elbow, wishes me "tis."
The Balinese word I taught her means the perfect peace that follows orgasm.
The Balinese word I taught her means the perfect peace that follows orgasm.
In bed, I got naked, made sure she saw that she could hang a flag from my rod: do chin ups if she'd a mind. She wore a nightie, assured me that whatever might come between us, it wasn't coming that night. I got a better kiss on her panties-covered vulva, poked her a good poke with my rod, and tried to keep still the rest of the night. Just at dawn, her hand cupping my balls and stroking the penis (that instantly sprang erect) woke me. I got her panties off in a flash and had my tongue far enough inside her to try to kiss her navel from inside her vagina. We fucked a good several times before I got in the car and drove off to save my apartment and my business.
And all else about Jeano will have to wait till another time. It was the first time I'd ever made love with a woman more than a year older than I. My first love (not my first fuck) had been a year or so older. (Come to think of it, my first fuck may have been a bit older too: she was my older sister's college buddy. Thought nothing of puking all over the car, then asking me to straighten her out from inside.) All other liaisons till then had been coeval or had had me the senior.
Details another time, but let me hasten to clarify: I've been intimate in one sense or another with many young girls but never, ever fucked a girl under eighteen until I was thirty-five: and then only one: she pursuing me from the opposite end of a different borough. Rachel was seventeen, a senior in an alternate high school — Coney Island — when she first decided to seek out the founder of FLEX — upper west side, Manhattan — and reward him. Even then, I think she mostly just blew me. She may have been damn close to eighteen before I ever actually put it in her.
Age Barrier
When I was perhaps forty, maybe thirty-eight, I was visiting my mother to do some long-postponed chores for her. I got outside to go for a walk as fast as I could. I hadn't gone past the first shrub when some lady walks straight up to me. I could see that she was old. Sure, this was a retirement community. But how old, I wasn't old enough to tell. Sixty? Seventy? She stands smack in front of me and says "I just had a mastectomy." "Oh? Um, err ..." I see she's sticking her tubes right in my face. "I used to have the most beautiful breasts," she says. She's standing there, shifting her shoulders. One tit advances at me, then the other. "Now only the one is real. The other is just stuffing." "Oh. Err ..." And she let me go. I retreated back into the house, to the mother I'd been trying to get away from minutes before.
Back in New York, a month later, a year later, too late later, I'd kick myself for not saying something flattering to that woman. More vanity of age. I'd seen that she was old and squelched any interest a fair look might have generated. She forced me to look anyway. But I was too retarded to respond when it could have counted. The woman had a great set of knockers, even if one was stuffing. She wore them under a cashmere sweater. Sweater girl. Hide the skin, you'd believe she was sixteen. The rest of her body was similarly well proportioned. Slender. Nice bearing. And admit it: her face was beautiful too. Just older than me. What an asshole. I should have improvised an ode to her right then and there. Begged her to take me home with her so I could tell her more. God damn it! I should have made love to the one tit that was still hers.
Stupid. But sometimes I do learn. I got over my vanity after that fourteen year old girl. I got over this other vanity after wasting a chance to make that woman feel what she was signaling that she needed to feel: beautiful. Still desirable. Lady, forgive me. You were. You are. You just picked a retard.
Fussing with backgrounds and layouts today this file again reminds me of that woman. I hope she's alive and wish she would somehow stumble onto this recollection, recall the events, and herself imagine the possibilities I missed: we both missed. I bet she's still beautiful. I bet she's still sexy. And I'm afraid I bet she could more than ever use a good worshipping. Old women are one of our most wasted precious resources.
I've been intimate with females from half-way toward ten to similarly past nintey and there's no age at which they can't be wonderful.
Ever since the meeting reported above I've wondered about mastectomies: what exactly is involved? A friend of my Darling's, also in her nineties, had one breast removed, I've know for years. The other day I got up the courage to query her about it: is it just the nice breast flesh that's removed? Please tell me that the nipple remains, that sensation remains. Nope, she said. They take the whole apparatus, leave you flat as a pancake, with a scar. Hard to imagine: even a man's chest has nipples.
Well yesterday, I got a look. I was showing her my oozing blisters after the dermatologist spray-froze dozens of cancers all over my face, forehead, ears, arms ... She wound up showing me one hell of an assortment of scars: a tumor removed from her neck, heart-bypass scars, the complementary scars on her thighs where they took the veins ... I suggested that she might give me just a peek at a corner of the other scar.
Once she'd confirmed that I meant her mastectomy, she stood, pulled up her blouse, pulled up the left side of her bra. Good God! She wasn't kidding. There really was nothing there.
What part of the human body has such an expanse of unfeatured flesh? The back has the spine. The buttocks turn toward other things. The belly has a navel ... Men's chests, boys', have nipples ...
That was pretty brave of her I think to show me.
Ah, at last I've fulfilled my fantasy of those decades ago. Living among old people there are plenty of one-breasted women around. And the other day I petted a bit with one. I knew because she had told me which breast was her and which just stuffing. I sat, and drew her, still standing, to me. I put my arms around her hips and fondled her ample buttocks. She's old enough not to be too great to look at, but her big bottom felt just fine in my hands. I nibbled at her true breast. "Show me. Show me," I urged her. She lifted that side of her bra up and away from it, revealing a breast as beautiful as any, a very pearl of a pink nipple in its center.
"I have a bone to pick with you," I said. "You told me you were small-breasted." "Well, smaller than some," she answered.
I'm still impressed at the gal who showed me her scar. And I'm grateful to this gal for giving me a chance finally to pay loving respects to another victim of breast cancer.
Her nipple though didn't really respond. So many women, born before a certain time, still resist their sexuality. I think they cooperate more for the man's sake than for their own: just when it was her I was most trying to please.
Maybe next time.
Back in New York, a month later, a year later, too late later, I'd kick myself for not saying something flattering to that woman. More vanity of age. I'd seen that she was old and squelched any interest a fair look might have generated. She forced me to look anyway. But I was too retarded to respond when it could have counted. The woman had a great set of knockers, even if one was stuffing. She wore them under a cashmere sweater. Sweater girl. Hide the skin, you'd believe she was sixteen. The rest of her body was similarly well proportioned. Slender. Nice bearing. And admit it: her face was beautiful too. Just older than me. What an asshole. I should have improvised an ode to her right then and there. Begged her to take me home with her so I could tell her more. God damn it! I should have made love to the one tit that was still hers.
The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Stupid. But sometimes I do learn. I got over my vanity after that fourteen year old girl. I got over this other vanity after wasting a chance to make that woman feel what she was signaling that she needed to feel: beautiful. Still desirable. Lady, forgive me. You were. You are. You just picked a retard.
Fussing with backgrounds and layouts today this file again reminds me of that woman. I hope she's alive and wish she would somehow stumble onto this recollection, recall the events, and herself imagine the possibilities I missed: we both missed. I bet she's still beautiful. I bet she's still sexy. And I'm afraid I bet she could more than ever use a good worshipping. Old women are one of our most wasted precious resources.
I've been intimate with females from half-way toward ten to similarly past nintey and there's no age at which they can't be wonderful.
Ever since the meeting reported above I've wondered about mastectomies: what exactly is involved? A friend of my Darling's, also in her nineties, had one breast removed, I've know for years. The other day I got up the courage to query her about it: is it just the nice breast flesh that's removed? Please tell me that the nipple remains, that sensation remains. Nope, she said. They take the whole apparatus, leave you flat as a pancake, with a scar. Hard to imagine: even a man's chest has nipples.
Well yesterday, I got a look. I was showing her my oozing blisters after the dermatologist spray-froze dozens of cancers all over my face, forehead, ears, arms ... She wound up showing me one hell of an assortment of scars: a tumor removed from her neck, heart-bypass scars, the complementary scars on her thighs where they took the veins ... I suggested that she might give me just a peek at a corner of the other scar.
Once she'd confirmed that I meant her mastectomy, she stood, pulled up her blouse, pulled up the left side of her bra. Good God! She wasn't kidding. There really was nothing there.
What part of the human body has such an expanse of unfeatured flesh? The back has the spine. The buttocks turn toward other things. The belly has a navel ... Men's chests, boys', have nipples ...
That was pretty brave of her I think to show me.
