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 From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel
http://www.taximurders.com/  (updated August 28, 2000)

mirror site: http://www.txm6.com


"seanfarragher" <seanfarragher@email.msn.com>
Three Texas Stories: one Summer
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher


Journal of Henry Whitman: Walkabouts 
Tyler, Texas: Sunday, July 12, 1959

The present of these stories: As Henry writes them, May 1992

La Guardia Airport to Tyler, Texas is more than the sum of 
its air miles.

When I was sixteen and a rising senior living in Paramus, NJ,
I spent an "innocent" summer with my grandmother on my
father's side in Tyler, Texas.  

Riding the crop duster DC-3 from Dallas, I remembered hot 
rusty hematite reds and lush golf course greens that swept 
long side the 100 mile glide between runways. I was truly 
innocent on that flight not just about sex but how life 
stretched you faster than you could grow.

Years later, I would compare the memory to the topography of 
Vietnam that ran through the tree line and below the 
canopy. I would think then, looking back at Tyler, when you
fly with death, dreams are not fatuous. 


TYLER TEXAS

East Texas in 1959 was an ordinary place with people not too 
different from Bergen County, NJ. Living in Edgewater and
Paramus we were good white folks living on a beach facing
a great city island. One bridge joined us, and that same bridge
stopped us from knowing the other side of the creek.

Like many war babies I was bound by accidental roots and 
dishonest assumptions about race, sex and war. 

I lived in a town called wild turkey that prided itself
on not having any gooks or niggers as residents. I played
on little league baseball teams that had no Jackie Robinson
and no one, not matter what their pretensions, that would
become a star athlete. 

Down town in east Texas was different than today. Brick and 
mortar two story buildings mixed with some post war brick and 
glass. I am sure there was that famous architectural 
landmark, a Sears building, but I don't remember it. 

Stepping up and into the heat the sidewalks and macadam 
streets held the heat. Every step burned your feet.

To escape I sat endlessly in family cars riding shot gun
or played the good but never quiet nephew in the back seat.

I memorized the signs along the road. I can almost count
the moments before and after when the car turned or didn't.
I wanted new roads then.


THE EDDY

My Great Aunt, Aunt, Uncle or Cousins drove many a night to 
fish at a slight river named an eddy. 

As a current of water an eddy moves contrary to "the direction 
of the main current, especially in a circular motion." 

Walking its soft bank, hardly cooled. Sweating and itching, 
it seemed an artifact of a primeval moss and fern nightmare 
that trapped the landscape. I was told it was a theater for 
macabre murders although none were committed to the best of 
my knowledge. These are my thoughts today. I am not sure what
I though beside wonder in '59.

When I hit the LZ in Nam I connected to that eddy. Desire
for death and survival was not unlike the drive of tadpole to
a frog. Someday I would flood the roe of the salmon up stream.

Pacing river waters, kicking the sticks, "fishing" with 
my  Uncle Darrel, I sank out of tune as I stepped over broken 
rocks and just missed cutting my foot on broken soda pop bottles. 
I must have found half a dozen Trojans that I collected as 
balloons blowing them up until my Uncle took them away.

Every few feet I'd measure my stubbed toes and mosquito bites 
to see how much of myself had been lost. 

In Nam, one day during Tet I lost somebody every hour. 

Back at the eddy, breaking into tall weeds, I tripped 
pretending to escape the alien hoard of Buck Rodgers. 

Careening through the "riverine scraggle," squeezed in the 
uterus goose neck of the sick mud that pickled between my 
toes.

MOSQUITOES

In Texas, still a boy, I counted toes, kept a record of dead 
mosquitoes as I mashed them against the pine wall board next 
to my bed. Their blood, my blood, ran like the serial murder 
of children through the dark abuse of the fist and graceful 
finger crushed to knotted pine. 

Every scar and scab was a totem of an insect's failed 
adventure. Or had it already succeeded. We just didn't know 
the rites.

Later, while I slept under an historic fan barely electric, I 
realized death gave me pleasure. No, I didn't kill dogs and 
cats. I was no Ted Bundy. I have never murdered anyone, but I 
can imagine it. Does that make me a killer. I thought so in NAM.


THAT NIGHT

After that one night, years later, I imagined myself naked 
driving myself into a frenzy of  a multiple butterfly trance 
on that east Texas eddy. 

I  reacted strangely swimming that snake guarded eddy. I 
stepped out too far, ready to drown, not die, and off 
balance, when my internal music stopped, I knew that I had 
been captured by the skin of the earth. I would never be the 
same. My Pentecostal Uncle by marriage, a good man, Darrel 
had no idea that a god other than his had taken me alive. 

Sex, his evil, not mine coursed through my spirit like the 
fucking flies and maggots, mosquito and larvae. I was no 
longer a child. I hungered for decadence and continuity. I 
didn't know the force of these words in 1959, but truthfully 
I respected them.


1959

1959 was the year before Nixon lost to Kennedy. It was the 
year of Castro the hero. It was a simpler time they say. 
Politicians and historians seem to lie about truth, not that 
my version is more accurate, but I don't pretend that it is 
the truth.

All I knew about the 1960 candidates, barely remembering 
them, was that they both laughed with a false tenor or 
baritone. 

At 16 I was not politically precocious; these perceptions are 
my present; life acting on my past. 


PRESIDENTS

Famous and infamous people inspire myths. Presidential 
candidates do not possess their own names after they are 
nominated. How can you not lie if you run for Congress or 
President. In November I would have voted for the war hero 
Ike.  Like my father and millions of others they saved the 
world from themselves.

Why do I care about Tyler, Texas?

