"Then the Boy Pees into the Girl."
"Are you sure?" I was gripped by unease, horror, and incomprehension, and I asked the question with a sense of finality. "Sure I'm sure", the rangy, puffy-faced visage of the little blonde boy was beaming as he exclaimed; "Then the boy pees into the girl." Immediately a terrible vision popped into my head populated by a couple of my schoolmates. The exchange could have happened on any schoolground and at any time. Most little boys first learn about sex from one of their peers who doesn't know the whole story. Nowadays, in the "Age of Information", sex is not a taboo subject like it was for children that sunny day in 1965. "Are you sure?" I asked again. The boy related "facts" as he understood them, proudly and with a sense of great superiority. I didn't believe him, however, and vowed to find out the truth. I would have to pose this query to my mother. She would explain the relative inconsistency of the boy's lesson in sexuality, and hopefully disclaim his rather unclean and seemingly impossible explanation. I could hardly wait to get home, corner my mother, and set the story straight. Even though I was in the top five percent academically in my sixth grade class at school, this bit of information, gleaned from second or third hand "knowledge" not only didn't sound right, it sounded downright alien and impossible. God wouldn't let humanity engage in such horrific behavior, and if it were true, then "sex" was not an act to be looked forward to, and I couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. Besides, where did the stork come in?
By the mid-sixties, sex was becoming mainstream. Hugh Hefner began publishing Playboy magazine in the early 50s, when I was still a toddler. Marilyn Monroe's complete career had been based on "sex appeal". The media, including the newly developed television set, were draped in sexuality by the mid-sixties. My parents, particularly my mother, whose job as "mother" was the raising of her children, hid this burgeoning sense of sexuality from us as much as possible. We kids were told that the stork brought children into the household. Family was composed of the parents, who were wiser and in charge of the destiny of the family, and the children, who were to "learn" and be "seen and not heard". We lived with our parents, and we loved, worshipped, and honored them, as the Bible teaches. We didn't doubt their veracity in any statement, and we lived relatively full and happy lives.
We children thought we were happy. Dad would create "building blocks", and "jigsaw puzzles" in his woodworking shop. Mother provided art supplies, and we all drew, and illustrated stories on a regular basis. My mother raised my sister, brother, and I, the oldest, in a rather sheltered household. We had plenty to do at home during playtime, and we didn't realize how restricted we really were. We couldn't "play in the street", and had few childhood friends, and only were able to play with the children of the PTA cronies my mother would visit or have over to the house. My sister once told me she remembered our mother's house as almost a prison, built with a heightened sense of concern and fear of "the big bad world". Playtime consisted of a lot of interaction between we three siblings, and we believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy probably a lot longer than our peers. After a few years at school, my brother, sister, and I realized that my mother had constructed a "nest" for us that not only shielded the "real world" from us, it was a nest partly built though our mother's own rose colored view of "what was right and proper" and hid not only reality, but the definitions and descriptions of reality as well. The little blonde boy describing "sex" as his older brother had explained it to him, complete with inherent miscommunication, could have been telling the truth as far as I were concerned. Mom used soundalike names for elimination exercises. To urinate was to "tinkle". To defecate was to "grunty". The boys in school called their penises "dicks" and they engaged in "peeing" and later, "pissing". Classmates found derisive pleasure in the quaint descriptive terms used by our family. Early in my school career, I realized that my family spoke and acted differently from the rest of the country when we had "lunch" at school. This was a new term for me, and I had never used it nor heard it before. At home, our meals were breakfast, dinner, and supper, which were what the meals were called by my mother's farm family in Nebraska in the 20s. We had a language coached to us by a mother who wanted to insure that we never uttered the smutty words of the culture, and we knew that our "world" at home was somewhat different that the world at large.
My penis was not my best friend until after I had reached adulthood. I rarely thought about the appendage hanging between my legs. Once, in the budding throes of puberty, in about the same time frame as my schoolyard conversation, I had a wet dream. My appendage had already shrunk down to a more manageable size, so I didn't see it in the throes of an erection. The smelly fluid smeared across my briefs as I went to the bathroom that fateful night caused me to waken my parents and proclaim "I'm leaking". I clearly remember the scare this incident caused in me. My mother told me that it was a "normal" occurrence, without telling me why, and to wipe it off and go back to bed. I didn't make any sexual connecitons, and thought something was wrong with my body. I had received both glasses, to correct my failing eyesight, and braces, to correct a terrible overbite, so thinking my body was turning against me again was normal for me at this age. Mother told me not to worry, and in time, I did connect the warm and somewhat "fuzzy" feeling I would have in the night just prior to an emission with good, rather than bad feelings. Mother never explained what was really happening.
After the schoolyard "explanation", I did confront my mother, and she tried the best she could to explain sex. The stork, it seemed, was pure fantasy, as I had found with Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. While the boy didn't "pee" into the girl, he "inserted" the appendage between his legs into the girl's "peepee", that mysterious slot between hers. This shocked me even more. I refused to listen to my mother in the midst of her explanation, and ran from the room. I'd never have "sex" if it involved physical coupling together like those obscene snails we would sometimes find in the garden during playtime. I think for years I was actually traumatized by this, and that is why I've always had a slight aversion to someone touching me.
While this episode regarding the mechanics of sex apalled me, I had already made some gains into probing the topography of the female body, thanks to my sister and her little girlfriends, but I didn't really think of the "inspections", sort of like "playing doctor" as relating to sex. The differences in the male and female body had always interested me. I frequently made my sister remove her panties so I could inspect her "difference" from my brother and me. While not really incestuous in nature, I had always held power over my little sister, and "inspected" her nude form after our parents had sent us to bed on many occasions. I also "inspected" her girlfriends' bodies, and this was all rather clinical and didn't advance to any actual sex or kissing. I had two separate "girlfriends" while in elementary school, and liked at least three other girls in class, but at the time I did not kiss any girls, and it wasn't really expected much. Even socially, in the sixth grade in Southern California, boys and girls engaged in little intramural activity, and sex wasn't talked about or practiced by youngsters. Even though sex was practically oozing from the media by this time, children were not exposed to the temptation, especially in religious households. My parents weren't really particularly "religious" but they raised us kids in a churchgoing household. I was deeply religious as a child, and was actually being groomed to eventually become a pastor in the Baptist church. Sex, in religious doctrine, was merely the mechanical way in which mankind propogated the race. My parents certainly weren't overtly sexual, and rarely showed affection for each other. During my childhood we considered our home life fairly normal, but it in fact wasn't. My mother exhibited fears which dictated that our closed protective "home" life be isolated and shielded from the outside world as much as possible.
We rarely left the "safe" yard, which was fenced in, and weren't allowed to "play in the street" like the majority of neighborhood children. We didn't have bicycles, and the only friends we could "visit" were the sons and daughters of my mother's PTA friends. One of these, Gene, had an older brother in college who roomed in a separate guest house located in the back yard of his parents' house. It was at Gene's brother's guest house that I saw my first Playboy magazine. This also happened around 1965. The centerfold in the issue blatantly "stood out" for me, and my penis "stood out" when I looked at the photograph. This incident above anything else stirred the sexual beast in my young body to life. I hadn't really connected an interest in sex with my penis before seeing the issue. I would stand at attention many times after that. My upbringing would then attest that sex was necessary only for propagation, and not for "fun". The "excitement" seemed to be icing on the cake. The sexual beast in me rubbed it's eyes and took a deep breath.
I began to write poetry at age 14, while in middle school, or junior high. Socially, sometimes and to some of the neighborhood children, usually those without a lot of supervision, compared to the constant supervision and punishment at our house, I was sometimes made to feel a misfit and iconoclast. During elementary school I had always been somewhat a loner, simply because I had learned to read earlier than most of the other children, thanks to Mother's having taught me prior to going to school. I always had a book in my hand, and spent most of the recesses sitting under a tree deep at the edge of the schoolyard, immeresed in some fantasy kingdom or space opera. I did have friends, but I also made my own time. And in the seventh grade, in a different school, exposed to new children, I was also exposed to writing by my English teacher. However, I made friends easily, and in the seventh grade I was part of a clique of friends that included both young boys and girls.
My gang included Steve, Ryan, and John, but also was rounded out with Susan, Criss, and Judy on the distaff side. Over the years I had developed crushes on girls, in a romantic and non sexual way. I immediately developed a crush on Criss. I fell in love with another Susan, who at 14 would have turned the head of almost any red blooded male. But she belonged to a different clique. Susan was unattainable. Criss was accessible. My carnal lust was untapped, and I still attended church and still planned to preach someday. I felt blessed and pure. My grades at school were excellent. I usually made straight A's. Mr. Gardner, the English teacher, introduced me to the thesaurus, and gave essay writing assignments. If I had a passion in the seventh grade, it was to write, as well as to preach. Mother encouraged all forms of artistic expression, and while my little brother polished his visual art and drawing skills, I changed from an artist to a writer. My poems at first were comical, and then told stories, and some were even somewhat political, then finally they started reflecting my inner thoughts, dreams, and wishes. My teachers and parents proclaimed me a little genius, and I seemed destined to please all my elders, and this made me proud. The day Criss and I kissed took me to a completely different place in my sexual history. It was so special it had to be planned.
Having a "girlfriend" was a social necessity in middle school. In our school, boys gave their steady girls their St. Christopher medal. I had to borrow one of these from a Catholic friend of mine, and I presented this to Criss one evening at one of the school dances, which were held every Friday night. She accepted immediately. I didn't initiate the idea that we kiss, however. I was still too innocent of mind and heart to do that. She passed me one of those "quizzes" that kids pass around in school one day in class, which had the "reward" of "a kiss". I remember reading the quiz "prize" and feeling that I was about to step over one of the "boundries" of life, and that this was going to be a special event. I told Criss we would plan this event. It took place almost two weeks later, at a party for another girl, and lasted for a long time. I would now claim that this was a life affirming and changing event for me, awash with memory's thrall. Our lips met, and we breathed each other deeply, probing and sampling the slick taste of our saliva in each other's mouths. I didn't like to be touched. The feeling of kissing a girl of whom I was especially fond, was a feeling of overpowering emotion. The fear of touching abated somewhat. I was in a lovestruck daze for days. I had not yet "made out" although another girl in our group attempted to get me to make out with her on more than one occasion. Criss and I never kissed again, and after eighth grade, I was with a group of students who lived far enough away they had to attend a different high school. Criss wasn't in that group. Sex didn't really come back into my personal history until after high school ended, with rare exceptions.
Moviegoing, and watching films on television has always been a special experience for me. I gobbled up books at school, and was terribly fond of reading, but watching movies at the drive in with my parents always became a special event. These were times when we could stay up a little longer than usual, and movie trips to the drive in, packed into the family station wagon, happened on Friday nights when we didn't have to go to school. In the late sixties, drive in theaters offered a full slate of programming, with cartoons, shorts, and two films. My younger brother and sister usually conked out midway through the second feature, but I always stayed up, entranced by the stories and the images projected on a hundred foot screen in front of our car windshield.
The first "sex stars" I acknowledged were Sandra Dee, Elizabeth Taylor, Yvonne Craig, and Yvetter Mimieux. But I had developed a lasting love for Hayley Mills, when watching the film "The Moon Spinners" on Disney's Wonderful World of Color. With each succeeding film of hers, as the actress grew up and so did I, my love deepend . There was no sex involved. I probably didn't even get erections that I remember while watching any movies involving actresss with whom I was "in love" but I do remember feeling good as the beast within me certainly stirred my juices somewhat.
Even though the morality of people like my parents caused them to attempt to "hide" or "filter" as much of the secular world with it's sins and temptations from us, nobody who lives in a place like America, where pop culture and advertising spill right into the home through the television screen, can really hide much from their children. It's even worse now, of course. Mother couldn't really stop us from watching movies, but the "sexual" connotations inherent in a lot of films like "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" or "The Carpetbaggers" which aired on television when I was young, soared right over my head. I knew Liz Taylor and Carroll Baker were beautiful, but I didn't want to immediately bed them. The thought of intercourse, as described by Mother after the schoolyard "explanation" still horrified me. On television, I think, besides falling in love with Hayley Mills, I found Julie Newmar in an old comedy series called "My Living Doll" to be delicious looking, and when she appeared "in living color" in the Batman television series, which also featured Yvonne Craig later in the series' run, I began to differentiate between the feelings of puritanical "love" and "sex".
By the end of my junior high experience, I was ready if not programmed for the sexual revolution. I wonder now in retrospect if my parents "worried" at all about me or my siblings ever "getting in trouble" I rarely remember talking to my parents, my mother especially, about their past. Both parents always "told stories" and I can remember the same "stories" being told many times throughout my childhood. My parents were both in second, and in the case of my mother, third marriages. Mother was 30 when I was born. She had left home after she found her favorite brother's body after his suicide. She hitchiked around the country and had been a singer in a country band. Dad had been a boxer and a railroad man before joining the army in World War II. While growing up, I never knew my parents weren't "always" together. One of the drawbacks to my mother's prison like "nest" shielding her children from the "big, bad, world" was that in time, she finally told them about the real events in her life, and this served to break our trust in what we perceived as "truth".
I used to get real upset when Mother would relate something which altered what I had been "taught" or thought I knew. After a while, I began to lose trust in the veracity of anything my Mother said. As I got more involved in school and with school friends as I grew up, however, this didn't really bother me, as it probably would have in elementary school two years earlier. We found out that Dad had not only been married, but the mysterious boy shown on the horse in the photograph album was a half brother who was in his early 20s. Mother used to scare us with the story of finding a two headed chicken, but nothing prepared us for the story of her finding Uncle Donald's body. He had taken a shotgun to his head. Mother being involved with at least two other men, her previous husbands, was quite a shock. I became a bit skeptical of what authority figures would tell me after hearing these revelations.
I didn't make any connotations with sexual longing and love. The fact that my parents had not always been together disgusted me greatly. I did still believe deep in my heart that true love meant you chose your life mate and you "lived happily ever after." Love is what mattered to me as a youngster, not sex, and if sex is what caused my parents to have so many previous relationships, then something must be wrong.
Kathy was a majorette. I had harbored crushes on girls since elementary school, but as a freshman in high school, when confronted with Kathy's lithe form outfitted in spangly shorts and throwing batons into the air, I myself fell head over heels in love for a real person for the first time in my young life. Sexual urges were not so prevalent in the first two years as they would become later on, as girls developed further, and Kathy really wasn't voluptuous as Criss had already been in the seventh grade, but as I have mentioned, pure platonic love trumped sexual ecstasy for me when young, and still does, as I approach the end of middle age. I think I have overcome some of the traumas I suffered in youth, and I have enjoyed pure sexual ecstasy from time to time, but love is pure and lasting while sex is, for the most part, simply an instinct and an animal act. It can be an exciting animal act, for sure, but without love in the mix, sex is really no more exciting a prospect as going to the bathroom, which must stem from that "boy pees into the girl" speech I heard on the playground.
In high school, the mix of friends I had was not the same as in middle school, because I lived on a border, which sent me to a different school than most of my friends from the seventh and eighth grades. So this means I essentially had a new mix of peers after elementary, and then another mix after middle school. I adapted well to these changes. I believe after the somewhat cramped and claustrophobic world my parents constructed for us, the prospect of change was welcomed as a postive influence, and I grew inside from my observations about the "real world", at least what I could glimpse from the walk to high school, which was about five miles from my house. I still received good grades, became well known, and because I completed most of my required courses early in my high school career, I was able to take electives such as journalism and theater arts during my junior and senior years.
I made friends easily, and always had quite a few female friends, including the older sisters of my best male friends, and older girls who happened to sit behind me or ahead of me in some of the classes I attended. By high school, I was no longer attending church regularly. My father was ill with arthritis and high blood pressure, and had suffered numerous heart attacks by the time I graduated from high school. Mom had a nervous condition which prompted some strange behavior and mood swings, but since I was immersed in the high school popularity game, I rarely noticed some of the darker episodes which happened in my home life. After school, for instance, I would go to the library for two or three hours, and do my homework, so my home life consisted of waking up, bathing and preparing for school, then when I got home I would eat dinner with the family (we had stopped calling it supper), watch some television or read, and then retire to bed. I would visit a lot of friends gained in my high school experience at their homes, but would rarely invite anyone home to meet my folks. My sister got involved with friends in high school, and my brother was a bit of a "rebel" ultimately hating the fact that his teachers would always compare him infavorably with me. I won a scholarship to the University of Southern California, and had a 3.84 point grade average, when 4.0 was the highest given. I was 25th in my graduating class, with an IQ hovering close to 140. Mother wouldn't even tell me what my IQ score was because she didn't want me getting a swelled head. (Even though she'd been calling me "her little genius" since I could remember. (I have subsequently taken a couple of IQ tests and my results range from 120 to 130)
Even though I had a lot of friends, and became involved in clubs and school government, I still kept close ties to my mother. I had never "turned my back" on my love for either of my parents, and eventually my distrust at them for opening new doors in their lives by relating stories they had "hidden" disappered. I was my Mother's child. My dad was closer to my sister, and my brother, as mentioned, was a bit of the "black sheep" and made sure he acted as the "black sheep" as he grew. My mother would nurture my writing "career". I became editor of our high school newspaper, and wrote a humorous weekly column for the paper. I finished a science fiction novel by the end of my freshman year. Mother always read my works, including the poetry, which blossomed furtively during this period. I would write sonnets and poems for the girls I admired, including Kathy, who didn't return my advances, however, and fell into a relationship with my best friend. I felt defeated, and hurt by this turn of events, and in turn, I probably stopped a lot of budding relationships with at least a half a dozen girls who really liked me. I would "spurn" them, usually by writing scathing poems which would hit them unawares as they would read them. Perhaps if I had been more "sexual" during this time, I would have known what I was eventually "missing" by shunning those who wanted me as more than a friend.