Ah, at last I've fulfilled my fantasy of those decades ago. Living among old people there are plenty of one-breasted women around. And the other day I petted a bit with one. I knew because she had told me which breast was her and which just stuffing. I sat, and drew her, still standing, to me. I put my arms around her hips and fondled her ample buttocks. She's old enough not to be too great to look at, but her big bottom felt just fine in my hands. I nibbled at her true breast. "Show me. Show me," I urged her. She lifted that side of her bra up and away from it, revealing a breast as beautiful as any, a very pearl of a pink nipple in its center.
"I have a bone to pick with you," I said. "You told me you were small-breasted." "Well, smaller than some," she answered.
I'm still impressed at the gal who showed me her scar. And I'm grateful to this gal for giving me a chance finally to pay loving respects to another victim of breast cancer.
Her nipple though didn't really respond. So many women, born before a certain time, still resist their sexuality. I think they cooperate more for the man's sake than for their own: just when it was her I was most trying to please.
Maybe next time.
Elder Sex Stories
Age & Ager
The bulk of SybaRight's sex stories I repeat were scribbled the autumn of 2000: very fast, several dozen in one or two days. Other stories trickled into the mix up until the arrest and censoring in 2006 of Waterman's author. Now I'm trying to get them back up, and streamlined a bit since their previous domain appearance. Now however, just the past couple of months, there have been a flood of new, old-age sexual adventures. Yes, SybaRight has resumed socializing, meeting females: flirting with a dozen, being intimate with a couple. Stand by, I'll try to catch up. Meanwhile I add one important up-to-the-minute note:
I never worried much about impotence coming with old age — I never expected to live till seventy, much less beyond seventy. Now I can say (at seventy and a couple of months): the peter still works, though not as avidly as it once did. BUT: slowing down a bit brings a wholly unexpected benefit: while coming is no longer automatic for me, and an erection may not last long, it returns to erectness all the sooner ... giving the woman multiple orgams more easily than ever!
Details will follow.
OK. Those just previous are a couple of good ones. (This file was broken off from Innocent Sex [qv].) There's no concealing who Heidi really was for anyone who wants to take the trouble. She must be forty now. What she did, all but the one detail, everyone saw. I doubt that she'll see this, but why should she mind? Grabbing my dick was an accident, right? We should realize that little girls have surer instincts than we credit them for. And any such natural thing should be overlookable in an eight year old. Now let me make sure I at least sketch in today's target point.
At eighteen I was humiliated to discover that the girl I found so attractive was only fourteen. A couple of years difference seems enormous when you're still growing. At fifteen I was proud to go out with fabulous looking fourteen year olds. (My fourteen year old girl friend when I was fifteen spent that summer dancing in Sinatra's Las Vegas act, passing for twenty-one. You can guess what she looked like at fourteen. You'll meet Dorla in a while. There's no reason for me to conceal her name because she did nothing to be embarrassed about.) But at eighteen, exposed as being attracted to a fourteen year old, I'd wanted to hide under the ground.
The bulk of SybaRight's sex stories I repeat were scribbled the autumn of 2000: very fast, several dozen in one or two days. Other stories trickled into the mix up until the arrest and censoring in 2006 of Waterman's author. Now I'm trying to get them back up, and streamlined a bit since their previous domain appearance. Now however, just the past couple of months, there have been a flood of new, old-age sexual adventures. Yes, SybaRight has resumed socializing, meeting females: flirting with a dozen, being intimate with a couple. Stand by, I'll try to catch up. Meanwhile I add one important up-to-the-minute note:
Details will follow.
OK. Those just previous are a couple of good ones. (This file was broken off from Innocent Sex [qv].) There's no concealing who Heidi really was for anyone who wants to take the trouble. She must be forty now. What she did, all but the one detail, everyone saw. I doubt that she'll see this, but why should she mind? Grabbing my dick was an accident, right? We should realize that little girls have surer instincts than we credit them for. And any such natural thing should be overlookable in an eight year old. Now let me make sure I at least sketch in today's target point.
I think it is very unattractive for me to be seen fawning over little, tiny girls.
Jack Nicholson
Jack Nicholson
At eighteen I was humiliated to discover that the girl I found so attractive was only fourteen. A couple of years difference seems enormous when you're still growing. At fifteen I was proud to go out with fabulous looking fourteen year olds. (My fourteen year old girl friend when I was fifteen spent that summer dancing in Sinatra's Las Vegas act, passing for twenty-one. You can guess what she looked like at fourteen. You'll meet Dorla in a while. There's no reason for me to conceal her name because she did nothing to be embarrassed about.) But at eighteen, exposed as being attracted to a fourteen year old, I'd wanted to hide under the ground.
TV Sports
Aristotle said man was the political animal. Some religious say that we're the animal with a "soul" (or deny that we're an animal at all). You could also say we're the sexy animal. The chimp in estrus fucks every willing male. Shrimp in their annual orgy grab hold of anything: they'll fuck a piece of seaweed once the fit is on them. But man is the animal that fucks year round: including fucking seaweed.
We love to look at each other. Gary Cooper. Humphrey Bogart. Sir Anthony Hopkins. But there we don't think of it as sexual. We want to be looking up Marilyn Monroe's dress (helped by Hollywood holding it over her head for us) to think of it as sexual. Honey, for us, it's all sexual. But most especially when we're staring at the girl's coo.
We marvel at Joltin' Joe, and at at the Splendid Splinter ... You don't think we've got an eye on their genes? kleptocrats every one of us.
I was once especially conscious of general consciousness of sex while watching women's tennis one evening in Madison Square Garden: late 1970s. Of course I was staring at their coo. There were enough unsold seats that I kept changing mine to be right behind one or another of the best players as she bent over to receive serve. And if the individual woman didn't know it, professional women's tennis — her coach, her banker, her agent, her lawyer ... did — because they'd disciplined every one of the women to be depilitated within a micron of her whatsis. You've never seen so much hairless female as Martina Navrotilova and her marvelous sisterhood displayed that night.
Thing is, women athletes and women pinups don't normally go together. Athletic competence militates against the big milk jugs, the MacDonald's-size dumpster. The breeders have to carry a little extra fat. Modern women athletes have to defeminize themselves to the point where they cease to menstruate. Yet every once in a while, there's an exception. Gabriela Sabatini! I think of tennis because that's the women's sport I best love to watch: I play the game myself — however poorly — and I love to watch it well played. In fact, I love to watch the women play it well even better than I like to watch the men play it well because the women are just weak enough and just slow enough that you can still follow 90% of what they're doing: McEnroe, Sampras, Safin ... What happened? The point is over.
You want to appreciate tennis? Great tennis and great athleticism? Get some of Martina Hingis' matches on tape from when she was on her long tear of major championships. She never had a serve like Venus or a ground stroke (or volley) like Serena, but on the court she was like Caesar: all things to all men. She was everywhere, she was everything, she did what was necessary.
But then again, I'd have adored her even if she'd lost. Teen "baby" fat has never looked better on a young woman.
So there I was in 1970-something, staring up the coo of the most delicious of all possible tennis derriere's, that of German tennis pin-up Betinna Bunge (My God! Her tennis outfit that night was like a little sailor suit!, and now here I am, 1990-something, watching Martina Hingis during a changeover ... She goes up to her place by the net post, the camera following. She bends over to change rackets, or to get her water bottle ...
And the camera followed, our minds disappearing into the tender female fundament. Martina's precious teenage buttocks had swallowed her panties. Now they swallowed the camera and me along with it.
Alas! I say "alas" because I have never seen the camera follow near a female tennis player's behind since. There must have been hell to pay at NBC that day. Now the women wear underpants that "Spandex" half-way down their thighs. The camera could be inserted at their snatch and you wouldn't see a thing. Grr!
Which brings me to gripe #2. I now see that what's been griping me for years has grown epidemic: Ana Kournikova. She's blond. She has a tan. Her hips articulate. So what? Sure she's cute: but not half as cute as Martina Hingis! The two together aren't half as cute as Bettina Bunge! And if you want to get stuck in Sargasso-female, go no further than Sabatini!
I don't know: maybe it's because Ana Kournikova reminds me so much of my girl friend in college: the face is similar; the hair and ass are identical: and I had not loved her.
Now everybody's down on poor Ana. She hasn't won. So what? #1 means six billion who aren't. My beloved Bettina Bunge never won either that I noticed.
But here's how stupid, how ignorant, the internet is: Kournikova is all over TV, all over the magazines, the tabloids ... all over the sports news! Send a spider to search for Kournikova and you'll get pics galore. Now: find me one picture of Bettina Bunge. (Find me that picture of the camera swallowed by the Hingis' heinie.) (There were none of either when I wrote this.) How many pics are there on the internet of Helen of Troy? of Delila? of Nefettiti? (I mean in the flesh.) Where's Eve?
