A call from the bank seldom bodes well unless you have a loan officer like this one.
“Mr. Farnsworth,” I said into the telephone, my voice betraying just a hint of nervousness, “this is Ms. Bigelo from your bank. I’m calling to let you know this month’s mortgage payment hasn’t arrived.”
Farnsworth reacted with surprise. He told me he’d sent the check out two weeks ago. But I already knew that. In fact I was holding the check in my hand as we spoke, my eyes fixed on the strong, masculine strokes of his signature.
“It probably got lost in the mail,” I answered with the giddy exuberance of a school girl talking to a football hero. His voice was the clincher. It matched his signature so perfectly that I was even more determined to proceed with my plan.
“Why don’t you come down with a replacement check today,” I said, “and avoid the late charge.”
He immediately agreed and we set a time for later that afternoon. I hung up the phone and sighed with relief. I was going to meet the man who had been monopolizing my fantasies.
The whole thing had started six months earlier when I had been promoted to loan acceptance officer at the local bank where I work. It was my responsibility to sort through the monthly mortgage payments, making sure they were up to date and properly processed. Not a real exciting job, or so I had originally thought. But after the third month, something funny started happening to me. I found myself looking forward to certain checks. Mr. Harry Farnsworth’s, for example.
You can tell a lot about people from their checks. First off, of course, there’s the person’s sex, although it shouldn’t come as a big surprise that most mortgage payments are made by men anyway. Then there’s his level of success. Quite reasonably, a man who’s making three-thousand-dollar-a-month mortgage payments must be doing quite well for himself. And finally there’s the guy’s handwriting, the way he dots his I’s and crosses his T’s.
I’ve always known handwriting was the window to the soul.
Most people write like shit their childish scrawls showing minds arrested in adolescence or just as bad trapped in a depressed disarray of adulthood. Looking at such checks I could almost see the men who’d written them gray and lackluster, overweight and terrified of the world around them.
A few however, filled in their checks with bold, decisive, controlled strokes that suggested power, grace and style. Given the boredom level of my new job, it shouldn’t come as a great surprise that I eventually began scrutinizing all the checks in this category in an effort to glean as much additional information as possible. Sort of the way an archaeologist might examine an undeciphered ancient scroll.
Having a basic knowledge of handwriting analysis, I began, for example, looking for men who’d leave their O’s slightly open. This suggests honesty and if the O is slightly larger than normal a healthy interest in the opposite sex. A few of the mortgage payments, although written with a neat, exciting flourish, had tiny O’s that turned me right off.
In the beginning, all of this was pretty much a game with me. And it might have even stayed that way if I hadn’t eventually pulled the files that went with five of the most interesting signatures. Mortgage application forms, after all, are packed with personal information.
It was, as it turned out, a very disappointing experience. Most of the men were old and/or married. Two of them were just squeaking by on their payments. And one ran a funeral parlor. Yuk! My fantasies about them quickly evaporated.
Only Harry Farnsworth still intrigued me, his very name suggesting stability and the elegance of old English family ties. According to his records, he was a forty-one-year-old engineer with an aerospace firm whose salary was well into the six figures. Even more intriguing, he’d been married six years, but his wife had died two years earlier. Since this information seemed to confirm the strong, stable image I’d been building of Farnsworth, I now found myself looking forward to the receipt of his checks almost as if they were love letters.
Still, I had never intended to make contact with any of these people. I’m an attractive woman of thirty-four with an active sex life, not the kind who seeks out fantasy to escape a boring, meaningless existence. The only thing at all unusual about me is the way I like to draw things out with my lovers, sometimes taking an hour or even two to reach the first orgasm.
But there it was anyway: the thought of making contact. Once it entered my mind, it just kept growing, finally taking over almost all my waking thoughts and frequently, my dreams as well. Hence the phone call, carefully thought out over the preceding month.
Now, as I sat at my desk waiting for Farnsworth’s arrival, each new man entering the place set my heart skipping with both fear and hope. Would I be disappointed? Or would he be as I’d imagined?
“Ms. Bigelo?” Farnsworth seemed to come out of nowhere. About six feet tall, he was dressed in a three-piece power suit, wore dark horn-rimmed glasses and had the mature good looks of a man in control of his life. He was, in fact, just as I had hoped.
“Ms. Bigelo?” he repeated. I could barely find my voice. But I knew I’d better snap out of it real fast if I didn’t want him to think I was an idiot or something.
“Nice to meet you Harry…uh, Mr. Farnsworth,” I said, extending my hand as I stood up from my desk. I wanted him to see the merchandise. I’d worn a particularly revealing dress that day, hardly appropriate for the bank but effective for getting a man’s attention. Judging from the look on his face, it was doing its job.
I sat back down, indicating that Farnsworth should do the same. He handed me the check and I pretended to study it, trying to figure out my next move. Despite all my planning I hadn’t really thought past this moment. How was I going to get him to ask me out without being obvious?
“It’s unusual to call about a late check, isn’t it?” Farnsworth finally asked. It was almost as though he was reading my mind.
“Oh, yes,” I answered, scrambling for an explanation. “But…well, you know, I’m familiar with all our accounts and sometimes I feel like I actually, uh, know the people I process. You, for example,” I said, regaining a sense of control, “are always meticulously punctual. And you have such a perfect credit rating, I thought it would be a shame to have that ruined just because of the post office.”
“Well, I appreciate it,” he said, standing up. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
Panic engulfed me as I realized he was preparing to leave. “I, uh, notice you haven’t applied for one of our mortgage insurance policies,” I almost shouted. “You know, in case of death or something.”
He smiled at me. “I don’t plan on dying.” Then his face suddenly darkened. “And anyway, there’s no one to name as beneficiary.” He gave me a wave, then turned and headed out the door.
My mind screamed, “No!” The guy was a solid-gold hunk and, despite having had him here, right in front of me, I’d let him slip through my grasp. But then, what did I expect? Everything I’d learned about Farnsworth from his handwriting and his files suggested he wouldn’t be the kind of man who’d chase after his loan officer. If he were, I wouldn’t have been interested in him in the first place.
The next few weeks were filled with confusion and a growing sense of lustful urgency. I wanted this man’s dick inside me. I wanted to feel it, hard and rigid as it filled my pussy and my mouth. I wanted his come to splash across my tits. I wanted him to take me and pound me and satisfy me with his maleness.
But I couldn’t think of any way to make that happen unless I went directly to him. The very thought of such a bold move made me shudder with embarrassment and fear. It was so outrageous, so absolutely unlike me. I knew that anyone looking at this objectively would think I was a nut case just like that woman in Fatal Attraction. Despite this, however, I slowly found the resolve I needed.
It was a Saturday morning when I parked my car down the block from Farnsworth’s home. Nervously awaiting his appearance, I slouched behind my steering wheel, knowing I couldn’t let him see me. It would be too embarrassing. But there was nothing I could do about his neighbors, especially the family whose house I parked in front of. I just hoped they wouldn’t call the cops or confront me directly. If they did, I knew my resolve would crumble.
Under these circumstances, each minute that passed seemed like an hour. Soon my mind was screaming, mantra-like for Farnsworth to “come out, come out, come out…” of the goddamn house. By the time he finally appeared crossing from his front door to the car in his driveway I thought I’d burst out of my skin.
A few moments later, following Farnsworth as discreetly as possible, I could barely control my car, thanks to the way my hands trembled on the steering wheel. Despite the erratic driving on my part though, things went well enough until he got caught at a traffic light with me sitting right behind him! Oh, God, I prayed, don’t let him see me in his rearview mirror! Just in case God wasn’t listening I did my best to look unaware of Farnsworth.
Once we were underway again, I fell back even further, so as not to duplicate that fiasco. But now I worried that I’d lose him completely. And, to compound matters, the more frightened and confused I became, the hornier I felt. Finally at the breaking point I thrust my right hand down into my crotch and gently massaged my clit, all the time marveling at how wet I was, considering the circumstances. One thing I didn’t want to do, though, was achieve orgasm. If I did, I was sure I’d lose my resolve to establish contact.
When I followed him into the supermarket parking lot, I couldn’t help sighing with relief. This was perfect the best possible circumstance I could have hoped for. It should be easy for me to arrange a “chance” meeting here.
Parking a couple of spaces down from Farnsworth, my hand groped spastically for the ignition key. “Damn,” I cursed as I saw Farnsworth exit his car and head for the market, “what’s wrong with me?” Grabbing the key at last I yanked it from the ignition almost snapping it off and stumbled out of the car, slamming the door behind me.
“Mr. Farnsworth? Is that you?” I shouted, walking up behind him.
Farnsworth turned toward me, his eyes going wide, just as they had in the bank. I wondered fleetingly if it was his surprise at seeing me or the short skirt and tight blouse I had worn for the occasion.
“Ms. Bigelo?” he responded. “What are you doing here?” As he spoke his eyes traveled quickly up and down my body, something he hadn’t done quite so openly at the bank.
“I was…uh, visiting my aunt,” I told him, my mind racing to create a plausible scenario. I knew if I wasn’t careful, I’d not only blow my chance at Farnsworth, but just maybe my job at the bank as well.
Farnsworth looked over at the supermarket. “Is she a check-out girl?”
It sounded like he was making fun of me. But I had a ready answer anyway. “I was heading home when I got hungry. I thought I’d stop here and get a sandwich. How’s their deli?”
”Nothing special,” he answered, resuming his trek to the market. “I don’t generally shop here, but it’s close by.”
“Oh well,” I said, following him like a lost puppy. “It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry, so it’ll just have to do.”
Farnsworth stopped. “You know,” he said, “I’m hungry too. Why don’t we go someplace decent for lunch? It’s on me.”
At last! For a moment I’d thought he was going to give me another polite wave and walk off, the way he had at the bank. But with his offer of lunch, I knew I had him exactly where I wanted him. I was so excited I felt my nipples grow hard.
After a perfect meal at a small French restaurant, we went to his place. We spent the afternoon and evening together, talking almost nonstop. I learned that he had been devastated by his wife’s death and that he’d only recently returned to dating. Good, I thought, he’s primed and ready. If anybody could bnng him out of mourning, I knew it was me.
It was a long time before Harry allowed anything to show what was on both of our minds. But as the evening grew late and the issue of my staying or leaving could no longer be put off, he made his move. Kissing me on the lips as we sat in front of his fireplace, he gently pushed me down onto the rug beneath us. I kissed him back hungrily while forcing my skirt up by parting my legs, so he’d know he was welcome to explore me further.
Plunging his tongue deep into my mouth, he grabbed my panties from behind, pulling them off my ass and down my legs. When the panties reached my ankles, I kicked them free, allowing Harry to slip between my legs. Then a second later, despite my efforts to slow him down, he plunged his stiff cock inside of me.
My mind exploded with pleasure. It was the biggest cock I had ever felt. Thrusting deep inside of me, filling my pussy to the bursting point, he was reaching places no man had ever found before. For a moment I actually went blind with pleasure, a white vibrating light flooding my vision.
“Oh, God,” Farnsworth moaned after a few minutes of heavy balling.
“Don’t come, Harry,” I gasped. “Not yet.”
He seemed to understand immediately, and slowed down the pace of his thrusts.
“I want to make this last as long as possible,” I whispered in his ear. “I want it to last for hours. I want the sexual tension to keep building and building until neither of us can stand it. Okay?”
He nodded. Then, with both of us on our sides, facing each other, he brought his thrusts to a virtual stop His hard cock still inside of me, we spent the next five or ten minutes kissing each other, our tongues rolling sloppily across every anatomical area we could reach without breaking coitus. And through it all, the only motion I felt from his cock was an occasional twinge and some carefully controlled half-thrusts
Slowly, as we kissed and pawed each other, we changed positions without him withdrawing from deep inside me. From the side-by-side position we went to me facing down on the rug with him behind me, taking me from the rear, his thrusts deeper and bolder, delivered every minute or two. I had to admire his self-control. It was remarkable for anyone, especially a man who’d been without sex as long as Harry had.
Even so, a couple of times over the next hour, he had to pull his cock out of me or risk coming. Once, as a result of this, he even lost his erection for a moment, but it was quickly revived when I put my lips on his cock. Another time he had an abbreviated orgasm. One that did nothing to diminish his erection. Seeing the thin line of come that slowly dripped down from his huge cock, I put my mouth under it to catch it all on my tongue.
At last we both knew it was time to come when we started moaning and laughing at the same time.
“Now,” I said, wrapping my legs around his back. “Shoot it into me now!” It was a scream, a moan, a plea and a demand, all at the same time.
Harry’s release surged inside me like raging waters from a busted dam.
“Do you always make love that way?’ he asked once the shaking of our bodies had finally subsided.
“Yes.” I said, matter-of-factly. “Anything quicker than that is a waste of time.” By then I knew I had him. He’d never had as good a lay as me and he was beginning to suspect that, unless I stayed in his life, he never would again.
I did stay in his life, for six orgasmic, come-drenched months. But eventually I grew bored with things, a problem I’ve had with all my relationships. It seems I always conquer men. What I really want is for a man to conquer me.