Of course, being from a sheltered household, and not really delving into other's personal sexual lives during this era, the late sixties, I can't speak with any veracity about what other kids were doing concerning their budding hormones. I didn't masturbate, nor do I remember gaining frequent erections. I still had "wet dreams", sometimes including my sister, with whom I had practiced those "inspections" during childhood. Kathy had become "unattainable", but that certainly didn't stop me from carrying a torch for her. She knew my intentions, as I kept writing poetry for her, and I made it clear that should Steve, my very best friend, and her beau, leave her, I would be courting her in a second.
I didn't "chase" girls in high school. There similarly was not any personal or sexual congress of any kind. I remained a bit of a prude, even though I was a popular student. There was "hanky panky" going on at parties I attended, and I even began to write some rather steamy short stories during my junior and senior year. I had even detailed a "sex" scene in my novel when a freshman, but with no personal experience from which to gain, it was rather tame stuff. By my senior year in high school, my hormones had trumped my prudity, and I began to have more overt sexual feelings for some of the girls with whom I would hang around. There were a trio of girls in the modern dancing club whom I admired greatly. They would dress in tights for their performances, and I served as a crewman for some of these performances. I can clearly remember one night kissing all three of them in succession, conceivably as congratulations for a fine performance. Kathy was also in the dance club, and I kissed her as well that night. My little friend stood at attention more readily, and I didn't try to stop him. Dreams, both the standard, and the more gushy ones, would begin to feature female classmates in various stages of dress, some with black tights performing interpretive dance to Carlos Santana albums.
At the age of 18 I did not go on dates, as a lot of students in our high school would do. My parents remained strict in our upbringing, even as we grew, and though I had a car at 16, having purchased my dad's old 1960 Chevrolet Brookwood station wagon when he bought a new car, I was only allowed to drive it to school and to the football games on Friday night. I couldn't go to the dances or parties which followed the football games. I could drive to and from practice for plays and theater pursuits, but had to be home immediately following the activity. Since I was, in practice, a "good boy" who rarely if ever "got in trouble", I followed my parents' wishes. One girl I knew, Cheryl, a fellow writer, had a crush on me, or so memory has always told me. She would hold various parties throughout my junior and senior years, and I would attend, but would always defy her advances, and turn our conversations to less sexual themes at all times. I was still in love with Kathy, and was "saving myself" for her, no matter what the eventual outcome. I didn't drive my own car to Cheryl's parties. Her mom would pick me up, chaperone the party, and take me home. Cheryl wrote stories and poems, and was involved in journalism while I edited the paper, so I felt like her "boss" most of the time. My writings would become more and more "steamy" as the school year progressed, and I even wrote a comic "sex manual" as did Cheryl. We never even kissed, however, and eventually I introduced her to a friend of mine with whom she fell in love, and to whom she is still married.
Popularity finally became something to be attained while I spent time in high school. The whole concept of high school life fosters accomplishment and popularity. This is why so many kids who spent terrible high school years usually weren't popular or very accomplished. That doesn't make them any more or less special than the popular or accomplished kids, however, and the neat joke of high school has always been that some of the most popular and accomplished in high school might actually never be as popular and accomplished in life, and some of the "nerds" and "geeks" become famous. I found that by pleasing my teachers and getting good grades, I advanced steadily academically. By being friendly and open to possibilities, I could have many friends. And the cliques I belonged to in high school were somewhat diverse. People from one might not ever interact with those of another. But I have always found all types of people interesting, and befriended many. As a "soch" who edited the high school newspaper, I wrote a weekly humorous "column". I would sometimes befriend not only the popular but the unpopular, and still "hung out" with some of the students which had attended elementary school with me, but whom I hadn't seen since elementary because I "lived on the border" and didn't go to the same middle school. I used to please a lot of the "unpopular" sometimes by mentioning their names in my column in the paper.
Sex could very well have begun for me in high school, as it did for most kids in America in the late 60s. But it didn't. In 1970, when I became a senior, my dad bought a car for himself, and finally let me drive the mellow yellow 1965 Dodge Dart GT to school. He had purchased the car for me, but since it was "newer" than the Chevy wagon, he drove the Dart for a year, and then bought a 1971 Nova for himself, I got the Dart, and the station wagon was passed on to my sister. So I was driving to school every day when I became a senior, and in Southern California, if one doesn't have a car, one isn't really connected to the world. I couldn't drive all over town, there were of course the usual "restrictions" on everything from my parents, including my car, but I did drive other kids to the park and to the Jack in the Box for burgers and fries. I did truly feel a sexual urge for a lot of girls in high school, but never gave in to the urge. Graduation passed, and my last great kiss of high school was with another Kathy, who was my marching partner. I staunchly believed that sex would only make sense if it were part of the love emotion, and probably missed quite a few opportunities, and ended high school as a virgin.
I felt that my life was turning a corner after high school. I received a scholarship to college at U.S.C., and planned to become a high shcool teacher myself, and my dreams included plans to become an award winning author. My steamiest short story as I graduated from high school was about an all school play party, of which I had attended two. I had no idea what might have happened behind the scenes of the actual parties outside of my own experience, but the story involved not only sex, but drugs and rock and roll as well. It also had a moral ending resulting in the repentance of the main character, who had given in to "Satan's call" during the party. I was visiting in my writing what I would soon visit for real during college life, separated from my parents first by 50 miles, and then, when my mother had a stroke and my dad died, separated from them forever more.
This began during my senior year. When 1971 dawned, my mother became more nervous and upset at almost every occurrence in our lives and in the world. The late sixties were a burden on the whole country, and for my parents, and especially for my mother, who "created" our own safe world, the state of the real world, which was presented on the televison news every night, was not quite the world in which she wanted to raise her children, and the increasingly dire daily news, plus the influx of Mexican families in our neighborhood wound her tighter than usual. Mother wanted to move away from our home town, away from the robust and loud Mexican families which surrounded our house. On television, the news was filled with student rebellions, and in high school, I was speaking out for breaking the dress code, and I wore sideburns, which bothered Mother, who didn't like facial hair on her son because it proved I was growing up and away from her.
We moved to a less racially mixed neighborhood. Brother and Sister didn't necessarily like the move, but in time they made new friends at the local high school. I also made some new friends, but was reintroduced to some old high school friends, and tended to hang out with either old friends from high school or new ones from college or work, and didn't get home most nights until way after dark, so I didn't see a lot of my parents, although I lived at home.
One weekend I was reunited with a group from the drama department, for a going away party for one of the guys who was going into the military. In those days, going into the military meant going to Vietnam, and maybe dying, so the going away parties were filled with a sense of despair, and were somewhat overindulgent. One of the gals who was known as a major flirt in high school didn't wear underpants under her skirt. One of the activities we engaged in during this particular party involved going to the park, and we actually "played" on the children's recreational equipment. At one point, I and Melody were on the swing set, I was in the saddle, and she was astide my lap. I felt very good, especially in my nether regions between my legs, as we soared above the playground. I still hold a tender spot in my memories for this frozen moment in time. After the party, however, I never mingled with that group of high school friends again, and never saw Melody again either. Our episode on the swing set was my first real "feel" of a sexual nature in my life.
In the summer before college, my best friend Steve broke up with Kathy, my majorette from high school. Any thoughts of "sex" involving Kathy were moreso thoughts of love and undying affection. I had been "in love" with the girl since my freshman year in high school, and four years later, thought I would finally have a chance to woo and win her, and "consummate" my special love for her, which had produced a major amount of poems in the previous year. I told Steve of my affection after their breakup, but when I asked Kathy to go out one evening when I chanced upon her at the retail store in which I held a boxboy position, she told me that she "didn't go out with friends". I never did understand her meaning with that statement. She didn't go out with Steve's friends? Or perhaps she felt I was a friend and not a potential lover. I never found out. My first year of college was a completely foreign experience for me. I had always been a popular student in high school, and in college I was one of a thousand other statistics hurrying to their next class.
I never forgot Kathy, and composed many dripping love poems for her in absentia, while my dreams, not entirely "sexual" to my virginal mind, existed with her unconditional love as the carrot on an unreachable erotic stick dangling before me. Kathy was tall, with long legs, small breasts, and she was "cute", not "beautiful". To me, if there is a "sexual ideal" this is still it. I become aroused at the sight of shapely long legs. Kathy was fairly thin, but not skinny. I still admire tall women, even those taller than myself. That's as much a turn on to me as long, lustrous hair, which Kathy also had in abundance.
From the time in the sixth grade when I had glimpsed Gene's brother's Playboy magazine, I had been intrigued by the glossy magazine which had interesting articles, fantastic interviews, and lots of photos of naked women. I eventually began collecting the magazines in 1968, while still in high school. The place to which the family moved was larger than the previous house we lived in, but my father, being a consummate handyman and woodworker, had built extensive add ons to our first home, and one of these was a separate bedroom for me. I could easily "hide" things in my own room, and I began buying Playboys every month. I began to "fall in love" with some of the Playmates, and even gazed longingly at the nude voluptuous bodies of these impossibly beautiful women. Still, my complete "sexual identity" at the time was mixed with thoughts of romance and love, and I never masturbated to any of the centerfolds while in high school or college. In our new home, I had a "suite" of rooms. My bedroom, with my own front door, complete with key, was a large room built behind the garage, and I split it into a 'living area" and a "sleeping area" by placing my tall bookcases and wardrobe in the middle of the large room. My father built a "hallway" connecting my "rooms" with the bathroom in the garage, so I actually had my own complete apartment in the family home. Because of this, as the family began to fall apart with mother's increasing nervousness and fears, I was able to "hide" from the reality of home life. Besides, I attended USC in downtown Los Angeles, had a full time job as the garden department manager for a hardware chain in the town in which I had attended high school, 30 miles away from college, and lived about 30 more miles to the north. The physical locations of all the places I had to be during each day prohibited me from wanting to do too much of anything when I got home from school and work except sleep. I spent a lot of time after getting off work before going home with my ex high school friends, however, and young men tend to think about sex a lot more when they are together in a pack.
As the 70s dawned, the nascent "porn industry" began to get "respectable" with the opening of two movies in downtown Hollywood, the Mitchell Brothers' "Behind the Green Door" and Gerard Dimiano's "Deep Throat". I and my friend Steve, fresh from his breakup with Kathy, attended a screening of another seminal porn film, "The Devil in Miss Jones". The movie was screened at "The Cave" which is still on Hollywood Boulevard, and which still screens pornographic movies, even in the age of downloadable sex from the internet. Steve was a bit more of a prude than even I at the time. I had always been a religious sort until high school, but Steve and his family still attended Church on a regular basis, and I remember my seeming shock when he made the suggestion we go see a "porno". We were both movie buffs, and film aficianados. My love affair with movies, with or without sex symbols, had begun early in life, and in college I majored in English Literature, but minored in film history. USC has always had a very fine film school, and in the days before home video, I was able to view many classic films for the first time in my classes which people take for granted nowadays. Steve and I had just seen Stanley Kubrick's "A Clockwork Orange" which was one of the few movies in the 70s rated "X", for "adults only", and I guess Steve felt really "adult" going to see this rather violent film, which featured some "nudity". The next step was the "porno" film "The Devil in Miss Jones". The experience of watching an actual naked woman having sex, albeit with the cheap special effects and trappings of the movie, transformed my perception of the act, which had been anathema to me since the explanation of "pissing into the girl" so long before. Finally, I go excited about the prospect of "having sex". As I recall, Steve didn't like the movie in the least. I didn't like the movie, but I immensely enjoyed the sight of writhing slippery naked women being penetrated, and lovingly cupping the manhood of the male star and swallowing his penis whole. My own little friend, as was his habit, snapped to attention more than once.
Many evenings were spent first going to a movie, either with Steve, Jon, Bill, Tom, or a host of other friends, and then some of us would park one of our cars, and pack inside, passing around a bottle of Annie Green Springs Strawberry Hill wine. Steve, being a bit of a prude, "just said no" to these bonding exercises, and it was usually his house outside of which we parked, so that if any police happened upon us, we could all pile out of the car stinking drunk and tell them we were going to visit Steve. This happened whether he was home or not. Of course it was youthful paranoia which sparked a lot of these actions, and we never had any confrontations with the law. We did get rather drunk at times, and I found that I really enjoyed this loosey goosey feeling which tended to break down my inhibitions, and let me sample a state of mind that was entirely foreign. It also built up my confidence regarding budding sexual advances, and I began to get a bit more flirtacious regarding the girls at work, and with my sister's girlfriends.
The "drinking parties" in either my car or Jon's usually happened on Friday nights. These were called "cruise nights" in our little "gang" and began usually by driving our cars up and down the same stretch of roadway over and over again for three or four hours. We rarely "connected" with girls, which was our chief reason (besides showing off our custom cars) for the exercise. The Dart I had in high school eventually went to my sister, and I bought a 1971 Volkswagen when I was in college. It was painted mellow yellow, and I pinstriped the outside of the car. It sported 14" rims on the front wheels and 15" rims on the back, with air shocks so that the smallish body of the car could lift above the rather large "slicks" positioned on the magnesium wheels. The inside was carpeted, and included an eight track system with four speakers. Jon, who was very active in his Church, but who was the leader of our little "gang" and who had instigated our plunge into drinking alcohol, also had a tricked out Volkswagen. Another friend had an American Motors Javelin. Young men, especially in the car culture of Southern California, love and maintain their cars. After cruising, we would have a late meal at the Bob's Big Boy restaurant, bid Steve goodbye at his door, pull out the Strawberry Hill, and pass around the bottle. Talk would gravitate to the girls we had been chasing during our "cruise" and sex began to loom larger and larger in my life.
One of my friends from middle school came back into my life around this time, and he used to hold these magnificent parties first at his home and then at the home of his girlfriend, whose family was rather well off monetarily, and who lived in a mansion with two stories, a circular driveway, and a large back yard. These parties included lots of drinking. The place had a full bar. There was dancing, socializing, and I met many new friends at these parties, which were held every four or five months during my college years. This guy was also named Steve. He was also a car nut. Sometimes I would get off work in the afternoons, and drive to the rental yard where he worked. He would close the place down, as he was the junior manager, and then his workmates and I would hole up in the back of one of the camper shells the place rented, pull out the beer and start partying. It seems to me in retrospect that my complete college experience off campus was one ongoing unbroken party, albeit with different revellers involved in three or more different cities and towns.
My college friends in the fraternities, one of which I almost but not quite pledged for membership, were rabblerousing partiers. We had a rather boisterous stag party for one of my friends who was getting married in one of the apartments off campus at U.S.C. Although there were no women in attendance, not even a stripper, there were porn films, which in those pre home video days were shown on a sheet with a 16 mm projector. So sex became a presence for the first time in my life, along with alcohol, parties, and reckless abandonment, while I attended college. My grades weren't as high as in high school, and I even had to repeat a class or two, but they were math and science classes. I was doing pretty well in my English Literature classes, and even received A+ grades in my 14th and 15th century English class.
Emma and I exchanged many letters. We began dating, usually with my sister, her best friend, and her boyfriend. We became another of my "gangs" with whom I would spend time. In 1972, as my sister and her class graduated from high school, and my brother was coming up for graduation the next year, I was in the middle of my four year college experience. I shuttled back and forth from work and school thinking of what parties I would be attending and with which people I would be spending time. I was doing rather well in the retail industry, and kept getting raises which allowed me to always have money in my pocket. I had many groups of friends, many obligations, and many good times. But everything was about ready to get really weird. My mother had a major stroke in 1972. Her contolling nature and nervous energy collapsed at once with her body and one morning, after she and I had had a mind numbing quarrel about some insipid thing or another, she had to be hospitalized, and the toll would eventually cause my father's heart, which was very weak, to fail completely. He had just recovered from a forklift accident at work which had broken his hips and almost paralyzed him. He had finally gone back to work when I was in my last year of high school, and his woodworking in our garage was a form of therapy for him, since he also suffered from arthritis. He had high blood pressure and a bad heart, and in those days heart care was not as advanced as it is today.
Our whirlwind life, first moving from our home town to another, and then having to deal with my mother's stroke and the subsequent hospitalization, almost stopped dead in it's tracks. Mom came home for a while after the stroke, but then had another, more debilitating "bi-lateral" stroke which completely paralyzed her. Now, in between school, work, partying with my friends, seeing Emma Sue, and spending time with three separate "groups" for entertainment, I also had to make almost nightly visits to my mother's hospital room, where a shallow empty vessel that was previously my demanding but loving mother stared at me with vacant eyes.
next two years were rather bleak but also wildly erratic and I would discover
more interesting ways to lose my fears and sadness, and forget problems
in lieu of wild parties and drunken abandon. Father once met me outside
the house when I got home late. "Son, I want to talk to you."
During the year 1973, my third in college, my brother graduated from high school, my sister got involved with another boyfriend, who would eventually become her husband, and Emma and I parted ways. I remained a virgin, even after many evenings of heavy petting with Emma. I became a more sexual person but still I made many friendships with women that were purely platonic, and because I still equated sex with love, if I didn't have feelings for a girl who was a friend, I didn't make any "undue advances". I still act that way, over thirty years later. I made female friends at both work and school.
