beth said she had a better santa picture
Who can argue?
Who can argue?
I just wanted to put the little header I had at the top of my page in a post for posterity's sake and all, and proclaim the end of sex week. I wish I could say I had grand plans, but not yet...
Well, I had a few other plans for sex week, but the holidays caught up with me and I think it's time to bring it to a close, kids.
I've written about just about every side of sex except the most important part, the part that makes me realize that I probably won't be celibate forever. The part about love.
Let me tell you a little story. When I was 19 I lived in Illinois, in the town I grew up in. I would sit at either Denny's, or the only cool coffee shop in town, Cafe Esperanto, and there I would write my aching poetry.
There I was, in the cool coffee shop, smoking cigarettes and looking terribly deep, when I looked up and saw her, this bright girl. Her face was so damn pretty and animated, it was like my radar just locked on. I had that moment of fumbling inner desperation when a young man says to himself, "Is there any way to make this happen?"
Sort of. A long shot, really.
The girl who was sitting next to this girl was someone I recognized from my high school. I didn't even remember her name, but I somehow managed to get up the cojones to start with that most tenuous of connections, "Hey, don't you go to my high school?"
Luckily this beautiful girl's friend seemed to have sympathy for my plight. She was warm and friendly, allowing me to sit down and chat them up so fiercely that they had no choice but to invite me to accompany them bowling.
I gave her a hug in the bowling alley parking lot and got her number. It seemed so natural, I called her and asked her if she wanted to go to a movie and of course she did. I have never really 'dated' because it always seemed clear to me when I met someone where there was mutual interest, we just knew right away and we just spent time together. There was no trying to keep our distance or be cool. I just introduced her to my friends and she introduced me to her friends (some of whom it turned out I already knew) and that was that.
She was so intensely witty and bright, with this kind of tactless, incendiary charm. She would tend to elicit strong reactions in people, either they hated her, or they recognized her brilliance and loved her like me. Her family situation was seriously fucked up, and so much of her wit and sauce was to cover up the pain, but I didn't fucking care. I just straight up loved her.
Se was just so goddamn beautiful, with these amazing broad shoulders and just...when she would just be so funny and off the cuff, I couldn't believe she liked a dork like me so much.
A few weeks after meeting her, her parents left town for the weekend (fools!) and she planned a party which would kind of be our first public appearance as a couple. It was a fun party, but I only had my mind on finally getting to lay down in peace with my beautiful new girlfriend, and I could hardly wait until we got everyone out of the house or bedded down for the night. Then, when we climbed nervously into her bed, I thought that I had never looked upon a girl who was so sexy.
I don't remember that first time too well, we were both pretty lit. I do, however remember the many other times that summer we got a chance to do the same thing. In my bed, or many times on a blanket out in a big field near my house we called "the grove".
I remember once there, a little mild lightning storm started and the air was crackling with electricity as we began our lovemaking.
"Remember when I moved in you
and the holy dove was moving too
and every breath we drew was Hallelujah."
- Leonard Cohen
I had no doubt in my mind at that moment that I loved her...that she was my beautiful, warm girlfriend and that everything about being inside her was good. It was then that I first knew that there were no adequate words for love, and that I would only sound foolish if I tried to find some.
That wasn't the only time, either. She was so precious to me, and she was buck wild besides. As soon as we were done she was merely biding her time until we could do it again. She taught me all kinds of freaky things that I was too young to really take advantage of at the time, but secretly I most loved when we would just have straight, delicious, simple vanilla sex. Nothing could have been more exciting or sensual to me than that.
I left her there in Rockford to move to Seattle, and she was married before I really got the chance to tell her how much I loved her.
I have truly loved a couple of women since, but I don't know if I ever gave my heart to someone so openheartedly since. I hope that if I ever do again, it will be with someone so beautiful, so freaky, and that I so admire as that girl.
Perhaps some day I will be ready for that. Perhaps I never will.
This is something I've been relishing the idea of posting for weeks now, waiting for the right moment. Now that I'm back up, please enjoy World Wide Jeb's amazing Sex Week Post.
What is this, you're saying to yourself, this is supposed to be "sex week", and I haven't seen any just straight up sexy sex action yet! All this weird-ass stories and no sweaty, buck-wild stories of fun, fun, fun. I want my money's worth!