I tell you: you want to fall in love with Eve? First, read Milton's Paradise Lost beyond the usual assignment of the first two books. Then, read Piers Anthony's Geodyssey series. Eve appears in Isle of Women. I fell in love with her there.
We love to look at each other. Gary Cooper. Humphrey Bogart. Sir Anthony Hopkins. But there we don't think of it as sexual. We want to be looking up Marilyn Monroe's dress (helped by Hollywood holding it over her head for us) to think of it as sexual. Honey, for us, it's all sexual. But most especially when we're staring at the girl's coo.
We marvel at Joltin' Joe, and at at the Splendid Splinter ... You don't think we've got an eye on their genes? kleptocrats every one of us.
I was once especially conscious of general consciousness of sex while watching women's tennis one evening in Madison Square Garden: late 1970s. Of course I was staring at their coo. There were enough unsold seats that I kept changing mine to be right behind one or another of the best players as she bent over to receive serve. And if the individual woman didn't know it, professional women's tennis — her coach, her banker, her agent, her lawyer ... did — because they'd disciplined every one of the women to be depilitated within a micron of her whatsis. You've never seen so much hairless female as Martina Navrotilova and her marvelous sisterhood displayed that night.
Thing is, women athletes and women pinups don't normally go together. Athletic competence militates against the big milk jugs, the MacDonald's-size dumpster. The breeders have to carry a little extra fat. Modern women athletes have to defeminize themselves to the point where they cease to menstruate. Yet every once in a while, there's an exception. Gabriela Sabatini! I think of tennis because that's the women's sport I best love to watch: I play the game myself — however poorly — and I love to watch it well played. In fact, I love to watch the women play it well even better than I like to watch the men play it well because the women are just weak enough and just slow enough that you can still follow 90% of what they're doing: McEnroe, Sampras, Safin ... What happened? The point is over.
You want to appreciate tennis? Great tennis and great athleticism? Get some of Martina Hingis' matches on tape from when she was on her long tear of major championships. She never had a serve like Venus or a ground stroke (or volley) like Serena, but on the court she was like Caesar: all things to all men. She was everywhere, she was everything, she did what was necessary.
But then again, I'd have adored her even if she'd lost. Teen "baby" fat has never looked better on a young woman.
So there I was in 1970-something, staring up the coo of the most delicious of all possible tennis derriere's, that of German tennis pin-up Betinna Bunge (My God! Her tennis outfit that night was like a little sailor suit!, and now here I am, 1990-something, watching Martina Hingis during a changeover ... She goes up to her place by the net post, the camera following. She bends over to change rackets, or to get her water bottle ...
And the camera followed, our minds disappearing into the tender female fundament. Martina's precious teenage buttocks had swallowed her panties. Now they swallowed the camera and me along with it.
Alas! I say "alas" because I have never seen the camera follow near a female tennis player's behind since. There must have been hell to pay at NBC that day. Now the women wear underpants that "Spandex" half-way down their thighs. The camera could be inserted at their snatch and you wouldn't see a thing. Grr!
Which brings me to gripe #2. I now see that what's been griping me for years has grown epidemic: Ana Kournikova. She's blond. She has a tan. Her hips articulate. So what? Sure she's cute: but not half as cute as Martina Hingis! The two together aren't half as cute as Bettina Bunge! And if you want to get stuck in Sargasso-female, go no further than Sabatini!
I don't know: maybe it's because Ana Kournikova reminds me so much of my girl friend in college: the face is similar; the hair and ass are identical: and I had not loved her.
Now everybody's down on poor Ana. She hasn't won. So what? #1 means six billion who aren't. My beloved Bettina Bunge never won either that I noticed.
But here's how stupid, how ignorant, the internet is: Kournikova is all over TV, all over the magazines, the tabloids ... all over the sports news! Send a spider to search for Kournikova and you'll get pics galore. Now: find me one picture of Bettina Bunge. (Find me that picture of the camera swallowed by the Hingis' heinie.) (There were none of either when I wrote this.) How many pics are there on the internet of Helen of Troy? of Delila? of Nefettiti? (I mean in the flesh.) Where's Eve?
I tell you: you want to fall in love with Eve? First, read Milton's Paradise Lost beyond the usual assignment of the first two books. Then, read Piers Anthony's Geodyssey series. Eve appears in Isle of Women. I fell in love with her there.
Party Gals
In the later 1980s one July 4th arrived with me camped on Lake Lanier, above Atlanta. I'd vowed to put some money into my pocket, together with the pocket of the artist, by selling the hell out of some cheap airbrush diptychs. Some galleries dove for them; others retched: and wouldn't take anything else I showed them seriously. But as always happens after a few days of it, soon as a weekend comes, soon as I'm camped somewhere, the writing compulsion took over: and I stayed poor as poor. I know I put huge stints in on my journal at that time: and was about to go whole hog into my third novel.
Lake Lanier is an engineered lake: Army Corps of Engineers, and, much as I hate such things, was interestingly conceived. Land and water wove fractally. Every camp site was on a finger of land surrounded by lake. Late June and the first days of July I had the place to myself, but as the July 4th weekend ensconced itself, I noticed equipment for a battalion appearing on a series of sites next-door. Then suddenly the campers were also there — in numbers, and they were all women.
That was a first for me. Boys do outdoor things in groups, organized or spontaneously, and of course men are famous for it. Women also do things in groups, but in my awareness those things had been indoor things. The next thing I know my flank is dense with gals: partying as avidly as ever my friends and I did as apprentice teen alcoholics.
I noticed guys arriving, uninvited, and leaving in silence, swiftly. To this day I do not know if these women were all dykes — though certainly sub-groups of clear dykes visited the main group over the next several days. What was clear is that they were used to each others company, enjoyed themselves, and drank an awful lot of beer.
When I was a kid, fifteen and up, our parties were all male. but once we were eighteen or nineteen, dates started to infiltrate. Indeed, SybaRight was the first to show up at a party with an unannounced date: a gal I'd met on Fire Island who'd used a shoe horn to squeeze her sleek rump into her toreador pants.
I went about my business, type-type-typing on the Toshiba. But toward dusk the first evening of their presence, there was a knock on my pop-up's screen door. Several of the gals had come to invite me over. I went. Enjoyed myself. Tried to behave: a forty-five year old man with dozens of gals twenty-three, or twenty-seven.
As it got late, I left. And the next morning a deputation of two invited me back for breakfast. And so it went, through the long weekend.
These gals all soon adopted their party costume: a tee shirt and their bare panties. They were all decent looking, some of course better looking than others. One gal in green panties any guy would die lusting for. Her mons was simply scrumptious, her buttocks puckered and puffed, her bosom was a cartoon of fullness, and her face was damn nice too. The gal I liked best was skinny, shy, definitely "working class": and had a hole in her pants I liked to stick my finger into. But once there, I didn't do anything with that finger beyond poke her as a joke: "You've got a hole in your pants." One of the clear dykes who visited on the 4th itself was a drop-dead gorgeous blond, a face perfect as a ceramic; but hard, cold: a cop. I did tell one bawdy story about myself over the weekend. It was received, well, and with humor, but as though I'd told it to a bunch of guys. "Oh, to be young again," one young gal said.
As a teen, when my beer-party friends would move the party to the Dune Road beach in the Hamptons for a few days (again, I was the first to intrude a coed), we guys would piss wherever we would: move no more than a dozen steps off from the group and piss in the sand. That seemed natural enough for guys; but I was astonished at the ease (and frequency) with which these gals stepped away from the table, dropped their panties, and squatted. One evening I was walking about in the dark and stumbled on my skinny gal in a squat. I froze. "Don't worry," she said. "Just don't look. Or look away: it don't matter."
Hmm. Not good news really for a heterosexual. For a heterosexual it should matter. I want the gal to be making an exception in showing herself to me: as I'm making for her.
Then one morning I wake up and find the neighborhood deserted once again. I wish I could remember their names. Page was the leader of the core group. The gal in green panties may have been Nancy. I particularly wish I could remember my skinny gal's name.
One things these gals had done beside drink beer was zoom around in a ski boat, zooming and water-skiing. Of course in the south water-skiing is just 'skiing. Where I come from skiing means snow, it means mountains. Filled with hilarity a bunch come back from a jaunt. The story of the hour was how my skinning gal, sitting in the back, would drift off into her own reverie. "Hey," they'd call to her. She'd look up: and all the other gals in the boat were topless. Oh, she was so embarrassed. Then she'd drift off again. "Hey." And this time they'd be bottomless.