Anyway, it was about this time that the bank got a new client. He carried a hefty mortgage, and I couldn’t help noticing what a unique and exciting signature he had. I think I might have to pull his file.
Pampered, bejeweled and regal words to describe the jet-setting social butterflies who flit from one fashionable resort to the next. During the winter months, these privileged folk head south to exclusive Palm Beach. Not accustomed to being denied, they believe that anything can be had for a price. Sometimes, though, they must be reminded there are some things that money just can’t buy.
I was sitting under the stained glass dome in the main dining room of one of Palm Beach’s finest hotels, when the white-jacketed waiter arrived with a tall glass of orange juice. As he set it in front of me he whispered, “Drink it all up. You’re gonna need it.” I was about to tell him that I hadn’t ordered any juice when he quietly leaned over and presented the breakfast check. There was the answer, scrawled in blue ballpoint pen: Miss L.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was pink and wrinkled, with bright red fingernails and a wrist thickly covered with heavy gold bracelets.
I turned in my seat and looked up.
“Well?” the woman said. “Can I sit down, or what?”
Not having the courage to argue with anyone wearing a skintight leopard skin jumpsuit, I pulled out the chair beside her. She wore black-framed glasses and a wide-brimmed leopard-print hat. Her shiny black shoes had heels so tall and sharp they looked like they could perforate the hull of a warship. She had so much makeup on that, for all I knew, there could’ve been a gorilla underneath it all. I guessed her age to be about seventy-five. Maybe more. Maybe a lot more.
She pulled out a thin, black-lacquered cigarette holder and slowly screwed in a filterless Camel. Lodging the assembly between her fingers, she held it out for a light, which I provided. She took a long drag, then rested her chin on her hand and looked at me through the smoke. Her creased lips were painted a bright flaming red. She reminded me of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. I felt a bit like William Holden.
“So, what does the ‘L’ stand for?” I asked.
“My name?” she said, pausing, puffing, thinking it over. “It’s Lil-li-an. You know how to say that don’t ya? You just slowly flick your tongue along the roof of your mouth.”
“So, Lillian,” I asked, “why did you pay for my breakfast?”
She laughed. “Because I enjoyed looking at your cute ass in those lovely pink shorts. Look around, Buns. Tight asses are at a premium here. I wasn’t the only one who noticed you, just the richest, which saves time. That’s important when you’re my age.” She switched the cigarette to her left hand and leaned forward pointedly. “You can call me Lil.”
I suddenly felt myself blushing. “Okay, Lil. Can I ask you another question?”
She nodded. “But keep it short. I’m old,” she added.
“Why is your hand on my thigh?” I asked, feeling it sliding its way up under my baggy shorts.
“I just wanted to see what it would feel like to have them wrapped around me. Your thighs are like hardwood. I think it would feel good. So, how would you like to make three hundred bucks?”
“To make love to you?” I asked, getting right to the point after all, she’d said she didn’t have time to waste.
She laughed. “First of all, I wouldn’t pay anybody to ‘make love’ to me. But I would pay somebody to fuck me. And I guess I’ve done more fucking in the last five years than in the previous seventy-two.” She thought this over. “In fact I’ve fucked in all the Boeing jets, a Lear jet, a few speedboats, a Lamborghini and a Ferrari.” She paused again. “The Ferrari was toughest.”
“Why?”
“I was driving.”
“Yikes!” I said, picturing the scene.
“You bet your rooster, ‘yikes’. I damn near broke the little Italian guy I was sitting on. And he was younger than you, Buns. So, what do you say?”
“About what?”
“Three hundred bucks and I own your tight little ass till six this evening.”
“This won’t have anything to do with a sports car, will it?”
“Nah. I drive a Rolls.”
“So what is it I’m supposed to do?”
“Actually, what I want is for you and those cute buns of yours to escort me to the polo matches this afternoon.”
“But I don’t know anything about polo.”
“Fuck the polo. I don’t want you to ride a damn horse! I just want to show you off. After the play, we’ll wander upstairs to my suite and just see what happens.” She punctuated this with a wink. “Speaking of horses, I notice you have on one of those phony country-faggot shirts on.” I looked down at the logo on my shirt. “Well, we can do something about that, too.” she said confidently.
She pulled out three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and a set of Rolls Royce car keys from her purse. She handed the keys and money to me and said, “So it’s a deal? Till six?”
“Sure, I’m young. I can take it.”
“Sure you can,” she said, smiling.
As we stood, she reached down, picked up the orange juice and handed it to me. “Drink this. The vitamins will make you strong. I don’t want to hurt you.” I’d have laughed but the old gal was serious.
I quaffed the OJ and went out to fetch the car.
She had me drive the sable-brown convertible Rolls a few blocks over to Worth Avenue, Palm Beach’s answer to Rodeo Drive. I felt very conspicuous as she waved to all her friends on the sidewalk. The old men looked pissed but the old gals just grinned, flashing Lillian thumbs-up or okay signs. I tried to shrink down into the rich leather seat, but she pinched my ass and straightened me right back up. I could see she’d done this before.
She took me into a number of men’s shops. She’d have me try on one thing, then the next, and then something else. I found the whole ordeal enormously uncomfortable, since when I tried on slacks she’d slowly slide her hand up to my crotch, asking if the pants were too loose. As she wandered off to check out the sport coats in one shop, a slick-haired little salesman slithered up to me and said, “Want me to steer her to the most expensive stuff? It’s no problem. Then just bring it back later when she’s not around.” He rubbed his fingers together. “Trust me. They never remember.”
I looked down at him. “Get fucked, you little shit,” I said angrily.
Lil and I were out the door in less than a minute. She slipped her arm around my waist, leaned up and kissed me on the side of the neck. “Good for you, Buns,” she said. “I pay him to say that.”
Palm Beach. Geez.
We made a quick but fruitful pass through Saks. Under the adoring attention of the sales staff, she bought me a pair of linen pants, a beautiful, light blue shirt and a monstrously expensive white silk sports coat. She put my pink shorts in her purse and threw out my “manure shirt” as she called it. I preferred the new clothes myself. Lil had excellent taste.
I felt ready for anything! We motored, slooowly this time, down to the Boca Raton polo fields. Lil’s private booth was way up on top. Sitting near us were several Hollywood luminaries. Champagne was served. This felt pretty good!
After the two matches, and much attention paid us by Lil’s similarly widowed girlfriends all “down for the winter season” , we tooled back up to the hotel. This time Lillian sat in the convertible’s back seat, waving to more friends as she took furtive hits off a sharkskin covered flask, which she kept neatly tucked in her black brassiere.
Once we were up in her suite a magnificent spread overlooking the ocean she pointed to the refrigerator and told me she’d meet me out on the terrace. I grabbed a chilled bottle of Roderer champagne and two glasses, and went outside and waited.
And waited. And waited. When I glanced at my watch, it was 5:40.
With only twenty minutes left till six I went back inside, ready for anything…except what I saw. Ol’ Lil, that magnificent, ancient firecracker, was sound asleep on the bed!
After slipping those lethal black shoes off her feet, I took a light blanket from the closet and spread it over her. Then reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the three hundreds and placed them beside the phone on the nightstand. After scribbling a note about how I should have paid her, I kissed her softly on the cheek and slipped silently toward the door. I’d almost made it when I heard her voice:
“Hold it, Buns! It ain’t six yet…”
College is traditionally a time for learning learning about yourself as well as others. Often, one of the most important lessons learned is that things are not always as they appear. In this poignant memoir, Sundance, a senior BMOC, comes across an unexpected pitfall when he woos a comely young coed and both get more than they bargained for.
In high school I was just another joking Joe, cracking the kids up in the classroom or scrambling down to the swamp behind the school during my free periods and in between my classes to smoke some dope with the other freaks and play Long Island roulette with our mothers’ diet pills and little yellow helpers. Up, down, what did it matter? It was 1970, it was 1971, it was 1972 and none of us were getting much further than second base.
Then I did a year at Duke University, a fine Southern institution of higher learning, set on beautifully landscaped rolling acres, where I learned how to play hearts and spades and how to roll the perfect joint and how to eat cold pizza and drink warm beer straight from the keg first thing in the morning. But the girls all kept their legs sheathed in panty hose, and on the rare occasions they deigned to remove their panty hose, they did so only for the benefit of the jocks and the frat boys who ruled the campus.
But fate had something greater in store for me. My testicles had the good sense to convince the rest of me that I should transfer to a small school up north. Formerly an all-girls school, a couple of years earlier there had been a change in policy and it was decided to admit men, and that has made all the difference.
What followed were perhaps the finest three years of my life. Several times I was able to convince myself that I was indeed in what passed for love, but much more often I found my sweating body convulsed in what no one could deny was lust. I made love, I had sex, and I screwed and I fucked and I sucked my way from heaven to hell and back again. I did short fucks in the basement of the library while the more studious types, sequestered upstairs, imagined that what they heard was simply the sounds of fictional characters who’d come to straining, bursting, jism-shooting life. I had long four-day-weekend affairs while locked in the bathroom of the girls’ dormitory with a series of transfer students from Europe, intent on demonstrating their foreign brand of stamina and proving their physical superiority to the American model. And, while there is much that can be said for the soft French girls, who do seem to have an infinite capacity for oral experimentation, there are whole books waiting to be written about parsimonious Scotswomen and their fine, furry mounds, hard bodies and curious ability to make a single erection last an entire evening.
And I learned that, while it isn’t very hard to put together the two it takes to tango, or the three you need to m nage, you must not be too hasty when going through this delicate process of selection. Because sometimes what looks like a duck and quacks like a duck isn’t a duck. Because, as Bob Dylan pointed out, even though she can take just like a woman, you had better remember that, when push comes to shove, she can break just like a little girl.
She was one of the new freshmen. When I had first come to this college, I had at times found myself hanging out with some of the school’s “older women” sophomores, juniors, even a senior or two and I was confused and amazed by the subtle and not so subtle ways these women all could find to belittle the female members of the freshman class. Then, at the start of my second year there, as I slowly came to realize with what eagerness I myself was investigating the fall season’s new crop of flesh, I could not help but smile to myself when I looked back at my former state of innocence. I was newly wise to the ways at the world I had arrived at an understanding of the age-old competition that these poor young girls were as yet not fully aware of. And, now that I was a senior, I was shocked to discover just how old twenty-one can look on a woman when a teenager is standing there beside her.
This one had the erect back, the ponytail and the outturned toes of a dancer. She would wear a turquoise leotard top and a pair of baggy gray sweatpants. Or a black leotard top and a pair of baggy gray sweatpants. Or, once, an iridescent maroon leotard top and a pair of baggy gray sweatpants. Her young breasts were small and high and pointed always upward. Her hips flared nicely. Her ass was tight, but there was meat there. This I could tell even through the loose gray fabric. I longed to see her calves.
When she went around barefoot, which was most of the time, I could see that her ankles were thin and that her feet were truly beautiful, with high arches and long toes, the nails painted a light peach color that glistened in the sunlight. Her neck was long, her lips were full, her ears were tiny, the soft delicate flesh of the lobes pierced by small silver studs, three on the left ear, four on the right. Her hair was jet black, her forehead was high. And her eyes? They were two enormous dark pools of mystery that I dreamed of diving into.
By this time in my career I was somewhat of a big man on campus this largely due to the fact that there were so few of us men there to begin with. Most of the students knew me and most of the professors knew me, and all of the security guards, cafeteria workers, building staffers and grounds employees knew me. They called me Sundance because of my long yellow hair and because I spent so much of my time down in the local pool hall, shooting straight pool with a high-school gym teacher whose students had nicknamed her Butch.
One day, after I’d been watching the girl for nearly a month, it turned out that we were both standing in the local pub, waiting to be served, and the countergirl sang out to me, “What’ll it be, Sundance?” and I ordered a large draft beer. I went upstairs to my usual table on the balcony and sat there by myself, staring down at the crowd. The place was packed downstairs but, unlike me, very few of the students ever went upstairs, because upstairs the students couldn’t be seen, and because that, after all, was mostly what the students were doing in the pub in the first place.
“Why do they call you Sundance?” she asked me, and she sat down right beside me. I watched her pretty red lips and her pretty white teeth as she took an enormous bite out of a huge green apple. She set her container of yogurt and her cup of water on the table beside my beer, and I pointed to my long golden hair and I told her the story about my friend, the pool-shooting gym teacher, Butch. The girl was new to the campus, and she asked me questions about the school, and I asked her questions about herself, and eventually, and with very little trouble, I was able to talk her into going with me to my dormitory room.
It was obvious to me that this young girl wanted nothing so much as to climb into the sack with me and jump my bones. The two of us drank vodka from a bottle I kept on the outside windowsill of my room. We were soon quite drunk and I had no difficulty getting her out of her clothes and into my bed. She rolled me over on my back and sat astride me and kissed me very deeply, her tongue sinking warm and wet into my open mouth, rolling across the surface of my tongue and up across my teeth, and lashing back and forth lightly between my parted lips. She kissed my cheeks and my eyes and my ears and my neck, and she kissed her way slowly and with great enthusiasm all the long way down my body. She ran her tongue between my toes and sucked each toe long and hard, and then started to work her slow way back up.
