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part3

Sunday, June 7th, 2009

told the whole tale. Strange, but it was much easier than the previous
night he had told it to Julie in bed. He began to wonder if maybe his
manhood wasn’t really in question after all.

After Harold was finished, there was silence for a long time. Michael
sat with his eyes closed, digesting information, perhaps. Finally, he
spoke.

“I see your problem, but I don’t think you do. Control is not the real
problem here. You, sir, are attempting to define yourself by your sexual
ability.”

Harold gaped at him for a long moment. “I don’t understand.”

“Simple. This Cindi person did nothing more than verbally assault your
abilities in bed. A painful experience, yes, but not one that should
trigger such a deep depression unless a problem already existed. You are
placing far more emphasis on sex than is healthy for you. Tell me, how
would you feel if I told you Julie was married?”

Harold felt an icy hand clutch his heart as he shivered in the
sweltering heat. “She-she is? But what happened last night…”

“Well, she’s separated, actually. She had planned a reconciliation
last night at the party, but her husband never showed up. She just learned
this morning that he was in the emergency room at Central hospital with a
hernia. I believe the police have taken an interest in the matter, for some
strange reason. All this could have had something to do with what
happened.”

And she had never said a word about it, while Harold had blubbered all
over the place about his own problems.

Michael interrupted his thoughts. “But you did not answer my question.
Does it bother you that she has a marriage she is trying to reconcile?”

The words were like nails being hammered into Harold’s heart. “Well…
shit. I guess it does…”

“Why?” Michael asked mildly.

Taken aback, Harold replied, “Well… after what happened last night I
was hoping I’d found… She’s an incredible woman.”

“Whom you’ve known only a few hours.” Michael finished for him. “What
you found was a chance to redeem yourself, and, from what you’ve told me,
you’ve done that admirably. You’ve totally disproved everything this Cindi
person told you, yet still you are not happy. You believe that gaining the
ability to postpone orgasm is the only thing that will confirm your
manhood.” His next words were emphasized so as to avoid any chance of
misunderstanding: “Bullshit.”

Harold blinked rapidly “I don’t understand.”

Michael sighed. “Harold, my boy, the only person in the world who can
confirm your manhood is you. What is the definition of manhood, anyway?
I’ve heard many definitions, and few of them have anything to do with
sex.”

“But…” Harold stammered, still confused. “You won’t help?”

Michael was about to say he didn’t think Harold needed any. Then he
closed his mouth and thought a moment. Harold probably wouldn’t listen.
Michael sensed something in this young man, something he didn’t see very
often. Harold was obviously very intelligent, as well as in a lot of pain.
He could get a lot out of life if he ever got the courage to crawl out from
under his rock of self-pity. All he really needed was the right kind of
guidance, and Michael never had been one to resist trying to help.

“I may help.” Michael said at last. “How far are you willing to go?”

“Well…” Harold thought for a moment, more confused than ever. “As…
far as I have to.” he finally replied.

Michael stared at him for a long time, taking his measure. Finally, he
sighed. “Very well. I have a vacant room you may stay in. You will need to
move your belongings there. The room and board will be free of charge, at
least for now.” He leaned forward again. “Your life is going to change
drastically. Just remember what you said.”

Harold swallowed hard. He was no longer confused.

He was frightened.

Two weeks passed. They passed slowly, but hardly peacefully. The
daytime temperature remained in the 100’s, and things were heating up in
more ways than one:

The Willyville Nudist Society, despite warnings from the police,
persisted in their activities. Walks, swims, gardening, any outdoor
activity that could be was performed in the nude in the scorching sunshine.
After the first fifty busts or so, the police decided it was a lost cause
and just ignored the whole thing. After all, they still had the
air-conditioner thieves to catch. The nudists were easy to spot even with
their clothes on, as they had tans so deep they bordered on sunburns. But
then a medical segment on the local news mentioned something that put the
whole thing into a new light…

Skin cancer.

