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Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6 Three Texas Stories REVISED
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Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher
Find Farragher fiction and Poetry at
http://www.txm6.com (Updated 9/16/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer
http://www.farragher.com (Updated 9/14/00)
THREE TEXAS STORIES:
MAP, INITIATION, ASCENSION, AND TEST
By Sean Farragher
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, hot
rusty hematite reds and lush golf course greens
swept alongside the 100-mile glide between
runways.
I was truly innocent on that flight -- not just
about sex, but how life stretched you faster
than you could grow.
Years later, I would compare that memory to the
topography of Vietnam that ran through the tree
line and below the canopy. I would think then,
looking back at Tyler, when you fly with death,
dreams are not fatuous.
TYLER TEXAS
TUESDAY, JULY 12, 1955
East Texas in 1955 was an ordinary place with
people not too different from Bergen County, NJ.
In Edgewater and Paramus, we were good white
folks living on a beach facing a great city
island. One bridge joined us, and that same
bridge stopped us from knowing the other side of
the creek. Like many war babies I was bound by
accidental roots and dishonest assumptions about
race, sex and war.
I lived in a town called "wild turkey," that
prided itself on not having any gooks or niggers
as residents. I played on Little League baseball
teams that had no Jackie Robinson and no one, no
matter what their pretensions, that would become
a star athlete.
Downtown Tyler was different 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 summer the sidewalks
and macadam streets held the heat. Every step
burned your feet. To escape I sat endlessly in
family cars riding shotgun or played the good,
but never quiet, nephew in the back seat. I
memorized the signs along the road. I can almost
count the moments after the car turned or
didn't. I wanted new roads then.
THE EDDY
My great aunt, aunt, uncle or cousins drove many
a night to fish at a slight river, an eddy.
As a current of water an eddy moves contrary to
"the direction of the main current, especially
in a circular motion.
Walking its soft bank hardly cooled. Sweating
and itching, it seemed an artifact of a primeval
moss and fern nightmare that trapped the
landscape. I was told it was a theater for
macabre murders although none were committed to
the best of my knowledge. I am not sure what I
thought, besides wonder, in '55.
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 gooseneck of
the sick mud that pickled between my toes, I was
every monster movie ever made.
MOSQUITOES
In Texas, still a boy, I counted toes, and kept
a record of dead mosquitoes as I mashed them
against the pine wallboard next to my bed. Their
blood, my blood, ran like the serial murder of
children through the dark abuse of the fist with
my graceful index finger 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.
As a medic in Nam, imaginary murders flushed my
mind when my face was blood stained and my eyes
flashing.
I have never murdered anyone, but I imagined it.
Haven't you once in your life done the same?
Does that make us killers?
DREAMS:
Years later, after that one night on the eddy,
years later, I imagined myself naked driving my
body into the frenzy of a butterfly trance on
that east Texas eddy.
I dreamed I swam that snake-guarded eddy. I
stepped out too far, ready to drown, not die.
Off balance, when my internal music stopped, I
knew that the skin of the earth had captured me.
I would never be the same.
My Pentecostal uncle by marriage, Darrel, a good
man had no idea that a god other than his had
taken me alive.
Sex was his evil, not mine. It 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 1955, but I
respected them.
1955/1959 POLITICS
It 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 didn't pretend that it was the truth. All I
knew about the 1956 candidates was that they
both laughed with a false tenor or baritone.
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 1956, I would have voted for the war
hero Ike. I would never have voted for Nixon in
1960. What do any of us know?
I know that I cared for Tyler, Texas. I didn't
know why until now.
My fiction about Texas is unique because I lived
it. In that decade before 1967, we accepted the
lies, panty raids and adultery of Presidents
without question. It was an assumption never
spoken.
Hard to imagine sex as a sin when everyone
sought it, did it, and lied about doing it. As
sex was hidden and forbidden, it never existed.
Why does it seem that logic protects the surface
of truth? I believe it, but don't understand it.
Politics kills the imagination. Sex drives it.
We could argue that point. This is my current
belief, but now sex seems more thought than
action. Once in the saddle you never want to get
off. When you hit the ground, you walk when you
once flew.