Why should I? Why should you? How can I ask better questions, 
unless I talk about the past as if it were a more reasonable 
truth.  

I begin one story about Texas and race and sex that is unique 
because I lived it. I tell it to illustrate (not as National 
Geographic) my routine life as a child in America before 
Vietnam and after Korea. 

In that decade, we accepted the lies, panty raids and 
adultery of Presidents without question. Hard to imagine sex 
being a sin when everyone wanted it, did it, sought it, and 
lied about it. 

As it was hidden and forbidden it never existed. Wonderful 
how logic protects the surfaces of truth. I never understood 
that reasoning. Perhaps that is the difference between  
51 and being 12. It is harder to be more human today if you 
are politicians. You have life protected by antiseptics that 
kills all germs both essential and deadly. Politics kills the 
imagination. Sex drives it. We could argue that point. This 
is a current belief, but now at 51, sex seems more thought 
than action. Once in the saddle  you never want to get off. 
You hit the ground, walk when you once flew.

All will change now. I write this memory about 1959 knowing 
that my lover Laurie has been in 1992 abducted by murderers.

1959 Tyler was rustic; rough tree branches. No, not bucolic-- 
not pastoral. It was simpler but more complex. Less complex 
could mean dishonest. Not hypocritical, really. How could you
know the truth when everywhere the signs said, "white only."

There was the honest image of the gentle whorehouse next to 
the Baptists church. Church not lost in dirty dancing, strip 
show. At that show, there was up in the arms honest sex and 
good clean fun between men and women. 

Tyler, well that was a myth. They said, and I believed them. 

Tyler floated on a lake of oil. Now, it could have, but it 
was hard to believe that no one drilled the wells. I am not 
sure if it was true or not. 

All that money does float up, and when the change rains from 
heaven, I knew the myth was true. 

Oil makes you rise up higher on your toes. Impossible 
distances. The lush greens, and the sickly swamps where frogs 
flaked away at the noise, standing, above the tree line, 
almost walking on point, doing recon in Nam, keeping track of 
the nests where snipers drown life. You could thrive up on 
your toes, stretching, and the swamp would force you higher 
above the moss. 

On a Texas Eddy at night, deep August night, fishing with 
grubs and spoons, levitation was easy as the lightning bugs. 
Close your eyes and dream. 



II.

JHW: Walkabouts 
Tyler, Texas 
Sunday, July 12, 1959

MYTHS and the Colors of Money.

I grew up in Paramus, NJ during the 1950s. There were no 
black students at Paramus High School. I was one of 204 
people in first graduating class of 1960. That is fact. In 
1959, during the summer before my senior year, I laughed when 
my grandmother said, "you stink like a nigger."

In Tyler, Texas, you could find many Negroes as they were 
termed then by well meaning white folks, but they worked in 
the kitchen in the country club, but never as cook or waiter. 
They were made invisible not with white paint but the tether 
of distain and worse. 

Walking out on the pool deck no dark eyes tumbled into cannon 
balls on the surface of the noon red glare. No ebony life 
guards to blow the pale girls out of their one piece, heavy 
armored bathing suits from the arms of white boys. No deep 
penetrating black muscle men, with deep V and strong thighs 
to balance the white boy football players in their strong 
back, hard headed stares, arms crossed. 

Imagine two great walls facing each other, but then
only one wall was allowed to win. The game was fixed by
Jim Crow and Birmingham but that would soon change.
 

SWIMMING POOL

At the country club, white cheeks splashed and tits fell out,
making the water a collage of invisible heads bobbing into a
sparkling clean shimmer. 

In the noise of that play, water fights chilled the blank and 
intense moist heat of Tyler summer.

Boredom was every where and still the action, the foot falls, 
the mercy that would make for righteousness had yet to be 
culled from the slogans of Democratic Party platforms and the 
deceit of dishonest makers of truth who spat out news print and 
magazine glossies of American tabloid KLAN and lynching. History 
had its own wrappers and most hid disease in the margins. 

That summer I asked myself where did the black faces and dark eyes
live that my newspaper said didn't but did exist?

One weekend in August, I found them more invisible than oil beneath
the surface of the streets that evaporated in Permian splendor.

"Look downtown," one old white man said when I asked carefully
where the coloreds lived. I am not making it up."

"Maybe in your mama's kitchen," he spit when the laughs 
died, adding at the end, "or maybe back in Yankee land, 
where you better get before I kick your nigger loving ass."

As I started to leave, a fat man with thick hands said,
"How about your daddies bed."

"Yes sir, truth be told there were many dark eyes there, but 
when I saw them, or they sold candy on the street in front of
the five and dime, there was a pause and returned blank stare. 

What are you doing here it silently said: "Get out here." 

I recognizing instinctively that the rule ran both ways down
the color of the street.


GRAND MOTHER KATE.

Kate, not what I called her, was a large, stout woman, and a 
practical nurse. She had an easy laugh and followed home 
style Iowa preacher rules. She worked the best houses in 
white Texas caring for the young children of the rich doctors 
on the "important" side of town as I remember she once called 
it.

That summer, I tagged along with "Kate",  jostling the rich 
kids, straining their toys, swimming pools and curious, 
investigating that unknown dark black face named Carla that 
shuffled the foods in a doctor's kitchen where my grandmother 
took care of the children. 

Many of the homes where grandma worked were full of great 
vistas and soft water fall air conditioners. I admit I felt 
pampered.


CARLA

Carla was a good cook. She was pretty in smile and body. Not 
as deft a cook as Grandma, but I had to admit and Kate agreed 
that Carla made the best fried chicken.