Well, first off, I would like to remind you that the tinyblog comes to you free of any charge (hell, even Kottke couldn't charge for a weblog!) but still, I want you people to feel you have received value, and so I will provide at least one purely salacious story to round out sex week.
I'm going to refer to all the parties by their real first names, mainly because I've posted stories about them with their real names before (hey, internal consistancy is important!), and I know for a fact that they delight in this story. Plus, it's several years ago, and all involved parties are in much different situations now.
Okay enough! I met Cara with her husband outside of a poetry reading in Seattle. They invited me to come over to their house that very night, and Cara started flirting with me right from that moment. Once, after having known them for about a month, I was sitting in the van with her, and she said to me:
"Daniel, *husband* said to me the other day, 'I see how Daniel looks at you.'"
("stammerstammerstammer", I said.)
"Good thing he didn't see how I look back."
("ummmmmm", I said.)
Months went by and I was introduced to not one, not two, but three different lovers of Cara's. It's weird, you can know someone is major trouble, and still respect and love them in 100,000 ways and that's how I felt about Cara. At least one of us had our wits about us usually, though, and so nothing happened between us.
At some point, Cara decided to go to school at the hippie school Evergreen State, and she was then down in Olympia much of the time, living out of her van, and not up in Seattle with her husband much. Consequently, I did not see much of her.
Finally, one day, she called me while I was at work, and said, "Hey, me and my new friend her in Olympia are coming up to Seattle for a school project. We're going to be up there tonight, can we come pick you up from work and commandeer you for the evening?"
Which they did. Cara's friend Jezebel greeted me pretty warmly from the get-go, and we went out to dinner and got a bottle of wine to take to Cara's house. We had a little wine and both Cara and Jezebel clearly had some kind of plan. As the evening was near it's end, Cara turned to me and said, "Hey Daniel, can we come over to your house and have a massage?" (I'm a massage therapist.)
"Yeah," piped up Jezebel, "and sleep over?"
Now I consider myself this pretty liberated guy, who can sleep with a girl and not do anything, and, in fact, I have done it many times, before and since. And I had good reason to behave. Not only was Cara still technically married, but I was attached myself. After Cammy's New Years Eve freak-out (which I have yet to blog about) we were seperated for a month, but under the auspices on continued fidelity. So I was NOT ABOUT to be seduced by two lovely women just because I had two glasses of wine in me, you follow me?
So I let them take me home, and I gave first Jezebel a massage. When I was done, she just got up from the table without putting her clothes on, went to the bathroom, and went and laid down in my bed. Hmm. I got Cara on the table and gave her her massage and then she did basically the same thing.
I looked at them both, laying naked in my bed, looking coyly at me and said, "I'm going to meditate for a minute." (Maybe they would fall asleep by the time I was done.)
I sat down and took a few breaths. Instead of meditating I went over it in my mind. I wasn't going to sleep with these two beautiful girls because I would be betraying not only Cara'a husband, who I considered a friend, but also my own sort-of-ex-lover of several months, who I knew it would totally ruin things with. With a firm resolve, I walked over to the bed.
"You have to lay in the middle," they cooed.
The next six hours were 300 minutes of pure torture as they subtly rubbed up against me and I smelled their hot girl smells and felt their smooth, slender bodies up against me. Cara even mocked me, "It's no use, Jessie, he's too much of a good Buddhist to do anything."
Then, at 4am, she said, "You know, if we would have just done it we'd all be asleep by now!"
I could only admit it was true, and that my rationalizations were quickly eroding. It had been hours and we were all still awake and crackling with sexual energy. I gently stroked them, and when each hand found a tender moist place, I knew I was lost.
"Daniel?" Cara began to query, incredulously.
"Yes," I said, both resigned and quivering with excitement, "I'm going to fuck you both."
In light of all the trouble that it subsequently caused me, I have to say that it was goddamn fun. I would have sex with one of them until my hunger for the other became unbearable, and then I would switch. They sort of half-heartedly fooled around with each other, but it was just for show, and they really did me up right and made me feel like the main event. That combination of guilt and just raw power, and feeling like it was just so many mens' fantasy was so intoxicating, and we did indeed all fall asleep with exhaustion when it was all done.
