Date: Mon, 22 Apr 2002 14:21:06 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: STONINGTON STORIES - SUSAN
STONINGTON STORIES -- SUSAN
by R. Forbes Emerson
(m/f, inc,. rom.)
Vis-a-vee typos, petty redundancies and copy glitches, in general, I have
an idea. It takes me three to five times longer to edit and proof a story
than it does to write it in the first place.. So here's a possible
solution. You pretend you're driving a fast car on a good road, and
getting a few love bugs on the windshield. Enjoy the ride.. Also, if
you'd like to clean up the copy and post it back to me, I'd be delighted.
I do care, I don't have time. This is approximately my fifteenth posting
with Nifty. I'd provide guidance to other stories, except I can't imagine
anything more fun than searching the archive on your own (or with a
friend).
- - -
Susan came down by herself, didn't even pretend to be looking for
Mary; seemed to linger. Uh-oh, she was nine.
I puttered nervously around the house, and she followed. What was
this all about? Audrey and I had sealed a bargain a mile or so away, so I
had recently updated my meager stock of lore when it came to young females
wanting what some young females, with great consciousness and perseverance,
wanted. That it was exactly what boys always wanted seemed an outlandish
paradox, even then, and, of course by now, it's the number one diabolical
irony; that the two genders want anything, ever, remotely resembling what
the other wants.
If that was the rule, Susan really did seem to be the exception;
but why all of a sudden? She'd been the typical friend of the kid sister,
sort of around, sort of not. Add six inches to each of her legs, and
things would be different, but at nine she was a typical third grader,
replete with flat chest and round tummy. She had off-blond hair, a
favorite of mine; nice big blue eyes set in a typical school-bus face.
"I really like Audrey," I said.
"She's so lucky," Susan replied. "My brothers are useless. Damned
old church.
The Billings were bastions of something called the RLDS which, on
examination of a Sunday morning, seemed like an awful lot of money to spend
so some old ham head who hadn't read a single book in fifty years could get
up and play at preaching. It was so doltish it didn't even seem possible
back in 1960 when we moved from Northport, Long Island, via two years on a
fifty-foot yacht, to Stonington, a National Geographic fishing village of
fifteen hundred or so, half-way up the coast of Maine. I suppose that
assemblage, descendent of Mad Joe Smith, his tablets and his salamanders,
is still sucking resources from its congregations insuring a level of
ignorance sufficient to sustain it in perpetuity. Mormons. They weren't
meant to drink coffee, so they drank kava; not meant to play cards, so they
played with a different deck; no smoking, swearing or dancing, but they
were the organization and the money behind Las Vegas. And that left out
polygamy, with its imperative to bring forth as many tabernacles, as they
called children, as possible. Under this doctrine, it might be supposed
that unattractive women and widows might be included as wives two, three
and so on, but the lord works in mysterious ways, and lo, the brethren of
wealth and girth find the preferred source of tabernacles are the pretty
twelve and thirteen year old girls, who, in the orthodox church, were
bought and traded like farm animals. The coots got the chicks and
undoubtedly used them well.
I wasn't a coot in 1960, I was fourteen, but now that I'm
fifty-six, with a fourteen year old girlfriend of my own, maybe I've been
ordained. They say you become the thing you hate, but I choose to make a
distinction between the total free will of Samantha, and a girl traded for
beef or barley. Just the way I am.
I didn't want to ask Susan Billings what she wanted. She was cute,
she was in the house, alone, with me, and whatever she wanted was fine, but
it was making me awfully nervous. Yes, Maine's coast is granite and more
granite, but when one's mother snacks on the stuff; chews on slabs the size
of headstones merely to sharpen her teeth, one is very sensitive as to whom
one might be found alone in the house with. Fear. And Audrey was the fox
of foxes. Love.
I wasn't a writer in those days, but I was pretty smart. I headed
for the most innocent room in the house, which would be the kitchen. By
good luck, this is where the telephone was. I called Audrey. She sounded
breathless and it didn't a flight of fantasy to picture the ten year old
beauty talking while her older brother stood close behind, gently preparing
her. We softly re-affirmed our vows, and mutually bestowed golden keys of
freedom, each to the other, for the real world we lived in. We made a date
for the next afternoon after school, and said good-bye.
By this time, Susan's eyes were huge. "Just friends?" I said in a
shakey voice, meaning her an myself, and she nodded.
"Where do you want to go?" I asked.
"I have a key to Mrs. Semple's," she answered, alluding to the
summer house at the end of the road. "We just have to leave it neat."
Though the distance was a hundred yards, the walk seemed longer.
She was a child. Only a year younger than Audrey, but Audrey's frequency
with her very masculine older brother, Jack, had awakened her body early
and she looked like a very beautiful young woman with her full high breasts
and slim waist; the spread of her young hips. Susan, on the other hand,
look like she was packaged for a Miss No-Nothing dinner, as in No Boys more
dangerous than Ken.
"I can make tea," she stated half-way through the woods that grew
up to the shoreline between my house and the neighbor to the southeast. I
thought to myself that I'd prefer such an intimate occasion with Audrey,
but my ten-year-old doll had said, from the outset, that devotion took
precedent over fidelity in the rural venue. This was less tolerance for
fooling around, in an urbane sense, and more allowing free rein to nature,
while at the same time maintaining a high degree of dedication to one's
special partner, which would be your wife unless someone moved away or
died.