Terror spread through the naturist community as fast as the phone
could carry the news, and the next day the Willyville Nudist Society
disbanded, only to be replaced by the Willyville Overcoat Society. That’s
right, every single one of the ex-nudists were bundled up in long coats and
large hats every time they set foot outside. Within 48 hours the hospitals
reported 19 cases of heat stroke. The doctors and nurses of the Willyville
medical community were beginning to wish they had the luxury of taking long
overdue vacations…

On a more positive note, the Willyville air conditioner crime wave
ended in a rather spectacular way. Elmo Burns had taken a sick day from the
sawmill and was busily enjoying X-rated videotapes in the privacy of his
own home (as was his constitutional right) when he heard strange noises
coming from the direction of the air-conditioner. Already suspicious, he
pulled up his pants, grabbed his over-and-under shotgun, went out the front
door, and snuck around to the back of the house. Sure enough, there was a
man standing on a short stepladder, trying to lever the air-conditioner
loose with a crowbar. Obviously, he thought Elmo was away at work,
overlooking Elmo’s Ford 4X4 sitting square in the driveway. Elmo figured
that the subtle approach would just be wasted on someone this dumb, so he
announced his presence by letting the would-be thief have it right in the
ass with both barrels at close range.

Elmo’s shotgun had been loaded with hand-made shells containing, not
buckshot, but rock salt and bacon rinds, which had been his daddy’s
solution for kids who stole crops from the fields. The attack was not
lethal, but the crook was still quite immobilized (to say the least) when
the police arrived. The detective in charge of the thefts saw that a golden
opportunity had arisen to bring this mess to a halt once and for all. He
took the wounded thief downtown instead of to the hospital and directly to
an interrogation room. There, being held down on a hard wooden chair by two
burly officers, it took the screaming thief less than fifteen seconds to
decide to roll over on the rest of his gang. Within the hour they were all
rounded up, along with a small warehouse full of air conditioners, which
had turned out to be a bit harder to fence that they anticipated.

The chief of police announced the news from the steps of City Hall to
a cheering crowd of over a thousand sweating theft victims. But there was
one small snag. Somebody asked when the air conditioners would be returned
to their anxious owners. The chief paused for a second, swallowed hard,
then confessed that they would all have to be held over as evidence for the
trial–which was scheduled to begin in six weeks.

The riot that ensued would best be left to the reader’s
imagination…

“Ooooooooooooooooooohhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmm…” Michael crooned, sitting
…End of the part3. To be continued..

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Wednesday, May 6th, 2009

Have you ever held on to the same fantasy for years and finally, long after

you’d given up hope of it ever coming true it does. It’s like getting a

Christmas present in February. It’s not anything you expect, but it sure

can make you happy. That’s just what happened to me.

Before I share it with you I’ll give you a little background. I was

introduced to the pleasures of sucking cock at the tender age of 15 by one

of the neighborhood tough guys, who was a couple of years older than me.

He thought he was pretty cool, Mr. BadAss “forcing” another guy to polish

his knob, but he soon discovered that you can’t force the eager. It may

have burst his bubble to learn that I liked it, but it didn’t prevent him

from seeking me out. It was after all the perfect arrangement; he liked

being sucked; I liked sucking.

He gave me lots of practice; by the time I turned 16 I was a fairly adept

pole smoker. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy doing my neighbor, but after

taking his load at least 150 times I wanted to expand out to new (and

hopefully bigger) things. I looked at any good looking guy I saw as someone

who I could suck if the opportunity arose. It was just a matter of time

before something happened.

That summer, having just got my license, I wanted my own car. My dad made

me a deal. He owned a small manufacturing company. He’d front me the

money for my wheels, but I’d have to pay off my loan by working for him

during all school vacations. Who could pass up a deal like that? So that’s

how I met Eric.