I don't know if there's an event in my life that I both relish and regret so deeply as that night. Cheers.
Coming soon: Guest Post from World Wide Jeb, and "sex week" poetry!
I now present a reprisal from the archives of The Airman's Mess, something saigonsam thought might be a good addition to "sex week".
Well, in a sense, that little game of Haunted House was my first time. But in another sense, the first time I actually did real live coitus with a girl was my first time and it was great. Not just the act, but the whole event.
You see, I was in high school and I wanted to be in a band. Our friends were in a band and we would go to their shows and watch them be so cool. I wanted to be cool too. Unfortunately, I could not sing along to other musicians, and I could not play any instraments. I knew I would find some way for this not to deter me.
At some point, someone played me a copy of Prison, a CD by Stephen Jesse Bernstein, in which SJB reads his brilliant poetry over some electronic music. I could do that! I asked my friend if he would play bass for me, and then I wrote several poems with titles like, "The State of the Onion" (before there was The Onion) and "Bugs Bunny Was a Transvestite".
We had some connections with some of the bands playing the next big high school show, and we managed to get ourselves in for a 15 minute set. We were wandering around the mall blowing off a little steam by engaging in our favorite pastime, when, walking past The Gap, my friend Joe called out, "Sasha!"
I turned my head and there was the most lithe, foxy-fantastic girl I had seen this side of the food court. She was someone Joe knew from his high school (he went to Auburn, and I: Jefferson home of the preppie freaks) and we stopped to say hi and see how she was doing.
Thankfully I didn't have to pull together much smooth, since Joe did all of the talking (and information gathering). Evidently she was the long-time girlfriend of the lead singer of one of the following night's bands, Flannel Camel. He asked her how old Graham was doing, and she mentioned that they had just broken up, actually. Be still my beating heart. She was still going to the show however, and she was heartily encouraged by both of us not to miss out on our debut performance.
Apart, we were Dan and Joe, but together, and with a bass guitar, we were transformed into the dynamic duo of Thoughtless Independence. I was wearing a silk teal shirt with a knit tie, and I swear the only pair of sunglasses that have ever looked good on me. I felt like a superstar, and when I saw Sasha hanging out upstairs, we got into a conversation and just totally spilled our guts to each other. I was riveted by her charm, and listened with incredible attentiveness while she told me how she got raped while on family vacation to that stupid beach boys song "aruba, jamaica, ooooh I wanna take ya" that I now hate even to this day.
I got up there and rocked the mike. It was a magic night. I had prepared little prattle and silly jokes and inflections to the poems only to be done if it seemed to be going well, and I used them all. It all flowed from my mouth and the paper I held in my quivering hands. It was a rush.
The Rockford, IL version of an afterparty was going out for coffee at one of the local 24 hour joints, and it was publicly announced that Perkins family restaurant was the place. Then it was privately disseminated to all the really cool people (and for that one night, I was not a big dork) that we were actually going for cheese fries at Beef-a-Roo. And since Sasha was a band member's recent ex, that's where she was going to be as well.
She gave me her phone number and whispered "call me!" in my ear as she hugged me sweetly and I got into Joe's big damn Impala to go home.
Okay, not being a big dork only lasted a few hours. I think I called her that very night at 3am (just to leave a message and tell her what a good time I had!) but she picked up the phone and we talked until 6am. We went out twice.
Somewhere in all this the conversation went around to sex and I mentioned I had never actually gone there. We talked about it a little bit before she uttered those magic words, "...well, I want to have sex with you."
I realized at that moment that I really had better arrange that as soon as possible, and basically, a time was set.
She was skilled and patient, and we shagged to the delicious strains of Enya's Shepherd Moons, and Edie Brickell's Ghost of a Dog. I think I did a pretty good job! God knows I had done my research. About 20 minutes later, as I lay there next to her with stars in my eyes, I turned around with a dawning realization and said, "Can we do that again?"
Actually, we did it 2 more times, and were about to get started on a third, when my mom came home and we thought the better of it.
That night, I asked my mom if she would drive me to the Denny's so I could go chill and drink coffee with Joe, and tell him I GOT LAID! and my mom asked me, "Did you have sex with that girl?" on the way there.