Dad died in June of 1974, felled by heart attack number 13. Quite unlucky. The stress inherent in working full time and providing for his children, paying for his medical bills, and still managing to spend two or three hours each night with my mother in the hospital, where she existed almost like a vegatable, had taken it's toll. His death occured while I was on vacation with a few buddies, camping in the hills above San Francisco. We had left phone numbers with my brother and sister in the event that if mother suddenly died, which was somewhat expected, then the family could get in touch. Father's passing was a complete shock. After this tragedy, with my father suddenly dead and with my mother relegated to living in a convalescent home where she was hooked up to a dialysis machine, I was made "executor" of her estate, at only 21. It was now my responsibility to manage what was left of our family. I paid bills, stopped services, visited lawyers, and dipped my fingers into the belly of the beuracracy. I had to sell the family house so that Mother could obtain medicare benefits. In retrospect, I should have purchased the family home myself, but at the time, in my fourth year of college, and heavily involved in not one, but three separate "party scenes", buying a house was the last thing on my mind. I moved back to the town where I had attended high school and lived in a one bedroom apartment in one of those mammoth "apartment blocks" so common to Southern California. I was juggling 1. the responsibilities of getting my family's finances in order with 2. a particularly heavy social schedule. My performance at school had suffered that last year, and I hadn't graduated in June of 74 as I should have, coming up just 16 units short of the graduation requirements. I was to have made those units up the next semester, but when Dad died, I quit school altogether, and concentrated on working full time at the hardware chain, where I was managing the nursery department. I didn't have to juggle a schedule for work after quitting school, and living nearer to my work freed up a lot of my time. My sister had met a guy at school the previous year, and she married him almost immediately after we buried my father. The family home, still relatively new to us, having moved there in 1971, saw the wake for my father, and the wedding reception for my sister one after the other. My parents had never hosted parties or soirees of any kind, and as soon as they were out of the picture, our house became an open house, at least in the short time before it would be sold and fall out of our influence.
At this time in my life, besides hanging out with either the high school gang or the work gang, or my friend Steve's work's gang, I had two "best friends". One, Tom, had been in my circle of high school friends, and we became inspeparable in the two years following high school. I would stay with Tom and his parents on some nights when I couldn't make it back home after a night of drinking and partying. The other friend, Mark, worked with me and was heavily involved in church activities. Mark turned me on to my first "joint", or cigarette, containing marijuana, however, and I bonded closer with Tom too after that because we were the only two in our "gang" who indulged in the heady feelings smoking marijuana afforded. Although I had always been a "good boy" when young, after the parental leash was dropped in the gutter, I took advantage of the times and the availability of pot, which cost ten dollars an ounce. I bought my first ounce of the stuff at a frat party at Cal State, and the feelings I would get when stoned made me quite horny. Jon, another friend, would sit in front of an old girlfriend's house for hours after inhaling part of a joint, commisserating about the fact that the girl wasn't with him.
I still held some unnaturally lofty views about "romantic love", and although I was watching lots of steamy movies, and participating in hot talk with my buds, and "cruising for chicks" on Friday nights, I remained a virgin, and my fantaisies of sexuality always included deep romantic love. After Kathy left my sphere of friendship when she broke up with Steve, I began to chum up to a few of the girls attending the other Steve's parties. During the parties, I sometimes would engage in some petting, usually kissing and sometimes gently massaging a girl's breasts, but sex without love seemed to be lacking, even in light of the fact that the sexual revolution was by now swirling around me and my cronies. My brother remained in the family home until the sale forced him to exit, and he brought girls into the house, for sex and for parties. Since I didn't live with him, I didn't see the shenanigans close up, but only listened to my brother's friends exalt at his social manifestoes. I felt that his dalliances were ethically "wrong". Still a prude, although watching pornography, drinking alcohol and smoking drugs, I maintained an obtuse view of morality as it pertained to sex.
Tom wasn't as much a prude as I, however, and we would frequently go up into Hollywood and "check out" the massage parlors. Usually, when we entered one of these small establishments, usually located one street to the north or the south of Hollywood Blvd, we were met with an assembled "line" of girls, scantily dressed, for our "inspection". Tom was always talking about getting laid. Indeed, our "cruise nights" were unsuccessful attempts to "cruise for chicks" and "to get laid". Sex was on everyone's mind, and I would partake of Tom's "inspecitions" knowing that one day, he would "go all the way" to the back room with one of the "massueses" lining up in the front room to the parlors. For a while, we would "look over the merchandise" and then gracefully bow out, and exit the establishment.
here's one that gives away a record album as a door prize."
In the movies, even in the somewhat less well produced pornos of the early 70s, sex is always linked to some romantic gesture or experience. The chubby hooker doffed her negligee with workmanlike precision, there was no hint of delicious sexual delights to come. With the television blaring and the lights still on in the room, her volcanic breasts and dark skin glistened in the glare. She seemed almost as a mannequin, with impossibly smooth unblemished skin. Her hair fell back languidly behind her head, and she openend her calves slightly. "We've got twenty minutes." she exclaimed. I didn't engage in any conversation, didn't divulge my virginity to her, didn't have at all the sort of experience shown in movies or read about in books.
I removed my shoes, shirt and pants, and approached her on the bed, where she lay like a piggy bank ready to accept a nickel in her slot. I didn't kiss her. Although in movies, romance with hookers has happened often, my hooker didn't give in to any health risks. Kissing was verboten. I haphazardly placed my hand on her breast and began to massage the small mountain with it's erect but polyetheline nipple. I gained no thrills or special feeling from this action. She gazed up at me, as if still impatiently keeping track of the time, and I "mounted" her. The sight of the naked girl of course is enough to give a young man a sizable erection. Men are easily aroused, and I was no exception. My penis began to throb as I inserted it into the envelope of her womanhood. This was during the sexual revolution, and condoms were not used. I had never even masturbated, and now I was fully enveloped in the musky world of a woman. I plunged and withdrew, first slowly, then with increasing rapidity. Her skin was like polyurethane. Her nipples looked like they could pop at any moment. She kept her eyes closed, and was probably thinking about tomorrow's shopping list. The lights glared overhead. The television commented inanely with a commercial. The minutes ticked unwarily.
In no time at all, I found myself ejaculating inside her. The feeling of my balls slapping up against her black curly, and massively springy vagina hair was enough in time to cause climax, and I shot my wad inside her, causing me to feel momentarily ecstatic, but then somewhat guilty about nothing in particular scant moments later. I withdrew, wiped myself off with a handy towel, and began to get dressed. Not once did we experiment with postion (and other positions probably cost more) and the complete act was in missionary, with me on the top, and she lying in exactly the same place. Certainly, having first sex with a hooker was not intellectually or spriitually satisfying. I began to get depressed, collected my album, a jazz record I'd later call my $90.00 record album. Tom exhibited pleasure and epiphanic behavior, relating his experience as if it were the Book of Revelation. I said mine was "okay" and secretly regretted having lost my virginity in this manner. We drove home. Two young men who were now no longer "virgins" but "seasoned pros" having paid for their first lay.
The second lay came a few weeks later, courtesy of my brother. One of the girls he frequently partied with was Susan, who was regarded as "loose" and had earned the nickname "Susie the Horse", possibly because she was a willing saddle for any number of "riders." One of my infrequent trips to the family home, I ended up spending the night one evening, while Susan was "rooming" on the living couch. The single bed on which I had been sleeping just a few months previous was still in my old room, and I ended up engaging Susan in conversation, and we both ended up sitting on my single bed, while I read her poetry about Emma and love. With a real girl beside me instead of a prostitute, longer feelings of building ecstasy were able to manifest themselves as I recited words of love. Susan was slightly overweight, and common looking, with a farm girl's ruddy complexion. She sat blissfully while I read my tales of broken hearts and longing, and before long, we were cuddling with each other, and kissing. I put down my volume of poems, and we removed each other's clothing silently while exploring our bodies. Susan wore one of those triple clasp bras to contain her voluminous brests, and upon thier unclasping, her bounty presented itself to a willing mouth. Our foreplay lasted about a half hour, and before long, she was reclining in a missionary position, removing her grannie panties. Susan was not made of plasticine, as had been the hooker. Susan was a breathing, living human being. With my clothes fully removed, I slowly and purposefully inserted my willing member into the wet, damp orifice between her legs. We kissed, hugged, and fuc*ed, and the experience for me was more satisfying than with the whore. We engaged in sex until my climax, and then I began to feel somewhat depressed and guilty again. I quickly excused myself to the bathroom down the hall, and then told Susan that she could go out to the living room couch where she had been sleeping so I could go to bed. I was very abrupt and unforgiving, acting a bit like an a**hole. Susan got dressed and went out to the living room. I half heartedly tried to explain why I was engaging in wham bam thank you ma'am behavior when we were both sleeping in the house that evening, and perhaps it made sense to her, but more likely she thought I was being rather illogical "after the act".
When going to parties after this, I watched women closer than ever before, and I began to believe sex was just something else to do, like drinking beer, or smoking dope. My first two back to back experiences were not filled with any sense of closeness or love. The media was preaching sex without consequences at the time. It was called "love" but mostly the practice was physical for all concerned. One of the girls who frequently attended Steve's parties at his girlfriend's house danced with me for most of one evening, and we necked and petted all around the grounds of the mansion, almost tearing our clothes off out in the garden. Somebody was taking photos of the party that evening, and some of the shots of me dancing with the girl found their way into the hands of Paula's girlfriend Ruth, who attended Cal State Long Beach as a Sex Ed Major. Ruth had read some of my poetry, since I was always lending my poems to Paula to read, and when she saw my photo she wanted to meet me. Ruth was liberated and smart. She was the perfect woman, free in her ideas about life and sex. She was an activist, a vegan, and had her own off campus apartment. One evening while hanging out with Steve, he showed me her photo, and told me she wanted to meet me because she saw how "hot" I acted around the gal at the party. This turn of events intrigued me. From then on in my poetry, the theme of "serendipity" becomes a major influence in my work. So far, sex had been, for me, an unthinkable abomination for most of my young life, a means of physical release that made for conflicting thoughts during wet dreams, which were sometimes populated by my sister, and ultimately a contrived physical exercise that meant little and didn't add up to much. A girl in Long Beach like my poetry, and cared for the words. She thought I looked good from a photo she saw, in which I was essentially with another girl. Her presence was to make a major difference in my sex life, and I would never be the same.
In 1975, I was living in a small apartment close to where I had attended high school, and I soon moved to the South Bay area of Southern California when the then store manager of the retail store for which I worked secured a position as store manager at a new location. I was acting as the executor of my mother's estate after my father's death the previous year, and had to sell the family home in order for my mother to retain medicare benefits, so my brother had to move out and into an apartment of his own. Pretty much our "family" separated forever at this point. My sister was already married, and lived in Long Beach or San Diego, depending upon where her husband, who was in the Navy, was stationed at the time.
My main social group during this time were friends which I had known since the eighth grade, and others met at the parties Steve and his girlfriend Paula threw in Paula's parents' mansion, which was a true "party house". I also still hung around with my old high school friends, although less so after moving to the South Bay, where I would meet many more friends, and establish another social circle. I was still living in my first apartment however when I met Ruth, who lived in Long Beach, and attended Cal State Long Beach, which is where my friend Steve also took classes. He had met Paula at college, and Ruth was one of Paula's better friends.
I don't think this Steve and the other Steve, who was involved with Kathy, my first love, in high school, ever met. Each was in a different "circle of friends". I managed my social life like my complicated school and work life. I had always been good at "scheduling" and was always able to keep all my friendship circles separated into my different interests. The first Steve was religious and good for long conversations about the world, love, and politics. The second Steve was a secular partymonger with whom I 'partied'. I once attempted to "mix" the two experiences when attending a beach party with the first Steve, who also worked in a retail establishment as I did, and some of his workmates. He had confessed to me that one of the girls with which he worked, who had seen me hanging around the jewelry counter where he worked, had expressed an interest in me. At the beach party, I got drunk, and had a friendly tussle with the girl, Diana. Steve had gotten over his breakup with Kathy, the girl I had loved in high school when they were going together, and he, his then girlfriend, Diana, and I, went back to my apartment after the beach party. I attempted to seduce Diana, and she got perturbed, because I was rushing things a bit, still heady with the ease with which I had bedded Susan a few months earlier. This time I only wanted some sex. Diana held me back, however, and I later apologized for my brazenness.
"The other Steve", who with Paula held the parties in her parents' house, introduced me to Ruth, Paula's friend, who had seen photos of me taken at one of the parties dancing with another girl. Our first meeting was at Steve's parents' house. In those days, I was the only one with an apartment. Everybody else still lived at home. But Ruth had an apartment too. She lived off campus in Long Beach. Ruth was pretty short in stature. I don't believe she was over 5 foot tall. She had short legs, a rather large head, big soulful eyes, and long luxurious brown hair that cascaded down her back. Her smile could stop an elephant in his tracks. Ruth was not what you would call beautiful, but she "beamed". Her most obvious "attibute" from the male sexual outlook, was the size of her breasts. Even if she had been taller, they would have been called large. For her size, they were mammoth. We hit it off rather well, but I must say that I know I didn't fall in love with her. There was a friendliness and camaraderie I felt during that first meeting sitting on Steve's couch in his parents' living room while he and Paula busied themselves back in his bedroom. We talked about my poetry mainly. That was always my icebreaker in those days. She had read some of the poems I had loaned Paula. To tell the truth, I had a sort of a "thing" for Paula, who was blonde, big boned, and statuesque. Ever since I fell in love with Kathy, my majorette from high school, I seemed to favor tall women with long legs. Paula was magnificent looking and her smile outshone the sun. However she was in love with Steve, and he her. After my conversation with Ruth, which lasted a few hours, I gave her my "poetry volume" which was a three ring binder containing all of my poetry. We made a date to get together the following week at her apartment one day after I got off work.
My retail schedule was always rather malleable. I worked both day and night shifts, and lots of weekends, so my day off was usually in the middle of the week. Our meeting was to be on a Friday, after her classes, which were in the morning, ended. I got off at about 5pm on the day of our second meeting, and I drove to Long Beach to visit her. She had read most of my poems and the appointed date couldn't come fast enough. Although she wasn't my "type" physically, I did catch the spark of affection in her when we first met, and I was pretty full of myself knowing that she liked my poetry. I wrote her a poem, spelling her name anacrostically down the first letters of one of the verses. This never failed to impress gals for whom I had done it in the past.
This was the beginning of our beautiful friendship. It wasn't to last long, and my purposeful search for "love" was not over, but sex would be a great part of our relationship. Ruth was majoring in sexual education at CSULB, and she had lots of knowledge concerning desire, sexual satisfaction, and pleasing one's partner. As our relationship was to continue, for about a year, I found my own sexual center, and had some of the best times I have had in my life. We didn't have sex at her apartment that afternoon, however, because my body tried to rush things a bit too soon.
Ruth lived in one of those older, fairly small apartments which are scattered around north Long Beach. There was only one room, with a pull down bed. The plumbing creaked. The walls had been painted over so many times that they displayed a thickness which looked like the entire place had been dumped in some giant bucket of off white paint. There was a small bathroom and kitchen, with an old gas stove. The place was pretty spartan, but Ruth was young, and this was her first time away from home. We greeted each other with a hug, something with which I was still not too comfortable, as I had never really liked to be touched. She returned my poetry, after I read some of the pieces to her out loud.
She told me her family history. We shared our philosophies and our lists of likes and dislikes. She cooked me a casserole. The late afternoon disappeared into the early evening. We were sitting on the sofa, pretty close to each other, and the magic time appeared as if in one of the romantic motion pictures I have always loved. We shared a kiss, long, succulent, and flavorful. Her lips were thick, and our saliva mixed with our tongues, forging new pathways within our shared cavern of ecstasy. This foreplay seemed to last for hours, but probably took place within twenty or so minutes. I had advanced from a serious prudishness to an unmatched sexual hunger in only about six months. The hooker was like a plastic doll, and I couldn't kiss the hooker. Susan had been willing and eager, but my mind was still mixed up at the time of our coupling.
Memories of kissing the three girls after dance practice back in high school, and kissing Emma, my sister's best friend, were all encompassing compared to the "fuc*ing" of the whore and to the evening tryst with Susan. But kissing Ruth was like entering the gates of some seething heavenly place. We experienced a shared journey of discovery with our mouths, teeth, and tongues. Ruth and I tussled, still with our clothes on, eventually lying supine on the sofa, and engaged in some petting. Her breast, felt through the cloth of her blouse, and under her massive brassiere, was smooth and round. Her private area rubbed against my hips as we kissed.
The moments passed as if in a dream. Although I didn't intellectualize a feeling of "love" in my heart for her, I was thoroughly enjoying myself, and was sure that sex, which was rapidly approaching the point of no return, was going to be fantastic. As these moments were passing as if in slow motion, my seething manhood came to attention, but he wasn't on the same wavelength as my mind. He was a bit too eager, and all the rubbing going on down between our legs was a bit much on the poor boy. I ejaculated much too prematurely, and felt somewhat embarrassed and at a bit of a loss for explanation.
As the wet, slimy semen load oozed itself down my inner thigh, I immediately sat up, and ended the foreplay. I can't remember exactly what I said. I know I felt ashamed and angry at myself. I have always prided myself on my honesty, but I wasn't honest with Ruth. I made some feeble excuse about having to leave. For me, the kissing and fondling seemed like hours, but in actuality I was probably on the sofa with her for a little over a half hour. I am sure she was totally perplexed. We were rubbing ourselves like we were in heat, and then suddenly, I had to leave and end our passion. Ruth was confused, and I left her at the door, collected my volume of poetry, and went out to my car.