Eric was 20 years old and everything I considered a super hunk to be. He

had short-cropped, sandy blond hair, pale blue eyes, an All-American,

Saturday Evening Post kind of face together with a body that nearly took my

breath away the first time I saw him. He was my definition of

masculine. There’s no denying it, I was in lust at first sight. From the

moment I noticed the bulge protruding from the crotch of his jeans I wanted

to do nothing less than drop to my knees and worship it.

Eric had worked for my dad since his senior year in high school, but we’d

never met. I knew him by reputation only. Dad really liked him, saying he

was a hard and willing worker and dad was never one to hand out compliments

or praise just for the sake of doing so. At the time Eric was sort of a

jack of all trades, learning the entire operation from the ground up. Dad

had great hopes for advancing him as the business grew and prospered. My

summer job was going to be to take over running the outside errands and

office boy duties that he’ been doing while he became more involved in

learning the production end of the business.

Of course this meant that for the first couple of weeks I would be working

with Eric while he trained me. As far as I was concerned this was the

perfect arrangement and I determined to have him before the two weeks were

up. To understand where I was coming from, or at least to put it into

perspective, you need to know that I was an only child with asthma and I’d

become used to getting my own way. Not that I got everything just for the

asking, but if I was willing to work and plot, I usually got what I

wanted. Add to this the fact that I’d led a very sheltered life, despite

the fact that I’d been sucking cock for over a year, and really didn’t know

much about sex in the real world. So it’s somewhat understandable that it

didn’t occur to me that anybody would see anything wrong with one guy

wanting to suck another off, and I certainly didn’t realize that a guy who

enjoyed sex might turn down the offer of a blow job. Not even the fact that

Eric was married with one kid and another on the way deterred me in my

quest.

I certainly didn’t waste any time. We’d been out on the road alone for

about 20 minutes when, not even trying to maneuver the conversation toward

sex I just came out and asked,

“Eric have you ever had a blow job?”

He looked pretty shocked, at least by the abruptness of the question, he

laughed a little nervously and said, “course I’ve had a blow job. I’m

married aren’t I?”

I didn’t know what to say so I blurted out the first thing that came to my

tongue, “your wife blows you?” I’ll admit I felt more than a little stupid.

…End of the part1. To be continued..

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Sunday, April 5th, 2009

bastard.”

“Smell…you could smell me because I was in the room when

it was happening.”

“Bullshit! Bullshit!”

“I was there to make sure nothing went wrong; to make sure he

didn’t mess with you.”

“You were in the room all those times? Then if you’re not a

rapist you’re a goddam voyeuristic creep! But it was you; I know it

was you, and I’m calling the goddam cops on you, you fucking rapist

loser.”

She hung up the phone. I dug the bottle of bourbon out of my

closet, drank half a glass, then walked slowly to her dorm room. A

sheet of lined paper was tacked to her door with large, sloppy letters

commanding, “Go Away!”

I stared at the note for about half a minute, then walked

back to my room.

* * *

The next morning I found a note from her slipped under my

door:

“Dear Creep — I just wanted you to be fully aware of how

much you fucked up my life and ruined my sense of self-esteem.

You have made my sex life the subject of grotesque rumors all over

campus; you have made my vagina public intellectual property. Every

moment that I endure this hellish existence, the knowledge of

how you cheapened and hurt me grows stronger, more painful, like a

cancer devouring my conscience. You horrify me. Your former friend,

Jeanine. PS: Rotting in hell for eternity would be far, far too

gentle a fate for you. PPS: Don’t ever talk to me again.”

* * *

Peggy told me that Jeanine had initiated a series of telephone

sessions with a psychic in order to figure out who the guy was.

“Madame Horowitz is really a fantastic woman. Really empowered

by the purity of nature and the spirit earth. She lives in Los Angeles,

reads Tarot cards, tea leaves, astrology charts, palms, crystal balls.

Actually I think it’s all nonsense. Expensive nonsense. But Jeanine’s

pretty desperate.”

“She’s threatened to go to the cops,” I said.

