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-------------------------------- Welcome to the Church of The Right
Reverend Cotton Mather. This is the sole property of the author, and
may not be copied or downloaded for the intent of profit. Permission is
freely given for anyone to download or copy for their personal pleasure or
use, as long as there is no intent to charge money or barter for the
privilege of acquiring this material.
( 2001, Rev. Cotton Mather
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Remember By Rev. Cotton C. Mather
Am I remembering?
Or is it something from a lifetime ago?
Before we were we, when you were you and I was me.
It was a crazy time.
The streets were burning, and I was there.
Did I know you then? No, I don't think so. I would remember.
I knew you were near, though. I could feel you. I know that now.
All I knew then was that there was...something...incomplete...about the
way I was living.
And behaving.
My would never have understood. Or even recognized me. During
that time.
Sex. And drugs. And rock and roll. There was fighting in the street.
I was a street-fightin' man. I was living a songwriter's dream.
Marching and getting maced and looking at Hell's Angels dressed up as
"security" and crying for the fallen here at home and cursing the fallen
across the sea in another world and then going back to our little places to
drink and eat and smoke and lose ourselves in sweat and saliva and
secretions.
Am I remembering?
I think so.
Nothing succeeds like excess. And I excelled at excess.
A dozen or so of us in a small 2-bedroom apartment, a few in the kitchen
fixing dinner for all of us, the rest in the main room, no lights on,
candles everywhere. Groups of two or three on the couch, on the floor, in
front of the dark television. On the closet floor.
The music loud, a faint blue-white haze near the ceiling, Jimi and
Janis, Airplane and The Lizard King looking silently on from the walls.
I'm passing the pipe, taking as big a hit as I can. I'm lying on the
couch, with another whose name I cannot recall, the two of us getting as
close together as we can on the narrow cushions, me wedged into the back,
she on top. I hand her the pipe, she takes a toke, then leans over and
passes it to another on the floor below her. She settles back onto me, her
head on my chest. She sings softly along with the music as she is lying
there. I have one arm around her shoulder, holding her tightly to me, my
other hand is under her shirt.
I loved that time. Freedom. Independence. Radicalism. Free
expression. Explorations of life, love, sexuality.
No bras.
I loved that time.
A contented purr comes unbidden from her as I play with her turgid
nipple. She is a rail-thin waif with long brown hair, straight as a ruler,
down to the middle of her back. I could smell her shampoo. She is dressed
in bell-bottoms and a tie-dyed t-shirt, one bare foot rubbing up and down
my shin, the other pressed tightly against my foot. Slim-hipped, her
breast is small but pliant, and she enjoys the attentions I am paying to
it.
I feel her jerk slightly and shift her weight. She lifts up and kisses
me, hard, her lips insistent, her tongue searching. She gasps into my
mouth, and sucks my tongue into her mouth. She moans, breaks the kiss, and
her head falls back, her eyes closed, her breathing rapid, her face
flushed. I feel her moving, nearly undulating, on the couch. I look down
our entwined bodies and see another's arm, nearly disembodied in my
enhanced state, snaking up from the direction of the floor. There is no
hand attached, the arm seemingly ending just above the wrist as it
disappears under the unbuttoned fly of her jeans. The arm moves, flexes,
moves. Her body writhes in concert with the movement of the arm.
I struggle up to a sitting position, and the scene evolves into
something more real, more unreal.
One of my roommates, on the floor. It is his arm I see, his hand is
stroking my girl's slit, his finger waging its own tiny war with her
clitoris. His eyes are also closed, as he is concentrating on the
sensations being created by the artist with him on the floor, an artist in
fleshly pleasures. She is nearly the twin of the one on the couch, with
somewhat darker hair and larger breasts. Her is open, his jeans are
undone. His left hand is entwined in her hair, gripping, expressive in its
intensity, as she is hard on his cock, her cheeks hollowed with her
efforts. As I watch, she brings her lips up to the crown, then plunges
down until his pubic hair is tickling her nose. He groans. I groan in
sympathy, in anticipation, in youthful exuberance, in sympathy again. The
net effect is to make his finger buried deep in the of the on
the couch to clench, unclench, and clench again. This causes her to hunch
against his hand, relax, then push up once more against his ministrations.
