Let's begin tonight with a poem by C.P. Cavafy. The poem has been a favourite of mine for a long time, though in the last few years it's begun to mean more and more to me:
Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds on which you lay,
but also those desires which for you
plainly glowed in the eyes,
and trembled in the voice -- and some
chance obstacle made them futile.
Now that all belongs to the past,
it is almost as if you had yielded
to those desires too -- remember,
how they glowed, in the eyes looking at you;
how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.
I've been writing about stories lovely young companions from my past have told me--- tales of their adventures and encounters, accounts of their experiences and the things they learned. I do note that while these are all girls I've known, the stories are never about me. The stories are never about adventures and encounters I shared with them. If you're thinking that I'll ever write about those moments, those nights, then you're bound to be disappointed.
I won't be writing about any encounters and adventures of my own--- or at least I won't be writing about details. I was brought up to believe that a gentleman, even an aging roué, is bound to certain rules, and discretion is a key rule. I'll also note that as a straight male of a certain age ("pale, male, and stale") recounting my own adventures seems unpleasantly like bragging. Boasting about one's long-ago conquests--- let alone one's current bedmates ---has something both distasteful and sad about it. Well, I say that as a general proposition, but of course I'm applying that only to males, and to myself first of all. This is the age of the gender wars, after all. Male sexual desire is seen as always having a subtext of creepiness. So don't expect anything like details about my own life and adventures. Being male (and being of a certain age) means that any recounting of one's own adventures leaves you open to contempt and derision. I'll recount stories lovely girls in my life have told me about themselves; I won't talk about the details of my own encounters.
I wrote back at the end of 2018 about a lovely girl I'll call Liberty. Not her name, of course, but she did remind me a bit of a younger version--- a younger, strawberry-blonde version ---of a British actress/model named Liberty Ross. I wrote about her adventures in a kayak shop--- her first encounter with an older man. She'd told me the story while she and I kept company that summer and autumn. She was a delight, and her stories were brilliantly exciting. I do remember the first time she told me about the kayak shop adventure--- the two of us out at a rooftop bar, Liberty sitting cross-legged in skinny jeans, telling me about how she first discovered older men and grinning at my obvious fascination. She was a bartendrix girl, and she knew how to tell stories. She had that hippie girl earnestness, too--- her stories were always straightforward and detailed. Once at the bistro where she tended bar she wrote something on a notepad and pushed it across to me. NSNL, it said: No Shame No Limits. She pointed at me with the pen she was using. Remember that, she said. Live it.
I don't know where she is right now. She always did have a habit of vanishing suddenly. Back to New Mexico? Back to the Pacific Northwest? All I can do is wonder if she'll re-appear here downtown, or if one day I'll get a letter in violet ink, postmarked Santa Fe or Vancouver. Or Dharamsala, for that matter. She wrote me letters back in the day--- something of which I approved very much indeed. She wrote me about wicked things she'd done and told me to keep the letters safe and think about her years later. Sometimes, too, after she'd fallen asleep here, I'd sit up with my notebooks and try to set down the stories she'd told me. I wanted to keep them in my own archives, wanted to be able to remember her and the things that made her so amazingly alluring.
I'll be re-telling some of her stories here. Suitably redacted, of course. But always honest. Liberty wouldn't have had it any other way. We did share that, the belief that all our lives are made up of stories, that stories matter. So I will be telling stories about her life, about older men in her life and about girls she loved, too. There are stories about threesomes in sleeping bags and in her environmental science labs late at night. Stories about hotels in Vancouver and art galleries in Taos. I just have to find ways to tell them that would catch her voice.
It does occur to me that I'll be telling stories about Marsha, too. She did spend time in my bed when I was young, telling me about her own adventures. The two stories I've told about her have both been about cars. I just realized that. The Greek charmer in Thessaloniki had a classic MG, and she ended up being groped by a small town cop in a police cruiser. The stories I have in mind are mostly about cars, too. There was someone here who had a sports car, too--- a Triumph, I think. She always loved sports cars. The man here was older, too, maybe twenty-four when she was sixteen or seventeen. I remember that she was impressed by the Triumph and by the fact that he was a diver, an underwater welder on offshore platforms. There are stories she told that will be spun here as threads.
Her stories--- like Liberty's, like stories from my leggy blonde friend in New Zealand ---are worth recounting and preserving. My own stories, well...not so much. Liberty was in my bed and life for months. Marsha and I were off-and-on bedmates for much of my senior year, and we saw one another sometimes over our respective semester breaks. My stories with them, though...those tales aren't for me to tell. Their stories, though... Their stories are worth presenting.
Friday, February 28, 2020
Tuesday, February 25, 2020
Two Seven Five: Threads 9
My friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud has always noted off-handedly that for girls at her posh high school, adventures and encounters with Maori or Islander boys had a certain transgressive value. She's always had a taste for Maori boys and developed crushes on Maori models--- e.g., Grace Hobson, Daniela Hayes, Michaela Steenkamp...or her stories about the dog walker for her Golden Lab or the forklift operator. Golden-dark skin and light eyes leave her wet and breathless. I asked her about that once:
--Amongst your high school friends, was fucking Maori boys/men thought to be just ordinary sex, or was it forbidden?
Definitely not forbidden, but slightly more than just ordinary sex. You were much more likely to get a knowing smile from HVHS girls than a look of disapproval.
She told me once, too, about an older Maori boy and her first experience with sodomitical practices:
I was 15, both of us drunk as fuck, we'd been at a party together, then went back to his house. he lived in a sleep-out at the back of the garden. we'd fucked a few times before this night, but never in the ass....he was big, and he just went for it, tiny bit of spit for lube...i screamed...he almost stopped, and i screamed at him to keep fucking going!...i was crying and screaming and moaning and loving it...he spit in his hand, then rubbed his dick with it... Tama-te-rangi, I still remember his full name...he was gorgeous!