So, it doesn't sound like they were exactly dykes; but nothing like what was normal for the girls I grew up around. But this was the 'eighties, not the 'fifties.
After they'd been gone for a couple of days, I'd been up writing through the night once again. I'm awakened by a knock. It's a platoon of my gals, come to take me 'skiing!
Oh, no. I have to pee. I've had no coffee. I need a shower. Actually, I have to shit. By the time I stumbled back from the wash house, they were gone.
Elsewhere I've said how my fantasies tend to limit themselves to females I'd never really touched (mainly because they were too young!) I occasionally fantasize about my Atlanta faux-dykes. About the whole group of them: they lead me to one of their big tents. They take my pants off and lie me on my back. My pole in the air for all to admire, they take turns sitting on my face. Trouble is: I can't get the one in green panties clearly into the fantasy.
Actually though, I don't think these gals were all too big on fucking. None I'm sure were virgins. A couple I know had been married. They liked their own company, they liked to drink beer, and they liked to speed around in the 'ski boat. I really don't think much all-gal sucking went on once they retired to their tents.
Hmm.
Lake Lanier is an engineered lake: Army Corps of Engineers, and, much as I hate such things, was interestingly conceived. Land and water wove fractally. Every camp site was on a finger of land surrounded by lake. Late June and the first days of July I had the place to myself, but as the July 4th weekend ensconced itself, I noticed equipment for a battalion appearing on a series of sites next-door. Then suddenly the campers were also there — in numbers, and they were all women.
That was a first for me. Boys do outdoor things in groups, organized or spontaneously, and of course men are famous for it. Women also do things in groups, but in my awareness those things had been indoor things. The next thing I know my flank is dense with gals: partying as avidly as ever my friends and I did as apprentice teen alcoholics.
I noticed guys arriving, uninvited, and leaving in silence, swiftly. To this day I do not know if these women were all dykes — though certainly sub-groups of clear dykes visited the main group over the next several days. What was clear is that they were used to each others company, enjoyed themselves, and drank an awful lot of beer.
When I was a kid, fifteen and up, our parties were all male. but once we were eighteen or nineteen, dates started to infiltrate. Indeed, SybaRight was the first to show up at a party with an unannounced date: a gal I'd met on Fire Island who'd used a shoe horn to squeeze her sleek rump into her toreador pants.
I went about my business, type-type-typing on the Toshiba. But toward dusk the first evening of their presence, there was a knock on my pop-up's screen door. Several of the gals had come to invite me over. I went. Enjoyed myself. Tried to behave: a forty-five year old man with dozens of gals twenty-three, or twenty-seven.
As it got late, I left. And the next morning a deputation of two invited me back for breakfast. And so it went, through the long weekend.
These gals all soon adopted their party costume: a tee shirt and their bare panties. They were all decent looking, some of course better looking than others. One gal in green panties any guy would die lusting for. Her mons was simply scrumptious, her buttocks puckered and puffed, her bosom was a cartoon of fullness, and her face was damn nice too. The gal I liked best was skinny, shy, definitely "working class": and had a hole in her pants I liked to stick my finger into. But once there, I didn't do anything with that finger beyond poke her as a joke: "You've got a hole in your pants." One of the clear dykes who visited on the 4th itself was a drop-dead gorgeous blond, a face perfect as a ceramic; but hard, cold: a cop. I did tell one bawdy story about myself over the weekend. It was received, well, and with humor, but as though I'd told it to a bunch of guys. "Oh, to be young again," one young gal said.
As a teen, when my beer-party friends would move the party to the Dune Road beach in the Hamptons for a few days (again, I was the first to intrude a coed), we guys would piss wherever we would: move no more than a dozen steps off from the group and piss in the sand. That seemed natural enough for guys; but I was astonished at the ease (and frequency) with which these gals stepped away from the table, dropped their panties, and squatted. One evening I was walking about in the dark and stumbled on my skinny gal in a squat. I froze. "Don't worry," she said. "Just don't look. Or look away: it don't matter."
Hmm. Not good news really for a heterosexual. For a heterosexual it should matter. I want the gal to be making an exception in showing herself to me: as I'm making for her.
Then one morning I wake up and find the neighborhood deserted once again. I wish I could remember their names. Page was the leader of the core group. The gal in green panties may have been Nancy. I particularly wish I could remember my skinny gal's name.
One things these gals had done beside drink beer was zoom around in a ski boat, zooming and water-skiing. Of course in the south water-skiing is just 'skiing. Where I come from skiing means snow, it means mountains. Filled with hilarity a bunch come back from a jaunt. The story of the hour was how my skinning gal, sitting in the back, would drift off into her own reverie. "Hey," they'd call to her. She'd look up: and all the other gals in the boat were topless. Oh, she was so embarrassed. Then she'd drift off again. "Hey." And this time they'd be bottomless.
So, it doesn't sound like they were exactly dykes; but nothing like what was normal for the girls I grew up around. But this was the 'eighties, not the 'fifties.
After they'd been gone for a couple of days, I'd been up writing through the night once again. I'm awakened by a knock. It's a platoon of my gals, come to take me 'skiing!
Oh, no. I have to pee. I've had no coffee. I need a shower. Actually, I have to shit. By the time I stumbled back from the wash house, they were gone.
Elsewhere I've said how my fantasies tend to limit themselves to females I'd never really touched (mainly because they were too young!) I occasionally fantasize about my Atlanta faux-dykes. About the whole group of them: they lead me to one of their big tents. They take my pants off and lie me on my back. My pole in the air for all to admire, they take turns sitting on my face. Trouble is: I can't get the one in green panties clearly into the fantasy.
Actually though, I don't think these gals were all too big on fucking. None I'm sure were virgins. A couple I know had been married. They liked their own company, they liked to drink beer, and they liked to speed around in the 'ski boat. I really don't think much all-gal sucking went on once they retired to their tents.
Hmm.
Pendulous Pathology
I started this noon narrating how a woman had harassed me on Madison Avenue, anonymously crooning suggestive whispers over my shoulder: a little "reverse-sexism." (See Sexist Pendulum). What prompted me to begin that story today was my plan to tell this one: and what prompted that was a series of associations my mind ran through as I was deleting the porn-spam from my email inbox. I am shocked at much of today's cyber porn: just as I was shocked by the first porn I ever saw: age eleven or twelve, at the volunteer firehouse. That porn was ugly because it was amateur: without taste; this porn jets a bad taste into my mouth because it seems to court bad taste. Once upon a time, four or five decades ago, Heff and his fellow porn merchants opened the pussy but had the decency to leave the asshole closed. Sometimes a little anus showed, but they had the decency to airbrush away the hair, the dingleberries ... They Whisked down the dark ring around the asshole. We want to see the ring around the nipple, not the fundamental facts about fundament coloring.
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.
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.
Mid-Adulthood
Two Cows and a Bull
In the late 1970s I was upstate with an artist and her daughter. I'd had to go to the Catskills so they and their baggage could be returned to Lexington Avenue. But of course we poked around the countryside a bit first. I know more than one part of the Catskills fairly well, but I didn't know this neighborhood. Without a car, the artist and her daughter hadn't discovered much. Playing it by ear, we found a miserable little stream, a very ordinary cow pasture.
Ah, but there was one thing about the cow pasture I'll never forget. In the pasture was a bull: and two cows. The bull was munching grass. Both cows, simultaneously, right at the fence, right in front of us, kept sticking their vaginas against his nose. Uuuuunn, the bull lowed. No, that was not an uuuunn of lust; that was an uuunn of annoyance. Maybe the bull wasn't mature. Maybe the bull had just had each of them sixteen times. Maybe the bull was a fag.
Maybe the cows weren't in heat.
If not, then why were they shoving pussy in his face? I have never heard of non-human females giving a damn about bulls or about their pussies except in times of estrus: then, it's here come the Amazons!
Oh, side note: last night I saw Werner Herzog's Cobra Verde with Klaus Kinski for the first time. He becomes a slaver in Africa, gets chased, finds allies, trains an army of women. Bare-breasted (except for Kinski) they reconquer. All the women in that film were fabulous: including those who were dressed.