I squeeze her hard, run my thumb back and forth across her nipple,
then lean down and press my lips to her ear, and thrust my tongue into her
ear canal. She whimpers, and whines, and cums hard on my roomie's hand.
She turns her head and kisses me as ferociously as she can, as her mind
whirls with the sensations of the three of us, the smoke, the smells, the
sounds.
She slides the hand out of her jeans, and turns to me. She takes my
hand, the one under her shirt, and pushes it down her belly until I feel
the silken fabric of her panties. I rub her under her jeans, back and
forth, hip to hip, on each swing of my pendulum reaching slightly lower. I
can feel that her underwear is soaked through, and the sensation causes my
heart rate to accelerate and hot blood to flow to my crotch, creating an
almost delicious rigidity that aches for relief. She slips one leg
underneath mine, while the other drops to the floor, creating more room for
my hand and arm.
She, in turn, loosens my belt and tugs at the buttons holding my jeans
together. She feels the dampness coating my underwear, then I feel her
fingernails lightly scratch along the elastic, then snake underneath, and
glancingly rub across the head of my cock. Constricted, still it throbs at
the touch. Her fingers blindly, lightly explore, then move down, and hold
on. She squeezes, then rubs up and down, then squeezes again. I hear a
groan, and with surprise realize it's me that is groaning. In retaliation,
I push her jeans down off her hips. She lifts up, allows me to reach
behind her to remove them, then kicks them off her legs impatiently. She
again positions herself to easily spread her legs, making herself available
to my touch.
I lift myself up and begin to tug off my own jeans, now that they have
been loosened. She helps, and they slip off like water, followed
immediately by my underwear. She kisses me again, a hungry and demanding
joining, our lips pressed almost painfully against each other's, our
tongues battling for dominance like Indian finger-fighters. The pleasure
of our mouths is matched by the pleasures of our hands. Hers abandon their
gripping excercises to brush lightly downward, caressing my balls,
exchanging the energy of their previous activity for gentle explorations.
My fingers find again the soft down on her stomach, brushing once again
back and forth across her waist, pausing at each passing of her navel to
scratch lightly at the depression. I can feel her muscles shiver at each
light search of her belly button, but my attention is still elsewhere, as
she continues her own explorations of my balls. She rubs her fingertips
underneath the sac, down toward my asshole, then slowly brushes them back
up again, all the way to the base of my cock. Her actions cause my own
stomach muscles to quiver, both of us lost in a feast of the senses.
I run my fingertips down, down between her spread legs. As they rub
between her engorged lips, I press her into her slit as I continue
down and between. She thrusts her tongue deep into my mouth, encouraging
me, anticipating the frenzied conclusion we are building toward. All other
sounds, sights, external stimuli have paled beside the experience of the
moment between the two of us. We are alone among the crowd, the
inexhorable sense of time suspended, just she and I standing outside the
realm of the real.
I feel, more than hear, her moan into my mouth. Her are soaked,
and warm. I pull aside the legband and my fingers are immediately drenched
with her juices. Her slit has flowered open, and I run my fingertips along
her, up to her clit. As soon as I touch it, she breaks our kiss with a
gasp, and her hips begin their rocking once more. I rub her clit again,
then slowly rub down through her open slit once more, and push my fingertip
into her opening, and stop. Her clenches my finger, trying to suck
it up further in, and her hips continue to rock up and down. She is
gasping, rolling her head back and forth, her hair in her eyes, her mouth
open, her eyes wide and unseeing as she concentrates on the sensations
emanating from her center. The movement of her hand on my cock has
stopped, and she is gripping it like a lifeline. This works for me,
removing the sensations she had been causing that were driving me closer
and closer to my own little death.