That's a hot image, and a very powerful one. I like it that fifteen years later, she still remembered his name. I'd like to know the back story here--- how she met him, how old she was when they met, how they first had sex, exactly how old he was (I've always thought he was in his mid-twenties), how often they had sex, how he talked her into her first adventure in sodomy, how long the affair lasted. All the details. And of course I wondered about what her other early experiences with sodomitical practices and anal adventures were like. She was very fond of that particular sort of sex in her mid and late twenties, and I'd love to hear her full memoirs of such things. Details matter. Details always matter.
And what would she say to Tama-te-rangi if she ran into him now? Would the attraction still be there? Would they reminisce? Fall into bed for a No Strings afternoon? Would she care if he was married (she's always had a thing for married men)? I'd like to know all those things in detail.
I do like putting these memories and stories down here. I want them archived, want them to be something I can read later, something made into history as much as just stories. I do worry, though, that one day I'll run out of stories from my New Zealand friend. I have a few still collected from girls here in the States, small bits of ethnography or micro-history that I can preserve.
I suppose I should note that it's difficult for me to tell any stories of my own. There's something socially unacceptable about anyone male recounting his own adventures. It sounds like bragging, or, worse, just sounds creepy and disturbing. And, alas, I think of my own stories of adventures and encounters and inevitably compare them to the stories girls have told me over the years. I'll never think that any stories I'd have to tell could compare to the stories my NZ friend has to tell. My own stories, I fear, could never excite a girl the way her stories would excite me.
I'll archive as many stories as I can find in my emails, letters, chat logs, notebooks. I want these things kept down the years. I only wish I had more of my own to offer.
--Amongst your high school friends, was fucking Maori boys/men thought to be just ordinary sex, or was it forbidden?
Definitely not forbidden, but slightly more than just ordinary sex. You were much more likely to get a knowing smile from HVHS girls than a look of disapproval.
She told me once, too, about an older Maori boy and her first experience with sodomitical practices:
I was 15, both of us drunk as fuck, we'd been at a party together, then went back to his house. he lived in a sleep-out at the back of the garden. we'd fucked a few times before this night, but never in the ass....he was big, and he just went for it, tiny bit of spit for lube...i screamed...he almost stopped, and i screamed at him to keep fucking going!...i was crying and screaming and moaning and loving it...he spit in his hand, then rubbed his dick with it... Tama-te-rangi, I still remember his full name...he was gorgeous!
That's a hot image, and a very powerful one. I like it that fifteen years later, she still remembered his name. I'd like to know the back story here--- how she met him, how old she was when they met, how they first had sex, exactly how old he was (I've always thought he was in his mid-twenties), how often they had sex, how he talked her into her first adventure in sodomy, how long the affair lasted. All the details. And of course I wondered about what her other early experiences with sodomitical practices and anal adventures were like. She was very fond of that particular sort of sex in her mid and late twenties, and I'd love to hear her full memoirs of such things. Details matter. Details always matter.
And what would she say to Tama-te-rangi if she ran into him now? Would the attraction still be there? Would they reminisce? Fall into bed for a No Strings afternoon? Would she care if he was married (she's always had a thing for married men)? I'd like to know all those things in detail.
I do like putting these memories and stories down here. I want them archived, want them to be something I can read later, something made into history as much as just stories. I do worry, though, that one day I'll run out of stories from my New Zealand friend. I have a few still collected from girls here in the States, small bits of ethnography or micro-history that I can preserve.
I suppose I should note that it's difficult for me to tell any stories of my own. There's something socially unacceptable about anyone male recounting his own adventures. It sounds like bragging, or, worse, just sounds creepy and disturbing. And, alas, I think of my own stories of adventures and encounters and inevitably compare them to the stories girls have told me over the years. I'll never think that any stories I'd have to tell could compare to the stories my NZ friend has to tell. My own stories, I fear, could never excite a girl the way her stories would excite me.
I'll archive as many stories as I can find in my emails, letters, chat logs, notebooks. I want these things kept down the years. I only wish I had more of my own to offer.
Sunday, February 23, 2020
Two Seven Four: Threads 8
My lovely, long-legged, posh blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud wrote me once upon a time to answer questions about her adventures in her teens. Her life as a posh bad girl has always fascinated me, and I did send her a master list of questions about the things she did when she was a self-described wicked schoolgirl.
I asked her the obvious question about encounters and adventures with teachers--- something that's the stuff of any number of coming-of-age films (right now I'm thinking of Mischa Barton and her teacher in "The O in Ohio" or Kat Dennings in "Daydream Nation").
This was her response to my question about whether she'd ever had sex with one of her teachers back at her posh private school in Lower Hutt:
I slept with a teacher a few times...but he was sort of a family acquaintance. But he was also my science teacher, so it totally counts! (I was sixth form, so 16 when I did it)
She also wrote me to say that
I asked her the obvious question about encounters and adventures with teachers--- something that's the stuff of any number of coming-of-age films (right now I'm thinking of Mischa Barton and her teacher in "The O in Ohio" or Kat Dennings in "Daydream Nation").
This was her response to my question about whether she'd ever had sex with one of her teachers back at her posh private school in Lower Hutt:
I slept with a teacher a few times...but he was sort of a family acquaintance. But he was also my science teacher, so it totally counts! (I was sixth form, so 16 when I did it)
She also wrote me to say that
At 15, i sucked a maori trainee-teacher's cock behind the school gym... just sucked him that one time...i would have loved to fuck him though!
I'm wild to know all the backstory for each encounter--- how it happened, what she thought and felt during and after, if she discussed doing either thing with her circle of close female friends. I'd love to know if she was ever discovered--- by parents or staff ---doing schoolgirl-teacher things.
I'd like to know much, more about other stories she's mentioned in passing. One of her close friends was a girl named Sarah who was a competition fencer--- good enough to have competed on a national level and to have gone abroad to study sabre. Sarah is supposed to have gone to some kind of high-level fencing camp in Shanghai at 16/17 and had a notorious affair with a well-known and much, much older fencing coach. My friend tells me that Sarah is now a physiotherapist in Sydney, but the two girls are still in touch and still remember the volleys of emails they sent one another about their exploits when they were 15-18.