Even in those years I was an inveterate reader of everything, and
two years cooped up on a boat with no television or diversions of any kind,
had sent me into a literary frenzy. Thus it was that even at fourteen I'd
developed a concept of monogamy with footnotes. Not a clear and simple
thing, any more than people - individuals - were clear and simple, yet well
short, far short of unrestricted cheating and philandering, with its
destructive inevitability and catastrophic impact on children.
I was surprised at my own broadminded outlook as Susan and I picked
our way between the towering pines, tripping over roots with our nervous
feet. Months earlier, I'd had the strangest experience of my life, and
after this traumatic event, should have a femophobe of the first order.
This disaster had occurred over Jeanie Maguire. What had it been
all about? I still wonder to this very day. I've written extensively on
being dumped by my wife, and, I think identified the syndrome, which I have
but from which I have never suffered, as recreational obsession, turned, by
dint of some hundred thousand hours of practice over thirty years and more,
into artistic obsession.
I guess the most startling aspect of the whole affair, the world's
shortest, so you won't go getting your hopes up, was that Jeanie ever like
me at all. My mother didn't wear combat boots, as the juvenile saying of
my day had it, she invented them, adding a clever arive of spikes, hooks
and barbs in the name of efficacy. As it relates to my relationship with
Jeanie, the story is that she cut our hair, my three brothers' and mine,
bzzz. Next. Bzzz. Next. Bzzz. Done. I live fat dumb and happy on the
money she saved, but a sharp prison cut is not likely to attract anything
but giggles from girls.
I didn't care. All I wanted to do, ever, was to be left alone to
read so it wouldn't take me until I was ninety to be a writer. Obviously,
this was a life beset with distractions, from my point of view, and one of
these was school. Stonington had the whole shebang, K-12, in a yellow
Victorian heap; a school which engendered concentration because it was
impossible to ignore the likelihood of being burned alive once in the maw.
I had noticed Jeanie, a sixth grader, because at first I thought
she was the world's most beautiful boy. Generous mouth, big grayish eyes,
the lightest possible brown hair, high cheekbones, all hazed before my
wondering eyes in a visionary soft gamin gossamer, that, in today's
vernacular, left me freaked to my toes.
The High School, where I was a freshman, was upstairs, so that's
where I went, head spinning, any thoughts of the blistering flesh and
sizzling hair of my classmates as we gathered at the fire escape,
bequeathed to my fellow Mainer, Stephen King.
This happened three times a day. Coming, lunch, and going.
Jeanie, literally, with the light brown hair. Dream of? First you have to
sleep. As if.
Some period of time went by and a dance came along. Sure, I
fantasized. Bald head, weird ways, flunking everything even in Horner's
Corners, because the crap served up in High School cut into my time with
Kenneth Roberts and Robert Roark. Then there was the IQ, later measured at
three hundred (-300-). Try carrying one of those to class, where all five
of your teachers had not red ten books in ten years.
Anyway, I was no fish for Jeanie's net, yachts, wealth and all. I
knew it, I understood it, I lived with it like a fat boy lives with his
belly.
So why?
Why, a week or so before the dance, did two giggling sixth graders
come up to the High School, on the tinderland of the second floor, where
underclassmen never came, to tell me, that Jeanie Maguire liked me?
Didn't know then; clueless, now. But they did. They came, they giggled,
the conquered, and, at the end of that day, she did smile at me. Directly,
personally, deathdefyingly. She was tall, she was slim, she was boyish,
she was a vision and she had cascades of light brown hair, and we had
something in common in that we shared the same orthodontist up in Bangor.
I don't remember the mechanics of making the date for the dance but
suppose they had to do with the telephone and a parent driving.
We arrived, we sat. Isolated from the teen world for two years of
poking around in the Caribbean, I suppose I wasn't the last word in top of
the pops, though I'd listened to plenty of WINS, in the Maury-the-K days of
the Swinging Soiree, before we'd sailed off to the tropics. Anyhow, we
didn't have much to talk about. No television in the Emerson household, I
suppose that was it. I didn't even know Eddie Haskell, much less hate him.
The one thing that was happening was that the alewifes were meant to start
running up the brooks about now. As a city boy with country overtones, I
was at an age to be especially tuned into anything to do with nature, and
fish running up a brook to spawn was on my list of things to miss. Pine
trees, no, alewifes, which I suppose are some kind of herring, yes. All
the kids in Oceanville, our neighborhood, were excited about it, were going
after the dance, so I invited Jeanie.
My family is rich. Dead rich. Rich before the Revolution, and
rich today. Books, brains and bucks, yet apparently the thought of hiking
over mossy tundra to witness flapping fish reduced me to the level of a
clam. Something. Because that was it. The one-hundred percent snub
starting immediately at our next meeting, though whether that was an
attempted telephone conversation or at school, I don't remember.
Since there was no taunting final kiss from Jeanie, as there was
from Anne, she earns a disgruntled privacy. That's actually on the cool
side for me, because no sooner had she dumped me, witless and without a
word of explanation, than she took up with Dickie Dunham, area mirror boy,
so handsome and vapid it's an absolute wonder Hollywood didn't track him to
the ends of the earth. Move over and leave the comb, Kookie. Since Jeanie
slammed the door, after seeking me out, so coldly, I do get to tell a story
on her hot four year flame. Dickie came from poor, and I mean poor. Yet,
when he got to the University of Maine, he took scuba lessons and bought
scuba equipment. For young Mr. Dunham had a great plan. For it he needed
the skills of a SEABE; for it he trained and studied. I don't know if it
was lucky or unlucky that Dickie told my brother, Ted, rich, and also a
scuba enthusiast, of his wonderful, corner-the-market scheme: what would
surely be the greatest marine seafood event since Moby got the shaft.