I stop being gentle. I thrust my middle finger into her hole, until my
palm is resting on her mound. I move my finger out, then in again, twice,
three times. On the next thrust, I add my index finger. She cries out,
and her whole body contracts as she tries to gain even more penetration.
Again I move out, and in, and again, and again, pistoning, my timing
adjusting to the movement of her hips and the whistling of her breath. I
rub her clit once more, roughly, with my thumb, and am rewarded by a
wheezing cry, rising in pitch as the sensation of her climax overcomes her.
Her exudes during her climax, coating all my fingers, the palm of my
hand, and her thighs as she pulses them together and apart, trying to
prolong the ecstasy she is feeling.
I grab her by the hips, and roll over onto my back, bringing her with
me. She sits up, lifts herself up onto her knees. With one hand she pulls
the leg of her to one side, with the other she grabs my cock and
places the head against her cunt. My hands on her hips guide her down, and
she twists and sinks, oh so slowly, agonizingly, upon my length. When she
feels me fully in her, she collapses down to lie on me, hardly moving. I
can feel her pulse and clench against my buried cock, the heat and
the pressure and the moisture combining to rob me of any rational thought.
My hands stroke her from her shoulders, down her back,reveling in the soft
feel of her hair, down to her silken covered ass, slipping under the
elastic of her waistband, then resuming the travel back to her shoulders.
After a moment, she lifts up, and begins moving against me, up and down.
My hands of their own volition move to her swollen breasts, and my palms
remain still as her movement rubs her tips back and forth across them.
She watches me, I watch her. I see, deep within her eyes, the moment. You
know which moment, don't you? The moment when she begins the inevitable
climb up, the moment when she knows she will be able to go to completion.
The look in her eyes triggers a quickening in my brain, transfers the
information through my bloodstream directly to the pulsing cock buried
within her. The renewed expansion and contraction in turn creates a
sympathetic tidal motion within her, and the rhythmic pulsing causes the
natural tightness of her to apply even more friction, until we are
experiencing something akin to velvet encasing steel, anticipating the
unbearable, preparing for the coming explosion. I lift up my head and
capture one swollen nipple between my lips, and gently use my teeth to rasp
across its bumpy surface. She throws her head back and arches her back,
pushing her against my mouth, and cums.
She opens her mouth to scream, but no sound escapes. Her entire lower
body, from calf to pelvis, contracts against me. The resulting increase in
pressure triggers my explosion, and I feel my cock expand and jerk as the
semen pumps deep into her well. Six, seven, eight times the pump jets its
supply against her walls as she endures her own silent climax.
At last, she trembles with her exertions, and collapses down into my
arms. We are slick with sweat. I can feel the dampness underneath her
hair at the back of her neck, and in the crack of her ass, as I continue to
run my fingers along her back and buttocks.
As if waking from a dream, she sits up and looks around. The room is
empty, but sounds of festivity are coming from the area of the kitchen.
She climbs off me, sits on the edge of the couch, and dresses. In languor,
I am reluctant to move, until she tells me she's hungry and stands. I find
my clothes rumpled on the floor, and put them back on.
We are done for the moment.
Was it you? No.
Was it me? I think so. I'm no longer sure.
It was an incident repeated, with infinite variations and many different
partners, often during the Summer of Love. Of course, the Summer was
followed by the Fall, and by the Winter, and the Spring, with another
Summer to follow. It was a complicated time, it was a simpler world. The
love we were so willing to share did not become deadly for several more
years. We were lucky.
But you. You were near. I knew it. It colored all the times I was so
hedonistic. So selfdestructive. So...willing to live for the moment?
Waiting for True Love? Waiting for Godot?
I don't know. All I know is that, eventually, it was you.
And it was me.
And still is.
Us.
Thank you for saving me from myself.
Thank you.
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