If you've seen Fitzcarraldo, you know that Herzog can make beautiful women look beautiful on screen as well as anyone. Claudia Cardinale! (Well, not quite as beautiful as Fellini filmed her.) And if you've seen any Herzog, you know what he can do with men: Klaus Kinski! But in Cobra Verde, the women (all of them put together) "equal" Klaus Kinski!
In the late 1970s I was upstate with an artist and her daughter. I'd had to go to the Catskills so they and their baggage could be returned to Lexington Avenue. But of course we poked around the countryside a bit first. I know more than one part of the Catskills fairly well, but I didn't know this neighborhood. Without a car, the artist and her daughter hadn't discovered much. Playing it by ear, we found a miserable little stream, a very ordinary cow pasture.
Ah, but there was one thing about the cow pasture I'll never forget. In the pasture was a bull: and two cows. The bull was munching grass. Both cows, simultaneously, right at the fence, right in front of us, kept sticking their vaginas against his nose. Uuuuunn, the bull lowed. No, that was not an uuuunn of lust; that was an uuunn of annoyance. Maybe the bull wasn't mature. Maybe the bull had just had each of them sixteen times. Maybe the bull was a fag.
Maybe the cows weren't in heat.
If not, then why were they shoving pussy in his face? I have never heard of non-human females giving a damn about bulls or about their pussies except in times of estrus: then, it's here come the Amazons!
Oh, side note: last night I saw Werner Herzog's Cobra Verde with Klaus Kinski for the first time. He becomes a slaver in Africa, gets chased, finds allies, trains an army of women. Bare-breasted (except for Kinski) they reconquer. All the women in that film were fabulous: including those who were dressed.
If you've seen Fitzcarraldo, you know that Herzog can make beautiful women look beautiful on screen as well as anyone. Claudia Cardinale! (Well, not quite as beautiful as Fellini filmed her.) And if you've seen any Herzog, you know what he can do with men: Klaus Kinski! But in Cobra Verde, the women (all of them put together) "equal" Klaus Kinski!
Blow Jobs To Remember
I'm astonished. These stories and comments on sex have been online for five years now and I still have come nowhere close to telling about the best blow job I've ever had: or the weirdest blow job I've ever had. First, the best:
It was during the juncture between my political activist years and my having to try to earn a living in the normal way. A FLEX volunteer, one I'd liked well, brought his wife to the periphery of our activities. I don't remember her doing any volunteer work herself, but she hung around. The next thing I know their marriage is on the rocks. Bob immediately falls into the lap of a woman in my building whom I lusted for terribly. I don't normally think of the Chinese has having fabulous asses, but this woman, a medical student, had a heine that could wreck traffic. So: good for Bob. Meanwhile, his wife continued to visit. One day she calls to say that she has tickets to I forget who reading his poetry at the YMHA. Did I want to accompany her? Ah! I'd seen ee cummings read at the Jewish Y! Sure.
Realize: I hadn't to-date looked Bonnie over, appraisingly her suitability for sexual recreation. Bonnie was Mrs. Bob. Bob was my volunteer, my friend. I was married. FLEX was run from home. Hilary was generally there. It was Hilary who kept the FLEX volunteers, not to mention yours truly, in coffee and pretzels. But the night of the reading ... I don't remember exactly what happened: it rained like hell? She'd lost the tickets? We went and it was boring? So, either we haven't even gone after all, or, we're back at my apartment afterwards ... (Uh, where was Hilary? Visiting her father for a long weekend probably, visiting her friend, also in the DC area ... Not at home.) So we're on the couch and Bonnie is assuring me that she's single. Bob is out of the picture. I needn't worry about her virtue. She's available: willing and anxious.
(Bob didn't see it that way. He never forgave me.) (I wish him the best though.) (He was building harpsichords last thing I knew.)
In any event, without even having shopped Bonnie over, the next thing I know I'm discovering the articles first hand as I undress her. Bonnie was taller than most women I'm normally attracted to, but, as I put my face in her musk and felt my penis slide into her mouth, I realized we fit just fine. Nice butt, super tubes. And an aromatic very bog of a female complex.
Back home, Hilary is once again begging me to get a job, to worry less about deschooling, about saving the world, about becoming the world's first free librarian of public information. Hilary works at the Barnard Placement Bureau. She's forever bringing home job leads for me. I feel insulted: they're all jobs shopped through Barnard, a girl's school, not through Columbia. Anyway, I finally try to go after one: assistant directory of the Midtown Galleries on 57th off 5th. Hilary even advises me on how to follow up after the interview. Sure enough: I'm hired to start right away. So, I'm running FLEX (as the volunteers dwindle away), and working what turned out to be a ghastly job. (Details on that another time.)
Things have never been good with Hilary. Things hadn't been good before we got married. Marriage was supposed to cure all, but marriage made things fall off the cliff instead. I find myself avoiding home after work. More than one such avoiding maneuver was made by visiting Bonnie after work. And I'll never forget this particular time. She answers the door. I embrace her. My hands go to her bottom. My hands go to her breasts, back to her bottom. Nothing new about that. In fact I'd say that all of that is entirely ordinary. But this time, the second I give a good upward tug on her buttocks, her hand snakes into my pants, into my briefs, and has me, oh so expertly, by the balls.
I start. And look at her. "Well," she says, "my feminist group was just talking about this: What should you do when someone grabs your tit? Why grab his balls!"
Understand: her "grab" was very respectful, very sure of itself, very right on. No unwanted jars, no raps, no bruising, no unpleasant twists of any chords. No. She knew my balls. Very well.
Then she started to undo my pants. I'm wearing a three-piece suit, with tie, etc. I step out of my pants, my shirt tails hanging over everything. She starts working my briefs downward. She let's go my balls, just long enough to let me step out of those, then she has me again.
I don't know about anybody else. I've never done group sex, passed a couple of invitations. I'm not a voyeur. I've read that some men can't stand to have their balls handled. When I read that, middle-teen years, I imagined that I would forever remain among them. I read that some men like to have their balls handled: even semi-roughly. I always wanted girls to touch my penis, from age fourteen or so onward at least, however slow I turned out to be to actually let an actual girl do so. But I never dreamed of them contacting the balls; or if I did, it was a nightmare. Ah, but the first such contact ever made to me I will never forget.
I was with Jackie, in Boston. She'd chased her roommates for my weekend visit. We're in her kitchen. I'm luxuriating in her bottom. She's wearing the most adorable tartan skirt. I'd never imagined a black girl in a tartan skirt before, certainly not one as cute as Jackie, who also daubed a bit of red into her black hair, certainly not a black girl with a plush tush like Jackie's: plush, yet still perfectly articulated. Jackie started to strip. "Not the skirt," I said. "Leave that on just a moment longer." I kissed her breasts as she helped strip me. I get totally naked. She's totally naked except for her tartan wool skirt. I take her back in my arms. The first time I'd had my penis out on display for her, she'd been wearing a dress made of something like burlap. We hadn't actually copulated yet, and I rubbed myself raw dry humping her. But that was the distant past, several months earlier, months huge expanses of time when you're eighteen or nineteen. (Jackie was twenty.) Lubricant is gleaming from the tip of my glans. I hold Jack and feel her deluxe buttocks, naked beneath the tartan wool. Oh, how her bottom stretched the pleats behind her, the front smoothing concave beneath her perfect belly, her mons making, oh, just the slightest rise below that.
"Now," I said.
As she turned to remove her skirt, she brushed her fingers over my erection. She paused, then traced the outer curve of my testes.
Jesus Christ Almighty! I froze like a deer in the headlights. I'd never imagined such a feeling. Ditto the first time I'd ever touched my own dick, enfolding it, my hand trying to imagine and imitate the shape and texture, the hold, of a vagina. And that was as utterly unique as it was utterly impossible to imagine, utterly unanticipated. Yet Jackie outlining my balls for me with her fingertips ... Yai. I froze in ecstasy, my whole body as tumescent as my erection.
And that was again how it was when Bonnie had sympathetic hold of my balls. I couldn't move. I could barely breathe.
I ceased doing anything for her. I guess my hands still gripped her backside, but I was no longer exploring her. I was totally engaged with the feeling that was spreading throughout my body, radiating from the gonads.
She held me for I don't know how long. A long while.
We're both still standing. In her living room. Making no move toward a couch. Or a bedroom. With bed.
How do we know what another person is feeling? How can we guess? We don't know. It's hard enough to know our own feelings. We can reason by analogy: I like lobster with drawn butter; therefore, it shouldn't surprise me if she likes lobster with drawn butter. I love to taste female lubricant. Therefore, she may love to taste my lubricant. ... It strikes me that it can only be the case that however uncommunicable the feelings that were saturating me, some kind of analogous, or at least sympathetic, feeling was infusing her.