I called her from a phone booth, still in Long Beach, after I had cleaned myself up, muttering tourettelike to myself that I really screwed up a possible relationship before it had even started. My pride was wounded, and on the phone, I offered further excuses and apologies. For some unexplained reason, I still can't find myself to acknowledge even today, I didn't call her for about two weeks after my "accident" and this caused her further confusion.
Ruth asked Steve what was wrong with me. Steve and I had a "man to man" but I still couldn't relate the truth of what had happened. I don't even think I mentioned the foreplay to him. He did tell me that Ruth was on the point of becoming angry at me if I didnt' call. I didn't know what to say to her, and so I stayed "away from the situation". This is not a nice thing to do when courting someone, and eventually I did call. We did get back together, and I did tell her exactly what had happened. We both had a laugh over the nonsensical first coupling together, and our second try was a bit more daring and much more satifactory for both partners. My climax the next time occurred at the end, rather than at the beginning of the act, as it should.
"Boy Gets Girl"
Our eventual coupling was not brief, but elaborate, experimental, and athletic. We moved from the bed, to the sofa, to the floor, connected with a friendly sexual exhuberance that happens when two young healthy people find a common ground in which to exercise their passions. Our passions were inexhaustable, and after our mutual climax, we immediately began the foreplay, the oral satisfaction, and the penetration again, and again and again.
By the time I left her house the next morning, with the knowing birds tweeting their song of love, I knew that Ruth and I would be a fine couple. I still didnt' "love" her as I had Kathy, or thought I had with Emma. Our relationship, based on Ruth's love of my words, and cemented in a night of glorious sexuality, was going to be a long and interesting one. I left the apartment happier than I had ever been. From a miscued start, we rounded the first bend of our shared journey with mutual admiration and we had both enjoyed a sexual coupling that belonged in the letters section of a Penthouse magazine, at least in my "male" mind.
We hooked up at another of Steve and Paula's parties a few days later, and we had a pretty deep conversation while sitting in the gazebo in the back yard. Young men and women were strolling the yard, which was more of a garden, with pathways, hedges, and groups of flowers in arranged areas, so that twenty or so people could be in the garden, and still be essentially alone together. In the house, there was the usual amount of dancing, and drinking, but back in the gazebo, at the far corner of the yard, we could browse the complete party, as if we were watching a movie. The turmoil and cacophany of the party seemed miles removed from the dark cool atmosphere of the gazebo. Ruth and I kissed, fondled, and became as one soul, connected to eternity. In our previous encounter, I had performed cunnilingus on Ruth. Here, sitting in the gazebo, and without a second thought, my paramour skillfully unzipped my fly, and began to massage my growing penis. She freed it from it's saddle in my briefs, allowing for a quick stab of the cool air, before her mouth engulfed me. Here we were, sitting in an open gazebo on the grounds of Paula's house, and she gave me my first head. I didn't come too quickly this time, thankfully, and I enjoyed this forbidden action. When my climax was achieved, she swallowed the ejaculate like a frothy vanilla milk shake, enjoying the warm flow of life slide down her throat. There was no mess, and no fuss. Although I had just ejaculated, in youth, I was able to return to a rigid state fairly quickly.
We walked briskly through the garden, into and out of the house, and out into the circular driveway which was at the front of the house. My car, a 1961 bullet nosed Thunderbird, which was a classic, sat stealthily on the circle. The party was in full swing, so there were dozens of people arriving and leaving. I unlocked the door, and Ruth and I slid into the back seat. Within minutes the window glass was fogged, as we kissed and fondled, and although we didn't remove our clothes, I postitioned my pants down below my ankles, and Ruth mounted me after pulling her panties to one side. We stayed in the car for about an hour, and since I had come earlier in the gazebo, I didnt' come this time, but remained hard, and satisfied my new lover completely.
Every one was missing us at this point, and when we finally returned to the party, a bit disheveled by heartily satisfied and vigorous, we winked at both Steve and Paula, who knew exactly what was going on. I was now fully initiated into the sacred rights of carnal knowledge. I didn't need movies, books, or dirty conversations with my male friends any more. I had a girlfriend who was not only sexually open, she was knowledable about sexual practice and health. She had an IUD, so I didn't have to worry about condoms, and we were able to "feel" our fleshy exploits without any covering of ourselves. We became an "item" and I dated her exclusively, turning away from my other social circles. My friend Tom, and the other Steve, had to wait sometimes months for my presence. I moved to the South Bay right after I met Ruth, and I was closer to Long Beach. We attended concerts, saw dozens of movies, and went out to dinner together.
Our sexual shenanigans were taken to new heights each time we spent the night either at my place or hers. One time we actually performed the act to climax fourteen times. We rarely slept when we spent time with each other. Our sexual current was never shut off. We would sneak feels while driving, with her sister in the car. We once performed "silent sex" while after bringing her sister and a friend back to her apartment. The other girls slept on the floor, and Ruth and I could hardly contain our laughter as we coupled on the bed. Each meeting brought new delights. One time I brought out a marijuana cigarette, and we smoked some pot before sex. The feeling for me at climax was like a never ending stream of satisfying life blood was flowing from my body and into hers. These were the best months of my life up until that point, and in retrospect, they were probably among the best times of my entire life up to now.
"Boy Loses Girl"
I did fall in love with a firery redhead named Elfie who joined the retail establishement in which I worked as a cashier. Each day I worked alongside Elfie, we got closer and closer to each other. Our conversations were sexually sparked. Elfie was one of those redheads with alabaster white skin. She wore her hair in a pixie cut, and she was covered with freckles. Her breasts were like torpedos, sticking out in pointed wonder. She was taller than Ruth, although not my "sexual" ideal, she was closer than Ruth, and like the classic "other woman", I spent a lot of time fantasizing about Elfie when I was with Ruth. Ruth became "routine" and Elfie became scintillating. I started attending some of the same parties Elfie attended. I was taking lots of drugs in those days, even though I was a department manager in a retail establishment, and most of the guys in my party circle in the South Bay worked either in the store, or as box boys. Three of my best friends worked in the department I mangaged.
I would begin visiting both Elfie and her roommate Darlene at their rented house on the beach. I spent some time making out with both of them. All this happened while I was still seeing Ruth. I have always been honest and forthright in my dealings with people, and didn't want to "string" Ruth along as I maneuvered towards Darlene and especially Elfie. The conundrum for me was that I already had a wonderful sexual pairing with Ruth, yet I was attracted more to Elfie. One day I broke it off with Ruth. I honestly told her that I wanted to date other girls. I didn't mention however that I had another girl in mind. Ruth and I had our one and only argument the night I ended our relationship. She told me that I was giving up a good thing, and I knew it, but my sense of "love" told me that sex with Ruth was fantastic, but sex with Elfie would be even more fantastic, because I thought I "loved" Elfie.
Ruth gave me chances, but I blew them off. Ruth gave me the opportunity to change my mind, but it was set in stone, as was my penis, fot the redheaded firery delights of Elfie's white soft form. Ruth became an obstacle, and I jumped over her. We parted ways, only to see each other a couple of times in the future, filled with visions of lost opportunities. I set my sights on Elfie, who filrted shamelessly with me at work, and let me feel her up even when we walked together in public. I felt a surge of wanting for coupling with Elfie that superseded my already fulfilling sexual garden of delights with my current paramour. I forsook my "bird in the hand" for the one out in the bush, who smiled so delightedly at me when we were together.
Ruth slammed the door a bit harder than usual when she left my life. I do have regrets, and breaking off our relationship for another untested conquest is one of them. I fully admit I acted not only stupidly, but like a daredevil without a backup plan. I would soon find that the mistake I made was not only unrepairable, but unneeded and inescapable. I closed my book on Ruth, and opened a fresh page with Elfie. She wouldn't read my book as well as Ruth did, however, but I didn't know that when I approached Elfie for the first time after becoming "a free man".
"We wants the redhead. We wants the redhead"........chanted by the sailors at the wife auction in the Disneyland ride, "Pirates of the Caribbean."
The last strains of music to emanate from my voluminous but short sexual relationship with the fair Ruth were probably silenced forever following the night of my "party" in late 1976. As the sparks flew brighter and more intense while talking to Elfie, of the alabaster skin, pointed searching breasts and crackling red hair, the conversations and couplings with Ruth became more workmanlike and stale. Ruth had instilled in me the seeds of the sexual revolution, and I wished somewhat too quickly after this to plant these seeds in other women besides her.
In the South Bay back in the seventies, each "popular" partygoer became legend. On Friday and Saturday nights, and even Sunday nights in certain places, one attuned to the spirit of nightlife in the Bay always knew where to head, fueled by the constant pipeline of communication among the denizens, for the party. As I became a regular partygoer during this period, always ready to try a new drug or experience, I began to plan my own party, and talked to many of my workmates, friends, and other people at other parties. In the social scene, each party held in any given party night was ranked in importance. Around 10 p.m. to midnight, the party with the most dopesmoking, cocaine addled youths rubbing up against each other with almost no room to move around, became the "hot spot" and the most popular nitespot of the evening. Some people talked about legendary South Bay parties for decades. I wanted to be part of the legend.
My party, while never attaining legendary status, was to be an all encompassing affair. I "split" the party into two apartments, because I lived on the ground floor of my building in a bachelor's apartment, with the bathroom accessible by walking through the closet, and only one large room and a kitchen in which to entertain. Paul, who lived upstairs, and was a weaselly New Yorker transplant who collected tropical fish and had many large aquariums, lived in a large two bedroom apartment alone on the second floor. His and my apartments would be the party 'rooms' and I drew a map showing not only how to get to the party, but how to maneuver into the different apartments once you got there. I waited for the big night, when I would mix my different cliques of friends for the first time. Ultimately, this was not going to work out as I had planned, but before it happened, I must have invited over a hundred people, including my brother and sister, workmates, old schoolmates, and other party people in the South Bay.
Ruth came over early. I had been eyeing Elfie and Darlene at work, two cashiers who shared a house in Hermosa Beach, and although they were "party girls", and I wanted to fu*k both of them rather badly, I had only succeeded in making out with both by the time of the party. I was then ready to tell Ruth I wanted to "fool around a bit" in order to open the door to a relationship with Elfie, whose red headed hellishness really captivated me. Her name was her personality. She reminded me of a chubby elf, with a smile that seared through my being. I never fell in love with Ruth, although our sexual gymnastics had me feeling good for months. Something has gotta give, and during the party is when jealousy shook his dirty little head.
Since Ruth arrived first, we set out the drinks and the appetizers and hor's d'erves in both apartments. As the sun set into a beautiful sea, the first of the revellers arrived. They were work people, well versed in the party etiquette of the South Bay. Nobody went to a party early unless they were "stopping by" on the way to another party, and since this was only my first, I was low on the list of have-to-be-seen places that evening. Elfie and Darlene arrived, with a cache of cocaine, and two male friends as escorts. Darlene and one of the two boys disappeared in the bathroom for most of the remainder of the night, exiting only when somebody had to go, using the room as their mirror for the ingestion of the cocaine, and distributing hits from the bathroom to the other guests. In those innocent but hedonistic days, one announced he was into the new drug of choice by wearing a little silver or gold spoon around his neck. Mine swung from my neck later on however. At this point, I had only ingested one drug through my nose, at a party Elfie and Darlene had thrown, and it was phencyclidine, an elephant tranquilizer, commonly called "angel dust" or PCP, which I thought was cocaine. During the party, I only went into my bathroom in order to take a piss. I soon found that having a hundred people traipse through your place called for constant awareness of the situation, so it didn't get out of hand.
Ruth must have noticed me and Elfie getting somewhat close in the cramped atmosphere at my place, where the party actually became quite raucous for a time right before midnight. I was incredibly drunk at this point, and Ruth went upstairs and hung out with Paul, who it was later rumored had been making out with her, massaging those mammoth mounds heaving from her chest. I got so drunk I actually passed out at my own party eventually, and then woke up right as my sister and her husband arrived, but the press of people had already passed on by this time. Even when I was still sober enough to be a good host, the "melding" of the different cliques didn't ever happen. People from one would arrive after another had left, or else the crush of people was just so great that I couldn't see the actual interplay of too many people. It was after the party that Ruth and I had a conversation relating to breaking up, and she walked out of my life forever.
Now the air was clear and clean for a relationship with Elfie. I flirted with her and Darlene more at work, and I rubbed up against both of them every chance I could get. I was a frequent visitor to their house, but neither had ever visited me, except for the night of the party. They were a source, one of many, of exotic drugs, and I was experimenting heavily with mind altering substances at this time. I had my first acid trip with Morgan, Steve, and Harry. We were a group of best buddies who all worked at Ole's together, and both Morgan and Harry wanted to be my "guide" for my first "trip". Harry missed out, as I and Steve were tight with Morgan, a roly poly curly headed dwarf with an overweight wife and small daughter, who listened to Pink Floyd records and was part of a boisterous family of both losers and winners. Harry, a janitor at Ole's and the guy who managed the apartment building in which I lived, was from the east, Chicago to be specific, and had met Paul, who owned all the fishtanks, in the Greenwich Village section of New York in the early 70s. They were older than me by about five years. Morgan, Darlene, and Elfie were my peers. Drug use rose exponentially for me, and it was said in the South Bay that "Mikey will try anything." After I would give my approval to the drug du jour on any given occasion, my friends would not in unison, "Mikey Likes It." After the social and sexual congress with Ruth abated, I spent all my time not on the job at Ole's inebriated, stoned, and hanging out with either Morgan, Steve, Harry , Darlene, or Elfie.
In those days, my talents and artistic tendencies were centered around both drawing and making music tapes and audio collages. I had two turntables, and even though this was in the "pre-digital age", I would use both eight track and reel to reel tape to construct 'radio shows' for my car's eight track player, and "comedy tapes" for my workmates and friends to laugh over. In one of these, I needed a female voice, and coaxed Elfie to come over to my place to record a soundtrack from a prepared script. I had plenty of drugs and alcohol stocked up, and I really was planting a ruse to get into her pants at last, and see whether those attractive freckles covered her whole body. She delightfully agreed to come over, and after work one evening, we spent about an hour or two recording parts of one of my audiotapes.
After the taping concluded, we had some dirinks, smoked a prodigious amount of maryjane, and were sitting side by side on the couch. I felt overpoweringly omnipotent. I had easily excised my association with Ruth, not even caring or stopping to think about whether I had broken any hearts along the way, and here I was sitting beside my red haired "elf" about to participate, I hoped, in the same kind of open, free, robust sexual antics as I had practiced with Ruth. I steered the talk toward steamier issues than voice recording, and soon we were embracing, and sharing a kiss.
Using the word "we" at this point is a misnomer, however. Elfie and I had sex that evening, but it seemed as if Elfie's mind and presence were somewhere else entirely. I seduced her, removed her clothing, found out that she was, in fact, covered with freckles, had springy vagina hair and smooth voluptuous legs and thighs, and yet she hardly moved during the process. The kisses fell on soft but unmoving lips. I performed oral sex on her nether regions, but she hardly signalled pleasure. I squeezed her torpedo tits and tweaked the nipples, but she hardly made a squeak. I removed all my clothes, and attempted to stimulate her, to get her juices flowing, to spark some sort of participation, but to no avail.
Having sex with Elfie, unlike Ruth, was boring and lackluster, like fu*king the polyethlyne hooker a few years previous. I not only didn't enjoy myself, as I found I couldn't lubricate Elfie no matter what I tired, and couldnt' insert myself, no matter how "hard" I tired, because she was locked tighter than a zipped purse. She didnt' talk, moan, breathe hard, or protest. I felt strangely as if I were raping a dead girl, and it wasn't a positive experience in my life. I knew the ramifications of failure in my relationship with Ruth at that time. I had made a dreadful mistake, not the first, and certainly not the last, and regrets bubbled out of me like efferevescence to the top of a champagne glass, but not as "bubbly" as the postive throes of sexual ecstasy had supposed to be.
After a couple of hellish hours of attempting to relieve the most hurtful case of blueballs I've ever had, we dressed and I saw her out the door. At work the next day she was her usual self, and we flirted per usual, and laughed and conversed as if nothing had happened, which of course, nothing had. That was the short beginning and end of my "relationship" with Elfie, for whom I had left an interconnection with Ruth that had been healthy and fun. I furtively attempted to get Ruth back, too, as I am no fool, but maybe I am, and Ruth not only spurned my phone calls, but made it clear that she really didn't want to see me again. She had made that pretty clear before our last conversation had ended when we broke up.
The next year was the year I got fired from Ole's, in actuality for my drug use, but written on the company books as wearing a "dirty shirt " to work. The axe fell a few weeks after I returned from a vacation with Harry, his wife, and children in East Orange, New Jersey, where Harry's wife's parents lived. I don't think either I nor Harry were sober for any great length of time during the vacation, and I had a brushing glance with sex while sitting on the massive front steps of one of those old three story Jersey homes during one late summer evening. The coupling was with a girl Harry had known when he had met his wife in New Jersey a few years previously. I have always used my poetry as a crowbar to pry apart the inhibitions of interested girls, and the Jersey girl on the porch steps was a willing target, enamored of my poems, and breathing my kiss as if we were permanently stuck together. Because I was with Harry and another guy during the visit, the girl and I retired upstairs to a bedroom, but didn't go all the way, as Harry's cries that I and him go back to his mother in law's house for dinner interrupted the coitus if there were to be any, and there wasn't. I never saw that girl again, but remember her sweet voice. I for one love the sound of east coast girls when they talk. But I'm also a sucker for the southern girls, and the midwestern girls as well. English girls can command my attention with their dialect any time. I'm a sucker for diversity.