Not having to do anything for a while was nice, but then, all of a sudden, I very much wanted to do something, so I flipped her over on her back and held her hands above her head and thrust my tongue deep into her mouth and down her throat, and I nipped at her neck and sucked on the flesh there until blue and red and purple hickeys bloomed. She laughed nervously and then moaned as I rubbed hard at her breasts and kneaded the nipples in slow rhythmic circles until they were stiff and aching for more. I flicked the tip of my tongue back and forth across their rough tips and took great pleasure in controlling the timbre and rhythm of her gasps and moans.
I gave each nipple a kiss of appreciation and then focused my attention on her cunt. First I stroked it very slowly and very gently, and then I increased my pressure. I could feel her wetness and smell it, and she was saying how much she wanted me in her, but when I spread her wet, pink, fleshy lips, it seemed as if all of a sudden something had, with an almost audible click, shut off somewhere deep inside her.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, rubbing the length of my cock against the soft fur on her mound. I squeezed her ass-cheeks with my hands and started to enter her again, but she pushed me away and said, “I’m just not ready yet.”
Jesus Christ, I thought: Is this girl for real? And I reached beside the bed and picked up the bottle of vodka and took a long swig and offered her one, but she refused. My cock was still hard and I kept pressing it at her, but, without her cooperation, it seemed obvious that I wouldn’t be getting it in
“Don’t,” she said, caressing the side of my face. My balls were full to bursting, heavy and painful. I used two fingers to rub ever harder at the wet slit. Jesus Christ, this is ridiculous, I thought: I haven’t had to put up with this kind of shit since high school’ Then, looking into hertear-streaked face, I suddenly realized how young she was. She could even have been a virgin. I didn’t like having to play teacher I missed having a woman who knew what was what. This is so fucking stupid, I thought: I really don’t care a rat’s ass about this girl I don’t even know her name.
I kissed her on the mouth, quickly, and then spit on her belly and rubbed my cock against her, very hard and very fast, until I came. My eyes were shut tight against the world and I could hear the blood pounding in my ears as the hot white spunk shot out of me. When I was done, I opened my eyes and looked at her and it didn’t seem to me that she was really there. “Come on,” I said. “Get dressed.” I handed her her clothes and watched her climb inside them. Then I walked her to the door and held her briefly in my arms and kissed her on the forehead and closed the door behind her.
Marta Horakova is a strapping young Czech woman who swaggered into our offices late last year. “I’m going to go on a ship to Pakistan,” she said in slightly faltering, heavily accented English, “and live with this Pakistani sailor I’ve just met. I want to sneak across the border into Afghanistan and play with the mujahedeen.”
The mujahedeen play pretty rough, as the Soviet Red Army discovered, but that would never dissuade Marta. This is one tough Czech chick: With barely two Czech koruny in her pocket, she fled Prague, where she’d been a biology student, to defect to the West. She was interned in a camp in Austria where the cramped quarters and endless waiting created an atmosphere of free-for-all sex and voyeurism. That these camps, packed with Eastern European refugees, even exist in today’s Europe is one of the great untold stories.
Then Marta made off and traveled the length and breadth of Europe without a passport or papers of any kind. Coming to the United States, she settled in New York, and took up a traditional New York immigrant occupation driving a cab, baseball bat by her side.
Now she had the wanderlust again. The Pakistani sailor was going to try to pass her off to the captain as his wife. Money? She had fifteen hundred dollars. Visa? She didn’t have one. This was Tuesday, and she was leaving on Thursday.
And then we got a package from Thailand with this story. “There was a change of plans,” she’d written on the rice-paper stationery of a Bangkok company, “and I found myself in Thailand. I really like it here.”
That’s putting it mildly, as this story attests Marta gives us a glimpse of the lush jungle north of Bangkok, a red-hot Thai sex scene, as no one else could. N.F.
Tropical nights come suddenly. Mark, Tuu and I were still watching the waterfall in the jungle when the hot sun disappeared and it got dark. Mosquitoes started to bite. “We are got malaria’” Tuu yelled. So we rushed back to the campground.
Khao Yai National Park was just some one hundred seventy kilometers north of Bangkok, but its vegetation, gloriously green even at the beginning of the dry season, and its numerous jungle trails following the cool river punctuated with waterfalls created the illusion that you were happily lost in the middle of nowhere, that you would never find your way back to civilization and that you didn’t want to. I desperately wished to have somebody with a horny, hard cock to remind me that there were still men in the world. Just a few days before, in Bangkok, it had seemed that there were too many women available for anybody to really want me.
But here in the campground it was different. Thai hikers don’t go to the wilderness in mixed-up groups of women and men: We could only see several bunches of young men, and here and there three, four, five girls camping together. Upon our return to the campground, Tuu my young, petite, terribly shy Thai friend , Mark my American friend, who’d been trying for weeks to get into Tuu’s panties and I were sitting around a camp fire, talking to a group of young Thai men with a guitar. Of course, we only could talk with the help of Tuu, who bravely translated.
The jungle smells at night. It brims with thousands of fragrant flowers and roots, it smells of wet red soil, it invites you to enter it, and at the same time it threatens you with unknown danger.
Gueu, a dark and handsome Thai guy, appeared next to me all of a sudden. He touched the ends of my long, blonde hair as if it were gold, with a shy and curious hand. He asked Tuu to tell me that he liked me a lot and that he’d like to take me to the jungle with him. He knew how to live in the jungle he was a soldier.
I cocked my head and examined his chocolate-colored Asian face. “Maybe,” I replied. “Maybe.”
“Ma-be?” he repeated. “Pe wah ah lai?” “What does it mean?” he asked Tuu. She explained it to him.
“No ma-be!” he yelled. “You must!” Well, he did speak some English after all.
But I was in the mood to tease him. I noticed Tuu’s disapproving look when, in the semidarkness, Gueu tried to feel me up. While so many tourists regard Thailand as a sexual paradise because of its numerous bars and massage parlors which are illegal, by the way and assume that all Thai women are on the make, Tuu was your average virtuous middle-class girl. She was probably lamenting that she’d come with us. Mark tried to grab Tuu’s hand as so many times before , and as so many times before Tuu hit him furiously in his arm and turned her back to him.
I could feel my heart beat like crazy when I smelled Gueu’s short but muscular dark body next to mine. We didn’t touch, but I already felt the heat and strength of his body, and it transformed into considerable wetness in my crotch. I tried to pronounce his name a few time. “Ma-be, Gueu, ma-be…”
At ten o’clock at night we went in a minibus to watch wild animals. The driver slowly navigated the narrow, curvy jungle roads, and with a flashlight we tried to get a glimpse of an elephant or antelope. Every now and then the bus stopped, and we could see the long, pointed ears of an antelope or an elephant’s fast gray shadow. But the real jungle animal, wild-smelling, dark and rare, had his hot claws all over me, touching my hair, neck and shoulders under my light sweatshirt, my braless tits with nipples hard and aching for his mouth. It took him ages to move his hand down to my belly, and we saw a few more antelope in the meanwhile. Each time he pointed at an antelope brought him a little bit closer to me. I prayed for more antelope. When he finally put his whole palm on my belly, and then slowly lower and lower between my legs, he found a private, horny cave, damp and hot like the jungle in the morning.
I didn’t dare to grab his cock, although I wanted to do it badly. I only saw a promising bulge in his pants. He sat there cross-legged, poor guy, and pointed out more antelope. We had already attracted too many glances and I didn’t want to make my private pleasure a public spectacle. Tuu was already looking at me with disgust, and I didn’t want her to think that I was a “bad girl” a “bad girl,” according to Tuu, was anybody who would ever fuck a guy without a formal engagement.
“You go-o? Jungle?” Gueu asked me.
At that moment I would have gone with him to heaven and hell, or any other place he’d find suitable for fucking me. But circumstances left me no choice but to tease. “Maybe,” I said again. “Maybe.”
The trip finally ended, the minibus returned to the campsite, stopped and all of us jumped out.
I went back to Mark’s van with Mark and Tuu.
“Please, you stay,” Tuu begged me. “Mark, he try to get me, you know. I am scared. “
“Don’t worry, Tuu,” I said. “He’s a good guy. He’s not gonna hurt you.”
And I turned to go to the toilet. Gueu, still not quite sure how things would develop, followed me: a short, silent shadow with a knife hanging on his belt. He was a soldier, he knew how to live in the jungle. And I trusted him.
Maybe.
The toilet was a little wooden cottage with a hole to defecate in, and a bucket of water to flush. I opened the squealing door quickly so that nobody else could get in. But wiry Gueu did.
His English was better than I thought. “I fuck you!” he whispered wildly with that sweet, monotone Asian accent. “I love you! I fuck you!”
He whispered again and again in my ears, kissing me against the rough wooden wall. My nose was full of his sweat, and I was overwhelmed by the heat of his strong body. “I fuck you!” he repeated.
When he was covering my face and neck with a million soft warm kisses, I could feel that familiar weakness in my legs. I wanted to fall down and melt in his arms, but I said, “Gueu, not here! Not here! Not in this shitty place!”
He was pulling down his pants. “I fuck you!”
But I needed him badly. He caught me around the waist and licked my neck. “I fuck you!” he repeated again.
“Yes, Gueu! Oh yes!” I moaned.
“Yes! I like it! I like it!” he whispered. No, I was not afraid. He knew I wanted him, and he would not hurt me. But now I was like a wild animal to him, like a wild animal, that he, the jungle boy, had to have.
And I had to have the jungle animal.
He pushed his body against mine, and while his left hand fumbled with my breasts, his right hand caressed my hair and combed it through so gently that it made me sigh.
I felt his gorgeous cock pushing against my belly, and I almost forgot to breathe.
It was all I could do to not scream and wake up the whole campground.
But I did. I screamed and moaned with uncontrollable joy when Gueu, the jungle animal, pulled down both our pants and without further hesitation eased his stone-hard cock into my sacred place. Behind my back I could feel the rough logs of the “rest room” wall, and Gueu’s mouth, hands and exotic body odor were all over me. I dug my fingernails into his shoulders and pulled him as close to me as I could. My pussy danced on his cock in a wild rhythm of Southeast Asia. It pulled on and grasped the lovely wide head of his cock, and he panted and moaned with pleasure as our crotches spoke to each other in a much more universal language than our mouths could. It didn’t take long, and my tightening pussy let Gueu know that I was on the verge of coming. He began pushing his cock harder, and then slowly withdrawing it. But my pussy pulled him back until both of us came together.
And there we stood, Gueu and me, embraced in a happy half-surprise, until his cock shrank out of my pussy and left it satisfied, but already so lonely. We kissed each other hungrily. “I love you!” he whispered again. It felt like waking up from a long dream. I bent down and pulled up my sweatpants. My panties were soaked with both our juices, and the musky smell filled the whole cabin.
Gueu picked up his pants from the floor. Then I heard the soft Thai voices right behind the wall. Gueu’s friends had been listening!
I took two steps to the door and hesitated, my hand on the latch. “What are they talking about, Gueu? What do they want?”
But Gueu was standing silently behind me, kissing my neck with his wide, soft lips. He stroked my tits, weighing each of them in his palms, and gently rubbing both nipples between two fingers of each of his hands. I needed more cock!
I unlatched the door and opened it a crack.
And there stood a whole herd of dark-skinned Thais, Gueu’s fellow soldiers, smiling politely.
“Gueu, what do they want?” I repeated. But Gueu was smiling.
One of them stepped up and stroked my face. I could feel his hot breath on my ear. His ready hands found my tits and squeezed them. He said something to me in Thai.
I knew what he wanted, knew what they all wanted I’d seen this sort of thing in the camp, but always felt too shy to join in. Now I was ready.
It was dark, and I couldn’t make out their faces. I wanted to get to know each one a little, before he stuck his cock into my cunt. I thought it was my right to know at least their names.
“What’s your name?” I whispered, although everyone for miles must know by now what was going on.
“All we want to fuck you,” explained one who spoke some English.
“All of you?”
The one who spoke some English uttered a few words in Thai. I leaned on the wooden wall. With a million hands all over me, I could feel my pussy ache for each and every one of them. I bent down swiftly and pulled my pants and panties all the way to my ankles again. Then a finger found my pussy and rubbed it, examining its readiness. Lips bit my earlobes. “Praphan,” I heard. “Ma name, Praphan…” I found his shoulder in the dark. He was shirtless. I ran my hand down and stroked his body, then grabbed his cock with both hands.
The crowd was growing impatient. Praphan stepped even closer to me, and with a push he let me know what he wished. I helped him find the opening of my pussy and guided his cock in. Both of us sighed with pleasure. His cock was gentle, big and quick. Sounds of approval could be heard from the crowd as we rocked back and forth, fucking our brains out. I came again and again, and my legs grew weak. He squeezed my ass hard and jammed my cunt on his cock. When he was finished, he kissed me good-bye, and another man stepped forward.