This will only be funny to coastal inhabitants who still maintain
some connection to their maritime heritage. Undoubtedly, agrarian
communities also have their follies and foibles that gradually worm their
way into lore and legend. Mountain people, desert people, all love a fool,
and, yes, those on the New England coast, who dare to excel, who dare to
stand out, they are also beloved.
Dickie was going to use his scuba gear - how many of you guessed
it? - to harvest clams at high tide.
Though I bridle at what happened, at being dumped so fast, so
icely, and to have him follow so closely as Jeanie's preferred partner, I
still feel sorry for him. Jeanie dumped him when she got to college,
married an adoring guy, duh-uh, and my brother had to tell him: "Dickie,
the clams don't come out at high tide."
He should have knows. The waters around Deer Isle are crystal
clear in the winter. There are piers and bridges. You can see the bottom
all over the place. How could anyone, growing up in the area, think, for
one minute, that clams were down there swimming around or lying on the mud?
These were future outcomes, but Jeanie had dumped me, wordlessly as
was her natural right, after sending girls to seek me out, also legal an
proper, so, not to put too fine a point on it, I was confused. Audrey had
straightened out about a mile of me, and it looked like the end of the
afternoon might see me one hundred percent straight, the little novelist,
again a member of the race of which he would one day write.
Good girls weren't like boys. They'd flit without reason or care,
without even the gentility of residual conversation to ease their exes off.
Bad girls were like boys. They might very well move on, it was a major
part of life, but they were less liberal with the salt of cruelty on wounds
to the heart. Not that Susan was a bad girl, far from it; she was a
perfect kid-next-door neighbor, neither noisy nor sullen, easy on the eyes,
light on the mind. Normal. Jeanie, good; Susan, normal; The Old Doe, bad,
though one had the feeling, seeing her limp around town, that a rough
father had made her bad. For my money, today, she was probably better than
Jeanie, even without the cascades of light-brown hair.
There was the house through the trees. We approached along the
shore, and crossed the lawn to a side door. Not exactly a secret entrance,
but close enough for my vivid, youthful imagination.
Susan did the honors with the key, and we found ourselves in an
alcove off the living room. Firewood and pegs, who could remember more?
"Valerie's in the bedroom," Susan said.
You've heard of the "Titanic", all that cold water? I could have
saved them all, turned the whole sinking hull into a steaming resort so the
passengers would have still been sweating when the "Carpathia" arrived.
Valerie. Valerie Dunham. The archetypal mouse beauty; George and
Dickie's kid sister. Nine. Same age as Susan. They sat on the bus
together, so it was hardly surprising they were friends. But this? Susan,
full-bodied, rugged, athletic, and Valerie, tiny, oval face with huge brown
eyes, surrounded by such a mop of brunette clouding it was sometimes a
little surprising to see anyone in there.
"I'm going in with her, but I have to change. Wait until we call
you. Bring your clothes in case someone comes down the drive and we have
to dress in a hurry."
By now I was ready to boil lobster in the "Endurance".
Was I being set-up again? I lived in too much fear of my mother to
exhibit any signs of paranoia, but still couldn't help wondering if I'd
offended Jeanie in some way, and she'd sent her friends up into the High
School, as the opening to some kind of game, of which this might be a
second act. Then I though of Audrey. No game there; whatever happened,
we'd be able to converse and be friends. Susan seemed at lot closer to
her, than the exotic downtown girl - Oceanville was a little out in the
sticks - but what did I know having lived in the place for only a few
months, and those with my nose in big books with small type.
It turned out I was there specifically because I liked Audrey.
That's not getting too far ahead. I stripped in the alcove, wondered about
my jockeys for a moment, then, in for a penny, and knowing, naked, I was a
beauty, in for a pound. If it was a laugh, there's be no alewifes in the
Factory brook for two or three seasons, but if it wasn't? The embryonic
writer in me, buttressed with an IQ inherited from the greatest family of
rank, raw geniuses who ever lived, went almost dizzy with images of brooks
as I paced across the room to stand beside the bedroom door; images of
brooks and spawning.
The door opened a crack, just as I'd piled my clothes, sneakers on
top, neatly on the little hallway table.
The door opened a crack, and there was a vision that will make any
reader say, dummy, you didn't get it half right.
Four huge eyes. Two pretty faces, one frank and cute, with a
page-boy cut to the sandy blond locks, the other, a tiny, heart-faced pixie
in a cotton cloud of rings and curls.
Slowly the door opened.
Susan and Valerie were wearing wedding dresses; actually, communion
dresses borrowed for dress-up from little Catholic friends.
"We want you because you love Audrey," Susan said, taking my right
hand.
Valerie, all fifty pounds of her, took my left hand. Her voice
was an incredible melding of sweetness and tension; that of a gentle and
wondrous little soul, discovering her soul was hooked up with a heart and
mind that was changing fast, now she was a nine year old.
"Our brothers are getting really wild with us," she said. "Yes,"
Susan added. "And we don't want them to be first."
There went the icecaps, and though the warming, taken globally,
would be slow, it would be inevitable. It never occurred to me I was to
one day be a plague to the shorefront set; nothing occurred to me. The
girls had fussed with their hair, primped with ribbons, touched themselves
with minute amounts of cosmetics, and lifted their gowns, in sync, to show
they were barefoot.