There was also mention of a girl called Kelly, who my friend looked up to as a role model for wickedness with Maori or Islander boys:
Kelly at 14! She was so advanced for her age...and she loved all the islander boys. She was very hot...tall, blonde, skinny. I think she got pregnant to an islander at 17 or 18 & moved to Australia.
I'd love to know so much more. There are two questions here, of course.
1. How much of her past is real? Her stories over the last dozen years and more have been deliciously hot and wicked, but how much of any of them can I believe?
2. What happens if ever she becomes monogamous and domestic-partnered? Will she stop telling stories from her past? Will she reject her Bad Girl days? Will she regret them. And...will she regret telling me stories?
Sunday, February 16, 2020
Two Seven Three: Hearts
The weekend began with Valentine's Day. In other circumstances, in other worlds, that might've been a good thing.
Of course, for those of us who were solitary at Valentine's, there was that nagging sense of social failure--- failing at one of those arbitrary but nonetheless important social expectations. Being solitary on Valentine's leaves a dull, heavy sense of failure around one's neck. However manufactured the holiday itself is, the sense of failure remains. No partner, no one taking part with you in the rituals of romance, no formalized and formal kisses.
Throughout Valentine's Day, there were social media posts by women announcing that, for them, V-Day stood for Vibrator Day and not Valentine's Day. Girls I knew via social media posted entries saying that their vibrators were fully-charged and ready, and that they would be their own lovers that night, that Lelo had given them the ability to find pleasure alone--- pleasure that was certain, authentic, and probably more intense than they could find with a date. Vibrator Day as a meme was passed along from girl to girl, and they cheered each other along.
Needless to say, that's not an attitude anyone male can have. Any male announcing that he would be celebrating Solitary Vice Day in lieu of a partner would've been mocked mercilessly as pathetic or creepy. It's simply a social fact. No one male can indulge in the Solitary Vice and be regarded as doing anything positive. The Solitary Vice, for males, is always a sign of failure and lack of social value. Only sad losers or creepy perverts indulge in the Solitary Vice, and anyone male doing that deserves shame and mockery.
The girls whose social media posts I was reading chatted back and forth about their favourite vibrators and discussed their performance stats--- USB chargeable! longer battery life! perfect texture! choice of colours! Most, just as a note seemed to favour models by Lelo--- apparently the brand of choice for hip, educated twenty-something girls all over North America and the Anglosphere. There's no male equivalent for that, of course. No males at social media were discussing the relative merits of different artificial vaginas. No males at social media were discussing which make or model of inflatable doll was best. No one was saying that he had photographs of favourite actresses or models to tape onto his choice of doll--- at least no one not at some dark web site for wannabe serial killers was saying that. (See how easy it is to instantly assign mockery and contempt to any male admissions concerning the Solitary Vice?)
Years and years ago, I did see a Seventies horror film where the creepy male main character had some kind of doll that he'd fill with water. He'd tape photographs of girls he'd stalked onto the doll's face and have sex with it. At the climactic moment he'd inject a syringe full of blood (his own? some hapless victim's?) into the doll, and he'd have some version of orgasm while the blood swirled through the water in the doll. The film was, I think, from sometime in the early 1970s; it may have been called "Private Parts". In any case, the film was a perfect depiction of social attitudes regarding any male who indulges in the Solitary Vice. The film was disturbing enough when I watched it a lifetime ago, and the memory of it still leaves me deeply uncomfortable and shamed.
Socially, males can't admit to any need for solitary pleasure, and the act itself is regarded as shameful and some mix of sad, disgusting, and risible. This is something one simply has to accept. Even phone sex or chat sex with a lover is regarded as pathetic and shameful, and webcam sex is regarded as obviously shameful and easily-mocked, at least for any male participant. On a day devoted to the social rituals of romance--- or on any other day of the year ---you are socially policed against admitting that you need to give yourself pleasure. Pleasure for anyone male must come from external validation--- being seen in public with a lover, having a lover make time for you in her life and bed. There's no male equivalent for "empowerment" by solitary pleasure, and there's certainly no acceptable way for anyone male to pursue pleasure for its own sake rather than pleasure that's set by arbitrary social rules.
Of course, for those of us who were solitary at Valentine's, there was that nagging sense of social failure--- failing at one of those arbitrary but nonetheless important social expectations. Being solitary on Valentine's leaves a dull, heavy sense of failure around one's neck. However manufactured the holiday itself is, the sense of failure remains. No partner, no one taking part with you in the rituals of romance, no formalized and formal kisses.
Throughout Valentine's Day, there were social media posts by women announcing that, for them, V-Day stood for Vibrator Day and not Valentine's Day. Girls I knew via social media posted entries saying that their vibrators were fully-charged and ready, and that they would be their own lovers that night, that Lelo had given them the ability to find pleasure alone--- pleasure that was certain, authentic, and probably more intense than they could find with a date. Vibrator Day as a meme was passed along from girl to girl, and they cheered each other along.
Needless to say, that's not an attitude anyone male can have. Any male announcing that he would be celebrating Solitary Vice Day in lieu of a partner would've been mocked mercilessly as pathetic or creepy. It's simply a social fact. No one male can indulge in the Solitary Vice and be regarded as doing anything positive. The Solitary Vice, for males, is always a sign of failure and lack of social value. Only sad losers or creepy perverts indulge in the Solitary Vice, and anyone male doing that deserves shame and mockery.
The girls whose social media posts I was reading chatted back and forth about their favourite vibrators and discussed their performance stats--- USB chargeable! longer battery life! perfect texture! choice of colours! Most, just as a note seemed to favour models by Lelo--- apparently the brand of choice for hip, educated twenty-something girls all over North America and the Anglosphere. There's no male equivalent for that, of course. No males at social media were discussing the relative merits of different artificial vaginas. No males at social media were discussing which make or model of inflatable doll was best. No one was saying that he had photographs of favourite actresses or models to tape onto his choice of doll--- at least no one not at some dark web site for wannabe serial killers was saying that. (See how easy it is to instantly assign mockery and contempt to any male admissions concerning the Solitary Vice?)