Tyler in 1955 was rustic with tough tree
branches. Not bucolic, not pastoral. It had a
rough edge that could, under extreme
circumstances, define in one part beauty and in
another, pain.
How could you know the truth about a place when
everywhere you looked the signs said White only?
In Tyler, as everywhere, the gentle whorehouse
rises next to the First Baptist church steeple.
Tyler was a good myth, and I believed it. Every
one said the city rode a salt dome of oil.
Imagine all that money floating upward and
change raining down from heaven. It could have,
but it was hard to believe that no one drilled
the wells. I believed for that moment the myth
was more accurate than logic could disprove. Oil
rises, forcing you up higher on your toes.
Impossible distances are accepted.
Yes, I loved the lush greens, and the sickly
swamps where frogs faked away at the noise. I
remember humping at that tree line, 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 could force you higher above the moss.
Fishing with grubs and spoons, on a Texas eddy
at night, levitation was easy as catching
lightning bugs.
II. SUNDAY, JULY 12, 1959
I grew up in Paramus, NJ during the 1950s. There
were no black students at Paramus High School. I
was one of 204 people in the first graduating
class of 1960. That is fact.
In 1959, during the summer before my senior
year, I laughed when my 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. They worked in the kitchen at 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 hard headed
stares of white boy football players with strong
backs and arms crossed.
Imagine two great walls facing each other, but
only one wall was allowed to win. Jim Crow fixed
the game, 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 blue skies and intense moist heat of
Tyler summer.
Boredom was everywhere. Still, the action, the
footfalls, the mercy that would make for
righteousness had yet to be culled from the
slogans of Democratic Party platforms and the
deceit of dishonest journalists who spat out
newsprint and magazine glossies of American
tabloid KLAN. History had its own wrappers and
hid disease in the margins.
That summer I asked myself, where did the black
faces and dark eyes live that some newspapers
said didn't 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."
"Maybe in your mama's kitchen," he spit when the
laughs died, adding at the end, "or maybe back
in Yankee land, where you better get before I
kick your nigger-loving ass."
As I started to leave, a fat man with thick
hands said, "How about your daddy's bed."
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 of here.
I recognized instinctively that the rule ran
both ways down the color of the street.
GRANDMOTHER KATE
Kate was a large, stout woman, a practical
nurse. She had an easy laugh and followed home-
style Iowa preacher rules. She worked the best
houses in white Texas caring for the young
children of the rich doctors on the "important"
side of town.
That summer, I tagged along with Kate, jostling
the rich kids, straining their toys, swimming
pools. In a doctor's kitchen, where my
grandmother took care of children, curious I
investigated the unknown dark black face of
Carla, the cook.
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 Kate,
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 marveled at Carla's huge tits. I couldn't even
think the word then without being nervous, and
itching for them. When she rubbed them to clean
the flour off her hands, she knew I was staring
and she laughed.
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 gaze to her
black edges and the ocean of tits I had gathered
in my sixteen years.
I'd see my mom's breasts and others, sticking
out and in at the Old Mill Stream. Carla 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 thin blue milk leaked.
One night, when Carla dressed in the bathroom, I
sneaked into the edge 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 was that black baby suckling in the
National Geographic. 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?
After a week of peeking, Carla came up behind
me, and said softly, "I know what you are doing,
and if you don't stop, I'm gonna tell your
grandmother. Now get!"
I ran away with my head down. Later, 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 reached for her extended hand. Carla must
have been only twenty-five, but any adult seemed
ancient.
"We have to be quick, and you had better not
tell a soul, 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.
Her presence made my sixteen-year-old thing
speak for itself. 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 could have crushed me
and I would have been happy.
"Now what do you want," pulling my head down.
"You white babies want the same thing."
"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 to take care of my childs. My sister's
taking care. Now, hush up."
I sucked so hard it ran down my chin, as I
opened and closed my fist. Carla played with my
cock making it stiff; thumbing it between her
fingers, singing a sweet song, what I thought
was old-time music.
Slipping down my drawers, she fingered my
asshole, made me queasy.
I didn't stop her, never said no, past 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. Just as fast as she started, she stopped.
I climbed slowly down.