Grandma's butter cookies may have been sweeter and flaked in 
your palm, but Carla's black hands tossed the chicken into a 
perfect food for a sixteen year old almost man but no longer 
boy.

I ogled Carla's huge tits. I couldn't even think the word 
then without being nervous, and itching for them, almost all 
the time, but I marveled at the anatomy and when she rubbed 
them to clean the flour off her hands or the batter from the 
chicken, she knew I was watching, and she would laugh."

Carla was young, and her tits got simply in the way when she 
walked. No, they did not hang down, but poured forward. If 
you walked by, you got poked by one of them. When it 
happened, she'd smile, and say excuse me. I would smile back, 
brush my hair from my eyes, and I gaze to her black edges and 
the ocean of tits I had gathered in my twelve years. 

I'd see my mom's breasts and others, sticking out and in at 
the Old Mill Stream

She had the finest I had ever known. I wanted to seep into 
the vast outline of them. I wanted to mark her nipples and 
make them shiny wet as I had seen my mother briefly with my 
younger sister. I remembered the milk leaked. 

One night, when Carla dressed in the bathroom, I snuck into 
the crack of the door of the next room. You could hide there, 
and if the bathroom door was open a crack, you could see the 
expanse of her body. 

When Carla stepped out of the steam and mist her tits were 
like brown mountains. I wished for years that I were that 
black baby in the National Geographic suckling. I had no idea 
how my cock would feel inside a woman. I remembered breasts 
as they flowed under me as I gathered my mother to my 
pleasure and hers by the suckling.

I didn't think of breasts then. I wanted my mouth exercised. 
Right. No shit. Maybe, if I had offered her the five dollars 
my Mom had stashed in my shoe, she would have let me more 
than watch her show. 

Did I think all "niggers" were whores ready to do this or 
that? 

After a week of peeking, the woman came up behind me, and 
said softly,  "I know what you are doing, and if you don't 
stop, I'm gonna tell your grand mother, now get." 

I ran away with my head down. Later, that night, when I was 
asleep, and Grandma was off playing Canasta with her cronies, 
Carla just walked into my room with her robe wide open. Naked 
underneath I felt my throat close and my belly churn. 
Dancing, opening and closing her fist, she rolled belly and 
mountains and fed me well my sexy bread.

"If I let you see it once, close up, will that be enough." 

I stared at her eyes and smiled, and blinked, and reaching 
for her extended hand, climbing in her lap. Carla must have 
been only twenty-five, but any adult seemed ancient. 

"We have to be quick, and you had better not tell a soul, or 
I'll cut that thing of yours off," she warned. 

Ironically, when she staggered half drunk into my room, I was 
almost naked and I covered myself, out of instinct. 
Wearing jockey briefs. Her presence made my sixteen year old
thing speak for itself. As I hardened and pumped at the air;
that's when Carla laughed, throwing her arms up, and taking
off her robe. Sitting down, I folded into her lap. She would
have crushed me and I would have been happy to have been taken. 

"Now what do you want, pulling my head down, you white babies 
want the same thing." 

"Suck," she said and I did.

Immediately it was sweet. 

"You didn't know I just had a baby," she said. "Did you"? 

"No, I didn't see . . ."

"Cannot bring younguns here," she said. "Don't pay me to take 
care of my childs. My sister's taking care now. Now, hush up, 
go back and read that book you made your mother buy, 

I sucked so hard it ran down my chin, as I opened and closed 
my fist

Carla played with my cock as I sucked, making it stiff, 
thumbing it between her fingers, singing a sweet song, what I 
thought was old time music. That song as it came to be known 
had a nasty jazz beat. 

Now that I look back, with the help of life, I pull it out of 
my pants. Slipping down my drawers, she fingered my ass hole, 
made me queasy. 

I didn't stop her, never said no, just kept on moving down 
the road, passing the church and devil's den, carefully I 
played with her back hair, panting, shaking, while I sucked, 
hard as a knife, she came, I didn't know that then, and just 
as fast, as she started, she stopped. I climbed down. 

Wait a minute. I'm not being a good Christian girl she 
laughed. Why am I acting like white folks, she laughed, 
slapping her legs, come here, and suddenly she picked me up, 
her tits hanging feet down to the floor, I looked back after 
she roughed up my skin, drew me out, then pulling off my 
shorts, she made no ceremony, taking hold of it, almost as 
worship, she licked the head of my thing, and took it into my 
mouth, my belly jumped, I was risen up, shook, and then 
fainted, it seemed, as I instantly feel hard into the depth, 
pushing at her face, she said, push it now baby, rubbing my 
balls, make it sing, honey child, you suckled my cock like I 
had her tits, until I thought my heart would stop suddenly, 
and then start, a jerk, she held me down, or I would have 
risen up, and suddenly I twitched in and out, and with ease, 
she did it, put her finger up my ass, I felt ravaged, and 
bliss, took only a few minutes, boy you fast, and I didn't 
have to shake your butt, and all, turning me over, I let her 
push and pull, exalt, quake and rescind, finally, she swerved, 
and said, you every see a black pussy cat, and with that, she 
opened her legs wide, and draws out the pink and black lips, 
and ordered to look. I did, and I stood out hard, again. 

"You younguns," she said, are something else for Carla to 
take on. 

And without so much as asking she forced me on top, and 
spread wide, lead me inside, taking my thing hard, guiding it 
inside her pussy, jamming it inside. "You ain't gonna fill up 
much," she said. Immediately I felt this rush from the back 
of my skull, a clinch, and I was lost in that black mouth 
with Ramar of the Jungle. I would never escape. 

Waking up the next morning I ached but felt great. Not 
sleeping in my bed, it was thrown here and beyond. 