He told me his name, and I told him mine. He pushed his cock against my belly, demanding immediate admission to my cunt. I stroked his body and his cock for a minute, just to get to know him a little, and then I let him in.
And so it went, on and on. Each of them gave me his name and I gave him some pussy. I didn’t know how many there were. I didn’t count how many times my body twisted and turned in one of the tremendous orgasms this bathroom gang bang brought me. Sometimes I thought that my body and my cunt couldn’t take it anymore I wanted to beg them to please leave me alone, let me breathe for a minute. But then another shadow would give me his name, and when he pressed his cock against my throbbing, aching, swollen pussy lips, I knew that yes, I could do it, I could keep doing it forever.
When the last name in the row squeezed my ass, giving me the last dose of thick come juice, someone opened the wooden door and we emerged onto the moonlit campground. God knows how many people had heard me scream God only knows if Tuu would talk to me tomorrow. But I didn’t care! The long, fabulous gang bang seemed to connect me to the night, to the country, to the whole bunch of dark-faced soldiers, and to the jungle itself. Almost unable to walk, I leaned on Gueu’s shoulder, and we made our way slowly and silently to Mark’s van. The crescent of the moon hung high in the sky like a broken silver dish, shedding its unearthly light on the land, trees, animals and people.
Tuu’d had plenty of time to start hating me, I thought, peering through the open window inside Mark’s van. I kind of expected to see Tuu leaning frightfully against the wall, wrapped in a blanket up to her chin tropical night or not to protect herself against Mark. But quite a different view met my eye tonight: They were sleeping peacefully in a happy embrace, both striped with the silver-gray light of the moon, one of Tuu’s girlish breasts resting on Mark’s broad chest. The good girl Tuu opened one of her charming eyes, looked at me silently, and with a little motion of her hand stroked Mark’s belly. It looked like the last sequence of a love-story movie.
Gueu took my hand and led me down to the river, to a waterfall that over the years had formed a natural lake. We quickly undressed and jumped in. Gueu, his wild, uncombed hair glistening in the moonlight, streams of silver running down his arms and face, kissed and stroked my body all over as if for the first time. He kissed my eyes, my lips, my nipples. He stroked the inner side of my thighs, and as I floated in the refreshing water, he touched my pussy with the tips of his fingers, gently feeling my swollen lips and kissing me lightly and hungrily, getting me ready for further action. I’d fucked a good deal that night, but now wanted to make love.
Right under the waterfall, where the lake was deepest, the falling water created millions of silver bubbles. The bubbles exploded all over my body, on my thighs and in my crotch, as Gueu, still holding me in his strong olive-brown arms, gently opened my legs and then my pussy lips, letting the bubbles touch and tickle my clit. He just held me there, gently rubbing the tip of his cock against my thigh until I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I grabbed his cock and, diving underwater, stuck its whole length hungrily in my mouth. Gueu held my head in his hands and yelled out loud with pleasure when I tightened my lips on the strawberry-shaped head of his cock and sucked it like a candy. That’s how it tasted to me. I had to breathe only once and then I swallowed him again. Soon his cock became fully erect, throbbing, moving up and down in my mouth.
He ate my pussy a little, washing and stroking it with his tongue, and let the water bubbles tickle and soothe it. When I was almost ready to come again, he seated me on a boulder behind the waterfall and entered me for the second time that night. This time he did it slowly, slowly, and for a long, long time. My eyes couldn’t see anymore, so I closed them and just melted, trembling in his arms. We kissed deeply again. I spoke to him in Czech, he spoke to me in Thai and we understood each other’s every single word.
Then we sat on the muddy bank for a while. Again we felt and stroked each other and fucked and fucked. We were in the middle of the jungle, and yet I felt so safe in Gueu’s muscular arms I wanted to stay and fuck him there forever.
Does the smell of old books make you hard? Do librarians give you goosebumps? Our man in San Francisco delves into this phenomenon when his passion for knowledge is ignited by the sight of a lovely lady through a bookstore window. Luna plots a seduction worthy of Shakespeare, but when his quarry flees, the author writes it off as just another one of love’s labors lost until a chance meeting leads him down the print-lined path to a seduction in the stacks.
Books have always held a soft spot in my heart, but reading them has seemed such a solitary thing. Certainly, a book can never take the place of a wonderful lover. Books, unlike lovers, involve too much imagination.
Now, although I’ve always loved good books, I’ve never liked new books or the stores that sell them. The stores seem too antiseptic, and the books are too crisp and clean they have no soul, no sex appeal.
But one day I knew I had to go into such a bookstore. There was this woman who worked in one near my office. It was called Peerless Books, a pompous name if ever I’ve heard one. There is something very unsexy about this bookstore and the area of San Francisco where I am employed with a law firm. Both are on lower Polk Street, a wide street noted for its numerous car dealerships. The quaint old cable-car line ends down here, but if you watch, you’ll see that the cable cars barely get within sight of the neighborhood before changing their minds and quickly going back up and over Nob Hill.
So, when I saw her for the first time, she appeared out of place in these surroundings. She looked so sensual, so sexy. My body reacted with a sort of loose feeling in my pelvis. I saw her for no more than eight seconds as I glanced through the bookstore window while walking back to my office in that short span my desire was ignited. I saw her bend over, pick up a book, stand up again, dust the book with her hand and set it down. Then she brushed back her hair, revealing her graceful neck.
That was all I saw, and all I needed to see. I wanted to kiss and caress that neck. I wanted to bite and nibble that neck. And I wanted those fingers that had so lightly dusted that book I wanted them to stroke my desirous parts. I wanted her.
But I didn’t go into the bookstore.
The day, already warm, suddenly grew hot for me. I went into the bar next door to think things over, cool down and have a Long Island iced tea.
The bar seemed like a vast, thick forest. There was a grand piano in the corner by a picture window. It reminded me of a huge slumbering beast, a water buffalo perhaps. At night, the place hummed and bustled, but in the middle of the day, with bright light slanting through the windows, the piano looked lonely and awkward. The rest of the room, deserted, took on a similar countenance. It was a wonderful dormant place in which to sip a drink and think about absolutely nothing.
But my mind began to work. It cleared a path through the haze of rum and bourbon, a path that led straight to her. I saw her as she’d been in the store. I saw the soft, voluptuous curvature of her ass, and I saw again the fullness of her creamy breasts as she bent down to pick up that book I saw her full lips and the rosy blush of her cheeks and the classic shape of her nose. Then, as I still saw her in my mind’s eye, her light-brown hair fell from a lopsided bun and covered her face. And again I saw her sweep it away and reveal her luscious neck. It was so real that I could almost smell her hair.
Suddenly, for the third time, I saw her hair and the sweep of her hand and that neck of hers. She was sitting at the bar, five stools away from me. I knew that if I stared, it would all be over before anything even happened. I downed the rest of my drink and told the bartender loudly that it was “damn good.” Without looking at her, I sensed that she had turned her attention to my end of the bar. Still without looking, I went to the cigarette machine in the corner and bought a pack of Camel filters.
Then, without looking at her yet, I walked or I should say sauntered out of the bar, loosening my tie as I passed her. A woman once told me she found that tie-loosening movement to be sexy, and I always listen to such hints.
I caught her attention without letting her know that she had captured mine. I had made her notice me and I’d felt like I was in a movie. That’s always been one of my mottos: Live your life like it’s a movie .
The next day after work I went into the bookstore and bought a volume from her, The Three Musketeers. She remarked that she had never sold this title to anyone since she had been working at the store. I told her I liked the candy bar so much that I’d thought I’d give the book a try. She found this amusing, and her laugh intoxicated me. As she handed me my change, her fingers brushed lightly across my open palm. “Enjoy your book,” she said.
The book in hand, I went next door to the bar and waited. When she didn’t show up, I figured that the other night had probably been an exception to her habit. The next day she was not in the store, and after a few days of not seeing her there, I decided she must have quit. I had been too shy, too calculating, I figured. I had played a juvenile game.
A week later I was downtown on Market Street to attend a deposition. I got out early and started to walk back to my office.
The farther I walked, the more everyday concerns were left behind. Footstep by footstep, it was as if I were entering a film adaptation of a Raymond Chandler novel, one with soundtrack music by Tom Waits. This was lower Market Street. I passed shops that sold tie-dyed T-shirts and hash pipes, barbershops with senile barbers, pornographic movie houses and pawn shops displaying cuff links and rings so large that they could have passed for paperweights. Then I veered into Eddy Street, gateway to the Tenderloin, a bad-dream place that always evokes an image of an X-rated pinball game with only one flipper, played by a heroin-addicted male prostitute. It’s bad news, just plain bad news.
Then I saw it ahead of me, a real book shop. No trendy new best-sellers, no cloying Muzak, no carpeting. Its name was Burt’s Bookshop, and it seemed to be the very antithesis of Peerless Books. Burt’s boasted over a million used volumes in stock, all set in stacks enough stacks to form a labyrinth. A harvest of print, as potentially intoxicating as a wine cellar full of prime cabernet.
And there she was, standing in the anthropology aisle, wearing a loose skirt and tight French-cut T-shirt that afforded a clear view of her divine neck. This time I wasn’t going to play games. “Hello,” I said. “I remember you from the other bookstore.” She smiled, and as she did so, a fat man waddled around the corner of a book stack and tried to pass us in the narrow aisle like Alfred Hitchcock making one of his cameo appearances. To give him room, she had to press against me. My mouth was only inches from her neck.
Thank God the fat man took his time. Her scent was musky and sweet. When he had passed, she lingered a moment before stepping back. That was long enough. We both understood. I put my arms lightly around her waist and kissed her neck. I heard her moan. I felt her hand on my penis, which had grown hard.
“Come with me,” she said throatily. “I know a place.” She pulled away, grabbed my hand and led me through a maze of books. They were piled high, stacks and stacks of books, waiting to topple over someday an avalanche of literature. We rounded a corner and entered another passage, one poorly lit and in great disarray. At the end of it was a door that she threw open. “This is where we keep our dirty books,” she said. “I work here.”
I shut the door behind me just as she snapped the switch to light a bare, hanging bulb. It swung rhythmically, casting eerie shadows. The room was small and musty. Half the floor was covered with waist-high clutter of books and magazines, a few of which I noted were Penthouse Letters. She lay back on these and stretched out her right leg. I sat down next to her and pressed my face to her neck. Meanwhile, my hand reached her panties. I rubbed her covered pussy softly and soon felt her hand on my crotch. When I slipped a finger under her panties, she sighed and moaned. I knelt and gently helped her remove her underwear. Then I raised her skirt to her hips and began to feast on her sweet pussy. Her moaning grew louder and more urgent and she leaned back, clutching one breast, which caused the pile of books to slide forward slightly. I pressed my face deeper into her crotch and slid my tongue into her fragrant wetness.
I stopped for a breath after a minute or two, at which she motioned me up. We exchanged positions. There was no established rapport between us, so things were temporarily awkward.
I motioned for her to sit next to me once more, and we kissed lightly. “Mmm,” she said, “You taste like me.”
We kissed deeply.
She knelt down and unzipped my pants. “Let me taste it,” she said as she withdrew my penis with trembling fingers. She stroked it in the same manner that she had stroked the book on that day I’d seen her through the shop window. She licked lightly and moistly the delineation between my foreskin and shaft. She put one hand around the base and licked faster. I could hardly stand it
“Come here,” I told her and she stopped sucking to sit next to me again. We helped each other out of our clothes.
When we were naked, I held her breasts and ran my tongue around the nipples. I positioned myself over her as I did this, and she guided my penis to her and rubbed it on her clitoris. I reached down to help, and this divine teasing went on for a while.
At last, panting, we could stand it no more. As I slid my penis into her, she pressed her vagina forward to take it all in. We rocked to and fro. Her pussy was so wet that the motion was effortless. The stack of books we were on moved forward and back with us. Finally, the stack slid too far forward and toppled over, throwing us down. The sudden collapse caused us to come simultaneously in one long, continuous contraction.
We giggled uncontrollably. I plucked a book from under my ass, saying. “Read any good books lately?”
She just closed her eyes dreamily.
I recently moved to a small beach town in the Los Angeles area, where they have last call at one-thirty and I’m the only one who seems to mind. Normally, it’s something I can live with. But not on my birthday.
I’m the kind of guy who needs the occasional blowout. Contemplating how I’ll announce to the world that I have indeed made it through another year, I can’t help but remember one of my favorite birthdays, my twenty-fourth. I celebrated it in true blowout style. It was in 1979.
I was living on West 103rd Street in New York City going to Columbia University a grad student killing time. My friend Rosie shared a loft downtown with three other dancers. She decided to fete me. About three hundred people I didn’t know showed up. Lots of dancers in black leotards, art-ists in black suits, faggots in black T-shirts. I drank vodka all night and didn’t feel any older. It was a good party. The cops stopped by only once. Bobby offered them some Stoley. They refused. I accepted. After polishing off the vodka, we had some topless beers and thin hamburgers across the street at the Baby Doll. I nodded out once or twice, but the girls were kind enough to wake me gently, dancing so close I could smell them in my dreams. By the time we returned to the party, Manny had arrived with some toot. I did four fat lines, found another bottle of vodka, and then set out in search of some cute straggler I could convince to fall in love with me for the night. I don’t know whether or not I ever found her.