For all I cared, Bonnie and I could still be standing there, nothing more having happened these thirty-two or -three years later. But that's not how it went. Eventually, ever so slowly, she bent. She lowered her head toward me. Bonnie had wonderful long, straight black hair: hair down to her rump. Her raven hair curtained her face as she bent. She opened her mouth and received a good part of me without contact before she began to enfold my dick with the moist inner tissues of her mouth. Still, she had me by the balls. And she never let go. Until I came. A good while later.
I think once in that time I hefted her breast in my hand. She hadn't undressed, but it wasn't hard to do. She had a low cut neckline, and, of course, was wearing no interfering undergarments.
Oh, Jesus, I breathed. "But what about you?" My penis had been in her mouth plenty of times. But never before I'd sunk my face in her vulva. I'd squirted down her throat plenty of times. But never before I was satisfied with the lather I was kissing her pussy into.
"Yeah," she said. "What about me?"
I'm afraid she had to wait. More than a few minutes that time. I had to go home.
I just called my old friend "Bonnie"? I'll call this gal "Heidi." They know their real names.
I was skiing Hunter Mountain with my son. As an infant Brian had napped after his bottle while being carried on my back down ski slopes in a Gerry baby pack. With him aboard I just skied the beginners slope of Sugarloaf Mountain in Maine. But by the time he was two we were back in New York, with little leisure and less money. Even by age six or seven Brian wasn't a veteran skier. So he and I are skiing the B lift: novice to intermediate slopes.
Hilary has finally split, taking Brian with her, me helpless to do anything about it except scream and curse. But her mother has given me some weird Pakistani vest, brought back from her world travels for the UN. I'm wearing it. You want to see a ridiculous, show-off male? See me in that vest. It wasn't comfortable, the leather can hardly have been tanned. The inside lining was some kind of animal fur, that bristled out, into my face. It wasn't even warm, lacking buttons. But in the spring, or on a warm winter day, I'd wear it.
Skiers wear all kinds of weird showy things; but not Pakistani yak vests.
A couple of cute girls, maybe late teens, are tending the B lift. The cuter of the pair fills her sweater very nicely. However many layers she had on, sweater upon sweater, there was still no mistaking the nipple showing through all of it. This girl did not mask her tubes.
The girls made a big fuss over us the first time we came up to the lift. I don't doubt that part of it was that they were making fun me, this ridiculous, totally alien to style, exhibitionist. When their fuss abated, mine did not. I continued to hail them, flirt, make comments. And, as we caught the last run of the late afternoon, I told Heidi that she would be more than welcome to come home with us for a nice evening fire, mulled wine, hot chocolate ... whatever. She snorted at first but then said maybe. She wouldn't come with us now, but she might stop by later.
Thank goodness she was a local girl or she'd never have followed the directions. Actually she was from down the mountains, but she'd been living with a bunch of people only a couple of towns away and knew some of the funny roads. A couple of hours later Heidi rapped on the cottage door.
Actually, this got me in great trouble later on, because Hilary's mother's brother-in-law, having more than used up his welcome at the cottage, had bought the land nextdoor and built a house that towered over it. "SybaRight's taking women into the cottage," he squealed, "even with Brian there."
But that was later, this was now. Heidi comes in. We sit around the fire. I paying her close attention, sustaining the assault. "Come into the next room for a little while," I invited her.
Again she demurred, again she assented. I hadn't said what I wanted to do, but she knew. Immediately she started removing a sweater or two. I moved to put my arm around her. Before I could kiss her, before I could get my hand on her, she pushed me back. "I'm not fucking," she warned.
"Let me kiss your breasts," I suggested.
As I did she explained that she'd just had an abortion. She'd been "messed up inside, still was a little."
With the talk swiftly so frank, I swiftly removed all of my clothes. As I came back to her I performed a favorite trick. I let the head of my cock catch against her breast. The overall direction my body was moving broke it free, as though it had caught by accident. Bowong, bowong, bowong ... My dick settled back to its erect posture. Seeing the stiff elasticity along its length always brings a gasp from the first timer.
"Let me just rub between your buttocks then," I suggested.
She lay face down on the bed and I had at her very nice legs, back, and her very very nice bottom.
"Just tickle me a little bit," I asked. Her hand went straight for my balls. I resumed my hump, and with her hand cupping me, I came all over her back.
She rolled face up and pulled my full length down to her. I kissed her passionately, but she broke away after a moment, whispered urgently in my ear. "I want you to shoot your hot come into my mouth," she said.
Now she tells me.
If I were still her age, maybe after only another several minutes to recover. But this is like 1974 or so. I'm in my mid-thirties, not quite so quick any more. And she had no intention of staying much longer anyway. Already her boy friend was going to be mad that she wasn't home. Still we talked enough for me to tell her that I was in the art business, multiple original graphics, just starting out publishing, distributing on my own.
"Oh," she says. "I'm an artist. I must learn more about print media. Maybe you could publish something of mine?"
"Whoa," I say. "I have no capital, whatever I think of your work. I'm working with artists' existing inventories, or with the artist's capital for printing."
"I have money," she said. "Enough to pay for printing anyway."
"Good. So we'll talk again."
A couple of months go by. The phone rings. Heidi will be in the 'Apple in a few days. She'll call me.
She does. I should pick her up at the Museum of Natural History. I do. She's starving. We go have breakfast at Tom's (which you know from Seinfeld: the exterior at least).
At my place I use the art hanging on the walls to illustrate media. "This is an etching," and go swiftly through the process: the wax, the acid ... "This is a lithograph. This is a mezzotint" Down the hall, at the bedroom, where I also have the drawers of prints ... "This is a serigraph."
"I don't know a thing about silkscreening," Heidi says.
"Well, in this case, the printer cut the screens by hand, tracing with a razor on a swivel ..."
"Enough. For now." And Heidi grabs me and hurls me toward the bed.
She's quickly out of her top. "The skirt stays on. I'm still not ready," she explains.
I'm out of my cloths lickety-split: which is exactly how I want to start. "Are you sure? I ask. "I swear I won't try to enter you uninvited. Please take everything off. And at least let me eat you. I want to kiss you something fierce."
"No," she says: and locks her hand onto my balls.
(2005 10 05 I'd paused here, saying "more in a minute," but then I really left this one hanging, didn't I? I'll cut to the climax and maybe flesh details another time:)
Her saying that she wanted me to shoot my come in her mouth was fresh in my mind. I'd been expecting a nice blow job all along. But now Heidi's just got me by the balls. And does she know how to handle them. Aggressively, but just short to too rough, she handles me. I'm stirring alright. Wow. Next thing I know, several tumescent minutes later perhaps, not long for me, I feel an orgasm surging.
It's so good, I'm not about to protest about the rush. I haven't eaten her. She's promised I'm not going to. She's also promised, again this time, that we're not going to fuck. I'd still expected some nice leisurely sucking, and maybe my hand in her butt, but she's milking me like a mad woman. And now my impending orgasm is arriving like the Cannonball Express, inexorable, brooking no argument. And boom, there it goes.
Now she gobbles me in her mouth. She'd missed the first spurt, but she's got all the rest, sucking and slurping, hard.
Man, oh, man. That was something. Totally unexpected, though the final outcome was as advertised.
I'm wiped. And she sticks her breast in my mouth, puffing her chest out.
But I give it only the briefest suck and sink back to rest, to enjoy my minute of tis (the perfect calm after orgasm).
She cuddles into my arms and we both rest.
After a few minutes I begin to caress her. Now she takes her panties off. Now she lets me explore her. In the end, my interest much reduced, she let me give her a nice hand job. Again I offered to get my face between her thighs. No, still adamant.
I never did get it. I never once saw her pussy. At least my hand was there. At least I got to feel her heaving against my palm.
Last word: Now I remember reciting some Philip Larkin poems to her the evening she'd come to the cottage in the mountains. She'd been so impressed, I'd gotten the book, an inscribed gift from Martha, my favorite girl friend ever (things erotic and esthetic being considered only, nothing like my Darling), and read her more. She eagerly wanted to borrow the book. I showed her the inscription, told her how precious it was to me. The book was replaceable, the inscription was not. I'd lend it to her only if she swore on her life that she'd return it: soon. She promised; but didn't bring it to New York that second meeting. She never did return it. Acted aloof the one other time I saw her.