Years and years ago, I did see a Seventies horror film where the creepy male main character had some kind of doll that he'd fill with water. He'd tape photographs of girls he'd stalked onto the doll's face and have sex with it. At the climactic moment he'd inject a syringe full of blood (his own? some hapless victim's?) into the doll, and he'd have some version of orgasm while the blood swirled through the water in the doll. The film was, I think, from sometime in the early 1970s; it may have been called "Private Parts". In any case, the film was a perfect depiction of social attitudes regarding any male who indulges in the Solitary Vice. The film was disturbing enough when I watched it a lifetime ago, and the memory of it still leaves me deeply uncomfortable and shamed.
Socially, males can't admit to any need for solitary pleasure, and the act itself is regarded as shameful and some mix of sad, disgusting, and risible. This is something one simply has to accept. Even phone sex or chat sex with a lover is regarded as pathetic and shameful, and webcam sex is regarded as obviously shameful and easily-mocked, at least for any male participant. On a day devoted to the social rituals of romance--- or on any other day of the year ---you are socially policed against admitting that you need to give yourself pleasure. Pleasure for anyone male must come from external validation--- being seen in public with a lover, having a lover make time for you in her life and bed. There's no male equivalent for "empowerment" by solitary pleasure, and there's certainly no acceptable way for anyone male to pursue pleasure for its own sake rather than pleasure that's set by arbitrary social rules.
Saturday, February 15, 2020
Two Seven Two: Threads 7
This passage came to me in April of 2018. My friend in the Land of the Long White Cloud sent it to me with neither backstory nor context. She told me that it was something she'd found on her XHD where she keeps all the secret memories of her past. There's no date on it, and no names. I wish she'd told me more, and of course I wish I could see more things that she has hidden away on that XHD:
Back then I wasn't good at asking for what I wanted. I wanted to ask him to make just a little bit of room in his life for me. His wasn't a life you could slide into without thought or care. His kid was very sick. I didn't want much. I wanted us to walk our dogs together and go for drives up the coast. We fucked for a while and he just made me feel so good. I lived alone then, and he would turn up at random times. I would cook us dinner and we would watch TV, my head in his lap.
And now...his boy is all grown up and cancer free. His wife left him. He isn't too subtle about looking at my tits. Maybe he is remembering the nights he came on them and the mornings he squeezed my nipples while he fucked me from behind. He is still loud, and funny, and a bit of a goof brain. He wears glasses now. I never thought we were going to end up together; it was a moment in time. But I remember how good he could make me feel and how hungry I always was for him.
It's a melancholy story, isn't it? A married man (her weakness, back in her early and mid-twenties), the sick child, the knowledge that it was all hopeless from the start. I do wish I knew more about it all. She says that even post-affair, he's someplace where he can see her. Did they try to rekindle the affair? Did they sleep together again? Whatever was the conclusion to all this? I hate it when there are stories that I see that have no context and no conclusion. That's the quondam academic in me.
In September of 2018 I asked her about the life she imagined for herself. She wrote me this about the daydreams she had for her imagined life:
i work at the local arthouse cinema. it's generally pretty quiet. between selling tickets and making coffee and showing people to their seats, i do crossword puzzles and read. i watch a film everyday. i walk to work. i wear skinny jeans and graphic tees, and a cardigan in the winter. i have an older lover who takes me out for dinner and is fond of me. i live with a grumpy old cat called tom. i never really made friends in the city, and i spend most nights with my books. i am content.
I replied to her that same evening, with my own daydream:
I love this idea. I can imagine being in a small town on the coast near a little liberal arts school. I work at a small bookstore, selling books to students and sitting by the coffee machine and reading. Once in a while I teach a History course at the little uni. On weekends I kayak around little coastal inlets and picnic with you on the beach. We have a garden and a small verandah where we read. Our little beagle Frederick sits with us, happy to be loved. We listen to Cigarettes After Sex. I wear slim jeans and oxford-cloth button-downs and black tees. We cook for each other and sit in the evenings and watch the sky and sea darken. Our lives are quiet and simple.
I miss sharing daydreams with her, and I miss the lives for the two of us that we constructed in our heads. I miss the idea that one could be content.
Back then I wasn't good at asking for what I wanted. I wanted to ask him to make just a little bit of room in his life for me. His wasn't a life you could slide into without thought or care. His kid was very sick. I didn't want much. I wanted us to walk our dogs together and go for drives up the coast. We fucked for a while and he just made me feel so good. I lived alone then, and he would turn up at random times. I would cook us dinner and we would watch TV, my head in his lap.
And now...his boy is all grown up and cancer free. His wife left him. He isn't too subtle about looking at my tits. Maybe he is remembering the nights he came on them and the mornings he squeezed my nipples while he fucked me from behind. He is still loud, and funny, and a bit of a goof brain. He wears glasses now. I never thought we were going to end up together; it was a moment in time. But I remember how good he could make me feel and how hungry I always was for him.
It's a melancholy story, isn't it? A married man (her weakness, back in her early and mid-twenties), the sick child, the knowledge that it was all hopeless from the start. I do wish I knew more about it all. She says that even post-affair, he's someplace where he can see her. Did they try to rekindle the affair? Did they sleep together again? Whatever was the conclusion to all this? I hate it when there are stories that I see that have no context and no conclusion. That's the quondam academic in me.
In September of 2018 I asked her about the life she imagined for herself. She wrote me this about the daydreams she had for her imagined life:
i work at the local arthouse cinema. it's generally pretty quiet. between selling tickets and making coffee and showing people to their seats, i do crossword puzzles and read. i watch a film everyday. i walk to work. i wear skinny jeans and graphic tees, and a cardigan in the winter. i have an older lover who takes me out for dinner and is fond of me. i live with a grumpy old cat called tom. i never really made friends in the city, and i spend most nights with my books. i am content.