So was I, looking back on it; at the time it was a trivial detail.
They loved their brothers. Susan loved Mark and Larry; Valerie
loved Dick and George.
They guided me to the bed. Very, very politely refused me
permission to sit between them; in fact, refused me permission to sit at
all.
Yes, I was rangy and tall; more than coltish with extra big feet;
yes, I probably had a full inch or more than most males my age; still, it
was flattering to be displayed like a prize at a fair. If no ribbons were
to be awarded, perhaps I could make do with those on the moppets sitting
and staring. By the way, I also liked the wildflowers, and the intricate
garlands of fresh ferns.
They'd borrowed their gowns from older girls and taken them in at
the seams. Their necklines plunged over the tinyness of their birdlike
chests. Their veins in little forks ran about, blue. Their skin was what
you might get melting breast feathers of humming birds through a crucible
of golden wax. They sat so still I could see the tiny flutter at the base
of each delicate throat. Their hearts were racing.
Old family saying: When your heartbeat exceeds your IQ, it's time
to act. Sure, with one I might have had something to say, if 'saying'
could include inarticulate hissing and panting. But two angels on one
neat-as-a-pin bed? I'd like to try my hand at being the second best writer
in the world one of these days, so, you write out what you might feel
looking at Susan and Valerie, and put me in my place. Thanks, in advance.
Nothing came to mind, but then, nothing had to.
"They get in on our legs and tummies at night," Valerie said, "but
it's dark and we've never seen it."
"They want to get it inside us," Susan added, "but the first time
that happens, it shouldn't be with your brother in a dark bed."
She left it open, half question. Who was I to answer. Even at
that age I knew well Fitzgerald's comments on second acts in American
lives. I didn't want to be a victim; glib at twenty, through at thirty.
My family fortune is old and vast, not a get-rich-quick scheme in over two
centuries; so, perhaps it was instinct as well as all the reading. Anyway,
not being off to any hot prodigy start was important to me, so I couldn't
think of a word to say to either girl. Of course, I was enough of a writer
not to leave, either.
"They snap at the back," Valerie whispered.
"We're wearing training bras, but there's nothing under them,"
Susan added, also whispering now.
"Tip McCorisson says if you get them wet, then we wear them with
our brothers, our brothers will like it." That succinct explanation was
courtesy of little Valerie.
"And it's not just that," Susan added, her sweet girl's voice also
husky as it undoubtedly was when Mark and Larry whispered to her in her
bed, "its because you were nice to Audrey, and because we want to share, in
daylight, and hold hands."
I was a huge reader then, and for decades afterward, then found
Nifty, and I'll leave it to your imagination (because I'm still a fox) what
kind of reader I was with them. Past, present, future, it seemed not to
matter in that cool, quiet bedroom, for there was no way I could come up
with a more romantic tableau. Yes, today I see the erotic side of it, but
then? At Mrs. Semple's all I could see was Audrey, all I could do was say
thanks, and all I could feel was thanks that I'd called her instantly on
Susan's invitation.
"He's thinking of her," Valerie whispered to Susan. I blushed,
for, absolutely, totally, impossibly, my instant thought of when Jack was
probably doing with my beloved little ten year old finacee did get me much
bigger.
Their eyes were huge, all four of them; bigger than their
appetites? No. "Harder than Larry," Susan whispered; three second pause,
"and George," Valerie affirmed.
They had touched males before, but that didn't make them bold. Nor
were they matter-of-fact, nor were they timid. Again, let someone else
have their fifteen minutes as number one, writing out exactly how it feels
to be touched by two nine year olds with plunging necklines.
"Will you have an accident?" Susan asked. "Larry had them all the
time after I unlocked my door."
"George does too, but he's better now." She looked at Susan
thoughtfully. "They always tell us, if they're losing control, right?"
Susan agreed. Suddenly, as if hit simultaneously by the same thought, both
girls brightened considerably. How long they'd been together as best
friends, I didn't know, but it was obviously for years, because they spoke
as twins. "But only when we're naked with them."
Ah, that explained that. Had I been able to inhale, I would have
breathed a sigh of relief; easier to just stand there and die; what could
life possibly offer after this.
Audrey, precious Audrey, her breasts swollen from her beloved
brother, my siren, she called. Breathe. My heart could use the oxygen,
but god knows how much it got, because the thought of Audrey with Jack did
its normal number on the discretionary blood supply.
"Larry always sprays when he gets that big," Susan whispered to her
pixie friend.
"George never gets that big, no matter what he does on top of me,"
Valerie seconded. Susan added that Larry didn't, either, but over half...
They were pleasing girls to be with, and, when they decided I might get
bigger yet if they took their dresses off, they went along toward rendering
themselves the most pleasing girls on the planet.
If Susan were the ultimate hunter/gatherer, she was also the leader
once the stalk was complete and the stag brought to bay. Valerie was more
docile; home and hearth, it was easy to see an extraordinarily happy
husband in her future, and one who would frequently do what Susan was doing
at the back of the slender waif.
Did I say happy husband? Think how he was going to feel when he
found his sweet little mouse hid a girlish activism under that demure
exterior. This is the way writers over stimulated with their own egos say
that no sooner had Susan run Valerie's zipper to her tender, childish waist
than the little beauty had returned the favor with her foraging bosom bud.
Both girls sat up straight, eyes huge and burning into mine, and
peeled their white dresses down as far as the bed.