"Yes." I pridefully admitted, even though I knew that I'd be busted for breaking one of the few house rules (no sex in the house unless you had the means to support a family, read: no one but her). Instead, as she dropped me off, she just said, "Congratulations."
Ok, so it was a rebound thing, and a week later she went back to her longtime boyfriend, but it was special to me! She gave me a mix tape that I still have to this day. I still listen to it sometimes.
Continuing on the theme of first times, and before I get to my own first time, I present to you the first time of Ariel Meadow, star and writer of electrolicious: the blog formerly known as urban forest.
To bring us back from the brink of madness, I call on Mena of Dollarshort.org, to bring us this super deluxe guest post:
I decided not to post my darkest entry. I guess some things you have to wait to shock your direct loved ones with. In leiu of it, I offer this amazing post. It is written by a writer whom I especially admire, and who I asked to write about sex from a point of view not often explored in weblogs. She asked that I publish it without crediting her, as she doesn't want to be viewed as a total freak who would just go around spouting this stuff. It's her choice. I'm happy to be able to record it here. After this, we'll look at sex from a lighter angle. I promise.
Please heed the disclaimer.
John's high-rise Capitol Hill combo was the masterpiece of a finicky, Catholic, gay investment banker, who clearly had massive amounts of money to burn. It was clean, it was wall to wall quality, it was fastidious. The Catholic iconography was a little wierd, and he seemed to place an almost cosmic signifigance on that fact that his cat liked me. Go figure. It could have been so much worse, eh?
He told me right off the bat that having penetrative sex was off the table so I didn't need to worry. He just suggested we go lay in his bed and watch some gay porn and just kinda go with the flow.
It's so funny to me now, I was like, "Alright, let's get to work." I just turned it on, got him all worked up, jerked him off, gave him a little massage, and walked out the door with a hundred dollar bill. It was lovely. As I left, I thought about taking a cab or taking myself out to dinner, but remembered that $100 wasn't really that much money, and that I had gone into this so I could pay my psycho roommates for utilities and make a clean getaway. So I took a cab.
I think I was expecting Sambo to provide me with a steady flow of clients or something, but I clearly didn't have a very good idea of what I was really going to do. I didn't go to bars or know how to operate in that thing, and I really (thankfully, in retrospect) just didn't know what the hell I was doing.
I tried to be open with my friends about what I was doing, but down to the last one, they all freaked out and thought I was degenerating quickly into a drug-addled AIDS infested streetwalker in a hurry. Some expressed concern, and my roommates, who I was doing this partially to pay back, reacted with some of the most spiteful disgust I have ever experienced.
I saw John 2 more times. One of those times he gave me $500, so in my entire career, I made $700 for 3 hours of work (although arguably my innocence or something) which I think is a pretty good rate.
Finally he went on vacation and in the face of the fact that I had no idea how to find other nice, rich, generous people like him, I ended up finding another place to live, getting a legit job as a home health aide, and finally going to massage school, where I learned the power of touch and why I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever sell sexuality again. It was a healing time.
But wait. I have a couple more stories to tell you about the dark side of sex. In fact, when I look at these, I see that they're really not so dark. In my career I actually netted $660 after expenses. And that's the story I'm going to tell next.
I was telling Paula in chat that this would be the first time my mom had read some of these stories. I'm not going to say exactly how many exclamation points she put on the end of "YOUR MOTHER READS YOUR BLOG" but it was a fair amount.
Anyway, not only does my mom read, but she offers this contribution, to clear up the record about how our conversation went when I was but a young lad of 8:
Daniel was eight, just out of the hospital where he had spent 30 days in traction for a broken femur. He was to spend the next six weeks in a body cast at home. That left him with a great deal of time for reflection. One day he said, "Mom, I've been thinking.", a sure sign of trouble. "I know what everything on my body is for except that sac between my legs. I asked my nurse in the hospital but she told me to ask you." I took a deep breath and began to explain in what I deemed to be eight year old terms, how while women carried half of the baby seed in their tummys and men carried the other half in that sac. I then proceeded to explain how those two halfs were connected. I told him that when a couple was ready to make a baby that the man put his penis in the woman's vagina and his body squirted sperm into the woman and that is how a baby begins life. I was very clinical because I knew that if I made it sound like too much fun Dan would want to try it right away.