"Wait a minute. I'm not being a good Christian
girl," she laughed. "Why am I acting like white
folks? Come here," she said, slapping her legs.
Suddenly she picked me up drawing my cock out of
the top of shorts, pulling them off. Taking them
off simply and directly. There was no ceremony
for her.
Almost as worship, she licked the head of "my
thing", and took it into her mouth. My belly
jumped. I had risen up, shaken and fainting.
Instantly I fell into the depth, pushing at her
face.
Adding to the core of it, Carla pushed at my
face, her face. Rubbing my balls she said,
"Sing, baby."
Carla suckled my cock as I had her tits. She
forced me down in the bed pounding on my pelvis
or I would have risen up.
When I twitched in and out, she did it; put her
finger up my ass, I felt gloriously ravaged.
Bliss took only a few minutes.
"Boy, you fast," she said. "I didn't have to
shake your butt to get it all. Turning me over,
I let her push and pull, exalt, quake and
rescind. Finally, she swerved, and said, "See my
black pussy cat?"
With that phrase, Carla opened her legs and drew
out the pink and black lips.
Ordered to look, I stood out hard, way far away
from the table.
"You younguns," Carla said, "are something
else."
Without asking, she forced me on top, and spread
herself wider than possible, so it seemed, she
led me, taking my thing hard, guiding my cock,
jamming it.
"You ain't gonna fill up much," she said.
Immediately I felt this rush from the back of my
skull, and then two clinches, one release, and
another throb, and I was at home in that black
mouth with "Ramar of the Jungle". I would never
escape.
Later that morning 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, I
casually walked back into the kitchen.
Carla sang nothing I had ever heard. She called
it blues. I asked her if she ever sung green.
She laughed and held her belly.
"Boy, you gonna make fat Carla wet her pants,
now you stop, now; give me that sash; don't say
a thing, you hear?"
"No, Mama. Good Carla gonna treat you good, but
not now, later."
Like changing a 45 record, Carla was back to
normal. "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
can't be so foolish. You wouldn't want me to
lose my job for making you a man. Tell nobody,
OK? Do that now. I promise one more time before
you go back home."
Of course, to be fair, back in New Jersey, in a
few years, I would know many black faces. I
found them to be another river of lives.
What my grandma called them among white folk:
"nigger," had an awful sound. I hated the word
but used it, showing off to my white friends
when they used it. My time with Carla had
helped. I knew and understood more than black
skin.
When I was a freshman at Columbia a year later,
some black kid smacked me along side my head for
what I thought was nothing; I confused him when
I didn't get too angry.
I imagine he wondered why I didn't fight back. I
wasn't afraid. I know I was angry with myself at
the time for not hitting him. It is also true
that he had barely grazed my cheek with his
fist.
More surprised than hurt, I didn't fully
understand why he was mad. I hadn't done
anything personally to him. It was what they
call today a drive-by shooting -- that
terrifying accident that just drops in your lap.
In the end, you live and die like in Nam by your
immediate wits.
III. 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.
There were no reluctant Baptist girls. They
thought obsessively about boys and things but
still pretended not to care.
By product myself of a good fuck between a
Jewish/Catholic girl and a Congregational
Minister's son, Jewish girls were the real
thing, I thought.
No confession and dirty sins, no need to worry
about being damned for touching a Christian
girl, and I fell in love with the older girl
Allison who was fifteen.
Her thirteen-year old sister, Debra, liked to
tease and seemed easier with it, but I was drawn
to the more mature Allison who felt my pulse in
those first minutes of our meeting just as I did
when I pretended to be a doctor.
I was happy to learn that Debra, not Allison,
"had a thing for a neighbor boy Johnny, 17.
Allison said he had a "papa cock."
Wonder what the girls had been doing with their
"Papa."
Years later, I understood why we connected. We
all had a healthy curiosity about sex.
At the time, I didn't even consider the words
incest, although I had been sexually molested
myself when I was very small by a woman friend
of my mother.
Years later, wondering about those girls, and
that boy, and how I had gained by all of that
summer, I knew there had been nothing perverted.
UNCLE DARREL
You might think from reading, that all I did
that summer was sexual. It was. I did many other
things, but everything revolved around getting
laid for the first time.