Nothing under them? They stared at each other in astonishment stimulated
by the astonishment in my eyes. Looking back, I guess it made sense. With
what their brothers were doing at night, under the covers, as silently as
humanly possible, perhaps the fact that they were really becoming girls was
overlooked. Impossible to do that now, for any of us. Both training bras
bulged. Susan was more built, in general, around her chest, but even so
the tip of her silky little bra showed clear nipples. Valerie, delicate,
showed hers even more prominently, and I would say beautifully, but they
were both beautiful.
Both beautiful, and I hadn't, literally, seen the half of it.
Susan was on my right, Valerie to the left, Susan's right arm around her
friend's naked shoulders. As one, the girls lay back, bringing their free
arms back with their hands behind their necks.
The communion dresses were inexpensive, more like costumes than
real clothes, but still I was careful, gently easing Susan free, first, and
placing the dress at the foot of the bed. Same with Valerie, placing hers
at the head of the bed.
Now it was easy to see they were barefoot. You think I'm kidding around?
If I hadn't concentrated on those four little feet, Susan's beautifully
rugged, Valerie's, off a million-dollar doll, I would have cum-off
violently even at the sight of their girlish calves, never mind the thighs
ending in matching pink cotton panties.
Definitely feet.
This is where being an incipient writer hit pretty hard; where
romance, the soul and spirit of the novelist, overcame whatever other
senses that might have been sizzling; romance, you know the kind of thing:
the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, taken with a
single foot, a thousand miles, to a single knee, but I was a likely boy,
still am, and so there were four knees.
The girls cuddled close to each other, spreading their off legs. I
know they were trying to be nice; that they really liked me, but to what
avail? The road to hell is paved with good intention, and the road above
those little knees now became ten thousand miles.
How was I saved?
They started playing footsies with each other. Those blessed feet
were stroking and twining, playing diverting little games.
Travel plans altered, I made the best of it, watching their sexy
lesbian experimenting, and began to loose control. Maybe the girls weren't
lesbian, after all, for they both noticed as one, and sat up alertly. I
walked my feet apart until I was at the level of their bras, laced my
fingers behind my back, and arched my back. I would have given two hundred
point off my IQ for a wall, anything, to lean against, but there was
nothing, so I ended by giving quick thanks for each an every hour I'd spent
on my trusty bike, for every ounce of energy, strength and endurance in my
long boyish legs which even to me looked pretty sexy.
They were strong, and I endured. Did I have any help along the
way? Susan showed Valerie how Larry liked her to masturbate him, and
Valerie showed Susan the touches and fondling George preferred.
That WAS helpful, I'm not delving back these forty-two years to
quibble, but there was more.
"Have you ever done this with George?" Susan asked, bringing me to
her lips, licking and nuzzling.
"No," the beautiful mouse whispered, "have you done it with Larry?"
Susan replied she hadn't. Girls being funny, I guess. But not
when I started cumming-off. Susan guided me to Valerie; I squatted
slightly more and thrust my hips gently, so my glans slid under the left
cup of her bra, the side closes to Susan who hissed "Larry."
Never mind she got the name wrong, the urgent tone of her voice
snapped the final girder, and I really was cumming now. Hard and fast, my
knees now against the sturdy bed so I could brace and keep from falling
forward, which would have had to have made a mess of the lovely white
bedspread.
Had they actually practiced together, perhaps using an ear of corn
- thus getting the size right - until they could seamlessly pass an
ejaculating boy between them like a move in a dance? Practice or not, when
Valerie was soaked from me, both girls brought me up under the left cup of
Susan's bra. Both seemed shocked at how quickly my sperm wet the second
girl all over her chest. Now, having fulfilled my alpha mission in leaving
my pheromones for their brothers, they became curious and wanted to see, so
I was free and between them, cradled in their little-girl hands, and
cumming more, my sperm streaking onto their faces, into their hair, and
down over their delicate throats and exquisite developing shoulders.
"There's a bearskin rug in the den, we lit a fire," Susan said.
Well, I'd followed her before, sure, a little afraid it might be Maguire
striking again, but it had turned out well, so I responded instantly by
picking ut Susan in my right arm and Valerie, surprisingly solid, in my
left. Susan got the door knob, and guided me to the den, where a fire
crackled behind a sculpted screen and a huge polar bear while away the
century, nicely not eaten by wolves and foxes.
I lay both girls on their backs.
The big lessons in life sometimes come to us unexpectedly.
Admittedly, two nine year olds, naked except for panties and wet bras,
lying half spread-eagle on their backs on a polar bear rug, are a
stimulating factor, but more comes into the equation. I knew I wanted to
be a writer at age two, when everyone read me the same book again and
again. It was a nonsense story about a little boy going to bed, and his
father checking for monsters. The daddy uses the candle to check under the
bed, check behind the rocking horse and the toy box, then check the bureau
drawers, one by one.
Then they check the closet
And
Out Jumps Boo!
No choices after that. A writer I would be and a writer I would
surely die. Boo!
There was so much to it. Writing English prose at the level of a
virtuoso is the hardest task in the world. Years pass, and no one can do
it. Commercial prose pours forth, it is an industry; but of artists in the
field, none for decades at a time. The current literary icon is
legitimately more famous for how he looked in an Irish knit sweater than
for his dreadful 'novels'.
