In a recent post I requested begging. I appreciate the response and encourage more. (Yay hedonism!) Also, I just got back from a business trip in which I traveled to Salt Lake City, bought a shot glass in the airport gift shop that says "SL,UT Salt Lake, Utah" on it, and slept not enough. I need hugs, so please approach with them as soon as possible.
The following is a story in a style that is somewhat novel to me. Let me know what you think about the flow or anything else. It is a true story. There is a "monumentally embarrassing moment" mentioned by name only. More begging may get you readers that story some time in the future. You never can tell.
One more thing. Today, while kicking the cross-word puzzle's ass in the newspaper I saw the answer to yesterday's "word scramble" was a quote from Ernest Hemingway. He said, "A man must endure a lot of suffering to write a comedy."
On the second day of my freshman year I slunk into the Psych 101 lab fifteen minutes late. At 8 am it was my earliest commitment by two hours. The only open seat was in the second row between Jeremy and a slight girl with cherry-red hair and a big rack. He whispered to me, as I hung my head, "What? You got a high-over?" I smirked, and this was before I knew how. I would come to think I was a radical in a few years. I was more than green. I was completely un-germinated, but not in the biblical way.
Jeremy was burly but smooth. His characteristics were not unlike a shrewd gopher: his apple cheeks pronounced and his white smile sharp. The tan and freckled skin hid his advanced age from the college girls. It helped that I was usually clouded in ample fogs of marijuana smoke and lust charged panties. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes would have been more visible if not for the cone of ringlets and frizz around his face.
"How did you know?" I whispered back.
I would take a few different girl friends to Jeremy's over the years. He taught me about bodybuilding and plant cloning; the Rainbow people, modern Pagans and pumpkin patches. His was the home in which my first threesome fantasies were set.
"Jeremy, how old are you?"
"I like 'em young" he would reply.
He wanted to fuck each of the girls I brought to his house, except Jade maybe, while I nursed a severe crush for several years. When I brought petite Jessica, with her enticing lime green eyes, he told us, "I like to pull her to the foot of the bed, have her legs wrap around me while I'm standing and hold her up while I fuck her. I like 'em small, like you Jessica."
"Oh Jeremy." Jessica was an impressively classic and cloying flirt. She'd tease all she wanted while I’d be in fear of her getting into trouble "leading them on."
The little sprout in me became a twinkle, still not germinated, but my seed rattling with the pressure of growth to come. Seven years later and part of me is still trusting that he wasn't a total creep. Or perhaps a bigger part of me accepts that, really, I enjoy creeps, just so long as they're respectful in the end.
I would imagine myself in Jeremy's undecorated bedroom. His second floor had unpainted walls and ceilings that sloped with the roof. There was a room with drums and psychedelic posters. There was a room with a small tv/vcr. Each of these rooms housed a camping chair or two, the kinds with cup holders in the arm rests. His bathroom was the nicest with the plush maroon mat, towels and bathrobe. And there was his bedroom. From my peeking, as I walked past, up or down stairs I saw only a queen-sized bed with a worn old comforter and a wooden dresser.
Before the monumentally embarrassing experience with Jeremy, I fantasized so thoroughly that I confused our separate realities with some of the emotions I conjured at night in my own twin bed. I thought for sure we were going to sleep together. When I squeaked those words out on the phone, he half laughed, half gulped: "No, Shana. I like you."
After that, I couldn't return to my fantasies about as often, but before, it was the only unfettered place where my seething sex was coming out. My fantasies were in flash images, or I got lost in details of clothes worn, or "plot" and fell asleep before I came. They were conjured like the set up for a one-act play.
Bedroom, bare walls, dingy blue carpet, faded blue comforter on a made bed.
Overhead, white light fixture. Unflattering lights on.
Me-Girl: long blond hair, pale skin, fat. On her back, naked. "O" shaped mouth. Legs spread, wiry blond bush.
Girl: long dark brown hair. Thin. Skinny girl, "petite". Weak looking arms. Pale. Standing, bent at the waist. Glasses on the dresser. Eyes closed. All face, from chin to nose, hidden in wiry blond bush.
Man. Standing. Blond, bushy curly hair. Blond beard. Muscle toned arms and smooth chest. Light colored hair creating a fuzz on his legs. Bush hidden as he violently and rhythmically pumps the petite girl. He barks, yelps, moans, grunts, yells and commands. His finger tips white with clenching.
I had no imagined vocabulary. I could have never intertwined us so that he was in a receptive position, or so that the brunette could be lithe, contain hips, be in control with her surprisingly strong arms. I had not yet guessed at my howling capabilities.
Bedroom. Curtain covered window, open door, dark hallway outside. Dingy blue carpet. A glass of water on the dresser.
Girl on her knees filling her mouth with the burly blond man. Her method is concentrated and eager. Her eyes upward when open. She wants to please him more than anything. His pleasure is the nexus of her existence. She barely notices the thin brunette under the knees on which she balances, unless he does. The imagination of brunette's mouth on blond's cunt does not exist, but the seed is quaking.