In that same conversation we outlined what our Wednesdays would do. He will extend the boundaries of my experience. He knows what I require and will enjoy supplying it. I don’t have to do anything that I don’t want to do. We both understand this. Yet I’m not worried about that sort of thing with him. Touching his penis was a giant step forward, more significant by far than letting him go down on me. (And more thrilling.)
I think I’d probably let him fuck me if he wanted to. I could probably do something like that. I never refused Gary, even sometimes encouraged him. And because he wouldn’t expect me to enjoy it I would be less inhibited than otherwise.
Better way to put this. Could let him fuck Jennifer. Not me but Jennifer. (It was Jennifer’s hand on his cock.) Could perhaps even enjoy it through his excitement while feeling no excitement of my own.
He approves of my letter-writing. Very relieved to hear about it. Didn’t specifically say so, but was as apprehensive of my becoming overly involved with him as he was of becoming hung up on me.
The one question I can’t answer is whether I am getting progressively saner or progressively crazier. I’m making good time but wonder now and then if I’m Wrong-Way Corrigan, flying to Los Angeles and landing in Ireland.
It’s a nice trip, though.
24 March — Wednesday
Two letters in my Post Office box.
Took them out of the box and checked to make sure they were truly addressed to me. Both addressed to Miss Jennifer Starr. Odd flash — Oh, they’re not addressed to me, they’re addressed to Jennifer. Buried them furtively into my purse and hurried home.
A fetish quality to the letters. Turned them over and over in my hands before opening them. When I borrowed dirty books in secret from my mother’s store, I did much the same thing before opening them, savoring them in anticipation like a child with a piece of especially good candy which he has been saving for the occasion.
Always hated candy — Gary’s inevitable gift. Odd how I automatically select the traditional metaphors of other people’s childhoods.
Opened one envelope and out fell a glossy polaroid photo of a muscular young man with a crew cut, no sideburns, a nose once broken, tattoos on both biceps, and last but surely not least, an impressive erection. He was squeezing his buttocks tight and thrusting his hips at the camera as if to fuck it from a distance.
A short hand-written note. Won’t bother to type it now, though I could almost quote if from memory. Ill-chosen words to the effect that I may think I just want to watch, and he wouldn’t mind my watching him, but if I don’t like to fuck it’s only because I’ve never been fucked by him, God’s gift to women. And a lot of specific detail on the size of his cock, its length and girth; the measurements he cites are not quite supported by the photo introduced in evidence, for while it’s obviously a sizable one, it can’t be the ten inches long by six inches in circumference he claims for it.
He is certainly involved with his own cock, this young man.
I’m to call him afternoons at a midtown number. Bet he’s married and his wife doesn’t know about this.
I won’t call him. I like his picture, but I’m sure I wouldn’t like him. He wouldn’t be happy until he’d fucked me with that treasured shaft of his, and would certainly hate me if I failed to adore every moment of it. He assures me he can sustain intercourse for an hour or two with ease, assures me too that he is willing to eat a girl for as long as she wants. Mr. Willing-and-Able, willing to eat and able to fuck. More power to him, but no thank you, sir. I won’t call, nor will I answer his letter. The other has more promise.
Dear Jennifer Starr,
We cannot help wondering if you are real. If so, please don’t be offended by our suspicious natures. But if you are a Postal Inspector returning to the old entrapment policies or a male or female crank anxious to receive erotic letters under false pretenses, I’m afraid we’ll be disappointing you.
We are a couple in our early thirties who have made some tentative ventures into modern social life. We both feel most comfortable in those situations in which a female friend joins us for a pleasant evening. If your own interests are exactly as you describe them, we think we might enjoy your company; the presence of an extra girl, even as a bystander, seems likely to add to our enjoyment. Should you wish to play a more active role, we would be pleased to accommodate you. But the choice is yours.
If this sounds like what you are looking for, you may get in touch with us at 688-9970. As we both work days, a call any evening between 6 and 10 would be best. Our children are young, and go to sleep early in the evening.
For obvious reasons we are not enclosing photographs or last names. If our phone conversation warrants it, we could arrange to meet on neutral territory to decide whether we find one another simpatico. No strings at any stage of the proceedings, on your part or on ours. That’s to be taken for granted.
We look forward to hearing from you — if you exist. If you’re a phony, that’s your business, but please don’t annoy us with obscene phone calls. We really don’t enjoy them.
Wayne and Maureen
PS — Forgive the tone of this. We are considerably warmer people than this letter indicates. And Wayne is a lawyer, and is inclined to sound much stuffier in print than in person. We do look forward to hearing from you!
I’ll call them tomorrow. Definitely. Must end this now. Just called Bill and the coast is clear. I have just about enough time to get there.
Mr. Karlman asked me to have dinner with him tonight. I told him that wasn’t something I could do. He looked disappointed, said it wasn’t a pass or anything, just that he had enjoyed talking to me the other night, that he felt I was someone who could really listen. It is the preliminary to a pass, though I’m almost willing to believe he doesn’t recognize it as such. Either way, it’s the last thing I need. I just hope I can handle things cleverly enough so that I won’t find it necessary to quit my job.
Must end this.
Almost hate to. Feel like speculating about Wayne and Maureen. My reactions, my image of them. Don’t know any married couple named Wayne and Maureen. If those are their names, and they might not be.
What if either or both of them turned out to be someone I know?
Oh, worry about it later.
Bill’s waiting.
25 March — Thursday
Another letter in my Post Office box. The bored housewife who wants to get a lesbian thing going. A whole word trip about how I am a voyeur because I can’t relate to men and a relationship with a female could open me up. But I don’t want to be opened up, you dismal dyke! Suggest we get together and have a drink and get to know each other. No need to have sex, but it would probably be good for us to talk about things.
Enclosed a picture. A facial snapshot from one of those booths where you get three poses for a quarter. A very hard-faced woman, wide jaw, bitter expression. Utterly uninviting. But that doesn’t mean anything. Nobody ever gets a decent picture out of one of those machines.
I won’t call her.
I will call Wayne and Maureen, but not before I type this.
Last night with Bill.
I knocked on the door and he called out for me to come in, that the door was open. I opened it and walked inside. The room was dark, with a small ultraviolet lamp providing the only illumination in the apartment.
Didn’t even see him at first. Then saw him on the water bed, his pale body glowing white in the black light, glowing fiercely upon the royal blue satin sheet.
He was naked and motionless. His eyes were closed. His penis was in repose, small and defenseless. It is so small when relaxed, less than a fourth of its size in full erection. Just a tiny unintimidating thing.