Getting there was going to be rough; the more I read, the more
apparent the length of the road; C.S. Forester lengthened the journey with
every chapter and then, when lo the poor wanna-be thinks he has a first
handle, along comes Jamie Uys with "The Gods Must be Crazy," and twenty
years, count them, are added, just, as it were, in fun.
As I said, small lessons which turn out to be elegant precursors -
bellwethers. Endurance. Fortitude. Commitment. Fidelity. Patience.
Two moppets on a thick, white rug. Lying back as they had first tumbled on
the bed, Susan still on my right, her right leg twined with Valerie's.
In what would later take me beyond all literary pinnacles real and
imagined I found a beginning. I was slow, I was gentle, I touched, I
petted, I fondled, I stroked; I played with the girls, helping
them take each others bras off, teaching them to kiss, teaching them to
lick their with bras just a little, helped them with their panties; sure,
panting and shaking (I'm only a god at the keyboard), but not hurrying, not
intimidated by the floor to ceiling sliding glass door flanked by picture
windows that made it seem, with the curtains opened, as if we were
practically out on the lawn. By none diminished. I'd been dumped already
by Jeanie; would one day be dumped by Anne after four happy years, without
about as much explanation. None of it would matter; that, absolutely
indeed, was not what life was about. What it was about was devotion to
work, craft, task or art; all else could be, and often was, simply removed
at the whim of a female mind. It's happened to me twice and I've seen it
in close friends and and acquaintances many times.
Ellen, I think that's her first name, Motley, for example.
I met Ellen when my grandmother died. Gran had lived to 102, I'd
read her three or four hundred English novels (Trollop, Thackery, Buccan,
Mary Stewart, Georgette Heyer, and many others), so I flew up from Belize
for the funeral.
Ellen was the business manager of First Parish, in Concord, so we
met in a quasi business fashion. She flashed on Belize and I said come on
down and visit. She said she would. That was a lot covered in a little
time, so we parted to meet over dinner at her place.
We sat on the couch. It was the first thing remotely resembling a
date I'd been on since being replaced. I asked her about her marriage. In
an hour, I suppose, on the subject I could fathom no reason, whatsoever,
Ellen had dumped her husband. He was athletic, an executive, didn't smoke
or drink. Anne at least had reasons; I was neither athlete nor executive;
I was an embryonic artist; the wonder probably is she married me, in the
first place. Ellen had graduated magna cum laude from Brandeis, must be
about class of '70 as she was a little younger than I (and I guess still
is, duh'uh).
I had my vengeance on her by inviting her to Belize, and
specifically not having sex, but I doubt she got the point.
Beside the point? I think not. Sure, there are lots of defective
guys our there, heavy drinkers, hitters, psychic game players, clingers.
As far as Ellen's husband went, the best I could elicite was that he'd
occasionally get impatient to take a nap.
I should be honest in telling this story and admit I got a little
of my own back. After a back-to-back night, I was cooking breakfast when I
looked into the bedroom of my little island cabin to ask about her eggs.
She was bent over the was basin, bare-chested, and she had extraordinarily
pretty breasts. I remembered groaning inwardly at the time, and to this
day don't know whether it was over virtue or stupidity. Husband, (I forget
his first name), be thankful, as I am with Anne, for what you had. Ellen,
you're a moron.
Or maybe I was.
Let's play out what didn't happen. Call it a fantasy.
South Water Caye lies twelve miles off Dangriga, on the southern
coast of Belize. Thirteen acres of coral sand, immediately on the barrier
reef. It crescent shaped with hundreds of palms leaning over white sand
beaches. A beauty of the island and you can see it from itself, stand on
one tip of the crescent, and see several hundred yards across the lagoon,
to the opposite tip. I have carred world travelers to my home of two
years, and each and ever one was shocked at its beauty as were my family.
"Surreal," "Yachting" magazine called it. It is.
Ellen laid on some news she'd somehow forgotten, and I should have
asked. She was going back to the States, tomorrow. What? All that
traveling for an over-night? Jeez. I'd had one one-night-stand in my
fairly active life, and I hadn't liked it. I'd try not to let it cover
things, and she had brought a nice rod and reel as a host present.
Whatever.
We dined on barracuda snagged off the end of the rickety pier that
was alredy the focal point of my first long novel, and whiled away the
evening walking around the island.
She wore a conventional blue nightie, and I wore jockey shorts,
uncomfortably, for I always slept naked.
"I'm very conservative about sex," Ellen said, not whispering. She
was a pretty and petite woman, so why this news? She was hardly wet
enough, but I was gentle and in a minute or two I was inside her, more
thankful to be rid of my briefs than anything else.
"What's wrong?" I asked. She'd flown two thousand miles to play
rubber maiden?
"Nothing," she said.
"Well," I replied, "You may not be frigid, but you're acting it."
"I suppose you've been with lots of girls, so you can tell," she
rejoined.
"Yes," I said. Casanova would laugh and Don Juan would pitch an
outright fit, but, yes, I'd been with twenty women and about an equal
number of prostitutes, if one follows the distinction. I didn't say that;
it was no more than somewhat above average, and, in any event, not the time
for boasting, if it would have been boasting in the first place. I just
repeated, "Yes, lots."
"And I'm different?" she asked.
"Very," I assured her, hoping a Brandeis baccalaureate would be
used to being different.
"Why should I do?" she actually asked.
"Tell me why you're uptight," I whispered. "While I'm inside you.
Total secrecy; it could be anything, because an awful lot of stuff happens
to girls as they grow up, emotional and physical."
