SybaRight

2008-10-11T11:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Powers of Attraction Degenerating

2008-10-11T11:07:00.000-07:00

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.

Old Fogey

2008-10-11T11:04:00.000-07:00

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 12^th 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

2008-10-11T11:02:00.000-07:00

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!

Masturbation

2008-10-11T11:00:00.000-07:00

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.

My God ... I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.
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 103^rd. 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

2008-10-11T10:59:00.000-07:00

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.

Still Older Women

2008-10-11T10:58:00.000-07:00

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.

Older Women

2008-10-10T11:54:00.000-07:00

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,

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.

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

2008-10-10T11:51:00.000-07:00

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.

The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.
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

2008-10-10T11:35:00.000-07:00

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.

I think it is very unattractive for me to be seen fawning over little, tiny girls.
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

2008-10-10T11:24:00.000-07:00

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.

Party Gals

2008-10-10T11:23:00.000-07:00

In the later 1980s one July 4^th 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 4^th 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 4^th 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

2008-10-10T11:14:00.000-07:00

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 103^rd 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 116^th. My first apartment after getting married was on Riverside at 97^th. 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 96^th 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 103^rd 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 103^rd 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 103^rd Street the mini park runs south unbroken by the utility road all the way to 97^th 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 103^rd 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

2008-10-10T11:13:00.000-07:00

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!

Blow Jobs To Remember

2008-10-10T10:55:00.000-07:00

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:

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 57^th off 5^th. 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.

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.

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.

Eatin' Pussy

2008-10-06T08:25:00.000-07:00

Mid-1970s

My ratio of saying "I'm dying to eat you" to hearing it is also far from symmetrical. The several times I've heard it have been extremely precious. The second time I heard it the girl was maybe twenty-one and I'd only known her a few days. Her exact words were "I want your hot come in my mouth." The third time I heard it (1979) mixed my feelings. 1) I just fucked her brains out, just come, was totally flaccid; 2) I was late for dinner at a friend's house: a good friend: the girl was his wife: the girl had to make that dinner. Ah, but the first time. The love of my life. I'd known her, been intimate with her, for a year or two. A "69" had been our original hors d'ouevre. I'd eaten her and been sucked by her in every conceivable position. When on my face her nectar would drip into me like an IV. But she had never stated her desire in words. When she did, it was she who would serve me, not let's kiss.

"I am dying to eat you."

Yes, I said, but please let me kiss you first. It was shortest eating I'd ever given her: she really had sounded eager. We were parked in the hills over Hollywood. I got my pants off, my apparatus out. (She was the second best ball-caresser I've ever
known.) We got into position and I spent the next while alternating between closing my eyes and watching the lights of Los Angeles spread below us.

God, I can taste your pussy-print with my face.

A week and a half later we were on the beach at Malibu as I watched the sun rise amid her reddish blond pubic hairs.

Actually, I now realize my count above was off. Because the very night of that morning at Malibou she said it again. We approached Big Sur in the dark. I pulled the VW bus into the first scenic overview, making her gasp as I held braking till the front end was out over the cliff. (Hell, the front wheels aren't under the bumper, they're under me. I was with a girl who practiced her ski turns securely within the center of the slope while I jumped at the edge: if you can ski, the difference between on-the-cliff and over-the-cliff isn't that great.) "I'm dying to eat you," she said, her heart racing.

Big Sur is something else.

My title sweeps me back to the early 60's as though I were Proust remembering his Madelaine. I'd just arrived at Camp Drum, Watertown NY. A decent enough looking female non-com descended the steps from the mess hall, saw this PFC and a sergeant, and smiled. "Now that's what I call Eatin'
pussy," said the sergeant.

I'm sure the woman heard him. She didn't seem to mind at all. The more so perhaps because she could pretend that she hadn't: and may well not have.

That wasn't a curtsy; that was a salute!
2003

Elsewhen in my adulthood, I won't say exactly when, I was kissing my darling, endeavoring to pay intricate respects to the clit.

Women seem to be enormously varied with respect to the minutiae of their apparatus and in their responses concerning such equipment. One's gal's clit so filled my mouth that I had difficulty assuring myself that my date was in fact female, not a clever transvestite who'd fooled me. Some women have responded: then shut themselves down: ashamed of their own feelings I suppose; not persuaded by my clear enthusiasm. Other gals, you seek and seek and can never be altogether sure whether or not you've found: what you've hit, what you've missed. You're eyes are shut. It's dark anyway. Eating is not a normally a visual experience. With some clits the nerves seems right at the surface; others seem hidden by armor. Some women don't seem to have one at all.

Anyway, in this case I was being careful, wasn't at all sure of my success, could comfort myself that sometimes the general neighborhood is close enough, when suddenly, I had it. I felt a blip. A little fillip against my tongue. "Oh, my dear," I said, I think your clit just curtsied.

"That wasn't a curtsy," she answered, "that was a salute!

The French they are a funny race:
They fight with their feet and fuck with their face.

That same gal thrilled me when she said that she'd be "honored" if I would come in her mouth.

I'm an addict.
1975

On New York's Riverside Drive people would walk their dogs wherever they pleased. In the daytime Riverside Park was filled with dog walkers. But for the pooch's last pee of the night, the dog walkers tended to gather in the git of greenery on the east side of the Drive, leaving the deep park to the muggers, queers, and murderers. There was usually a fair knot of us in the middle of the bit of lawn at midnight. There were nights when two or three might still be jawing at 3 AM while the dogs still ran loose.

On one such night the crowd peeled down till there were only two of us left: me and Ginny. Ha! Had Fred been waiting for me to disappear, finally giving up himself. Had he been aiming at Ginny? Had I? Fred was married: and working in the morning. Fred is closer to forty than to thirty. So was I, more or less. Ginny was closer to twenty.

I asked her if she played backgammon. Yes, she sure did, but she'd have to walk up to Broadway first for cigarettes.

I'll go with you. No, she assured me, she'd be all right.

She knocked, she entered, we played a game or two. She smoke another cigarette. Then I kissed her.

"Jesus, where where you hiding THOSE?" I asked as I lifted her jersey over her head, her jugs seeming to expand in freedom.

"I know," she said. When I stand on my head, I have to breathe through a straw."

Kiss Ginny again, then, a quick kiss of the breasts, and SybaRight dives for the muff.

Mmm hmm, I said after a while. I love that.

Mmm hmm, Ginny said. "I'm an addict."

Soon she was showing me how good she was on the receiving end of the tongue.

One gal — what a tush! — guided me, then reguided me. Trouble was, every time my tongue got where she wanted it to be I felt like I was slicing myself on a razor blade. I never did figure out what was wrong: a hair turned on itself perhaps. I don't think she was an assassin, a smuggler for Gilette. I couldn't think of a way to tell her what was wrong.

PS. That latter gal: we once did a sixty-nine where I came and came down her throat: and never lost my erection! Not the tiniest weakening! Orgasm didn't even slake my desire. Just kept going.

I've seen doctors write of women whose clits were so thickly protected by other tissues that they barely felt normal female responses: so my impression agrees with some diagnoses. But then I heard of some renegade doctor who would surgically expose the clit of any woman on his operating table, no matter the supposed purpose of his assigned procedure! One woman couldn't stand it. It was as though someone had peeled off her eyelids! Too much sensation; and not erotically pleasing.

I just edited my commentary on Tête à Tête: Faces, Hearts, Porn [link to be added] partly to remind myself where I had discussed sensation concentrations in the body. Daily survival senses concentrate in the head end. That's where we see, hear, taste, smell ... The hands and fingers are big on sensations of touch. And the tail end concentrates body function sensations: reproductive, for example. Apropos, I've got to comment:

Fucking is for the base brain. Too much chastity and your amygdala won't like you. Sucking is for the forebrain. Sucking is vastly more intellectual than fucking.

People most commonly fuck in the dark. That's familiar, no? You fuck with your eyes shut. We're ruled by vision too much of the rest of the time: now let other sensations take the stage.

OK, I fuck in the dark too. I too close my eyes when I eat: but not all the time. Sometimes I want the lights on. I want to study that pussy like in a photographer's studio: or a surgeon's operating theater.

It's great to feel your tail end with your tail. But in a sixty-nine you can feel and see everything with everything.

Now admit it: few women can suck worth a damn. The penis feels a kajillion times better in the vagina than in the mouth. But how the penis feels isn't the whole story.

Giving and getting head is heady.

"So long as I've got a face," the scruff says to a girl crossing the airport terminal, "you've got a place to sit." Extreme Prejudice, 1987.

I never heard the term "sit on my face" till my early days in graduate school, 1964 or so. The first time I heard it in a movie was Airport, 1970. I never saw it in print till Sandman. (That started appearing in 1988, though I didn't see it till the '90's sometime.) But for the last decade or so I hear it left and right. Early 1990s a girl even said it to me: "Do you want me to sit on your face?"

In 1964 when my friend Kelly pointed out a girl in the NoName as one who liked to sit on his face, I was a little nonplussed. No one could love to suck on a vulva more than I, but I was always on top. The girl sat back, or lay back ... It had never occurred to me to lie back myself and let the girl mount my head end the same way she might on occasion mount my hip-end. Or was it just another synonym for 69, no matter who was on top? I don't know, but these days the image seems to pop up in every other movie.

Notes

Ball Caressing:
If only I'd liked the best ball-caresser better I might never have met my favorite beyond talking to her in the gallery. The best, introduced to me by my wife, worked for me as a salesman in the gallery. My love came into that gallery. I explained serigraphy to her. She left her phone number for me with the other gal! I'll get to more of that story too.

At the Ballet

2008-10-06T08:18:00.000-07:00

There are stories here about how, once past puberty, I came to prefer girls not from my own neighborhood. I'll never forget the Pueblo Indian girl I was so attracted to as a teen. The first woman I was in any way legitimately in love with was "black." My wife is English, born in London. I've never been with a more delicious girl than a Chinese girl who was my student in Maine. Japanese, Jamaican ... I love the foreign. Many of the artists I represented were not American: Chinese, German, South American ...

My stories rename girls underage: I'll invent an alias for this particular adult too. I'll try Heidi. Oh, wait. I've got a couple of Heidi stories to tell: one where the girl's name really was Heidi: only I don't care whether that actual Heidi sees this or not.

First the story, every so briefly, that gives this file its title.

Much of my life I have been a student. I made more money as a student, much more, than most students, but that is not to say I made a living. The university took every penny: if not all this year, then this year and next. When I taught, the university gave very little back. Offering networking to the world by founding the Free Learning Exchange cost me: it didn't earn. My writing didn't earn: it too cost. I've made money in business, but only sporadically. Always suspending business to pursue my real activities till desperation drives me back to business: in which case I have to start over. Even when I was rich, I was poor: because the money was for making money; not for living. Women who want me, and there have been a number (however much that number has dwindled as I've aged), if they also want to go to the theater, have to buy the tickets. I don't believe there has been a single time in my whole life that I have bought theater tickets: yet I've been: numerous times.

Sometimes the woman buys the tickets and invites me, expecting me to spring for dinner. That women do get from me: but not often. The woman who wants me has to buy the tickets and pay for dinner: unless she lets me cook at home.

Not in the Convent

One thing I like about English women is that they are so reserved. They've got the same pussy as everybody else: but they don't permit themselves to know it. One thing I like about German women is that they are so unreserved. An old German girl friend recently took my current girl friend and me to lunch. She brought her adorable young blond niece along. And there, in the Red Lobster, in Sebring Florida, in conversational voices not even pretending to whisper, they talked about Monica Lewinsky's blowing Bill Clinton in the White House! And my friend - aged ninety - didn't even seem to blink.

Well, back a few decades. 1970s. The Alvin Ailey troop is the hot dance troop in town. Heidi gets tickets. Heidi invites me. Heidi is blond. Heidi has the most amazing knockers I've ever seen in my life. Walking on Broadway with me, guys have come up to Heidi and proposed making bronze castings of her breasts right in front of me! while she's with me!

So Heidi takes me to the ballet. Judith Jamison was at her most magnificent. And one of the young dancers ... man, what a bod! That Caribbean heinie! Face both angelic and sensuous. Boobs to inspire a luau. I don't doubt that the male dancers were healthy and in shape and "normal" as well, but I couldn't take my eyes off that one girl's hips. Naturally, I was assuming that my thoughts didn't show. Heidi was a great one for grabbing my cock as we paused at the street corner for a light, for grabbing my balls a second later, right in public, for opening my fly and jerking me, as I drove ...

But at this moment Heidi's hands are to herself. So I'm hoping she doesn't know how much I enjoyed watching that one particular dancer. We stand. We applaud. A few of the audience have moved into the aisle. We join them. We're pressed by the crowd on all sides. Heidi's gaze meets mine - surrounded by numerous group-indifference - and Heidi says

Und now, let's go backstage,
and fuck zem.

How I met this woman (whose name wasn't really Heidi) ties directly to how I met a real Heidi. In my skiing-adventure narration of how I was blinded in a freak blizzard I refer to a spectacular blond sitting next to me on a bus. I'd gone to visit my old college buddy, John, who, starting in the military, had become my old ski buddy. He and his wife had gone native: moving to Vermont. She was New England to begin with: Boston, to be specific; John was strictly New York. But now he's in ski country. I take the bus. Snow conditions were poor - Magic Mountain wasn't even open, but we drove around and made do. Sunday evening I get on another bus and, for a couple of hours have that conveyance almost to myself. We stopped at the northern border of Massachusetts, and several new passengers struggled aboard: everybody bundled up for winter. I'm one of maybe three passengers already aboard. There's nothing but empty seats. I take in the new arrivals with indifference till I spot a creature born to stand out. Dressed as an Eskimo, her blond North-European beauty will still have shone through, but she was not dressed as an Eskimo: slacks, a sweater, a leather jacket ... What others were there, saw her, noted her with a start, and quickly looked away. I noted her, and held my gaze on her ethereal features. I saw her eyes register that mine had not turned aside. I smiled. I held that smile on her as she made her way to the aisle, past empty seat after empty seat. I didn't despair as she went on by me: I knew I'd made contact: sometime before we arrived at our destinations, we'd speak. That was my aim. I retained every confidence that it would be achieved. And that would be enough. This girl wasn't for me on a regular basis. She was too tall. Too strong looking: probably stronger than me. Apart from my being married, I wasn't right for her. I was an intellectual, a revolutionary, an anarchist, an artist ... She was too spectacular. She needed maintenance: beauty creams, membership in a spa, credit at Sachs: suits anarchist artists aren't long in.

I keep my eyes and smile on her as she comes abreast of me, but don't turn to follow her: only my mental radar turns, aware of her position at every moment. She reaches the back of the bus. Turns. She saunters back the other way: a hair slower, more staccato. I feel her at my shoulder. Holding herself just out of my casual gaze. She speaks. Her German accent is strong, but her tone is fine, her ease in English graceful enough. "Is this seat taken?" she asks me. I stand and offer her my window seat. She accepts it. She too is traveling light. Suddenly I can't remember where my skis were: I must have rented. Her suitcase fits easily with mine on the overhead rack. I'd seen the mass as well as shape of her bosom the moment she'd mounted the bus's first step. Now as she adjusted herself in the seat I got a gander of her hips, her legs ... God, all that female perfection right next to me on the seat. Her thigh and mine were a skin width apart. I tuned my mind to the frequency of her pheromones. My throat resonated with her hormones. I had already heard that this girl wasn't altogether stupid or ignorant. But however close she came, it was all right. Physically, she was pure poetry. She easily compassed both epic and lyric.

She was going to New York. Ah! Me too. She was going to the upper west side. Ah, me too. Within minutes I began, very gently to move the back of my hand against the swell of her thigh. The conversation continued as she luxuriated. My hand explored the amazing articulation of space that related her left buttock to her right, her two buttocks to her waist, her waist to the small of her back ... She leaned toward me as she emphasized some minor point of her story: she pressed her breast against my arm. Even through my sweater and parka I could assess every molecule.

Any one on the bus could see that she sat with this audacious stranger. No one could see where my left hand was. I never went near her bosom: nor anything "up front." What anyone with a mind to could hear was that she was telling me about Bergman's new movie: had I seen it? Cries and Whispers it must have been. The mistress of the house in the film breaks a wine glass and inserts the glass shards into her vagina. Then she shows herself all bloody to her husband.

Heidi can't have know that I'd been a Ingmar Bergman maven since the mid-fifties. I'd seen one early Bergman film numerous times while in high school: the Long Island art houses had repeated it as a staple because the actress runs bare ass in the water. So much for that. But since then, I'd seen and adored Smiles of a Summer Night, The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, Through a Glass Darkly, The Silence, Personna ... I nearly worshipped Bergman: but that doesn't mean I enjoyed sitting still for all of his neuroses and perversions: suicide, self-mutilation, particularly sexual mutilation. His very first movie featured a self-castration followed by suicide.

Heidi was impressing the hell out of me that she'd tell a stranger, even one who looked directly into her soul from the fist second, about bloody vaginas in Bergman. You know, I still may never have seen that particular one. Nevertheless: it must have made some impression on that bus's public.

As we pulled into New York's Port Authority, Heidi told me that her boyfriend was picking her up. They lived at 470 Riverside Drive. You don't say: I live at 305 Riverside. Oh, great! Géorg would drive me to my door. She sat up front. I took the back seat. Now I did something really stupid: very risky, unnecessarily. I held her hand by sliding my arm between the passenger side of the front seat and the passenger door panel. On the bus, everything I did I did sitting erect. Here I had to practically climb on top of her. Still, that's not the stupid thing: the stupid thing was: I kept my left hand under the car's front seat to massage whatever of hers was in contact with the seat. The seats were bench, not bucket. I could have been massaging his testes while I aimed for her vulva. I don't know this Géorg. He might be a knife man. He might carry a gun.

As we sped up the West Side Highway, Heidi tells me that Géorg is having a party Friday night. I'm invited. Will I come? "Yes. Thank you very much, Géorg."

God! That was the closest I'd come to blue balls since I was fifteen or so. Once again, I was in a situation of constant erotic stimulation with no possibility of natural relief. Heidi either accepted or ignored my every physical attention; but she hadn't straddled and mounted me. When I had my hand under the car seat, she didn't have her hand wrapped and yanking at my dick, or cupped and urging me by the balls. I hadn't blown a wet hole through the back of Géorg's seat. Pscheuwww! It was hard to wait for that Friday.

I've lived at 440 Riverside, at 305, at 190 ... All my apartments were on the back side of the building: or deep inside. Géorg's was one of the big old ones smack on the drive: on the river side. He was within a window or two of Babe Ruth's old place. No matter where you are in the Apple, somebody great or somebody famous or somebody important has lived next door to you. Bogart lived up the block from my then current place at 305. But the Babe had lived in one of New York's greatest blocks: Riverside between 116^th and 119^th. Ruth wouldn't have had "The God Box" - at his elbow just at 119^th, but Riverside Cathedral would have been there, just the other side of 120^th. Across the way there's the mighty river. At one's back is the ultra-civilized Claremont Avenue, bordered by Barnard College, with Barnard swallowed beyond by Columbia. There's the park, there's Grant's Tomb, the Foreign Student Center ... But even if there were nothing, the old riverside-Riverside Drive apartments are great. Spacious, high ceilinged, well-windowed. I knocked at Géorg's door. Heidi opened it. She wore a tank top. The nipples of her amazing jugs showed. "Ah, SybaRight, come in. Welcome." She took my arm. She pressed both breasts into my arm. I let her lead me, but something was wrong. Getting on the bus, her hair was haloed by the New England winter night. Back home, she was frizzy. She had glistening sweat rings under her arms. She stank: like a goat. Oh man! I recognized the stench: amphetamines! The girl was all A-d up.

As we came upon others I saw a pattern. The women were mostly German: absolutely all European. A large contingent of the guests were black. Unfortunately, they were blacks that I knew: not to pal around with, but from the West End Tavern. They were moochers, con men, petty drug dealers, poseurs: and, among other things, aggressive (undiscriminating) pussy eaters, every one. I hadn't yet said two words to Heidi and she's whisked roughly, tittering, into a broom closet for a frantic grope. My own urgency to grope her evaporated. I'm a competitor, but I lure my trophy into privacy. I don't eat on the battle field. Regardless, vibrations from me can't have been the first Géorg ever felt around his girl friend.

I'll say now what I learned only latter. Géorg helped European women to get a green card. He put them up, helped them out, got them started ... They all got work, sometimes good work. A high percentage of them wound up marrying millionaires. Géorg knew a lot of rich men who (quite sensibly) didn't want anything to do in the way of marriage with American women. I don't know the details of how Géorg made his living: but the reader can imagine as well. If he didn't get anything so crass as a percentage of the marriage, he no doubt got some sort of material present more often than not. It's not that Géorg was a pimp; it's that something akin to pimping was one of many things that Géorg did. I never saw Géorg again: but I did continue to meet female graduates of his apartment: all very nice. And all very attractive. Nelly was a French girl, but I swear, she had a butt like a prime negress!

So. I didn't think I'd stay long. There was still the big living room to explore. I'd go there. See what was what. Then leave.

What was what was a German blond woman I took for an airline stewardess. She wasn't long and slender like Heidi; she looked like she could throw the discus; pierce it midair with the javelin; and then model the lingerie. Especially if the outfits had a lot in the way of bosom. This girl looked like the original inspiration for the Brooklyn Bridge. She was hung. And it all suspended. I mean it hung, straight out. She looked like you could climb onto her nipple and yodel and the tit would still stand horizontal! You could sell it by the pound and still have enough left over for a starving army.

I asked if she wanted to dance. She asked what I did. I told her about my just founded Free Learning Exchange. "You mean if I need help with something like my English, I could call you and you'd hook me to a coach?" "Yes," I said, "to a choice of coaches: if there are enough resources in the data base to afford choice. In the case of English, I happen to be one of the choices possible." "Ooo, would you help me with my English?" "I don't think your English needs much help, but insofar as I can, yes, I'd be glad to." "Oh." She stood a bit taller and looked steadily into my face.

I myself can hardly believe what I did next. I danced her into the corner where her bosom was not facing the crowd, and I caressed it with my hand: my good right hand. Never before or since have I felt up a girl without knowing her yet for five minutes. (I've groped strangers maybe, but not first acquaintances.) Neither her tit, nor her face, nor she flinched. "I run the Free Learning Exchange from just a few blocks downtown of here. Would you like to visit? I'll show you how I do things." "Yes," she said. "Now?" I asked. "Now," she said.

My wife was away somewhere for the weekend. Probably in Washington where she had a father and also the friend who'd been her bridesmaid at our wedding. My new Heidi wasn't so surprised at how swiftly I got my tongue into her pussy as she was at how enthusiastic I was in doing it. "You don't do that just to be courteous?" she asked, sounding surprised at how un-skeptically she was asking it. "Very unusual. For a white American," she added.

I must say that the most amazing thing about Heidi was that once her blouse was off and her bra removed - said bra weighing perhaps 30% of the total mass of her clothing: including her shoes, belt, and jewelry - her tits cantilevered just as horizontal. I still see her these thirty years later: and her tits still stand right up and stay standing.

Such boobs are impressive whatever your normal attitude toward boobs. My normal attitude is, Nice, but very over-rated: and size matters not not-at-all but very-little. It's their living sensitivity that gets me: just like the pussy. If it doesn't kiss me back, it's boring. Nothing is more boring than a tit that just sits there, posing. And a pussy that doesn't rear up and convulse is a crime against nature.

But the most impressive thing of all: wasn't the topological coordinates of her bosom, wasn't how rich her late husband was ... The most impressive thing of all was the strength of her forehand: I swear - if I was thirty-five when we met and she was say twenty, and I was sixty when I visited her in south Florida ... she had to be at least forty-five: the tennis racket was practically ripped from my hand by the velocity of her strokes from the baseline.

Once last thing about the Heidi I met on the bus I learned from the Heidi who's still my friend: Heidi-on-the-bus was a cover girl. Her color picture was on the cover of the brochure her brothel sent around the world: to Iranian princes, to Japanese CEOs. So many thousands of dollars a night, and Heidi — or another choice — would ship immediately. (2004 11 27: So funny: I just read a novel in which a German mail-order brothel brothel has a cover girl Heidi: Case's The Eighth Day. I may as well tell you: in the case of the whore, Heidi is not a fictitious name I've given her for anonymity; it's the name she gave me: real or professional name I can't know. Case's Heidi and my Heidi can't be the same female—too many decades apart for the good of the business; by my Heidi could have inspired subsequent generations! (or been herself part of a chain).)

Notes

Undiscriminating Pussy Eaters:
The word on the guy called Tiger was that he would suck the cunt even as the girl came dripping from another's bed.
I'd long known another of the guys there as a voyeur. At my party the evening before I was drafted, I'd gone to my room to fuck. I had my face between my girl friend's thighs, her hips arched high into the air. The door opened and in peeked ... this same hustler who'd just bundled Heidi into the closet!

Sexist Pendulum

2008-10-06T08:16:00.000-07:00

1970s

People are always talking about backlashes, about pendulums swinging the other way. In my experience cultural ricochets are fairly feeble phenomena: the genocidee is seldom much of a threat to the genocider, a few ex-peasants killed a few ex-aristocrats, but I can't think of any ex-peasants who enslaved any ex-aristocrats over any long series of generations.

Feminism is nothing new. It wasn't new in the 1960s. It wasn't new when GBS dramatized strong women in the early Twentieth Century. It's not just that Shakespeare had already done it; it's that Shaherazade had done it many centuries earlier: and I doubt that she was the "first." But extreme expressions of feminism are not an everyday occurrence: at least not on the personal level: at least not for this person.

Construction workers whistle at the girls, make raucous comments, occasionally lewd suggestions ... Some women say they object. Many actually may. I remember a story about 50's super-model Suzy Parker (see her cameos in the credits of Stanley Donen's great Funny Face [1957]). Suzy is walking down the rue in Paris with the likewise delicious Juliette Greco. The guys whistle. Parker gets all huffy: good Puritan American pseudo-virgin; Greco turns and blows kisses. Parker questions her. Greco defends the men's action and hers. Suzy Parker rethinks culture.