After I was fired, following the vacation, I had to receive unemployment checks, and even had to go to "trail" to prove that my employer didn't actually fire me for a dress code violation after all. I had enough witnesses, including Steve, who had been fired as well, in the "sweep" of employess who were in the alleged "drug ring." Harry lost his job too. All at different times during the two week period after I came back from Jersey. All for differing infractions, but nobody was fired for specific drug use, because we did the drugs off of work. It was because some people had trouble getting to work after a night high on black beauties, acid or coke, that the employer decided to put his foot down.
During the next three months, in the early fall of the year 1977, drug use, expensive restaurant meals, and even daily six packs of beer had to be foregone. I couldn't afford much more than toasted cheese sandwiches and bowls of chile during unemployment. Thanks to my organizational skills, I got by, and followed my muse for a while writing my "fictional autobiography", titled "Goin' Crazy" detailing my life as the fictional novel written in third person, and by crafting one of my "magazine parodies" of the TV Guide. I kept busy, so I didn't miss not having drugs every waking hour, and the three months passed quickly.
I looked for work sporadically. Since this was the first time post high school that I had been free of employment opportunity, I wanted to stretch the three month unemployment allotment to it's limit, and engage my muse. At the end of the year, I needed to obtain work again, and dropped a resume at the offices of a new chain store going up all around Southern California.
The FedMart chain of stores, began in San Diego in the 60s under the tuteledge of Sol Price, who later founded "The Price Club", had been purchased by a German retail magnate, and had recently bought both the physical locations of the old White Front and Two Guys stores. Two Guys, with rumored reputed mafia ties, had a store on the corner of Sepulveda Blvd. and Hawthorne Blvd. in Torrance, mere blocks from where I lived. The resume was accepted, and I went to work for what was then a Builder's Emporium that hadn't yet closed down. FedMart was going to turn the store, which is now a Ralphs next door to a Target store, into a new "knock down" furniture store chain called "Furniture-to-Go", which promoted the concept that Ikea has made famous, but about 20 years too soon. The store manager of the Builder's/FedMart was Jim, a short Italian firebrand who had been a buyer for Two Guys, but was downsized to store manager. He immediately took an interest in me, for some strange reason, on which I built a relationship with FedMart that would eventually find me part of a management Dream Team sent to Culver City to clean up one of the worst stores in the district, but I am getting ahead of myself.
It was at the Builder's Emporium, where I was installed as Garden shop manager, the post I held at Ole's as well, that I met Cathy, and fell in love. Cathy was soon to become the most powerful unrequited conquest of my life. I fell for her quickly, and have never forgotten her.
I was always falling in love with Cathys. The first, my majorette back in high school, spelled her name with a K. She was the first real "love of my life." I worshipped her, wrote her poetry she never read, and longed for the day when my best friend, her boyfriend at the time, would break up with her, and then when it happened, Kathy shunned me as a potential boyfriend, and I later "lost track" of her. The second Cathy arrived in my life from one of the checkstands at the local Builder's Emporium. I had been looking for employment, following my abrupt departure from my first retail establishment in the summer of 1977, and filled out one of many applications for a job at Builder's, which was a direct competitor to the chain for which I had worked, where I had been employed since graduating from high school about five years previous.
I got the job at Builder's in late 1977, but the location was soon to close down, and become remodeled and reopened as a new kind of furniture store, owned by the FedMart chain, which was buying up old chainstore locations in the southland and reconverting them. A FedMart store would open in the now closed Two Guys location next door, and the plan was already in place to reopen the Builder's store as a "Furniture to Go" store, initiating in the United States a retail model popular in Germany, where the owners of the FedMart chain hailed, in which customer shopped for "assemble-it-yourself" furniture. This was a radical concept in 1977. I was hired by a guy I have always called "my godfather" partly because he was Italian, having been with the Two Guys chain (which had always reportedly had ties to organized crime) and partly because he "took me under his wing" and taught me about the intricate mechanisms of the retail industry from an "insider executive's" standpoint. At my previous employer, I had risen no further than department head after starting as a box boy after high school. I never got to see the real management wheels in motion, but "my godfather", Jimmy, would prove to be a great beginning contact for my career with the new chain.
Cathy was one of the cashiers at the Builder's Emporium. She towered almost a full head taller than me, but this didn't prohibit me from instantly falling in love with her. I was about to turn 25, at the first quarter century point of my life, and I had been through many changes in life already, including losing both parents, as my mother had finally passed away in 1977, and losing my first real job in my retail career. When I obtained work at the Builder's store, and met Jimmy, "my godfather", I knew my business career would be flourishing, When I met Cathy, who was the sister of another South Bay girl I knew when I worked at the Torrance home center from which I was fired, I knew my love life would soon be flourishing as well.
I would be wrong, but it would take about a year for me to figure it out.
Love is sometimes very fickle, unrepentant, and ruthless. Cathy presented herself as a zany version of her twin sister, and she exuded for me a sexual quality I have only found in a few females. The two physical attributes which immediately held an attraction for me were her hands, smooth as proverbial silk, and magnificently structured, and her smile, which could melt solid wax in an instant. After suffering first through the hell of actually getting fired, and then going on unemployment, and not knowing what would actually be in store for me in an unknown future, finding not only employment, but Cathy sitting behind the register at that employer's gave me renewed hope in both life and sucess, in money and in love. Cathy flirted shamelessly. I managed the garden department, which was slowly being phased out, and I would spend hours "watering the houseplants" in the display up in front of the store by the cashiers. I flirted back, and also flirted with Monica, another cashier. I have always shamelessly flirted with women, and the flirtatiousness that Elfie exhibited had taught me that sometimes this does not translate well into an actual sexual pairing. One evening, I attended a dinner party with Cathy and her "group". I witnessed her interacting with her "boyfriend". Cathy was about 20 at the time, attending junior college. Her boyfriend was a couple of years older. I saw them kiss. I knew soon thereafter, as with my previous Kathy from high school, that I didn't have a chance. The flirting was harmless, for her. Devastating for me. It didn't stop, either. Days following the party found her as beautiful and sexy as ever, winking and smiling that million watt smile. I melted in it's presence as willfully as any slab of solid wax. And I began to compose poetry for her, in order to show her exactly what I was feeling.
It was during an exhuberant April, with Spring firmly in bloom, that I began writing poetry for Cathy. Each week would bring more poems, filled with love, yearning, and hopefulness. Cathy remained flirtatious and pretty but good naturedly goofy at work. She was tall, as I have mentioned, with small breasts and lush, long legs. She seldom wore skirts, however, preferring pants, and she liked to goof off, and her body language could embrace both the graceful and the slapstick. I fell deeper in love with each passing day.
During these early months in my new postion at the FedMart Corporation, I began to drink heavily again, and was back to partying with my various groups of friends. I was not the best housekeeper in the world, either, and I filled one whole wall of my kitchen with 16 oz Schlitz Stout Malt Liquor cans. I could leave empty beer cans lying around for days. I rarely vacuumed or dusted, and cleanliness was not really the first thing on the minds of most of my "guests" in my apartment anyway. I ran around with party people and I visited other, less rowdy people at their own places, so I was able for the most part to have my cake and eat it too. Cathy came from Manhattan Beach, and was used to a fairly lush life with no setbacks or illogic to break up the motonony of perfection. I was a notorious drunk. I even exhibited that part of my behavior to her on numerous occasions. The year I was madly in love with Cathy stands out as one of the worst years of my life. She always acted like I had a chance with her, and these actions only intensifed as our "relationship" grew. She seemed to want me to prove to her that I was a better prospect than "boyfriend" and if I could do so, then I would win her affection. For the first four months, my hopes were sky high and my heart was melting soft and supple from that smile of hers. As my affection for her grew, her inaction to accept it fully spurred my alcoholism, and partying with friends drinking was teeter tottering with drinking alone and with regret more and more often as the year progressed.
I owned two cars, and both were useless at the time. My Volkswagen was in the shop with a blown engine that was being replaced. I had to sell the Thunderbird because the repair bills would cost more than the car was worth. I used public transportation for the most part, riding the Torrance Transit to and from my job. Because I didn't have transportation, my circle of friends shrunk again, as it had just recently when I was on unemployment. Cathy became more and more a focus for my energy. One evening she volunteered to take me home even though it was out of her way. I jumped at the chance. Jimmy, "my godfather" and the store manager, goaded us into a "relationship" every chance he could. He was always trying to find me a girlfriend, even in later years of our relationship. After work, Cathy and I would get in her car, a mammoth boat, a 1971 Pontiac Catalina four door, and she would drive me to the street alongside my apartment building. The first couple of times we talked on the way home, and then I would exit the car. I never wavered in my pursuit of this beautiful girl, and each time she drove me home, I would give her a new poem. One evening our conversation became a little more sexual than usual, and we proceeded to neck. Kissing her for me was ecstasy. She seemed to enjoy our probing affection, not sweet and innocent, but not filled with raging lust either. Our kisses were doorways into her soul. I felt as if I were persuading her at last, and necking soon wasn't enough for us. The necking gave way to heavy petting, and rubbing of genatalia through our clothing. Boyfriend was still a towering influence in Cathy's life, but she was having problems sexually concerning the boy, and I kept telling her how it would be a hell of a lot better with me, so she "tried me out" in her car, behind her wheel, on her time, before dismissing me to go inside to my own apartment.
She never entertained my suggestion that we go on up to my place. But our semi regular "petting sessions" were something I began to rely upon. While engaging in soulkissing that satisfied my longings, I would reach my hand up underneath her bra and gently massage her nipples, which grew gloriously erect in my hands. Her small breasts responded by heaving more heavily as she breathed. We both would lose track of time, and were sure that nobody could see us hidden in the expanse of the boat she called a car. In time my hands would move down between her legs. She would stroke my willing penis through my slacks, and we remained lip locked as we groped lovingly and knowingly. I would sense a coupling of mind and spirit that wasnt' exactly there, but it worked for my sexual fantasy, and during this time, my groping with Cathy after she took me home from work was the only sexual outlet I was experiencing.
My love for her grew more confused as our sexual shenanigans, enhanced by a knowing flirting on both our parts at work, grew more frequent. The Builder's closed, and Cathy was among a small group of employees that remained employed by the FedMart chain. She was to be a cashier at the Furniture to Go, and I was to be the back end and warehouse manager. Jimmy, "my godfather", taught me in his own inimitable way how to drive the company bobtail, with s slip shift and 10 gears. I delivered furniture, picked up merchandise and also was responsible for the receiving of furniture and warehousing it. Other employees were to keep the shelves on the floor filled. Jimmy was store manager, and Peggy, who was Operations manager at the Builder's, became Cathy's boss in the new store as well. I never got along with Peggy, because I was hired as a manager "off the street" for the new chain, and she had worked herself up to her position at Builder's. I knew from my previous employer that retail management was cutthroat, and now working for FedMart I experienced it close up.
The year ended with more poems, and more frustration. One evening I actually got Cathy into my apartment, but all dreams of actually being able to remove her panties faded when she got an unpleasant feeling about my surroundings. I had cleaned for her, but it was "man cleaning" with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of 409, and couldn't hide years of uncleanliness and inattention. She excused herself quite properly after about a half hour of fooling around, right when the removing of panties was in sight for both of us. She made me believe in the upcoming months that she might reconsider if I stopped drinking, which was a problem even I admitted having, but at the same time she told me that she was spending more quality time with "boyfriend" and couldn't drive me home anymore.
If the word "tease" was ever used in any conversation regarding Cathy, my memory doesn't choose to remember it. Every drawback I saw as self imposed, and I was continually trying to "better myself" in her eyes. At work, we saw less and less of each other after the initial store stocking and opening periods, when things "got to normal". She retired to the front of the store with the cash register and I labored around back unloading trucks with a forklift. Our paths crossed less and less. I still wrote her poetry, and we talked on the phone many times, usually about "boyfriend". I had proved to Cathy that we could have a healthy and varied sex life, but she preferred the status quo, which is what she always knew, and which "boyfriend" represented. She strung me on for a whole year, but I was ripe for stringing, and wouldn't trade a dismal minute of our one sided love affair.
In the end, I wrote Cathy sixty poems. Some were meandering epics, some were lyrical love ballads. All were truthful and heartfelt outpourings of my affection. Almost all are either conniving, full of love, or heartbroken, depending upon my mood when writing, which was four or five times a week, usually inebriated, always on some verge of breakdown. In the end, I copied all sixty of her poems copiously into a little journal book, with gold edged pages, and gave them to her as a sort of "giving up" gift right before we parted ways, when the Furniture to Go concept bombed terribly and the store closed, sending Cathy to another location, and me to the road as a truck driver.
Our strange romance and blueballed attempts at sexual congress ended with a whimper. I and Cathy never "dated" but we did engage in quite a few non work related endeavors together, including dining, dancing, and rollerskating, which was a big thing in the disco age. 1978 was the year I dedicated my life to Cathy, a tall, lithe, sexy and somewhat goofy sexual ideal, taller than I, with a smile that melted hearts made of stone, and crushed those like mine made of lesser stuff. Some of the kissing in which I participated with Cathy far outshone the imaginative yet somewhat casual sex with Ruth just a short time earlier.
Karen, at 17 and 18
The doors were shuttered to the Furniture to Go store in Torrance, and since I was pretty capable driving the delivery truck, my job now passed to the "Southern California" division, driving a "shuttle" between the dozen or so stores in the division, and Cathy, the second "love of my life" continued her job as a cashier in the Torrance FedMart Store, which was right next door to the Furniture to Go. I no longer worked "in a store", but my headquarters were still in Torrance. Since I was still lacking transportation in 79, I sometimes used the truck as my "car" parking it across the street from my apartment building. In the mornings I would drive in to the Torrance store, park the truck in the parking area, and proceed to the store manager's office, where I would receive the day's trip log. I have always relished this particular part of my employment history. Although I could party quite heartily at night after work, I was always chipper and fully cognizant the next morning. Part of this was due to my discovery of "speed" or "uppers", small white pills, or "black beauties", black capsules filled with white powder, that kept a body "up" when it really should have been tired and collapse because of little sleep. At only 26 years of age, however, my young body felt as if it could handle anything, and I kept up my schizophrenic lifestyle with relative ease. I had no set schedule at "work" either. I finished my "day" when I finished the delivery route. Sometimes this would take me from Torrance to Oxnard, up the California coast to the north, and down to San Diego or over to San Bernadino or Riverside all in one day. These days could last up to 23 hours at a time, which is the longest I was ever "on the road". On my off times, I crammed myself full of drugs and beer, and immersed myself in my friendships. I had given up on Cathy, and in the Toy department at the Torrance FedMart while delivering toys in December of 1979 I got to know Karen, who would become my "Jersey Girl". She was only 17 years old. I'd actually met her the previous summer, while the Furniture to Go was shutting down. My "base of operations" allowed me the run of the store, and I flirted rather shamelessly with a lot of the cashiers, hoping Cathy would take notice, remember the little book of poems that I gave her as a gift when we parted, and show some interest in me at last. This didn't happen, so I kept flirting, but I took an extra special liking to Karen.
Usually, my "sexual ideal" is described as with my "Kathys". Tall, long legged, with smallish breasts and long auburn hair. Karen was short and chubby with rather large breasts, more similar to Ruth, my early "sexual goddess", than with either of the Kathys. She wore glasses, a real turn on for me, let her auburn hair down long and full, and had that wonderfully nasal New Jersey accent. Her family had just moved to the Los Angeles area and she brought with her for me memories of my 1977 vacation in New Jersey, but memories paled beside her presence. I had a real nice long talk with her during the toy delivery. She was head clerk for the Toy Department at the time. I also got to deliver live Christmas trees from one store to another, and the Torrance store's lot was always busy, so when I was delivering there, I always looked up Karen in the Toy Department. She intrigued me, and of course I gave her my volumes of poems to read after a few conversations with her. My introduction to my girlfriends always included my poetry, the greatest icebreaker known to me then or now.
Like Cathy, I got Karen to drive me home a few times, but since she was only 17, I made no advances toward her. We talked much. I visited her family, and got to know some of her friends. My social skills have always been outstanding. I have been involved with many disparate groups of people, and through Karen, became acquainted with more friends and neighbors. Our age difference was duly noted. I was almost a full decade older than she was. I found her intelligent and vivacious, however, and she acted much "older" than her age. I got jealous when she hung out with her fellow high school and college aged chums. She was Catholic, and attended a Catholic Girl's High School, and her uniform was complete with plaid skirt, white blouse, knee high socks and saddle shoes. Needless to say, my sexual arousal upon seeing her in her school uniform was substantial. She could melt my heart and stiffen my manhood, and she excelled in both areas. I stayed my probing sexual exuberance until she had her birthday, which miraculously made her ripe for my wanting to know her better.
Karen had another "boyfriend" besides me. He was a recovering alcoholic closer to her age. She eventually gave me up to spend time with him, because my alcohol consumption bothered her as it had Cathy. I was always a bit too forward and "oversocial" when drinking. Karen was still a child really, dealing with adult problems in her men. I first had sex with her after her birthday had passed, and I had missed an opportunity during an earlier evening to kiss her. I wrote her a poem called "Missed Midnight Kiss" and read it her while we were sitting on my couch in my apartment one evening in the summer of 1980.
really like you, you know." I stated upon finishing the poetry reading.