The last thing I remember is dancing naked at dawn. When I woke up, wrapped in a plaid tablecloth in the middle of a pile of cigarette butts, what I needed more than anything else was a beer to take the edge off of the fact that I was another year older and the future was still nowhere in sight. I found my clothes, put on my sunglasses and climbed down the five flights of stairs. It was February in Manhattan, the air was crisp and bright, sunlight glinting off the crystals of snow piled against the curb. I could see my breath.
And the Mighty Samson Jr. Bar on Lafayette was closed. It’s a little place, about the size of a subway car. I am able to love this bar in name only. I’d gone five times and never once found it open. I was an uptown guy and, out of my neighborhood, I was a bit lost. I headed for a bodega to buy a quart of Old English 800 and join the winos in Chatham Square, but I ran into an old poker buddy who knew the Lower East Side and he directed me to 81 East Sixth Street. Painted on the plate-glass window, directly above Verchovyna Tavern, Inc., were the letters BEPXOBNHA. Not understanding Ukrainian, I couldn’t conjecture as to their meaning or pronunciation. But a bar is a bar is a bar in any language, and bowing to the dictates of thirst, I decided to start my twenty-fifth year in the company of new strangers. I took off my sunglasses and headed down the four steps into the cool darkness.
I can’t tell you about the atmosphere of the bar, because there really was none to speak of. This is what you would call a good drinkin’ bar. Translated, what you had here was a pool table, a black-and-white idiot box, and Piels on tap for forty-five cents a mug. This is 1979, remember? Two young blond guys drank Spaten and shot eight-ball. Two old guys sat in a booth and watched the baseball game. I wasn’t about to interrupt anyone’s concentration by playing the juke or the pinball machine.
Since the place was nearly empty, I had no trouble getting a seat at the bar. So why couldn’t I get served? Chalking it up to my lack of fluency in the native tongue, I waited patiently for fifteen minutes or so, my money on the bar. A gnome masquerading as a bartender seemed to notice my cash, but expressed no desire to acquire it. When I picked up the fiver and prepared to leave, one of the old men broke into a flurry of consonants at the bartender who finally ambled my way. I ordered a draft and turned my attention to the tube.
I was half in the bag by the time the game ended. But my hangover was gone. I stayed a while longer to watch Abbott and Costello putting the moves on two beautiful women they had absolutely no business sharing the screen with. On my left, a crisp with silver hair split some chips with Mike the bartender. A little old lady wearing a babushka came in and, without needing to be asked, Mike brought her a shot of vodka with a Coke wash. They talked about the day’s number neither of them had hit it. An elevator operator was sleeping in one of the booths. Mike yelled, “At least take off your shoes, for Chrissakes, so you won’t dirty someone’s clean pants!” The dude shifted in his sleep and mumbled, “Don’t worry about it, Mike. No one with clean pants would ever come into this joint.” I had another beer, one for the road, and then wandered outside.
This whole section of the East Village was bar intensive. I headed farther east, and the language on the street began to change from Ukrainian to Spanish. At 108 Avenue B was Al’s bar. I assume the bar was Al’s the boneless chicken dinners were his. “Al’s boneless chicken dinners” said the sign twenty cents for a hardboiled egg, which went down pretty good with a beef chew and a beer.
There was no real difference among any of the little dives in the neighborhood, although this one was a bit bigger than most of the others. We sat around the large oval bar, drinking beer and watching the tube. The ancient on my right had dried blood on his forehead. Incredibly drunk, he turned to me and slurred, “You know, I was goin’ home all alone last night, when this wall walked right into me.” Al, a big beefy man in a white turtleneck sweater, smiled at that remark and brought over two more beers.
I miss those little bars, the places you went when there was nowhere else to go, or when you’d just prefer not to go home.
A little kid came into Al’s, looking for his uncle. I watched day turn into night, somehow missing dusk, and had another beer. Then I wandered outside.
Between Avenue A and Avenue B was the East Sixth Street Corporation Bar Grill. It was at either 520 or 250 this was years ago, and I can’t be sure which it was. The room was always hung with Christmas decorations and flypaper. Dentist’s-office-music station WPAT oozed from a radio, but I didn’t mind. At least it wasn’t disco. The fine thing I remember about these bars was that you didn’t have to wait on a long line outside while some bozo who was just another victim of fashion deliberated half an hour before passing judgment on your qualifications to enter and drink. I watched an old man without teeth laugh as he blew cigar smoke into the coughing face of his younger companion. I had another beer, one more for wandering.
The inside of the building at the corner of Spring and Mulberry was painted brown and white. A six-foot plastic shark floated over the bar, staring at his mate on the near wall. She was waiting to devour the television set near the ceiling.
Joker Poker pinball was one reason I’d come to the Spring Lounge. The jukebox was another. Sam Cooke, James Brown, Aretha Franklin, Fats Waller, Al Jolson, Frank Sinatra, Jerry Vale, Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, the Ronnettes, the Shirelles, Freddie Fender, Blondie and Frankie Yankovich all ate my quarters. I fed in one more on my way out. The Five Satins began to croon In the Still of the Night, my donation to the new arrivals.
From the Spring Lounge I went on to a small room that was dominated by a jukebox and a pool table. Barnabus Rex, at 155 Duane Street, off West Broadway, was a shoebox crammed with dancing mice. In the center of all this, two of the rodents were involved in a game of skill, concentrating hard and, with long, thin, wooden sticks, doing their damndest to sink heavy colored balls into little felt pockets. While squeezing through the crowd on the dance floor on my way to the bar, I took time to admire their dedication. Later, easing out, I realized how accurate Jean Shepherd had been in defining man as, basically, just another herd animal, comfortable only when surrounded by other cud-chewers he barely knew.
Outside, I paused to stare at a silver Bentley with Jersey plates, wondering why it was parked in front of this vibrating honky-tonk. Another rich guy, out scoping young flesh. Ah, the seventies, the decade before AIDS, when casual sex was a goal we could all share, and when hope sprang eternal in the human groin.
The subway took me uptown to Nemo’s Hideaway, at 1 East 48th Street, just off Fifth Avenue. Friday and Saturday nights the fish dinners disappeared and the place was quickly transformed into the Rocker Room. Many people came from miles around to see the hatcheck girl check hats and coats or to discuss modern dance with Bruce the Bouncer, but most arrived at this subterranean boogie bar at about eleven o’clock, when the bands began to play. Music ranged from blues to New Wave. And, good as the bands were, they couldn’t compete with the tapes. The Stranglers’ Walkin’ on the Beaches is still engraved on both my eardrums.
That night I sat at the copper-covered bar, got drunk, and then moved into one of the upholstered green booths and got drunker. The walls were lined with books that had been sawed in half to fit into the shelves. I was amazed that I’d now been twenty-four years on this sand-green globe. Soon, when I had put enough alcohol into my body to judge myself sufficiently lubricated, I went out upon the dance floor and danced.
At four in the morning I was still dancing. No one else was. I didn’t mind that at all, but the bar had closed down and I needed another drink. I headed back downtown to the Mudd Club, at 77 White Street. Mudd was best on weeknights, when the crowd was less touristy and fewer folk were there to see and be seen. Weeknights, the peons came simply to dance. I sat at the circular bar, drank Bud, and watched the mass bounce of the nouveau chic. It was a great place to pogo till you puked all by yourself, or with a friend or two, or with everyone.
Between five and six in the morning, the trendies usually went to Dave’s Cafeteria, on Canal, for egg creams or breakfast, while the hard core continued to hang and happen. I watched a crewcut blonde change from her drenched black blouse into a sleeveless white T-shirt. We exchanged smiles, but not phone numbers or even a word. Back then, “network” was still a noun, light years away from being transformed into a verb. I bummed a Lucky off some guy who was pretending to be a musician, and smoked it all the way down to my fingers. Then I split to investigate Club 220.
The unmarked door at 220 West Houston Street didn’t even open until four in the morning. The crowd was almost entirely male and roughly fifty percent transvestite. Five dollars covered admission and one beer. After an invigorating frisk at the door, I entered just as the show was shifting into high gear. An attractive “lady” was lip-synching a Cher song. She seemed oblivious as members of the audience reached out and stuffed dollar bills into her leotard. A cardboard Easter bunny romped across the backdrop.
When the show ended I went upstairs to the disco. A few people were dancing others were playing pool or pinball. Some, as in any bar, were there solely to drink. I looked at my watch. It was eight-thirty. It was already another day, the first day of the rest of my life. I had one last beer and then headed out into the daylight to see what the future held in store.
I really love your hot, wet magazine. In particular I love to read letters from chicks and guys who love to give great head. I’m a forty-three-year-old bisexual male who just plain loves to give superhot blowjobs in my hometown of St. Louis. I’m not really interested in guys just their cocks! The ultimate turn-on for me would be to have a beautiful woman with a cock, but such a lover is hard to come by, if you’ll excuse the pun, so I settle for guys’ cocks.
Once, years ago at an all-night drive-in theater, I gave believe it or not sixty–three blowjobs! I serviced at least forty different guys, many of whom came back for seconds and thirds. I blew one guy four times that night.
Off to one side of the drive-in is a path that leads into a wooded area. I spent several delightful hours there on my knees, taking on all comers. There were big cocks and small cocks, black cocks and white cocks, a few brown cocks, circumcised and uncircumcised cocks, fat and thin cocks, hard and not-so-hard cocks, all of which I sucked. And I gladly took all their big, hot, juicy loads into my mouth and swallowed them.
Another time, at a basketball game, I gave forty-six blowjobs and, as usual, swal-lowed semen every time. I got so excited blowing one guy that I whipped out my own little pecker and beat off. I came before he did, so I caught my come in my hand, put it all into my mouth and contin-ued to suck him off with my own come in my mouth. When he finally came, I got the thrill of his come and mine mingling in my mouth.
Another time, at the old swimming hole at a nearby creek, I sucked off thirty-seven guys. Many of them wanted seconds and thirds before the night was over. I was so into what I was doing that afternoon and evening that I lost count, but I know I gave more than fifty blowjobs.
There have been many other times when I’ve blown anywhere from two to ten guys in a row, always swallowing their delicious come, I can just never get enough hot sperm!
About five years ago, due to all the new sex-related diseases going around, I gave up cocksucking. It was tough, but I man-aged to abstain until a few months ago. To satisfy my cocksucking madness, I sucked on dildos every night. I tried hard but never managed to suck my own cock. All I ever accomplished was to lick the head while I masturbated and came in my own mouth. Sure, that’s pretty nice, but it’s no substitute for deep-throating a big, warm peter.
A few months ago I knew I wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer. I needed to find a guy to blow, I figured that a straight guy would be pretty safe, so I set out one night to find one or maybe a few. Incidentally, I was swallowing peck-ers and loving every inch of them long before anyone had ever heard of Linda Lovelace or the term “deep-throat.”
I drove to a big shopping mall on that night and cruised all the likely places for a pick-up the bookstore, record shop, beer pub and so forth but found no likely candidates until I hit the video arcade, which is always a good place to score a delicious hot meal of male reproductive organ with a long drink of come.
Although there were several likely look-ing guys there, I had no luck when I dropped some obvious hints that I was willing to suck them off.
Disappointed, I walked out into the park-ing lot. Three guys were standing there, talking. I walked by them slowly, eyeing them up and down. When one guy noticed me and said, “What are you looking at, weirdo?” I didn’t answer. But when he asked, “Are you looking for some cock to suck?” I thought either he must be very perceptive or else it must be written all over my face. He put his hand on his bulging crotch and added, “Here, you can suck on this if you want.” The other two guys laughed and made the same lewd gesture.
I almost jumped on them then and there but managed to control myself long enough to say, “Yeah, I’ll suck your cocks! All three of them. Right now!” I was greatly excited at the prospect of again having a big, hard, throbbing living! dick in my mouth and down my throat. It had been so long since I’d had the real thing.
“Well, come on then,” said the first guy, “Let’s go right over here and get into my van. You can suck us as much as you want to. You look like you can do a real good job. Do you like to swallow the fuck-ing come?”
“Yeah, I’ll swallow it. I’ll drink all of your come,” I said.
He unlocked the van and we all piled into the back. It was a real nice vehicle, all customized, with two fancy bus seats in the back and plush carpeting. It also had one-way mirror windows for privacy and a great stereo system with several terrific speakers.
“Can you lock the doors so we won’t be disturbed?” I asked.
“Sure, cutie pie,” the first guy said. “Nobody’ll disturb us while you’re down on our hogs.” He locked the doors and loaded a tape in the stereo. On came Madonna singing Dress You Up. It’s really hot music. For me it really set the mood for sucking cock!
I heard one of the guys call the owner of the van “Rick.” I never did get the other guys’ names.
“Why don’t you all take your pants off and sit here next to each other?” I sug-gested. They argued and laughed about it, but I insisted that they take their pants all the way off.