But any picture of a bunch of gals lolling around the saw horse, making sucking noises at any males that pass, is imaginary: 99% fiction. Though isolated incidents do occur. I got slurped and sucked at—very loudly—on the only occasion on which I ever walked through Brooklyn in my army uniform. September 1963. I was on my way from my new apartment on Manhattan's 4^th Street off Second to Fort Hamilton where the First Army was to release me from bondage a month early so I could "better" myself with a master's degree. (I assure you: my MA made me not one whit better than I already was.) The route exposed this momentary pedestrian to a "black" neighborhood. Let me tell you, those girls make their sucking suggestions more shrilly than any oral tricks I could perform without sticking two pairs of fingers in my mouth to whistle: and this despite the fact that I'd locked myself out of my new digs short the army's black leather shoes and my army cap. Otherwise in uniform, I jumped on the subway: already late. Fort Hamilton sent me right back home again: threatening to send me to the brig. (I didn't believe them. I think they were as anxious to be rid of me as I was to be gone.) (They'd never before met me at Fort Hamilton, but they learned fast enough.) (Those details may turn up in my army directory.)

I regret that I never passed that crowd of girls again. If I had, I might have been ready for them: might have laid straight down on the sidewalk so they could take turns squatting on my face. You wanna suck me? I'll show you who likes to suck.

Sudden memory: the first girl ever to grab my dick — uninvited — and pinch —hard — can't have been more than eight years old. I was eighteen and working for the municipal parks department. The bunch of us were sent to paint a fence in, your guessed it, a "black" neighborhood. This little girl apparently hadn't heard about feminine passivity.

(The second girl ever to grab my dick — uninvited — stank of cheap wine and poor hygiene. She too was hardly WASP. She soon got her comeuppance but I don't think it had anything to do with morality.) (That story is told elsewhere.)

I began this memoir thinking that the coming event was a first. But no. As I write it I recall other incidents: cultural reverses. So I just leap straight to my intended goal. I was walking on Madison Avenue. 1973. I was within a block of the gallery where I was Director: Madison and 76^th: a few doors up from the Whitney; several doors down from Southby's across the street. It was after closing time. I'd stepped out for some reason, having stayed late, as usual. I was on my way back to the gallery to close up, grab my helmet, jump on the Yamaha, and spew blue smoke as I blatted and exhaust-farted in a streak through Central Park and westward.

New Yorkers are used to numerous bodies in close proximity. But sometimes you sense a particular one: as a warning; or as an attraction. There was that time I almost caught my tongue under the car tire as I gawked at the ass a half a block away. She turned to look. She felt me rooting in her privates, my eyes alone about to fertilize her, and she turned: almost immediately: and smiled: such a sunny smile: and I saw that she was only eleven or twelve years old!

Well this time I'm walking along and sense a particular person right behind me, practically touching. When she spoke, it was right in my ear: not whispered, but softly crooned: yet there was no actual contact: not of so much as a hair from her head tickling my ear hairs.

Ah, here's something walking ...
[demoting me to a thing]

with something in his pants,
something between his legs ...

I swear I remembered her exact words, remembered them for years, thought I'd be able to spit them right up here, no trouble, photographic recall ... But it's been three decades. I leave my recall as it is. Better memory will bring me back if I can make the time. But I ask you to imagine. She went on: right at my ear.

I walked without turning. Suddenly I was at my gallery door. My hand went to my pocket. Out came my keys. I turned to the entrance ... and she was no longer at my ear. I didn't turn to scan the crowd, didn't try to guess which one she was. The voice was ... oh, thirty-something: I think. I matched my interpretation with no back, no ankles walking away: sought no turned head: evidence of her taking another look. I just poked my key into the hole, tumbled the lock tumblers, and was inside.

Now why didn't I spin around and catch her mid croon? Why didn't I stick my mouth against her ear—whatever she proved to look like—and croon to her that my gallery was a mere step away, that I had a private basement, that I could relock the door, take her downstairs, and show her, by then, that what she sensed hanging between my legs, the elastic part of it at least, was now standing at a stiff oblique, more by my belly button than by my knee ...?

I didn't. She'd been right. Everything was still hanging: merely. Nothing was saluting, nothing at attention. There was nothing erotic about the experience: merely curious.

And I suppose it's a good thing. I'm sixty-three: sixty-three and a half by now. My damn army barracks gave me crab lice in basic training. I couldn't help that. And getting rid of them was a horror. They lingered till I'd infected my girl friend as well. But apart from those outer critters (though they do poke around under the skin), I've experience no inner critters: none that don't come naturally to the healthy. I've suffered no clap, no syph.

I guess I've had cold sores, but doesn't everybody? I had them as a kid. We must be born with those critters: virgins and everybody.

My pecker's been in more than one place, and any place at all is a risk. So I've been lucky.

But it ain't just luck: not dumb luck. I took chances, but I also exercised judgments that turn out to have been fairly right. I picked up a Barnard girl in the library one night and walked her home. She phoned me a month later to tell me that she'd apparently been incubating something. We hadn't exactly fucked, but I had been rooting around pretty close, she'd had me in her hand ... against her cheek ...

No. I lucked that one too.

Sex Sur L'Herbe

2008-10-06T08:15:00.001-07:00

One time I was fussing with my Yamaha in front of the little restaurant on 116^th just off Broadway, a convenient eatery especially for the Barnard girls whose housing was within a door or two, when a young woman came up to me and made some comment about how shinny the bike was, how blue, how little, how cute, or whatever. I said whatever and she suggested that I might like to have a picnic with her on her roof. She said she had a nice private area she'd planted with shrubs where she could sun bathe. Sure, I say.

"Excuse me," she says as she hikes her tight skirt practically up to her panties so she can get her leg over the seat behind me.

"Oh, nice," she added: "love handles." She'd put her hands on my waist to hold onto me for the ride and felt what a decade of beer drinking will do to an otherwise skinny guy.

She was studying something at Columbia but lived all the way over on the East Side, right across from the Rockefeller Institute. So she sure hadn't come out of the Barnard housing. She shows me her hideaway on her roof. She offers to make us some lemonade. Sure. With her seated at her kitchen table, I'm about to do down on one knee to rest my cheek on the top of her thighs, maybe nuzzle up toward her public mound a little, and "Oh no," she says.

"Hmm?"

"You're wearing a ring," she says. "A wedding ring. You're married.

"I'm sorry," she continues. "It's my fault. You weren't concealing it. I just didn't see it."

Now maybe that's what I should have said in the following circumstances. But I didn't.

These days when the world is too much with me I go fishing. (If the fish don't then bite, then the world is with me too much the more.) Back in the late 60s when the world was too much with me, I went skiing. If it was well on toward spring, I headed for Mt. Washington and Tuckerman's Ravine. On the occasion in question I was living in New York, back at NYU after a couple of years teaching up in Maine. I'd recently discovered Ivan Illich and deschooling. I'd mentioned founding FLEX to Illich but hadn't actually done it yet. As clear as it was to me how no-good schools were, I hadn't yet totally despaired: I was still trying to figure out a way to communicate with the NYU faculty. A few days of climbing and skiing, scaring myself witless skiing near vertical wilderness alone, was just what I needed to rededicate myself. The day of my orals was fast approaching.

I arrived at Pinkham's Notch and decided that I'd sleep in the car that night and not start my climb till the morning. I'd eat a civilized dinner in a restaurant. Besides, I needed a bit more equipment and maybe I'd find a hardware store before ascending. So I drove another couple of miles to a town where lo and behold I found a Japanese restaurant. The martini was dry indeed and the menu offered a section of Don Buri dinners. "Another martini, please, and the Don Buri shrimp."

The waitress kept checking on my martini, made conversation. Oh, I knew what Don Buri was without asking. Oh, I used chopsticks like they were my own hand. Oh, he's had a dozen of these martinis and can still speak English. At closing I took her and another waitress across the street to a disco. The three of us drank beer with our knees jammed together at a table the size of a bottle cap. Throughout dinner I'd been imagining the waitress's crotch under her skirt. In the night club I got a glimpse, then another of her panties. God, was I drunk, but I was dripping just the same. At closing we stood in the frozen parking lot, unwilling to part. Her friend gave up and drove off alone. Grab her ass. Kiss her, you fool. I prompted myself to no avail. Finally, she drives off and I head back to Pinkham's Notch where I don't expect anyone to arrest me when they see the car's windows fogged from my sleep.

I slept and slept. My hangover was terrible. I couldn't get going. Finally, I have breakfast and find a hardware store. I'll get up the mountain today, but I sure won't get to ski a single turn.

"Hi there. I thought that was you."

It's Barbara: the waitress from last night. The one who graced me with two or three beaver shots in the night club. "Come visit," she says. I do.

And that's when I got to see evidence of children. And a husband. Uh oh. Now what do I do? Nothing. It's too late. You've already slid. I do however ask about her lack of a ring. (I'm wearing mine.) She doesn't wear rings while waiting tables. I think something was also said that most of the waitresses don't: tips are better if the girls seem unattached: or something.

Our conversation continues very Platonic as before, yet the signals are all there: we're both leaning and harkening toward the other. The doorbell rings. It's one of those magazine salesmen pretending to be supplementing his "scholarship to medical school." Barbara settles in for the spiel: a woman, too polite to call a bluff. Her settling leans toward me a bit. I brush her buttock with the back of my hand. She settles in a little bit further. I turn my hand to palm her bottom. I thrust myself at the salesman. "Let's see your ID." I grab his papers and pull out the hidden lists of magazines. "You're no medical student," I say. "Get out." Barbara looks at me admiringly. How masterful. She bends over the kitchen counter, looking out the window. I come up behind her. I fit my erection to the split in her buttocks. "Oh, I think you're getting aroused," she says.

"Getting aroused?" I sputter. "Honey, I could have been spiked horizontal to the ground any time these last fourteen hours." Yet somehow we still stayed dressed. I had my hand in her pants, then in her panties. I had my finger up the hole that came easiest from the rear side. That too was oozing lubricant. I was assuring her how much I wanted to eat her when her kids came home.

I did manage however to make arrangements to see her the next day. I'd set up camp at HoJo's: just below Tuckerman's Ravine. I'd come back down to Pinkham's Notch in the morning. She'd meet me there and I'd show her the way up the mountain. Typical, Barbara has lived her life in the shadow of Mt. Washington, but she's never climbed it. She'll be experiencing her own landmark for the first time.

I spend the evening shifting around in my tent, trying to compose a poem. I've written all my life, but not verse. Counting lines, rhyming in patterns ... these are disciplines I do not have. But I managed to fake something. There she is in the morning. I show her the poem. "Shall we start up?" "Let me show you something first," she says. Take me for a drive."

She turns us onto a wooded trail. "You can park here," she says. "I don't think anyone will come along."

Women never grant every favour to a man but one, without granting him that one also.
Tom Jones

Her breasts were very nice. Very. We were in my Saab station wagon. My wife and I had christened that car by driving it across Canada to Vancouver and down the coast to Big Sur, camping out of it. But I'd never made any attempt to screw in the car itself. There's always a first time. I hoped she was right about privacy because we were both soon totally naked. Myriad leaves dappling the light or not, we were in broad daylight.

As nice as her crotch had looked covered with white panty-nylon, it looked much nicer covered by nothing but blond down. I guided my lips to her nether lips. I gave little guppy kisses to the moistest area amid her pubic pelt. "No, she said. "I brought you here so I could kiss you."

It took me a second to decide how to respond. I'd been savoring the idea of eating her for two nights and two mornings now, but the idea of getting blown was rapidly colonizing my mind: the more so as the idea seemed to come from a near desperate desire on her part. I probably have had women spasm against my face one hundred times for each of the many times I've held their head as I jet down their throat: it was time to let the imbalance resolve itself a little.

Besides: as I drove down the highway, she'd palmed my inner thigh: high up toward my balls. I jerked like a colt: almost drove off the road. Only once before, when I was eighteen or nineteen, had a girl driven me straight out of my tree that way: both times driving. Twice lucky to still be alive. (The best thigh grab I'd ever gotten was at least done while I was seated at a typewriter, not the wheel of a car. I was in the midst of training a WAC private on interviewing Cubans for the FBI. She was the most amazingly luscious Puerto Rican I've ever seen, and suddenly she's got her hand between my legs.) Still alive, how I'd not squirted then and there, I don't know. Now she wants me in her mouth.

"Yes, yes," I say. "But I have to eat you first: for just a second."

"I'm still in my period," she informs me.

Ah. I love women whose mouth gets active when their pussy gets mucky. Well, I'll find out how mucky directly. I tease her lips apart with the tip of my tongue. I don't taste any blood. I don't see any blood. I don't smell any menstrual smell. One good suck and I remember my promise. Her mouth finds me.

I now find blood all over me after all. But that's OK. I don't smell it, I don't mind it. Barbara is going to work on me.

I'll step aside from the action for a moment to recall it already synthesized. From how it went and from things she said later, I got the impression that she was new to fellatio. Her husband had had the bother of encouraging her: I came along just as she was ready to decide she liked it. Either she did like it, or she wanted to like it; but she hadn't yet learned to be graceful at it.

Afterwards she told me she just wanted to make me happy. I assured her, truthfully, that she had: very. I did not reveal however how much my mind had been present throughout. I was sucked off, yes, but swept away, no. I was probably more swept away for the moments I'd had my face planted in her vulva that when she'd been earnestly sucking and stroking.

Once I'd come I could feel fully how ludicrous we must have looked had any one stumbled by. The doors of the Saab were open. The seats were pulled up toward the dash. Two naked people had limbs sticking here and there out of the open doors, windows, lifted hatchback ... The guy would have had a pussy imprint in blood on his face. His dick was lucent with this, that, and the other fluid ... And I realized what this woman had just done for me: and perhaps for herself. She'd broken a mold. She'd done it deliberately. She'd done it outside her marriage. More traumatic for the female I don't doubt than for the male: males are expected to be "no good"; females are expected to "behave."

We got back our breath, wiped ourselves off, covered ourselves up, drove back to Pinkham's Notch, and had an easy climb to the tree line: my camp already being set up for us there. (Relating an incident of that climb is what prompted me to narrate this file.) I'd gotten no skiing done the day before, thanks to meeting Barbara, and I'd get none done this day either. I never did show her the Ravine. We arrived at my tent (two-man alpine). We crawled inside (no standing, not even much sitting, in a two-man alpine). The days eating was done for both of us, but the fucking was just getting underway: rocks and roots in her ass, under my knee, but what the hell. Finally it was time for her to go home and receive the kids back from school.

I came down the mountain again a few days later and we went to a motel. The fuck in the bed was nothing compared to the blowing in the car. She did say that our sixty-nine on that bed that had been prelude to the fuck had been her first experience of eating and getting eaten at the same time. She nearly swooned when I told her of my frustration that I couldn't eat her and fuck her simultaneously.

Do you want to fuck? or to eat? Yes. Blow? or be blown? Yes.

I saw Barbara only one more time after that. I told her I'd be at the Ravine for Memorial Day, that same year or the following: I'm not sure which. I didn't plan to bring my skis; I brought my family, carrying my son up the mountain on my shoulders. She and her husband were in the crowd at Lunch Rocks. I waved. She came over, said Hi, returned to her husband.

That unfortunately wasn't the end of it. Some time later my wife found one of her letters. That fire, like the fires underground in the Everglades, never did burn out.

Years later I called New Hampshire. A woman answered. Didn't sound like Barbara, but answered Yes to Barbara. Something was wrong. Mrs. So-and-So? Yes. But not the Mrs. Barbara So-and-So of x years ago? Oh, heavens no. Mr. So-and-So threw her out. She wasn't a very good wife.
Down in Florida somewhere. Don't know, don't care.

Poor Barbara. I hope she's OK.

Was I essential to what happened? Or was it due? I have no way to know if the adulteries were single or multiple. She could have tumbled with me and then built a habit. Or maybe she already had the habit when I came along. I don't think so though. I think she was just starting to really discover cock. Small Town NH was no longer the right place for her.

I called this piece "Sex Sur L'Herbe" and now realize that none of it took place "on the grass." The screwing was in a car, in a tent, in a motel room ... But the car was in the woods, the tent was up the mountain, on pine needles, on moss, on lichen, in the snow ... I do however love to screw on grass. But the grass isn't the important part: it's being out of doors that counts. One spring on Mt. Tremblant in the Laurentians my date and I paused our downhill skiing to fuck on a patch of grass the snow had melted from and the sun had dried and warmed. Anyone could have come wedelning by (or schussing by) but no one did. I've fucked on beaches where the girl's sunburned crotch turned out not to have been out of sight of the flying bridge of the yacht that came cruising by. I've fucked on rooftops in the winter, on the Lieutenant's desk while on duty ... Maybe I'll start a piece on Weird Places to Fuck.

Maybe you know what I mean from your own experience. Or maybe you've seen Risky Business where Rebecca deMornay's whore takes Tom Cruise's suburban kid onto the Chicago subway at night. I think I've already mentioned that scene in one of these files.

Notes

Ho-Jo's:
The warm-up shack at the tree line below Tuckerman's Ravine was called Ho-Jo's when I first saw it. I don't know how far back the tradition went: a joke on the once ubiquitous restaurant chain, I presume. The shack had no ice cream, neither could you order fried clams; but you could pay to store your skis through to Memorial Day.
Lots of skiers ski the Ravine till May 31. I don't know anyone who skis it June 1^st.

Underground Fire:
My wife assumed I wanted a divorce: getting love letters from out of state. My wife assumed I was leaving her for this other woman.
No, why would I do that? I was married to my son's mother: the best blow job in the world couldn't change that.
Once separated, I was separated from my son's mother. Nothing can or should change that.
As Father Capon said, "divorce isn't immoral, it's impossible."

Sex at the Zoo

2008-10-06T08:13:00.000-07:00

Watching a movie like Schindler's List can give us an idea of what life may have been like once upon a time with regard to public nakedness. All the Jews are stripped naked and sent to the (ahem) "showers." The audience, clothed almost continuously since birth, sees people like cattle. All those naked women. They all have tits. So what? Nothing sexy about it. We adjust to boredom about the body within seconds. Civilization invests a great deal of energy in keeping us fascinated by the very ordinary.

Human beings are keyed to visual signals more than most other creatures. Our dogs sticking their noses into other people's business embarrasses us. On the other hand, I am convinced that one of the reasons people love horses is that those animals have great round haunches and they have them right out in the open. One time I was riveted by the plump round ass of a young blond girl as she mounted her trail horse. I was placed right behind her on the trail. If I lost sight of the girl's ass for those moments where it was buried by the saddle, I never for a moment lost sight of her horse's ass. Her horse started to fart at every other stride. At each fart this almost nubile girl would turn around and shine embarrassment at me. She knew what she was carrying around a quarter inch from her ass. She knew how the horses bluntness highlighted her covertness.

Even Victorian girls at some point, despite the piano's "limbs" being covered by skirts, got to see some huge shlong flop out of the hidden recesses of the sanitation wagon's horse. You may cover your own fart but you can't cover it from yourself. For all her concealment, the menstruating girl knows she's menstruating.

Once upon a time ... men were animals and didn't think they weren't. Civilization expends even more energy denying our relationship to everything that's around us than it does to hawking our sexuality as perpetually interesting. (Take what's common, and artificially make it scarce. Men were sex capitalists long before there was economic capital. Schools are a Johnny-Come-Lately in the game of manipulating value.) Everybody saw your whatever and you saw everybody else's. Everybody saw you when you were sick, when you were puking, when you had diarrhea ... Yet when the girl approached puberty, her body found a way to get noticed, to stimulate attention. One or two fucks per lifetime per pubescent girl can keep the species going. If everybody in the clan wants to fuck her the second she turns twelve ... you get six billion people in no time.

Et cetera.

That's the context in which I want to approach my adulthood's most memorable discovery of the commonness of what we advertise as uncommon. I wanted to take my son, age three or four, to the zoo. I ran into my army buddy, Phil. I boarded the subway for the Bronx. The Bronx Zoo was just then redesigning and re-landscaping itself into the new zoo architecture. Soon everyone living will have no memory of the horrible old zoos of the horrible old days. But that occasion was my first experience of seeing lions unfenced. My son had nothing to compare it to. He walked or rode my shoulders. Phil may have carried him too on occasion. What sticks with me even more than the re-landscaping is that that visit was also my first experience of a modern zoo's "night house." The zoo keeps night creatures in a reverse daylight time zone. The night creatures are fooled into being active during the day and sleeping at night: like the rest of us. The night house is cleverly lit so that we can see the creatures in a kind of twilight while they think it's dark. Many of the animals' burrows were exposed through windows to the public. I presume the animals had no awareness of being observed.

(I recalled this situation in bed to my girl friend the other night. I pointed out to her that we had no idea what gods were watching us when we thought we had privacy. There in our own bed, in the middle of the night, fully dark for hours, we could be on display in some well lit arena in Heaven or Hades or on Betelgeuse.)

Anyway, the armadillos were at home that afternoon: a large nest of them. And what a home life they had. Mama, papa, grandma, brother, sister-armadillo, baby-armadillo ... were all strung together in one long chain of pussy sucking. Every male had his tongue in some twat somewhere. All of the females (the majority) were splayed open so their lips were readily accessible. Every great once in a while I'd see a female tongue (the armadillo's have some tongue, by the way) snake out and caress a penis or a pair of testes. Rather more regularly did I notice that the tongue in a particular twat was a female tongue. At no point did I see an erect penis. I saw no penetration, no spurting jissom. But obviously that was just because I wasn't there long enough. The nest was full of armadillos and they didn't get there from the mouth.

Everybody did the eating. All the females got eaten. The male is stimulated by stimulating the female. The female stimulates and is stimulated the long night long. Whatever fucking takes place takes place in the interstices.

Only twice in my life have I been regularly subjected to pornography. The first time was when I foolishly agreed to sort my father-in-law's mail for the year he'd be in Europe. The second is right now. Email was so wonderful so recently. Now it's as unusable as the snail mail. Who can possible find any important messages amid the unsolicited barrage? Until a week or so ago, I threw most spam including all spam I prejudged to be porn away without looking at it. With my newer, faster computer I allowed myself a quick peek at the letter itself. In a small number of those cases I connected to the top page of the site for a fast, free look (only to find them easier to get into than get out of: each time I'd exit some other bordello would open.) Anyway, 90% of the porn is indistinguishable from that I saw thirty years ago: tit, pussy ... fuck, suck. Some of the girl's have come in their eye, some of the girl's have something in the bunghole: but mostly it's still just tits and ass, sucking and fucking. Yet the prose keeps promising something new, something unusual, something abnormal, something unnatural ...
Sorry, folks. Even armadillos do it. But they do it without apology.

(If the armadillos had the technology, would they be spying into our beds at night? Or is that just men and gods who have no shame?

Innocent Sex

2008-10-06T08:06:00.000-07:00

I'm getting closer to beginning the point I'd thought to write here today, but I think I'll first slip in one more little girl story. I have a lot of little girl stories to tell and I want to philosophize a bit about harmful cultural attitudes toward young girls and their "innocence": but right now what I just said above prompts me to rattle off briefly a simple enough little episode that I don't believe I'll ever forget. Why? Because nothing really happened.

The following story took place far away, in a German-speaking part of another country. My anonymous "Bonnie" therefore becomes "Heidi."

I went to Europe with my wife and son. We'd be visiting Hilary's family and Hilary family's family. We borrowed the car and drove down into big ski country. Man, there's nothing for an impoverished mountain man like yours truly to drive among the Alps, see nothing but clouds, then suddenly, protruding above a break in the clouds, blocking the top of the sky, to see a mountain so mountainous it might as well be a cartoon. We'd driven a distance and were way the hell over on the Austrian side of the southern Swiss Alps. Wildhaus. Unterwasser. The day was spoiled only by my screaming at Hilary's paralysis on the steepest slopes. She was petrified. I wanted to ski it. But to ski the steep you've got to be looking, thinking, facing downhill. Shoulders square to the valley, you wipe your skies back and forth across the fall line to check the pure acceleration. Face away from your fear and you're in real danger. A panicked companion was like an anchor around me, endangering me, and doing her no good. At the bottom of the slope I felt something foreign happen to my body. Fortunately there was a fiberglass outhouse nearby. Foreign food, foreign water, high elevation ... I don't know. But I got the shits at a very bad time. Wound up throwing my briefs down the chute. It's New Year's Eve, a celebratory dinner will be waiting for us at the relatives': all I'll want is the one thing I won't get: privacy, a shower, and my own wardrobe. Sure enough, we get there, and go straight in to dinner. Oh, please can't I go wash my ass, change my clothes, deodorize myself? Nope. And of course the relatives don't speak English. At the time I didn't speak or understand more than one word of German. I'm a guest best heard from least. So I grin and bear it and hope that anyone offended will steer me to the shower without my asking. Still naked under my ski pants, I sit as far from everyone as I can.

One little problem. One little eight year old problem. The relatives had a daughter. The day before Heidi wouldn't leave me alone. Little girls often take a shine to me. Whether I'm twenty, thirty, or sixty doesn't seem to make that much difference. I don't know why. Some not very friendly friends, jealous as hell, bewildered, once explained that it was because I look like a prick. Skinny, with this funny bare face. Sticking out like a glans. Heidi's mother, her grandmother, my mother-in-law are all forever telling her, in German of course, to lay off me. My wife was in the room. My two year old son was there. What was I supposed to do? Grin and bear all this cuddly female attention. That night she goes up to bed. Comes shrieking back down the stairs, stark naked, red as a lobster from the bath. Heidi does a little dance and then spreads her ass open right at me. The family's former embarrassment now looked amateur. They grabbed her, covered her, and bustled her away, apologizing to me, my wife, my mother-in-law. I'll say this: Heidi could have done that Coppertone ad where the dog bites away the cherub's bathing suit bottom.

OK, now it's twenty four hours later. I'm sitting off by myself, very conscious of wearing no underwear, very conscious of how completely vulnerable I am if I get another attack of the shits, hoping to Christ I don't stink ... and Heidi comes over and squirms up onto my lap. She wiggles the ass she's shown us everywhere. I'm doing a little squirming myself, trying to be discreet, trying to keep her butt, which seems as intelligent as a heat seeking missile, away from my all too freely flapping dick. No such luck. Sprongggg! Now I've got to try new contortions so she doesn't impale herself on it. She squirming. I'm squirming. I'm not offering her a very stable platform on which to squirm, so he puts her hand down: I'd thought to steady herself.

Come on. The girl is only eight years old. How can she ... What can she know? Sorry: the girl had radar. No fumbling. No half-miss and then correction. Her hand goes straight to my dick, closes around it. She calms down for a moment, gives one last wriggle, jumps off me and sprints back to her scolding grandmother. I'm thirty or so years old. I sat there blushing like a banshee. I'm blushing now as I write this. God forbid I had to stand up for any reason. Heidi jumped off me leaving my dick pointing straight down my left pants' leg. I have to bend forward at the waist so it doesn't lift my trousers too visibly. Just leave me doubled over till it goes away. Otherwise I'd have to carry the table in front of me. As though that would conceal anything.