I loved lazy fishing with my gentle uncle, aunt,
and passing children. I did live the white boy
holiday within the daily thunderstorm. I knew
the heat of the rain and the pulse of thicket as
motion on my cock or rolling thunder from a
rocking swaying tit in the breeze. Years later,
when I learned that the code name for the
bombing of Vietnam by
B-52's was "Operation Rolling Thunder" I looked
up at the sky and imagined the clouds as wild
sexual beasts. Perhaps this is a bit of
hyperbole, but I do remember that the clouds and
heavy rain marked my hands, making them tremble,
just like the show of a round sweet tit or the
sudden split of a nubile vulva opening its black
hole. No bomb bay door, but the fall from that
space through the canopy seemed endless until it
struck. Making two women come in one summer
seemed almost as explosive.
TYLER
"Life is a bit more than sex, if you can believe
it."
All day the heat grew; at night, it never seemed
to cool. I realize now after South Vietnam and
Laos that the air was just catching its breath.
On Sunday we went to Church. Sometimes we
attended a revival. I was a Catholic Jewish boy
in a Protestant America. My grandmother, when
she took me to the holy rollers, as my mother
called them, 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, "Henry you come from a line of
barnstorming 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 fork
from 1859 Bristol England that actually bore
that famous family Marshall crest. After her
death, I received that fork as my legacy. It
helped me know myself better. I could hear my
great, great grandfather Marshall in Cresco,
Iowa raising thunder as the obituary said from
1906. I finally understood one source for my
language. Sex was the other.
As a boy I wondered if famous men had big
peckers, as I heard an uncle on my mother's side
say once at a famous gathering of the clans near
Budd Lake, New Jersey.
SEX
At 16, sex was everywhere any anything.
I breathed it, but just barely could give it
name. I was a virgin almost. 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 else (or so I thought). Having
read all the Dr. books I became a bibliophile of
pornography.
I imagined myself an archeologist of smut. I
read the flea books, Victorian, Grove press.
Playboy was tame.
Looking through my mother's drawers one day home
"sick" from school I found actual photographs of
my mother and father having sex. There was my
mother posed with her snatch open. There was my
father with a hardon.
They were not the usual pin up shots, but
pictures of my mother and my father doing it
with the neighbors. There were even a few
pictures of women going down on women and there
must have been one -- I remember it but cut it
up -- of a man sucking on a man's dick.
When I saw the pictures, I was more than
shocked. There was one of me taken by the woman
who had manipulated my cock when I was ten. A
friend of my mother, she had her arm around my
shoulder. I was wearing a bathing suit, and she
wore just a robe.
There was only one picture. I wondered who had
taken it. I didn't remember it at all.
Intellectually and visually, I was not the
innocent child.
I remember making the sheets yellow, and reading
Peyton Place. I recalled using a vacuum cleaner
hose on my cock. Sex and Tyler were more than
being saved, eating great food, obsession with
tits and ass, or swallowing butter cookies.
I was so full of sex I never stopped sharing it.
At the club pool, I told shit against the fan
jokes to the boy friends of my "young adult"
teenage cousins.
I mortified them, they told my grandma, but
little did they know that the whole time at the
pool I wandered near the ladders of the pool to
spy a tit or crease of butt or pussy.
Later, at night, I would set up watch when I
slept over at their house, waiting for them to
come home on dates, feeling their breasts as I
heard them as the guy felt her up, making the
front door speak in a whisper and a moan.
Once I spied the younger one with her skirt up
to her neck kissing this boy good night. She
thought I was sleeping and she made him come
through his pants.
Watching them, I remember the religious tract I
had read in church about the evils of sex. I
thought at the time that I wanted to find it,
and read it again. Not having any of the usual
reading, it was about sex, and sex sold my head.
HOMESICK
Passing time, walking the neighborhood downtown,
I watched everything grow and growl with
impossible and disintegrating boundaries. Much
of what I observed, like furtive sex, could not
have been typical. How did I know what was real
or imaginary? I was obsessed with possession and
although I didn't know the word, it might have
been called my pursuit of intimacy. I was on an
adventure.