I found the sash from her robe, and wound it around my hand. 
The sash had evidently fallen between the pillows. Hiding it 
before Grandma came home, and casually, when she did, I 
walked into the kitchen. 

Carla sang nothing I ever heard, called it Blues. I asked her 
if she ever sung green. She laughed, so hard, and she held 
her belly. "Boy, you gonna a make fat Carla wet her pants, 
now you stop, now, hush, and give me that sash, and don't say 
a thing, here." 

"No, Mama. Good Carla gonna treat you good, now Suh."

Like changing a page, Carla was back to normal. Back to 
business. "Your Grandma's out shopping," Carla warned. "You 
made Carla smile, last night, you thing. I don't know how you 
do it but I did. God I did. I brought you your robe; you left 
it in the bathroom. Now, listen here," she went on. 

"You tell nobody now. OK. You do that now, and I promise you 
one more time before you go back to your white boy house, 
hear. "

Of course, to be fair, back in New Jersey, in a few years I 
would know many black faces, and find them just another river 
of lives. 

What my grandma called them among white folks: "nigger had an 
awful sound. I hated the word but used it among my white 
friends when I showed off. And the time with Carla, helped, I 
knew black skin, and it didn't rub off, and when I was in a 
Freshman at Columbia two years later when some black kid smacked me 
along side my head for what I thought nothing, I confused him 
when I didn't get too angry and try to tear out his heart, 
I imagine he wondered why I didn't fight back, I wasn't afraid.

That black boy barely touched my face. I was more 
surprised than hurt. I didn't understand why he was mad. I 
hadn't done anything personally to him. It was what they call 
today a drive by shooting or the terrifying accident that just drops 
in your lap. In the end, you live and die like in NAM by
your immediate wits.



III.
0933xTexas02371959.htm
JHW: Walkabouts
"The Doctor's Daughters"

Bucolic ain't just pastoral; Naturally
Sex wins. 

Tyler, Texas: Wednesday, August 26, 1959

"Take off your bra," Debra said to her older sister Allison. 
"Show them your knobs."

I won. You lost. Strip poker. At sixteen I played Innocent 
games. No reluctant Baptist girls obsessively thinking about 
boy's and things but pretending to not care. A by-product 
myself of a good fuck between a Jewish/Catholic Girl and a 
Congregational Minister's son, these Jewish girls were the 
real thing, I remember thinking. No Confession and dirty 
sins, no need to worry about being damned for touching a 
Christian girl, I fell in love with the older girl Allison 
who was fifteen. Her sister, Debra, twelve liked to tease, 
but seemed easier with  it. Allison, more shy than Debra 
confessed she had a thing for a neighbor boy Johnny, 17, who 
had a "Papa cock," as the girls bragged. 

Curious phrase, "Papa cock" for a girl so young.  Wonder what 
she had been doing with Papa. Years later, it seemed both 
girls had a healthy curiosity about sex. At the time, didn't 
even consider the words incest. I should have or child 
molestation. I had been molested myself, but children move on 
to be adults and find the old doors and usual explanations 
tiresome. Now, years later, wondering about those girls, and 
that boy, and I how I had gained by it all, I realized that 
there had been nothing perverted about any of it. Father and 
mother of these girls were probably perfect citizens, and if 
they weren't, they would have been part of at least forty 
percent of all adults who molest children either physically 
or sexually. Nothing has changed in forty years, except we 
now at least recognize that human kind is not always nice. We 
have learned to lie better.

I am getting ahead of my story. That last scene happened at 
the end of my Tyler summer that  "innocent", brash, and hot, 
and then wet and cool. 

It was a simpler green, and lazy fishing with gentle Uncle, 
Aunt, and passing children. I lived the white boy holiday in 
the daily thunder storm.

All during day the heat grew; at night, then it seemed to 
cool, but with the constant humidity, the air was just 
catching its breath. 

On Sunday we went to Church. Sometimes revivals, but I was a 
Catholic American Jewish boy in a Protestant world and 
grandma told me not to be saved unless I really meant it and 
would be able to go to a "real church"  when I got home.

She said you come from a line of barn storming Iowa 
preachers. You're kin to Jefferson and Justice Marshall. 
You're a good boy and you don't lie about God, you hear. To 
prove my rank, she showed me the silver spoon that actually 
bore that famous family Marshall crest. 

After her death many years later, I received that spoon and 
it helped bring me closer to knowing myself. 

I wondered then as a boy, if famous men had big peckers as I 
heard an Uncle say once at a famous gathering of the clans in 
New Jersey.

II.

At 16 years sex was everywhere for me. I breathed it, but 
just barely could give it name. I was a virgin almost. Had a 
brief fling with a colored maid named Carla  before I met 
Alison and Debra. I had had assorted girlfriends who let me 
feel them up, touch their thing or play with mine. 

On the other hand, from books, some pornographic, I knew 
everything.

I was also more informed than most of the kids my age. I had 
read all the doctor books, and found pictures myself.

They were not the usual pin up shots, but pictures of my 
mother and my father doing it with some neighbors. Other 
pictures of other folks showed men sucking pussy and girls 
sucking dicks. There were even some pictures of fucking. I 
was not the innocent child. I knew and read. Peyton Place 
comes to mind now, and when I was home, before Texas I used a 
vacuum cleaner hose on my cock making my body jump. I only 
did it once. Later, after this summer I did it many times 
more and searched out greater adventures. 

Now, it was more than simply praying, eating great food, 
thinking of tits, or swallowing butter cookies, where I 
melted at the club pool, telling "shit against the fan jokes" 
to the boy friends of my "young lady" teenage cousins.