Dan looked at me then in the way kids look at parents, trying to picture their Mom and Dad doing this. He gave up that contemplation immediately and got back to his practical considerations. I asked if he had any questions and he said he had a few. His questions were, "How do you know when you are going to squirt so that you get it in the right place in time?" I assured him that he would have ample warning but also cautioned him about being careless in this so that he didn't make a baby before he was ready to be a Dad. Then, contemplating the size of his eight year old equipment, "How many squirts do you get in your life?" "What happens if you use it all up before you make a baby?" I assured him that he would have plenty because the body manufactures all that he would need. He seemed satisfied by this and just said, "OK, thanks Mom." and that was it until he got older and needed the birth control talk and the personal responsibility talk.
So Miss Banana, Sambo and I all started hanging out, and they were sort of determined to give me this hustler education.
Except, I had a whole different vision of the whole thing. I had this idea of sort of being a "love professional". Honest work. A valuable service for money. Integrity. I was actually quite proud of both myself and the whole idea. It seemed like not a bad way to do the whole thing. I would be like this modern sex worker. I could never really do it in the way that Miss Banana and Sambo did, which was to try and get the most for the least. They were sure tricky devils.
They were actually good company when they weren't totally fucking crazy, except for Miss Banana's tendency to treat everyone in her environment like her sub ("Daniel, go to the store and get me some broccoli. Now."), and Sambo's tendency to have diarrhea of the mouth in public. ("That's a forehead? Looks like a FIVEhead!")
Finally though, it was actually arranged for me to meet this one guy John, Sambo's gravy client. Miss B tried to convince me to shave some of my body and I really thought that was a deal breaker, so I didn't. She did however have her way in one way:
I was sitting, quite innocently, in her apartment one day, on this flimsy mushroom stool that was low to the ground. Suddenly, without warning, Miss B abruptly sat on my lap, straddling me. I looked puzzled at her, but realized I was sort of trapped. I couldn't really get her off me without crashing to the ground. She pulled some tweezers from behind her back and I saw what her master plan was. I didn't struggle, and it didn't look too bad, if you like that tweezed pretty boy look. Needless to say, it never became a part of my beauty regimen.
Finally the time had come for me to go up to Capitol Hill to meet this guy for the first time and make some money. $100 for one hour (although Sambo implied that there were often signifigant gifts) and I was advised to leave promptly when the hour was over.
"Are you Daniel?" the voice at the other end of the intercom said. "Come on up."
it will be continued...
So let me tell you a little about Miss Banana before I go on. She was what one might call a hustler. She was a stripper and a smooth talker and a tough bitch all in one. She was the kind of person who could realize that the rent money was due the next day, go to work, and come home with eight hundred dollars. How did she do it? I don't know, but she just had a talent for talking men out of money. Was she a whore? Hell, no. She would never actually put out...she was far too tricky for that. As I understood it she would just ask men for money and they would give it to her.
I remember the day I met her, newly moved into the new loft space in our building. Tim, the pothead, had already smoked a few bowls with her, and brought me over to meet her. She was clearly charmed by me, or intrigued, or...something. She offered me some broccoli right there on the spot and sort of took me under her wing.
I think she always saw me as a sharp kid, someone who knew just enough to get themselves in trouble, and clearly wanted to give me some kind of street education. So, a few days after our conversation, she found me to tell me that she had met someone in a club the night before who might be able to help me.
Sambo was a tall, muscular California goofball. If I would have searched the city for people I thought would make a good romantic match for Miss Banana, I think there's several thousand people I would have picked first, but there was some kind of magic there, and they ended up being together for many years, starting on that night. They had this amazing relationship based on fucking like porn stars, threatening each other's lives, selling speed, and just generally causing trouble. They were perfect for each other.
Sambo was hustler of sorts as well, and lived off the money of men. The way he told it, it was mostly about company, and he never had to do anything sexual for it ("I just tell them I'm not gay," he said.) but I don't know if, years later, I really buy that.
He talked to me a little bit about what he did, and then he graciously offered to hook me up with one of his gravy clients, a man named John. Yes, that was really his name.
you know it's going to be continued...