At times, Grandma thought I was homesick. I did
miss Paramus Bathing Beach where the previous
summer I had trained to be a lifeguard.
All the time I cooked inside the Texas sun, I
felt Texas and its oppressive heat had
swallowed. When l mowed the lawn and cut the
electric cord it coughed my heart back.
I felt frizzed. My grandmother was angry, but
then laughed when she saw I was not hurt.
We always passed the time playing Canasta and
farting. We had contests to see who could let
the biggest one go.
Life passed, the days narrowed. How the details
of the street were vague, except for those two
teenage girls who lived next door.
I was shy, but I searched for them as they
played tag. Allison shook her shoulders, and
danced 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, shook like waves
held in place. I wondered about the song, but
watching her tits so hard, feeling her smile as
I watched, not knowing she knew I was watching,
I was embarrassed and never asked her what the
frog's mouth meant.
Years later I compared that one memory with the
opening scene of Deep Throat, where an older
woman smoking a cigarette seduced the boy
delivering the groceries.
The heat pressed harder, deeper than I had ever
known. Sex nurtured by moisture and tight pants
lasted longer than I had ever remembered.
Oppressive humidity and daily thunderstorms were
one relief. Every morning I flushed the toilet
with tissues I used to catch my come.
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 laid.
I needed to get back home, and the last week of
August dragged. I really didn't want to miss
those "two a day" practices that made your mouth
rot because you sucked stones instead of water.
I wanted the seasons to turn, but I also figured
there were new Texas days that I would make the
end a beginning as Eliot wrote, and I laughed,
reading the poem in English class in high school
the following spring when I was a senior. The
teacher had asked, why laughter? I remember
telling him that childhood begins many times. He
liked my answer. I would not have said it had I
not known Tyler.
ALLISON, DEBRA and JOHNNY
Allison's tits did not compare to Carla's, but
Allison was there shifting back and forth on one
foot wearing nothing underneath her thin tee
shirt.
I could be with her in public 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 was part of my hand.
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, 13 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.
Debra laughed and eagerly climbed over the
fence, vaulting it to ogle the shattered power
cord. Allison followed her sister, but opened
the gate. She was holding Johnny's hand. Debra
mocked, but Allison asked Johnny to help me fix
the cord.
I was jealous of him until he had actually fixed
it --not just doing it, but showing me how,
explaining what he had done.
He pushed it; testing it. I let him do half the
yard before he quit. I had seen him 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 Peter's 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 your 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 that she had said
it about her own son.
Nothing more happened that day and grandma
wasn't mad. Johnny seemed to have taken an
interest and asked me to come over and help him
work on his '49 Chevy.
After a few days of grime and grease, Johnny
found out that I knew more about girls and how
their bodies worked than he did. He was
surprised when I told him things he had known
and done. We were opposites. I was all theory
and he was completely practice. He also taught
me more about cars than I ever knew about sex in
books. We worked hard together.
Later 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 daddy's collection of studio cheesecake
and jerked off in our pants. Rules were clear.
You knew your buddy was doing the same thing,
but you didn't look at him.
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. 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,
but being a New Yorker of sorts, I protested.
"Come on, sisters?" I said. "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 First
Baptist Sunday School. Trust me I did them too.
Something about being scared takes the fun out
of it."
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
sneaked one in from the kitchen and later
brought many others. We drank and Johnny smoked.
The girls wore thin tee shirts and short shorts.
Debra got the cards and said, "The game is strip
poker. Are you all in?"
Debra lost first. Quickly, she pulled her pants
down and up giggling.
"What a fucken tease," Johnny said. The real
game had started.
After the second hand, when I lost my tee shirt,
Debra ran into the bathroom to pee.
Allison told us she had no idea what her sister
had planned beside a good pee, but Allison
smiled knowingly. Johnny and I anticipated; well
I know what I wanted.
When Debra came out she wore her mother's silk
nightgown and fancy high heel shoes and nothing
else.
You could see her chest (thimbles) and the
slight hair of what Johnny constantly called
pussy.
Johnny laughed, but Allison told her to stop
acting like a baby. Debra was not acting like
any child I had known. Allison was jealous of
her sister's less shy approach.
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.