The kiss lasted forever, or maybe only memory tells me this, and we tasted the surging and belated passions which had been growing within us for most of the previous year. "I've been waiting for this for a long time", I exclaimed. "So have I" she answered. We moved from the couch to my bedroom rather easily, shedding articles of clothing as we held our long kisses. She wore a large white bra under her blouse, and upon unclasping it, two luscious mountainous breasts revealed themselves to me. Tipped with dark large diametered aueroles and erect nipples, I was caught like a deer in their headlights. She had thick young legs, and though her belly was quite large, this didn't diminish my enthusiasm or my erection. For me, especially after a long time without sex, the foreplay leading to the act itself was the special and memorable part of the experience. She performed fellatio, and I reciprocated. I really enjoy cunnilingus, and availed myself of her charms, enjoying a "meal" of folded flesh and heaving musky smells.
She positioned herself on the foot of my bed, and I stood over her, pumping first slowly, then more rapidly. We eventually collapsed in each other's arms. She still lived at home and so she didn't stay the night. I felt renewed again. For a little boy who began his sexual history terrified and afraid, I was getting to be quite a "sex monster" when it reared it's head.
Subsequently, we coupled about three more times. Eventually, Karen chose the recovering alcoholic over me, the active alcoholic. I had finally received some monetary compensation, along with my siblings, in 1980, for the fact that my dad had died on the job. Even though he had died in 1974, the Union lawyers (he had been shop steward where he worked) had been fighting for some kind of compensation for nearly five years. Each of us, my brother, sister, and I, were awarded about five thousand dollars. I had used my money to buy a new stereo system and a 1974 Honda Civic, which gave me much needed transportatoin. One time I upset Karen a bit by playfully demanding oral sex while we were sitting outside of her house in my car, her parents visible through the windows. She complied, however, and this little act thrilled my sense of adventure. I had received my Volkswagen back from the guy who had been restoring my motor, and while it still wasn't in perfect operating order, I now found myself with two cars. Eventually the Volkswagen died completely, and I sold it for 500 dollars. Karen pretty much faded from my life after I stopped driving the company truck and moved into another one of the stores as warehouse manager. I lost my truck because I lost my license when the DMV took it away because of too many drunk driving arrests.
Diane, at 38
I heard a knock on my door one Saturday night at about 1am in the morning. I was playing some Pink Floyd or Boston on the stereo. My mind was making patterns in the stucco on the ceiling of the living room, and I was meditating about the state of reality while listening to music. I wasn't expecting anyone this late, but I was still tripping, and feeling alive and awake. Diane was shorter than I, with close cropped dark hair, large brown eyes, and a nice figure, trim but with a healthy bosom. She was wearing a light blouse and shorts, and had just changed after having been dropped off on her doorstep by one of her "dates". She was a country western fan like me, and she would spend her weekend evenings honky tonkin at one of the many country and western bars in the South Bay.
there" she greeted me at the door, with the outside hall lights washing
her in a lovely glow. She smiled. "I'm Diane, your corner neighbor"
she swept her hand toward the door of her apartment.
Our heads stayed a bit stationary for a moment, as we gazed in each other's eyes. Mine were probably spinning like pinwheels, but they might have just felt that way because of the drugs. The 'trip' was almost over at this point, and feelings of satisfaction and pleasure were bubbling up inside me. A moment which by all means should have been somewhat awkward passed seemingly as if my drug addled mind were writing the script for it as it happened. Diane cocked her head mischeivously, "So this is where we have sex, right?"
If I were less than as messed up as I was, I probably would have been taken aback by this honest statement. I was higher than the proberbial kite, however, and I replied in the affirmative, while placing both my hands on her shoulders. The rest of the evening unfolds as if in a dream, and this was a dream made real, thanks to the beauteous neighborlady and my enhanced state of awareness.
We stripped. We roamed among each other's bodily landscapes, I draping my being upon her heaving breasts and inserting my existence into her glory. She was more shapely than either Karen or Ruth, and I was incredibly turned on by her body. She didn't seem "old" to me at all. She was smooth, lively, and made love as if she actually ached for the intense coupling we shared.
I had developed a robust sexual appetite with Ruth, had seen it dashed with Elfie and Cathy, and had not been able to really satisfy my sexual needs with Karen in the months immediately preceding my first coupling with Diane. My appetite became insatiable, and I was filled with a hunger for Diane I had not felt previously. She fulfilled every fantasy that night except one. She would not fellate me, but I engaged in much of my favored cunninlingus, eating her deliciously as a late night drug enabled dessert. She not only tasted great and wiggled with all the right moves, squealing in all the right places, but she worked herself up so much during this phase of our lovemaking that she actually squirted me in the face. I enjoyed this fountain of womanly delight with much relish. I wiggled my face into her womanly triangle, smearing the juice from her "beard" into mine. When I mounted her, we moved to the floor, and I nearly developed rug burn on my knees, as I "rode" her around the floor.
Sex with Diane, in the throes of an acid trip, was like a dream come true. She liked more than my music, and I played her like a great musician, "blowing" into his horn of plenty. She left in the early morning hours, as the sun was peeking over the horizon. She wanted to get back into her own bed before her daughters noticed she'd been out all night.
My relationship with Diane was purely a sexual one, and it lasted a good six months. We would see each other on those Friday or Saturday nights when she would come home from a date, and I would happen to be off from work, or home in the evening after a day shift. She would kiss her date at her door, go inside, freshen up, and then come over and knock on my door. I felt as if I got take home sex whenever I coluld get it. Although we began our relationship with a long conversation the night we met, each subsequent visit involved less talk and more sex. I did sometimes drop by her apartment and watch television, and I went out to the country bars with her a couple of times. Once I got a flat tire when coming home from a bar with her drunk. In the end, though, we didn't have much more in common than our sexual appetite for each other. I had never until meeting Diane, nor have I since, met a woman who actually "comes" by releasing love juice. Our craving for each other actually took us to talk of even more 'dirty' sex acts including urination, however we would have done this in the shower with the water running. I did mount her while she was sitting on the toilet after urinating, and we probably covered all the pages of the Kama Sutra in our experimentation with positions. We werent' really a couple, though, and as such, we were doomed because of this.
Eventually, Diane met another man closer to her age, and she and I, though still living catty corner from each other, parted ways both sexual and social. I would still say hi to her when we passed each other in the hall or the parking lot, but our spitfire sexual relationship lasted only about half a year. I still craved sex with Sherry, but she became less desirable as soon as her boyfriend got out of prison. He might even have been her husband, but as I mentioned, these events are somewhat muddled, and the end of the decade was one filled with lots of mind and memory altering substances. Karen remained a friend too, when I saw her, which was infrequently. One time she did come up to the Culver City store as part of a team of Toy managers from other stores for a division meeting, and I went out with her for coffee. Her relationship with the recovering alcoholic was almost a marriage by then.
It's too bad I can hardly remember these times in my life with the clarity of others, thanks or no thanks for the most part to the liquor and the drugs, but they were some of the wildest and most fantastic times in my life. I was making real good money. When I drove a truck, I made my own timesheet, and got an expense account for meals, and was paid overtime at time and a half and double time after 12 hours on the job, which was often. When assigned to the "dream team" and sent to Culver City to "clean up the store", my paycheck was among that of the most well paid managers in the company. I bought my "designer drugs" at that time from the security manager of the store. The parties never stopped, and I never stopped making new friends. The family who moved into the apartment building, in the corner down from where Sherry and her family lived, and across the courtyard diagonally from Diane, were the new managers. Their son, who had been living in Chicago, moved in as well. He was about my age. A girl named Melanie, who was single with a toddler son, moved in between the new managers and Sherry's family. Her name was Melanie. It was at a party that Kevin, the manager's son, gave, that I met her for the first time, and fell into bed with her that night. But that's yet another chapter of "My Sexual History."
The act of masturbation wasn't something I ever practiced when growing up. This forbidden self satisfaction was foreign to me, and it wasn't until after I broke up with Ruth, who supplied my first steady sexual experience, did I ever even attempt to satisfy myself sexually. About three or four months after my flameout with Ruth's supposed sexual replacement, Elfie, who in the end turned out to be frigid and asexual, my loins became inflamed with the slow burn of abstinence. Throughout my short sexual flings with Karen and Diane in the late 70s, I also became more "self-aware" of the art of self satisfaction.
For almost a decade, I had immersed myself in the freedom of the sexual revolution firsthand. From a childhood filled with spiritual ecstacy, through a teenage period filled with yearning, then a college and post college "time of my life", to living in an apartment building where I bedded two of the occupants and almost bedded a third, I had spearheaded my own personal sexual revolution. For all my previous life, I had never masturbated. Once I started, then I couldn't get enough, and created "romantic evenings" filled with drugs and skin mags. I always felt filled with the spirit of true romantic love, but yet most of my experiences in romance in the previous decade involved lots of rigorous sex, and little true romance. The one gril with whom I fell in love, Cathy, in 1978 had rebuffed me for her original boyfriend. She was really the only one in any of many relationships with whom I was in love. The rest I merely lusted after.
The decade ended. The sex ended too, but I didn't know it as the new decade arrived. I had other troubles. I was kicked out of my apartment at the beginning of the eighties. On paper, the new owners of the building wanted to upgrade the building to condominiums, and they excused the month to month tenancy, for an upgrade and higher rates. Some people they allowed to be able to come back after the eviction. Not me. I was part of the "partyers" group in the building who were being eased out into the street. My days of playing "DJ" for the apartment building tenants was beginning to pay me back negatively. A few tenants had never been appreciative of my parties, or possibly of my running around the inside court smashing Malibu lights cause I thought they had eyes in them when I was on acid. I got the eviction notice one evening as I was coming home from work, tacked to my door like a wanted poster. Upon questioning the newly appointed apartment managers, who took over when Kevin's mother died and his family then moved away, about what would happen, they said everybody had to get out of the building while they renovated. Then they would let the tenants come back if they had not already secured housing. I prepared to obtain storage and perhaps room with my friend Tom, although the drive to work would be quite long, and a few days later I got another notice on my door when I came home from work telling me that I was not one of the tenants being invited back. I was being evicted, and had to get out by the first of the month.
I drank a lot of beer that evening, and the next day I began to read about eviction law and I talked to a few lawyers in the next couple of days after that to weigh my options. I found I could "legally" live in the apartment without paying rent for three months before the marshall appeared at the door to throw my furniture, clothing, and videodisc collection out on the street. I exercised this option, saving enough money for the security deposit and first month's rent on my future digs. 1982 saw me moving out of the place I had called home for most of the 70s. I found a place literally right down the street, much larger, located in an apartment building with a Hawaiian motif. At first, I moved in the two bedroom place by myself. Immediately after I settled in, FedMart, the company for which I had worked for almost five years, went out of business, a fatality of the retail wars in Southern California. I stayed on with the company until the bitter end, collecting a severance package which was almost a full year's pay. A good friend at the time, Jim, who had roomed with me for a bit in my previous apartment, finally moved in with me after I tried two other roommates, since I couldn't afford the rent by myself. I would attend parties with Jim and some of his friends, and I had some female friends at the time, but romance and sex sort of dried up for me in the early eighties. I spent most of 1982 on a permanent vacation, and by Christmas that year, the severance money had just about run out, so I looked for a job, and because I had had problems with alcohol in the recent past, I quit drinking as well. Cold Turkey. Without help. A decade of debauchery ended suddenly. I'd always known I could quit at any time, and proved it as I set out to find a job.
The job finally materialized in December, as I obtained work with Gemco Stores, another California retail chain. The first position was manager of the Christmas Tree lot, which I had done many times at FedMart. After Christmas, I slid over to the night stocking crew, as there were very few managerial postions to be had due to the shakeup in the industry when FedMart closed all their stores a few months earlier. Eventually, the Dayton Hudson company would reconvert most all of the existing FedMarts into Target Stores. While this was happening, my employment was with Gemco, in Culver City, where I had held my last FedMart position. My next lover to be worked as a hostess in the restaurant I frequented, Dinah's, down the street from the store.
During this time of my life, I wasn't driving. Part of the reason why I quit drinking alcohol during this time was because the DMV had revoked my driver's license in 1981 following too many drunk driving arrests, and I attended an interview in which the DMV decided I shouldn't have the privilege of driving. I had to give up my position driving a truck after the license revocation, and that's when I was promoted to warehouse manager giving up my job as a truck driver. When the Honda blew it's timing chain, I didn't have transportation, and throughout the time I had off after FedMart went out of business, I was using public transportation, riding the bus almost everywhere. I was collecting video laserdiscs at this time, and the ability to buy movies I loved, plus renting VHS tapes of current fare from the video stores, afforded me entertainment, so I didn't really miss not having a car.
Leslie would seat me in the mornings at Dinah's restaurant, a somewhat famous eatery in Culver City where I would breakfast prior to going home for the morning. My schedule at Gemco was quite different than anything I had previously encountered in business, even in the world of retail. I worked nights, clocking in at 11:00 p.m. after the store closed down. The night crew got off at 8:00 a.m. Before taking the bus home, I would stop in at Dinah's. Leslie and I got to be great friends, and after a while we were exchanging books to read, and spending a lot of time talking whenever I was in the restaurant. I also worked sometimes during the day as a 'call-in" when someone was sick, because my night stocking job was not a full 40 hour a week job. Leslie was not my "sexual ideal". She was like Ruth, short, with large breasts, and long brown hair. We flirted shamelessly, but didn't really discuss having a relationship. Leslie had a boyfriend, and in the time I was getting to know her, her belly was growing from a pregnancy. She wasn't married, and the boy who impregnated her was not her current boyfriend, whom she dumped soon after meeting me. One afternoon, after I finished a day shift, I got an invitation from Leslie to come over to her house. She shared a small beach house with another girlfriend in Hermosa Beach. I took the bus to Hermosa, and I walked the short distance to her abode. Her roommate was out for the evening, and we ate a home cooked meal which she prepared, and sat talking on the couch, when Leslie's ex boyfriend drove up in his pickup. He was irate about something, and Leslie went out on the porch to confront him. Soon he left, but for me any romantic inclinations had melted into their argument, and I asked Leslie to drive me home. I was receiving signals from her, and probably could have "gotten laid" that night at her place, but after seeing her hyped up ex boyfriend snarl and stomp around on the porch, I decided to call it a day.
We never went out on a date, so Leslie wasn't really a "girlfriend". My life was a bit complicated with everything that had suddenly changed, so I wasn't really looking for the complications of a relationship. I did make friends with some of the people in the new apartment building, in hopes that I could have "lovers" in the same building as I had in the previous apartment in Torrance, but that wansn't going to happen. Before FedMart had gone out of business, I had flirted with some of the cashiers in the Culver City store. I was really sweet on a short older black girl, and missed a couple of chances to get together with her. Most of this time I spent alone however. When not at work, my time was spent watching videos, writing poetry, or hanging out with Jim and my friends.
I did get a chance to make love to Leslie, one fateful evening soon after our missed opportunity at her place in Hermosa Beach. She moved away from the beach house soon after, and moved back in with her parents in Westminster after her baby boy was born. I used to joke with her, prior to her time off from her hostess duties at Dinah's because of the pregnancy, that I had always wanted to make love to a pregnant woman. She gave birth before I got the chance to find out what that would be like, and a few months after the birth of her child she came over to visit me at my place. Jim, my current roommate, was out for the evening. Her son was with her parents. We began the evening with a meal, and then I read her some of my poems, as I had done with so many other girls throughout my sexual history. One of my poems is titled "Lifescenarios". When Leslie leaned over to kiss me for the first time, I whispered the word. Another "lifescenario" was about to happen.
A lot had happened since my relationship with Melanie, and a lot of time had passed. Kissing and cuddling with Leslie was quite pleasant, but I could not achieve climax during the actual sex act. This bothered me greatly, although it didn't bother her, as we moved from the living room to my bedroom, removing more clothing, and becoming more excited. I remained enlarged and engorged, but my penis never exhaled semen that night. Leslie was satisfied, and although she quit the job as hostess for Dinah's soon after, and we only saw each other a few times after that, my unfinished sexual business, as far as I was concerned, gave me some worrisome thoughts. My evening with Leslie was an isolated incident in my sexual history at that point, which had dwindled enough so that I started to believe I would remain celibate. I began writing sad poetry again, and when soon I was forced to kick Jim out of my apartment as roommate when his drinking and carousing started to bother my teetotling demeanor, I found myself quite alone, and began to fall into a depression.
Jim and I had been drinking buddies since I was introduced to him by John at my apartment back when Kevin's mother and father were still managing the previous apartment building in which I lived. Before I had to kick him out, I had enjoyed quite a history with him and his South Bay friends. Since 1974, when I had moved to the South Bay area of Los Angeles County, near the beach, and close to the rather hedonistic lifestyle it afforded young people in the seventies, I had made many friends, and through them, even more friends. I was constantly caroming between my group up in the San Gabriel Valley, with whom I had attended school, and my new buddies in the South Bay. Jim was a friend of John's who had moved into my old bachelor's apartment in my first South Bay apartment building after I had moved upstairs into a larger one bedroom. John had been impressed with my record collection, and his friend Jim was a musician. During my first meeting with Jim, at my place, he only parroted old Firesign Theater routines, because John also told him I enjoyed that comedy group. Jim was a wanderer and poet, songwriter and guitarist, who had been raised in Redondo Beach. He was a notorious drunk, and had been beat up many times at bars when he would get obstinate. I liked him a lot, however, and once when he didn't want to go be with his parents after one of his hitchhiking trips, I had let him room with me. I had searched him out when I needed a roommate in the Tiki flavored apartment house, and he had easily complied. Jim and I both smoked marijuana and took drugs, including cocaine and speed. We spend a lot of time in each other's company, and I met a lot of his friends. Eventually, Kevin and Jim would form a band together, and Jim became involved with the female violinist in the band.
