Copyright 2001 by the Scribbler, who certifies for German authorities
that this fiction is not intended to promote National Socialism.
Scribbler reserves all right to the rivers of lucre that routinely
descend upon Internet pornographers. . .and all other subsidiary
rights as well.
*******************************************************************
"There really was just one funny Nazi, you know"
Sleepy eyes regard me with a mixture of hangover and alarm.
"I'll give you a hint-- although he had a funny name, it wasn't
Ribbentrop, nor for that matter Goebbels . . .as a rule, the Nazis
were not funny people"
Now I should explain that, at this point, I'm just playing for time,
propped up in the Sunday morning sunshine, with that special Sunday
morning mystery: What exactly is her name?
She brushes a bit of dirty hair from her face, and I take in
her face. I can see why I liked her, although why she liked me is
beyond comprehension, at this point anyway. She's pretty enough, in a
Connecticut sort of way, and now I'm placing her. . .gallery opening,
nice comments about my writing. . .cup of coffee someplace loud and
smoky where I slid my hand down to her crotch. . .
No that wasn't it, not exactly. . .
I was going on about something --well, when don't I go on about
something, actually-- Fernand Braudel and the Annales guys. I was
explaining to her some of my quarrel with the "micro" school of
history. . .the need to capture something grander of the sweep of
human experience than is revealed in Catalan land tenure documents.
And she leans over and whispers in my ear: "Put your hand in me, now"
I'm remembering this with a start, while regarding Mademoiselle X's
sleepy face. This sheeted suburbanite was something of a first for
me, a hot little body charged with sexuality which through some
developmental defect was happily misdirected at balding professors of
intellectual history.
I did put my hand up her leg, there in that little zinc and tobacco
filled boite. I really like doing that by the way, but it seems to be
hard to come by. Male sexual excitement is kind of ordinary . . .I'm
really used to getting hard; but that's really all there is: was
soft, now is hard . . .OK, I'll have to say that I'm my own penis's
number one fan, but even so, he's a one trick pony.
Now, women are really something else, and Miss X was special among
them. Eyes get shiny, a flush rises up her throat, and her
chatte is dripping; she is wetting herself with her own excitement.
Now, really this is a wonderful thing. . .I can't tell you how insane
this makes me. . .happily divorced after ten years of a mostly
sexless marriage, where intercourse required ample preparation with
slippery and sterile unguents, I'll say that I prefer the genuine
article. . .a women dripping heat into her panties.
So I ran my hand up her stocking'd leg. . .itself a wonderfully
pornographic turn-on; so pleased to discover whorish lingerie under
an Anne Klein ensemble. Wandered up the contours. . .so thin! Women's
legs can be amazing, thin little stilts on which to balance cupcake
buttocks. . .Evolution, you've done a hell of a job here.
I'm suppressing the urge to smell my hand, because I know where it
spent some quality time last night, first one, then two, then three
fingers, plowing what I would have [unfairly] assumed to be a tight
little slit. That's just the way we are I guess. . .I look at a
blonde ponytail, and imagine that we're talking significant
gynecologic preparation before we're going to gain admission for
anything thicker than a fountain pen. Its the Puertoricquenas, with
pants pulled tight over rolling hips, eyebrows, and lips
painted fire-engine red. . .all the signs would say that they're the
ones who like to fuck, who'd have capacious pudenda.
Turns out not to be the case. . .our tennis player (I don't know that
she actually plays tennis, that's just an unfair assumption because
of her looks. . .I'm all about unfair assumptions), arouses with the
heat of a Moroccan whore. No sooner do I have one finger playing with
her, sliding aside the mushy lace of her and worming its way
into her, than she whispering in my ear "more fingers, now".
Its all coming back to me. . .my own dawning shame at public sex, and
my growing erection, which mundane as it may be, was definitely in
need of attention.
She whispered in my ear: "Lean forward"
Then this little angel reached under the table, and let her French
manicured fingers unzip me. ..I remember the panic. . .what if? What
if what, exactly? It was an extraordinary thing to be masturbated by
a pretty nymph under a little zinc table in the Soho night. I
couldn't help thinking "does this happen often?" Is that guy over
there, the one sitting with the Brazilian model-does he ever get
whacked off under the table? Because it is a glorious experience.
Miss X. . .oh, gosh, I remember her name, Melissa. . .Melissa was
doing me hard and then she says, not too quietly "tell me when you're
going to cum"
And, goggle-eyed, I say "that would be right about now"
And with that she squeezes hard, sending a cock-wilting spasm of pain
through my member and balls. I remember the innocent look in her
Connecticut eyes . . .where'd this come from? Why?
"Save it, stud; take me home and fuck me"
She turns to me, raising herself on one elbow from the bed.
"Oh I know this one. . .'When I hear the word culture, I reach for my
gun'"
I'm stunned.
She smiles. . ."That was Hermann Goering. . .he really was a funny
man."
I'm in love.
|
|