That might merit a word: I was back in the Catskills, writing my first novel, living alone in wilderness. On a foray into town I asked about her, heard she would be performing soon at the arts center. She'd become a professional story teller! And very good she was too! Not to mention that her bosom had grown to twice its formerly more than respectable size. But I never got my Larkin back.
Oh well: those I had by memory I still have by memory. And I'll never forget that initially mouthless blow job.
They fuck you up
Your mom and dad.
They may not mean to
But they do.
They fill you with
The faults they had
And add some extra
Just for you.
But they were fucked up
In their turn
By fools in old style hats and coats
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half and one anothers' throats.
May hands on misery to man.
It widens
Like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
I'm tempted to tell a story of an exciting but uncomfortable blow job in a boat: in broad day light, no cover, no screen, no wall ...
And I'm tempted to gather stories of fucking & sucking in weird settings: rooftops, day-lit sandbars, ski slopes, the boss's desk top ... I have to check to see how many of those stories are already told in other settings.
Best Blow Job
It was during the juncture between my political activist years and my having to try to earn a living in the normal way. A FLEX volunteer, one I'd liked well, brought his wife to the periphery of our activities. I don't remember her doing any volunteer work herself, but she hung around. The next thing I know their marriage is on the rocks. Bob immediately falls into the lap of a woman in my building whom I lusted for terribly. I don't normally think of the Chinese has having fabulous asses, but this woman, a medical student, had a heine that could wreck traffic. So: good for Bob. Meanwhile, his wife continued to visit. One day she calls to say that she has tickets to I forget who reading his poetry at the YMHA. Did I want to accompany her? Ah! I'd seen ee cummings read at the Jewish Y! Sure.
Realize: I hadn't to-date looked Bonnie over, appraisingly her suitability for sexual recreation. Bonnie was Mrs. Bob. Bob was my volunteer, my friend. I was married. FLEX was run from home. Hilary was generally there. It was Hilary who kept the FLEX volunteers, not to mention yours truly, in coffee and pretzels. But the night of the reading ... I don't remember exactly what happened: it rained like hell? She'd lost the tickets? We went and it was boring? So, either we haven't even gone after all, or, we're back at my apartment afterwards ... (Uh, where was Hilary? Visiting her father for a long weekend probably, visiting her friend, also in the DC area ... Not at home.) So we're on the couch and Bonnie is assuring me that she's single. Bob is out of the picture. I needn't worry about her virtue. She's available: willing and anxious.
(Bob didn't see it that way. He never forgave me.) (I wish him the best though.) (He was building harpsichords last thing I knew.)
In any event, without even having shopped Bonnie over, the next thing I know I'm discovering the articles first hand as I undress her. Bonnie was taller than most women I'm normally attracted to, but, as I put my face in her musk and felt my penis slide into her mouth, I realized we fit just fine. Nice butt, super tubes. And an aromatic very bog of a female complex.
Back home, Hilary is once again begging me to get a job, to worry less about deschooling, about saving the world, about becoming the world's first free librarian of public information. Hilary works at the Barnard Placement Bureau. She's forever bringing home job leads for me. I feel insulted: they're all jobs shopped through Barnard, a girl's school, not through Columbia. Anyway, I finally try to go after one: assistant directory of the Midtown Galleries on 57th off 5th. Hilary even advises me on how to follow up after the interview. Sure enough: I'm hired to start right away. So, I'm running FLEX (as the volunteers dwindle away), and working what turned out to be a ghastly job. (Details on that another time.)
Things have never been good with Hilary. Things hadn't been good before we got married. Marriage was supposed to cure all, but marriage made things fall off the cliff instead. I find myself avoiding home after work. More than one such avoiding maneuver was made by visiting Bonnie after work. And I'll never forget this particular time. She answers the door. I embrace her. My hands go to her bottom. My hands go to her breasts, back to her bottom. Nothing new about that. In fact I'd say that all of that is entirely ordinary. But this time, the second I give a good upward tug on her buttocks, her hand snakes into my pants, into my briefs, and has me, oh so expertly, by the balls.
I start. And look at her. "Well," she says, "my feminist group was just talking about this: What should you do when someone grabs your tit? Why grab his balls!"
Understand: her "grab" was very respectful, very sure of itself, very right on. No unwanted jars, no raps, no bruising, no unpleasant twists of any chords. No. She knew my balls. Very well.
Then she started to undo my pants. I'm wearing a three-piece suit, with tie, etc. I step out of my pants, my shirt tails hanging over everything. She starts working my briefs downward. She let's go my balls, just long enough to let me step out of those, then she has me again.
I don't know about anybody else. I've never done group sex, passed a couple of invitations. I'm not a voyeur. I've read that some men can't stand to have their balls handled. When I read that, middle-teen years, I imagined that I would forever remain among them. I read that some men like to have their balls handled: even semi-roughly. I always wanted girls to touch my penis, from age fourteen or so onward at least, however slow I turned out to be to actually let an actual girl do so. But I never dreamed of them contacting the balls; or if I did, it was a nightmare. Ah, but the first such contact ever made to me I will never forget.
I was with Jackie, in Boston. She'd chased her roommates for my weekend visit. We're in her kitchen. I'm luxuriating in her bottom. She's wearing the most adorable tartan skirt. I'd never imagined a black girl in a tartan skirt before, certainly not one as cute as Jackie, who also daubed a bit of red into her black hair, certainly not a black girl with a plush tush like Jackie's: plush, yet still perfectly articulated. Jackie started to strip. "Not the skirt," I said. "Leave that on just a moment longer." I kissed her breasts as she helped strip me. I get totally naked. She's totally naked except for her tartan wool skirt. I take her back in my arms. The first time I'd had my penis out on display for her, she'd been wearing a dress made of something like burlap. We hadn't actually copulated yet, and I rubbed myself raw dry humping her. But that was the distant past, several months earlier, months huge expanses of time when you're eighteen or nineteen. (Jackie was twenty.) Lubricant is gleaming from the tip of my glans. I hold Jack and feel her deluxe buttocks, naked beneath the tartan wool. Oh, how her bottom stretched the pleats behind her, the front smoothing concave beneath her perfect belly, her mons making, oh, just the slightest rise below that.
"Now," I said.
As she turned to remove her skirt, she brushed her fingers over my erection. She paused, then traced the outer curve of my testes.
Jesus Christ Almighty! I froze like a deer in the headlights. I'd never imagined such a feeling. Ditto the first time I'd ever touched my own dick, enfolding it, my hand trying to imagine and imitate the shape and texture, the hold, of a vagina. And that was as utterly unique as it was utterly impossible to imagine, utterly unanticipated. Yet Jackie outlining my balls for me with her fingertips ... Yai. I froze in ecstasy, my whole body as tumescent as my erection.
And that was again how it was when Bonnie had sympathetic hold of my balls. I couldn't move. I could barely breathe.
I ceased doing anything for her. I guess my hands still gripped her backside, but I was no longer exploring her. I was totally engaged with the feeling that was spreading throughout my body, radiating from the gonads.
She held me for I don't know how long. A long while.
We're both still standing. In her living room. Making no move toward a couch. Or a bedroom. With bed.
How do we know what another person is feeling? How can we guess? We don't know. It's hard enough to know our own feelings. We can reason by analogy: I like lobster with drawn butter; therefore, it shouldn't surprise me if she likes lobster with drawn butter. I love to taste female lubricant. Therefore, she may love to taste my lubricant. ... It strikes me that it can only be the case that however uncommunicable the feelings that were saturating me, some kind of analogous, or at least sympathetic, feeling was infusing her.
For all I cared, Bonnie and I could still be standing there, nothing more having happened these thirty-two or -three years later. But that's not how it went. Eventually, ever so slowly, she bent. She lowered her head toward me. Bonnie had wonderful long, straight black hair: hair down to her rump. Her raven hair curtained her face as she bent. She opened her mouth and received a good part of me without contact before she began to enfold my dick with the moist inner tissues of her mouth. Still, she had me by the balls. And she never let go. Until I came. A good while later.
I think once in that time I hefted her breast in my hand. She hadn't undressed, but it wasn't hard to do. She had a low cut neckline, and, of course, was wearing no interfering undergarments.
Oh, Jesus, I breathed. "But what about you?" My penis had been in her mouth plenty of times. But never before I'd sunk my face in her vulva. I'd squirted down her throat plenty of times. But never before I was satisfied with the lather I was kissing her pussy into.