Besides Jim, another good friend of mine was Keith, who had been my drug dealer before I met Kevin. Keith was gay, but didn't let anybody in our circle know. I remember partying with Keith, Jim, John, and my old buddy Morgan, and we all tried to get Keith to talk about girls and his relationships. He never did, however, but we didn't mind. I had first met Keith when he worked in the garden department at one of the stores in which I managed the department, and when Kevin entered my life, both Keith and I would get our drugs from Kevin. After Kevin moved, we needed to secure a new source. This is when Keith told me he was gay.
He could get both pills and pot from a Gay Baths he frequented in Long Beach. Some of the clientele were drug dealers. During the 80s, drug use was almost "accepted" among businessmen. The film industry was overrun with white powder. A lot of executive types in retail sniffed to stay up during long hours and extended shifts. I was no different. Even though I eventually stopped drinking for most of the decade, I never slowed my drug use. When working both night shifts and day shifts at Gemco, I could come home in the evening after a day shift, smoke a bowl of marijuana, watch an hour or so of a movie, sleep for three hours, get up, and go to work again. I had problems in the 70s with overusing drugs, but I was quite a hand at managing my "addictions" in the 80s. I asked to come along with Keith when he went to the baths, and I obtained a membership card and followed Keith to the dressing rooms, where we doffed our clothing and donned towels. I met some of Keith's "partners". He didn't have a steady boyfriend. In those days right before the outbreak of AIDS became news, a lot of Gay men engaged in faceless sex in Gay Baths. Keith was one of these guys, and I found the whole atmosphere of the Gay Baths to be quite interesting.
I wasn't engaging in much sex with women, and really didn't think I'd ever be thrown into a situtation where I would be engaging in sex with a male. The Baths reeked of sex. There were Greek styled statues and columns, and cheesy felt paintings of nude men adorning the dark, musky rooms in what might have once been an apartment complex. There were long dark halls, with little "tryst rooms", a somewhat large room where guys could watch gay stag films on a big screen television, and of course the baths themselves were hot and steamy, with a grotto and hot tubs in the back. Some areas had booths set up like in a restaurant. You could order drinks, have lunch, or eat something else if your heart desired it. There was a "membership fee" which I paid when getting the card at the entrance before participating. Once inside the bowels of this house of ill repute, populated by nothing but men and boys clad either in white towels or nothing at all, I actually began to feel a bit sexy, and I joked to Keith that the only thing missing were the women.
My experience in the Gay Baths the first time was as a spectator. I'm not gay, so I viewed the experience as a spectator. It was as if I had been invited to look at how the other half lives. I met a few real nice guys, who were probably trying to score with me, but I naively brushed off any advances. We stayed a bit, to be hospitable, and made our drug deals, and left. Later on at a restaurant with Keith after the visit, I told him how neat it was that he had let me accompany him. After that, some more of my friends "came out", one of whom was in Jim's band. I had no idea that there were so many "gays" in my immediate circle of friends. I treated them no differently, and our group remained intact. Keith even showed up at my apartment once with a couple of girls he knew, and I partied with the gals until sunrise.
Coming home from the Gay Baths the first time, I announced loudly to my roommate Jim, "I'm a card carrying queer", which elicited much laughter. The next time I visited the Gay Baths with Keith, a couple of months later, I wandered away from Keith and the guy he was chatting up, and ended up in the television room, where about a dozen towel clad homosexuals were watching a gay themed video on the large screen TV. I found a spot, and proceeded to watch the movie. At one point, a young man, quite good looking, came by my side, and touched me on the shoulder. Before the video had unspooled, I had sex with this young man. He received me, and this sex was the most "faceless" I'd ever had. After the "act" and at the end of the video, he disappeared in the dark musky halls. Even though I've never doubted my sexuality, and still don't, and have never had an experience like this again, I'm glad that I was able to find myself in this situation at least once in my life. Keith disappeared a few months after this escapade. Funny to think that I still looked at Keith as a buddy, and never had any "feelings" for him, nor him for me. The encounter I had in the Gay Bath television room was akin to masturbating for me, it was sex as exercise without any feeling at all. That it was a guy I was pumping in the keister didn't really matter. I don't know what happened to Keith. His parents moved, and soon I had no way in which to get in touch with him.
As the decade progressed, my abstinence became more ingrained. When my apartment rent was raised higher than I could pay, I moved again, this time to Hermosa Beach. My ex roommate Jim had been rooming with another gay friend and drug dealer, Cecil, a tall, ebony skinned, incredibly personable guy who had almost memorized the Physician's Desk Reference of drugs. He lived six blocks from the ocean, and he loved his "beach bunnies", young white surfer types, who could be found parading through the apartment at all hours. Jim moved into an apartment on his own, and I moved in with Cecil as a temporary arrangement. Irrespective of my previous experience in the Gay Baths, I put a lock on my bedroom door at Cecil's. I didn't want any of his "boyfriends" coming into my room by mistake when I was asleep. The apartment was arranged like a backwards condominium, so that the upper floor, which had a view of the ocean, held the living room and kitchen area. The bottom floor had our bedrooms. I set up my video gear and television in my bedroom, along with a new waterbed, which I bought from one of Cecil's friends.
I was still abstaining from drinking alcohol, although since Cecil was a drug dealer, my instances of drug use were to increase. I still had no romantic prospects, but my life was filled to the brim with partying. The Gay subculture in the beach cities was not as pronounced as it later became, and a lot of Cecil's friends were only out of the closet with their close friends. At work, nobody knew any of these guys were homosexuals. I visited quite a lot of neat people, and I even accompanied Cecil to Gay Bars in Hollywood. I loved to dance, and it didn't matter to me if I were dancing with men or with women. My hedonism quotient was racked up pretty high during the early to mid eighties. I discovered two new drugs while living with Cecil, a "cocktail" called a "Load" which had codeine as one of the pills, was one of these. Another was "crack cocaine", called "freebasing" in those days. Cecil would buy $350.00 bags of cocaine, and "cook up" a batch of freebase in the kitchen. To engage in the high, one would smoke the highly concentrated mix, and feel incredibly happy and powerful for about ten minutes. Of all the drugs I had used, this was the worst, because it was so expensive, and the high, while being quite delicious, was short, and I always seemed to hallucinate a bunch of 20 dollar bills with wings attached flying out the window. Many times Cecil would entertain his "buddies" in the top part of the house, while I would watch a video in my room with the door locked.
Eventually Cecil died of AIDS. He moved out of the apartment owing the manager three months rent. I was always giving my half of the rent directly to Cecil, and as his drug use grew, he needed more money, so he would ask for the rent earlier and earlier. One day his car was gone. And he with it. We got word about a year later that his hedonistic lifestyle had killed him when he contracted the AIDS virus from one of his beach bunnies. Looking back, I was quite lucky that during the early 80s I kept my health, if not my previous sexual life, which all but dried up. The apartment rent was too much for one tenant, and I moved Scott, a workmate from Gemco, into the apartment to help pay the rent. We lived as roommates through 1986, when he joined the Navy, and was stationed elsewhere. I was looking for a roommate again when Jim, my old friend, found himself without a place to live. He had moved out of Cecil's before I moved in, and now I moved him back into the Hermosa Beach apartment. Jim had a girlfriend by then, Claire, who is now his wife, and she would visit quite a bit. I kept up a fulfilling social life, but still couldn't find love. I even stopped writing poetry for the last few years of the decade. Gemco went out of business, like FedMart had, as soon as I was to be promoted to a higher management position. During most of my stay with Cecil, I was the "plant man" working in the Garden Department at Gemco, and then I was promoted to Area Manager in charge of hardlines. My next promotiion, when the chain went out of business, was to operations manager, the number two man in the store. As soon as we heard the news that the company was going to close it's stores, however, I quit, and obtained a manangement job at Target, before the job pool was filled again with ex Gemco managers, some of whom had worked for FedMart previously. The position at Target came with a large raise. I was riding a motorcycle in 1986, purchased with cash, for only 3000 dollars. It was a cruiser, a 650cc one cylinder "thumper" made by Suzuki, and called the "Savage". I still didn't have a license to drive, but I was careful, wore a helmet, and followed all the rules of the road. I pulled the cruiser up in front of the Target Store in Manhattan Beach, where Cathy, the love of my life had worked for a while when it was still a FedMart, one day in 1986, doffed my helmet, postioned my tie, and entered yet another chain of retail stores, this time as Merchandise Manager. I was in charge of the whole "back end" of the store, including the electronics, hardware, toy, and sporting goods departments. My work week increased in hours, until I was working almost 80 hours a week. I didn't have much time to think of girls, sex, or relationships. The drug use subsided, and I concentrated on work, enjoying my substantial video hobby, which included making video tapes of my own with my new video camera. Jim, Claire, and I socialized. I still would see Tom, my old friend from school once in a while, but most of my time was filled with business at the Target Store. I took management classes and prepared for the career in retail management that had been avoiding me since the other two chains for which I worked went out of business. Thoughts of sex would have to wait a bit longer.
During the "sexual revolution" in the nineteen seventies, as a sexualIy active male, I fell into one tryst after another, sometimes thinking of "love" but most often experiencing sex completely disconnected from love. My emotions would always channel themselves toward one recipient, but sometimes that recipient might not have happened to be my sexual partner at the time. I experimented with sex in the early to mid nineteen eighties, experiencing open sexuality with Melanie, and I even dabbled a bit in bisexuality and homosexuality as a result of my friendships with Keith and Cecil, who both happened to be gay South Bay drug dealers.
My never ending searches for love continued, and I wrote poetry sporadically, bemoaning my status as a free and easy, but emotionally disconnected young man. I still mourned the passing of my great loves, like Cathy, whose smile I could never forgot, even more than ten years after our last meeting. In 1986 I bought the first of my video cameras, and I embarked on a new direction making video movies which I edited on a series of betamax and VHS video recorders. My roommate in Hermosa Beach, Scott, joined the Navy, and I approached my friend Jim about moving in with me again, and he complied. My friendship with my good buddy from high school, Tom, was somewhat waning due to the long physical distance between us, but I would still see him from time to time, and our shared evenings usually involved going to country and western bars where we would attempt to "pick up chicks". He was 37 years old and worked for a large toy manufacturer as a picker in their warehouse, when one day he fell 20 feet from a motorized picking machine and broke his back. After the operation to attempt to mend his spinal column, he somehow got blood in his lungs and perished. I was one of the pallbearers at his funeral.
As a merchandise manager for the Target Stores chain in Manhattan Beach, I managed fully a third of the "big box" department store, including my old mainstays, the garden and nursery, electronics, and toy departments. The hours were long, and the pay was good. When the rent was raised on our apartment in Hermosa Beach, Jim and I moved to a less expensive apartment back in Lomita, the town where we'd met when I lived there a decade earlier. I'd been completely sober for most of the decade, although I still took drugs, including marijuana, speed, and acid when available. However it seemed that I worked even longer days on the job for Target than I did at either Gemco or FedMart, so there was little time for partying.
Also as it turns out there was no time for sex.
The close of 1987 was also the close of my retail management career. One of my older friends from high school, a guy named Jon, who was an ordained deacon in an offshoot of the televangelical WorldWide Church of God, and a guy with whom I had double dated and hung out with in the past, was a frequent customer at the Manhattan Beach Target, even before I worked there. During the Christmas rush of 87, I sold his Church some reduced price electric typewriters, and I failed to properly record the markdown, which resulted in a security breach, for which I was summarily fired. I didn't have enough friends in the executive branch of the company, having only worked there for a year, and I found myself on unemployment again for three months while I looked for other work. I created my very first long form video project while out of work, called "Sacked", an hour long humorous look at my humorless situation. I also started drinking again after five years of teetoatling.
Because I remained an honest individual, I couldn't lie on my applications for work throughout the retail industry, and because companies rarely hire security threats, and I was one, I couldn't regain any postion within the industry. My friend and roommate Jim worked for a small family owned electrical distribution center in Long Beach, and he asked the owner of the company if there could possibly be a place for me perhaps running the warehouse or calculating inventory. I met with Jack, the owner of the company, whom I knew socially as a result of my friendship with Jim. Jack was a friendly bear of a man who seemed to like me immediately, and didn't mind my honesty in revealing the instances leading up to my being fired from Target Stores. He hired me at a ridiculously low wage, but I could work overtime and on weekends for more money if I wanted. One of the sales engineers was beginning a "panel shop" constructing turnkey electrical control panels from the components the company sold, and he asked if, instead of inventory management, I would like to build these panels. I'm pretty good with my hands, having learned a lot about electrical systems and construction from my father when he rebuilt our family home, so I agreed to try it out for a while. I was a good fit with both the job and with Phil, the sales engineer. He had an electrical engineering degree, and he taught me a lot about panel building in just three months.
My hours on my new job were much better than any retail schedule. I came in early in the morning, and was home by 5pm, with weekends off. I had more free time than I had ever had in my working life. One of my friends, Bob, although in his mid forties, lived with his mother near where I had moved with Jim, and when Bob's mother died, he asked another friend, Mike, and I to move in his large house with him. After the six month lease on the apartment I shared with Jim ran out, I moved in with Bob, into a very large custom back bedroom which had been built for Bob's cousins, who had been taking care of his ill mother in the months before she died. Bob only charged Mike and I a couple hundred dollars a month for rent, so even though my pay at the electrical distributorship was low, the low rent afforded me extra spending money. I began to buy books, and started my laserdisc collection of favorite films, to complement my already booming VHS and Beta tape collection. The Beta format, on which I edited my videos, was fading, and one of the media chain stores marked down their inventory of movies on Beta, which I snapped up at a great price. I wasn't involved in any relationship at the time, and I collected pornographic tapes as well as more conventional movies, and in no time had quite a collection of the "good parts" which I excised and tape recorded from rented XXX tapes.
I painted my large room in Bob's house, which I renamed "The Frat House", "Gumby Green", and arranged my furniture so that I had two distinct rooms, a bedroom and a living room, just as I had when I lived behind the garage in our second family home while I was in college. I decorated my rooms with my collectibles, and settled into a fantastic time with Bob and his group of friends we called "The Backyard Buddies." Most of the guys "escaped" their wives by going to Bob's so the party atmosphere in Bob's house was chiefly made up of guy stuff, like sports and barbecues. Bob had a hot tub installed in the area outside his bedroom, and we spent many a warm evening lolling about the hot tub telling stories and drinking beer. Our group frequented drag races and Bob was an "unofficial" member of the pit crew for his friend Brad's stock cars.
At work, I had my eye on a couple of cute gals who worked in the switch assembly department, on the other side of the building from where I constructed the control panels. One of them, Pat, about five years my junior, struck up a conversation with me when we sat together during one of the company Christmas parties. We both were pretty heavy drinkers, and she matched me drink for drink during the party. My motorcycle had blown a gasket a few months previous to the party, and I had no transportation, so Pat volunteered to drive me home. I easily agreed to this arrangement, heady with liquor and thoughts of sex, which had been somewhat dormant lately in my life except for my increasingly growing collection of pornographic videotapes.
The Christmas party was held at lunch, and when we arrived at Bob's it was late in the afternoon. Pat and I held court with Bob and a few of the buddies in his back bedroom, and then we "retired" to my suite of rooms. We watched one of my many movies on laserdisc, and kept drinking alcohol, so we were very drunk and very content as evening descended. I knew somehow instinctively that Pat was about to spend the night. I got up to get another beer, and Pat followed me to the kitchen. We walked into the main living room of Bob's house, which was seldom used by the "Buddies". Pat sat down on the couch, and I moved beside her. I reached up and swept an errant hair out of the way, and we looked deeply into each other's eyes. Our faces moved closer together, and I cupped her head in my hands, and kissed her, deeply and soulfully. She returned the kiss with passion. Little Mike, hanging between my legs, sprang to attention for the first time with an actual woman in many years. We stood up, still coupled, and after an eternity, we separated.
"I'm not looking for a one night stand" Pat declared after a long pause.
"Neither am I" I responded. After a bit of political maneuvering, so that Pat and I both understood any further foreplay and/or sexual play itself would be the cement on which a relationship was about to be built, we walked back into my suite of rooms, and I closed the door.
I embraced her again, while removing her layers of clothing. We always dressed up at the company Christmas parties, and Pat was wearing a red blazer over a light green dress. She wriggled out of the blazer, and I lifted the dress over her head. Pat was more of a sexual ideal for me than many of my previous sexual partners. She was tall, with long freckled legs, now covered by pantyhose, but soon bare and slding along my own, as I deftly removed my own pants. We kissed and petted on my couch, and when we were completely nude, we moved to my queen sized water bed. I'd purchased the bed when I lived with Cecil, and had never made love upon it's bedding before. The evening was like a sea cruise, with rolling waves of water under the sheets and with rolling waves of passionate sexual congress between us. Pat's hair was thin but long, and she had a careworn face which looked as if it had seen a lot of life, and it had. She'd "been around" and although neither she nor I had been involved in a relationship in a while, we both fit perfectly, or so it seemed, during this night of shooting stars in my bedroom.
I didn't care if Bob or my firends heard any heavy breathing or banging about on the other side of the wall. I found myself invigorated and superhuman, full of joie de vivre. Pat spent the night, and after the throes of passion, whereupon both of us climaxed multiple times, I told her she fit perfectly with me as we curled up together with the bouncing waves of the waterbed still surging calmly. With the morning came our procrastinated parting, and Pat finally drove back to her house.