Okay, now this is the series that's gonna make people cringe I think. Hell, it makes me cringe just thinking about writing it. Most of this stuff all comes from one part of my life, and I think that during this time I survived solely on the grace of the angels if you know what I mean. And I am serious, this is sorta hardcore shit, so if you don't think you can handle it, wait until the "dark side" series is over. Don't worry, I'll bring it all back around to love again. I promise.
I had lived in Seattle before, and then traveled around the US, finally ending up back in my hometown of Rockford, IL, staying with my mom. This is back in 1995 or so, if I remember correctly.
Anyway, I moved back to Seattle finally that fall, and moved in with some friends I had known before in Seattle. They were living in a big loft space in Pioneer Square, the south part of downtown Seattle, mere blocks from crack central. It was a huge cube of space with no heat, and a bathroom out in the hall. It was never meant for human habitation, and therefore often felt like being sort of strangely homeless myself. Plus, the other people who lived in the bulding were pretty trippy as well.
Going back to Seattle was like hitting a wall of drugs and bad vibes. Next door lived a couple who were longtime heroin users, and down the hall was a rough and tumble stripper and hustler par excellance who gave me some serious education via the school o' hard knocks. Also, it turned out that 2 of my friends (a couple) had been kinda harboring resentment towards me about things that happened when I lived in Seattle before. The other person who lived in the space was a huge pothead, and since we were nearly constant companions, I became one too.
Four people, two of them a couple, one with a day job, made for some really difficult living, and huge resentment and bad feeling quickly began to accumulate. Toss in some hallucinogens, some really bad passive aggressive behavior, and a really wierd sketchy environment, and sometimes living there had begun to resemble a living hell.
I came back to Seattle to go to massage school, and I actually did get the loan together and was going in the spring, but things degenerated quickly. First they asked that I find somewhere else to live, and then they told me that it had better be my last month there. I was working a crappy telemarketing job, and I hadn't been able to save up any money, and I just couldn't see any possible way that I was going to get together the money to get out of that fucking hellhole and put together First, Last and Deposit in a city noted for it's high rents.
So one day I was over at the hustler girl's house...let's call her Miss Banana, and I was saying, "God Miss Banana, I have got to figure out a way to make some money. I am fucking desperate. I don't care if it's legal or not at this point. I'd sell drugs, but all I know how to sell is pot, and all my friends already buy from Big Mama. I don't want to undercut her or anything. But I'd do anything, Miss Banana. I'm serious. I'd...I'd suck a dick for rent money."
Miss Banana looked me up and down. "Hmmn," she said, thoughfully.
(you know it's gonna be continued)
My mom was very forthright about sex, in case you're wondering where all this came from. Forthright, in her friendly, honest, and slightly clinical way. I had a penis, and my sister had a vagina. There was none of this pee pee stuff that I can remember, even when I was a very little boy.
I was very curious about what it felt like. One time I passed a note to my friend Jim in 5th grade (who insisted he had sex with hundreds of girls) asking what sex was like. "They screm and it feels good," he wrote, eloquently, on a scrap of paper.
I asked my mom a similar question. She had explained the mechanics pretty well, but I wanted to know how it felt, "Well," she said, "it's very pleasant." She also said that she had tried fucking, and she had tried making love, and that although it was true that both could be fun, making love felt much better.
That was sort of revealing, but I had an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Luckily there was Men's Sexual Fantasies, sort of a Penthouse Letters in paperback form, convienantly located low on the shelf at the now defunct Kroch's and Brentano's Booksellers in Cherryvale Mall. I am quite sure I read it cover to cover in my many furtive browsings of it while hanging out at the mall.
I read "the 'g' spot" and I read Masters and Johnson, and basically every damn thing I got my hands on. In my mind, I was studying. I wasn't going to be some inept fool, blindly missing the clitoris...I would know exactly what I was doing the very moment I got my chance.
I had done all kinds of fussing with my penis, and I knew there was some kind of orgasm to be had, but I didn't finally have one until 6th grade. At 6th grade. At the very top of the bleachers as a matter of fact. They were huge tall retractable bleachers, many rows high, and during LAP, I was just laying there prone looking out over the few kids shooting baskets after school.
That's when I noticed that just a gentle pressure against the bleachers was really doing me right. With almost no movement I felt it well up in me, and then finally fill my whole body with sensation. It felt so yummy to have that experience, especially with people around, and with no risk. It was very pleasant.