“Look!” I said, “I give better head than you’ve ever had or are likely ever to get again. If you take your pants off, you can spread your legs so that I can lick your fucking balls and crotch and really give you all terrific, deep-throat blowjobs while I jiggle your nuts around. Come on, take them off! Nobody is going to disturb us. You locked the doors, remember?”
They finally agreed and stripped off their pants. Rick wasn’t wearing any un-derwear. They then sat on one of the seats, next to each other. I saw that Rick had a gigantic cock, maybe ten inches long!
“Oh, wow!” I said, taking it into my hands and stroking it up and down. It was beautiful. My own little pecker was getting hard.
“I’ve been blessed with almost ten fucking inches of cock-meat,” Rick said. “You’ll never be able to take it all.”
“Want to bet on that?” I challenged.
The other two guys had pretty nice ramrods, too. One had about six fat inches and the other had seven or eight. The three of them sat there, playing with their cocks to get them hard.
“Let’s see how you each taste,” I said. My little peepee was so hard that it throbbed and hurt.
Getting on my knees, I leaned down and started lick-ing up and down Rick’s big love-shaft. His musky odor sent waves of pleasure through my body. He tasted great, too. I licked and sucked his big balls and licked around underneath them. He was sweaty and smelly, as if he had worked hard all day and not yet taken a shower. I loved it! I really dig a sweaty prick and balls.
Finally, I took his shaft into my mouth and started slid-ing down over, it, swallowing more and more of it until I had it all down my throat. I dug it so much that I wanted to jerk off, but I managed to control my urges and keep my hands off of myself.
I stayed down on Rick’s cock for about thirty sec-onds, tickling the base of it with my tongue. The only trouble was that I couldn’t breathe. Any-one who’s ever swallowed a cock will know what I mean, I had to come up for air. So I licked and sucked and kissed my way up and down his beautiful big shaft a few times and then took it out of my mouth. I then moved over to sample the next guy. But Rick suddenly got angry when I stopped sucking him and ordered me to finish him off right away.
“No!” I said. “I’ll get back to you. I want to see how your friends taste.” Just then, Blondie’s Call Me was playing on the stereo. All the music so far was perfect for what I was doing. Nothing improves the giving of great head like doing it to hot music!
I took the next guy’s fat six-incher into my mouth and went all the way down on it once or twice. After licking his balls, I put my mouth over his cock for one more quick deep-throat tease and the son of a bitch exploded in my mouth. I wasn’t expecting it, but I frantically sucked him dry. Retaining his sperm in my mouth, I moved on to the third guy, whose nice seven- or eight-incher I eagerly swallowed. The come already in my mouth really lubri-cated things well and cock number three slid down my throat easily. I licked it up and down and tongued the sweaty, hairy balls. I told the guy how delicious he was, then moved back to Rick. Edge of Seven-teen by Stevie Nicks was now blasting away on the stereo. If any music can make me cream, that’s it.
This time I treated Rick to some real super head, I sucked and licked his fat knob, then blew him rapidly for a few seconds, after which I swallowed the whole thing again, I deep-throated him repeatedly until he shot off in my mouth. He let out an enormous amount, all of which I sucked in eagerly. I moved back to num-ber three and started blow-ing him like a real slut if a guy can be a slut, that is. Out of the four loudspeakers blared Sheena Easton’s Strut.
I licked and sucked on the eight-incher. It wasn’t long after I engulfed it that my expert lips, tongue and throat brought it off. A lot of the guy’s come shot out- more than I expected. I swal-lowed all of it.
I noticed that the number two guy, who was sitting in the middle, was now jerking off. I grabbed his hand and pulled it away from his cock. “I’ll finish you off, lover,” I said, “since you jumped the gun before.” I leaned down took in his cock and blew him, using every technique I know I first deep-throated him for a few strokes, then began jerking him while I kissed the tip of his dick and tongue-fucked his peehole. Soon he jerked and sprayed another huge load of his come into my mouth. It happened while Olivia Newton John’s Let’s Get Physical was playing on Rick’s dyna-mite stereo system.
By this time my lips were swollen and a little numb, but I managed to lick every drop of the semen from my lips and fingers. That’s when the guys underwent a sud-den mood-change.
“Get lost!” one of them snapped at me. They all laughed.
“You’ve had your ration of come for the day! Now get lost!” another chimed in, obviously with no thought for me.
I realized that there was nothing I could say. But I really didn’t care since I’d gotten what I’d wanted anyway.
“If you want to, you can blow us again Friday night. We’ll be here at ten sharp,” Rick said. “You’re really a great cock-sucker. Even my girl doesn’t give head like that. You can suck my hog any time.”
“Yeah,” one of the other two agreed. “But now take a fucking hike! We’ll meet you Friday night at the video arcade.”
I took off promptly. Those macho types sometimes get flaky. I drove straight home to jerk off and catch my own hot come in my mouth. Then I spent the rest of the night having a great time with my dildos.
Last year on the afternoon of October seventeenth, I’d just awakened from a day’s slumber, having spent the previous twenty-four hours profitably playing in one of the Bay Area’s many legal poker parlors. I settled myself on the couch on my back porch, cold beer in hand, and turned on the pre-game show for game three of the Athletics-Giants World Series. Through the window behind the television set, I could see the supine curves of the Sleeping Lady, Mount Tamalpais, guardian spirit of Marin since the days when the Miwok Indians ruled the lush landscape.
Then, at four minutes past five o’clock, the nightmare with which one must deal in return for living amidst such natural beauty became a reality. The quake began with the customary rattling no more bothersome than the vibrations my downstairs neighbor makes running down the wooden steps to his deck. But then I heard the unmistakable, eerie, groaning noise caused by the shifting of rocks as large as the one upon which my hillside house is built. I was on my way to the front door as the walls and floor started moving. Walking through an earthquake is like working your way forward on a small sailboat, accompanied by the sound of a freight train rattling through the room.
I made it down the outside stairway and joined the small knot of people huddled in the middle of the street all of us quietly watching our homes shake and vibrate, knowing this was a big one, if not the big one. Fifteen seconds later it ended, leaving our neighborhood miraculously intact. Only the still-pulsating windows of our houses were evidence of nature’s awesome power.
I was about to go back inside, when I heard a soft sobbing at my shoulder.
I’d often seen the petite brunette on the street in the year since she’d moved into the building next door. Her penchant for leaving her bountiful, firm breasts free to wander under loose-fitting men’s shirts, had made her a recurring object of my fantasy life, even though we’d never met. In this earth-shattered moment, however, her voluptuous charms were covered only by a terry cloth robe, midthigh length, open at the neck just enough to display a hint of deep, tantalizing cleavage. Her short hair was damp and matted flat against her skull, giving her the appearance of a bobbed, twenties flapper. She’d evidently been caught in the shower when the quake hit.
“Are you all right?” I asked, looking down into her dark eyes, blurred with tears. She gulped and nodded, then reached out and grabbed my forearm.
“I hate to ask you this,” she said, “but I’m afraid to go back into my apartment alone. Would you come in with me? I’m from Ohio, and I’ve never been through anything like this before.”
I certainly had no problem agreeing to help this young beauty check out her place. She told me her name was Monica. As I followed her up the stairs to her second-floor apartment, my eyes were riveted to the rise and fall of her perfect ass-cheeks, barely covered by her robe.
The door was wide open, testimony to her haste in exiting. We walked through the living room, her hand clutching mine. A few books had been knocked off the shelves and one framed print had fallen from the wall, scattering broken glass over the carpet. But that was all.
She pulled me by the hand into the adjacent bedroom. “It was horrible,” she whispered. “The shower walls were shaking so hard I thought the whole stall was going to collapse on me!” Suddenly, she seemed to lose the last of her self-control, throwing her arms around me and burying her head in my chest. Her robe opened and I could feel the softness of her full, naked breasts, the hard nipples pressing through my shirt.
I moved my hands up and down her back in a soothing motion, then reached down to cup her buttocks, firm but pliant as I kneaded them with my eager fingers. She raised her head, her wet lips parted for a kiss. I obliged, snaking my tongue into her warm mouth. My heart leapt as she sucked at my probing tongue.
With a sudden push backward she had me sprawled across her bed, covering me with her warm body as her fingers clawed at my belt buckle. I was glad to help her, pushing my jeans and shorts down over my hips and groaning as my freed, rock-hard cock pressed against her thighs.
I started to roll her over onto her back, but she resisted. “I want to be on top,” she murmured. “I don’t want anything pressing down on me right now.”
With a low moan she got on her knees, astride my hips, and began to slowly lower herself onto my straining erection. She was wet and warm and incredibly tight. I groaned in ecstasy as she took inch after inch of my manhood into her pulsing cunt. She began to grind her pelvis against mine, sliding up and down in short thrusts, emitting a chorus of sighs from deep within. I fondled her swaying breasts, tweaking the nipples and eliciting a loud groan of pleasure. My eyes were closed as I savored the joy of being tightly sheathed within her sex.
Suddenly she began to rock violently from side to side. The sensation was exquisite and, I thought, the signal to the onset of her orgasm. Then I realized it wasn’t just her that was moving: it was the bed. I opened my eyes as I heard the rattle of the headboard, tapping wildly against the wall.
Monica was coming, but her orgasm was so intense that she didn’t even realize we were fucking in time to a powerful aftershock! I pumped a massive load of jism into her quivering pussy, peaking with her and shouting aloud in joy.
Over the next few hours we became aware of just how lucky we’d been in the North Bay, spared from the large-scale destruction that had wracked other parts of the city as a result of the quake. We began to feel a little guilty about our lusty reaction to the disaster as the early death counts came to us via television.
But in the weeks that followed, I ran across several articles on the subject of post-earthquake trauma. It seems that a sexual reaction to the cataclysm was not unusual, particularly in those large areas left without power, water, or any form of diversion. This information eased our guilt, and indeed my relationship with Monica has blossomed. Still, although neither of us is complaining, only that one time has the earth moved for us both!
Annette Haven, Georgina Spelvin and Samantha Fox is the answer to the question! It just came to me. I was sitting here listening to the phone not ringing and there they were. The silence of the phone not ringing can be deafening. My wife is at her office. The kids are all off at their camps. The grocery shopping has been done. My house chores have fallen into that good-enough category and it’s not yet time to put in the meat loaf. Just call me Sir Galahad. I suppose I could open that stack of bills on my desk, but why bother? There’s no money in the bank. I think I’ll just sit here in the halfway-house of my mind and let my thoughts wander. It’s the sweet doldrums of a warm summer afternoon. I’ll think about Annette Haven, Georgina Spelvin and Samantha Fox.
It’s a struggle not to let these want-ad worries for my future get to me. Still, I can’t help but scheme on the revelation of my destiny. I wonder where the next paycheck is coming from. How am I ever going to put three kids through college when just meeting the mortgage payments each month is an experiment in terror? What lies ahead?
I know you just want to jerk off and I may be of some help to you in that regard, but bear with me for a moment. I need a friend. These are hard days for me. I’m not drinking Woolite in the gutter yet, but I am firmly entrenched in my mid-life crisis. You know, before the drab days of this Republican revolution, I used to be a thousand-dollar-a-day porn star!
“What you say, old-timer?”
I was a thousand-dollar-a-day porn star, sonny. Yeah, it was a world ago in the kingdom of yesterday. It’s funny how time changes things. Knee-deep in children and homemaking now, that whole career seems like a dream from somebody else’s life. You see, in 1989, the career opportunities in show business for a retired X-rated film actor aren’t exactly what Wall Streeters would refer to as “bullish.”
While former colleagues who worked as producers, directors and technicians in the adult industry have managed to use their skills to move into the “straight” world of commercials, television and feature films, the actors face a harder lot. The retired porn star is frequently left to sit there with his dick in his hand. While this is not a bad way to spend an afternoon, he soon discovers that it no longer pays the bills.
If he wants to make the transition to being a straight actor, he’s going to find more locked doors than they have in all of Fort Knox.
I’ve been to the auditions. Sure, they all want to hear your stories about Marilyn Chambers and Vanessa Del Rio. Somebody wants to know if John Holmes’ dick was real. When it’s all said and done, don’t hold your breath waiting for the callback. Oh, it’s nothing personal, it’s just business.
You know, farting in Hollywood is illegal without an agent. Just try and interest one with your X-rated resume! Over the phone, the secretary is likely to tell you that the agent is in Bora Bora and will be back in his office in about six years. You can try then.
Nobody really says no in Hollywood. They can’t risk offending you because you might later just turn out to be somebody that they can use to make some money. They learn to string you out with lots of smiles, maybes, empty promises and glad hands. Everybody’s your friend.
“Thou shalt not piss anybody off.” It’s one of the new Ten Commandments written by the corporations that have taken over the studios. It comes right after “Thou shalt not do anything that might be bad for business.”
And so I learned the hard way, sports fans, that porn stars or former porn stars do not get hired to make commercials because somebody in Kansas might be offended and write a letter. Worse, they might not buy the product and that would be bad for business. Well, I’m no dummy. I can understand that even though it means saying goodbye to the lucrative field of commercial acting. It’s the same for network television and only slightly better with feature films
Campers, we’re living through the white-breading of America. It’s a sexless time out there with lots of teasing, but no gratification. Michael J. Fox for president with Roseanne Barr as the first lady. A nationwide poll revealed that stand-up comedy has replaced sex. We genuflect to the dollar sign and never get in the way of maximizing our profits.