Note

This story gave me an experience I hadn't anticipated and wouldn't have predicted. I was arrested and spent a little time in jail. As my landlord explained upon my return: "They saw they had made a mistake, but, being who they are, they can't say so." The lawyer had explained that to me in different words: a short sentence in effect means Not Guilty. Nevertheless I was incarcerated among murderers, drug dealers, thieves ... and a host of political undesirables. For a bit I shared a cell with a fellow who ran his empire from his cell and had been doing so for seven years. Phone calls to his sister saw that his 40,000 acre cattle ranch, his fleet of boats, his several million dollar homes in the US ... all ran smoothly and profitably. With him as my roomie I saw traffic of Cubans, Colombians ...
My cellie received a picture album in my presence. First the inmate is shuffled from here to there, there to here: then his property follows. So all of us in his new fail got a glam at his album, which proved to feature a host of underage girlfriends: adorable Hispanics bare-assed in the surf: every pussy clean-shaven. (Ugh.)
I felt prompted to tell the above story. These guys don't don't me. They don't know if I'm here for overnight, or am doing a dime. Shuffle, shuffle. I'm sure non-acquaintaintance is deliberate on the part of those who want no plots. Anyway, the guys listen in a sort of uneasy truce: till I said the girl in the story was eight years old: every single visitor, and my cellie, exited as a man.
(It's not always up to an inmate when he can go where, but we were in a "clear" time, when movement is permitted, the cells unlocked.) When my cellie returned, after a time he looked at me disapprovingly. "What's the matter with you? You can't tell a story like that in jail. These guys will KILL you!"
What? The story was completely innocent. No? On her part, and on my part. But you'd have to actually listen to the story, allow the facts to emerge, to know that.
So. I was assured that jailbirds are particularly intolerant of child molesters. They're proud of their intolerance and have no patience for the facts.
Like the post-9/11 US in determining who and what is a "terrorist."

As Clevinger explained to Yossarian, "They hate Jews."
"But I'm not Jewish," said Yossarian.
"It doesn't matter," said Clevinger, "They hate everybody."

Don't Fuck, I'll Suck

2008-10-06T08:04:00.000-07:00

The following story, however simply I recount it, will be covered with hooks: hooks that could link to dozens of other stories and SybaRight-type points: the points already multiply made, the particular stories not yet told. For starters I'll tell just the sex aspects. If in a month I've developed only three more points from it, don't think that therefore there aren't four, or five ...

For me, one of the pleasures of being a young college teacher was having the still younger students approach me on campus or in my office — or off campus — with their personal problems. SybaRight has always related to females more readily than to males: it didn't surprise me if the females who approached me on personal matters outnumbered the males.

And the girls were more than ordinarily cute. I've elsewhere mentioned that Colby attracted higher caliber females than males: SAT scores were very much skewed by gender, Colby registering scores of girls who could have gone to Smith, but just about no boys who could have gone to Colgate. The girls who came to me after class or in my office with personal problems were not among these sterling females: cuter than average, intellect on walkabout.

One girl I'll call Bonnie, though I truly don't remember her name. In the incidents I'm recalling, she was a sophomore, though I'd had her as a student from her first semester as a freshman.

She must have gotten addicted to her confessions because for a while there, she was hanging around all the time; then disappeared, never showed up around the English Department.

Bonnie's problems can be summarized as one problem: she feared she was pregnant — and she'd already had two abortions. She really didn't want to have to go back to her parents to beg for a third operation.

Nature assures that sexed creatures want to fuck. Nature assures that humans want to fuck more regularly than rabbits. Nature doesn't inquire about your family's financial conditions before it makes the young girl put her shoulders back: let those boobies protrude!

If there was any girl on campus whose shape, manner, and dress proclaimed virgin, it was Bonnie. She had fine features. Her hair was toward blond: a light brown. She was slight of build, but definitely female. She wore white shorts. She always looked clean.

One time during her (and my) second year there, a fellow English teacher came up to me and said, "Bonnie asked me to invite you to see a sculpture she's made." I followed him to his office where some exhibit was being assembled: and there was a clay "study" of a female torso, clearly pregnant. I nodded.
"Wow," the guy's silence seemed to say.
Did he suddenly think that she was pregnant and that I'd knocked her up? I don't know, but clearly he was that there was something between SybaRight and Bonnie that had something to do with her potential fecundity.

Now: what should SybaRight do in circumstances in which a cute girl comes to him and tells him that she repeatedly gets pregnant: before anyone wants her to be pregnant? Have my tube tied? Change profession? Charge fees?

What I did I now know to have been insane: another one of a jillion insanities that move me so far from the norm of the culture that species labels should be challenged. What struck me was that it was inexcusable for girls to get accidently pregnant a second time. Once upon a time nature made human females to get pregnant when they were about seventeen years old. Typically, they'd already been married since fourteen, or sixteen ... Nature gives the couple a few years of free fucking before sending the bill. Now that has changed. In Shakespeare's Juliet's day, Juliet, not quite fourteen, needed no birth control, no family planning: she couldn't get pregnant if Romeo's testes were grafted right next to her own ovaries. The possibility wouldn't exist for her for another few years. Contemporary nutrition has changed all that. The age of fertility has dropped dramatically; simultaneously the culture has pushed the age of possible financial independence in the opposite direction. If a cave-woman was pregnant at seventeen, so what? Her culture was ready to receive her, help her, married or not. Now fertility and opprobrium hit the girl at roughly the same time ... as school tuition bills.
God really should pound the PlayDough back into one pretzel and start all over again.

And it's society's fault. Why aren't the girls trained in opening their mouth while locking their corsets from age ten?

All males have orgasms. Troubles ejaculating, at least while young, are rare. Humans are the only mammalian females that have orgasms. All females may know that they need to fuck. They all may like it, they all may love it; but actually coming, in any way like a male, in unheard of; except among humans. Still: many a human female hasn't made the evolutionary adjustment. I don't know the stats, I doubt that we're capable of keeping honest stats, but not all females have had so much as one orgasm by the time they're forty, while 99.9% of males have had at least one orgasm by the time they're fourteen or so: if not much sooner: and many times more than one.

I believe that males should be considerate of the female, help her to come if she can, but not to get all crazy if she doesn't. I believe that males should start practicing helping the girl to come from the earliest ages; so long as they're not also helping them to get pregnant before the society wants to help pay for the baby. I believe that males should start practicing helping the girl to come from the earliest ages; so long as they're not also helping them to get, or give, AIDS. And a certain risk of fertility and disease is worth it: we're sexual critters. But there's no need to come in the vagina, unprotected, every single time.

I believe that we should forge a culture in which any horny human, male or female, can walk in off the street and get a competent blow job as easily and as cheaply as they can get a Big Mac.

I tried to say some of all that to Bonny.

I didn't say it the first time she came to me, or the second. But by our second year there she'd come to me often enough that I'd build up a fair part of the whole argument. In essence, by the middle of our second year, I'd not only told her to keep her legs crossed till she graduated or got married or something, but had also told her that if she couldn't stand it any more, if she just had to fuck or scream, yet didn't have a knowing, considerate boyfriend with a good tongue, she should give me a call and I'd try to give her all the orgasm she needed, just with my face. Keep the liquids out of your channel: except saliva.

Did I add that it would be nice if she also blew me for my trouble? I don't think so. What I was trying to suggest to her was that I was not desperate. I was older, married, I had a kid ... I wasn't a virgin. If I came to be bursting with needs because I tried to help her out, I wasn't myself helpless.

She must have had the idea: because: in one of those conversations, this one in my car (A Saab wagon, so it was the second year, 1968-69), I said something about sucking and the next thing I knew Bonnie had my dick in her mouth.

What a surprise. And what a ghastly disappointment. She was very delicate. So delicate it was like getting kissed by a wet spider web. I've have come sooner walking through the woods with my pants open.

Well, all of that is buildup, background, for the following. One night I'm home. We have guests: other students. I'm called to the phone. It's Bonnie. Can I spare her a few minutes? Well, I'd rather she had called at a different time, but I had volunteered to be her emergency sucker. I excused myself from my party and I picked Bonnie up at her dorm. We drove off into the snow.

Now, she had had my dick in her mouth, oh so briefly, but I understand had never touched her in any way: not counting words; and there the words had been avuncular, paternal: father confessor. I'd never brushed her backside, never bussed her hand, her cheek ... Neither was she currently in any of my classes. She had been my student, but she wasn't currently my student.

I'm all ready to eat her. Actually, I'm getting more than ready. I want her to fondle my balls, I want her to suck my dick. But I must never forget: this whole thing is about NOT PUTTING IT INSIDE HER. No dick in the pussy. No.

No fucking.
I'll just eat you.
As my own horniness engenders, feeding on itself, I realize how vain my invitation to her had been. I'd been imagining myself as aloof from the drive, a servant to her needs, not a slave to my own. Oh, well: mine isn't the first, or last, appearance vanity has made around humans.

Anyway, I assume I'm there to scratch her itch. I assume she's called me to pet her, to fondle her, to give her an orgasm if I can: without jetting semen into her. What was after all the substance of my invitation to her to call me?

But as soon as I start to pet and fondle her, something is wrong. There's something deficient in her femaleness: at least this time, with me. She's not responding: and neither am I.

Her boobs are much better than I'd anticipated. Much. That was a more than respectable set of knockers on a slender girl. I wouldn't have guessed it, seeing her dressed. But her tits are not responding to my kisses. Oh well, on to business. But her pussy doesn't respond either. She smells and tastes like a clean cunt: first, during, and last. Her pussy never warmed, never got going, never got selfish and bossy. Pussies are never more adorable than when they get completely infantile: just like a penis. Me, me, me, me, me, me, me.

There are other details I won't bother with. What still interests me these decades later is the question why this girl had ever gotten pregnant a first time? She didn't seem to have any sexual drive. She had a drive that was related to sex, a drive to be a center of sexual attention: with boys, with her parents, with me ... But from my very limited experience with her, she was totally lacking in a sex drive.

Naturally I commented when I first took her bra off. She said that if I liked them, I should see her roommate's boobs. In fact she seemed to want to change the subject to the roommate! I didn't and don't know who her roommate was. I thought I was there to keep her from getting pregnant again; she seemed to think she was there to serve me teat. She proposed a trio: me, her, her roommate: her just watching: feeding pussy to SybaRight.

A month or two later the phone rings early in the AM. It's Bonnie's fianacÈ, calling to shame me, and to tell me that he's now her ex-fianacé. I didn't know she was engaged.

Maybe she'd called me not to satisfy herself, not to fix up her roommate, not to serve female flesh to SybaRight ... Maybe she'd called me just 'cause she liked to cause trouble for males.

Now that makes sense.

Beaver Mountain

2008-10-06T08:02:00.000-07:00

Among a young man's pleasures at skiing is the plenitude of upside-down or splayed females littering the snowy slopes: at least in the novice to intermediate areas.

In civilization nothing snaps together faster than a woman's legs but the pattern doesn't follow to the mountain: not once she's put her feet in heavy boots and bound them to long boards.

Once upon a time the first thing would-be skiers were taught was the snow plow. You stand on your skis, face at least partly downhill, and point your ski tips toward each other, making a big V. You use this wedge to push against the snow, resisting the pull of gravity, controlling your speed: then learning to turn. At the slightest trouble, recent intermediates revert to the snowplow. Getting their weight back, the v switches points to the tails: and they fall. More advanced skiers are forever correcting lack of alignment between their skis toward the parallel. The expert wants the full length of both skis at his disposal, for speed, for control: turning, stopping.

It's wonderful to ski well, to ski daring slopes, but all the tush, splayed or upright, is on the bunny slopes. The rare girl on the daring slopes instantly has my heart.

Girls out-leverage men in the lower body. We'll beat them at arm wrestling nearly every time, but more than one man has been surprised, and humiliated, if he tries to leg-wrestle an in-shape female. Nevertheless, in absolute terms, women are weaker of leg. Serena's got the most amazing thighs, but however strong she is there, she's not as strong as Lawrence Taylor, Michael Chang, Wayne Wong ... And girls in the 1960s were no Serenas. Upside down on the sidewalk after a slip, their legs would snap together. But on the mountain, slipping seems to go with the territory. And they're handicapped with these heavy weights on their ankles. And the skis, well more than six feet long in those days, even for the girls, didn't cooperate with modesty.

I'm in my late twenties, maybe thirty. I'm at Hunter Mountain. For some reason I can't explain after these decades I'm at the C area: beginners, novices. I'd ski the C area with my young son in my early thirties, but I'm fairly sure that this was before then, my son was no older than three. I was alone on the occasion. Hunter's C area had an "upper mountain," labeled intermediate. I'm on this upper mountain, off the trail, in the woods. And between two trees, half in a bush, right under my nose, is the splayed crotch of a willowy young blond I'd never seen before in my life.

That memory is embedded like a snapshot, quality-studio clear. I remember nothing else about it. Had I left the trail for the woods to offer her help? That doesn't sound right. Had I entered the woods to pee and suddenly an airborne blond crashes through the brush? Definitely not. I'm blank on the circumstances — I definitely wasn't with her, but I'm nevertheless clear on the tableau.

She's smiling, an embarrassed smile. She's clearly not hurt. But she's stuck with her crotch taking the breeze. I'm stuck too, also embarrassed. If I had seduced her into this position, it would be one thing. She can't say, "Pardon my Poon'. I can't say, "The pleasure is all mine." I can't even say, "May I help untangle you, get you to your feet?" Least of all can I say, "God, I can taste your pussy-print with my face." Amazing how the imagination can ignore all the layers of clothing she must have been wearing: not just ski pants and the usual underwear, but quite likely long johns as well.

A woman's beauty does not belong to her alone.
JM Coetzee

What astonishes me about the memory, so vivid today, is that the two of us were somehow in a private little alcove, screened from the more public slope. There are dozens of things I wish I had said to her, wish I could have said to her. I also wish I could figure out how we got there together.

Different, but related:

I'm about twenty-four. It's mid-way through my first full season of skiing. I was already strong of leg however weak of upper body. I was already courageous. I'd made rapid strides. I was an aggressive intermediate skier: a bit of parallel, regressions to the snow plow still too automatic, very poor hand-foot coordination (in other words, ineffective pole plants, nearly irrelevant to weight-shifts. As always, I'm skiing with Hilary. If it weren't for her mother's mountain cottage, we couldn't afford to ski at all, me earning $99 a month as an army draftee. With the cottage, with Hilary's car, we skied frequently. Hilary and I have arrived at the top of Hunter Mountain's B lift. The A lift goes to the mountain's summit, the B lift goes to a ridge. Bearing to one's right encountered a decent intermediate slope, going left brought one to an easier though more narrow novice slope. My boots are quickly buckled up, my pole straps rapidly over my wrists. Now I stand and wait while Hilary adjusts herself.

Other skiers pass us and begin their descents of the intermediate slope: we've gone to our right. A teenaged blond stops just downhill of me to me, rightward, to buckle up her boots. Pink stretch pants. She's bent over as bent as she can go. Hilary still hasn't slid up to my side to signal that she's ready. The blond's buttocks stretch her pink pants sere. Oh, Jesus. Even stretched the pants are still opaque; still, it's almost as though one could look right up into her inner sancta. She's bent over. I'm staring. Her little brunette companion comes up, sees me looking, gets all flustered, covers her friends ass with her gloved hands, steam coming out of her ears.

If you knew Hilary in those days you'd know that no one ever had a cuter behind. And no one knew it better than me. My hands were over her every other minute. But Hilary is behind me: and this girl in the pink pants is right in front of me, aiming her nether apertures in my face.

The Subway: a Movable Orgy

2008-10-06T07:57:00.000-07:00

My mind brightens considerably though as it comes to me — with a force like shock — that I've now told more than a couple of stories on myself without so much as hinting at the secret New York life-form I discovered in the early 1960s: the subway system as a movable orgy.

Old SybaRight goes out of his way to live out of synch with other people. I shop at odd hours. I fish, sleep, eat ... while others work. If another boat has my favorite fishing spot ahead of me, I go somewhere less favorite: out of sight. Young SybaRight was like that to a much lesser extent. Young SybaRight loved the city, the bustle and turmoil. 1956's SybaRight would ride the subway at rush hour just for the pleasure of being in a press of people. I did not yet hold these people in contempt or blame them for the world in any way. A theater full of people enjoying the movie was a pleasure for me: not an annoying distraction. I'd get crushed and buffeted, shoved and mauled. Oh, hip, man. New York! Big time crowds! At no point was I particularly aware whether the flesh pressing against me was male or female, young or old, attractive or repulsive: socially safe or taboo ...

I was twenty-three before that modified. Once modified by more than two details, my perceptions were revolutionized. I discovered that many, many people, thousands upon thousands, both male and female, young and old, enjoy a secret erotic life during New York's many rush hours. In the much enjoyed film Risky Business, Tom Cruise's spoiled teenager is taken aboard the Chicago subway by Rebecca deMornay's demographically selective whore for a screw. The audience responds to the sex-stars' getting off by locating something normally associated with privacy in public. But that's not the kind of sex I'm talking about. Neither am I talking about the unsolicited gropes one may be helpless to avoid in public. I'm talking about the welcomed contact: the ass settling-in to the anonymous hand, the breast luxuriating against the shoulder that doesn't move out of its way. Before taxonomizing the subway population according to family, genus, or species of participation in anonymous group groping, I narrate my first experience of erotic contact that might possibly have had a non-accidental element.

SybaRight: First Subway Sex

I'm riding the subway. It isn't rush hour. There are plenty of seats. Nevertheless I stand. I'm twenty-three. I love to enjoy my youth, my strong legs. I'm a dancer, a miler, a long distance runner, soon to become a bash-the-mountain-all-day downhill skier. I love not only my leg strength but my rhythm, my balance. I like to let the subway throw me around without staggering or falling: without having to grab a strap or to find a seat and hang on.

I no longer have the youthful sneer of my teens: perfected by imitation, among others, of Marlon Brando (James Dean and Elvis Presley looking to me like arrivistes once they arrived). But I don't doubt that some of that sneer is still there: the sneer that I shocked myself once suddenly discovering in an unexpected mirror at the Fantasy movie theater in Rockville Centre, Long Island: God! is that jerk with the cigarette stuck insolently to his lower lip me? One thing about young men you will notice: they don't have to have much stuff to strut in order to strut anyway. So I'm strutting. Sallow cheeks, sunken chest, cigarette breath, obscene pelvis, good legs ... Man! Look at me. Riding the ride. Absorbing the bumps and rattles of Empire State Big Apple mechanization with super-swivelled ankles, knees, and hips. Look, ma—no hands!

A young woman gets on this local train. Five foot five or six. Smooth, regular features. Silken blond hair longer than shoulder length. A summer dress not at all binding but nevertheless showing off very well this and that female shape as the dress moves one way with or against the subway and her flesh moves another: nice limbs, nice flank: a fine female breast, a ripe female buttock. She too stands, but holds a strap. The car rocks her too. Anyone with eyes can see her thigh beneath the material, her bottom, her bosom. (Anyone can see that the sneering, strutting punk is common: a jerk. At sixty-three I am still not old enough to see that the smooth-featured girl may also be common, perhaps be also a jerk.)

Local trains make lots of stops. Then rattle on again. Lots of changes of motion, of momentum. Lots of opportunities to change position, change straps, change seats. But suddenly SybaRight is aware of himself as a master mind. I've been thinking What if I'm a genius? since way before I was twelve. This time I think: What if I have ESP? Telekinesis? Psychokinesis? I have to laugh at the Steve Allen gag of years before where the guy says he's improved his power over heat to the point where he can raise the thermal energy of a glass of water to room temperature. But a good gag isn't a disproof. What if I, by the power of my mind alone, could bring that girl from her end of the car, behind me to my left, toward my middle of the car? What if I could bring her closer until she's standing right next to me?

These several decades later I cannot be certain whether or not her moving toward the center preceded my thought of moving her, but I swear to you, bit by bit, both of those things happened: I thought Move the girl this way and the girl moved: this way. First she'd gotten on and taken a strap toward the car's tail end. Then she moved inwards of the doors she'd entered. Within a few more stops, she was within a half-dozen straps of me albeit on the other side of the aisle. I couldn't believe what was happening. I was riveted, certain that she was going to touch me somehow. Just brushing arm against arm would be fine. I certainly didn't expect her to reach inside my pants and start yanking.

I prepared myself. The area through which I jounced with the subway was by now well defined. I held my arms with a loose tension so that my hands were no more than an inch further away from my hips than normal. Then I compromised that. Taking the strap with my right hand, positioned my left hand perhaps an extra inch further to my left rear. That's it. That's my perimeter. Now she will come tangent. She will cross that perimeter. I know she will. All I have to do is hold my ground.

The train jolted through a curve before pulling into the next station. Just as the trainman hit the brakes, she twisted toward me. Her momentum pinned her against me. Wouldn't you know it: her buttock, her cheek and the space between her cheeks came right against the back of my left hand: and stayed there throughout the braking. The car lurched to a stop: and she was around me: and out the doors to my front right: the direction I was looking the whole time. She sure looked nice, walking away down the platform, jockeying to the stairs ascending to street level. I could still feel her dress against my knuckles, on the backs of my fingers. I could feel her panties through her dress and her flesh through her panties. From those couple of seconds of contact I felt I could do a mental probe of the pH of her pussy juice. Clean. Clean and fragrant. I knew her ass was clean: her "ass" was all pussy.

What I felt no contact with was her mind. Her sag against me sure felt "deliberate" to me physically: how conscious had she been of it? Had I really manipulated her? That there was contact was unambiguous. That I enjoyed it was unambiguous. Whether her mind played any part in our coming together cannot be known by me. Her contribution, for me, remains ambiguous.

What if she thought she was manipulating me? Stay right there, Freckles. You're awfully skinny, but I can feel the testosterone leaking through your shoes. I need at least the idea of your male fluids coating my female the way I need air and water. The puddle around my pussy can almost sop up your lubricants from here. Hold still, and I'll have our delicious accident against you.

Incident #2: SybaRight the Passive Mastermind becomes SybaRight the Covert Aggressor

That experiment in tele-hypnosis was my only such. I took it as partial evidence that females as well as males could enjoy casual erotic contact under the mask of accident, under the full glare of public anonymity. My next experiment with erotic accidents occurred later that year: after this pacifist had been drafted by the US Army. My Basic Training request to be used as a Chaplain's Assistant was ignored: Whitehall Street Induction Station, the very perpetrator of the most recent grievous crime against SybaRight, wanted college graduates in English, Ivy League preferred, for its lower Manhattan typing pool. The Apple had been my preferred home since i was old enough to have a choice, but no one can live in New York City on the amount the Army budgets. In general, the Army is obliged to feed and house its troops. Sometimes, as in the front trenches of a foreign war, that's difficult. But there's no excuse for not feeding and housing conscripts within a mile of First Army Headquarters. The Army needs no excuse: it's the Army: more derelict than Lily Tomlin's "Phone Company." The Army declined to house its Manhattan soldiers, deciding, in the wisdom of its infinite distance from experience, that once you abandon a soldier on the street, $50 for an apartment plus transportation and $70 for food, ought to keep the soldier fit for duty month by month. No inspector general accompanies the private making sure that banks cash the check, that the private doesn't get mugged, that hotels in fact come up with a room with whatever change is left over after a months subway fare is subtracted, the restaurants guarantee the soldier healthy calories, three times a day, seven days a week, for four weeks plus in exchange for the $70. Whitehall Street privates had all run away, gone AWOL, faced the stockade, dishonorable discharge, and loss of citizenship ... all to escape Whitehall Street. Rather than provide for the soldiers, the Army's solution was to draft guys with degrees from Columbia or Cornell, knowing that they neither had to pay them nor feed them, neither to house them nor promote them ... the guy's families would continue to subsidize them. The Army was right: none of us went AWOL: no matter the provocation. None of us saw a dishonorable discharge as the cheapest fare to pay: as had the majority of our non-Ivy League predecessors. (If I had it to do over again, I'd take the five years in jail: repudiate my citizenship at the beginning rather than at the end.) (No one notices: either way.)

Well, those points are overdue in my army stories folder: here I've got to get on with the sex. I can't write the sex without giving the reader at least some opportunity to see the ironies and such in the setting: but I think I can streamline the setting from here: Once she thought she was rid of the kids, my mother sold the house she could never afford and drastically reduced her circumstances. There was room for either my sister Beth or me to visit: one or the other: not both together: and no room for anyone to move back in. But I spent some army time camped at "home": the rest I camped uptown with my girl friend. (Hilary wasn't even a US citizen. She wasn't even employed. Why should she be expected to co-subsidize the maintenance of a Manhattan soldier?) (How did the US ever win a war? By imposing sacrifice here, there, and lots of where; distributing rewards just here and there.)

At first I commuted to Whitehall Street—most often in uniform—more often from Long Island and my mother's. The LIRR goes either to Brooklyn or to Manhattan. The subway seemed faster to Whitehall Street from Borough Hall than from Penn Station. The Brooklyn subways tended to be older and more rattly than Manhattan's IRT, but there were just as many nubile girls commuting to Manhattan from Brooklyn as there were from anywhere.

On the morning in question I was standing with my right hand on the pilar that reinforced ceiling with floor at three paired points in the older cars. A crowd around this rearward pillar vied for hand holds. A young and well groomed blond was to my left. Once again it was my left land, prone toward my thigh, that is, palm-inward, that was free. I decided to test how receptive the blond would be toward an "accidental" brush by my left knuckles on her right rump. Within a stop or two I'd brushed her all right but couldn't tell her reaction. Read that as a plus. I tried slightly prolonged contact. I read that non reaction as a plus. By the time Whitehall Street approached I had my hand suppinated enough to be making prolonged contact between her right buttock and my left palm. Her only reaction was to turn slightly: slightly so that both her buttocks "faced" me. As I lurched for the door, I gave her full bottom a loving pat. I offered her a chance at eye contact as I exited. She ignored it.

Come to think of it though, I've had full blown fucks, both buttocks gripped hard by both hands throughtout, that lasted no longer than the time my left palm cupped and caressed her right buttock.

After that I felt like I was battlng 1000. One girl, possibly even the one mentioned above, the Brooklyn blond, sighed at one point. It was a sigh more like she was bored than that she was annoyed. I don't care how crowded the subway is: there's always room for someone to reangle their ass if they don't like the caress: get a purse, an umbrella, a fist in the way. No, the girl was making her ass fully explorable to me. Maybe she was tired of my hand and wanted my dick there. Maybe she was enjoying herself but felt she ought to make some sign of discomfort or disapproval: just in case somebody seated, with their eyes at the level of her ass, could see through the crowd what was going on.