I replied to her that same evening, with my own daydream:
I love this idea. I can imagine being in a small town on the coast near a little liberal arts school. I work at a small bookstore, selling books to students and sitting by the coffee machine and reading. Once in a while I teach a History course at the little uni. On weekends I kayak around little coastal inlets and picnic with you on the beach. We have a garden and a small verandah where we read. Our little beagle Frederick sits with us, happy to be loved. We listen to Cigarettes After Sex. I wear slim jeans and oxford-cloth button-downs and black tees. We cook for each other and sit in the evenings and watch the sky and sea darken. Our lives are quiet and simple.
I miss sharing daydreams with her, and I miss the lives for the two of us that we constructed in our heads. I miss the idea that one could be content.
Sunday, February 9, 2020
Two Seven One: Threads 6
I'm trying to archive stories lovely young companions have told me over the years. I want these stories to remember later, in the latter days of my life. It's always worth remembering the young companions of one's past and remembering a time when girls did tell me about their adventures and the days when they learned about men, sex, love, seductions, and how to experience and manage their encounters.
This is from a friend at McGill in Montreal, someone I miss very deeply. She should have an academic title by now--- a doctoral thesis on Nabokov, Mavis Gallant, and the literary idea of exile. She might be in Montreal tonight, or Toronto, or Vancouver...or London Town. She and I talked for years, all about books and music and Sixties fashion in nouvelle vague Paris and Swinging London. She told me all about Eastern European film in the 1960s and how much she loved sitting in shabby art house cinemas or in neighbourhood dive bars full of Russian emigres in Montreal. And she did tell me this story, from her teens:
Awkward meeting...happened when I was 16. Usually my internet relationships were always with people very far away (more exotic for me, also no chance of anything every happening). This summer I was shipped off to stay with relatives in a dreary suburb in the States. Relatives had no internet at the home so the only area of interest to me was the library (no friends of my own age in that dreary suburb!) to my surprise this one casual friendship I had struck up...well he lived in this same suburb. We talked on the phone, once, but it was incredibly awkward. Anyways, I plucked up the courage to meet him in the library. I didn't know what he looked like, so, overcome by feeling self-conscious (I wasn't quite aware of my abilities then) I left. I received an email, later, saying he saw me and knew exactly that it was me, he knew my hair and the little red summer dress with flowers that I had worn.
I started receiving presents from him. The first present, for my birthday, was a little package of Hello Kitty treats (stationery, wallet, etc). I remember he had asked me what my bra size was. I should've have known where this was going but it was a late-night chatting session so I simply told him (32 B in case you were wondering). Well..what should arrive in the mail but a pink-and-white striped Victoria's Secret box. (I was now back home, in Kanadia...we don't have Victoria's Secret so it seemed exotic at the time. I didn't realise that it was standard Mall Wear, but anyways). Now...the underwear was SEVERE. A black satiny bra and matching thong! The bra had a little criss-cross detail between the breasts, very S&M. So I went from Hello Kitty Material to Dominatrix. He lives in California now and every once in a while asks me to go to Shanghai with him because he gets some sort of discount on travel. He's 43 and really does not like Asian girls. Only white fair-skinned girls! What do you think of this?
She told me later that the man had expanded on the invitations to Shanghai.She wouldn't, he told her, be required to sleep with him, only to take a champagne bath with him in some expensive hotel on the Bund. She wrote that her immediate thought was how sticky a champagne bath was likely to be, and that she'd have to climb out of the champagne-filled tub (was it built to look like a champagne glass? the Chinese are not known for erotic subtlety...or good taste) and jump into a shower to get the champagne stickiness off herself.
And, she wrote, Chinese champagne just wouldn't be Veuve!
She wrote this to me once, too--- a memory from her late teens, of growing up in a small town in the Quebec countryside:
It is so cold and I am tired of winter and I just want to be back in summer. I want to be in last summer with Evelyn again when we just roamed days that stretched into weeks. We’d wait till her parents were finally asleep and then slip out the window in our long nightgowns. I felt just like we were woodsprites (or wood nymphs).
I miss Evelyn…
…She is taller than me, and very slim.
She is covered in freckles and has auburn hair.
After we slip out the window we run down the hill, breathless with the excitement and the danger of being young and free on a summer’s night.
The crickets’ song in the blackness of night makes our hearts beat faster. We run down the hill so fast, our little bare wood-sprite feet getting muddy. Hair and hem tangled in branches and twigs.
There’s a boy she likes who lives further down the hill. I thought she was being ridiculous because not only was he a boy, he was a boy younger than us. A mere child!
I help her throw rocks at his window, but he is asleep, like the entire town at this time of night. Finally, he awakes and they exchange a few feverish sentences. I wait, impatiently. A porch light turns on. Parents!
We’re laughing but we have to hold it in, trying not to explode. We run down the hill until we get to the river, and with jagged breaths we throw our nightgowns off like some offering to the gods. Evelyn’s bony freckled whiteness shines in the dark. We dive into the black river that never warms, not even on a midsummer’s night…
Evelyn was never shy with public nudity. At night we’d dare each other to flash truckers. There wasn’t much else to do. Life in a small town....
That's a fun story, and one that's easy to visualize. I do miss her. I miss that she could quote long passages of Dorothy Sayers' essay on Dante and Denis de Rougemont's "Love in the Western World" off the top of her head. I miss her tastes in French pop and how she could tell the difference between Russian and Icelandic vodka. I do hope she has "Doctor" in front of her name now, and that she did get to make her long hoped-for trips to Dharamsala and Socotra.
This is from a friend at McGill in Montreal, someone I miss very deeply. She should have an academic title by now--- a doctoral thesis on Nabokov, Mavis Gallant, and the literary idea of exile. She might be in Montreal tonight, or Toronto, or Vancouver...or London Town. She and I talked for years, all about books and music and Sixties fashion in nouvelle vague Paris and Swinging London. She told me all about Eastern European film in the 1960s and how much she loved sitting in shabby art house cinemas or in neighbourhood dive bars full of Russian emigres in Montreal. And she did tell me this story, from her teens:
Awkward meeting...happened when I was 16. Usually my internet relationships were always with people very far away (more exotic for me, also no chance of anything every happening). This summer I was shipped off to stay with relatives in a dreary suburb in the States. Relatives had no internet at the home so the only area of interest to me was the library (no friends of my own age in that dreary suburb!) to my surprise this one casual friendship I had struck up...well he lived in this same suburb. We talked on the phone, once, but it was incredibly awkward. Anyways, I plucked up the courage to meet him in the library. I didn't know what he looked like, so, overcome by feeling self-conscious (I wasn't quite aware of my abilities then) I left. I received an email, later, saying he saw me and knew exactly that it was me, he knew my hair and the little red summer dress with flowers that I had worn.