The fear of AIDS has even turned us against sex. I could never have imagined this all happening in a million years. “Sexual liberation” sounds more like “twenty-three skidoo.” I always thought there’d be a revolution, but I didn’t think Ronald Reagan was going to win it.
“What sexual revolution?” the college freshman asked me. “Was there a sexual revolution?” Yeah, it was a long time ago, sonny. It happened sometime after the Waldensian heresy and before the teenage crack gangs took over the cities with their Uzis.
Those wiser than I declare that we take the bitter with the sweet. If this is to be the modern equivalent of the dark ages, I retreat from the porn wars and show business to do what any good soldier would do write my memoirs. That’s how it came to me on that summer day. The answer was Annette Haven, Georgina Spelvin and Samantha Fox. The question was, “What was your favorite sex scene?”
Dear reader, if you have read this far through the moment of my bitter, it’s only fair that I entreat you to sip from the goblet of my sweet. In the bag of my nostalgia, I have memories of warm fire and soft skin.
“What was your favorite sex scene?” It’s a loaded question that I learned to dread. I always dodged it. I used to say, “The next one.” No matter who you name, the actresses and directors you’ve worked with and haven’t mentioned will feel slighted. What do you do when you have to work with one of them in your next film?
“Thou shalt not piss anybody off.”
See? It even invaded the porn world! Alas, in retirement, I have no such worries. Offending is no longer a curse that can cause me grief on my next job. Sound the trumpets! I am free to tell you that the best sex scenes I ever had in the movies were with Annette Haven, Georgina Spelvin and Samantha Fox!
I had four years of foreplay with Annette Haven. One of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen, she was already an established star when I was just making my bones in this business. A great cameraman once remarked that her tits belonged in the Louvre. He was right.
I wanted her. Who didn’t? Get in line. I was leery of her temper, though. She proved capable of spontaneous combustion and would shoot first and ask questions later. There was no one else like her in the business. She stood out from the bimbos like a rose among the weeds.
If the other actresses tried to do some of the things on a set that Annette Haven did routinely, they’d be fired, gone, history. Annette had power and she knew how to use it. She made the X-rated world her domain. She was the star. She was the box office. If the producers wouldn’t treat her the way she demanded, she was gone.
During our long foreplay, I had moments when I thought maybe she was just frivolous and neurotic, but then she’d nail me with some totally acute perception. Despite her theatrics, she was very bright and knew more about the business than any other performer I’d met.
Annette made an enormous contribution to humanizing the men’s locker room aspect of making adult films. You just didn’t see certain kinds of things on her sets that you saw on others. She was very protective of the women and taught many of the young actresses how to survive the jungle. She was not at all what I expected a female sex star to be except when the cameras were rolling.
The first time we had sex was in a stupid film called Las Vegas Maniacs. When I was at last in bed with Annette, it was wonderful to stop all the talking and begin to touch. I was as tentative and caring as I could be and still be working in a movie. I had always perceived her as so tough. It was awkward and a little sad to see her become vulnerable. A lot seemed to pass between us in silent lovemaking while the cameras rolled.
Toward the end, she kind of hyperventilated herself into a faint. I just held her while she cleared her head. In that scene, Annette became the first woman I ever worked with who insisted on doing the female come shot for real. She refused to simulate it. What a spirit!
Most of the women I’d worked with never dreamed of having a real orgasm on camera. They’d say, “I could never come in front of all of these people!” Tell me about it. It was an aspect of the job that I’d always hated. It left me alone to seek out arousal while the women just rented out their holes and made phony noises. Here was Annette insisting that the director shoot the real thing. She argued that it would look better. I couldn’t have agreed with her more and was thrilled to play my part in helping her to arrive in the promised land.
In the finished movie, the scene was cut fast and looked like ten other sex scenes. It was a waste except for the fact that it broke a lot of the ice for me in coming to know Annette, but it was still foreplay to the main event The scene I wanted to tell you about. It happened during The Seven Seductions of Madame Lau.
I was never what I would call a “steady” sexual performer. Early in my career, I often could not raise my wand to do battle in the war of the sexes. This, of course, was God laughing. I had gotten into the business for the sex. When the table was set and the feast was placed before me, I just sometimes plumb lost my appetite.
The pressure to perform on cue was enormous. I really had no idea that a man could experience such a disassociation from his dick until I started trying to fuck under the bright lights and in front of the camera and the crew. Even at my best, I remained terrorized by the naked exhibitionism of the whole thing. I learned to deal with it, but I was always a nervous wreck who needed to be calmed down and reassured.
I had to perform seven sex scenes in six days for this movie called Madame Lau. It was my sexual Olympics. I was running the marathon. By the end of the film, I had turned quite green, but not before something wonderful had happened I had actually enjoyed a sex scene!
It was the third day. Annette and I had done hours and hours of this heavy, dry dialogue, The biggest acting challenge was just remembering the lines which were being written and rewritten as we went along. At the end of that very long day, Annette and I got to make love. It was magnificent.
After what had been our long courtship, Annette and I had developed some genuine passion to give each other. Since such a union did not fit into our private lives, we had it to give to the movies.
This time we began with a massage. In a dark, candlelit room, I was placed face-down on a bed of fur while Annette oiled and massaged my back, bottom and legs. Usually in the movies, foreplay consisted of a director pointing his finger and saying to me and my would-be partner, “You drop your drawers and you suck him until he gets hard. Then, we’ll roll the cameras.” Can’t you just feel the romance?
Annette’s massage was lovely. Her strong hands and long strokes erased all my fears of just about everything. It evaporated all the pre-sex jitters that I knew so well. I had always needed to be calmed down before a sex scene, but rarely had I been given the opportunity. It was superb.
The massage turned me all dreamy and cuddly. The soft lights made my surroundings as fuzzy as the fur that caressed my dick. I became eager for sex. Arousal came all by itself. All I had to do was turn over. I did.
Annette mounted me and rode me for her own pleasure as well as mine. Giddyup. There was none of the typical mugging for the camera. There was no need for it. We were there.
We’d both been through enough movie sex to let them get the angles and the footage they needed without letting their process get in our way. I remember it as one of the very few times in my career that I was more into the sex than the filmmaking. They played with their cameras and we played with each other.
When they finished shooting, they quietly shut down their equipment and just left the room. We hardly noticed. We continued until all the wax was melted for both of us. It was a lovely experience
Charles de Santos is to be applauded for his photography as well as his wisdom in leaving well enough alone. The producer should cut this scene out of an otherwise pedestrian film and sell it all by itself.
Georgina Spelvin won me the day she arrived at the hotel to rehearse for our scene in The Dancers. Earlier in the week, I had been unhappy with the way our scene was written. Director Anthony Spinelli encouraged me to take a shot at a rewrite. I did and he was surprisingly pleased with my effort. We decided to use it.
At three in the afternoon, I met Georgina in the banquet room for lunch. Already in her forties, she still held her shape. She was charming and gracious as I eyed that dancer’s body that I had seen in so many movies. “Call me George,” she said.
After the lunch, I handed her ten pages of completely new script. She took them and went to her room. When we met again three hours later to go over the scene, she had the ten pages completely memorized!
I was utterly flabbergasted! One did not run into actresses like that in X-rated movies. She was the real deal and I was just honored to have the chance to work with her.
I think my scene with her in The Dancers is the best scene I’ve ever done. I won three different Best Supporting Actor awards for it. Georgina added some awards to her collection as well. If Annette Haven was the Beauty, Georgina Spelvin was the Actress. She had no peers.
I played an out-of-work actor barnstorming as part of a group of male strippers. Georgina played a small-town woman who met me in the park and took me home with her.
In our bedroom scene, my character was “teaching” hers about acting. To prove that anyone could act, I took the words of a popular song and did a Shakespearian soliloquy with them. I gave it my best Ronald Colman. I thought it was witty and wonderful. It was still a sex film, but the caliber of things was rising. Georgina’s performance was right on the money
When it came to making love with Georgina, a funny thing happened. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get rid of my boner. Boing! It just happened. It was like a new bone in my body. My dick must have calcified. Nothing like that ever happened before or since in my X-rated career. I was just so happy!
I could have played tennis and it would have stayed hard. I could have hung my racket on it and done jumping jacks. I could have fucked Jell-O! It was a penile phenomenon for which I have no explanation but an awful lot of gratitude. Hey, I was just cocky.
They shot the hell out of the scene and I didn’t even get soft when they spent ten minutes reloading and discussing the lights. It was just my day to crow. Cock-a-doodle-doo.
When I at last approached my liquid conclusion, I did so inside of the exquisite Georgina Spelvin. There was no inane pull-out and squirt for the cameras. Bliss. I felt like I had bedded the Lady Guinevere.
Samantha Fox won the Best Actress prize at the L.A. Awards two years in a row. She was coming from New York to San Francisco to play my wife in the now classic, Irresistible. I wanted to greet her in style. I bought roses and rented a limousine for her arrival. She was properly tickled.
It was 1982. My wife and I were seven months pregnant with our first child. We couldn’t have been more frightened or more in love. Samantha and I shared adjoining rooms at a hotel in San Francisco. We had a week to wait before our one and only sex scene in the movie.
Early on, we spent time together rehearsing our dialogue and doing some getting-to-know-you. I was full of pregnancy stories. She was telling me about Bobby Astyr, her lover and an X-rated star in his own right, who was back in New York. I had met Bobby once, I remembered him commenting that “God was between Samantha Fox’s legs.” I was looking forward to gaining insight into Bobby’s view of theology.
Samantha and I wondered if we were supposed to fuck each other offstage, but somehow or other we decided that we didn’t have to do that. We could just be buddies. We’d save the sex for the cameras. I was grateful. Irresistible was to be another one of those sexual marathons for me. I had to do six sex scenes in five days. I needed a lot of sleep but I was looking forward to Samantha Fox. She was scrumptious.
The next couple of days on the set with her was like foreplay. I enjoyed watching her work. She was a professional.
Our love scene was spectacular. I couldn’t have written a better script. It was like a Hollywood movie. Late in the afternoon, we were doing some dialogue in bed. There was no sex, just talk. During a break, Samantha left the set to take a phone call from Bobby. He was calling from the New York Critic’s Awards. When Samantha got back in bed with me, she told me that I had just won the Best Actor and the Best Supporting Actor awards for that year.
My dick grew two inches and my hat size expanded. I think I was levitated off of the bed. I was in the best place on earth that I could have been at that moment to receive that news. My spirits soared.
We finished that particular scene and then dressed for the climactic love scene. Costumed in 1964 wedding finery, we were going to shoot a very loving love scene of our wedding night. When all the dialogue had been shot and we were about to begin the sex, director Eddie Brown made a gesture of genius. He put on some music. They would later edit it out of the film to save money, of course, but he wanted it for the effect. It was a home run-out of the ballpark!
He played Air Supply’s “Every Woman in The World.” It was ten pounds of uncut schmaltz. I adored it. The music elevated my soul. Samantha elevated the rest of me. She was strong, proud and beautiful. She was creamy and free. I marveled at Eddie’s touch and then I marveled at Samantha’s touch. I ate it up.
The music blasted and we fell deeply into each other’s arms. She was every woman in the world to me. It was one of the finer triggers any director had ever pulled for me.
What a joy to feel that good and have the cameras rolling! And you know what? Bobby Astyr was right God was there. We chatted. She told me, “Don’t worry about a thing.”
It was a rare, rare moment at the mountain’s top. I was beaming. Like the orgasm itself that inevitably came, the feelings reached their peak and I ascended to a cloud that I still visit from time to time.
“Gosh, grandpa! I never knew you were a porn star!”
Yes, sonny, in my bag of nostalgia, I do have memories of warm fires and soft skin. Annette Haven, Georgina Spelvin and Samantha Fox is the answer.
It was the summer of 1960, the same year that Clark Gable died, that Nikita Khruschev shocked everyone by pounding his shoe on the Soviet desk in the United Nations General Assembly, that the revolting “ltsy-Bitsy Teenie-Weenie Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini” was getting constant radio play. I was eighteen, and I had only recently rid myself of my virginity. I was still painfully shy, but I tried to hide that fact behind a hip facade. I wore my thick, black hair slicked down with Brilliantine, with an elephant trunk curl in the front and a duck’s ass in back.
I was aboard the Queen Elizabeth, the finest of all the Cunard-White Star’s cruise ships. This was the life, the best of the white bread without any crust, a dream come true. It was also a time that was drawing to a close soon the Queen Elizabeth‘s and Queen Mary‘s nineteenth-century levels of comfort and service two stewards for every guest would be replaced by the substantially less regal and rather bulky Queen Elizabeth II, which sports such mundane amenities as washing machines on every deck. Such a thing would have been unheard of in the luxurious, hippie-love-and-Vietnam days of the sixties.