After that I accepted more occasions than had been my habit to take a seat when available. I viewed my fellow passengers with new eyes. What I saw amazed me. Now that I was alert for it, I saw gropings galore. I saw women who sought the gropers. I saw others who merely accepted what gropes came. It amazed me to see few to no instances of unwelcome gropes: the "volunteers" found each other with extraordinary efficiency.

(That latter relates to a perception I had at around that same period of my life: fist fighters found fist fights, knife fighters found knife fights, gun fighters found gun fights. When the DEK house jocks bruised into the West End, fist fights followed. ... Larry, my violin-playing Jewish dorm-neighbor from Texas, with his switchblade always just out of sight, was routinely getting gang-clicked by Puerto Ricans: always left them bleeding. How was that? I never got drawn on by a lone Puerto Rican, let alone by a gang of them. No DEK ever launched a punch at my nose. I was in my forties before I was ever shot at. I know that there have been cases where somebody draws a knife and somebody else shoots him between the eyes with a .38: it can happen, it does happen; but isn't it far more common that predator and prey fit hand in glove? go together like ham and eggs?) (Notice that it wasn't Bali or Tahiti or Katmandu that got its World Trade Center creamed.)

(Does the study of rape, a terrible crime, include a study of mutuality? Please: I am not a lawyer. I am not trying to get any rapist off. I am not trying to blame the victim. It so happens that I am a believer that society would be better off if we dispensed with proof and merely executed suspects of certain crimes. Executed them on the spot! He was Einstein? He was Jesus? Too bad. We won't tolerate so much as the thought of rape here. If we off the wrong guy occasionally, so what?) (I also hope you're aware that I bent over backwards to determine that my own little accidents were accepted before I indulged in any bigger accidents with the same subject.)

Taking my turn as observer during those couple of years in which I joined the unnumbered ranks of public ass-bumpers, I was astonished at how cautious I was in the role compared to some other roaming predators I saw. One young black guy was a master. I saw him again and again. I don't think he was commuting anywhere: I think he just spent a lot of time hunting: enough time that I ran into him repeatedly: a credit to me since he moved fast. Speedy would blitz through a subway car, careening from caressee to caressee. This woman's behind got the back of his arm; that woman's breast was grabbed openly by his right hand: but he was gone, on and into another car within seconds. How shall the police arrest the speeder going at eight-tenths the velocity of light while the cops operate only at subsonic velocities?

be back when I can. One thing I want to expand on is my feeling that the number of willing erotic encounters on the subway far outnumber the unwilling: technically, rape, by the slightest extension. I never discussed it with a partner afterward: anonymity was very much the point on both sides. But: I'm reminded of fights. The knife fighter I knew always got into knife fights. No one that I know of ever pulled a gun on him. No one punched him and then he stabbed them. Fist fighters found fist fights. Guys packing find others: also packing. I don't mean always: but more than one might guess. Something is going on there that ought to be studied.

2005 05 31 Whoops! See?
Stars do it too! Christian Slater was arrested for goosing a girl in a store.

Notes
The Puerto Rican girl I mentioned online but in a non-blog file had the face of a Hispano-Indian angel and as great an ass as I've ever touched. So round, so firm, so fully packed. And she was a size or two bigger that the petite girls I normally favored: so the bar of her heinie was carried almost at the same height as the jump of my dick.
What I didn't and don't understand is why she turned on me: she'd been accepting my caresses for many stops before she squealed, "What are you doing?" and lashed out.
I don't know. But here's a possibility. She was enjoying it: but saw witnesses noticing: that she was enjoying it. After all, her magnificent ass would have been right at the eye level of those seated.
Girls can bluff too.
(Hmm. It never occurred to me to try bumping my dick against the face of a seated beauty when the car lurched. That would have been a little bit much perhaps.)
Oh: and there's a sequel: she starts squealing and scratching at me just as the train rumbles into 116^th Street at Broadway: the boy-baby blue Columbia station. A minute later I enter my girl friend's apartment on the corner by the river. How come I'm bleeding, she wants to know.
I don't remember what I said.

Timing the Liebestod

2008-10-06T07:43:00.000-07:00

[Follows from Lightless Eye]

Back in the Apple I went into a limbo of impotence that I have no memory of the duration of. Maybe this next story happened that same evening. Maybe it happened a week or more later. I go to a party.

Wait. I'd better explain. I'm not much for parties. I don't lose myself in groups. The groups sense me as alien to their groupness and have a zillion ways to get me to want to leave before they have to throw me out. In high school I went to the beer bashes, was part of their forming, evolving the way they did. But then the parties took one path, I took another.

Come to think of it, sex had more than a little something to do with it. I brought a "Village" girl I'd met on Fire Island to a Rockville Centre Party. "God! Trees!" she said, "I feel so ... normal." She said it as though normal were some kind of disease. That was her joke: said to me: before she met any local denizens. (I'll have to tell more about her later.)

We'd never had a girl at a party, not ever. She wore tight toreador pants and no bra. She didn't blink or blush when Dick started gravely to intone obscenities under a transparent mask of belches. For some time after Al would come up when he saw me, peer into my shirt: "Where ya hiding the Village girls?" My old gang ... my ex-gang, rather started including females at parties after that, but I was already more of a Martian than ever.

Also: parties changed. In high school, we drank beer. In college, my friends (jazz musicians, don't forget) smoked dope, popped pills, tried an assortment of opiate-based medications ... They didn't have girls around either. Or, if they did, they were just whores. And I realized: jazz isn't their interest: that's just a cover, a pretext: they're there for the drugs: only the drugs are important. They all stopped playing: they all kept shooting the H.

I never went near the drugs, I'm sorry I didn't give up the beer too. Already I was giving up all the best ways to meet women: church, first and foremost. I've never seen either bar or drug den that was more of a dating service than church and things church-related. Had I not been already me, I would have stopped meeting women totally once past eighteen. Church brings you pussy but fucks up your mind, your character: compromises your integrity. Beer can bring you pussy: but fucks up your mind but good. Drugs? but totally.

College: go to a men's college. Only in appearance have the girls been taken away. They're soon trucked back in with vengeance. Very convenient that they're kept out of your hair while you supposed to be reading. Eventually, college fucks up your mind as badly as any of the others. No society that valued clear minds would ever send talent into cities.

But you know what? Pussy is natural. You don't need church, school, college, beer, drugs ... You just need to be male or female. I was. A little of both, I think. And the pussy came to me.

Unfortunately, Trudy's pussy assaulted me, taking no effort to disguise it's close companion. Eat my pussy, she said, and showed me her asshole.

So I go to this party afterwards. Oh, another detail about parties: at college, I'd get drunk; few of the others did. I'd met normal society for the first time: alcohol really was for moderation, not for abuse. Wholly alien to my background. For me, parties were to get drunk. After the party was for regretting that you couldn't get it up, had puked your wallet ... and so forth. Who do I see at the party but Sam Riffler. If I had any peers as an ass man at Columbia, if I had any superiors, it was Sam (real name). Sam and I never compared notes so I doubt if he knows either which of us made better pussy-paper. Girls just came and stuck to us.

Sam is sitting on a chair. Rocking on his lap and grinning mischievously is the best looking girl at the party. "Alice, this is SybaRight. SybaRight, Alice." Alice has both her arms around Sam's neck. Alice had a light in her dark eyes that was neurotic edging toward psychotic. I'm a sucker for just such light in women. Sam says he'll be back and dumps Alice's own butt onto the cushion. That chair was like an arm chair; not a chair that foldes, in a row of other such. I camped on my haunches nearby and tried to say nice things about Sam. I was looking but I was not bird-dogging. That conversation faltered fast. "So, how long have you and Sam ... I ... er ..."

"I hardly know Sam," Alice said. "I'm not with Sam. I'm here alone." Alice touched me for the first time. "Or," she said, "I'm with you."

Sam never returned to that chair. I saw him across the apartment, smiling bemusedly, and waving from that distance. Maybe Sam know something that I should also have known. Maybe Sam was trying to communicate something to me. Maybe Sam was just glad he palmed a lurking disease onto this goyim before it could infect him.

Alice it turned out had graduated from Barnard at least a year before I graduated from Columbia. I didn't keep track of Barnard girls. Just because I'd never seen her doesn't prove she hadn't been daily on the front page of the paper. Alice says she has to go home to Scarsdale. First she has to get something from her place in the Village. Do I want to come? Sure.

Transportation was a VW bug. She drove it vibrating from cobblestone to cobblestone down the West Side Highway. My mind wasn't working too well. She was explaining something to me that I wasn't following. If we stayed at her place, we'd have to be up early. If we grabbed her stuff and went straight to Scarsdale, we could sleep as long as we wanted. If we slept at her place, I couldn't fuck her. If we slept in Scarsdale, I could. Or was it the other way around? I couldn't follow any of this. I couldn't believe I was with an attractive girl again, that things seemed normal more or less. Trudy's asshole kept staring at me from right under my nose.

And there was another thing wrong: I was rid of Tina but I still wasn't sure if I was choosing any of this.

"So?" Alice said expectantly.
"Huh?"
"Which do you want?"

Oh my God: I didn't know there was going to be a test! "Uh: you decide."

She gave me the same devilish smile I'd first seen playing around the corners of her mouth. "We'll stay at my place," she announced.

"Alice," I fumbled uncertainly, "There's something I'd better tell you." Wicked, wicked smile from Alice. "You said something about we'd sleep together one place but not the other?"

"Yes."
"Which have we chosen?"
"I won't make love on my mother's sheets without having to wash them immediately. My own sheets I don't worry about. I chose my sheets for us."
"Um ... Err ..."
"You're not gay," she said with certainty.
"Uh, ah ... I'm not sure ..." I was sorry I'd gone to the party.

"You're impotent!" she shrieked. "Ooo ... I thought so." As a triumph. Another notch on her young belt. Or rather she wouldn't have to tame me; something else had already emasculated me.

We bounce past Bethune Square. It's late. My wonderful Whitehorse Tavern, just over there, is closed. She cuts east: on Bleeker maybe. We get into the tangle where 4^th crosses 10^th. Old New York is as organic as any old city. Younger New York succumbed to French geometry, as though life should conform to graph paper. But the Village is NY giving French order the finger.

Lots of my college friends had money. Most of my high school friends had had money. Rockville Centre was every bit as bourgeois as Riverdale, Park Avenue, Saddle River, or Scarsdale. The first time I walked from my freshman warren to Anton's private room to find wall to wall carpeting and a pair of original Miro graphics I knew I was crossing a border I hadn't known existed locally. If Borny, my high school buddy, summered on his yacht, it was the bar that was carpeted, not any damn dorm room. Borny was given hot rod after hot rod, no matter how many he wrecked; no Miro graphics: not any.

Anton's family had a three story mansion hiding behind a three story hedge in New Rochelle. The private drive crunched gravel for a minute before nearing the house. There were no sidewalks on or off the property. Butlers or what-have-you answered the door. ... No high school friend of mine would have had a butler even if the father had just been awarded Texas as a fiefdom. Ah. But there were Jews aplenty in Rockville Center who did have butlers and chauffeurs, tall hedges and long drives. And Sam's parents house in Poughkeepsie was three stories, had servants, could easily loose a dozen people ... I could see Alice's parents house in Scarsdale from her Village digs. A garden in back. Maillol graphics on the wall. Original Maillols! I'd never dreamed I'd ever know anybody who ever owned anything with a Miro signature on it. But I would have assumed Miro a thousand times over before I'd have assumed Maillol. I flip through the record stack. Oh my God! Oh my God! she's got the whole Tristan with Wilhelm Furtwangler conducting Kirsten Flagstad!

I heated the hi fi, blew no dust from the diamond, and started the Prelude.

Barry Bonds just broke a bunch more records in 2001 because he can hold still and watch the pitch come longer than anybody. Doesn't give a twitch the pitcher can read. You'll find forty baseball players who can do that before you'll find another conductor who can stay still, hold the music, not tip his hand, longer than Furtwangler. Furtwangler makes Babe Ruth or Hank Aaron look nervous. With Furtwangler conducting, just the Liebestod seems to last an hour.

Lasting. That's SybaRight's business. I never said I ran fast: I just ran so that I never had to stop. I'd letter merely by being the last one running.

Ready for bed, I started again at the Prelude. Whether I used words or not, I communicated that foreplay was all we needed for most of the opera. My dick had shown up. There was no further thought of impotence. I intended to enter her at the Liebestod and stay in her through its climax. That I should climax at the climax was an idea too wonderful to have. That she too should climax at the climax was something I was too full of myself and of Wagner to even notice at the time. Once the music started, Alice was hardly even there for me: as finely sculpted as her breast was, as well tanned her skin, as clean, depilitated, finely scented her whole physical self ...

It was late when we started. It was dawn when we finished. Alice had said something about having to get up early to go to Scarsdale. We didn't. We slept on and on. At two or three in the afternoon I hear Alice's hushed voice on the phone. The following traces some essences.

I'm not coming to Scarsdale this weekend after all, Mom.
I don't need to pick up that medication. My problem is solved.
Yes. Big flow. Big flood. Then normal.
Oh? No, I don't intend to tell you. Just say I found a new gynecologist.

Alice apparently hadn't had her period in months. Yet neither she nor her mother thought she was pregnant. Alice having been married and divorced twice already by her early twenties, obviated one of pregnancy's fears. Her story paralleled that of my Dyan so closely that I could get a detail reversed. This is close: Her first husband was a millionaire. Had her father not owned a fleet of trucks in Westchester, she still would have no problem with the rent. Her father loved to indulge her. Yet even her father would blanch at the bills Bloomingdales' would send him.

Alice may or may not have been actually married to her second "husband." He turned out to be the ex-Marine who had been the first person ever to offer aloud to beat me to a pulp: "fucking intellectual." It gets very incestuous. That commie organizer of Morningside Heights, Bruce, would latter "marry" the "wife" of my army best friend, Phil: years later: he'd been with Alice long before he'd ever met
René. No, it's more incestuous than that: Alice, later on, long after the legend of her beauty became merely unbelievable to those who hadn't known her then, lived with Ornette Coleman. The last time I saw Ornette, he was living with my first love, Jackie!

2005 11 02 It's five years now that I haven't returned to this file to continue the story. Maybe it's because this story is key to my telling how I met my wife. I gush the little stuff and procrastinate when it counts.

Originally I'd called this woman Dolores in this story, following my practice of protecting real girls' anonymity. I've changed it today: there's no reason I should want to protect Alice, and plenty of reason to want to harm her. Still, I don't supply her last name: of which she had several: maiden, married, remarried ...
giving the girls pseudonyms. Alice was this woman's real name. I'd called her

There may be another reason I've procrastinated with completing my Alice story: there's a sequel in which I slapped her. What made philosophically non-violent SybaRight, decide to make an exception needs its own module: and not in the Sex section. That needed module will also address other exceptions I've made since: not only actually smacking Hilary, a couple of times, actually trying to hurt her.

Notes

Ornette Coleman:
I don't know what you think of Ornette. I'm not sure what I think of him myself. I first saw him within a month or two of his first hitting New York: one of a series of memorable feats for the Five Spot. I bought his first record within months of its coming out. But I hadn't been standing on line for it to come off the press. I listened to it, but I never worshipped it. Don Cherry's exploding cheecks made me uncomfortable. I worried about him in a way I'd never worried about Dizzy puffing up like an adder. I remember Bobby Porcelli pronoucing him "the greatest genius of all time." But Bobby had made the same pronouncement about Bird, Bud, Monk, Trane ... all within the previous few months.
Whatever you think of him consider this: he's a famous innovator in his field. Whether or not he's on your short list for anything good, he's certainly on anybody's middle length list for jazz giants. Ornette won a Guggenheim. That's a first for jazz. Ornette broke longevity records at The Five Spot. Patrons there weren't drafted. They weren't there at gun point. They were there voluntarily and spent money to be there, spent money while there.
So how come he has to mooch from SybaRight's old girl friends? shouldn't a giant in any field have people lining up to slip him little loans?
In the same vein, how come SybaRight, author of the Model, inventor of inter-netting, inventor of Meta-oxymoron, of Macroinformation ... is followed only by people trying to get him evicted, defenestrated, hoping to turn up evidence of his being wanted somewhere: some long rap sheet?
I'll tell you this: Ornette should thank me. I introduced Alice to jazz. Took her to see Trane. Showed her how to concentrate on what Elvin was doing and still hear Trane and McCoy too.
My sex story about Jackie was told in the context of the police in the kleptocracy folder of my Social Pathologies directory. That predates my sex folder, predates my changing names to protect innocent girls. Just realize: that story was about cops. It was also about sex. It was also about neighbors. It was also about light. The above story is about sex. It's also about Wagner: about New York suburbs ...

Money & Art:
Any nouveau riche can wow his old buddies with a gold-hardwared bathroom, pussy around the pool ... Trouble is, you never know the effect you're having on someone not from your old neighboorhood. The Cabots wouldn't be likely to visit the mansion of the latest NBA sensation, but if they did, Rookie of the Year wouldn't even get the insults. Better hire me to advise your decoration. $1,000 spent on a little something can do more than $100,000 spent on something else.

Adult Sex Stories

2008-10-06T07:22:00.000-07:00

Early Adulthood: The Lightless Eye (My one instance of impotence)

Sometime after college my friend Alan tried a different graduate school tack. If I have my chronology straight, he started architecture at U. Penn. (An experience of his there provided material years later for my Model.)
Back to Columbia for more English was tack II. Alan invited me to share with him an apartment he'd just taken on Claremont Avenue. I am repeatedly told and easily believe that Claremont Avenue is more like Paris than any other street in New York except maybe Beekman Place or Sutton Place. It runs only between 116^th and 123^th Streets and amazingly for NY has only one street (120^th) cutting through it. 116^th is largely student housing. The west side of Claremont is almost all Columbia faculty housing. The entire east side of Claremont from 16^thto 120^th is Barnard building: dorms, the library ... None of the buildings are more than a dozen stories tall: too tall to walk up, but hardly sky scrapers. New York is halfway toward human scale on Claremont Avenue. Alan knew I had no money, and, with the army looming over my head, no plans to get any.

I'll comment elsewhere on post-college as a limbo for males in a kleptocracy with a standing army: this is a sex story and I only mean to be setting the scene before getting to the sex. Alan's father was a corporate lawyer. Alan had mooched plenty of money from me over the years: money he didn't need and that I couldn't afford to lend. I'd give up dinner so he could splurge on champagne with steak. It never occurred to me that someone would beg money from me without being in desperate trouble. It never occurred to me that I was already too close to desperate trouble to give aid to others. Anyway, Alan said he'd foot the bill: just move in: expense free.

Sure. Alan builds one of his famous book cases to separate our rooms: a shoji screen book case this time: truly beautiful. I throw a mattress on the floor, plug in my amp, table, connect the speakers, and I'm moved in. One day I come in and hear a female voice. Coming from Alan's end of things it's none of my business. I plop on my mattress to read whatever I was reading at the time. Quite likely Tolstoy. Heller would come soon. Clomp, clomp. Feet in the hall. A shining female face peeks in. "Hi. Remember me?"

Yeah, as a matter of fact. One weekend some years back, Alan had sported a date at a football weekend: a girl from his old high school: a girl still going to said high school: a fancy, expensive prep school in Riverdale. Trudy. "I'm Trudy," she says. Long dark hair pulled to the rear of her skull to show a lot of face. Dark jersey, dark slacks, dark shoes. She would have looked Existential were it not for her shining face.

Later, too late, I would remember something Alan had told me once: I was fucking Trudy, he said ... and she said something stupid ... and I lost my hard on ... and couldn't get it back.

She says, "My shrink thinks I should have an affair."
"Oh?"
"What do you think?"
"What do you mean, 'What do I think?'"
"Are you available?"
"Uh ... Sure."

Trudy, fresh out of high school, Alan's ancient friend, goes and tells Alan that she'll be staying at my end of the apartment for a while.

It was a disaster from the first hour. I've never seen a girl work harder at fucking than Trudy or to less avail. She'd shove her hips into the air, me teetering at the apex like Nessie had just come up under my boat. Uh, uh, uh. There she is, bucking like a whore. But there was nothing to it. No sensuality could possibly develop.

"I've never had an orgasm," she confesses. And you never will. And it's no wonder. If you won't relax, and won't let me lead, won't even let me co-lead, I can't show you anything. It was strange, but I finally came myself.

I love music. I've always loved music: have long been far from modest about my taste. Trudy's parents live up near the Cloisters. Choral music people. Jewish, of course, but the place is full of Bach and Handel, Fauré ... Tendentious, didactic, authoritarian. "Choral music is the only music," they inform me.

We go to Trudy's room. "My mother saw my strawberry," she giggles. She takes her jersey off. Throws her bra aside. Caresses the suck mark on her neck. Did I give her that? When? Oh, well. Possibly. Off come her shoes, her slacks. Off come her panties. She pulls me to her. Starts pulling at my clothing. Her face is red with excitement. "I want you to do something," she whispers. "What's that?" My clothes are all but off by this time. My dick is beginning to throb. Released from its confines, it thrums the air. A pearl of lubricant would have decorated the tip of the glans. She's on the bed. I'm standing at the bed side. My dick is throbbing over her. "I want you to lick me," she hisses.

Trudy throws her head back, launches her hips over the bed, throws her legs at the ceiling, kicking into a split. Dark pubic box as a frame. Flash of pink pussy. They were all there. But I didn't see them. All I could see was her nether eye staring blindly, unappetizingly, at me.

That one time in the cellar with Bonnie, age maybe eight, trying to stuff my little peanut into the little flap of flesh at the front of her legs, there'd been an acrid reek as she struggled to cooperate. Bonnie had no pussy smell yet. I'd just smelled the shit. Now here's Trudy wafting her pussy through the room ... but then blanketing it with the stuff of her colon.

A couple of months after scribbling this file at a breakneck pace I come back to add something, only to realize that it needs more work than that. I'd scanted over something. If you've read more than this file here you probably have the impression, correctly I assure you, that SybaRight adores pussy. I love to see it, to touch it, to penetrate it, to smell it, to taste it, to feel it respond to me ... But that was not true the first time I ever made cuni-lingual contact. I was asked. I did it as a duty. I did it with trepidation and utterly without enthusiasm. And yes, it was Trudy who asked me: but it was on an occasion prior to the scene reported here.

I remember my first really sensuous fucks with Jackie. She'd eaten me before letting me enter her. That wasn't my first fuck, but it was my first one where I was even half way relaxed, half way able to enjoy it. Later with Jackie, when I was fully relaxed, an old pro, I lay with my face between her legs, looking at her, contemplating the pussy, contemplating licking it. She didn't say What are you waiting for? She didn't' grab me by the face and jam me forward. She, bless her, let me find my own way. I wasn't quite ready. It would be another year or so before I found what I'd missed. I knew lubrication was good: I just wound up spitting in her, then rubbing it. She was a little dry, I already knew. It was with others that I would learn how very wet a nice kiss could make it. It was with others that I would learn how very wet some pussies came without a kiss.

So it was Trudy who first asked me to use my mouth and tongue on her. "I want you to lick me, is how she put it. I did. Brave, but reluctant. She seemed very proud of me, but more from the fact that I did it than from how I did it. She didn't come from the fucking. She didn't suddenly madly hump my face and come that way either.

We should have a forum of guy's memories of first diving the muff. Send me your memoirs: I'll attach them. Gals, your memories of your first gag on the bone would also be welcome. Do any women really love it from the first time? How much is duty and how much lust? With the dick, at least you don't have your face quite so much in the asshole as the guy's do. As a veteran, I find the dark hole a potent presence. It doesn't put me off, but I do try to let it mind its own business. God forbid a girl should leak in any way while I'm slavering on her. In my enthusiasm, things might run together but I never (but once) knowingly let anything of mine get knowingly near the anus while kissing. Fingering while fucking: that's different. But I won't put my finger there until I'm done with the kissing. I don't bring my face anywhere near the southern hemisphere once I've mounted, especially once I've come. The tongue is for fore-play. Fore means before.

The other point I want to insert I'll put below.

I don't waste much time in my life regretting doing this or not doing the other. But I'll indulge a little bit here. I wish I had puked all over her. No. Good little grin-and-bear-it SybaRight. I closed my eyes: focused my nose on the pussy: tried to block out the neighborhood ... And Trudy launches into a paean to how she feels when some old bearded guy in the Village eats her.

I tell you: it's a wonder I developed into the avid female-fluids imbiber I did after that dissuasion. My dick went limp. It stayed limp half of that whole summer.

Trudy did some summer-session work at Cornell that year. She invited me up to visit. Why? More importantly, why did I accept? Cornell has a great setting. We climbed around in the ravines. Back in her room, she wants to eat me this time. It was OK with me, but my dick knows best. He cringed from her.

Remembering Trudy everting her pussy toward my face while I was still standing on the floor makes me retrospectively grateful for all the unnoticed anal modesty I'd enjoyed up to that point. As little kids we looked at each other's butts, but we never explored past the surface. I think I was forty-something before I felt a woman's tongue suddenly rooting in my large intestine. I jumped "a mile." "What the hell are you doing?" All women I've been with except Trudy have been very considerate of my delicate feelings with regard to the fundament. Neither of us can help it being nearby. I don't want it rubbed on my face. Out of mind, if not out of sight. Women who mention so much as the penis in the ass get no encouragement from me. Fortunately, maybe because of my length, no woman has ever made a fuss about it. Pussy is where the penis belongs. I resent the woman who doesn't kiss me back. Maybe one out of ten (or fifty) times a woman comes in my mouth I like a blow job--on principle--but there's no way the best blow job in the world is 1% as nice as an ordinary fuck (except that some girls are much more virtuoso ball caressers while blowing than on their back: that alone can justify an occasional blow job). It's the vagina that co-evolved gripping the penis, not the mouth, and not the ass either. I adore nice buttocks, but you can leave the asshole at home, thank you.

Feelings? I wipe my ass with your feelings.
Tony Soprano to Christopher Moltisanti

One of my files not at this blog narrates my first experience with quantities of pornography. For years now I've thrown porno emails away just based on the subject line. It takes too much of my day to trash spam even wihout opening it. My slow old CPU and standard modem makes it worse. Recently I get a couple of faster machines and so just recently I've looked at some of the current porno offerings. (In at least one case I'm glad I did and you may see the
result here). [link to be added] The porno fliers I'd seen in 1970 showed ass fucking. Plenty of pussy shots show the bum nearby. But the current crop of internet porno is like nothing I've ever seen before. It's as though they're selling the asshole more than the pussy. (What good would puking on my own computer monitor do?) Is this practice really market-response based? Are there any people left on earth? Or am I the only freak?