I started receiving presents from him. The first present, for my birthday, was a little package of Hello Kitty treats (stationery, wallet, etc). I remember he had asked me what my bra size was. I should've have known where this was going but it was a late-night chatting session so I simply told him (32 B in case you were wondering). Well..what should arrive in the mail but a pink-and-white striped Victoria's Secret box. (I was now back home, in Kanadia...we don't have Victoria's Secret so it seemed exotic at the time. I didn't realise that it was standard Mall Wear, but anyways). Now...the underwear was SEVERE. A black satiny bra and matching thong! The bra had a little criss-cross detail between the breasts, very S&M. So I went from Hello Kitty Material to Dominatrix. He lives in California now and every once in a while asks me to go to Shanghai with him because he gets some sort of discount on travel. He's 43 and really does not like Asian girls. Only white fair-skinned girls! What do you think of this?
She told me later that the man had expanded on the invitations to Shanghai.She wouldn't, he told her, be required to sleep with him, only to take a champagne bath with him in some expensive hotel on the Bund. She wrote that her immediate thought was how sticky a champagne bath was likely to be, and that she'd have to climb out of the champagne-filled tub (was it built to look like a champagne glass? the Chinese are not known for erotic subtlety...or good taste) and jump into a shower to get the champagne stickiness off herself.
And, she wrote, Chinese champagne just wouldn't be Veuve!
She wrote this to me once, too--- a memory from her late teens, of growing up in a small town in the Quebec countryside:
It is so cold and I am tired of winter and I just want to be back in summer. I want to be in last summer with Evelyn again when we just roamed days that stretched into weeks. We’d wait till her parents were finally asleep and then slip out the window in our long nightgowns. I felt just like we were woodsprites (or wood nymphs).
I miss Evelyn…
…She is taller than me, and very slim.
She is covered in freckles and has auburn hair.
After we slip out the window we run down the hill, breathless with the excitement and the danger of being young and free on a summer’s night.
The crickets’ song in the blackness of night makes our hearts beat faster. We run down the hill so fast, our little bare wood-sprite feet getting muddy. Hair and hem tangled in branches and twigs.
There’s a boy she likes who lives further down the hill. I thought she was being ridiculous because not only was he a boy, he was a boy younger than us. A mere child!
I help her throw rocks at his window, but he is asleep, like the entire town at this time of night. Finally, he awakes and they exchange a few feverish sentences. I wait, impatiently. A porch light turns on. Parents!
We’re laughing but we have to hold it in, trying not to explode. We run down the hill until we get to the river, and with jagged breaths we throw our nightgowns off like some offering to the gods. Evelyn’s bony freckled whiteness shines in the dark. We dive into the black river that never warms, not even on a midsummer’s night…
Evelyn was never shy with public nudity. At night we’d dare each other to flash truckers. There wasn’t much else to do. Life in a small town....
That's a fun story, and one that's easy to visualize. I do miss her. I miss that she could quote long passages of Dorothy Sayers' essay on Dante and Denis de Rougemont's "Love in the Western World" off the top of her head. I miss her tastes in French pop and how she could tell the difference between Russian and Icelandic vodka. I do hope she has "Doctor" in front of her name now, and that she did get to make her long hoped-for trips to Dharamsala and Socotra.
Monday, February 3, 2020
Two Seven Zero: Threads 5
A few more adventures from my lovely blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud--- tales from her twenties in Wellington...
In March 2011 she wrote me about this. She'd have been twenty-five that spring--- or NZ autumn ---and back at university, getting an accounting degree after her English Lit degree:
i had a delicious older man's cock in my mouth this morning. i love starting the day with a mouthful of cum. i missed my first class, i was having so much fun...
She did tell me more about him. His name, she said, was Shane---
...he's around 45. he's tall and strong. he has short dark hair and a cute, stubbly face. he owns a sand blasting and spray painting business and is a client. i'm not sure if its common practice in the US, but here young lawyers and accountants have to spend quite a bit of time out on secondment, getting to know the way their clients businesses work etc. so, thats how we met a few years ago. we ended up at the same function at the marina a few nights ago and one thing led to another.
the first time, he bent me over the bonnet of his car and fucked me from behind. it was so hot. he came in my mouth then carried me inside. he lives by the beach. his bedroom had big windows overlooking the sea. he had a beautful cock, big and thick and hard. it felt so good in my mouth and hands. he licked my cunt and i came so hard. he fucked my ass and cunt and told me i was beautiful.
i must have fallen asleep around 3, and had a terrible nightmare, because i woke up screaming and shaking. he pulled me towards him and whispered 'its ok, its ok' over and over in my ear. he ran his finger through my hair and spooned me for the rest of the night.
in the morning he was so gentle and lovely. i sucked his cock and he came in my mouth again. he made us both smoothies then fucked me in the shower and drove me to class. i'm meeting him for a drink after work tonight. he's gorgeous and funny and i want him.
Was I jealous? Oh, certainly. He had a house on the beach in a hip suburb called Seatoun, and she more-or-less lived there during the affair. A few months only, but ones she still wrote about years later.
There were always other older men in her life. In November 2013, she wrote to say---
I did think of you on Friday night, drinking Makers that seemed to set my blood on fire. Lying naked in a strange bed, all I could think was this isn't really me. i'm not really here.
I stayed until the morning and walked home in the dawn light.
Drinking bourbon feels like coming home.
He was a lawyer. I was Alex the florist, sexy & uncomplicated.