“I know. But I think she’s afraid of her parents getting

involved. Her program of rigorous debauchery has given her a profound

sense of guilt.”

“She’s not so bad. Not nearly as bad as she wants to be.”

“She says the feeling of having fucked someone she can’t

identify by name or sight or anything else robs her of the feeling of

sexual accomplishment and makes her feel deeply violated.”

“She really enjoyed it for a while. She told me she was in

love with the guy.”

“Sounds like a normal relationship, the way her attitude

changed so drastically.”

“If she’d just screwed some guy at a bar she wouldn’t really

know much more about him than she knows about her Invisible Man. Not

really.”

“Yeah. Welcome to blind labyrinth of human sexuality. Here’s

a cast for your heart.”

Peggy stared at me, beaming with joyous sarcasm, her features

bearing a sinister slant. I wanted very much to kiss her.

* * *

Jeanine began wearing hats, sunglasses, and clothing made from

hemp. She changed her hair: once the color of maple syrup penetrated by

sunlight, she dyed it jet black. I sometimes saw her striding quickly

down corridors with a kleenex held over her mouth and nose. She stopped

painting her nails and wearing make-up. She stopped eating in the

cafeteria, preferring dried fruit and nuts she purchased from an

organic mail-order company. She stopped saying “Hi,” “How are you,”

or “What’s up,” but instead leapt instantly into the substance of the

few conversations she found necessary to have. She stopped inviting

people into her dorm room.

“She says she’s very chemically sensitive,” Peggy said while

we ate spaghetti with clam sauce at the cafeteria. “She threw away her

microwave, dumped her television, and now she’s trying to get rid of

everything made of plastic. She’s disciplining her environment.”

“What’s wrong with plastic?”

“She doesn’t ride in cars anymore.”

“What’s wrong with cars?”

“The fumes disrupt her bodily equilibrium. And plastics, she

thinks they emit toxic waves that distort her thoughts. She considers

it a form of chemical rape. She only listens to chants, and writes

everything in runes.”

“Does she ever talk about that guy anymore?”

“She doesn’t think that men are psychically evolved enough to

register in her world.”

“Does she still want to know who it was?”

“She claims she’s still a virgin, and plans to stay that

way.”

“Jesus Christ. She’s delusional.”

“She thinks people shape their own reality. What you decide,

what you focus on, that’s what’s real.”

* * *

About two weeks later Peggy discovered that Jeanine was

pregnant. Jeanine still denied having had intercourse, believing

instead that she had been procreatively enslaved by environmentally

reckless corporations.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Peggy said with an air

of investigative triumph, “But she thinks that toxic emissions from

the paint on her walls triggered spontaneous life-formation in her

uterus.”

“What’s hard to believe about that?”

“I’m serious. She said that.”

“Her walls are blue and green and red. Paisely slop she

threw up when she was going through her hippy thing. Does she think the

baby will be paisely-colored?”

“Christ, Bobby, I don’t know what she’s going to do. I asked

if I could take her in for an abortion, but she hasn’t gotten

permission from the foetus’ spirit yet.”

“If she doesn’t abort it, is she going to insist that the paint

company marry her?”

* * *

Shortly after Peggy persuaded her to get an abortion,

Jeanine escaped the narrow definition of “human being.” Humans were

creatures of wreckage, exploitation, environmental poisoning. She had

become part of the earth, a silent, passive, but resilient force

that adjusts to each new vile liberty people take with it. She had lain

on her bed blindfolded like a pristine grassy hill tunneled into by

callous metal miners, helplessly allowing, torn open, subjugated.

Ultimately, like the earth being stripped of its minerals, she lost her

child, but eventually endured the awful loss with an amnesiac

forgiveness. She seemed not to realize that any of it happened.

Events came to completion, but the play of natural forces went on.

In the months before I graduated I saw her regularly in the

agriculture department buildings, entering the greenhouses,

transporting tools and pushing wheelbarrows of soil and fertilizer.

She was learning the creativity of the earth.