Notes

Choral Music:
I remember one friend asking another, I don't remember whether or not as a straight man:
"Is it true that half the choir at St John's is Jewish?"
"No, I'd say it's nine tenths atheist (though half of the atheists are Jews)."
As to whether choral music is the only music, with Vince Lombardi the music master, I'll say this: Harvard is so that the world can fill up with Harvard assholes. Yale is so that the world can fill up with Yale assholes. America is so that the world can fill up with American assholes. But music is not so that the world can fill up with music assholes.

Everted Pussy:

My hyperbolic metaphor of Trudy turning her pussy inside out in her anxiousness to wrap her fundament against my face reminds me of a time decades later when a pussy that had had me enthralled moments before had me about to lose my lunch. An artist I published at PK Fine Arts, Ltd. had a party in his loft. I met his wife for the first time. The artist greeted my date with Rabelaisian enthusiasm: I met his wife with a groan. Oh, my God. Look at that flank, the texture of that skirt on that buttock, the sweetness of that blond face ... The next thing I know that artist recommends his wife for a tapestry commission I had. The tapestry was for the gallery, part of the company furniture, and she did a nice design on my "SybaRight." The next thing I know after that, she's dumping him and comes to me for sympathy. I'd just leased office space on Lafayette Street. I fucked her on the hard concrete floor, not one rag of furniture yet in place. Eating her was a heaven I forsook faster than anticipated for the heaven of being inside her. My knees and her butt ignored the cold concrete. Next thing I knew, I'd come. Next thing I knew, the hard floor was very uncomfortable. I watched as I withdrew. Her pussy was so sweet. Her public hair was the most angelic down. But yoiks! Her pussy turned inside out as my penis slipped out! I was still half swollen, and I was pulling her pussy as I withdrew. Her inner lips stayed wrapped around it, not wanting to let go. Barf. Some creature of the sea floor. Coral polyp pink. Blech.
My lust for her never came back.
Thinking about it now it occurs to me that that might not be an uncommon occurrence: just not commonly seen. The pussy welcomes the kissing face, but it doesn't clench on it. Typically, we don't watch the penis during withdrawal. Typically, we're facing her face. Typically, it's dark.
That vomituous moment reminds me of one in the next story coming up, one I don't think I'd intended to mention: we fuck for hours. the gal goes to the john. there's only candle light, but still: on her way back I see my cum hanging from her pussy like an elastic yo-yo, glopping down and blobbing back up as she walked: 4/5^ths of the way to the floor! Glub! Retch.

Passive Parlay

2008-10-05T07:59:00.000-07:00

Telling stories about girls who were virgins before, during, and after I knew them is tricky enough and even so I rename them all "Bonnie" to protect the girls whether innocent or not. I now want to tell a series of stories where only one virgin was involved. Any one who knows much of me or the females involved could pretty well figure out who was who, but go ahead: I'm not going to tell you. I'll change all names: to protect me if no one else.

I've said in my earlier sex narratives that I tend to be passive as males go. The female usually initiates. Maybe I stimulate. Maybe I share the lead. Who knows what we do: I don't claim to be 100% conscious: just 99% more conscious than most.

One result of my sexual character is that I had a "girlfriend" for years in college who was never my girlfriend. I never asked her out. I never had a date with her. I never told her I liked her. She just moved in and I could never gather the strength to make her leave. Sure I took the pussy. Why not? But it carried a price: never lacking pussy, I never got up the energy to hunt for a real girlfriend. I'll never know what I would have found had I looked, who I might have seduced had I tried, what it might have meant to me had I made an investment.

There's a frightening parallel there with the girl I married. My attempts to get rid of her never worked. Maybe accepting her would work. It didn't. The scars I bear for my passivity are permanent.

Since teen-hood I've had lean periods: no-woman in my bed more regularly than a-woman in my bed. More often I have one woman in my bed who I don't want in my bed: other than that getting laid is nice: hard to give up if it's there. The sequence I want to tell as a group here involves a funny musical beds interlude between two long periods of one unwanted woman in my bed. Though there's a strong contrast between the two unwanted women: I didn't love the first; I did love the second. I just didn't think we were good for each other. I think I was right.

As preface, I'll tell about the first unwanted long relationship. Then I'll tell the fast, funny stuff.

You hold my ass, I'll hold your balls

We get to school. We're dumped together by age. Class of '60. Some Columbians commute to college, but for the first week we all lived on campus. Columbia College was full of freshmen for one solid week, very few sophomores around. No faculty, but a couple of deans. We were supposed to bond with our own litter mates. And for the most part we did. Once the actual year started, we might become acquainted with upperclassmen living in neighboring rooms of the same dorm, but such upperclassmen were likely already bonded from previous years and not looking for new bonds. Juniors and Seniors tend to have a wider acquaintance in their classes as well as in their social lives but freshman are routinely insulated. So it was odd when the sophomore next door to my three-freshmen-to-two-rooms suite hung out in our suite. What the hell. A year or so later we were still friends with Willy Gib. I change all names in any way related to the sex in the stories. Non-combatants I may call by their real names. Willy played piano. Gib got gigs here and there, copiously during fraternity rushing weeks. Gib says he's got a gig at the What For fraternity. He's also got a date with a Barnard freshman. Do we want to come. Beer? Music? What the hell. Willy didn't play jazz, but he played OK. Sure.

Willy Gib was on the short side. Boy, had he found a short girl. Tina can't have been more than four foot eleven. Gib was Jewish. Tina was Jewish. SybaRight's surname is what? Well, not Nazi, but not Jewish.

I get a beer. Gib nods me over to the piano. He has to work: of course. Will I keep my eye on Tina? Keep her from getting bored? Sure. I stand at the wall with my beer. Tina comes over. Do I want to dance? Sure. We dance. She pulls me real close. She leads me out of Willy's sight. She nods toward the stairs that leads to the fraternity brothers' rooms. Fraternity brothers' rooms are understood to be common property during these open houses. You wouldn't dream of fucking in just anybody's room in a private home; you won't dream of not fucking in a fraternity party just because you don't know whose room it is. Tina nods me and leads me into one of the rooms upstairs. I haven't known this girl ten minutes and she's somebody else's date.

Maybe I should have pushed her away from me. Maybe I should have treated it as a joke. Oh ha, ha, ha: and led her right back into Willy's vision. Now I'll never know what would have happened if I had. I yielded to her lust and her lust was like a lobster trap: easy to fall into, hard to get out of.

Tina was OK looking. She had two features I like a lot: long long long blond hair: down past her ass, and a nice compact curve of an ass: soft and firm at the same time. Tina closes the door. Tina comes up to me. Tina puts her arms around my neck. Tina looks up into my face. I kiss her: without much interest. I loosen her bra and get a modest-sized breast out, also without much interest. I fondle her butt with considerably more interest. Short girls can have great asses. Jewish girls can have great asses. Tina was a dancer, ballet all her life: and need I speak of dancers' asses?

Tina is wearing tights. I start to fumble at them. "I'm a virgin," she says. I stop and don't know what to do next. If this girl wants me to take her pants off, she'll get me to take her pants off. If she wants to take my pants off, she'll do it. I don't have to worry about reticence on her part. She's taken the lead through this whole thing. I let her keep it. Pretty soon her preferences are clear enough. She doesn't need her pants off but she does want mine off. She wants my dick jabbing the air but doesn't seem to want it jabbing inside her. Neither does she take it anywhere near her mouth. Neither will she stroke it properly. It takes however no persuasion whatsoever to get her to caress my balls. Very gently. Very respectfully. And then to hang on for dear life: for several years. I liked to hold onto her ass; she liked to hold onto my balls. She'd phone and ask if I wanted coffee, if I wanted to study, if I wanted to go for a walk ... What she meant was she wanted to hold onto my balls.

Gender is funny. Only once in my long-enough-now life have I met a girl who could handle a penis as though she had one of her own. She could jerk you off as though you'd done it yourself while in a hurry. (Julliard girl. What was her instrument? violin?) My general experience is that girls will stroke the penis or kiss the penis or suck the penis out of a sense of obligation, but seldom with passion or genius: not with male imagination. But 50% to two-thirds have a real feeling for caressing the nuts. That would be a terrible ratio if hands and mouths were all that's involved. [I just broke up with a twice-widowed woman with several children, the children all fully-adult, who has zero-sense of how to handle balls. Terrifying lover; but what an absolutely adorable pussy! A teen-aged pubic region and high, uplifting breasts on an old woman, but one with spastic hands!] Fortunately, it's the pussy where you want to put the dick most regularly. And the pussy feels good almost no matter what kind of a dud the girl is. The girl blows as an obligation: I let her as an obligation. If she asked for a rating she'd seldom get better than a D, maybe a C-. In my experience girls go straight from D, C-, C-, D, F, F, D ... to A+. I don't know any Bs or ordinary As. Now the balls: Balls are great bumping against the buttocks, bumping against labia. Balls can come into play when the male apparatus caresses the breasts, the face, the hair ... But for straight out caressing with fingers I've known a number of virtuosi of the nuts for only that one genius of the penis.

Tina, at least as an eighteen year old virgin, was clear as clear: you handle your dick; I'll handle your balls.

Tina wanted to hear my come spatter on the floor, on the sidewalk, on the park bench, feel it on her wrist, on her dress, on her breasts, on her face ... several times a day, several times a week for a year before she told me she was ready to feel it inside her. For that she borrowed a nice older lady's apartment, bought new sheets, decorated the bathroom ... Even after that she still didn't want to take me in her mouth. She was quite discouraging if my mouth got anywhere near her pussy. I don't think she liked to be fingered that much either. Who knows what she liked by the time she was thirty (and long-married to a rabbi). But from eighteen to twenty or so she loved my balls and my come: and from nineteen to twenty or so she loved to fuck: and my balls, and my come.

But I really wish I had been able to learn what it was like to survey a room, decide if there were any women who interested me, see if I could get them to be interested in me, ask them out, jockey back and forth ... have a normal relationship. Maybe all women, or almost all women, wind up reaching for the apparatus, but I'm not at all sure it's good when they reach for it in the first second. And in the end all women want to be reached for: and maybe kissed: and fucked, and given children. But few want you to shove your face between their thighs before asking about the weather.

There were occasions where I'd be verbally abusive with her: curse her as well as tell her to go away and leave me alone. Two days would pass: and there she be: at the door: holding a candle: bearing a gift: and a bottle of wine. I hadn't been laid in two days. I'd let her in.

Well, finally I graduated and for the first time in years no longer had a regular address on Morningside Heights. Tina was still at Barnard but she'd have to haunt somebody else. I heard that she became promiscuous for a period. I also heard that the rap on her was that she was a bad lay. I bet a lot of guys don't like to be grabbed. I hope nobody thought that I had taught her anything. I never did much with her but find neutral ground.

I was frequently back in the neighborhood, would run into her: but being free of a known address offered no place for her to corner me. By the time I got another address on the Heights, her habit was broken. She went through a period of cursing me. Then decided I was OK, and resumed saying nice things about me. Then she got engaged to the rabbi. Who knows: maybe her experience helped make her a good rabbi's wife. I have no idea. No contact since 1961.

Notes:

Nuts for Nuts:
I remember one night we're in Riverside Park, on the brow of a hill. I tell her to hold it a minute: I gotta pee. She comes to attention at my side, breathing like a patriot. I take it out. Offer to let her hold it. No. Quick little firm "no"-shakes of the head. I shrug. I pee. Does she want to shake it clear? More little "no"-shakes. Firm. But she's breathing hard. It's been a real experience for her. She connected to the penis whether stiff or lax: just not through her hand.
I can tell she's eager to hold something. Another couple of minues and I let her. Love out of doors is special.

Consciousness:
I have only just recently discovered that Timothy Leary forged a streamlined, complex, amazingly comprehensive model of consciousness. You can look it up at deoxy.org. It merges Freud and Jung with the zoo-biologists and the yogas too. It goes beyond all of them! and just so happens to merge well with my own theory of complex information! (That I'll link to later.)

Dykes

2008-10-05T07:58:00.001-07:00

If you read a good biologist like physiologist Jared Diamond you will see that male and female have related but not identical sexual agendas. Some, only some part, of common sense is congruent with the informed, inspired thinking of geniuses. I summarize that common sense is right in that the female typically responds to what she sees as "mate quality" before accepting a sex partner. But the female has her own agenda for adultery as well as her own capacity for simple experiment. Looking back on my life I believe I've responded more to adventure and experiment than to mate quality. Even in my mate I was attracted to what I recognized as neurosis. I like them a little crazy.

The story that brings me back to this folder today concerns something more than a little crazy and not at all mate quality. It relates to the bulk of the foregoing stories not only in being about things male and female but in being about nothing happening. I always best remember the girls I didn't fuck.

1958 we're having dinner in our usual restaurant: a block and a half north of the Tom's made so visible on Seinfeld. The door opens. My jaw drops. A Bohemian elf entered, went up to the owner, whispered something, and slipped back out. She was petite. She wore a cape. Little Black Ridinghood. She was pale as pale. Her lips were bare. Her eyes were darkened. An American Juliette Greco. Little Black Existentialisthood. As she slipped out, I saw her ankle, slender as a twig.

For days I couldn't stop thinking about her. Like a child. Nothing of the female about her save for her utter delicacy. Soft, long, long brown hair. A sweet mournful face. Then a triangle of black, no arms. A child's thin legs, nothing ankles, and black elf shoes.

It's like a month later I'm sitting at the bar in the West End Tavern, brooding over my beer. She glides in though the revolving door. I turn, swiveling the long back way around on my stool, riveted as she passes. She glides past me oblivious, but glides straight up to Jack, sitting just a few stools past me.

Jack was not my friend. Jack was a faggot. Jack wouldn't leave me along. Jack even came into my dorm room, ignoring my disinvitation, slid his hand under my blanket as I drew back in bed, screaming at him to leave. Jack was a grad student, also specializing in English. Jack worked for CU: one of the many jobs universities keep students poor with.

My elf whispered to Jack. She glided out. Thump, thump went the revolving door.

Never before had I approached Jack. I ignored Jack. Now I bee-lined for him. "Jack, Jack. Please. Tell me. Who is she?"

"Oh, no," says Jack. "SybaRight? Not you? Surely you can't be that stupid."

"Who is she? You know her?"

I no longer remember her name. I'm going to say Robin. I think it may actually have been Robin. "SybaRight, SybaRight. Don't tell me you've fallen in love with the biggest bull dyke in New York. You'll stay away from Robin if you know what's good for you."

"No, no. You damn faggot. You pervert everything around you."

The next time I saw Robin she was with Jan. First time I ever saw Jan. If you think dyke, you'll picture Jan.

"Don't be an ass," Jack told me. "Jan is the femme; Robin is the bull."

Robin never met my stare. But Jan did. I became friends with Jan. But not before being visited in the elevator of a friend's apartment building by a horde of dykes in black leather jackets cum steel studs, etc. I stand there. The door opens. I start to enter. They suddenly appear, hold the door open, let themselves all in. As we rise, they take out switch blades. Click them open. I made no response. Got out at my floor. They all stayed behind, staring malevolently. But after that non-display, they left me alone. And Jan became friendly. Would accept my invitations to watch the sun rise over Morningside Park. Even gave me a nice back massage in my mother's Buick one night. But Robin I could never even make eye contact with.

I stopped worrying about Robin after seeing her at a party in the Village maybe a year later. Downtown in the Whitehorse Tavern I was friendly with a knockout red head. Cathy: as Irish as red heads come in New York (with an astonishing set of milk-jugs, let me tell you). (Currently German owned, the Whitehorse was highly Celtic in atmosphere.) Big bosomed, big drinker. Cathy worked as an artists model when she worked. She had a loft down on Bleeker Street, next block from the building with the Louis Sullivan facade. Some Whitehorse people were there and a bunch I'd never seen before. "I'm an artist. What are you: poet, artist, actor ...?" What bullshit. Clearly the guy works in an advertising agency. "I'm a poet," I answer.

Guys would come in and jump on her, pushing Cathy over backwards onto the bed, humping her with all their cloths on. Cathy would hump back, say she was glad they could come. Mostly I saw her with a particular guy, also named Jack, lived on West 114^th Street. Made his living running poker games. He supplied the place, the booze, the sandwiches: he took 10% of the pot.

Stupid Village party. Some clown there, decent looking black guy, was trying to convince everyone how serious he was about Zen. And in comes Robin.

Same outfit. Maybe she had a closet full of little black capes and little black shoes and skinny black hose. There were a jillion good looking women at this party. Our hostess looked like she was going to be busy. I'd always assumed that I'd fuck Cathy someday. She regularly came on to me when she was with other guys: just wait till she came on to me when she was solo. Never happened. Right now it's my job to just be there, wait till one of these dewy dames shows an interest in me. As I said, I play the female role, not the male. But with Robin there, I didn't have a chance. Robin went and stood against a wall. Within minutes every unattached female in the place was sticking to her like filings to a magnet. I watched, fascinated. Robin did my thing better than I ever did. But I couldn't tell how (any more than another could tell how I did it. (I couldn't either).) Clearly the girls didn't know what they were getting into. Or did they? If they wanted their pussy sucked, I wasn't into that yet. Robin certainly wasn't going to get them pregnant. And they didn't look to be concerned about disease. But maybe they had no such thoughts. Do dogs know what's attracting them when they follow a pheromone trial?

Suddenly I decided I had had enough. Clearly Jack was right. Robin was a chief bull dyke of New York. I was tired. I went home. I never saw Robin, or Jan, or any of them again.

I'm sad to say that I did see Cathy again: many years later. She was walking down Claremont Avenue where it curves into 116^th Street, looking far older than the actual number of years should have added. She was bickering, arguing with herself, and violently wiping dust or whatever from her sleeve, from her hands. Lady Macbeth. The Madwoman of Chaillol. God, and she'd been so zophtic, so full of life and fun before. Who knows? Maybe she was thirty-five when I'd thought she was twenty-five. That still wouldn't add up to her being eighty. The Portrait of Doreen Grey.

There. Three women. Dyke, dyke, nyphomaniac. And I never fucked a one of them.

Teen Humiliation

2008-10-05T07:51:00.000-07:00

Exhibitionist Sex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fishwife voice from within the house: Wha?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Note:

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

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

Do You Dig Plato?

2008-10-05T07:50:00.000-07:00

Times change. Talk of eating pussy goes up and down like the stock market. What got you laid in 1669 might get your stocked and lashed in 1769 or even 1869. Same thing gets you an instant blow job in 1969: gets you a cold stare in 1985. Not only the talk, but I guess the actual eating also goes up and down. Dogs, porpoises always do it; humans change fashion. Sometimes we do it but don't talk about it. Sometimes we do it and talk about it. The other two major possibilities may also make appearances: of varying duration. I've known women who love it and say so, other women who love it but say they don't, other women who keep mum but are clearly uncomfortable no matter whether they come like a tsunami or not.

But I know one thing: if you get your face in the muff, your dick will almost certainly follow. How would the guy (referred to above)
have done if he came into the bar, took his survey, went up to girl #1, said "I love to fuck ..." How many times would he get a purse across his chops? How many times would the girl say "OK, but you gotta suck on it first"? How many times would the girl say "I'm flying the rag: does that deter you? I can blow your whistle though." How many women have clipped how many guys with their bag, secretly weeping at the act they have to put on?

I'm sure that are some woman, can't say how many, what proportion, for whom it's not an act: who want only one penis in their entire lives and who are content: before, during, and after: even if the guy gets killed in battle the day after their first consummation.

I also know that the occasions on which I've been moaning about starting my lips on the pubis only to find the girl jockeying my head away and my dick there have far far outnumbered the times I've been trying to hump and they straddle my face instead. Many to zero.

Note: I Love to Fuck:

My friend Myron, on scholarship at Columbia College at age fifteen, would go up to adult women on Broadway, and sounding half like his lungs were full of pot and half like Andy Kaufman's crazy, pinched East European, Latka, decades before there was an Andy Kaufman or a Latka, say, "Hey, do you dig Plato? ..." Beat ... Beat "... You wanna fuck?"

The line would come regardless of their answer or indeed whether they answered. If he got tired of Plato he's say Dostoevsky.

I never say anybody sniff out a whore faster than this weird child, but with the above shtick Myron wasn't really fishing. Unlike the guy in the downstairs, maximizing his exposure to cunt, Myron was just goofing, putting the girl on.

If the woman was a whore, she'd shove him into a taxi faster than you'd believe.

That reminds me of a joke. (Gotta add that my first hearing this coincides with first meeting a friend's cute girl friend, she being the joke teller:

What has only one eye, a pink tongue, and loves to fuck?

Joe said he didn't know.
Adorable Renée covered one eye with her hand, stuck out her pink tongue, and smiled.

Chewing Ass

2008-10-05T07:47:00.000-07:00

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

The humiliations of breeding are probably a good thing for a costumed deceiver as gifted as Homo sapiens. How does a male explain to a female that his lust for her rump has nothing whatever to do with her pooper? I'm not sure the male explains it well to himself: some guys do go for the pooper: probably merely by synecdoche. We are not after all nearly so clever as we tell ourselves.

I woke up a moment ago, 1 AM, with an image bubbled up from my memory competing with my bladder and my erection for my attention: Roger, all of us exceedingly drunk and rowdy, waddling on his knees, behind a cute blond and biting her ass as she tried to talk to her boyfriend.

We were sixteen, seventeen years old and ensconced at a table in our favorite tavern, the Park View on Sunrise Highway in Rockville Centre, Long Island. We normally took up three quarters of the bar. I don't remember why we were at a table that Friday night, tossing down pitcher after pitcher of brew. But it was crowded, unusually so. And there were girls there: unusual to find a female under fifty in that dump on any night.

Actually Roger may have been eighteen by that time (he was the only one in our click a year ahead of us in school. Dick too was older, but was never-the-less in the same class with us and his kid brother, Charlie. Brian was the only one younger: a class behind: two and one half exceptions in our group.) Neither was Roger really my friend. I'm increasingly certain that he hated me and I certainly never liked him. But when groups of friends join, wittingly or no forming a click, we accept friends of friends as well as friends. I am sure that every one of us was leaking down his leg at the view of this (and several other) delectable girls with their buttocks practically at our eye level. But it was Roger who actually got off his chair, got down on his knees, knumbled up behind her, stuck his face smack between her buttocks, smack through her skirt, and started chewing on her like one of those trick sets of false teeth. Roger was clowning it because he'd pull his head back so we could all see his jaws extended as much like a shark's as he could manage.

The girl ignored him for long minutes. Then she twitched and smoothed her skirt as though Roger were just a fly, or perhaps a splinter on a post in the stable. The way she brushed her backside, you'd swear she didn't know it was more than a fly. But that was impossible. Roger looked like he was trying to return to the womb through the back door. Finally the girl changed position, angling her butt more toward the bar than toward our table. Roger stumped after her: comically rapid for a man on his knees, like a pecking chicken in an old movie.

It was simply unbelievable to the rest of us howling clowns that the girl didn't turn and look. It was even more unbelievable that the girl's companion never sensed her discomfort. No one looked down. The bar was oblivious. The standing crowd was oblivious.

Roger got rubicund when he drank. But I never saw Roger more red-faced than when his face plunged in and out of that girl's ass as though he would come through his nose. Roger's scars were on spectacular display. When Borny had put the Merc rod through the telephone pole, four out of five got cut to ribbons, but Rog had the record: like forty stitches on his broad forehead alone. Rog had had shotgun. It was Borny's rod but for some reason it was Roger's mother that had the cops deliver the bill for the pole before she even knew why her son hadn't come home yet. The cops could have had it in for him for years.

The girl's wiping at her ass became more frequent, and finally she guided her date deeper into the bar. Another blond ass took her place as rapidly as a seat on the subway gets filled at rush hour. Roger went right back at it.

Within a year our regular dive switched to being the Downstairs, between Sunrise and Merrick, more on Merrick Road than on Sunrise. I think Roger was a prime instigator. He wanted to be among the college crowd. Parkview people were blue collar. The last time I saw Roger was maybe ten years later. He seemed to be half-working there at the Downstairs. He didn't bother to acknowledge that he had seen me. His scars glowed. But I saw no new scars: no signs that any boyfriend had ever taught him manners with a bar stool.

In college myself and back at the Downstairs on a home visit I saw a guy who entered the bar and left with a stunning coed within minutes. I'd never seen him before and hadn't really been paying attention, but I was swiftly informed of what had just been witnessed by anyone with their eyes open. Somebody in my circle knew the guy, knew his modus operandi, and reported it. The guy goes into a bar. He rapidly inventories the females. Selects the cream. Eliminates those conspicuously in a tete-a-tete. Goes straight up to female candidate #1. "Hello. I'm Soandso. There's something I love and I'm very good at what I love. I love to nibble clit, feel the woman respond, give pleasure ... I put ..."

The story went on that the guy would get very detailed as to his technique, but if what I had half-observed was any indication, that stunner had yanked him out the door before he had gotten past "good."

In 1956 I sold significantly more hot-dogs than anyone else by being loud: loud, rhythmic, clever. The following year's champion was quiet, secretive, intimate. So though it wasn't me, I already knew how effective the technique of the Downstairs' cunning linguist could be. The story continued that if he struck out with girl #1, he went straight to girl #2. In the unlikely event that he had exhausted the assembly without a catch, he'd go straight to bar #2.

Roger must have seen the guy, known about him. I wonder if Roger ever learned any indirection.

College Sex Stories

2008-10-05T07:46:00.000-07:00

Party Jokes

SybaRight was occasionally a voice of conscience. Therefore, as I've already mentioned, my friends increasingly excluded me from plans. I'd learn of the pogrom, the lynching, the practical joke after it was accomplished: until finally we were no longer friends, didn't even greet each other in the bar. I disapproved of almost everything that my ex-friends planned, though there was one gag they pulled that I found myself laughing at despite my horror.

This story involves a girl already mentioned by her real name in other stories, but since this one is an embarrassment, she's be "Bonnie," SybaRight's generic girl, for this one.

It's a New Year's party in, I don't know, maybe junior year of high school: far enough along that we were mixing hard liquor with the beer and also mixing girls with the boys, actually had dates. I'm blotto way early in the evening. I've made the mistake of telling a drop-out drunk fellow worker at the supermarket about the party. He's shown up in his Mercury hot rod, poured rye down my throat, driven up onto the neighbor's lawn and into their rose bushes. My date has given up on me and gone off with my best friend: a lost New Years for SybaRight except for the couple of memories getting mentioned here. The joke my sober intellect reconstructs from what I was told later, later after my girl was wearing my friend's ring.