"Why do you care if Henry's a tease artist,
Johnny," Debra mocked.
After the next hand, Debra still wore the sexy
nightgown. Johnny lost, and pulling his pants
down, Debra pulled them off his legs so he could
not put them back on. When she threw them across
the room, she said, "No more clothes until we
are done."
Having lost my pants, Debra made Johnny and me
stand beside each other so she could measure our
cocks. Debra didn't ask. She did.
Taking out a tape measure from the maid's sewing
box, Debra and Allison (shy at first) pushed our
cocks together so they touched. She then wrapped
the tape around them, and playfully tied it.
It looked like she was tying us with a ribbon.
It felt strange when I got harder while she
fooled with the tape. She never actually
measured us. She was having too much fun
unrolling the tape. Her attitude reminded me of
Carla.
Debra was not impressed with my cock. 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.
Strange, but her confident manner helped us
relax. Losing another hand, 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 when
she lost three hands in a row.
Looking at Allison, the only one still dressed,
I tried to imagine her completely naked.
Johnny, who was thinking the same thing, asked
her not to chicken out." She turned her back and
laughed. She didn't seem shy. She told me later
that she never liked to take orders from anyone
especially boys. I don't let my sister get away
with it, why should I let Johnny. She told me
that was one reason why she liked me, I
respected her mind saying it with that pit of
arrogance that I came to know later in life. I
laughed, and told her safely and comfortably in
her naked arms, that I did not know what I was
thinking.
"Take off your bra," Debra told Allison. "Show
them your knobs. Want me to help you."
"Yes," turning her back, Debra unsnapped Allison
while Johnny and I watched.
I have never seen anything so beautiful as those
soft, fully round but innocent breasts with
slight nipples.
"God, they are great," I said aloud.
Allison and Debra heard me. Debra said, "Give me
a chance."
I added in my best Sunday school manner, totally
appropriate considering, that God made them.
"Allison is not god," Debra said. "She rubs them
with cream and pinches them when she does it to
herself."
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.
She told me she wanted to shake him awake with
them. He wasn't there that night but she shook
them anyway. We had some terrible wine and were
a bit drunk, but then laughing, Debra said, "I
with just a pinch, acted the fool too."
"I did not. She is a liar," Allison smiled.
"You do too." Angry, Debra glared at her sister.
"You rub them with Daddy's soap and after
shave."
After this interlude, Allison refused to take
her pants off, pulling them up when Debra had
gotten one side down and got away.
Johnny had started playing with his cock jerking
it off. No body cared that Allison had chickened
out.
We watched him unroll, peeling back the head.
His cock erect was different than mine. I knew a
few men who were not circumcised, but I had
never seen one.
When I asked about it, Debra said, "that's
because he is not Jewish like you Henry.
All Jewish boys get circumcised, dummy."
"I am not Jewish. I am Catholic," I whispered.
"I am glad, Debra said. "I don't like Jewish
boys," Allison added. "I like them but they tend
to be too serious."
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 the word "queer" 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 in the background that it
was "her turn with Johnny."
I also heard Allison tell Debra that she liked
me because I seem to know a lot. So it was OK
with her. Even though it was really her turn
with Johnny.
"He's smart," Allison told her sister nodding in
my direction intending me to hear.
When I heard her say that word "smart," I didn't
care that I was scared, shit faced frozen in
place.
BEYOND STRIP POKER
We got dressed and undressed, hugged and kissed,
played cards, and I felt Allison's knobs, got
increasingly hard, pushed and prodded by Debra
who managed to play with my cock and Johnny's at
the same time.
Allison screamed at her to let go, and she said
no, but did. I followed Johnny who was then
looking closely, fervently at those silken lips
Debra had brazenly opened.
She had sparse dark hair, 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 still worship Allison as
my first conquest.
While we roughhoused, Allison 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
that moisture that I remembered from Carla.
Innocently, I said, "is that your tickler"?
Debra said that it was called "a clitoris" or a
"clit", "if you must know. I rub it every day so
it gets big like the ones in my father's medical
books."
I told her I read the same books.