"Drinking bourbon feels like coming home..." That's a brilliant line, and one that I'll be passing on to lovely friends. It's one I want my friend Ash in Bo'ness and London Town to use.
A couple of nights later she wrote me to say that---
The lawyer asked me out for dinner Friday night! I am tempted to say yes, as he made me come about 5 times and had a very impressive collection of books.
I wonder if she kept up her identity as Alex the Florist when she was with him--- blonde Alex, simple and easily bedded, with no complications of intellect. That he gave her five orgasms isn't the buried lede here, of course. What matters is that she created Alex the Florist, a blonde girl I was wild to meet. I very much wanted to get to know young Alex, to see how well she brought the character to life. And of course I wanted to sample Alex's oral sex skills in some dark corner of a Wellington bar (the Bangalore Polo Club was her favourite in those days)--- in a dark corner, or in the alleyway behind the bar, where she notoriously would take handsome bouncers on midweek nights...
In March 2011 she wrote me about this. She'd have been twenty-five that spring--- or NZ autumn ---and back at university, getting an accounting degree after her English Lit degree:
i had a delicious older man's cock in my mouth this morning. i love starting the day with a mouthful of cum. i missed my first class, i was having so much fun...
She did tell me more about him. His name, she said, was Shane---
...he's around 45. he's tall and strong. he has short dark hair and a cute, stubbly face. he owns a sand blasting and spray painting business and is a client. i'm not sure if its common practice in the US, but here young lawyers and accountants have to spend quite a bit of time out on secondment, getting to know the way their clients businesses work etc. so, thats how we met a few years ago. we ended up at the same function at the marina a few nights ago and one thing led to another.
the first time, he bent me over the bonnet of his car and fucked me from behind. it was so hot. he came in my mouth then carried me inside. he lives by the beach. his bedroom had big windows overlooking the sea. he had a beautful cock, big and thick and hard. it felt so good in my mouth and hands. he licked my cunt and i came so hard. he fucked my ass and cunt and told me i was beautiful.
i must have fallen asleep around 3, and had a terrible nightmare, because i woke up screaming and shaking. he pulled me towards him and whispered 'its ok, its ok' over and over in my ear. he ran his finger through my hair and spooned me for the rest of the night.
in the morning he was so gentle and lovely. i sucked his cock and he came in my mouth again. he made us both smoothies then fucked me in the shower and drove me to class. i'm meeting him for a drink after work tonight. he's gorgeous and funny and i want him.
Was I jealous? Oh, certainly. He had a house on the beach in a hip suburb called Seatoun, and she more-or-less lived there during the affair. A few months only, but ones she still wrote about years later.
There were always other older men in her life. In November 2013, she wrote to say---
I did think of you on Friday night, drinking Makers that seemed to set my blood on fire. Lying naked in a strange bed, all I could think was this isn't really me. i'm not really here.
I stayed until the morning and walked home in the dawn light.
Drinking bourbon feels like coming home.
He was a lawyer. I was Alex the florist, sexy & uncomplicated.
"Drinking bourbon feels like coming home..." That's a brilliant line, and one that I'll be passing on to lovely friends. It's one I want my friend Ash in Bo'ness and London Town to use.
A couple of nights later she wrote me to say that---
The lawyer asked me out for dinner Friday night! I am tempted to say yes, as he made me come about 5 times and had a very impressive collection of books.
I wonder if she kept up her identity as Alex the Florist when she was with him--- blonde Alex, simple and easily bedded, with no complications of intellect. That he gave her five orgasms isn't the buried lede here, of course. What matters is that she created Alex the Florist, a blonde girl I was wild to meet. I very much wanted to get to know young Alex, to see how well she brought the character to life. And of course I wanted to sample Alex's oral sex skills in some dark corner of a Wellington bar (the Bangalore Polo Club was her favourite in those days)--- in a dark corner, or in the alleyway behind the bar, where she notoriously would take handsome bouncers on midweek nights...
Saturday, February 1, 2020
Two Six Nine: Levee
Let's call this a second story about the girl in my last entry, the girl at the Electra Palace in Thessaloniki. I have a few stories acquired from her back long ago, and I do want to archive them here. In the end, we're only the stories we tell. I've believed that for a lifetime.
This story isn't from very long after the summer she had the fling with the Greek boy with the vintage MG. If my memory holds, it happened during spring break the following year, when she was back in the city from Colorado School of Mines. I only heard it later, and I was never quite clear on the details. Marsha was never like the girl from New Zealand whose stories I've recounted here--- she wasn't someone who wrote everything into a journal, someone who thought her life was something to structure into a narrative. The story itself is a scary one, and very much a #MeToo tale, if not something a bit worse. I offer that as a warning.
From what I was able to gather, she was back home on spring break. She'd driven out of the city to visit a friend at a college maybe an hour's drive west over the river, and was coming back that evening. She took the older state highway and not the interstate highway. That led over a bridge and through the edge of a small town that had two points of notoriety. There was a restaurant-bar on the highway that had once been the center of a scandal involving illegal gambling, bribery, and half a dozen state legislators. And the town was a major speed trap. You'd come down from a bridge over a small local river and the speed limit suddenly went down to 30 mph. The town made a fortune in traffic fines.
In short, Marsha was stopped and ticketed for speeding coming off the bridge. The local fines were painfully high, and all the more so if you were doing 20 mph or more over the limit. Marsha was terrified of having to tell her parents she'd been ticketed...and at having to ask for a couple of hundred dollars for the enhanced fine. She told no one about the ticket and then drove back over a couple of days later to see if there was anything that could be done to reduce the fine or take driving courses or whatever. That strikes me as painfully naive now, but she was only eighteen, and as a posh girl she might've been sexually experienced since fifteen or sixteen, but nonetheless sheltered from a great many things.
The arc of the story is crushingly obvious. She went to the police station in the small town late one afternoon and talked to one of the deputies about her ticket. He assured her that while the town court was very, very serious about speeders, she had no previous tickets and maybe something could be done. He then invited her for coffee at the little diner down the street so they could talk about what she could tell the court. She got into the police car, and the deputy drove up onto the nearby levee and tried exactly the obvious thing--- grabbing her, kissing her, and getting a hand up under her shirt. She was braless, as she usually was, and that encouraged him to grope her more. She did tell me that her nipples hurt for the next couple of days, and that he'd left bruises on one breast.