Bonnie was petite, blond, cute. Bonnie hadn't gone to my grammar school, but she had gone to my Sunday School, also to some church camp sessions where I was in attendance: so I'd know her a good while. Bonnie must have been, unknown to me, an object of some degree of lust among my friends, or they wouldn't have targeted her for this gag.

My friends keep their eye on Bonnie, ply her with drinks. Once they notice that she's starting to fidget, they make sure that there's a long line at the one bathroom. Roger makes sure that he's the guy directly in front of her: the last to use the john before it's her turn. Roger pisses, flushes, zips: lowers the toilet's lower seat, keeps the seat cover raised, stretches Saran Wrap over the seat. Makes it neat, tight, invisible. Lowers the seat cover and exits.

Bonnie rushes to the toilet. My friends crowd outside the bathroom door, listening: imagining (correctly) that she'll be too anxious to look too carefully. Then listen for odd sounds.

They get them: including the squishing her wet shoes make as she exits the bathroom in tears, her legs, stockings, dress, all soaked with her ricocheted pee.

As I say, I knew Bonnie forever, but beyond her being the girl in the other couple at a two couple SybaRight necking party once, I had little contact with her: till one night as a high school sock hop I asked her to dance. Suddenly, she felt very nice. I held her close. Her blond hair was so beautiful, so soft, so clean, so shinny, I held my cheek against her soft blond hair.

And for days later I had to pour Jergens lotion onto my face. She must have shampooed just before the dance, dried her hair in an oven, dried it till it was dry as a sponge. Or maybe she had some weird chemicals on it. All I know is that her hair was sucking the oil out of my face like a pump. I was left scorched, like burned.

I have one other enduring memory of Bonnie, but it involves only a friend. I wasn't there. I heard about it.

Charlie was in my clique. Charlie had also been, together with his brother, in my Sunday School: though it was always the brother, older brother, that I was closer to. Bonnie apparently was a member of some girls' sex club and that club invited Charlie to be their guinea pig.

(Why Charlie? Why not me?)

I don't think much happened. I think they just asked him to beat off for them. He did. The girls just watched.

Why are kids so visual? so exclusively visual? It's only as you get at least a little bit older that you want touch and taste to mix with seeing.

Tits Like Texas

2008-10-05T07:41:00.000-07:00

Feedback Loop

The sex stories I've told here thus far, like my other personal stories, are experiences I recall with some frequency. I've confessed that my sexual fantasies for some time have been populated almost exclusively by memories of females I have NOT had intercourse with: the fantasy taking the memory one step further to the point where I DO do something that either is or will immediately lead to the THING. Hmm: I guess the majority of my fantasies actually fade away one step short of actual penetration. I'm more likely to dream of first putting it in than of being in and erupting. And more likely than that, I'll imagine kneeling before the girl, holding my cheek against her lower belly, embracing her buttocks with my hands, and once I've got a good gripping caress on her twin mounds, I lower my cheek to her Venus mound, I place my lips there, I maneuver my lips till her lips part just ever so, all through her clothing, and I begin to hint to her where my tongue, my kisses, will go as soon as we've gotten that clothing off. Meantime, my erection, so erect it hurts, whether still in my pants or not, finds its way toward her ankle, her calf, the cuff of her slacks, the hem of her skirt ... and tugs at her. If the girl lets me do that, we'll be sucking and fucking for real within minutes: certainly within days.

(My all time favorite to have done that: I was saying goodnight to a date just as she prepared to go home: to her suburban castle on a hillside, her daughter, her husband, her new home business. A few days later she was back for another date. We had dinner, we saw the movie, we returned to my apartment, out came the wine, and we shed our clothes to slip frictionlessly into a marvelous sixty-nine. My dick no longer tugged at her pants leg, it went straight down her throat. And once I couldn't stand it any longer, her pussy was as delicious to fuck as it had been to suck on. Boom. The coming was something neither of us will ever forget. And we repeated it many a time over the coming few years. When I remember this woman, first putting my mouth on the front of her slacks as I gained a good grip on her ass is what I'm most likely re-experiencing. She was the perfect Westchester woman. Clean. Neat. Sweet-smelling. Well, but not obsessively, groomed. And what a butt! Sleek. Elegant. Far from zophtic, but sooooo perfect. I've never seen anything more beautiful than a Malibu Beach dawn through the reddish gold of her public hair. And her breasts, once I got around to them, were sensitive, adorable, oh-so-sweet--however normal in size.)

But I didn't mean to go on with that memory--I think I've already told that memory. I start with that memory as a Type: in order to say that the new story I now wish to add is different: it is not a frequent memory. Indeed it's untypical in that it's of a girl I Did Not Lust For! For one thing, I may have been too young. This memory is from the eighth grade. A couple of years had passed since I had a female friend I regularly undressed with: and that had occurred a couple of years after the period in which I'd had a LOT of female friends I'd regularly undressed with. I call "all" of them "Bonnie" here; but this girl I'll call Tex: because even though she was only in the seventh grade, her tits were the size--or at least the scale--of all of Texas. I truly don't remember her real name: neither the first nor the last.

So: I'm in one of my periods of relative celibacy. I must have been going through puberty. I'd had erections since the sixth grade on. I don't remember when the hair first came: only, as I've already narrated, that intimacy with girls came easily before puberty, then again after, but not so typically during. Maybe puberty made me shy, confused, I don't know what; maybe it made the girls shy, apprehensive, more private ...

Ah: I just thought of another thing. I was forever learning--long after the fact--that mature seeming classmates may actually have been older: Lenny who seemed so developed in the fourth grade (despite being perhaps an inch shorter than merely normal me) and who disappeared after the fifth grade, could well have disappeared because he had reached age sixteen and could drop out of the farce of the school system. Last time I saw him he was with a road construction gang: repairing the road to the new high school! In the fourth grade, Lenny, with his iron biceps, could throw the football seventy-five yards, could play pass with the varsity team! But he can never have grown much past five foot four. (One last word about Lenny: this Italian was an Irish tenor! His Danny Boy made the teachers swoon.

So one day I'm just poking around my neighborhood: North Forest Avenue, only a few doors north from Lakeview Avenue in Rockville Centre, Long Island, and I see a girl, a stranger, walking on Lakeview. Two things were instantly noticeable about her. It was autumn, cold, and she wore no coat. And, va-voom, the girl had tits like Dagmar. Later I heard she'd just moved: from Texas: that she was in the seventh grade. (It didn't occur to me till now to wonder whether that was actually her age group: hell, we all started out sorted by age: no explainations about exceptions: the exceptions just add up over the years.) Someone speculated that they might have been poor: couldn't afford a coat. Who knew what they were running from? or toward? inadequately financed for it. I didn't follow the girl, didn't yell hello, didn't even watch after her. I just noticed her: and went about my business. But somehow, over the following weeks, she sought me out, went out of her way to be friendly: invited me over to her house, introduced me to her mother: where the two of them tag teamed me: Oh, you're so smart, the mother said: What a painful life you must have ahead of you. I'm sure glad we're just ordinary. (I remember arguing with her: I didn't deny that I was smart: funny 'cause I don't recall thinking that I was at the age; I denied that being smart would be painful. I argued that even though the society persecutes the intelligent, the intelligent have pleasures, passions, gratifications, that the tormentors know nothing about: Einstein, in prison, can have ecstasies unknown to others. Oh, you're so smart, the mother repeated.

OK, that's the background. Now here's the story: one day Tex is with me at my house. I don't remember how she got there. I mean, I don't doubt that we walked there together. But I don't recall inviting her. She could have suggested it herself. Or it could have just happened. Two kids wander around together: then they're at the home of one of them.

My memory begins on the landing of the stairs to the cellar. One door from the kitchen led to the basement. Three steps down, the stairs leveled at a door to the back yard. When we first moved, I think there was outdoor cellar entrance: two doors that folded upward and back, the doors lying at an angle from the rear wall: the opening being neither vertical nor horizontal: in an architecture that was otherwise from two-dimensional geometry. So we must have had that changed: because those doors were gone and now there was a normal, vertical, rectangular door between the back yard and the basement: and that door was located three steps below the kitchen floor. We were on our way down to the cellar so I could show here something: I don't remember what.

Very suspicious. Does it sound like I was planning a seduction to you? I certainly believe it of myself. But I don't remember it that way. Maybe she asked to see the basement. Maybe isolating us further, though we were already alone in the house, in darkness, away from windows, was her machination. Regardless, there we were. Paused on the landing: Tex wearing a skirt and blouse, just as she had been when I first spotted her on the street: her boobs stretched the shiny fabric: and then some. She touched my arm. I looked at her. In a lowered voice, private, right into my face, she said, "You could command me to do anything you wanted." I looked at her. "I would do anything you told me to do," she said.

I remember speculating about her putting me in a dictatorial role. She didn't say she'd do as I asked; but rather what I commanded. Little Christian SybaRight was experiencedly heterosexual, but not dictatorial. Her offer didn't appeal to me. It made me uncomfortable: something I'm sure she hadn't intended. And I didn't enlighten her. I gave her no response at all. We waited a beat or two, and resumed our descent to the cellar. And there my memory of it ends. If I'd gotten at her tits at the bottom of the steps I'm sure I'd remember it: and this story would manifest very differently: mostly by being neither recalled or told at all.

I was looking at her. What I was seeing--was her huge expanse of three-dimensional bosom: four dimensional, since they were there ... and still there ... and moved--and her funny shaped mouth: where her front teeth kind of protruded narrowly: like on a rodent.

What was wrong with me? The last girl to want to do something sexual with me, a Bonnie of a year and a half earlier, I'd also left unsatisfied, and then abandoned: didn't encourage her to come by any more. That Bonnie had wanted me to steal a Kotex from my mother so she could try it on: me watching over the fitting: as she placed in on, over, or in her pussy. (I still don't know how a woman wears one of those things. I now presume it just lays there within the underwear: held in place by the drawers.)

Did I get a raging hard on as Tex empowered me over her? No. I'm sure I'd remember it. My Bonnie of the summer after the sixth grade never found me without a hard on: never saw my dick as anything but yearning vertically. I guess I just wasn't attracted to Tex. Or my attraction was canceled by my repulsion. Maybe I never liked big tits much. Maybe I was just shy. Whatever we did in the basement, whatever we did in the house afterwards, it didn't include playing doctor: or playing pirate king degrades captured princess.

So why am I telling this story now? Just to brag that some girl once offered to be my slave? presumably my sex slave? Well, that's part of it: a small part. I tell it for one reason because nothing happened. My fantasies are about girls where nothing happened: either they were too young, or the craps just didn't fall that way ... But also because I regret some of my rejected opportunities. I've told how decades later I was sorry not to have made a fuss over the older woman who came up to me and shoved her tits under my nose. [link to be added] Now I regret not marching Tex straight back up the stairs to someplace comfortable: the couch, my bedroom ... and testing her compliance. And now I have a new fantasy: one I never had prior to writing these personal stories: a fantasy which is itself a spin-off of having told other fantasies: but which is a new species of fantasy for me: one where I'd rejected the girl in real life and now accept her offers in my imagination. But: it hasn't worked well yet. I put my mind, at sleep time, into a position where it can fantasize a little exploratory petting with Tex: the girl who'd be my sex slave. ... The next thing I know I've been asleep and the fantasy never went anywhere. So I write this module to force it as it were: Dammit, Give Tex her due. Let her show me her tits at least. And if you do that, then having her take you out of your pants is an easy next step. So is having her take her pants off. ...

Tex, I wish I remembered your real name. I wish I hadn't been so naïve, so inexperienced, at the time. I wish I'd given you what ever you wanted. I'm sorry I was so young. I hope you've had a good life. I hope you've had a great sex life. I hope you find this and recognize yourself: and recognize me. If we ever saw each other again, I'd treat you better this time.
I should have taken you to a soft place. I should have put you to your own test. What does it matter whether or not I wanted to dominate you: if you wanted to see it that way, I could have let you. I could have "ordered" you to take your blouse off, to remove your bra (to go wash your tits if they were dirty).
(note)
... I should next have had you strip to your panties. I should then have had you undress me completely. I'm naked: you're ass and pussy are just barely veiled by something of nice smooth texture: cotton panties, please: clean cotton panties: no crotch stains, please: (and certainly no stains from the other place!) I should have kissed your tits. I should have had you explore my dick with your fingers. I should have shown you to just ever so outline my balls with the tips of your fingers.

But I myself didn't know those things then. Ah, but this now is the fantasy of a sixty-four year old! I should have articulated my kiss of your breast to isolate and emphasize the nipple. I should have stimulated your areola, rewarded your nipple as it stood firm. I should have shown you how to articulate the head of my penis in the same way. Outline the glans with your tongue. I should have gulped at your nipple, sucked at it, hard, urgent: make a vacuum around it and Suck! You could have seen by analogy with to do with my penis. I should have shown you how very gently to treat my balls, how you could go fairly crazy with the penis, but please be ultra respectful of the balls ... And eventually it might have been right to slide your panties off. To explore, to articulate, to kiss, caress, and adore your private places.

So long as we didn't actually fuck. Children shouldn't fuck. Not unless the adult society has made it clear that any resulting children will be cherished and cared for by the society as a whole.

Imagine a world in which the young, the most highly sexed, the most sexually interested, get to fuck to their hearts content. Teens shouldn't be in school. They shouldn't be made to work. (Their work should be welcomed but not demanded.) Teens should be fucking and sucking to their hearts content. The girls, as they get pregnant, should be sheltered, pampered: by the tribe as it were. The babies should be welcomed, cherished.

The young would have the healthiest babies, the easiest parturitions. Thirty year olds should not have pregnancies: teens and twenty years olds should. And then, once the girls have had a couple of kids of their own, then we should offer them birth control pills, diaphragms, creams, gels. Then we should make them study, learn, work.

The kids should fuck. And bear.

The young adults should study: and learn: after they've given the group a few healthy babies.

And everyone should cherish and protect and nourish both breeders and bred.

Which one in the nursery would be your kid? My kid? They'd all be your kid, my kid.

Note

Cleaned her Tits:
There's a sex story from my seventh grade or so that I'd already told elsewhere, before this sex story section was started. Bonnie had her parents plan a birthday party for her. She got her parents out of the house. But she invited only two people to come: me and my buddy Joe. Bonnie was hot for Joe, not for SybaRight. SybaRight was invited only to get Joe to come. Once we were there, trapped by her, Dick also showing up by rude mistake, all dressed up and bearing a present, Bonnie accepting his presence though she hadn't invited it, she was all ready to be ravished by Joe. Joe wanted none of it. I offered myself in his place. No. She said.
I've told that. But I don't think I included the following details: I said Do you have any idea how nice and big my dick is? I want quality, not quantity, she said: destroying me: for all of two seconds. Anyway, she wanted to show us her tits. She opened her blouse. I came in real close. Her tits were dirty. Your tits are dirty, Dick complained. I came in real close to kiss them. That's OK, she said, SybaRight will clean them. Damned if I wasn't doing just that.
Before that evening was over, Bonnie had reached into my pants and given my nuts a pinch. Oh, Jesus. And I suppressed my pain, my utter unmanning, tried not to blame her, to defend myself, to demand revenge. How can girls be so crass?

Peppermint Panties

2008-10-05T07:36:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Notes:

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

Blue Balls

2008-10-05T07:33:00.000-07:00

I'm maybe fifteen. Us "important" "Christian Youth Leaders" are invited to Denton Lake for a weekend conference. We weren't leading anything: we were following whatever the adults had concocted for us. But I went. Friday night we get together to discuss "Why We're Presbyterian." (I've already related elsewhere how the girl from New Rochelle upset the young minister by answering the obvious: "Because our parents are." (In my case it was because it was the only church close enough for my sister and me to walk to for Sunday School while our parents stayed home and slept.) After the meeting I linger in the road asking the minister something or being asked something by him. I don't remember what it was, but the whole time this girl who'd been silent at the meeting was standing there, not quite at my elbow. My conversation with the minister went on and one. The girl stood still. Finally the minister says good night and walks off. The girl positions herself smack in front of me. Hi, I say. She says nothing, just looks at me. At least I don't remember her saying anything. I just see that pretty face and those eyes, staring at me. She must have said something: at least her name. Bonnie. Fourteen years old. Short blond hair, fresh open features, flatteringly shorter than I, a great compact bod. We go for a walk. Hold hands. Find a spot in the woods. Lie down. Neck.

Next morning we sit together at breakfast. Throughout the day, we're together. Bible study, more meetings, meditations. lunch, more meetings, more meditations. I was meditating on her foot sneaking up my pants leg.

My class mate--I'll say her name was Darla, cute, petite blond girl, was there that weekend, and I ran into a friend from other Denton Lake camps: Fred (Fred's real name): trombonist, founder of the Mineola Ray Bradbury Fan Club. Fred and Darla get together. The four of us go off into the woods every chance we get: between meetings, after dinner ... After Vespers we can stay in the woods, or, now that it's dark, down by the lake, till ten o'clock curfew.

Bonnie and I are scrunched against a rock (while we scrunch against each other) when we hear steps. It's only Fred and Darla but Bonnie gets her blouse half buttoned back up anyway. We have a powwow. They're the ones who'd wanted to talk but it's still not clear to me who came up with the suggestion: it sort of came mutually from all four of us. We decided to pet each other till the very last second before curfew. Then we'd get into bed but still dressed, sneak back out and meet here by the lake the second we heard the counselors breathing regularly.

We did. Fred and Darla go wherever. Bonnie and I changed spots half a dozen times, trying to find someplace half-way comfortable. We finally settled in the chapel at the lake side: a few wooden benches amid the dew. Now: throughout the night I had Bonnie pressed against me. She could feel my rod poking her here, there, and elsewhere. I had her breasts in my mouth, in my eyes, in my ears. I had my fingers in her pussy, in her butt. Sometimes I lay on top of her and searched her gullet with my tongue. Sometimes she lay on top of me: and her saliva dripping down into my mouth was ambrosia. But I never took my pants off. I never unzipped my fly. I never took her pants off: just explored within her pants. (She had intriguing holes in her undies making my job both easy and fascinating. Lot of kids in her family: not a lot of money for underwear. First girl I ever met whose father was a laborer: that is, he drove a bulldozer. Nobody connected with South Side ever heard of labor except in the papers.)

We felt the dawn coming, found Fred and Darla, crept back to our beds. Re-entwined ourselves with our lovers the second we were back up and off to breakfast.

I don't remember how far north of New York City Denton Lake was, but the drive back to Long Island was going to be several hours. So the conference was Friday night, all day Saturday, and pack up by mid-morning Sunday. Bonnie and I were still knotted when our rides started calling for their passengers. Bonnie begged her driver to fit me in with her in the back seat--everybody else could ride up front--drop me off in Rockville Centre. Now Bonnie came from way out on the Island, toward the Hamptons. Her driver was adamant. No. They're going the Northern Parkway. Fine, then go south, says Bonnie. Bonnie finally won. I tell my ride to go without me: Bonnie's ride will take me to my door.

The one detail Bonnie didn't get was the whole back seat for the two of us alone. Some other kid was back there with no way to keep out of our way as we necked in every position but a sixty-nine. The positions possible for me were rapidly and inexplicably narrowing. I felt very weird. I had to stretch my legs apart with no room to stretch them. Something very strange, very frightening was happening to me. My body had developed its own will: a will at war with mine. My face stayed glued to Bonnie while my crotch tried to spread itself out the back seat window. It was a long ride to Rockville Centre. Finally I'm home. I try to get out. I can't walk. I'm on my feet, but nothing works properly. Bonnie's fretting but her driver wanted to be rid of me. Off she drives, Bonnie leaning out the window and blowing kisses.

I "stand" there in my walkway. I waddle toward the house. I'm as bowlegged as any bull rider ever was. I get one foot up onto the first step. Now how do I join the other one to it? Then the next. I fumble for my key. My pocket wouldn't cooperate. My mother hears me coming, calls to wonder what's taking me so long. Never mind. I'm coming. I have to squeeze through the front door sideways. I wobble across the front room which had been a porch, was closed in, and now was a home office on one side and a couch and chairs on the other. I squeeze sideways into the living room. My mother is sitting on the couch with her boyfriend, Don: the nebbish gynecologist. She sees me. She starts up, horror and fear in her voice: "SybaRight! What's wrong with you?" "Nothing. Leave me alone." I waddle to the stairs. My mother is ready to come after me. Don holds her back. My mother yields, sobbing. I can't climb the stairs. I can't ascend sideways. I turn around, sit on the step, spread my legs as wide apart as I can. I use my hand to raise my can to the next step. And on up to my room. I close the door and spread-eagle out on the bed on my back.

Knock, knock. "Go away." Don comes in. "All right. Let me examine you." He gets me to stand up, drop my drawers. He's poking around in my balls. I'm afraid to look. He's muttering "No rupture. No hernia. ..." Finally I force myself to look. Oh God. I start to quake.

Don has never seen me naked. I later learned, thanks to the mass examination at the Army's induction station that balls, like penises, come in all sizes. One guy looked like he was wearing a soccer ball with a double yolk. That's what I now looked like: but triple-yolked!

There's an alien protuberance low down on my belly, just above the top of my right thigh. It's breathing. It's swelling. Like aliens growing their vile vegetable young in an earth greenhouse. Don notices it too. He goes to touch it. I flinch. Very gently, he presses the top of the mound. It flinched from him as much as I did. My left ball instantly inflated to basketball size. I'm whimpering. I helplessly watch my three balloons exchange inflations.

Don goes to my door, calls down the stairs. "he's fine. He'll be fine. He's right. Just leave him alone." My mother is wailing, only slightly assured. "OK," he turns back to me. "I want to know only one thing: Did you keep it in your pants?" "Yes," I mourn. "Good boy," he says.

"You've got what we used to call 'honeymoon cystosis' on the Navy carrier. In the lower decks they called it 'blue balls'. But I've never heard of a case as bad as yours seems to be. Son, you may be making medical history."

I don't want to get dressed again. But I certainly don't want him standing there. He seemed to understand. (Maybe he wasn't as bad a doctor as I'd assumed, this clown, trying to get in my mother's pants, maybe, for all I knew, getting there. "Take it easy," he says. "Take hot baths. Don't go out for a couple of days. It will go away." And he leaves me to my misery.

All this time later, committing the story to writing now, it occurs to me to speculate further on my third lump. The bladder collects urine: everybody knows that. The testes produce sperm: almost everybody knows that. The prostate produces the seminal fluid. That is not uncommon knowledge. Everybody knows more or less where dicks and balls are. But where's this prostate? That's like asking where Vietnam is in 1961. It's in there somewhere: hidden, safe inside. Where are the testes before they descend to the scrotum? In there somewhere. The vas connects all this stuff. I presume that the mixing of sperm and semenal fluid takes place in the vas. I now presume that it was my vas that was all inflated, like the Mississippi flooding. But I also know that I've got a short stalk. Sometimes my little right ball pops back up into me. Scares me witless but it's painless. Then it always comes back. All by itself. Maybe my prostate wanders around too. Or maybe it was just the vas. In college some clown of a chem student would take plastic tubing, tie one end off, force the other end around the tap and force water into the tube. the tube would swell like a balloon. He'd hold the other end twisted. Once he released the twist, a terrific force of water would jet out: shoot twenty or thirty feet. That's what had happened to my vas. I presume. The testes must have been pumping out phenomenal ammounts of sperm, but I believe it was the prostate that was responsible for the bulk of the pressure. What I was most full of I believe was liquid; not just the augmented zoo flailing and thrashing within the liquid.

I did what Don said: took a bath. Mom brought supper to my room. Breakfast the next day. I think Don must have told her what it was by then. She was much calmer in any case.

Now. I may have had a "harem" very young, but I was very slow to start masturbating: just as I would be very slow to actually lose my virginity: meaning actually come inside the vagina. The other kids were talking about wacking themselves long before I touched myself that way. Nevertheless, by fifteen I had learned it. Now I couldn't wait. But I
couldn't touch myself. That gentle press on my belly had scared the wits out of me. But after several days I dared try it. A first orgasm may be a remarkable thing to anybody. I can't really know, but I suspect that I gave myself something extra special by waiting so long for my first such experiment. I was so sensitive it was amazing. I've had great orgasms since but the exquisite tingling in the dick itself from first touch to eruption and beyond is long extinct. The orgasm is great, but the used dick is just a piece of meat: barely sensitive. Curses on Christian circumcision. But neither extreme applies to my touching myself that time. There was no sensation at all. I came "buckets" but had no orgasm, no sensation whatsoever. It was unbelievable. I was swamped with myself. It was an enormous relief: relief from the ubiquitous aching pressure. A few minutes later I was ready again. Then again. And again. Now those orgasms were far and away the best since the very first.

Once I was sixteen and had my license, I drove east to see Bonnie. I continued to see her till I started college. I visited her one more time: age thirty-eight or so. She had lost a husband, remarried: kids added up to a dozen: the oldest a girl then sixteen. Bonnie looked as cute as ever and her daughter looked just like her.

The other teenaged times I saw her again, we always took right back up where we had left off: her saliva dripping into me, my fingers finding holes in her panties. Never did I take it out. Never asked her to suck it or whip it. I'll never forget her. I have only two regrets. I never found a way to tell her about my blue balls, never explained my contortions on the ride back. And I never got my face in her pussy. I don't mind never coming in her. Kids shouldn't come inside girls: at least not inside their vaginas. We'd be better off if married adults used a lot more mouth and hand. Squirt it in her face, in her hair, over her tits, over her buttocks. Come between her toes. Limit conception. Don't wait till there's a billion USians the way the Chinese waited till there were a billion Chinese.

Man, if Bonnie's saliva tasted that great dripping into me, imagine what her lubricants, her come, would have tasted like, me lying on my back, her humping my face. The hell with virtual reality: just hook me up to an IV that drips female body fluids. I wanted so to describe that fantasy of Bonnie's come fluids seeping into my mouth to her even all those decades later. I'd like to right now. But when I saw her amid her children I thought better of it. And her daughter that looked just like her I'd better not think about.