When I said that Allison came up and leaned over
all of us, and whispered that she had one too,
and if I would forget about Debra she would show
me, hitting me with a small pillow and laughing
as we all fell together gathering inside a human
hive.
JUST SEX?
At this moment, we divided. The games were over.
New ones would begin. Pulling Allison down, I
asked her to show me. She did, revealed the
inside of things.
It looked different than the books but the same.
I had not seen much of Carla as she insisted on
doing it in the dark.
Amazed I marveled to Allison how her petals
opened as she pulled the crease apart opening
the pink center.
"It rises up like a fluted wave," I remember
thinking and saying. I knew I was a poet at 16.
Had a poem published in a national magazine.
When I touched her leaves, I felt more than an
ordinary apple.
I said as I rubbed the face of her sex, "I
explored myself too inside her."
Just as I stopped, Allison squealed yes and
kissed me like I had never been kissed. She gave
me all tongue and lips. I felt as if I were held
under water, but instead of fearing suffocation,
I found I could breathe by taking turns being
the aggressor.
When I helped her up, I held my hands out to
her, and we innocently mixed more than
breathing.
I imagined the first day of Adam's world before
Eve. How terrible it must have been. I never
considered that it was more likely Eve who drew
Adam from her ribs.
As we tasted moist skin and freckles, I knew
what I would later call "philosophical
transcendence" in my existential years at
Columbia College.
With Carla, who was an adult, from another
world, what we did seemed a selfish game that
only Carla could win or lose.
Carla had taught me a few things, but I was a
boy to her. She kept the passion for herself,
shared it only from the outside, and didn't
imagine I would know the difference.
With Allison I discovered that sex engendered
play and intimacy. "Intimacy" was a better word
than Eucharist or communion. Vatican II had just
begun.
Moving away from the window, Allison danced down
the hallway twirling. When she came back, she
held her own nightgown not one of her mother's.
It was silk but more like a pants and top than
the Fredericks of Hollywood catalogs I loved.
"I want to wear this," she said. "I want to be
special. I dreamed I would meet a boy I could
share words."
Standing there, three feet away, legs together,
she looked like the young women you saw in the
art books and not the ones in the Sears
underwear catalogue.
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
between her legs.
Looking me straight in the eyes, not away like
before, she asked without speaking, "shall we?"
Caught in my own unspoken lie, I had no idea.
Expecting her to know, I felt uneasy.
Allison giggled when I told her the truth and
said, taking hold of my cock, "I don't know
rightly either but I like what we are doing."
When I touched more, she closed her eyes,
swooned, clutched, and tightened, released
pressing her fingers into my arms marking them,
drawing lines in my sunburn and tanned skin.
"That feels too good," she said, and pushed
away.
"Why?" Struck dumb, I said nothing more.
"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 kissed her silent, told her too easily that we
can do other things.
Years later, I realized when I said it that I
loved the feel of her silken nightgown in my
hands. She felt so good happy and truthfully, I
didn't know then what I would have missed.
Gathering her, I touched her belly I covered her
mound with my hand, crooking a finger inside,
like I had seen in those photos in my father's
drawer.
I confessed that I had done something this
summer that I really liked.
Not understanding what I proposed, she kissed me
harder. "We'll do it like the great books," she
said.
"I will be Emma and you can be the Pierre or Sir
Lawrence.
With that, Allison touched my balls, asking why
they were so large, and I had no answer. We
both heard Debra and Johnny humping making rough
noises.
Looking over Allison's shoulder Johnny on top of
Debra looked as if he had legs growing out of
his back.
"Would you do it like that," Allison asked,
turning.
"No, he is not kissing her thing," I said.
"Carla taught me to kiss it first, I said, to
make sure she could feel before fucking."
"Did Carla stink," Allison asked?
"Had clean fresh skin like you."
"You are fresh Henry Whitman. I don't know."
Allison pretended 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. I
like you Henry, you're older than you seem. I've
done it too, but not with a boy. 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 after he sucked mine. I
loved it, but when he shot I choked and he
didn't care."
"Ever do it with your sister," I asked.
"No, not really."
"Johnny says you do."
"Yes," Allison paused, shaking her head no, but
confessing.
"You will get no more secrets from me, unless
you tell me yours."