"I mortified them," they said, but little did they know the 
whole time at the pool I wandered near the ladders coming up 
from the pool to spy a tit or taste of butt. I spied on them 
with their boy friends when they kissed good night. I swear I 
saw one of them making out, being felt up as it was called 
then, but I might have been dreaming about the book I found 
that described the evils of sex so well, it made me want to 
do it.

Above and beyond all of this, I didn't really know what it 
all meant. I did say the summer was innocent. 

Passing time, walking the colored neighborhood downtown, I 
watched everything grow and much of it seemed out of place, 
but I didn't care. I was on an adventured as I called it.  At 
times Grandma thought I was not homesick, but I missed 
nothing in New Jersey except Paramus bathing beach. I felt as 
if the Texas heat had swallowed, and then coughed my heart 
back when l mowed the lawn and cut the electric cord the 
first time. 

I felt frizzed after that, my grandmother was angry, but then 
laughed when she saw I was not hurt. We always passed the 
time playing Canasta and farting. We had contests to see who 
can let the biggest one go. 

Life passed, the days narrowed, as they say, and how the 
details of the street were vague, except for those two silly 
girls, OK, not silly, really, I searched for them as they 
played tag, Allison shaking her shoulders, dancing off the 
porch of her house, into the breeze "and out the frog's 
mouth," she sang. I sneezed watching her dance on one foot 
her shorts caught in the cleft of her ass. Her "bubbies," as 
I called them, confined to a bra still shook like waves held 
in place. I wondered about the song she sang but watching her 
tits so hard, feeling her smile as I watched, not knowing she 
knew I was watching, I was embarrassed and never ask her what 
the frog's mouth meant although years later I speculated 
about it, and came up with quite a rare XXX rating movie that 
compared to "Deep Throat."

The heat pressed harder, deeper than I had ever known. 
Oppressive humidity and daily thunder storms for relief. 

Now at the end of the summer, not really bored, I longed for 
playing football back in New Jersey, and I believed and I was 
right that was the best way to get really laid.  I needed to 
get back home, and the last week of August dragged. I didn't 
want to miss those two a day practices that made you melt 
inside because you sucked stones instead of water.

Except for the hint of new sex with Carla, I wanted the 
seasons to turn, but I knew there were new things here in 
Texas that I had longed to feel. 

Allison's tits did not compare to Carla's, that dear Negro 
maid of my fantasies, but Allison was there shifting back and 
forth on one foot wearing nothing underneath her tee shirt. 
She was young and easy and I could be with her and no one 
would think it strange. I knew if I just could reach long 
enough, I could seize her offering breasts and own her body 
like it were mine.

A week after I cut the cord the first time, I sliced the 
mower cord again in two places. 

Grandma wasn't home. She had told me not to mow anymore. I 
did it because I wanted something to do, and to show her. 

I screamed when I cut the cord, "Fuck No," like I heard this 
old scoutmaster do when he almost chopped his foot off with 
an axe.

I didn't know the neighbor girls, Debra, 12 and Allison 
almost 15 had watched my clumsy grass cutting antics from the 
porch of their house with an older neighborhood guy Johnny 
who at 17 seemed more a man than a boy.

Debra laughed at my upset, and eagerly ran up to where I had 
been working to look at the shattered power cord. The other, 
Allison followed her sister. They mocked but then they called 
Johnny over and he helped me fix the cord.

I didn't give a hoot for him until he had actually fixed it 
showing me how to do it if it happened again. 

He pushed it testing it, and I let him do half the yard 
before he quit. I had seen the guy around the neighborhood, 
always driving his car too fast around the corners or with a 
buddy in the front seat playing the fool.

I have to admit I didn't take credit for fixing the cord, and 
I told grandma about what had happened and she said that 
Peters boy (Johnny) is good for you. You need an older 
brother to show you things. I sure wished you lived down here 
all the time, but you mother never let you and your dad is 
off chasing skirts and getting drunk like a teenager. I knew 
it was true so I didn't mind what she said. I was surprised 
she had said it about her own son.

Nothing more happened that day and grandma wasn't mad, and 
Johnny who seemed to have taken an interest surprised me by 
asked me to come over and help him work on the '49 Chevy.

After a few days of grime and grease, Johnny found out that I 
knew more than he did about girls and how their bodies 
worked. He taught me more about cars than I ever knew, and I 
worked hard with him.

Later that next week, when it was too hot to work in the 
afternoon, Johnny confessed that he and Allison and Debra 
played naked games together and did it. 

He told more when we were playing what he had called "Texas 
pocket pool" which meant we looked at his daddies collection 
of studio cheesecake and jerked off in our pants. 

I told Johnny I had seen pictures of people fucking and I 
asked him if that is what he did. He told me he liked Debra 
more, because she was cuter and seemed fearless, but he 
needed another guy for Allison, and he asked if I would come 
with him next time. He told me that Allison thought I was 
cute, and if I would come over and play with her that would 
make it easier for him to go with the sister. He asked if I 
would help a buddy out treating me like I was almost a 
brother. Maybe grandma was right.

I was sixteen and he was a much older seventeen. I suspect my 
hormones hadn't quite caught up.

Come on, Sisters! I didn't believe him. "Stop the bullshit, 
Johnny."

Their father's an eye Doctor, Johnny explained. "They're not 
Christians so they don't care about sex like the bullshit 
girls you meet at Sunday School. Trust me I did them."

Next day, we knocked on the back door and the maid let us in. 
The girls were giggling, and the maid said, I don't know if I 
should do this, I have my afternoon off today, and I promised 
your mama. She gave in when Allison smiled.