2001 07 21 I'm back today, scanning for typos after adding the Mad pic a story or two above. I realize that I left out a detail. First time I drove out toward the Hamptons to see this Bonnie, probably just turned sixteen, just licensed up, I suggest we go for a drive. Sure, she says, but first just park in the driveway: the kids are anxious to get a look at you. I cooperate, but sit there seething as her tribe climbs over the hood, roof, and trunk of the Chevvie. Go ahead, she says, do what ever you want. They won't notice. I do. That wonderful tit is back in my mouth in no time. Bonnie throws her bra into the back seat and puts her arms back into the sleeves of the blouse, the blouse now just hanging about her, her breasts completely free. I hear the front door slam. I look up. Her mother is walking toward the car. I panic. Nevermind, she says. Mom's cool. She likes you.

Mrs. Bonnie opens the back door, smiling and Howdy'ing, pushes her daughter's bra to the far corner, and sidles her bulk onto the back seat. Eleven kids or so, I guess she already knew about sex.

I've enjoyed this writer's vacation emormously: just breeze it out: the hell with style. Nothing to think of: only to remember. But I still haven't make the comments I'd hinted at. Other comments came, but not the ones I planned. I'll extend my vacation a few more hours and start another file. (2001 10 22 Except that from here on I don't remember the order of composition. The rest just string.)

Note:
The above note is dated from 2001. Most of these entries were written in November of 2000, most of them on the 21st.

Lubricate a Locomotive

2008-10-05T07:30:00.000-07:00

The girls must have felt like Uncle Albert themselves, because moves occurred rapidly. If we weren't fertile, ready-to-conceive Uncle Alberts we were fertile Uncle Alberts who merely smooched. We're only there for a week? two weeks? a weekend? No time to waste. I want to tell about another Bonnie and my comic humiliations with her, but first I'll tuck in Singing Raven. (note)

That was humiliating enough: and comic too, I believe. I'm at Denton Lake for a week. Some girl from Queens comes on to me right away. I let her. Then I see the girl I really want: but it's too late. Queens was tall, bony, and raucous. Singing Raven was dark, a very fair dark: long raven-shiny black hair, athletically slender: and when she turned to walk away, she showed an ass whose flex and pucker would have swooned Cupid from the clouds. Beautiful long-boned face. Eyes deep with dark mystery. Full blooded Pueblo Indian. Ah! We'd be "friends." Some other guy takes up with Singing Raven and the four of us, after Bible study, after lunch, after meditation, after Vespers ... would walk in the woods and neck.

Passive SybaRight never tells Queens to get lost. At least Singing Raven is nearby. Queens' abrasiveness becomes strident. I patch some booboo for her. She calls me "her Florence Nightengale." Please.

We have a reunion that next winter in Jamaica. I truck in from the Island. Queens is there: it's in Queens after all. "Florence!" she shrieks. I shrink from her. She does go away. Singing Raven has trucked out from Manhattan. I dance with her. I see the chaperons grinning at us from the sidelines. It takes a while for me to guess why. I'm wearing my best approximation of a zoot suit. Light blue suit, dark blue shirt, dark blue socks, blue suede shoes, white knit tie. I wore my hair with a precipitous wave: on the "wrong" side cause I've got a cowlick at my hairline above my right eye. I'm dancing with Singing Raven, doing my moves. Shuffle, cross-over, dip back, releasing her waist so she can dip back the other way, then spin back into me. Before she does, I see it. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The left leg of my light blue pants has a broad dark wet streak from my groin to my knee.

I sure didn't know what it was at the time, but I bet I do now. No, I hadn't come in my pants. This was no waltzing wet dream. I'd lubricated though: enough to grease a locomotive.

And that should set up my story about Bonnie nicely enough. I walked Singing Raven to the subway. Learned she lived on Which New York Avenue. No pencil but her father's distinctive name in the phone book was easy enough to remember (though I've forgotten it now). Dry humped her against the wall. Let her go.

No further contact, though I still think of her, dream of the time she rode on my shoulders. It had been the previous summer. She wasn't my girl then but it was my shoulders she was riding on, those thighs around my neck, her pussy bussing the top of my spine. I dream of turning my head, getting her to hold onto a tree branch or something, to relieve just enough of her weight for a second so I can turn and wear her as a face muff.

Never fucked any of these Bonnies and Singing Ravens? Makes me remember them with longing.

Note: Singing Raven:
I call all my standard neighborhood girls Bonnie to save possible embarrassment to the women they're grown into. Where the female isn't standard vanilla, I ethnicize the "Bonnie."

Sex Afield

2008-10-05T07:22:00.000-07:00

I started this file today, extending my vacation from real writing for another few hours, expecting to tell the above and then get straight to the commentary I started hinting at yesterday in the above file. But now I realize that I have to tell at least one more sexual humiliation first. I briefly review themes that should now be in inventory and then I'll be ready.

Girls were everywhere around me. Exposed pussies weren't hard to come by. But I didn't really know the snatch: hadn't ventured far. The youthful sex was all-parts curiosity; no-parts lust. The awakening of lust confused things terribly. So did my overhearing my mother tell my sister to save herself for marriage. I wasn't a kid to let advice that associated itself with my Christianity go in one ear and out the other. I added no grains of salt to such advice. I wasn't one to stand still for three seconds of the Commandments and then go commit another genocide. If my dick bothered me, it was me it was going to bother, not an innocent girl.

You see all the girls mentioned above were innocent. We weren't doing anything wrong. We weren't spoiling our marriages. At least I didn't see that we were. But once those urges came, once I discovered how the dick could spit ... uh oh: we're in a new world. So: I saw pussy galore when it meant little. I shunned it when it meant much. But shunning never works: not without also failing to work.

The Eskimo use teams of husky dogs. Everyone knows that. When the Eskimo want to strengthen their dogs genetically, they take a bitch in heat and stake her out in the wilderness. The wolves are monogamous. The wolves out in the wilderness practice family planning in a variety of ways. The wolves portion the territory among themselves, then limit their numbers rather than fight for dwindling resources. They do it by having only one breeding pair for each good territory. Farley Mowat talks about this. He shares with his readers a family of wolves with an extra, unwed, adult male: Uncle Albert, Farley calls him. So the Eskimo stake out their ovulating bitch. An "Uncle Albert" smells her. Uncle Albert would never dream of tupping his sister-in-law: Uncle Albert runs straight for the alien of the similar species though. Good. The Eskimos get wolf mixed into their sled dogs.

As a child I lived frequently naked with the majority of my female neighbors. As a semen-leaking teen, my pants stayed on: at and around home. After seeing Dorla's terry-snugged snatch, I dated no South Side girls. Did I think it through that way at the time? Certainly not: it's how I see it now, how I explain myself to myself, with you welcome to overhear.

Explanation: experience mapped onto a tautology
Bateson

The school was forever organizing us into dances and so forth. The church was forever sending us off to camp, to meet other "Christians" in a natural, woodsy setting, a cross of birch at the side of a mountain lake ... The kids were from the Metropolitan Area but not from Rockville Centre. As to the girls, I felt like they were huskies and I was Uncle Albert. But still I was me: I waited for them to make the first move. That often-enough happened readily-enough to make it unnecessary to rethink my strategy. Besides, it's the one that came naturally.

SybaRight the Dancer

2008-10-04T10:55:00.000-07:00

Funny thing, speaking of that neighborhood, is that there was a family with three daughters further up the block. The middle girl was in my class. Up the block was not my turf. I have no "personal" stories to tell about Mary Jane so Mary Jane can be herself. In the seventh grade, the boys' voices are cracking--"Somebody oil that guy," Mr. Bell, our beloved teacher would say, making us all laugh uproariously--and the girls' breasts were beginning to bud: all except Mary Jane's. She was never-the-less the cutest girl in the class. But once she went through puberty, she really went. By the time we're freshmen she's going out with senior stars of the football team. By the time we're seniors, she's posed on the front cover of some Long Island magazine holding a big beach ball, standing on her tippy-toes, wearing a one piece bathing suit and sporting an incredible pair of knockers. Two spectacular Rockville Centre beauties, both from My Street. Mary Jane I never went near, never spoke to, never touched, till she asked me to dance with her at a reunion some decades later. I was supposed to be the best dancer in the class, after all. But my sole partner had been Dorla, off in Vegas dancing for Frank Sinatra.

Actually, I was probably a terrible dancer. Never had to learn. Never had to lead Dorla. She knew what fit with whatever wiggle I was putting on and did it. How could I dance with another after her? I can't. I don't. Dorla felt like Ariel. Every other woman feels like an elephant. At least on the dance floor. I've danced with other good dancers. The exercise certainly gives them delectable bodies. Great legs, great tush. But they still feel stiff and clumsy to me. Doing things by the numbers.

I remind myself of something I read about Chaplin written by his son Charles Junior. Charlie Chaplin had a male attendant: valet, cook, butler ... The attendant guessed perfectly what Chaplin wanted time and again and had the needed thing there without having been asked. Charles Junior says that after a while Charlie would think he had asked for it. One time he balled the guy out for serving Swiss pancakes when he wanted Swedish. "I told you ..." But he hadn't: hadn't told him anything. Dorla was like Charlie's valet. And I was too spoiled to develop independently as a dancer.

Hell, I'll segue into a story about Dorla: another heroine there's no reason not to name: nothing ever happened. On second thoughts, I squeeze an intermediate story in first: the preceding explains the next, the next explains the following: or makes explanation possible.

Ninth grade or so I hear that there's going to be some dixieland jazz at the local volunteer fire department. Oh boy, I go. Even with standing room only I saw a couple start to dance, demanding and getting an extra inch of space for their movements. I became smitten by a woman near by. She may well have been married, she may well have been a mother. I asked her to dance anyway. She accepted.

And SybaRight went c-a-r-A-z-y. I ignited into a frenzy of gyrations. My ankles, my hips had never been more fluid. By my own lights I was dancing as well as I ever had. The more impressed with myself I became the more uninhibited became my undulations. When the number ended I expected her to throw over whatever life she had to hurl herself at me. But no: she scowled at me, and moved to another part of the hall.

I went after her. "Don't you want to dance the next number with me?"

"No," she said, and moved away again.

I was devastated. I've had short love affairs in my life but that was by far the most abrupt to that date. But the young woman relented. She turned toward me again, leaned her lips near my ear. She said, "A man who dances well lets the woman do the showing off: he's there mainly to support her dancing."

A neighboring file speculates on why this star of the school-gymnasium-turned-musical stopped dancing at so early an age. I explained how my dance partner Dorla's puberty paralyzed mine. I neglected to mention this additional humiliation as a reason.

I stopped dancing partly out of abashment for being such an obscene showoff.

Dance Partner

I'm in maybe the ninth grade. Dorla and I have been invited to dance together on the stage a couple of times. When she's hired as the entertainment for the prom at some other school she invites me as her escort. She brings her own music, comes out in her little costume, does her number. The rest of the time I'm free to sit with her, hold her hand, dance with her. When Dorla and I danced, others stopped and watched.

Charleston
In fact, back up a minute. I'll tell how we met. It's so awful to be a sixth grader. Like cattle in the pen. Dance class is offered. The box step. The one, two, three waltz. The teacher shows us a basic Charleston step. Then a few frills. OK, he said once some number of us had gotten it a little bit: now, loosen your ankles. Feel the rhythm. Relax. Move your body. I did. You've got it, he said to me. Jesus! You've really got it! He was the dance teacher, but no way could he do what I was doing. I hadn't listened hard to Kid Ory and Satchmo for nothing.

In the seventh grade my Morris School class moved into the Junior High School which at the time shared the same building with South Side High School. Other grade schools had more room and kept their seventh graders. But we all trucked off to one so far away it was almost in another town: for a "dance." All the boys go to one side of the gym. The Morris School/Junior High boys clump together. All the girls, probably similarly clumped, are on the other side of the gym: boys and girls mutually repelling. The adults put on some music. The center of the gym floor might as well have been the Neffu Desert. But why should I describe it? Your first dance was probably very similar. In the above respects at least. After a while a few couples paired up. Not me, so I don't know how much adult manipulation was involved. After a time the adults put a Charleston on the record player. More and more of both boys and girls had apparently decided that they weren't mutually poisonous. More kids were dancing to the Charleston than had responded to any of the fox trots, lindeys, or waltzes. One of my Morris School fellows apparently knew some kid from one of the other schools. My kid must have been telling their kid that one of his kids could really do this. Their kid runs off, telling my kid to follow with his kid: me. Bewildered, I'm dragged out into the middle of the floor. The other kids comes back, dragging an adorable girl by the arms. They shove us together. Dance, they command. This girl, Dorla, wouldn't you know, and I start to Charleston. Everybody else stops dancing. The adults stop the record and restart it. Dorla and I restart. This huge circle forms around us, everybody clapping and whooping.

Now that I recall that time in alphanumerics, there's something I don't understand about it. Dorla was at least a couple of grades behind me. I'm telling this as a "seventh grade dance." Maybe the host grade school whose gym we were hauled to allowed more than one of their grades to attend. Anyway, if there was a dance, Dorla and I always took each other. After a year or two I started taking her to an occasional movie as well, walk her home, hold her hand.

Neighborhood

But: you must realize: she wasn't from my neighborhood. She wasn't in my "society." I never took her up on my garage roof. She never told me she wished everyone else were dead. Besides, by that time I had this wholly embarrassing, totally bewildering thing between my legs: a thing that wouldn't behave itself. I never knew when it was going to rear up. So far it hadn't spit at me: hadn't spit at anyone. I didn't know it could spit. But I knew enough not to trust it.

A little kid's body has no secrets. Society just covers it up anyway: practice for adulthood, train the pup to the collar. But this new body of mine did have secrets. This body did need to be covered. At least so long as we're all determined to be neurotic.

OK. So Dorla and I have danced together for years. Dorla and I have had circle after applauding, awestruck circle form around us. We're old hat at South Side, but it routinely happens at other schools in other towns where she's the entertainment. Also, by the time I'm in the ninth grade, kids are supposed to be getting good at a thing or two. Never again would quality be a revelation like it had been at that first dance. Dorla and I have been invited onto the stage at South Side, performed, went back to class. My French Class made a fuss: for one second, then went on with the French.

Dorla wants to work up a new routine for herself. She invites me over to her house to help choreograph a routine for her using Slaughter on Tenth Avenue for the music. She knew I loved that music. Sure. I don't know anything about choreography, but ignorance has never stopped me before. I show up. Her parents let me in, say Dorla will be right down. I hear the shower turn off. I look up the stair well, see Dorla scamper into the hall wrapped in a towel. A minute later she comes down the stairs wearing a gymnast's top and some kind of terry cloth panties that fit her buttocks and crotch like paint. Dorla had been flat as any little girl when I'd first been shoved against her. Sure she had good legs, and a round butt. She was a young girl. She was a dancer. What I was seeing come down the stairs however was something I wasn't prepared for. I froze.

Dorla was cute from the start but was soon to become beautiful. I too would come to look ... uh, a bit less freaky: but here I could pass for Mad's Melvin Cosnowski (later known as Alfred E. Newman). [graphic not loading at the moment]

She takes me into her practice room. Polished wood floor. Clean, polished, and shinning. I never saw that room except in that condition. She gave parties there. I don't know if furniture or a rug ever covered that floor on other occasions. Dorla puts on the music. I see Gene Kelly as an apache dancer in the movie. I see the girl with her dress slit up the thigh. Dorla tells me that she wants to start her routine sticking her leg out from behind the curtain. She wants to hold it there for a long time, give the audience a good look. It's hard to hold her leg out straight like that. She needs my help to take some of the weight off. I'm supposed to stand next to her, hiding behind the curtain as it were, put my hand between her legs, help her hold her leg up. I look at her crotch. So soft. Immaculate terry cloth. I can see her labia, her whole vulva. Never seen one before. My little girls never stuck their leg out. Something is leaking down the inside of my pants. Hold my leg out, she says. Don't be afraid. I'm paralyzed. I don't know what I said. I don't know if I said anything. The brows on Dorla's perfect china doll's face knit. Finally I went home. I could never go near Dorla again. Oh, we danced together a few more times, but they weren't dates. At this moment I can see her coming down the stairs in her little terry cloth panties. Legs, a crotch, an ass of utter perfection. I'd realized for the first time that she had developed boobs while I wasn't looking. Within a year to two she'd have one of the best sets at South Side High. Other guys, I heard, but not me, were playing with them.

Even before she got the great tits, Dorla could be pretty sexy.

I'm not the first kid to have played naked with more than one girl. How common is it though to be traumatized once sex turns into the possibility of Sex? If you know, please tell me. I don't know. I will venture a guess however that it is not uncommon: one of several typical scenarios.

After my trauma at discovering that my dance partner had become a bomb shell, the confines of my neighborhood "society" reversed itself. In high school I'd find more than my share of maturing pussy and tit to play with, but always far afield. My teen intimacies were with girls I'd meet at church camp, girls who lived in other counties, girls as far away as Manhattan. Not only girls from my section of My Street but all girls from Rockville Centre had become taboo to me.

I'll have to come back sometime and link to comments I've already made about not dancing while listening to jazz: confusions of puberty also had something to do with seating this champ.

In Highlands Hammock, 2002, I met with a friend to try my life's first Tai Chi Chuan form. It's months now since I stopped chewing tobacco and my belly is growing disgustingly. I've never felt so fat, weak, or clumsy. My friend surprised me a year or two back by telling me that she'd been studying Tai Chi. I don't know how surprised she was when I told her that an old college classmate of mine had become the first American student of Cheng Man-Ching, as far as I know the first Tai Chi master to come to the United States, that I'd seen Cheng and visited his dojo a number of times. Yesterday I recalled for her my astonishment on one of those visits that there seemed to be no discomfort on anyone's part when the couple of female students "pushed hands" with the male students. It was hard to believe I was in the United States. My God! His forearm could brush her breast! (Of course I wasn't in the United States: I was in New York: on Canal Street: in China Town.)

My friend played disingenuous: Look at skaters, she said. Sure the guy holds the girl over his head by the crotch: but they don't teach that to every sixth grader. Only a few show biz types are excepted for that behavior.

Bulgarian skaters, March 2005

Then again, although my friend is an adult, she is much younger than I. Something happened after the 1950s that's very different: I don't mean that we're really very different but that we think we are. Our attitudes about the perpetual segregation of the sexes, even in the midst of integrating them, are different. In my day, no male-female friendships formed in the church or the school: we were integrated physically but not socially.

2008 update: I'm dancing again, regularly, for the first time in over half a century! I don't remember more than two steps. People are exclaiming how good I am anyway. Of course I've still got strong legs, grace, athleticism, rhythm ...

Details will come.

Fiction

2008-10-04T10:53:00.000-07:00

Excuse me a second: I've written plenty of fiction in my time. I can invent. I can lie. I can flesh a lie with imagination. But whether you believe me or not, I'm telling the exact literal truth in these stories. I portray myself as passive, the "Bonnie" as the initiator? That's how it was. That's how it's generally always been. My story above about talking the little girl into taking her clothes off by telling her that my friend and I were medical students, that's a "male" act: kleptocratic, social, manipulative. But 99% of the time this male has been a responder, not an initiator. Now of course life is complex. If I wanted to get laid, or at least get my hands on some heinie, I've always known that all I had to do was sit some place. Some female would come along. I sit with her, and next thing you know: Cops and Robbers.

Apropos: with passive fishing, you see what bites. I can throw my lure and see what I can entice, making my lure do tricks. Or I can leave my lure just sit. Currents in the water alone will move my lure, make it wiggle: maybe far more alluringly than any artificial wiggles I could add on. When it comes to females, what bites often turns out to be far better than you'd have guessed from appearances. For one thing, if she comes to you, you know she's interested. Chase after Pamela Sue Anderson, and all you're likely to find are a lot of other jockeying males: nobody getting his finger wet regardless of what Pamela Sue might actually want. If one males kills all the other males, then he can try for her complete attention. If a male merely stands aside, Pamela Sue may get bored with all the jousting and hubbub and see that the lone male does have time to get his finger wet. These days, when it comes to fish, I'm an impatient angler. I get big catches--fifty or eighty good bluegills, a couple of dozen bass--being very aggressive with my lure. But my best catches ever have come from leaving the lure just sit: nine to seventeen pound bass, thirty pound carp ... Passive fishing works very well: if you're patient.

In the present story I wasn't conscious of using myself as a lure. That does not mean that I wasn't one. I went hard after the girl with the baby carriage in another story above. That was typical "male." But she's the one who'd knocked me down with her looks. It doesn't matter what she "meant." She did it. Causality is complex. Only a human being would be stupid enough to believe that what they "intend" is the complete story.

OK. Bonnie and I are on the roof top. She wants to do what she wants. Fine with me. We climb down the tree and go into the garage. Bonnie takes her clothes off. I too strip. She wants to see my little peanut, fine, I'll ... But what's there in its place is standing like a pole! It seems to be attached to me, but I don't recognize it. I knew my staff stood far above those of the other kids, but this thing seemed to double those previous manifestations. Huge! Alien! Where's my familiar little peanut? Er, it doesn't usually look like this, I tell her.

Bonnie didn't seem to mind a bit how it looked. I think she thought it looked just grand. But she played along with my words: What does it usually look like? she asks. Um, I'd show you if I could.

These decades latter I have to reflect. Why did I want her to see me small? Just because that's how the other girls had always seen me? I'd wanted to show the new difference to my original friend. She'd fled. Maybe she fled because she was suddenly too interested: the way I fled from Dorla at her most inviting. (Actually, that may be a bit ahead in this narrative.) Maybe I thought this extra tall erection was some kind of disease. Maybe it was.

Fast aside: age thirty-seven or so, I'm selling art to a gallery in McLean VA. The owner was elderly Virginia elegant. She had a dynamite, buxom nineteen year old working in framing. On my tenth or twelfth visit she invites me and a client who'd bought one of my pieces back to her house. The patron was a big bosomed fag hag: hung around with the queers. Not: let her husband fuck her; just "fuck her husband." After an awful lot of gin, the owner says to me, "Becky" (the framer) "says you have a big banana. Is that true?" "I know one way you can find out." Such heterosexual goings on were too much for the fag hag (I'd already had my face in her crotch: zero response). She left. I stayed. For a couple of days.

I squeeze in one other reflection. Three cub scouts are camped out in a pup tent. One kid says, I've got a boner. Two other chimes start ringing. One kid shines a flashlight under the blanket. A little soldier is standing at attention. On the other side is a bigger soldier, standing tall. Towering between them is Mt. Baldy: a carnival float, Cleopatra's Tower, the George Washington Monument ... I felt like Alex in Wonderland who had just encountered a bunch of Drink Me bottles. I knew that the kid with the little soldier could pee three times further than either of his companions. The sergeant to my left could out pee me too. The little aperture jets the most energetic stream. I was content to come in last place in that respect.

An hour or so later Bonnie and I are back on the roof. Quick! Come back down! It's normal!

Not by the time we got into the garage it wasn't. And so it went, all summer. Bonnie wants to see it both ways; I can only show it to her standing on end and stretched ridiculously. One time I say, Wait a minute. No one can see us up here anyway. Why go to the garage? I'll just open my pants right here. Too late.

This Bonnie was forever harping on one theme that made me uncomfortable. Her older sister sometimes wore Kotex. She didn't know why, but if that was part of being female and growing up, she wanted to try it. She wanted me to go into the house and take one of my mother Kotex. Now we're back to the stealing part of Cops and Robbers. Show is fine; but not the stealing. I never answered her. I just put her off.

School started again. It would be years and years before I ever spoke to Bonnie again. That sequel may too come to be told. But first, back to Dorla.

Note: Patience in Fishing:

Actually patience isn't enough: not even Shakespeare's "Patience in the monument." One also has to remain alert. If the fish so much as breathes on the lure one has to know it. No, don't set the hook: just know that the fish is there: considering. Wait till the fish has picked up the lure: and still wait. Tune yourself to the line as though it were your vas diferens. You moment you feel decision in the fish--the fish will swim a bit differently, with a touch of purpose--then set the hook. It's exactly the same with dames.

And, I'll bet, it's exactly the same with guys: if it's the gal who's doing the fishing.

Gotcha! thinks Moby Dick to Ahab, as the harpoon sticks his flank.

Puberty Stories

2008-10-04T10:36:00.000-07:00

A series of Puberty Stories now follows: first,

Erection

Hark back to the sixth grade: summer following. The girls had gotten scarce for a while once news got around the neighborhood what the little girls were doing with that one little boy. (I was never chastised. I never heard of any of the girls being punished. But they'd had leashes put on them. By the parents, certainly, but by something else too. We were getting a little older. We were becoming social human beings with all the neuroses and taboos that that implies.) Trying to stuff my peter into the front fold of Bonnie's lips was a ridiculous chore. Neither of us had a clue that that flap only started the real stuff: like thinking the outer skin is the onion. Neither of us had ever heard of an erection.

Somewhere along in there I'd started getting my first erections. Bonnie is at my house. She's about to leave. Wait a minute, I say. She does. Something has happened to me, I falter. I want you to know about it. Bonnie flushes. 'Bye. And out of my house she goes. Never came back: my once constant companion.

So in the summer after the sixth grade I'm hanging around my house. Always something to do. Climb the tree. Stare at the junk in the cellar, in the attic. My childhood society had limited itself fairly much to my immediate section of My Street. Even once I could cross the street to the south, a major intersection for a child, I seldom did so: except when marauding on my bike. Those rampages were solitary, not social. My society was my immediate neighborhood: My Street, eight houses on my side, similar number on the other. My Side Street didn't cut the east side of My Street, but in my mind there was a juncture there too: "Smith" on one side "Jones" on the other: a border. North of the Jones' was another country. A girl I'd gone to school with since day-one lived merely a half dozen doors away: but the trip would have involved turning one of those corners. I wouldn't have had to cross a street, mind you: just turn the corner. Nope: might as well go to the moon.

Besides; in general I returned visits: I seldom initiated them. Never spoke to this Bonnie. Never visited her. Alien turf. But this one day I'm bouncing around the front yard. Bonnie sees me. She comes over. Hi. Whatcha doin? We go climb my tree. My poor lone tree. We'd had several when we moved in, me age three, but early 'Forties hurricanes took care of all but the apple tree and the nice maple all the way in the back shading the garage. Bonnie and I climb onto the roof of the garage. We hang out there: hidden within the shade. Bonnie says, Wouldn't it be great if we woke up one morning and everyone else was dead? No parents, no school? We'd have everything to ourselves. We could do anything we wanted.

I recognized her drift. Who wouldn't? What kid doesn't feel the same way? Billions of people in the world: what an imposition. Culture like a straightjacket. Not too thickly veiled however, I could also see Cops and Robbers coming.
"If only there weren't so many other people in the world," he said lugubriously.
... It was not woman's fault, nor even love's fault, nor the fault of sex. The fault lay there, out there, in those evil electric lights and diabolical rattlings of engines. There, in the world of the mechanical greedy, greedy and gushing hot metal and roaring with traffic, there lay the vast evil thing, ready to destroy whatever did not conform. Soon it would destroy the wood, and the bluebells would spring no more. All vulnerable things must perish under the rolling and running of iron.