I told her about the vacuum cleaner and the
glass cocktail rods I had run up my cock when I
was fourteen.
Allison listened, but I remembered what Carla
had 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. Answering, Allison pulled me
down by my shoulders, resting my head on her
belly.
"Just do it," she said.
I opened her lips with my mouth like Clara had
taught gently. I licked away from her lips and
teased with kisses, finally letting my mouth
push, I exposed the trembling. I did it with the
softest touch possible remembering Clara's
teaching.
"Do it easy, Clara said, "but take it in your
mouth like you are a man. I want to feel your
lips and your breathing."
Allison pushed me back, shaking her head,
stopping my mouth, and said that it was too
much, too hard. I softened but insisted and with
my another softer kiss, she pushed my head
harder into her legs full, gasping, and at that
moment when Allison moaned I pulled up and
watched Johnny pull out of Debra just as he shot
all over her legs.
Debra who seemed quite used to it 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
sucked each layer touching it, as I would say
years later, like a fingertip would touch the
surface of a tide pool, knowing the water, but
not disturbing it.
Allison's hands were in my ears, mouth, lips,
helping, guiding, she pulled my hair, shaking
her head frantic, closing her eyes tighter and
then screaming when she started to roll under. I
refused to let go. With a final suck, fifteen-
year-old Allison almost stopped breathing. When
I stopped out of fear, she pushed my head
closer, "don't you, no, you can't."
Afterwards, half an hour or so later, she
touched me, explored my cock and watched it
explode. Smiling not at me but my cock, ringing
its head with her hands, rubbing what seemed
like a lake on her lips. Allison said, "I used
to do this for the cousin I told you about. He
loved it when I sucked after he choked me, he
would groan and try to force me to stop but I
held on for revenge."
Fascinated, at the end, I remember combing
Allison's pubic hair with my fingers. Shy, but
not really, she turned her head away while I
licked and touched, but wouldn't let me try to
do what Johnny had done to Debra.
"There was no time," she said. "We had to go."
I listened but didn't immediately stop. I knew
Allison liked how I had touched her soft hair.
As long as I was content, she explored.
SHAKE, RATTLE AND ROLL
At the door, Allison said, "come back tomorrow.
Mom and Dad are back in Dallas. The maid will do
what I tell her. Maybe you can do Debra."
Before I could answer, and tell her sure,
Allison said, "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."
"What did you do with Debra," I asked her before
I left. "You started to tell me then stopped."
"I kissed hers like you did mine."
I started to leave, and Allison started to walk
back into the house, showing the profile of her
tits, letting them rumble under that absolute
white tee shirt with rolled up sleeve that she
had put on before walking me to the door.
Laughing she yelled, "wait."
I turned back, half way up the stairs, asking
with my eyes if she would shake her tits again.
"Don't go yet," she said.
"Sure. I want you to shake them like you did
that night for Johnny."
Pulling her tee shirt up, and off, by the front
door, not caring who saw, Allison shook them
furiously, giggling while I almost fell down the
stairs amazed.
"I saw it in a dirty movie," she said. "My
Daddy's got one. Debra and I were hiding in the
closet, and we watched the woman shake her tits
while two guys did her. I promised myself I
would do that one day for a boy I really liked.
Go now; have to get Johnny out of here. Wait for
him outside, OK? Don't want any trouble."
"No," I said to myself. I didn't wait.
MORNING AFTER
The next day, I couldn't believe my bad luck.
"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
and be home by noon."
I didn't say goodbye. I didn't want to know more
of what I would lose.
All my life I have regretted not kissing Allison
good-bye. I daydreamed about that imaginary next
time through a thousand screws. I knew if I had
said good-bye Allison would have kissed me like
a man.
I knew if there had been that next time Allison
would have stood up, looked at my face, and
smiled as women do when they embrace their
lover.
What if my mother had let me live with my
grandmother in Tyler?
Would I have graduated from Columbia, City
College, would I have written and published
poetry? Would I have been able to write this
story?
Maybe I would have become a rich oilman or a
cowboy and broken my neck on a bucking Ford
stock car. Maybe I would have died in Nam.
Comments please:
seanfarragher@msn.com
END
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