In the succeeding months, I spent more and more time at Pat's place in Long Beach, packing a bag full of changes of clothing, and sleeping beside her on her daybed, which she had set up in the living room of her small apartment. She had two children, a boy, Charlie, 12, and a girl, Laura, 14. Neither child warmed up to me, possibly suspicious of what seemed to be another "Uncle Daddy" in their lives. During one of my infrequent stays at my own place with Bob, I proclaimed loudly to the assembled "Backyard Buddies" that I lovred "pussy" and was feverishly and enthusiastically contented with the sex I was having with Pat, which seemed to grow more vigorously as the weeks passed. I talked about perhaps moving in with Pat, and away from the "Buddies". Bob's other roommate Mike had moved away, replaced first by my old friend Jim and then with Joel, another mutual friend. Joel was not delighted with his small bedroom, and liked the idea that I was talking about moving away, because he would get to move into my larger suite, however as a good friend, he cautioned me, "You'd better watch out what you're doing, Mike. I don't think it's a good idea for you to get together with Pat." Joel could sense that her personality was a bit strange, but I kept regaling my friends with tales of our sexual shenanigans. "I love her, Joel." I'd whine. "Pat and I make a good couple, and I can think of spending the rest of my life with her."
"You're making a mistake", our friend Pete blankly stated one Saturday afternoon during a college football game, after listening to me wax poetic about Pat. Pete was going through a bad divorce. Most of us remembered his wedding, which had taken place only a few years previous. He had a young girl, a big house, and it seemed to me at least, a delighful wife, but he was quite unhappy with his situation, and he and his wife quarrelled loudly and constantly about almost everything. Pete spent more and more time at the "Frat House" and he didn't want to see me get into the same situation.
When a group of guys get together, the talk is usually about things guys like to talk about. While talk of sex mixes with the talk of sports and cars, sometimes the talk of romance is viewed a bit warily, and that was always the atmosphere at the "The Frat House". The guys didn't think my feelings about Pat were postive. Each one of my friends attempted to extricate me from an upcoming bad situation.
I wasn't listening to them. When I was with Pat, we would sometimes have our differences, and we did fight a bit verbally over these small differences in our wants and needs, but for the most part I was happier with her than with Bob and the gang. Bob's house was beginning to fall apart. The plumbing was incredibly rusty. Bob never cleaned, and I tried to clean up for everyone living there, but grew tired of being Bob's "caretaker". I even wrote his checks and paid his bills from his bank account because he was never used to taking control of his life.
One one hand, I was goaded by Pat to leave my situation with Bob, and on the other, I was goaded by Bob and the buddies to watch out for Pat. She was "setting a trap" and the sex was the bait.
Evenings at Pat's were spent playing cards and talking. Since we had just begun our relationship, everything was still new and interesting. I love to hear people's life stories, and Pat regaled me with tales of hers, and I reciprocated by talking about mine. When we went to bed, we would immediately begin sexual congress, and I was truly having the time of my life. I seemed to thrill her with acts of cunnilingus. Sometimes she would be so filled with seeming ecstasy that she implored me to stop licking and sucking and "stick it in ". Her inhibitions impressed me. Her kids were sleeping in the apartment behind paper thin walls, but she never gave up anything for lack of pleasing me. Each time I would go back to Bob's I would reiterate the "Pussy is a beautiful thing" speech. And each time Bob, Joel, Pete, and the others would tell me I was making a mistake if I moved out and into a life with my new girlfriend.
No amount of common sense from the guys could stop me from stepping into what became, as my friends had prophesized, a really bad mistake. I moved out, and began a three year relationship with my brown haired spitfire. As soon as I had unloaded my furniture, collections, and clothing and closed the door to Pat's apartment, the breeze of freedom stopped blowing. The sexual freedom which we had enjoyed seemed to wind down to a trifle, and soon the sex became workmanlike and uninteresting.
Looking back with the bright light of hindsight, which always gives a clearer picture than when events are happening, it is easy for me to see where things were headed, but I was bullheaded when the events occurred. I don't think I truly realized that Pat had played me somewhat, offering sexual favors so that I would move in. Once the trap shut closed, the sex almost disappeared. By the third year living with her, I began to even dread the few times we did have sex, although some of our times together were fantastic. At first, before moving in, we didn't talk about sex, we perfomed it instead. Pat had a very bad temper and once got incredibly mad because I wouldn't sneak away with her at lunch for a passionate encounter while we were at work because I was with a customer. I began to notice that her reasoning was not always sane. We did have trysts during lunch time on numerous occasions at first, but after a while, even in bed, the passion faded somewhat until it disappeared.
I moved Pat and her son and daughter from their small apartment in Long Beach to a larger house, and then another house in Bellflower. In the house in Long Beach, she surprised me by wanting her own bedroom. I kept wanting to find out ways in which to further cement our relationship into something special, but she kept drawing away. In the Bellflower house we did share the master bedroom, and we occasionally messed around. Most of the time, we slept apart even while in the same bed. For me, sex and love have always been forms of communication, and as our lives played out, our communication in all forms dried to a crackle. The first time we had coupled, I told Pat "we fit together" as we cuddled. As the months passed into years, she would shudder visibly when I even attempted to cuddle with her. She pushed me away constantly. I began to wonder if my life was essentially over, playing along as a pawn in a relationship that deadened more and more as time went by.
Midway through our third year together, Pat secured a night time job with the Policeman's Association, attempting to secure donations house to house in the neighborhood. She surprised me with the news that she was getting another job, as we were financially stable, and she didn't need another job. She claimed she was "bored", and this new job would help to ease her boredom. In our house in Bellflower, I had my own "room" set up in the garage, with a television, my stereo, and a heater, so I retired to my own "place" when Pat was on her other job. Her hours seemed to get longer and longer on this job. Sometimes she didn't even come home at night.
What I didn't know was that Pat had begun cheating on me with the guy who ran the Policeman's Association. Her idea of staving off any boredom was by fuc*ing around with somebody else. I couldn't even believe this until Pat's son Charlie once told me it was so. Then I found a letter Pat had begiun writing to her new paramour where she had left it in her truck and it was filled with sexual talk. I replaced it unbelievingly. After a while, I confronted her and she admitted that she was cheating. This was the exit strategy I had been praying for. We had a year long lease on our house, and until it was up I moved into the garage, with my own bed. I just couldn't sleep on the master bed when I realized Pat and her new boyfriend had been using it for their own shenanigans.
Eventually, I left Pat. It's amazing to think how easy it is for one to be hornswaggled by sex when it is used as bait to set a trap. Even as I was being warned about this trap, it was sprung with ease, and I found myself enmeshed in it for a third of the decade. I finally extricated myself, but only when I had a good reason, because I still believe that most people are inherently good, and wanted to believe that Pat and I were perhaps on rocky ground, but would find a smooth path after a while. She chose to wander off the path without me, and I ended up walking away on my own.
Before leaving her outright, I spent my weekends back at Bob's sleeping on the sofa bed in the living room, while Joel and Bob would cheerily chide me with "I told you so"s. I had to tell them they were right after all, and I compared finally ending my relationship with being let out of jail after a long incarceration. In 1995, I was ready to say goodbye to relationships, and get my rocks off only when watching pornographic movies on tape.
The late nineties wouldn't serve up any sexual delights for me in the common sense. In 1995, I discovered that Pat, my girlfriend of three years, with whom I shared a six month lease on a rented house, was cheating on me with her boss at the Policeman's Association. The subsequent breakup might have been discouraging, but wasn't really. The only thing keeping us together was the lease on the house. I couldn't sleep in the same bed where I found that she had been having sex with her new paramour when I was away, so I moved into the garage, sleeping on a daybed, and waited till May, when the lease expired.
On weekends I was visiting my old friends Bob and Joel in "The Frat House", from which I had moved when I began living with Pat. I still wasn't driving, and I didn't want to be with my girlfriend, so I arose early in the mornings on weekdays and took the bus to work. On Fridays, I would take a kit bag with two changes of clothes with me into work, and Jack, our CEO, who lived somewhat near Bob, would drive me home to "The Frat House" for the weekend, and pick me up on Monday morning. While at Bob's, I slept in the living room on a sleeper sofa with a busted spring. There was a sliding door between the living room and the hall. Bob and Joel lived in their respective bedrooms. Joel was still in my old bedroom, snidely laughing at me for coming back, because he had been the most vocal opponent of my plans to move in with Pat three years earlier.
Bob and Joel weren't getting along, and each would stay in his own "space". I would carom back and forth between Bob's and Joel's bedrooms, having a beer or seven, and watching whatever bit of entertainment would be playing on Bob's bigscreen or listening to records with Joel. Friday nights Joel would usually drive over to his friend Jim's in Long Beach. This wasn't my old friend Jim, but another Jim whom Joel had known since boyhood. The guy had been recently divorced, and was a pretty heavy speed freak, buying and selling methamphetamine from his apartment situated above his mother's house. Jim collected comic books and trading cards, and was a pretty meticulous type. He wasn't the poster boy for speed. In fact, for quite a while, until he really got addicted, you wouldn't even know he was such a druggie. I wasn't that friendly with him except in Joel's company, but I would accompany Joel to Jim's place on Friday nights.
One such night, I was offered some speed. Both Joel and I bought 20 dollar bags, enough to last the evening. Before Joel had moved in with Bob, I and he had spent many an evening fueled on cocaine, so this was a logical progression. I'd used black beautys and "whites" in the 70s, so I thought I knew what to expect. The speed kept us awake, and we would have long conversations about nothing with Jim, and then we would drive home. The first time I spent one of these evenings snorting multiple lines of the yellowish white powder, I got incredibly horny when I got home and closed the sliding door to Bob's living room. This aspect of the drug was pleasurable, but when I wanted to go to sleep, I couldn't keep my eyes closed. Little eyelid movies filled with kinetic undressed women would play out before me, and though "Little Mike" didn't exactly become "Big Mike" because of the effects of the drug, I wanted insanely to have sex. Thoughts of sex filled me like a helium balloon about to either take off into the stratosphere or pop altogether!
I went into the hall and brought the telephone back into the living room with me. There were phone services which would offer sex talk for $1.50 to $3.00 a minute. I speedily dialed numbers from the top of my head. 1-900-BIG TITS, 1-900-WET PUSS, etc. Some numbers went nowhere. Some were answered. When one of the "sex therapists" came on the line, I would ramble on in smutty heaven, not realizing of course that I was driving Bob's phone bill up almost as far as that helium balloon.
There are about four weekends in a month, before the phone bill came around again. I used to pay Bob's bills when I was living with him. Joel was presently doing this job. I probably took speed for three of those four weekends, and when Joel looked at the phone bill, it was filled with about $350.00 worth of the "1-900" sex numbers. I hadn't realized (in my speed fueled wanton disregard for anything except some sexual satisfaction) that I had rung the phone bill up that "high". Bob was bemused. I promised to pay the bill in installments.
The next time Joel went over to Jim's on a Friday night, I accompanied him as usual. I knew that I would be inundated with nervous sexual energy following the ingestion of the drug, but imbibed anyway. Of course I was not allowed to use the phone when I got home. Both Jim and Bob had a lot of porn tapes, and I had my complete collection of Playboys in boxes at Bob's, where I had stored them when I moved in with Pat. Armed with pornographic material, I would sit out the rest of the night into the morning fueled on the drug, in a constant feeling of sexual energy, either watching the tapes (over and over again, fast forwarding to "the good parts") or displaying my centerfolds around the living room so there was no room to walk around.
Bob died of a heart attack at the age of 47, soon after I began visiting on weekends. He didn't have any close family. He was a single only son who had lived with his mother all his life until she had died and he'd asked first me, then a succession of roommates including Joel, to live with him and pay him cheap rent. However when he died, Joel and I looked through his effects and found an uncle in Colorado. We called him, and he soon became the executor of Bob's estate. Joel was unceremoniously kicked out of the house, which was put on the market for sale. May was just around the corner, when my lease on the rented house I shared with Pat would expire, so I suggested to Joel that we look for temporary digs in which to live together.
We found a large three bedroom house pretty close in proximity to "The Frat House". The rent was cheap for the amount of space, and we rented a truck and moved my stuff from the garage and Joel's from "The Frat House". A lot of subsequent Friday nights were spent with Jim in Long Beach, and both Joel and I kept buying larger and larger bags of methamphetamine.
Speed kills. If you take it long enough for it's ingedients to start dictating your life. Some addictive personalities, including Jim, begin to wither away because they don't eat right. On the drug, one doesn't care to eat anything. One mutual friend, Pete, took the drug at work, and would finish grand projects on Sundays when nobody else was around. Joel would get extemely talkative, and then spend a lot of time holed up in his bedroom with paranoia.
I just wanted some sex.
Although I've never condoned drug use, and though I never took drugs on weekdays when at work, or on weeknights when I had to go to work the next morning, I began a long period when almost all my weekends were "speedy" ones. I graduated from 20 dollar bags to buying large rocks of the stuff for hundreds of dollars. No longer would I even make excuses for partying with Jim. He became my "dealer". After I finally bought a car, a small 1991 Geo Metro convertible, I would sometimes drop by JIm's after work, since I worked in Long Beach, and get my "stash". Joel would give me the money for his stash, and between us both, we were able to purchase enough to possibly sell at a profit, but we wouldn't have any of that.
I started visiting Jim more and more on my own, since I was driving, and after I scored, I would get high, and then leave Jim's and go to different nudie bars around the South Bay. I became a "regular" at three different bars, sometimes spending all my cash and having to rely upon the bar's handy ATM machine to dole out more money for lap dances.
Sometimes I might spend all evening and into the morning hours at a "Gentleman's Club." I got to "know" quite a few of the girls who danced at these places, and I even let them know I was flying on speed. I always hoped to corral one of them into coming back home with me after her shift, but of course this never happened. I even obtained phone numbers from a couple of gals, who offered "home lap dances", but at $350.00 to $500.00 a pop, this wasn't a business deal I wanted to seal with a kiss.
When speeding along on methamphetamine, the mind plays lots of tricks. If you are performing a task, like Pete at work, the task becomes overwhelming. If the task is trying to placate a sex urge, then you begin thinking up all kinds of ways in which to prolong that urge. My little "addiction" to the drug never became overwhelming. I never used it for anything other than to satisfy my sexual urge, even though physically, the drug doesn't help one to become erect, or to climax. The feeling is one of forever peaking prior to climax. When at Bob's, in those early days of using the drug, I actually masturbated, until I realized I was pulling the pud prodigiously, but nothing was really happening, except for a lot of physical hurt after about four hours.
In time, I formulated a routine which helped me to (falsely) think the experience with the drug was not only positive, but enlightening. From the time I would leave work on Friday night, till Sunday evening, I would lapse into a zen state of constant excitement. I didn't even need to touch myself. I became quite a regular at the XXX tape rental store down the street from where I lived. I rented 8-10 tapes at a time, and watched them multiple times. In the mid nineties, the "amateur" videos overtook the (badly) scripted porn movies of the 80s. Each tape would consist of only the "good parts", so I didn't need to fast forward anymore. I would settle in my bedroom, watching porn on a 32" monitor sitting close to the end of my bed. One time I used my 6 foot inflatable plastic Gumby as a "love doll" and promptly exploded the inflatable cartoon character. After that I bought plastic "love dolls", using them and using them up when they would explode, as all of them always did.
This wasn't sex. And it wasn't drugs. I would send myself to some heavenly place where I was always on the verge of coming, but didn't until after about 8-10 hours of sexual camaraderie with plastic dolls and speed. I moved from snorting the stuff to smoking it in large glass pipes. In retrospect, it's a wonder I didn't ruin myself in some way. However, after about a year of these "speedy weekends", I got tired of these exercises in futility. My "habit" started eating holes in my finances as well.
The major reason why I tired of using the stuff was not only financial, but because I could see Joel's friend Jim wasting away, both physically and mentally. Pete, the other friend with whom Joel and I shared the "habit", shared his apartment with Jim when Jim was evicted from the place in which he was living after he sold the family home when his mother died. Jim began stealing first from me, by taking my money, but giving me smaller and smaller amounts of speed, which were delivered later and later. Then he stole money from Joel one week when he crashed on our couch. He stole my state's quarter collection, which was worth about $200.00, but blamed the theft on neighborhood kids. He stole all of Pete's laserdiscs and sold them for money to buy more drugs.
As with earlier "addictions" in my life, I stopped cold turkey when I saw what the drug was doing to my friends. Both Joel and I stopped taking speed at about the same time, early in 1997. Jim eventually wound up in jail, and Pete became homeless. I was making good money at work, and I was finding that the effects of the speed didn't necessarily wear off on Monday mornings, even if I wasn't smoking it. I had started to become irritable and antsy all the time.
It was overtime to stop. The special feelings I felt the drug were giving me were probably ruining my health. Scratch that. I knew my health was being compromised by "the habit." Besides, in 1997, I became hooked on another drug. I bought my first computer. Sex for me, this autoerotic form of drug fueled sexual abandon, was about to be replaced by a need to create art and literature on the internet. And I found I didn't need any drugs for this form of entertainment and enlightenment. It would be another two years before I would have sex, and that was fueled not by drugs, but by my newfound "lovesearch" on the world wide web.
(and hopefully not two years from now) LOVESEARCHING AND LOSING IN CYBERSPACE
TO BE CONTINUED