I always obsess about details, but she didn't give me many. I'm still not clear on what she was wearing--- a long-sleeved tee or a polo shirt? Jeans or shorts? I knew her tastes enough to know that she loved polo shirts and had a thing for long-sleeved tees with college logos. When I've played the story in my head, I do imagine her in either a Colorado School of Mines tee or a band tee from whatever she was listening to that spring. Yes, I do understand that worrying about the details of wardrobe isn't a good thing on my part.
In any event, he groped her breasts and tried to kiss her...and tried to go further, to pull open the shorts or jeans she had on and get them down. I'm not sure what happened next. Marsha always said that she'd panicked and begun to cry and hyperventilate and the deputy panicked, drove her back to her car, and more or less shoved her out of the patrol car. She never said anything about what happened with the ticket itself, and for all I know the panicked deputy made it vanish. I certainly don't know what else happened in the patrol car. Did she kiss him? Did he make her give him head? Did any of it go further? Did her jeans or shorts come off? Had she offered him a blowjob to get the ticket fixed? I only had hints from her, and a couple of very brief mentions from the one local friend she told about it all. My own reading of the hints is that something happened, but after all these years, I'll never know what.
Now it probably says a lot about me (and says nothing good) that when I first heard about what happened, what went through my mind was that it was a scary-yet-hot story and that I wanted the story fleshed out. That might be understandable at eighteen, but...now? It is almost a porn video plot, though I'm sure that things like this do happen to young, terrified, vulnerable girls and that it's all a gross abuse of power and, yes, a crime. Nonetheless, even decades later, I do want the details and want to craft it all into a story. Needless to say, while I might've asked her about the details when we were both twenty or so and having a drunken reunion while home from our schools, I'd never be able to ask her now, even if I knew where she was. But the events are still there in my head, and I still see what happened as a film-in-the-head.
This story isn't from very long after the summer she had the fling with the Greek boy with the vintage MG. If my memory holds, it happened during spring break the following year, when she was back in the city from Colorado School of Mines. I only heard it later, and I was never quite clear on the details. Marsha was never like the girl from New Zealand whose stories I've recounted here--- she wasn't someone who wrote everything into a journal, someone who thought her life was something to structure into a narrative. The story itself is a scary one, and very much a #MeToo tale, if not something a bit worse. I offer that as a warning.
From what I was able to gather, she was back home on spring break. She'd driven out of the city to visit a friend at a college maybe an hour's drive west over the river, and was coming back that evening. She took the older state highway and not the interstate highway. That led over a bridge and through the edge of a small town that had two points of notoriety. There was a restaurant-bar on the highway that had once been the center of a scandal involving illegal gambling, bribery, and half a dozen state legislators. And the town was a major speed trap. You'd come down from a bridge over a small local river and the speed limit suddenly went down to 30 mph. The town made a fortune in traffic fines.
In short, Marsha was stopped and ticketed for speeding coming off the bridge. The local fines were painfully high, and all the more so if you were doing 20 mph or more over the limit. Marsha was terrified of having to tell her parents she'd been ticketed...and at having to ask for a couple of hundred dollars for the enhanced fine. She told no one about the ticket and then drove back over a couple of days later to see if there was anything that could be done to reduce the fine or take driving courses or whatever. That strikes me as painfully naive now, but she was only eighteen, and as a posh girl she might've been sexually experienced since fifteen or sixteen, but nonetheless sheltered from a great many things.
The arc of the story is crushingly obvious. She went to the police station in the small town late one afternoon and talked to one of the deputies about her ticket. He assured her that while the town court was very, very serious about speeders, she had no previous tickets and maybe something could be done. He then invited her for coffee at the little diner down the street so they could talk about what she could tell the court. She got into the police car, and the deputy drove up onto the nearby levee and tried exactly the obvious thing--- grabbing her, kissing her, and getting a hand up under her shirt. She was braless, as she usually was, and that encouraged him to grope her more. She did tell me that her nipples hurt for the next couple of days, and that he'd left bruises on one breast.
I always obsess about details, but she didn't give me many. I'm still not clear on what she was wearing--- a long-sleeved tee or a polo shirt? Jeans or shorts? I knew her tastes enough to know that she loved polo shirts and had a thing for long-sleeved tees with college logos. When I've played the story in my head, I do imagine her in either a Colorado School of Mines tee or a band tee from whatever she was listening to that spring. Yes, I do understand that worrying about the details of wardrobe isn't a good thing on my part.
In any event, he groped her breasts and tried to kiss her...and tried to go further, to pull open the shorts or jeans she had on and get them down. I'm not sure what happened next. Marsha always said that she'd panicked and begun to cry and hyperventilate and the deputy panicked, drove her back to her car, and more or less shoved her out of the patrol car. She never said anything about what happened with the ticket itself, and for all I know the panicked deputy made it vanish. I certainly don't know what else happened in the patrol car. Did she kiss him? Did he make her give him head? Did any of it go further? Did her jeans or shorts come off? Had she offered him a blowjob to get the ticket fixed? I only had hints from her, and a couple of very brief mentions from the one local friend she told about it all. My own reading of the hints is that something happened, but after all these years, I'll never know what.
Now it probably says a lot about me (and says nothing good) that when I first heard about what happened, what went through my mind was that it was a scary-yet-hot story and that I wanted the story fleshed out. That might be understandable at eighteen, but...now? It is almost a porn video plot, though I'm sure that things like this do happen to young, terrified, vulnerable girls and that it's all a gross abuse of power and, yes, a crime. Nonetheless, even decades later, I do want the details and want to craft it all into a story. Needless to say, while I might've asked her about the details when we were both twenty or so and having a drunken reunion while home from our schools, I'd never be able to ask her now, even if I knew where she was. But the events are still there in my head, and I still see what happened as a film-in-the-head.
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