"I can't," Ellen hissed.
I'd never coached a girl, as far as I could remember, in anything
up to that point. Since I was reserved and sluggish, saving my energy for
my thirty year fight with the devil's tongue, all girls who had come to me
had been willing and active partners; not into strange, but very into
normal. Was I at a loss? No, just as with Susan and Valerie twenty-three
years earlier, I found reserves within reserves, endurance within
endurance, and, by that age, even a spark of creativity, though it had had
to be beaten from its lair with a stick and a torch.
"Lot's of things happen to young girls," I said softly. "Sometimes
they're terrible things; physical force, or other severe discipline; other
girls are victims of psychic control, are manipulated into doing things
they hate. Then there is another kind of girl," I went on, "and that's a
girl to whom something nice happens, something she likes, or even loves,
but society says its bad, taboo, that it's sin or a related horror in needs
of balming with expensive ministry."
She giggled a little.
"I shouldn't tell," she whispered.
The writer in me thrilled at the smooth, painless setting of the
hook. I'd lured her away to humiliate her for doing a thousand times worse
to a man who she had gladly married out of her own free well. Up to now,
she'd hold Nixon accountable for crabgrass on the White House lawn, but
took none for shattering the lives of the man who'd vowed to love her and
the two children he had fathered.
"Didn't you ever tell Hank (made-up name)?" I asked.
"No," she said, "he was my husband."
If things like that made sense at Brandeis, I thanked, once again,
my lucky stars for avoiding the ivy league in the process of pretty much
avoiding higher education, in general, in favor of reading. Anyhow, if she
didn't make sense to me, perhaps I could to her.
"Look," I said; I still hadn't kissed her, so I did that, no
reaction, "one girl if five has an abnormal experience while growing up.
The reaction ranges from suicide to lifelong dysfunction, to widespread
neutrality, to some pleasure, to much pleasure, and, in some cases, to
girls living happily for decades as wives of husbands or brothers, with
legal husbands often welcome, not just included."
"That's sick," she said. Jeez, even if she struggled that would
be something. Of course, I'd immediately 'jump of', but she didn't.
For moments we lay breathing as if we'd been re-reading old
paperbacks at a down-at-the-heels resort. Finally she spoke: "I can't
tell."
"Ellen," I said, "you have to. Unless you had an affair with the
Easter Bunny, you've got to share what happened.
"But I started it," she whispered. I thought she'd been still
before and now she'd gone and stopped breathing on me. Well, under me.
Fortunately, it didn't last.
"Chip broke both his wrists. It was heroic, saving a toddler, and
I was very proud of him. Mother let me stay home to nurse him, which was
pretty exciting for a kid in fourth grade. He was seventeen, and at first
he pretended to be embarrassed at having his kid sister to keep him company
and help out while he was incapacitated.
Definitely breathing now.
"We played mostly chess, and I moved for him so we had to really
pay attention."
"What was your general relationship like>" I probed, loving what
was happening under my hard, tanned belly, where it melted into her soft,
white girlish tummy.
"Very close. I'd had a crush on him for at least a year, then he'd
been accepted at Harvard, then he'd saved Donny Dugan right in front of
about twenty people, so, by that time, I hated being ten feet away from
him."
"That's really important," I said. "It's usually disagreeable and
obnoxious kids that suffer from incest, more because they don't want to be
close to anyone for any reason than to do with what actually happens."
"It didn't seem like incest," Ellen whispered after a long pause.
She was beginning to have a little trouble thinking straight, a great sign.
"The only feelings in brother and sister being together is a
natural lack of attracting body scent, and that's a subtle thing; some
researchers say it doesn't exist except as a vestigial theory. Other than
that a boy feels like a boy and a girl... I really didn't have to finish.
"If you even liked each other," I continued, "that would cancel
everything genetics does to keep siblings from mating.
"It was a lot more than that," Ellen whispered.
"Was it successful?" I asked.
Even in the light of the kerosene lamp, I could see her blush;
feel her come alive against my belly.
"Did your brother cum inside you?" I quizzed.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Was he wearing a condom?" I probed.
"No," she whispered.
"Did you feel him cumming?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, "he was holding me very still."
"Show me," I whispered.
Her arms came slowly from her sides, around the small of my back;
her legs followed her arms, slowly wrapping me tightly and pulling me
deliberately forward and to her. "Like this," she finally whispered, eight
of her fingernails engaged in my strong, tan back.
"Were you ever like this with Hank?" I asked, rapidly becoming
unsure of my own breathing.
"No," she said, "I was afraid."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I used to scream. Scream his name. I couldn't help it;
I'd just keep trying to behave and be dignified about helping my brother
with his busted up arms, and every time it was like I drank a pint of gin.
I'd scream and holler and rip at him, and I'd feel him cumming in me when
we finally still, then it got even worse. And I couldn't scream anything
but: Jeff! Jeff! Jeff!. Hank knew Jeff before he knew me. If he found
out he'd have hated both of us."
Now what did I just get finished saying about the ivy league? How
dumb can dumb be? If men were given so little credit for anything, why did
women date them in the first place?
I spoke softly to her, which was a wonder because she'd suddenly become
a sweating, panting female; she had Playboy hips and belly; if she got
further ideas and started moving, my speaking days were going to be over in
a hurry.
"When you scream out Jeff's name," I panted, "you will make Stan plenty
wild to imprint his name. I can guarantee he will succeed or die trying."