I was in first class, traveling with my grandmother.
The promenade deck was like the main street at a city that had been designed for pleasure: two pools of sea-green water were surrounded by beautiful women, most of whom wore American-style bathing suits. Those who most readily caught my eye were nut-brown and wore enough support to give their breasts substantial cleavage. There were middle-aged and older women there too, and a few men. The older men tended to recline in their cushioned deck chairs and watch the shuffleboard games, or else to go aft for some skeet shooting, or else to hover about the long, well-attended, hors d’oeuvres table, while the young men paraded around the women in the ancient dance of the hot and horny. And there were some young women wearing bikinis, none of which, thank heaven, was adorned with polka dots.
Passing by the pool, I paused. Before me was a woman who had untied her bikini straps to avoid white lines on her sun-tanned back. She had long brown hair, a pretty face that looked freshly scrubbed and long, muscular legs. The night before, while “slumming,” I had seen her in one of the cabin-class bars. The atmosphere in cabin class was more relaxed than in first, which can be quite stuffy, and I had just nursed my Campari-and-water and watched everybody else making all the right moves. Needless to say, I slept alone.
But now, as I stepped around this beautiful sunbather, she looked up at me. Then she lifted herself on her elbows just enough for me to see her smallish, untanned breasts. Above one nipple was a purplish hickey. Her face was wet with tanning oil, and her eyes were heavy, as if my stare had awakened her. She smiled and, an instant later, turned her gaze away from me, exposing the other side of her face to the sun.
I felt as if I had glimpsed the Holy Grail, perfect and pure and unattainable. I knew that to touch those breasts which, of course, were actually quite ordinary would be as exhilarating as discovering a previously unknown Brueghel painting or winning the Irish Sweepstakes.
I knew what I should have said. Something to the effect of “Hi. Didn’t I see you down in the cabin-class bar last night?”
And she would probably have turned to me with a cold, indifferent look a look I knew all too well and say, “No, I don’t think so.”
There was no conversation, though, for, to my horror I found myself standing there with a huge erection. Everyone seemed to be staring at me. Embarrassed, I walked away as fast as I could and headed directly to my stateroom.
Once safely inside, I could not stop fantasizing about the woman. I lay on my bed and shaped her in my mind’s eye her long legs, the wisps of pubic hair peeking from the crotch of her scanty red-and-black bikini. I sketched in her face: thin, down-turned nose, small chin and deep-set gray eyes, all framed by thick, straight hair. Her shoulders were deeply tanned and peeling. I wondered what she smelled like. In my imagination, I kissed and licked her, moving down her body with each kiss until I was pressing my mouth upon the tiny, hard protuberance that was her clitoris. I imagined the feel of her pubic hair, and I could almost smell her dampness, a scent as pungent and briny and fresh as the sea.
As my fantasy unfolded like a film, I watched her. She became aggressive, leaning over me and straddling me on the bed. Her breasts were tiny cones. Her hair brushed my face as she pressed herself against me. I felt the coolness of her skin, tasted her lipstick as I filled her mouth with my tongue and simultaneously slipped my penis into her vagina. She made sighing sounds and soon my reverie became an extended orgasm. Every part of me was coming. I felt myself being washed away in ecstasy swallowed.
When it ended and I found myself back to reality again, I was lying in bed, looking up at the overhead at my cabin, my penis soft and limp in my wet, sticky hands.
I saw her again that very night in cabin class, and as expected, she ignored me.
Of course, I was too shy to talk to her. In fact, I didn’t talk with her until the last night of the cruise a never-to-be-forgotten night of discovery.
Bored, I went down to the cabin-class bar to listen to some jazz and wile away a few hours before bed. The small room was packed and noisy everyone was enjoying these last moments of pleasure before returning to the workaday world that awaited on the morrow, when we docked in New York City. A trio was playing a nice improvisation of “Green Dolphin Street.” There was no room at the bar, so I ordered a double scotch, paid the barkeep when he set it before me and made my way through the crowd.
The tables seemed to be evenly occupied by couples and single women. Most of the men stood in a stag line around the bar. I stood behind a table at which two young women sat with pousse-caf s of parfait amour, cherry liqueur, anisette and sweet cream, the bar’s specialty. Although I pretended to be gazing intently across the room, I was actually listening closely to what the two women were saying to each other. ‘
The one with long brown hair was talking to a freckled woman who was facing me. She said, “Christ, Maddie, I did everything but a hooch dance to get his attention. He’s so good-looking, in a James Dean sort of way, but he’s aloof. He’s probably got lots of money and more women than he can handle.”
“There’re plenty of eligible guys in here,” said Maddie.
“Yeah, but I don’t see them rushing over to our table. And they all look so boring, like they’re all from some college town.”
Maddie shrugged. She looked to be around nineteen, and her freckles were definitely an asset.
The woman with her back to me shook her head. Her thick hair moved like a wave before falling back in place I was sure that this was a studied, conscious gesture. “I was lying by the pool when he stood right over me, looking at me,” she said. “I didn’t have my bikini top tied, so I raised myself up enough to let him see my boobs. I know he was interested because he got a hard-on.”
She was talking about me! My cheeks were burning with embarrassment, but I didn’t move. I listened.
“Yeah?” Maddie asked. “And what’d he do?”
“He stepped right over me like I was furniture.” She paused. “I don’t know maybe he was thinking about somebody else or something.”
“Daniela, give it a break, why don’t you? Everybody makes the moves on you before they even see me. So you’re not getting a whole lot of sympathy from this side of the table.”
Just then, a guy in an electric-blue tuxedo stepped over and asked Daniela to dance. She accepted, which moved Maddie to say, “See what I mean?”
I watched Daniela dance. Her partner pulled her close and rubbed his thumb along her spine to excite her, but she gracefully pulled herself away and kept her distance even while she smiled and nodded.
If I waited, I was going to lose her. I knew that with certainty. And I felt a newfound confidence. She had been talking about me not him.
So I pushed my way across the dance floor and cut in. He looked shocked and angry. “Do you know this guy?” he asked her.
My heart pounded in my chest as I considered the possibility of being left alone like an idiot in the middle of the floor while the two at them danced away, laughing. But Daniela, to my surprise, said, “Yes, I do. He’s a dear friend.” Then she slid into my arms, and I twirled her away from him.
My cheek was against hers. The mingled scents of her hair and her perfume were sweetened by the stronger, more delicious bouquet of her femaleness. My arm was around her, my hand upon the small of her back. She seemed to fit perfectly against me.
“I can feel your heart beating,” she said.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” I admitted.
“I’m glad you did.”
“So am I.” Not knowing what else to say and feeling awkward, I continued dancing. She held me close, and soon I felt an erection rising. She must have felt it too, but she stayed close to me. When the song ended, we stood there, looking at each other and smiling.
“Do you want to go to another bar?” I asked. “Maybe up in first class it won’t be so crowded.”
“But it’s so stuffy there.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Let’s take a walk,” she suggested.
Daniela waved good-bye to her girlfriend Maddie and we took an elevator up to the promenade deck. From the ship’s broad stern, we gazed out at the dark sea and breathtaking panoply of stars glittering above. The wake was a trail of luminescent foam.
“I’ve seen you around before,” I confessed to Daniela.
”Then why didn’t you introduce yourself sooner?”
“I’m shy.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“I just assumed you weren’t interested in me.”
“I thought the same about you,” I said.
“Well, I guess we both assumed wrong,” she said with a laugh. With my arms around her, I leaned close, brushing my lips against hers. I sucked gently on her lower lip, tasting her lipstick. Her mouth was open as she put her arms around my neck and pulled me closer, seeking my mouth with her tongue. Then she took my hand and placed it under her dress. I felt her hips and the dimple above the cheeks of her ass. When I felt her hand moving down from my red cummerbund to my crotch, I inhaled sharply. She squeezed my genitals gently, and I felt a warmth growing along the shaft of my penis. My pants were wet with pre-come juices, just from her touch, and Daniela let her fingers linger on the damp spot while she ran her tongue along my jaw and sucked on my neck. “I’m taking possession by giving you this official hickey,” she giggled. “Explain this to all your other girlfriends.”
I had her pinned between me and the railing of the ship, and we were moving against each other insistently, as if we were naked and in the throes of lovemaking. I felt a desperate need for her, a constant, driving sensation, and I realized that I was about to have an orgasm. I wanted to undress her there on the deck, but I just kept on moving back and forth while she grasped my penis through my trousers. She was breathing heavily, and I knew she was truly excited. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” I said.
Daniela stopped and looked at me. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she responded. Her voice was husky. We were standing slightly apart now. I slid my hands down to her breasts, lightly touching the silky fabric of her dress before feeling for her nipples, which were erect. I squeezed them between my fingers. She closed her eyes and said, “I could fall in love with you. I know that sounds stupid and completely crazy, but that’s how I feel.”
Exhilaration swept over me. I had just been transformed from a shy little boy into a man. “I feel the same way,” I said. “Christ, we sound like “
She kissed me, and we grasped each other tightly until we heard a noise on the deck.
Seeing that it was another couple walking about, Daniela and I departed. We left hand-in-hand, our decision made without a word, as if we had been together for years, as if there was nothing but certainty between us, as if we were already lovers, privy to each other’s thoughts, habits, moods and desires. Because of its proximity, we went to her stateroom. There she turned on the bathroom light and left the bathroom door open, so the stateroom was dimly illuminated. I could see clothes strewn about. Stockings were hung over the back of the only chair. She started to clear off the bed, but I couldn’t wait I put my arms around her from behind and squeezed her small breasts. I kissed the nape at her neck, feeling strands of her hair in my mouth as I pulled away. She turned around and helped me unbutton her dress. She leaned on me for support as she stepped out at the dress. Then, looking directly into my eyes, she reached behind her back and unhooked her black bra, which I slid down her outstretched arms. Her rose-pink nipples were erect. I saw the bruise on her right breast that I had noticed earlier in the week when I saw her by the pool. Before I could ask her about it, she said, “It’s not a hickey, honestly. If you can believe it, I bashed myself while taking a shower.”
And then she was undressing me, fumbling with my gold-plated studs, putting them in my pocket. I helped her. I unbuttoned my trousers and let her pull down my underwear, freeing my penis. Instead of embarrassment, I felt elation when she kneeled before me and closely studied my genitals. She gently touched my testicles and began sucking on my engorged penis, working her mouth up and down the shaft. Then she took hold of her hair and brushed it over my crotch, tickling and exciting me. She kissed and sucked my penis until I said, “Stop, Daniela. I’m about to come.”
But she didn’t stop and I felt the warmth building up along the length of my penis, and I felt the wet, sliding smoothness of her mouth, and then I was stiff-bodied and weak-kneed as my orgasm exploded forth. When it was over, she looked up at me, fragile and vulnerable, her mouth glistening. I pulled her to a standing position.
“Just a moment,” she said, and she went into the bathroom. As I sat waiting on the bed, I heard the water run and the toilet flush. Though I felt completely gratified and my penis was no longer erect, I was determined to give Daniela pleasure. When she returned from the bathroom, she was wearing a nightgown of golden satin that barely covered her breasts.
“You were wonderful,” I said as she sat beside me. It was my turn to kneel, and I did so. Gently but firmly, I spread her legs apart and ran my tongue along her thighs, through the soft down of her pubes and then into her vagina, which was as wet as her mouth had been. She pressed her crotch forward to meet my mouth. She smelled fresh, yet there was a pungency to her aroma that excited me, and I was surprised to find myself sporting another erection. I kissed her vagina as if it were a mouth, sucking on it, searching. When I concentrated on her clitoris, she began to moan and call my name. She thrust her hips forward and spread her legs wider to give me better access. “Please,” she said, “I’m ready. I want you, Steven. I want you now. I love you. Make love to me, please . . . ” But I kept licking her, and sucking, until she shuddered and shrieked with an orgasm as intense as mine had been.
When she regained her composure, I got into bed and kissed her. She thrust her tongue in passion, and we stopped kissing and began to lick each other’s body, our breathing ragged and sharp. We tasted each other’s salty residue, then I entered her again, this time while holding myself above her on my hands and knees. I looked down at her tanned body and the contrasting whiteness of her breasts and lower abdomen. While I watched her, I began pumping my rigid member in and out of her. She held my face so we were staring into one another’s eyes, watching each other have pleasure.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you,” I said.
And I fell upon her softly, pressing every part of myself against her, and when she said, “I’m coming now. You come with me,” I closed my eyes so tightly that I saw red behind the lids. I concentrated on pleasure. It soon swelled to ecstasy, and we both shouted out our love for each other. Soon our mouths were pressed again to each other’s flesh. As we came together, I washed her insides with jets of hot semen.
We turned then upon our sides, her back against my chest, and once again I lay my softened member against her most private place as I held her breasts. We lay there, happy as never before and then came sleep. There was only the slow, almost imperceptible rocking of the ship and my member pressed against Daniela’s warm, secret place.
I didn’t realize then that I had discovered myself during that sweaty, innocent, blissful encounter. Soon I would wash the grease from my hair and get on with the exhilarating pleasures of a grown-up.
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