Inside, Johnny asked for a beer, and Allison snuck one in 
from the kitchen bring three others. We drank and Johnny 
smoked. The girls wore just a tee shirt and shorts.

Debra got the cards out and said the game is strip poker. 
"Are you all in?"

Debra was the first to lose. Quickly, just like that she 
pulled her pants down and up giggling. "What a fucken tease, 
Johnny said. The real game had started just like that. 

Debra then ran into the bathroom saying she had to pee. 
Allison told us she had no idea what her sister planned. When 
Debra came out she was wearing her mother's silk nightgown 
and fancy shoes. 

Johnny laughed and Allison told her to stop acting like a 
baby.  Caught up in the craze, and feeling my second beer, 
trying to keep up with Johnny, I pulled my pants down and up 
just as fast as she did when I lost.

"Another fucken tease," Johnny said. "When are we gonna stop 
the bullshit."

"Why do you care if Henry's a tease Johnny," Debra mocked.

Johnny pulled his pants down and kept them down. He stuck 
out, but I almost matched him. Debra made us stand next to 
each other so she could measure taking out a tape measure she 
ran to find in the maid's sewing box. She pushed our cocks 
together so they touched and measure them both at once. It 
looked like she was tying us with a ribbon.  It felt strange 
when I got harder while she measured just like it had for 
Carla.

Debra was not impressed with either of us. She looked at me 
close and laughed, compared me to Johnny who stuck out 
further, and said, smirking, "don't worry, it'll grow up," 
and she patted it watching it bounce. 

Her easy manner helped us relax and I took my shirt off and 
was completely naked. Johnny did the same and Allison pulled 
her shirt off but hesitated about her bra and panties. 

Looking at Allison the only one still half dressed I tried to 
imagine her completely naked. When Johnny, who was thinking 
the same think, asked her "to do it," she pulled back unsure 
almost shy. 

"Take off your bra," Debra told Allison. "Show them your 
knobs. Want me to help you."

"Yes, turning her back, Debra unsnapped Allison while Johnny 
and I watched. I don't think I had seen anything so beautiful 
as those soft, round  innocent breasts with slight nipples.

"God, they are great," I said aloud and Allison and Debra 
heard me.

"Not God, -- Allison," Debra said. She rubs them with cream 
every night and makes them tingle when she rubs her self off. 
Once she was so proud of them she walked outside in the back 
yard at 3 AM topless and ran up to Johnny's window in the 
garage where he slept. He wasn't there that night but she 
loved shaking them in the air, she told me, and I with just a 
thimble joined her.

"You do too," angry, she glared at her sister. You rub them 
with daddy's soap and after shave. Yuck."

Still, Allison refused to take her pants off pulling them up 
when Debra had gotten one side down but got away when Johnny 
played with his log and we watched him unroll it like a great 
water snake, as he called it. 

I couldn't help notice that his cock head was  different than 
mine. I knew of men who were not circumcised, but I had never 
seen one. When I asked about it, Debra said "that's because 
he is not Jewish like you Henry. All Jewish boys get 
circumcised, dummy." 

"I am not Jewish. I am Catholic," I whispered.

"I am glad, I don't like Jewish boys," Allison said. They are 
too serious all the time.

I looked closely at Johnny's cock until he pulled away asking 
if I was queer. I said no, but that was not the first time I 
felt uncomfortable with that word around him.

Allison noticing my distress kissed me, saying that she 
didn't like people who called people names.  I have no idea 
why Allison picked me that day, but I heard Debra say that it 
was "my turn with Johnny," and I besides I had heard Allison 
tell Debra that she liked me because I seem to know a lot. 
"He's smart," Allison said.

We got dressed and undressed, hugged and kissed, played 
cards, and I felt Allison's knobs, got increasingly, pushed 
and prodded by Debra who managed to play with my cock and 
Johnny's at the same time. 

Allison screamed at her to let go, and she said no, but 
did. I did it all. I followed Johnny who was then looking 
closely, fervently at that silken lips Debra had brazenly 
opened. She had sparse dark hair, but I remember she looked 
like a little girl except her lips were fatter and she was 
open. That was the first time I saw the "black hole" in a 
woman's sex. It drew me there and I would worship Allison as 
my first conquest although there had been others before  her.

While we rough housed, She climbed over Debra and I could see 
her nipples were hard and she was touching them, pinching 
them. Catching her under her legs so she wouldn't fall, I 
felt it letting my hand explore the outer lips and felt her 
button what I called it then. Innocently, I said, "Carla my 
other adventure that summer had one of those I said. She 
called it her tickler." 

Debra corrected me, saying it is called "a clitoris" or a 
"clit", "if you must know, and I rub it every day so it gets 
big like the ones in my father's medical books."

I told her. I read the same books.

When I said that Allison came up and leaned over all of us, 
and whisper that she had one too, and if I would forget about 
Debra she would show me, hitting me with a small pillow and 
laughing as we all fell together gathering almost as if we 
were inside a human hive.

I pulled Allison down, and told her to show me. She did, 
revealed the inside of things. It all looked different than 
the books but the same. It was different also with Clara as I 
did not see much as Carla insisted on the dark. Amazed I 
marveled to Allison how her petals opened as she pulled the 
crease apart opening the pink center. They rise up like a 
fluted wave, I remembered thinking.  I always knew the words 
for things, even then, and when I touched her leaves I feel 
the ordinary apple, and I remember this clearly, saying, as I 
rubbed the face of her sex gently exploring myself inside 
her. 