I honestly hadn't meant to, for two good reasons, but I did anyhow. I
fucked Ellen. She flew wildly at me, unwrapping her legs and throwing them
wide, levering her hips like a tigress on her back; pumping crazily at me,
and, you bet, screaming from caye crescent to cay crescent, Jeff! Jeff!
Oh, god, TOM."
"Be with me like you were with him because I'm going to cum," I
whispered through her thick post-coital haze. She responded as if drugged
but I'd read her well, and so we were locked tenderly together when she
whispered in the softest voice I've ever heard from a woman: "Hank. Hank.
Hank."
It had helped, that unerring writer's instinct for the long-ball
story, in fantasizing about my one day majesty and magnificence, my
delusions measured by their grandeur; helped in getting the two bras off
the pretty pubescent breasts, helped in getting the matching panties off
the eager bottoms; helped when Valerie positioned me over her beloved
Susan. After that, even the very Everest of egos collapsed; my fantasies
came crashing down; I was here, it was now, Susan was panting and Valerie
whispering and coaxing both of us.
From a hiding place tucked under the bearskin, the pixie had
retrieved a towel, and she carefully placed it under her virgin friend,
then returned to me as I found Susan.
By now I couldn't even remember a single thing about my imaginary
career or anything else. All I knew was how delicious, wet and sweet she
felt as Valerie, now lying with her breasts in the small of my back, and
looking over my right flank, and back down to where Susan was spread wildly
beneath me, as I shuddered on my arms, guided me as late that night she
would guide a sweating George to her.
Into Susan, very gently, looking down into her wide eyes. The tiny
hand on me was on her two, gently masturbating her as I began stroking,
wildly in my heart, but tenderly and carefully with my hips.
"Oh, Suse, it's beautiful," the pixie whispered. Susan's head was
on the head of the polar bear; she was looking to; at me, then down, while
I looked at her, and down.
"Tell me when to hold her hand," Valerie whispered. I nodded
blankly, now deep inside the warm and willing little girl, now being just a
shadow bold in thrusting into her hot wetness, so tight, so magnetic, so
warmly, coaxingly, invitingly, so far, far, far.
This was the answer to it all. My body inside Susan. Any man
would feel the same. Larry would that day, Mark, too. Susan could dump
all three of us, stand by the road, and the first man along would do his
best to take care of her, help her, do anything he could for her, even on
the vaguest self-delusional chance of feeling her strong young body
beginning to tremble under his panting chest.
Women - females - had it utterly made. Unless they let themselves
go completely, up until their sixties they could show up, n\neatly dressed,
in any bar or club, not looking tarty, but looking concerned, and men, one
after another, would offer to help, with most offers being genuine and made
with to significant or obvious strings attached. A male showing up, under
the same circumstances, will usually be given the correct change.
It isn't a small difference, it's a tremendous difference. It
isn't trivial, it's catastrophic. Dump and Go has so pervaded the Jewish
media of modern times; quibble, search, examine and destroy, that women, in
general, have come to loath themselves, en mass. Proof. Fat women. All
over the place and everywhere. Men aren't worth anything, so what is other
than this tub of ice cream?
Go Jeanie Maguire, go Anne Fairchild; dump soundlessly, dump
wordlessly, dump for no reason at all. Attract and dump. In the process,
may I make a suggestion? That if you have daughters don't let them grow up
to dump writers? It may be intensely embarrassing to be hung out on the
line for all to see, one day in the future, and immortality, granted, not
earned through righteous personal effort, has got to be a hollow reward.
But at least with Susan I came to know part of the equation; why
men would always help women.
She was lively, fascinated. She called to Valerie in a sweating,
ragged voice, cooed to both of us, her hands running up and down our bodies
in excitement.
Finally, gasping, completely out of ideas for trots and canters down
side lanes and divergent paths, I was fully in the young beauty.
Valerie was now at my neck, then biting my right shoulder. I
pictured the big heavy Tip McCorisson as I was, Susan's tiny school-girl
legs splayed wide beneath him, his hugeness causing her to lie rigid as she
now lay under me, and what would happen between his powerful man-beast body
and her tender sprite loins. It started with me and I gasped for Valerie
to take Susan's hand. The girls went further, grabbing each other fully by
both arms and pulling like animals. Using the last of my strength, I
stayed on my shaking arms so the pixie, now with lank, wet hair, could
stare down at Susan's wide eyes as I did.
"He's cumming," she whispered. "It feel like Larry does in my
hand."
"Is it still happening?" the girl on my back whispered, and I won't
go bragging about how much later.
"Yes. He stops, then he starts again."
"I don't blame him," Valerie whispered to her sweating, lank-
haired friend.
Truth to tell? I'd hardly started. I lowered to Susan's face,
kissed her tenderly while spurting hard in her soft, little girl belly,
then rolled gently and slowly left her. Valerie was like a panther sliding
off my back and under me, cradled by Susan who guided me to the slender
pixie. I had six more rusty cum-offs as she and Susan pulled us slowly
together. Both girls were screaming now, hot, sweating, almost violent in
the way they were against me.
That's what it's all about. Even today, thanks to keeping myself
trim and sober, I have a girlfriend little older than Susan and Valerie.
She's a delight, as young girls can be, and if anything serious happens
between us, I do not expect to survive.
So, in conclusion I have to say thanks to Jeanie and Anne. I
could be talking on the telephone with my grandson, dreaming of being a
great writer. Instead, I'm a great writer dreaming of talking on the
telephone with my grandson.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx.