Message-ID: <26838asstr$971388605@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "Sean Farragher" X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 Final Cut: Texas Stories Date: Thu, 12 Oct 2000 18:10:06 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: RuiJorge, newsman Published here first for my loyal TxM6 Readers About 80 percent true. It is my life opened. Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction http://www.txm6.com (updated 10/03/00) http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 10/06/00) http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon (UPDATED 10/06/00 Fallon site is up and functioning with three new stories. http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 10/04/00) TEXAS STORIES Map, Initiation, Ascension and Test WAR AND PEACE IN AMERICA 1955-1968 LaGuardia Airport to Tyler, Texas is more than the sum of its air miles. When I was sixteen and a rising senior living in Paramus, NJ, I spent an innocent summer with my grandmother on my father's side in Tyler, Texas. Riding the crop duster DC-3 from Dallas, hot rusty hematite reds and lush golf course greens swept alongside the 100-mile glide between runways. I was truly innocent on that flight -- not just about sex, but how life stretched you faster than you could grow. Years later, I would compare that memory to the topography of Vietnam that ran through the tree line and below the canopy. I would think then, looking back at Tyler, when you fly with death, dreams are not fatuous. TYLER TEXAS Tuesday, July 12, 1955 East Texas in 1955 was an ordinary place with people not too different from Bergen County, NJ. In Edgewater and Paramus New Jersey, we were good white folks living on a beach facing a great city island. One bridge joined us, and that same bridge stopped us from knowing the other side of the creek. Like many war babies I was bound by accidental roots and dishonest assumptions about race, sex and war. I lived in a town called "wild turkey," that prided itself on not having any gooks or niggers as residents. I played on Little League baseball teams that had no Jackie Robinson and no one, no matter what their pretensions, that would become a star athlete. Downtown Tyler was different from today. Brick and mortar two-story buildings mixed with some post-war brick and glass. I am sure there was that famous architectural landmark, a Sears building, but I don't remember it. Stepping up and into the summer the sidewalks and macadam streets held the heat. Every step burned your feet. To escape I sat endlessly in family cars riding shotgun or playing the good, but never quiet, nephew in the back seat. I memorized the signs along the road. I can almost count the moments after the car turned or didn't. I wanted new roads. WEATHER REPORTS All day the heat grew; at night, it never seemed to cool. I realize now after South Vietnam and Laos that the air was just catching its breath. On Sunday we went to church. Sometimes we attended a revival. I was a Catholic Jewish boy in a Protestant America. My grandmother, when she took me to the holy rollers, told me not to be saved unless I really meant it and would be able to go to a real church at home. She said, "Henry, you come from a line of barnstorming Iowa preachers. You're a good boy and you don't lie about God." I could hear my great, great grandfather Chapman Marshall in Cresco, Iowa "raising thunder" as the obituary said from 1906. I finally understood my love of language. Sex was the other. As a boy I heard an uncle on my mother's side once say at a famous gathering of the clans near Budd Lake, New Jersey "famous men had big peckers." THE EDDY My great aunt, aunt, uncle or cousins drove many a night to fish at a slight river, an eddy. As a current of water an eddy moves contrary to the direction of the main current, especially in a circular motion. Walking its soft bank hardly cooled. Sweating and itching, it seemed an artifact of a primeval moss and fern nightmare that trapped the landscape. I was told it was a theater for macabre murders although none were committed to the best of my knowledge. I am not sure what I thought, besides wonder, in 1955. Every time I hit the LZ in Nam, I connected to that eddy. Desire for death and survival was not unlike the drive of tadpole to a frog. Pacing river waters, kicking the sticks, fishing with my Uncle Darrel, I sang out of tune as I stepped over broken rocks and just missed cutting my foot on broken beer and soda pop bottles. I must have found half a dozen Trojans that I collected as balloons, blowing them up until my uncle took them away. Every few feet I'd measure my stubbed toes and mosquito bites to see how much of myself had been lost. In 'Nam, one day during Tet I lost somebody every hour. Back at the eddy, breaking into tall weeds I tripped, pretending to escape the alien hoard of Buck Rodgers careening through the riverine scraggle. Squeezed in the uterus gooseneck of the sick mud that pickled between my toes, I was every monster movie ever made. MOSQUITOES In Texas, still a boy, I counted toes and kept a record of dead mosquitoes as I mashed them against the pine wallboard next to my bed. Their blood, my blood, ran like the serial murder of children through the dark abuse of the fist. With my graceful index finger I crushed them to knotted pine. Every scar and scab was a totem of an insect's failed adventure. Or had it already succeeded? We just didn't know the rites. Later, while I slept under an historic fan barely electric, I realized death gave me pleasure. No, I didn't kill dogs and cats. I was no Ted Bundy. As a medic in Nam, imaginary murders flushed my mind when my face was blood stained and my eyes flashing. I have never murdered anyone, but I imagined it. Haven't you once in your life done the same? Does that make us killers? SNAKE GUARDED EDDY After that first night on the eddy, I could imagine myself naked driving my body into the frenzy of a butterfly trance on that east Texas eddy. I dreamed I swam that snake-guarded eddy. I stepped out too far, ready to drown, not die. Off balance, when my internal music stopped, I knew that the skin of the earth had captured me. I would never be the same. My Pentecostal uncle by marriage, Darrel, was a good man who had no idea that a god other than his had taken me alive. Sex was his evil, not mine. It coursed through my spirit driving my imagination like the fornicating flies and maggots, mosquito and larvae. Hard to imagine sex as a sin when everyone sought it, did it, and lied about doing it. As sex was hidden and forbidden, it never existed. Why does it seem that logic protects the surface of truth? I believe it, but don't understand it. Tyler in 1955 was rustic with tough tree branches. Not bucolic, not pastoral. It had a rough edge that could, under extreme circumstances, define in one part beauty and in another, pain. How could you know the truth about a place when everywhere you looked the signs said White Only? In Tyler, as everywhere, the gentle whorehouse rises next to the First Baptist church steeple. Tyler was a good myth, and I believed it. Everyone said the city rode a salt dome of oil. Imagine all that money floating upward and change raining down from heaven. It could have, but it was hard to believe that no one drilled the wells. I believed for that moment the myth was more accurate than logic could disprove. Oil rises, forcing you up higher on your toes. Impossible distances are accepted. Yes, I loved the lush greens, and the sickly swamps where frogs faked away at the noise. I remember humping at that tree line keeping track of the nests where snipers drown life. You could thrive up on your toes, stretching, and the swamp could force you higher above the moss. Fishing with grubs and spoons, on a Texas eddy at night, levitation was easy as catching lightning bugs. WAR AND PEACE IN AMERICA 1955-1968 Sunday, July 12, 1959 I grew up in Paramus, NJ during the 1950s. There were no black students at Paramus High School. I was one of 204 people in the first graduating class of 1960. That is fact. In 1959, during the summer before my senior year, I laughed when my Texas grandmother said, "You stink like a nigger." In Tyler, Texas you could find Negroes as well-meaning white folks called them, but you had to look. They worked in the kitchen at the country club, but never as cook or waiter. They were made invisible. COUNTRY CLUB At the country club swimming pool, pink cheeks splashed and breasts fell out, making the water a collage of heads bobbing into a sparkling clean shimmer. In the noise of that play, water fights chilled the blank blue skies and intense moist heat of my Tyler summer. Walking out on the pool deck, no dark eyes tumbled into cannon balls on the surface of the noon white glare. No ebony life guards to blow the pale girls out of their one piece, heavily armored bathing suits from the arms of white boys. No deep-penetrating Afro- American or Hispanic muscle men, with deep V and muscular thighs to balance the hardheaded stares of white-boy football players with strong backs and crossed arms. Imagine two great walls facing each other, but only one wall was allowed to win. Jim Crow had fixed the game, but that would soon change. That summer I asked myself, where did the black faces and dark eyes live that some newspapers said by omission didn't exist, while others talked about the "Negro problem." One weekend in August I found them, more invisible than oil beneath the surface of the Tyler streets. "Look downtown," one old white man said when I asked carefully where the coloreds lived. "Maybe in your mama's kitchen," he spit when the laughs died, adding at the end, "or maybe back in Yankee land, where you better get before I kick your nigger-loving ass." As I started to leave, a fat man with thick hands said, "How about your daddy's bed." There were many dark eyes there, but when I saw them, or they sold candy on the street in front of the five and dime, there was a pause and returned blank stare. What are you doing here it silently said? Get out of here. I recognized instinctively that the rule ran both ways down the color of the street. I watched everything grow and growl with impossible and disintegrating boundaries. At sixteen how could I know what was real or imaginary? I didn't know some of it would change. There may be a connection between my pursuit of intimacy and my first sexual experiments. I discovered that summer new ways to know myself in others. GRANDMA KATE & CARLA Grandma Kate was a large, stout woman, a practical nurse. She had an easy laugh and followed home-style Iowa preacher rules. She worked the best houses in white Texas caring for the young children of the rich doctors on the important side of town. That summer I tagged along with her, jostling the rich kids, straining their toys, swimming pools. Many of the homes where Grandma worked were full of great vistas and soft waterfall air conditioners. I admit I felt pampered In one doctor's kitchen curious I investigated the unknown black face of Carla, the cook. I marveled at Carla's huge breasts. I couldn't even think the word then without being nervous. When she rubbed them to clean the flour off her hands, she knew I was staring and she laughed. Carla was young, and her breasts simply got in the way when she walked. They did not hang down but poured forward. If you walked by, you got poked by one of them. When it happened she'd smile and say, excuse me. I would smile back, brush my hair from my eyes, and gaze to her black edges. One night, as Carla dressed in the bathroom, I sneaked into the edge of the door of the next room. The bathroom door was open a crack, and I could see the expanse of her body. When Carla stepped out of the steam and mist her breasts were like brown mountains. I had wished for years that I was that black baby suckling in the National Geographic. After a week of peeking and playing eye tag, Carla came up behind me, and said softly, "I know what you are doing, and if you don't stop, I'm gonna tell your grandmother. Now get!" I ran away with my head down. Later when I was almost asleep and Grandma was off playing canasta with her cronies, Carla just walked into my room in an open robe. I felt my throat close. Dancing forward she rolled belly and mountains and fed me her sexy bread. "If I let you see it once, close up, will that be enough?" I stared at her eyes and smiled, and blinked, and reached for her extended hand. Carla must have been only twenty- five, but any adult seemed ancient. "We have to be quick, and you had better not tell a soul," she warned. Sitting down, I folded into her lap. She could have crushed me and I would have been happy. "Now what do you want," pulling my head down. "You white babies want the same thing." I said nothing. She was my master. "You didn't know I just had a baby, do you?" "No, I didn't see." "Cannot bring younguns here. Don't pay to take care of my child. My sister's taken care. Brings the child once a day out back the cottage." As I carefully played with her black hair, she rubbed the back of my hands extending fingers to measure hand against hand. "You have large hands like Carla. Bet you have a big voice. I hear that high-sounding churchgoing voice. You be a fine man some day. Sing for Carla baby." As I sang Carla brought me to the edge of desperation. I had never felt such a pause, ache, or pressure to release. Immediately I felt this rush from the back of my skull, and then two clinches, one release, and another throb, and I was at home in that black mouth with "Ramar of the Jungle". I would never escape. When she was done I climbed slowly down. I imagined her setting me down to sleep. Next morning I found the sash from her robe and wound it around my hand. It had fallen between the pillows. Hiding it before Grandma came home, I casually walked back into the kitchen. Like changing a 45 record, Carla was almost back to normal. "Your grandma's out shopping," Carla warned. "You made Carla smile, last night. I don't know how you do it but I did. God I did. I brought you your robe; you left it in my bathroom. Tell nobody." What my grandma called them, "nigger", had an awful sound. I hated that word and never repeated it. I find it hard to spell when I write it down to tell a story. I grew up that night in many ways. When I was a freshman at Columbia a year later, a black teenager about my age smacked me alongside my head for what was nothing. I confused him when I didn't hit him back. He could see I wasn't afraid. I imagine he wondered why I didn't fight back. I knew he wanted an excuse to hurt me. Later I was angry with myself. It is also true that he barely grazed my cheek with his fist. More surprised than bruised, I didn't fully understand why he was mad. I hadn't done anything to him. It was what they call today a drive-by shooting -- that terrifying accident that just drops in your lap. In the end, you live and die like in 'Nam by your immediate wits. THE ADVENTURE You might think I was obsessed with sex. I was. That summer I knew the heat of the rain and the relief of a rocking breast. There must be a connection between how the body and the mind change. Years later in Vietnam, when I learned that the code name for the bombing of Vietnam by B-52s was "Operation Rolling Thunder" I looked up at the sky and imagined the clouds as Fauve's wild beasts. Perhaps this is a bit of hyperbole, but I do remember that the clouds and heavy rain marked my hands making them tremble, just like the show of a supple breast or the sudden split of a vulva opening and closing like a morning glory. No bomb bay door, but the fall from that space through the canopy seemed endless until it struck. In Texas the clouds merged from blue haze to gray to umber to black. At times they appeared as a maze. Other times they became a painting more Pollack than Monet. Peace and that surge of conflict razed the night to the day in a trembling of weather gone awry. It seemed then, as it does now, that weather affects our tempers, makes us more and sometimes less vulnerable to that hasty rage we assume when we are feeling weak while others seem strong. I would love to tell this to my uncle Darrel. He probably would not accept any of it because I was not saved. I believe our journeys together on the eddy saved my life. He showed me another temper that was never violent. There seems to be one observation about families that extends beyond the diversity of culture. Boys need righteous men to show them how to be men. That word righteous is more powerful than the same word used by barnstorming preachers ravaging the saved and the damned. THE ARCHEOLOGIST OF SMUT 1959 The Doctor's Daughters Tyler, Texas: Wednesday, August 26, 1959 At sixteen, sex was everywhere and anything, but I played innocent games. I had assorted girlfriends who let me kiss and feel, but not much more. Intellectually, I imagined myself the archeologist of smut. I read every medical book imaginable. I copied pictures of the variety of our sexual parts. I framed with condoms and a cache of dirty pictures I found in the New York City subway. I sought anything that would take away that ache. Starting with Peyton Place, I read the flea books, Victorian Lovelace and Grove press. I considered Playboy tame. Looking through my mother's drawers one day home "sick" from school I found actual photographs of my mother and father having sex. They were not the usual pinup shots. Intellectually and visually, I was not the innocent child. I was so full of sex I never stopped sharing it. At the club pool in Tyler that summer, I told shit against the fan jokes to the boyfriends of my young adult cousins. I mortified them, and they told my grandma, but little did they know that the whole time at the pool I wandered near the ladders of the pool to spy a tit or a hidden crease. When I slept over at their house I would set up watch, waiting for them to come home on dates. I would pretend to sleep and imagine touching and undressing them as they made the front porch speak in the scrawl of whispers and moans. One very hot night my younger cousin held her skirt up to her neck while she kissed this boy good night. I heard him come in his pants. I did as well. Watching them, I remember the religious tract I had read in their fundamentalist church about the evils of pre- martial sex. I thought at the time that I wanted to find it and read it again. Not having any of my usual reading available, at least it was about sex. HOMESICK Every Saturday I made my movie money mowing the grass for my grandmother. Cooking in the Texas sun I felt the heat swallow. That day when l cut the electric cord it coughed my heart back. I felt frizzed. My grandmother was angry, but then laughed when she saw I was not hurt. Grandma was not like my Aunt Joan and Uncle Darrel. She said she was saved in Jesus, but she had a more down home and relaxed way of expressing it. While we passed time playing Canasta, we had farting contests to see who could let the biggest one go. That was a long time ago. Now, many of the details of my Texas summers are vague except for two teenage girls who lived next door to my grandmother. Allison was fifteen and her sister Debra was thirteen. Allison's breasts did not compare to Carla's, but as she shifted back and forth on one foot and danced off the porch into the breeze, she sang several times "out of a frog's mouth." I felt like my hand was connected to her body. Later that night I manipulated my fingers and felt the air. I wondered about the song and the satisfied smile. I didn't realize she sensed I was watching. When she told me later that she liked how I looked at her, not just then, but all summer, I was embarrassed and never asked her what the frog's mouth meant. Years later I compared that one memory with the opening scene of Deep Throat, where an older woman smoking a cigarette seduced the boy delivering the groceries. ALLISON, DEBRA AND JOHNNY A week after I cut the lawn mower cord the first time, I sliced the mower cord again in two places. Grandma wasn't home. She had told me not to mow anymore. I did it because I wanted to show her. I cursed when I cut the cord like I heard this old scoutmaster do when he almost chopped his foot off with an axe. I didn't know that Allison and Debra had watched my clumsy grass-cutting antics from the porch of their house with an older neighborhood guy, Johnny, who at seventeen seemed more a man. Debra laughed and eagerly climbed over the fence, vaulting it to ogle the shattered power cord. Allison followed her sister but opened the gate. She was holding Johnny's hand but dropped it and refused it back when she came close. Debra teased, but Allison asked Johnny to help me fix the cord. I was jealous of him until he had actually fixed it --not just doing it, but showing me how, explaining what he had done. He pushed, testing it. I let him do half the yard before he quit. I had watched him drive his car too fast around the corners jealous of his daredevil James Dean mask. I didn't take credit for fixing the cord. I told Grandma about what had happened. She said Peter's boy Johnny is good for you. You need an older brother. You don't have much of a father. I sure wished you lived down here all the time, but your mother never let you and your dad is off chasing skirts and getting drunk. I knew it was true, but I was surprised that she had said it about her son. Nothing more happened that day and Grandma wasn't mad. Johnny seemed to have taken an interest and asked me to come over and help him work on his '49 Chevy. After a few days of grime and grease, Johnny found out that I knew more about girls and how their bodies worked than he did. He was surprised when I told him things he had known and done. We were opposites. I was all theory and he was completely practice. He also taught me more about cars than I ever knew about sex from books. Next week, when it was too hot to work in the afternoon, Johnny confessed that he and Allison and Debra had done it together. I thought he was bragging. He told me he liked Debra more, because she was fearless, but he needed another guy for Allison. "I know she's stuck-up," he said, but he asked if I would come with him next time. Adding at the end that Allison thought I was cute. He asked if I would help a buddy out, treating me like I was almost a brother. Maybe Grandma was right. I was sixteen and he was a much older seventeen. I suspect my hormones hadn't quite caught up. Next day, we knocked on the back door and the maid let us in. The girls were giggling and the maid said, "I don't know if I should do this, I have my afternoon off today, and I promised your mama." She gave in when Allison whispered in her ear. Inside, Johnny asked for a beer, and Allison sneaked one in from the kitchen and later brought many others when the maid announced she was leaving. We drank and Johnny smoked. The girls wore thin tee shirts and identical red short shorts. We didn't waste any time after that. Debra got the cards and said, "The game is strip poker. Are you all in?" Debra lost first. Quickly, she pushed her pants down and up, more brazen than coy. "What a fucken tease," Johnny said. The real game had started. After the second hand, when I lost my tee shirt, Debra ran back towards what I assumed was her bedroom. When Debra came back she wore her mother's silk nightgown and fancy high heel shoes and nothing else. She had also expertly applied very dark red lipstick and eye makeup. You could see her slight chest and the dark hair of what Johnny constantly called pussy but the shocking color of the lipstick made her seem sophisticated. Johnny laughed, but Allison, with more the tone of parent, told her to stop acting like a baby. Debra laughed and sat down hard in Johnny's lap. When he kissed her Debra threw one leg up and you could see everything. Caught up in the craze, and feeling my second beer, trying to keep up with Johnny, when I lost, I pulled my pants down and up just as fast. "Another fucken tease," Johnny said. "Why do you care if Henry's a tease, Johnny," Debra mocked kissing him and smearing lipstick on his chest. After the next hand, Johnny lost. He stepped out of one leg of his tight jeans, and caught up in them, Debra pulled them off his legs. She threw them across the room to make a statement. I lost my pants and underwear in two quick hands. Debra made Johnny and me stand beside each other so she could measure us. Taking out a tape measure from the maid's sewing box, Debra and Allison, shy at first, pushed us together so we touched. Debra wrapped the tape around them, and playfully tied them into a bow. Having too much fun rolling and unrolling the tape, she never reported the results. Her determination reminded me of Carla. Debra was not impressed with my size. She looked at me close and laughed. "Don't worry, it'll grow up," and she watched it bounce when she pushed down in it. Strange, but her attitude helped us relax. Losing another hand, I took my shirt off and was completely naked. Allison lost the next two. She pulled her shirt off but hesitated about her bra. I tried to imagine Allison completely naked. Johnny warned her not to chicken out. Allison turned her back but laughed. She didn't seem shy. She said she never took orders from anyone especially boys. "Take off your bra," Debra told Allison. "Show them your knobs. Want me to help you?" "Yes," turning her back, Debra unsnapped Allison while Johnny and I watched. I have never seen anything so beautiful as those perfect breasts. "God, they are great," I said too loud Allison caught my almost shy glance and smiled. Debra said. "Give me a chance, but let me tell you about smarty pants sister. "Last month she walked outside in the back yard at 3 AM topless and ran up to Johnny's window in the garage where he slept. She told me she just wanted to wake him up with her tits. He wasn't there but she shook them anyway." "I did not. She's making it up," Allison glared at Debra. "You did too." Debra said, louder. After this interlude, Allison refused to take her pants off, pulling them up when Debra tried to make her take them off. Johnny sitting next to Debra, but no longer entwined, changed the mood again by playing with himself. Watching him go at it, nobody cared that Allison had chickened out. Debra grabbed Johnny. Allison sat on the stool in front of him. We watched him unroll it as he peeled back the head. His cock erect was different than mine. I knew a few men who were not circumcised, but I had never seen one. When I asked about it, Debra said, "that's because he is not Jewish like you Henry. All Jewish boys get circumcised, dummy." "I am not Jewish. I am Catholic," I whispered to myself. Nobody cared. I looked closely at Johnny's cock until he pulled it away asking if I was queer. I said of course not, but that was not the first time I felt uncomfortable with the word "queer." Allison, noticing my distress kissed me, saying that she didn't like people who called people names. I have no idea why Allison picked me that day, but I heard Debra say in the background to Allison that it was "her turn." Allison told Debra I like Henry much more than I could ever like Johnny. "I like him because he seems to know a lot more than I do. He's smart," Allison told her sister nodding in my direction. I looked up at Allison and smiled and she, embarrassed that I had heard, turned back to her sister and then suddenly after a moment reached out with her hand. When I heard her say that word "smart," I was still frozen in place. I hesitated and she came over to me putting her arm through mine and taking my hand we walked back to Debra and Johnny and sat down as a couple. I felt as if I had broken Bannister's four-minute mile. NO MORE GAMES We got dressed and undressed, hugged and kissed, played cards, and I felt Allison's knobs, got increasingly hard, pushed and prodded by Debra who managed to play with both Johnny and I at the same time. Allison screamed at her to let go of me, and she said no, but did. I followed Johnny who was then looking closely, fervently at those silken lips Debra had brazenly opened. She had sparse dark hair. That was the first time I saw the black hole of a woman's sex. It drew me inside. Innocently, I said to Debra, "Is that your tickler"? Debra said that it was called "a clitoris" or a "clit". "If you must know. I rub it every day so it gets big like the ones in my father's books." I told her I read the same books. When I said that, Allison came up and leaned over all of us, and whispered that she had one too, and if I would forget about Debra's she would show me, hitting me with a small pillow and laughing as we gathered inside a human hive. The couples divided, moving almost into separate rooms. The games were over. Pulling Allison down, I asked her to show me and she kept her promise. It looked different from the books but the same. I had not seen much of Carla as we were in the dark. Amazed I marveled to Allison how her petals opened as she pulled the crease apart opening the pink center like layers of fluted waves. As I rubbed the face of her sex, I explored myself. Just as I stopped, Allison squealed no and kissed me like I had never been kissed. I felt as if I were held under water, but instead of fearing suffocation, I found I could breathe by taking turns being active. Carla had taught me a few things, but I was a boy to her. With Allison like Carla sex engendered play and tenderness. Moving away from the window, Allison danced down the hallway twirling. When she came back she held her own long flowing nightgown, not one of her mother's. It was silk but not like the Fredericks of Hollywood catalogs I collected. It was not elaborate like the one Debra had worn. "I want to wear this," she said. "I want to be special. I dreamed I would meet a boy I could share words." Standing there, three feet away, legs together, she looked like a Renoir painting and not a lifeless drawing in an art or medical book. She did not resemble any of the stick models in the Sears underwear catalogue. Impatient and unsure I moved towards her, but she backed away a step. "I really want to put this on." I helped her with the long top but she threw the panties on the couch after a long stand up kiss. Stepping back from her for a second, looking at her dark eyes, straight back, proud head and rare but beautiful face, she was more elegant than any pinup model in a lingerie catalog. Looking me straight in the eyes, not away like before, she asked without speaking, what we both wanted and sat down on this convertible couch that she quickly had unfolded right before my eyes. That shocked me more than I could say. Caught in my unspoken lie, I had no idea what to do next. Expecting her to know, I felt uneasy. When I hesitated again, Allison giggled when I told her the truth and said, "I don't know rightly either but I like it so far." I touched her slowly and tenderly instinctively finding every pause and kiss between sighs; she suddenly pulled my hand away. "That feels too good," she said. "I love the feel of your skin under the silk." "I might want too much. I can't do