Just as I stopped touching, Allison squealed yes and then 
kissed me like I had never been kissed. All tongue and lips I 
felt as if I were being held under water, but instead of 
fearing suffocation, I found that I could breathe and all the 
world seemed spectacular.

When I helped her up, always taught to be the gentleman by 
those same god fearing Christians who mocked the Jews and 
Niggers as they called them openly, I held my hands out to 
her, and we innocently mixed more than soul. We had actually 
done nothing, but explore the first day of Adam's words as we 
leaned against the wall kissing and tasting the other's moist 
skin and freckles. More would have happened I always imagined 
later when we had satisfied our curiosity not just about sex 
but each other.

With the black maid Carla, who was an adult, from another 
world, as I saw it then, what we did in retrospect seemed 
more a selfish game that only Carla could win or lose. Sure, 
she had taught me a few things, but I was a boy to her. She 
kept the passion for herself, share it only from the outside, 
and didn't imagine I would know the difference. With Allison 
to my surprise I discovered that sex and its infinite 
imagination engenders intimacy and communion. What a better 
word than Eucharist I thought years later after Vatican II 
when the Catholic world revolted for a short time only to 
revert to a more subtle discrimination.

Moving away from the window, Allison danced down the hallway 
twirling and when she came back, she held her night gown. "I 
want to wear this with you," she said. "I want to be 
beautiful and I have dreamed each night that I would meet a 
boy I could share touch."

Standing there, three feet away, legs together, she looked 
like the young women you saw in the art books and in the 
Sears catalogue. Her breasts were small but round and she had 
the softest down rising up the middle of her cleft that I 
loved to brush gently with my fingertips.

Years later, a lifetime later, when I met a woman with pubic 
hair like Allison I would immediately do the same thing. Not 
one woman minded. They all loved it.

Slightly impatient, I moved towards her  but she backed away 
a step. "I really want to put this on." 

I helped her with the top but she threw the bottom on the 
couch when she felt my hand holding her between her legs. I 
touched her pink slit and she looked me straight in the eyes, 
not away like before, and asked wordlessly, "what's next?"

I was caught in my own unspoken lie. I had no idea, but 
expecting her to know, I didn't worry. She giggled when I 
told her the truth and kissed me and said, "I don't know 
either but I like the kissing."

When I touched her thighs  and legs while kissing, she closed 
her eyes, swooned, clutched, and tighten, released pressing 
her fingers into my arms marking them, drawing lines in my 
sunburn and tan. 

"That feels too good," she said, and pushed away again. "I 
might want too much more. I can't do that. I am afraid I will 
get . . . my sister is different she wants one."

I didn't let her continue. I kissed her silent, and said we 
can do other things, but my heart fell when I said it knowing 
I was promising to not know her and have her be my first.

Years later, I realized when I said it that I loved the feel 
of her silken nightgown in my hands and she felt so good 
happy that I didn't want her to be unhappy. 

Gathering it up in my arms, I touched her belly and felt her 
mound covering it with my hand, crooking a finger inside, 
like I had seen in those photos of my father and mother. I 
remembered them and used them as my guide. I confessed again 
to her that I had down much more that she could have expected 
and knew something she would really like. She told me never 
mind and kissed me harder. We will do it like the great 
books, the ones we both love. I will be Emma and you can be 
the Pierre or Sir Lawrence.

Telling her about Carla, and how "she made me shoot a 
little," she said I did good for my age."

With that, Allison touched my balls, asking why they were so 
small, and I had no answers all I could hear were Debra and 
Johnny humping body-to-body. 

Looking over Allison's shoulder I could see Johnny on top of 
Debra, her legs rapped around his ass. 

"Did you do it like that," Allison asked, turning and 
pointing to her sister. "No, he is not kissing her thing. She 
taught me how to do that." 

"Did Carla stink," Allison asked. 

"No, smelled like clean skin like you." 

"You are fresh Henry Whitman. I don't know what I want to 
say," pretending to be angry. 

"No, I meant it smelled good."

How could a nigger smell good? 

"She did," I said. She smelled like almonds.

"Maybe, you're right," Henry, "Papa says we have to be nice 
to the colored. Have a hard life, my daddy said. I like you 
Henry, you're older than you seem. I've done it too, but not 
with a boy, she said. I loved it, but it made me feel queer 
and I stopped when my cousin moved away.  He was almost 
thirty and would make me suck it which I didn't mind but when 
he shot he tried to choke.

"Ever do it with your sister," I asked. 

"No, not really."

"Johnny says you do."

"Yes," Allison confessed shaking her head and telling me that 
I would get no more secrets unless I told her mine.

I told her the story about the vacuumed cleaner and the glass 
cocktail rods I stuck up my thing. 

She stood there waiting eyes closed, and I remembered what 
Carla said about a man needing to take what he needs.

Pulling her down to the floor, I lifted her legs up and 
apart, and stood there wondering if I could really do it when 
she pulled me down by my shoulders, and taking my head rested 
it on her belly. "Just do it," she said.

I opened her lips with my mouth like Clara taught gently. I 
licked away from her lips and teased with kisses, finally 
letting my mouth push the hood back exposing her button, I 
did it with the softest touch possible remembering Clara. She 
said do it easy but take it in your mouth like you are a man 
and not afraid. Clara said "I want to feel your lips and 
maybe your teeth and what this colored woman has taught 
you." 

Allison stopped me at first, said that is too much, too hard, 
and I softened but insisted and with my first full lick she 
pushed my head harder into her opening her legs full, 
gasping, and at that moment I pulled up and watched Johnny 
pull out of Debra just as he shot all over her legs.  Debra 
who seemed quite used to the whole screamed at him, "why did 
you do that. I wanted you to do it for real."