DH Lawrence

Sequel

The piece coming soon about my dance partner will tell how the onset of puberty made me shy away from intimacies that had been easy as a kid: I saw Dorla's pantied crotch and went paralytic. Actually, that reaction already had a parallel. Other files here tell how the above Bonnie wanted me to steal one of my mother's Kotex pads so she could feel something of what her older sister was experiencing: and that was the end of our closeness. I never cooperated with her on the theft, she stopped coming around, I never went after her ... SybaRight the moralist makes a nice explanation but maybe my non-action can as well (or better) be explained as my first example of freezing up with pussy under my nose.

I never even spoke to Bonnie again until senior year: on one occasion only. A high school charity jazz concert story of mine tells how I contracted the music for a concert in which Duke Ellington had been promised but, through circumstances beyond my control, rock 'n roll delivered. For my date for that evening I chose a girl from my class, Carol B., my actual girl friend living way out toward Montauk Point. After the event I took Carol B. to an R'nR club over in Hempstead. Seated at our table, shadows fall on my shoulders. Bonnie (above) and another girl from our class have shown up at the same club. They've left their dates, guys from Brooklyn, at their table and come to schmooze with SybaRight: the big man of the event just concluded. The big man stretches out his arms and encircles Bonnie and (I'll call her) Belinda's waists. My wrists rest on the tops of their buttocks. Holy Jesus! When did Bonnie get such a perfect heinie? And Belinda's is its equal! Gradually my wrists slip and my hands caress the rounds below.

The girls didn't flinch. Carol B. didn't seem to notice or care. The hard guys from Brooklyn didn't attack me from behind. No, no: Mr. Cool has all the girls by the ass.

We chatted. They left. And I've never spoken to Bonnie again: and I'd never spoken to Belinda before or since.

Cheez, all the movies, all the sitcoms these days show high school kids as friends, or enemies, or at least mutual snipers ... In my high school most kids just ignored most kids. And there was next to no interaction between the genders: except for dating.

We're all like seventeen. Those girls' visit gave me a small taste of what I was missing. Luscious, both of them.

Carol B. was another story, but I'll slip that in here. I'd asked her to be my date at the concert sort of out of charity. I'd decided to ask a class mate to our senior prom. I'd decided to ask one who might not get a date otherwise. I'd chosen Carol. First I asked her if she wanted to go to the concert with me. After, leaving the club in Hempstead, was the time I chose to invite her to the prom. I began my sentence ... she farted. Loud. A real stinker. I sat stunned in her stink, didn't roll the windows down, didn't start gasping from the confines of the car. Her fart was one of the worst I've ever smelled. It at least equalled the offensiveness of the farts of John, or Boss: two guys in my click.

Fuck! Now what do I do? I got my breath and invited her anyway.

After the prom I bought her the obligatory drink, and took her straight home.

She wanted to be kissed. I think I brushed her cheek.

After graduation she shows up on my doorstep. I hadn't signed her yearbook. Oh. I invite her in, I sign something.

Aren't I going to invite her to sign mine? No. There are no signatures in my yearbook.

She left. I'd never spoken to her before inviting her to the concert. And I never spoke to her again.

High school for me was a prison. I cherish few memories from it.

But I've had plenty of fantasies about Bonnie and Belinda since then: just about my only fantasies involving more than one female at a time. I dream away the guys from Brooklyn. I dream away Carol B. Or I dream of seeing the two of them together on another occasion. I take Bonnie and Belinda to the beach ...

Common among all such fantasies is that I never ever actually fuck them. At least I don't come inside them. Indeed it's part of my fantasy that I lecture them on how careful we should be; but care shouldn't prohibit exploration: indeed we should all three endeavor toward everyone having at least one orgasm: save mine till last in case it's the only one you get out of me.

"Racial" Memories

2008-10-04T10:22:00.000-07:00

I'm back a few days later with an additional association. The bunch of us stood there imagining non-committed sex with the tiniest of our classmates. There was nothing wrong with Deb as a female, but she was not the cutest, the prettiest, the most beautiful, the most audacious, the best hung ... What she was was the most petite. Compared to Deb, the most average of us was nevertheless a giant. And I'll bet there's something common to most if not all of us that responds to, is stimulated by, discrepancies in size between male and female. As a kid I watched my guppies mate. The female was the size of a zeppelin compared to the scrawny males. You look at our cousins - other primate apes - and there's quite a range of size differentiation between the genders. The male chimp is much more massive than the female chimp.

Male baboons are grotesquely larger than any female in their harem. The silverback gorilla is decisively bigger than his mates. Only with Homo sapiens are the sizes similar: the male is generally larger, taller, more massive, but not by much: here and there opposites prevail: the female is the "same": or the female is larger ... When I catch a big bass I know for sure I've got a female. Sure enough: she may be full of roe too. The females dwarf the males. But in most primate cases, the male gets a genetic head start in being physically dominant.

Anton is more than a bit bigger than Yelena. Nice. (And extra helpful since he's got to lift her.)

Now: consider this. In human DNA there are long strings of code for colorful wings such as butterflies have! Way at the base of "Einstein's" brain, there was gray matter little different than for that of a reptile. Nature may evolve, this species may become more complex than that, things may differentiate, but nature also seldom throws anything away. Humans moved visibly, dramatically toward (not to, toward) "equality"; but there we were: a bunch of immature males, fantasizing about dramatic physical dominance. John was imagining fucking her as though she were a hand puppet: right after Lenny had announced his dominating fantasy in which he places his viscous scrotum on her cooperating hand.

And then we all go vote and say we're "equal." (And then we all go to church and say we're "Christian."

Note: Sized by Gender:

I've mentioned without yet detailing much one of the most disastrous of my relationships. Jeano promised to "take care of" me while I wrote my first novel.
I actually tried to discuss scientific ideas with her, treating her, initially, as a peer, however little educated. One evening in the motor home on Hilton Head Island, the sounds of the rigging slapping against the masts of our neighbors' moored yachts, right there on the Intracoastal, we watched TV: PBS: Richard Leakey. He showed chimp behavior where estrus was visible for all to see. The female chimp's vulva was swollen hugely red. She'd go up to one male, stick her snatch under his nose, get fucked, go onto the next ... fucking every male in the group in turn. Afterward Jeano said she liked the part with the mother and the child. What? What mother? What child? ... Ohhh: her mind couldn't absorb fucking when she saw it. For physically dominant male copulating with tiny female, she substituted physically dominant female cuddling tiny infant.

But there: that's another example of physical dominance.

Mother & Child
by Durga Bernhard

The mother is even bigger than the infant is than the male gorilla is bigger than the female gorilla. A mother cuddling her child swallows that child even more than Anton above was swallowing Yelena within his protective embrace. Why, by the way, does that beautful skater look so soulful? They're being interviewed about cheating by the Olympic judges! Their integrity as "champions" has been called into question.

And further note: Christian:

I and the pals I was standing among would soon constitute the main "white" clique: white collar white clique, that is. "Half" the class, including Debbie, as I believe I've mentioned, were Jewish. But Jews have Jewish fantasies about who and what they are just as do Christians: and Americans, and Harvard people, and "the Chinese" ...

Of course I fantasize too: rather boldly at my regular domain, under my actual name. I've never said I don't. But: some fantasies correspond with facts a lot better than others. If true facts could ever be established short of Judgment Day, I'm confident that mine will pan out much beyond the average. Otherwise, we'll just have to wait: till infinite time "ends": ha ha.

First Orgasm: Seen

2008-10-04T08:43:00.000-07:00

No, no: not my first orgasm; the first one I saw — first one I ever "heard of." (Mine, if I tell it, belongs with the Puberty stories.)

It must have been the seventh grade. Some kid I hardly knew invited me to his house after school. But he didn't live in a house; he took me to an apartment complex: also a first: one first after another. It was fascinating. There was a living room. Nicely furnished, luxurious couches, richly carpeted. There was a bowl of hard candies. I'd never seen treats out on permanent display like that. The place had a funny smell: different kind of living, different culture. Had my host then told me that he was Jewish, he would have been only the second Jew I was aware of ever meeting. I don't think the odor had anything to do with a different kind of kitchen: different cooking; it was different materials, different fabrics. I think I was smelling domestic synthetics for the first time.

It was all very bewildering. The guy took me into a series of rooms inside a building larger than a house. The series of rooms were I suppose almost as big as a house. The furnishings were richer than I was yet accustomed to. The living room was "sunken." It didn't seem right. I don't know how I knew - the movies, I suppose - but didn't poor people live in "apartments"?

"Have a candy," the guy says.

"Uh, no, thank you." Hard candy? In pastels? Wearing a cellophane wrapper? It was all too weird.

"Watch this."

The kid's name was Lenny. Not the Lenny I was close to that year. Neither was it the Lenny I'd so admired in grade school, never guessing that the reason he seemed so developed, so strong, so mature was that he was probably fourteen years old (the guy's biceps were articulated, for Crisake! hard as iron!): in the second grade! This Lenny unzips himself and produces his dick. Displayed in his hand.

I was flabbergasted. No one, male or female, child or adult, had ever suddenly produced their genitalia for my viewing. I was also a little startled because he was so big, so ferocious looking. His glans was a swollen purple bulb. The vein where the shaft swells just before the glans was purple and angry. Lenny began to stroke it. Polyphemus' Cyclops eye winked at me as it was yanked this way and that by his massaging.

Very disconcerting. Lenny's dick was almost as big as mine. I knew dicks. I knew erections: normal, and SybaRight's: from standing them on display in cub scout overnights. But mine, even if it stretched to a half an inch longer than Lenny's (though perhaps it was a fraction less stout), had never looked like Lenny's looked: ready for anything, ready to jump through the roof, ready to invade Poland.

Lenny got all red faced. This whole experience was all colors: all revolting colors: the head of his cock was a purple bulb, something on a baboon. He huffed. And he puffed. And he chuffed. "Aw ... Guh, guh, guh ..." And my first view of creamy jissom came spurting out of Polyphemus's pink little eye. "Guh." And Lenny had this stupid lopsided smile on his face.

"Uh ... Bye, now." And I got out of there.

Now. I'll never forget my own first orgasm: but that was years later. I remember it with pleasure little diminished. And I remember Lenny's orgasm: with shock and disgust not that much diminished. How long did Lenny wait before he invited some female classmate over to squirt in front of her? What would a girl's reaction to his rut have been?

Before I ever came in a girl's face, in a girl's mouth, throbbing within her fingers, geysering all over a girl's breasts, or her belly, or her butt ... in her hair, on the wall, dripping from the bedpost, I knew that the girl knew what was going on: and wanted it.

Only now in my old age do I fantasize what must be common enough among others: Here little girl, I got something to show you.

Men are famous for wanting virgins. Men assume that their gods want virgins too. When I was a virgin I was indifferent about virginity. Once I wanted to play, I wanted a partner who knew how. I've fucked women who said they were virgins: but though I can't prove that they weren't, I doubt it. Only one case comes to mind where I'm as sure as sure that my partner in lust was a virgin when she first said so and was still a virgin when she last said so: that is, when she invited me over finally to put an end to it.

I'd had thousands of orgasms with her by that time (certainly hundreds): she'd I presume had none with me. Pleasure, excitement, yes; orgasm, no. Once we were at it in the fully normal adult way, that is, with me coming inside her cunt, she came: quite matter-of-factly. Nothing torrential. I don't think we were trying for any watershed records. Not yet.

Now I regret my casualness. In those days I had no urge to put my face there. I made no such offers: I got no such requests. She said she was a virgin. I took her to mean that that, for the time being, was her preferred state. Since she said it while she was gawking at my rod, was stroking and caressing my balls, was moaning in anticipation of my eruption ... I, like her, concentrated on my orgasms. Now I wish I'd taken a closer look between her eighteen year old legs. OK, Honey: I'll jissom you aplenty. But first let me get down there with a flashlight. Show me this famous hymen of yours. Is it good to eat? You can be as virgin as you want and still squirt in the female fashion: odoriferous honey running like a river.

Not even the rain has such Small Hands

Nobody
Not even the rain
Has such small hands.
ee cummings

This file is in my Sex/Kids folder but some of the contents applies to Sex/Puberty, to Sex/College, to Sex/Adult ... I'll add another story from puberty: one which also relates to characters mentioned in passing: namely the other Lenny: the one I was close to around the sixth or seventh grade. I mentioned my college girl friend raptly caressing my balls while moaning for me to come: she a deliberate virgin through many such episodes. Elsewhere I've mentioned how much the first girl to ever want to strip for me was devoted to her "turkey skin" as she called my scrotal flesh. That virgin in college was not the first to make me shiver by touching my testes, but she was the first never not to have hold of my balls from the first moment we were alone till I'd come all over her. But I'd thought about it. Beginning when: I can tell you exactly.

(Bicycle Bar) [that's a tip to insert anotehr story later]

When Bonnie played with my turkey skin, no testes were present. Nothing had descended. My scrotum was flat. By the time I and my fellow cub scouts had wands waving in the pup tent's air, my childhood girl friends had made themselves scarce: or, mutually, I was holding myself aloof. I can't say exactly when my testes announced their descended presence but it was around in there somewhere: sixth-gradish. They announced themselves in a strangled scream at my sudden contact with my bicycle bar. Don't ever ever ever do that again, my body told me. All those years: I'd probably been jumping down, my crotch on the bar without problem. I'll certainly never forget that moment.

Neither will I ever forget the other moment: the moment when I first imagined post-puberty erotic contact.

It was Lenny. Lenny, my good friend. The one from South America, his father having moved the family to Peru to get his oil company's maximum pay for American engineers. Lenny was talking about a girl in our class. We might have been in the eighth grade by then. Come to think of it, we must have been, because this girl had gone to a grade school that hadn't blended its products into the high school until the eighth grade. I'm not remembering her name. Debbie, maybe. And until the moment of Lenny mentioning her, I'd been indifferent about her. The girl in question was petite. Far and away she was the most petite girl in the class. John was making us roar imagining fucking her by holding her by the waist and hoisting her up and down on his staff. Ha, ha, ha. That's how tiny she was! John was imagining that he could lift her. He was imagining that she'd cooperate. Imagining fucking. But that wasn't an erotic thought. The thought was mechanical. I doubt that the thought was erotic to John either, the one whose image it was. We had erections, but our erections had no urgency. We weren't like the other Lenny. At least I wasn't. If my friends had been exuding juices yet, I think I'd know it. No. I never felt anything erotic until Lenny said, "All I know is that when I put my balls on Debbie's hand, they'd spill over the sides of her fingers." Notice: he said it as a fact and a fantasy at the same time. Fantasy I'm sure it was (or Lenny wouldn't have tried to bugger me around that same time: I don't think so): good rhetoric for a kid.

Every one of us stopped, sober-faced.

Lenny's thought got me where I lived. Then, slowly, over the years, I'd imagine this girl friend or that touching just ever so the wrinkled skin where my teste rounds with just the tip of her finger as she tastes with her tongue the liquid pearl standing in my penis' tip.

I never imagined that by the time I was twice that age girls would grab hold of me as I came through their apartment door, yank at my pants, shove the door shut, have both of my balls firmly in their fist, and gobble my wang till my pubes were in their teeth before they'd gotten my briefs as far down as my knees. (How extraordinary to see the same woman decades later being interviewed for DC TV as one of our capital's more creative art impresarios. Wouldn't you know the two art dealers got together again!)

It must have been around that age - early teens - that I read for the first time some clinical writing on sex. The book was talking about how some men like their balls to be handled, some vigorously, while others don't want anybody anywhere near them. It's that latter attitude that I imagined for myself at the time of reading. Ooo - too delicate, too vulnerable, too dangerous. And that reading could have occurred after Lenny's image. But I know Lenny's image got to me. I just may not yet have imagined it as really possible.

Aunt Pussy

2008-10-04T08:42:00.002-07:00

My first glimpse of an adult pussy probably really was the first time a black bush of any color was in direct line with my eye. It must have been traumatic for it to be so vivid five and a half decades later. Reflecting on the circumstances at present I can admit: the woman connected to the pussy was as exhibitionist anyway. My mother and her two kids had taken an outing with her sister and one or more of her three kids. We share a hotel room. I'm walking around in the morning, minding my own business: I pass the bathroom, the door is open a crack, maybe more than a crack. I see movement: Holy ... ?!?!? What's that? Horrible. Frightening. Monstrous.

But of course anything adult is monstrous at first glace to a newbie. What would the kitten think if it saw its mother at the moment of the kill that makes the milk in the tit possible?

Half-hairless
The first time I saw an immature pussy, that is, one mature enough for the immaturity to be a feature, occurred when my sister dragged me into the garage to service some dubious new friend of hers. My sister was "two years" older - actually eighteen months -- and some amateur whore got power over her. This girl had told my sister apparently that her cousin would lie on top of her on their porch Sunday mornings, the two of them naked. Why would they do that? my sister, like any reasonable kid, wanted to know? to keep each other's bellies warm, she supposed. So this girl wants "her belly warmed": and my sister recruits me for the chore. The girl pulls her pants off, my sister looking guiltily excited (not sexually: I don't think she had any "sex" yet either; intellectually! Spiritually!) The girl positions herself for me to mount her. My sister urges me, yanking on my elbow.

There it is, the beginnings of a beaver. My first glimpse of a dark down emerging around the pubis. Even such a small amount of hair was repellant to immature me. The girls I mounted on my own time under my own steam had no such flaws. These distaff got no cooperation from me.

"He's too young," my sister's witch dismisses me: after I'd left.

Firsts

2008-10-04T08:42:00.001-07:00

It's well more than a year since I started jotting some of these confessions, or organizing them into something with a menu, when it occurs to me that there are some "firsts" I don't believe I've told. By "first" I mean first experience: and I emphasize: awareness is a necessary ingredient of experience. The hospital changes babies in the presence of other babies: the infant with its ass in the air is not regarded as requiring privacy whatever its gender: 'cause nothing is registering on its neighbors: it has no neighbors: no "one" is there: the nurses, orderlies, doctors, etc. Don't count: they're "above it" all. At home your parents can blow each other right in front of you without having to explain anything away. So when I say the first time I saw an adult pussy, I mean the first time the sight registered.

(I'm reminding myself here of Wittgenstein, who asks questions like: if you say you've never been to the moon, how do you know whether or not it's so? Do you imagine your "consciousness" is continuous? Were you never asleep? could you not have been taken there while you were unconscious? sick? drugged? You don't know of anyone capable of taking anyone to the moon? Irrelevant: you think you know everything? You mean "God" couldn't have taken you? You're the authority on possibility?)

Note: Registered: Distinctions with regard to "consciousness" are endless. Once I'd bought a Peterson's Guide for bird watching and noticed the place to keep a life time's check list, I had to avoid the temptation to run down the list checking things that looked familiar: sea gulls, terns, ducks, sparrows ...? No: start from scratch. I'd never seen any bird prior to having the Guide: where I was confident I'd identified both genus and species. Once you've got genus and species, you can start looking for "races." Then you can worry about individuals. Then you can worry about how well you "know" the individual.

Even peas might not "look alike" if you lived in the pod with them.

What Mother Feels

2008-10-04T08:41:00.002-07:00

The female paraphernalia is all hidden. The body surface all curves toward that "hidden." Follow the thighs, the belly, the buttocks, they all lead you to something just a bit further on: if your testes are pumping out the right stuff to stimulate the explorer. My testes were pumping nothing. I didn't know they existed. My explorations were all on the surface. For instance: one day in the basement Bonnie says she wants to feel what her mother feels. She wants it inside her. Little SybaRight was generally very cooperative. I take my little peanut and try to stuff it into the only front crack I knew: the little fold of lips you can see on any standing female. (Bonnie was standing, her back against the concrete blocks of the cellar wall.) She tried to spread her legs, still standing, to help me. An acrid reek rose from her movement. All that probing front and back had never gone deeper than the width of a blade of grass. This was my first whiff of an asshole too damn proximate, but I soldiered on. This was smelly, sweaty work. Before giving up we both agreed: "Our parents must really love us to put up with all that to have us."

Anatomy

2008-10-04T08:41:00.001-07:00

You'd think I'd know a little female anatomy after all that? Not a bit of it. My explorations were very superficial. The male apparatus is right up front. There was my little peter. Underneath was my funny little sack with the wrinkled skin. Her "turkey skin" Bonnie called it. She loved to play with her turkey skin. Of course, understand: the first thing that determines gender in our order of life is the testes. But in the immature animal, the testes are hidden well away. Mine wouldn't descend for another good several years. For a long time I'd leapt onto my bicycle however I would. Then one day, same behavior, not especially clumsier than usual, and ... Uh oh. I was paralyzed. Frightened to rigidity. The feeling was horrible, so frightening, that not having been killed instantly was cruel torture. One hard lesson hard learned: watch the bar of the bicycle frame from now on. Boys don't make that mistake twice. And until the testes descend, it isn't a mistake. If the proper combination of chromosomes don't tell the testes to be male, then the same few cells default to female and become ovaries. All humans are female unless some special information tells them to be male. If the first set of instructions arrive, the creature is male. If the next set of instructions somehow fail to be generated (by the testes), then the male looks and behaves in all ways like a female: a vulva will form but there'll be no vagina. No eggs will ever be produced. He can have tits and ass and long blond hair, fine female features ... But if it's testes, not ovaries, it's a male.

Show

2008-10-04T08:40:00.002-07:00

My original Bonnie called what she had proposed, taking off all our clothes and displaying ourselves to each other, Cops & Robbers: that was the fantasy she wanted: she was the lady of the house, naked in bed; I was a burgler, breaking in through the window ... I just called it Show: 'You show me yours, I'll show you mine.'

The girl in the neighborhood who grew up to be the greatest beauty was much younger than I. This Bonnie heard about our games and wanted to show hers. I'm in the yard of my usual friend but she wasn't home. Little blond Bonnie shows up. I'll show you, she says. We walk off toward my garage. I'll show you this, she says and points her finger right on her front lips. And I'll show you this, she says, running her same finger up the cleft of her buttocks. We were right under the front window of my absent friend. I see my friend's father there, frowning at us. We go to my garage, haven't been there long, and I hear my mother call from the house. SybaRight, what are you doing? Get in here this instant. The Game of Show cooled off in the neighborhood for a while after that. One day I dug a hole in the back yard. Filled it with water. Little Bonnie came running out, stripped off her clothes and jumped into the mud. Her father comes running out of their house and drags her away. That girl, by the way, became the greatest, most spectacularly gorgeous belly dancer I've ever seen. She starred in a whole string of Egyptian Clubs. Last time I saw her, she was wearing a diamond the size of a pigeon's egg: engaged to the owner to the string of clubs.

Cops & Robbers

2008-10-04T08:40:00.001-07:00

Of the girls in my neighborhood, it was the girl who had first suggested naked games who came back most often for more. Bonnie was generally involved in any group gropes and was my most frequent sole partner.

The first time, we were in my attic: an unfinished attic, believe me. Hot as blazes in the summer, right under the eaves. No insulation, no fan, no one ever heard of AC in ... oh, 1944 or so. Bonnie says Let's play Cops and Robbers. How do you play that, I ask. I take my clothes off, she says. I lie down here like I'm in bed. Cover me with something: pretend it's a blanket. I'm the lady of the house, see? Then you come in ... from over there: like you're climbing in through the window. You're the robber.

I wasn't at all sure how that would sound to my Sunday School Teacher let alone to Jesus, but I kept listening. Bonnie was at least a year younger than I, just a little girl, not exactly a peer; but my guest. I listened. I certainly approved the naked part. I don't want to rob you, I said.

You don't have to rob me: you just see me and ... do whatever you want. Oh, you then take your cloths off too.

After that we'd meet behind my garage, in my basement, in the car ... Other kids in the neighborhood, all girls, sometimes joined us.

Skinflint Master Mind

2008-10-04T08:34:00.000-07:00

One such episode I am deeply ashamed of and tell it first: the only such incident where I feel I was a scoundrel. I was maybe ten, hanging around with a kid from school who lived up the block, but far enough up the block that we'd never run back and forth to each other's house: Pete. We're talking about this and that and I realized that Pete's experience didn't match mine: he hadn't spent much time with pussy, he hadn't spent any. You mean you have? he's startled and doubtful. Sure, I say, it's easy. I look up and a young girl from halfway up the block is walking toward her house. She's maybe seven or so. I've never spoken to her, don't even know her name. Watch this, I tell Pete. I go up to the girl. Hi. You're the girl who lives in that house up the block, over there, right? Hi. I'm SybaRight. This is Pete. We're medical students, studying anatomy. We need a model. Would you model for us? We'll give you a nickel.

I imagine plenty of kids have done as bad or far worse. Why am I so ashamed of it? Because it's the first time (and I believe the only time) I ever told lies to get the girl's clothes off. But that's still not the worst of it: we never gave her the nickel! It's also the only time I've ever offered money for anything sex-related (that wasn't simple merchandise to start with: like condoms, and precious few of those). Therefore, it's the only time I welched. It's possible I forgot my promise. More likely I decided it wasn't necessary and was a young skinflint. I shouldn't have offered the money if I wasn't going to pay: still haunts me more than half a century later.

Kiddie Sex: Bonnie

2008-10-04T08:33:00.000-07:00

I started to tell sex stories at my personal domain in 2000 as a sort of busman's holiday: I wrote all the time, I needed to relax, so I wrote about something I liked but something Not my usual subject.

It was at that time that I decided to call all the young girls Bonnie, just in case the grown-and-married-with-grandchildren version of my childhood playmate happened acrosss my story. I presumed that she wouldn't mind personally, I presumed she'd be pleased actually; but I also decided that she wouldn't want her family, if they also saw the stories, figuring out that I was talking about their wife, their mother, their sister, their grandmother.

So much time has passed now that I may insert some of the real names: not full names, just the giveen names. In cases where I have no love for my partner of that time, I go ahead and use her real name: though again, just her given name, typically common enough: Barbara, Nancy, Cathy ...

Kiddie Sex:

2008-10-04T08:32:00.001-07:00

Behind the Garage

I doubt if I was older than six the first time a girl suggested that we play games with no clothes on. Soon, not all, but the bulk of the girls in my neighborhood were in my harem. We go behind my garage, strip and poke around: me and two girls, me and three girls ...

SybaRight

2008-10-04T08:29:00.000-07:00

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.