that." I kissed her silent, told her too quickly that we can do other things. Gathering her, I touched her belly, cupping her mound, crooking a finger inside, like I had seen in those photos in my mother's drawer. I confessed that I had done something this summer that I really liked. Not understanding what I proposed, she kissed me harder. "We'll do it like the great books," she said. "I will be Emma and you can be the Pierre or Sir Lawrence. With that, we both heard Debra and Johnny humping making rough noises. "Would you do it like that," Allison asked without turning. I didn't look and said nothing. I kissed her and kept my promise. Pulling her down to the floor, I lifted her legs up and apart, and stood there wondering if I she would let me kiss her there. Answering, Allison pulled me down by my shoulders, resting my head on her belly. "Please," she said. I opened her lips with my mouth. I licked away from her lips and teased with kisses, finally letting my mouth push, I exposed the trembling. I did it with the softest touch. Allison pushed me back, shaking her head, stopping my mouth, and said that it was too much, too hard. I softened but insisted much more gently and with another kiss, she pushed my head harder into her legs full, gasping, and at that moment when Allison pulled my hair I pulled up and I watched for a moment Johnny with Debra like it was a movie far away. Allison's hands were in my ears, mouth, lips, helping, guiding, shaking her head frantic, closing her eyes tighter and then screaming when she started to roll under. I refused to let go. With a final deep swallow Allison almost stopped breathing. When I stopped, thinking it was over, she pushed my head closer, "don't you, no, you can't." I returned until she pushed my head up to kiss me long and tenderly, as she tasted herself on my mouth. "Oh my," she said. Half an hour later, she rubbed the head of my cock slowly memorizing the sculpture of the head when I asked what she felt. Fascinated at the end, I remember combing Allison's pubic hair with my fingers. While I licked and touched she closed her eyes, but wouldn't let me do what Johnny had done with Debra. I never asked her if she had done it with Johnny. "There's no time," she said. I listened but didn't immediately stop. I knew Allison liked how I had touched her soft hair. As long as I accepted the boundary, she explored until we both got up from the bed almost at the same time. Folding the bed up I imagined us later as adults. Perhaps we would be visiting as married children do their parents. SHAKE, RATTLE AND ROLL At the door, Allison said, "come back tomorrow, please." I started to leave. Allison walked back up the stairs into the house, showing the shift of her breasts as she did all summer. Smiling back she let them rumble under that absolute white tee shirt. "Wait," she yelled. I turned back, running back halfway up the stairs, asking with my eyes if she would shake them again. "Don't go yet," she said. "Shake them like you did for Johnny." Pulling her tee shirt off, standing by the front door, not caring who saw, Allison shook them furiously, giggling while I almost fell down the stairs. "I saw it in a dirty movie," she said. "My daddy's got one. I promised myself I would do that one day for a boy I really liked." With that she turned and was gone. NEXT MORNING "We're going to Dallas today," Grandma said. "I just got a call on a job. You'll get the plane for New Jersey there. I don't have time to fuss with you. Say good-bye to your friends and be home by noon." I never got a chance to say goodbye to Allison. The maid handed me a note as she smiled almost knowing too much. "I am sorry about this morning. I had to baby sit my nephew. Be here at 2 PM. Mother will be out all night with Daddy in Dallas. Debra will be at the movies with Johnny. The maid is going out. Come here and tell me a story you have never told anyone. I think I love you. " I wrote Allison from New Jersey. She told me she knew when she saw my bike was not in the carport. We wrote letters weekly for almost a year. I talked with her on the phone several times until my mother stopped the expensive calls. When I didn't go back to Tyler that next summer, she wrote and told me she had a boy friend in the army and next year she would attend Tulane. I heard from my Uncle Darrel when I was a medic in Vietnam that Allison was studying to be a doctor and had married a local celebrity. He said it was published in all the papers. Your aunt thought you might want to know. When Darrel mentioned in the letter how proud he was of my patriotism, I felt empty but I cried. That was more than thirty years ago. I have had many dreams about that missed afternoon. What If I had kissed Allison good-bye or made love? Perhaps what we did would not have matched the fantasy. What if my mother had let me live with my grandmother in Tyler? Would I have graduated from Columbia? Would I have published poetry? Would I have been able to write this story that Allison foretold? Maybe I would have become a rich oilman or a cowboy and broken my neck on a bucking Ford stock car. Maybe I would have died in Vietnam. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+