Alright then, I've asked a few of my favorite online writers to come up with an apropos post for sex week (which I have a feeling is going to take longer than a week).
The first of them is Meg, of the fine weblog not.so.soft, who offers first this fine story:
Later in the week, when we get into some seriouser stuff, we will also have a poetry offering by the lovely noomeejahoor. What I want to know is, what exactly is a slapper?
When I was around that same age, perhaps a little younger, perhaps a little older, it's hard to say. My mom was working, and as working moms do, had to find some kind of childcare situation for my infant sister and I.
One of them was the house of a lady named Grace, and her hellion son who was about my age. I can't remember his name so we'll call him Jared. I had never met a kid up to that point who was such a damn troublemaker.
Once we had hot dogs for lunch. When I told him that I didn't like mustard he seemed genuinely surprised. He told me to close my eyes. While my eyes were closed, he put mustard on my hot dog. When I opened my eyes, I wailed to Grace, and she graciously replaced my hot dog with a new, mustardless one.
"Close your eyes," he said again.
"No!" I said, "You'll put mustard on my hot dog!"
"No I won't," he said, "just close your eyes."
I closed my eyes, and again he put mustard on my hot dog. I was shocked by such deceit. I complained, and was again given a fresh hot dog.
"Close your eyes."
You may find it hard to believe, but he somehow smoothly talked me into trusting him a third time, and of course put mustard on my hot dog. This time grace had less sympathy and told me I was stuck with the hot dog. I think he tried it next time we had hot dogs and I told him to go to hell, but what does this have to do with sex, you're wondering...
Well, it's just to sort of set up what kind of guy Jared was. One time I walked downstairs in the middle of a game Jared was playing, involving one other participant, and several spectators, of which I was soon one.
There was a girl laying on the floor, and I guess the pretense was that she wasn't aware that Jared was gradually pulling down her pants. She had her eyes closed. He would tell her to turn over, and then he would scoot down her pants just a tiny little bit, and then have her turn over again. I think the idea was that he was doing it SO gradually, that she couldn't detect that her little bits would soon be showing.
Now unlike haunted house, which was just sort of sybaritic pleasure, this was a genuine sexual thrill. I remember my excitement at the idea that we were going to see this girl's business, and she wasn't going to know about it. He did get her pants most of the way down by the time the game was interrupted, and I can remember even now the intense hot feeling in my chest that I have had many times since.
In retrospect the girl must have been a willing participant, in the same way I was a willing participant in having mustard put on my hot dog the third time, but I wonder if she enjoyed herself?
I thought I'd start this off by writing about my own first sexual experience. It was with another boy, as were my first several, and it happened when I was about 4 or 5 years old.
I lived in an apartment complex in Arlington Heights, IL, and had a couple of friends there. One, Jerry, was my age, or a little younger. The other, was a boy of about 7 years old, who one day suggested we play, "Haunted House".
Obviously it's been about 20 years, and the details of Haunted House are fuzzy, but I do remember that one person was the "girl" and one person was...well, the boy I guess. I think. It was definately played under the bed, and it involved the girl giving oral sex to the boy. While I didn't mind being the girl terribly, I much preferred the other role, and I think it was like that most of the time.
I really liked it...I had no sense of the weight behind the whole operation, or exactly why it was a haunted house, but the role-playing of it did include some kind of spooky element and it was nice. I remember I found it very pleasurable and relaxing and didn't have any bad feelings about it at all.
I don't remember how many times we played haunted house, but I do remember the last time. I think I actually suggested we play. The kid wasn't into it at first, but consented on two conditions. That I be the girl, and that we play it with him sitting in a chair. It hadn't been going on for very long at all, when I felt my mouth fill...with pee. He peed in my mouth. And by his reaction it was clearly a pre-meditated thing.
I wasn't disgusted really, just a little disconcerted. He seemed to find it pretty funny, and I got sort of a striking revelation when he told me that he had done the same thing to my friend Jerry a few days earlier. I think I got a little savvier right at that moment when I realized that I wasn't the only person he had played haunted house with. I was kinda surprised that Jerry had gone for it, he was usually a pretty timid kid.
Haunted house never happened again, but I did have another sexual experience right around that same time...