One afternoon I saw her chatting with Paul outside a lecture

hall. She was gesturing excitedly as he smiled and nodded. I watched

from a cautious distance, half-shielded in a doorway, wondering if at

some level, perhaps unconsciously, she realized that he was the man who

had made love to her and impregnated her. After about three minutes

they walked to one of the campus coffee shops. I kept staring at the

shop they’d gone into, wondering about the quality of their interaction

with each other, the emotional atmosphere of their togetherness. And I

was consumed with sadness for her.

I walked to her dorm room. Standing in the corridor, I tore

a blank page from one of my binders, scribbled a brief note to her,

then slipped it under her door:

Blind Love MF romance caution

Tuesday, March 31st, 2009

The University of Montana was surrounded by ancient

forests whose wildlife, I had no doubt, was far more daring and

vigorous than that on campus. It was a conservative school in a

sleepy, often cold environment conducive to huddling and conserving

energy. The academic tone was one of intellectual diffidence,

cultural muting, religious mainstreaming. Students gazed somberly out

library windows, rested their heads on their desks, gathered

in the cafeteria to consume starches. The surrounding roads disappeared

into dense woods, vanished under snowdrifts, and probably didn’t lead

anywhere anyway.

When Jeanine graduated high school at the precocious age of

sixteen and began attending the university, rather than finding it

stimulating she found it insufferably dull. But at least she was

away from her parents, and, after pursuing her studies with such

commendable diligence, she was now determined to spend her time in

pursuit of nearly life-threatening debauchery: to finally cave in to

her roaring lust, to shatter her disciplined mind with a dizzying

variety of controlled substances, to betray friends, to tear couples

apart in torrid trists, to…well, to really live.

This was a lot harder than she imagined; this was the

University of Montana. One of the most popular majors was agriculture,

and Jeanine soon concluded that the future farmers of America had

as much of a capacity for hedonism as the vegetables they harvested.

“You look at these torpid bastards and you get the sense that

all they fantasize about is planting row after row of goddam corn.

These are people whose livelihood depends on fertility, for chrissake,

but do you think that even suggests sexuality to them? Hell, no. I’d

like to run the fuckers over with their goddam tractors.”

Jeanine began buying stacks of pornographic magazines in

convenience stores, tearing out photographs of nude women, then

inserting these in library books in hopes of stimulating a massive

outbreak of libido.

But it didn’t work. In her first semester, Jeanine was asked

out once: to a country music festival benefitting farmers.

“The guy wears nothing but flannel. Imagining him in leather

is like imagining a cow riding a motorcycle.”

“You’re too young,” her friend Peggy assured her. “They’re

afraid of being charged with statutory rape, or something. Once you

get older you’ll get more action.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely.”

“How many guys have asked you out this semester?”

Peggy was silent for a moment. “Well, everyone knows that

I’m looking for a husband, not a roll in the hay.”

“Bobby,” she turned to me, “How many girls have you asked

out this semester?”

“I’m too busy planting mental corn to bother with girls,” I

said. She shook her head disgustedly, then grabbed a copy of Penthouse

from her backpack and handed it to me.

I surmised the problem was that Jeanine came off as haughty. She

seemed to disdain all of the guys in school: men destined to spend a

substantial part of their lives shovelling manure, driving tractors.

Her arrogance, partly based on her stellar academic record, came

across as strongly as the Channel perfume she seemed to marinade

herself in. She reminded me of a slab of luminescent flesh yearning

to be ripped apart in someone’s teeth, but which everyone assumed was

lethally poisonous.

* * *

“Ted, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Bob, what’s up?”

I stepped closer to him, turning away discreetly, my gaze

settling on the window. Outside, snow swirled through the cone-shaped

orange beams of the parking lot floodlights.

“You know Jeanine?”

“Not really.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?”

He hesitated, as if somehow puzzled.

“Pretty what?”

“Pretty looking.”

“Well, sure.”

…End of the part1. To be continued..