"Yeah," she said. "What about me?"
I'm afraid she had to wait. More than a few minutes that time. I had to go home.
Weirdest Blow Job
I just called my old friend "Bonnie"? I'll call this gal "Heidi." They know their real names.
I was skiing Hunter Mountain with my son. As an infant Brian had napped after his bottle while being carried on my back down ski slopes in a Gerry baby pack. With him aboard I just skied the beginners slope of Sugarloaf Mountain in Maine. But by the time he was two we were back in New York, with little leisure and less money. Even by age six or seven Brian wasn't a veteran skier. So he and I are skiing the B lift: novice to intermediate slopes.
Hilary has finally split, taking Brian with her, me helpless to do anything about it except scream and curse. But her mother has given me some weird Pakistani vest, brought back from her world travels for the UN. I'm wearing it. You want to see a ridiculous, show-off male? See me in that vest. It wasn't comfortable, the leather can hardly have been tanned. The inside lining was some kind of animal fur, that bristled out, into my face. It wasn't even warm, lacking buttons. But in the spring, or on a warm winter day, I'd wear it.
Skiers wear all kinds of weird showy things; but not Pakistani yak vests.
A couple of cute girls, maybe late teens, are tending the B lift. The cuter of the pair fills her sweater very nicely. However many layers she had on, sweater upon sweater, there was still no mistaking the nipple showing through all of it. This girl did not mask her tubes.
The girls made a big fuss over us the first time we came up to the lift. I don't doubt that part of it was that they were making fun me, this ridiculous, totally alien to style, exhibitionist. When their fuss abated, mine did not. I continued to hail them, flirt, make comments. And, as we caught the last run of the late afternoon, I told Heidi that she would be more than welcome to come home with us for a nice evening fire, mulled wine, hot chocolate ... whatever. She snorted at first but then said maybe. She wouldn't come with us now, but she might stop by later.
Thank goodness she was a local girl or she'd never have followed the directions. Actually she was from down the mountains, but she'd been living with a bunch of people only a couple of towns away and knew some of the funny roads. A couple of hours later Heidi rapped on the cottage door.
Actually, this got me in great trouble later on, because Hilary's mother's brother-in-law, having more than used up his welcome at the cottage, had bought the land nextdoor and built a house that towered over it. "SybaRight's taking women into the cottage," he squealed, "even with Brian there."
But that was later, this was now. Heidi comes in. We sit around the fire. I paying her close attention, sustaining the assault. "Come into the next room for a little while," I invited her.
Again she demurred, again she assented. I hadn't said what I wanted to do, but she knew. Immediately she started removing a sweater or two. I moved to put my arm around her. Before I could kiss her, before I could get my hand on her, she pushed me back. "I'm not fucking," she warned.
"Let me kiss your breasts," I suggested.
As I did she explained that she'd just had an abortion. She'd been "messed up inside, still was a little."
With the talk swiftly so frank, I swiftly removed all of my clothes. As I came back to her I performed a favorite trick. I let the head of my cock catch against her breast. The overall direction my body was moving broke it free, as though it had caught by accident. Bowong, bowong, bowong ... My dick settled back to its erect posture. Seeing the stiff elasticity along its length always brings a gasp from the first timer.
"Let me just rub between your buttocks then," I suggested.
She lay face down on the bed and I had at her very nice legs, back, and her very very nice bottom.
"Just tickle me a little bit," I asked. Her hand went straight for my balls. I resumed my hump, and with her hand cupping me, I came all over her back.
She rolled face up and pulled my full length down to her. I kissed her passionately, but she broke away after a moment, whispered urgently in my ear. "I want you to shoot your hot come into my mouth," she said.
Now she tells me.
If I were still her age, maybe after only another several minutes to recover. But this is like 1974 or so. I'm in my mid-thirties, not quite so quick any more. And she had no intention of staying much longer anyway. Already her boy friend was going to be mad that she wasn't home. Still we talked enough for me to tell her that I was in the art business, multiple original graphics, just starting out publishing, distributing on my own.
"Oh," she says. "I'm an artist. I must learn more about print media. Maybe you could publish something of mine?"
"Whoa," I say. "I have no capital, whatever I think of your work. I'm working with artists' existing inventories, or with the artist's capital for printing."
"I have money," she said. "Enough to pay for printing anyway."
"Good. So we'll talk again."
A couple of months go by. The phone rings. Heidi will be in the 'Apple in a few days. She'll call me.
She does. I should pick her up at the Museum of Natural History. I do. She's starving. We go have breakfast at Tom's (which you know from Seinfeld: the exterior at least).
At my place I use the art hanging on the walls to illustrate media. "This is an etching," and go swiftly through the process: the wax, the acid ... "This is a lithograph. This is a mezzotint" Down the hall, at the bedroom, where I also have the drawers of prints ... "This is a serigraph."
"I don't know a thing about silkscreening," Heidi says.
"Well, in this case, the printer cut the screens by hand, tracing with a razor on a swivel ..."
"Enough. For now." And Heidi grabs me and hurls me toward the bed.
She's quickly out of her top. "The skirt stays on. I'm still not ready," she explains.
I'm out of my cloths lickety-split: which is exactly how I want to start. "Are you sure? I ask. "I swear I won't try to enter you uninvited. Please take everything off. And at least let me eat you. I want to kiss you something fierce."
"No," she says: and locks her hand onto my balls.
(2005 10 05 I'd paused here, saying "more in a minute," but then I really left this one hanging, didn't I? I'll cut to the climax and maybe flesh details another time:)
Her saying that she wanted me to shoot my come in her mouth was fresh in my mind. I'd been expecting a nice blow job all along. But now Heidi's just got me by the balls. And does she know how to handle them. Aggressively, but just short to too rough, she handles me. I'm stirring alright. Wow. Next thing I know, several tumescent minutes later perhaps, not long for me, I feel an orgasm surging.
It's so good, I'm not about to protest about the rush. I haven't eaten her. She's promised I'm not going to. She's also promised, again this time, that we're not going to fuck. I'd still expected some nice leisurely sucking, and maybe my hand in her butt, but she's milking me like a mad woman. And now my impending orgasm is arriving like the Cannonball Express, inexorable, brooking no argument. And boom, there it goes.
Now she gobbles me in her mouth. She'd missed the first spurt, but she's got all the rest, sucking and slurping, hard.
Man, oh, man. That was something. Totally unexpected, though the final outcome was as advertised.
I'm wiped. And she sticks her breast in my mouth, puffing her chest out.
But I give it only the briefest suck and sink back to rest, to enjoy my minute of tis (the perfect calm after orgasm).
She cuddles into my arms and we both rest.
After a few minutes I begin to caress her. Now she takes her panties off. Now she lets me explore her. In the end, my interest much reduced, she let me give her a nice hand job. Again I offered to get my face between her thighs. No, still adamant.
I never did get it. I never once saw her pussy. At least my hand was there. At least I got to feel her heaving against my palm.
Last word: Now I remember reciting some Philip Larkin poems to her the evening she'd come to the cottage in the mountains. She'd been so impressed, I'd gotten the book, an inscribed gift from Martha, my favorite girl friend ever (things erotic and esthetic being considered only, nothing like my Darling), and read her more. She eagerly wanted to borrow the book. I showed her the inscription, told her how precious it was to me. The book was replaceable, the inscription was not. I'd lend it to her only if she swore on her life that she'd return it: soon. She promised; but didn't bring it to New York that second meeting. She never did return it. Acted aloof the one other time I saw her.
That might merit a word: I was back in the Catskills, writing my first novel, living alone in wilderness. On a foray into town I asked about her, heard she would be performing soon at the arts center. She'd become a professional story teller! And very good she was too! Not to mention that her bosom had grown to twice its formerly more than respectable size. But I never got my Larkin back.
Oh well: those I had by memory I still have by memory. And I'll never forget that initially mouthless blow job.
Your mom and dad.
They may not mean to
But they do.
They fill you with
The faults they had
And add some extra
Just for you.
But they were fucked up
In their turn
By fools in old style hats and coats
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half and one anothers' throats.
May hands on misery to man.
It widens
Like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Philip Larkin
I'm tempted to tell a story of an exciting but uncomfortable blow job in a boat: in broad day light, no cover, no screen, no wall ...
And I'm tempted to gather stories of fucking & sucking in weird settings: rooftops, day-lit sandbars, ski slopes, the boss's desk top ... I have to check to see how many of those stories are already told in other settings.
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