Ignoring Debra who was still mad at Johnny I  explored 
Allison lips, sucking harder and harder, feeling her hands in 
my ears, pulling my hair, shaking her head, closing her eyes 
tighter and then screaming noting intelligible but a sound 
that meant she had started to roll under me feeling my mouth 
tighter, I refused to let go, and with a final suck, she 
almost stopped breathing, and when I tried to stop, she 
pushed my head closer, "don't you stop, no, you can't."

Afterwards, half an hour or so later, she touched me, 
explored my cock and watched it explode. She smiled not at 
me, but my cock, ringing its head with her hands, rubbing 
what seemed like a lake of stuff on her lips and face. She 
said, "I used to do this for my cousin, you know the man who 
I sucked off twice a week and more when I babysat. I would 
suck after he did it and he would groan and try to make me 
stop but I held on. it was my revenge."

Fascinated by her pubic hair, I remember combing it with my 
fingers. Allison almost shy, but not really, turned her head 
away while I licked and touched, but wouldn't let me try to 
do what Johnny did to Allison. There was not time left, and 
we had to go. Her mother would be back from the pool and we 
would get caught.

I listened but didn't stop looking, and Allison liked it, and 
as long as I was content, she let me explore looking at me in 
the same way.

Johnny told me later that he liked Debra better, as she let 
him do it longer. He said, "Allison didn't like to have it 
inside her. Thinks she might get a kid, and the younger one 
just wants more than her sister. He said that Allison told 
him that she liked you because you are cute and you kissed 
her there. Johnny asked me how I could do that, and I told 
him that a nigger woman showed me how. He said that explained 
it. All them niggers do it that way, and then I wondered may 
be that is a better way considering how excited the girls 
get. Even Debra when she saw me do it to her sister asked if 
I would do it to her, but we had no time, and Johnny kept her 
busy. 

At the door, leaving my balls behind, Allison said, "come 
back tomorrow. Mom and Dad are back in Dallas. The Maid will 
do what I tell her to do. Maybe you can do Debra."

Before I could answer, and tell her sure, Allison said, "and 
I won't tell Johnny that way we can do it alone with you at 
the same time. He does what I say, and so does Debra.  She 
smells great too, like I do."

I stood there, amazed, knowing how she knew. Allison had held 
nothing back. We were both book smart lovers. Our curiosity 
and intelligence gave us information few adults accepted. We 
met at an important time. We both needed each other. We were 
reciprocals, and souls connected.

"What did you do with Debra, I asked her, almost walking out 
the door, kissing her face and hands like I had seen in that 
great French movie with Maurice. "I kissed it like you did." 

"I will, I said, be here." 

I starting to leave, and Allison walked back into the house,
showing the profile of her tits, letting them rumble under
that absolute white tee shirt with rolled up sleeve.

Laughing she teased, ran back on the porch and yelled, wait.
I turned back, half way up the stairs, asking with my eyes
why she had come back wishing she would shake them again.

Don't go yet, she said. 

Sure I'll stay. Why did you do that not wanting an end to her.

You mean shake them, and she did it again, giggling.
while we stood on the porch not wanting to end any of it. 

"I saw it in a dirty movie. My Daddy's got one. Debra and I 
were hiding in the closet, and we watched her shake them at 
the men. I promised myself I would do that one day for a man I liked. 

"I am not really a man," I said almost shy.

"Sure you are."

"you like me realizing what she had said, feeling the dunce."

Of course silly, I really do, she smiled. "what do 
you think, I am a tramp. Go now; have to get Johnny out of 
here too. Wait for him outside, OK. Don't want any trouble."

"No," I said to myself. OK but I didn't wait.

Tyler Texas was truly innocent. Can I tell you another lie?. 
My grandmother worshipped these rich neighbors and thought they
were God fearing even if they were Jews, but then again, Henry,
she would say, your Grandmother is Jewish, and I like her. 

Complicated lives we lived even back then when people seemed 
meaner but were more honest about what they really felt.

The next day, I couldn't believe it. "We're going to Dallas 
today," Grandma said. "I have a job; you'll get the 
plane for NJ there. I don't have time. Say good-bye to your
friends today and be home by noon."

I didn't really want to say good-bye. I had said them and I 
didn't want to see Johnny. I was too jealous that he would 
inherit what we had started. Years, later, I regretted
not kissing Allison good-bye. I dreamed about that imaginary
"next time" for years. 

I knew if I had said good-bye that day in 1959, Allison would 
have kissed me like a man and not a boy. I knew if there had 
been that next time I would have fucked her like Johnny 
had done her sister Debra. 

Allison had bragged how she always kept her promises. She would
have stood up, looked at my face, and smiled as women do when
they embrace a new lover, like I have done many times. Maybe
our embrace would have lasted longer than these others. 

She could have said, "Henry, I missed you, and then kissed me
hard between my cock and lips." 

At fifty-seven I still create "that next day kiss" over and over 
like a porno loop. It became the opening scene of a great but 
never produced Hollywood movie It could have led to another life.

What if my mother had let me live with my grandmother in Tyler. 
Would I have graduated from Columbia, City College, written novels
and poetry. Would I have been able to write this story today?

Maybe I would have become a rich oil man or a cowboy and broken
my neck on a bucking Ford stock car. Maybe I would have died in Nam. 






-------

Comments appreciated
seanfarragher@msn.com




More American Adventures in erotica and other works by Sean Farragher:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/


Sean  Farragher

Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com (updated 9/4/2000)

TxM6 Sites:
http://www.taximurders.com
http://www.taximurders.com/enfer
http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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