I relaxed enough to let it happen to me, too. This final orgasm was so intense that I remember only a flaring, white bomb exploding somewhere in my belly and brain, and I felt the first release of Mr. H.'s hot sperm as it shot up into my womb. Then I was dizzily spiraling into a black, soothing pit of nothingness…
When I awakened it was nearly evening, and I was ravenously hungry. Mr. H. was sleeping next to me. I eased out of bed, and padded naked through the darkening house until I found the kitchen. Quietly I made some sandwiches and a pot of coffee. A man of his age shouldn't go through all that exertion without some food under his belt. I was too hungry myself to wait, though, so I quickly gobbled some food while dialing a neighbor's number. We didn't have a phone at home, so I asked the neighbor to tell my mother that I was still at the friend's house and would stay for the weekend. I was sure I would stay for the weekend.
Then I carried the tray back to the bedroom. A little food, I reasoned, and the old bastard would be ready to go again.
"As I passed a hallway mirror, I caught sight of my reflection. I was smiling and relaxed. It made me realize that the lonely little duck, the oddball in any crowd, the strange one, had finally found herself. I knew where and what I was now. And, I suspected happily, I still had a great deal to learn."
The subject's case was brought to the attention of a psychoanalyst when it was discovered that Fran A. was pregnant. Having named the older man in the paternity suit, which was, naturally, combined with a statutory rape charge (subsequently dropped by her parents for fear of adverse effects such a court case might produce on their daughter), she revealed her story to the analyst. It was she herself who volunteered to the therapist her fear that there was something wrong with her because "everyone" seemed to think that she liked it "rough". It is doubtful that the analyst will have much difficulty in negating that fear in the subject and setting her on a normal keel in life.
CHAPTER FIVE
Yeah, sure, I guess so. I mean, if you gotta give it a name, a title, I guess that's as good as any.
Come to think of it, it's probably pretty good. I do get kidded a good bit by some of my friends because of my interest in the culinary arts. It's a jarring image, I guess, to look like Sean Connery, and when your friends drop over, you're sauteing mushrooms with an apron tied around your waist. Although, if you'll remember, James Bond was a gourmet and connoisseur of sorts.
I suppose I could have the same kind of success with women that James Bond has, except I can't often enough find the kind of girls who are properly dominant – that is, who want to be dominant with a guy that looks like Sean Connery. My "bag" is that I need that all-important seasoning of submission in a relationship to spice up my sex life. So, if a woman will just boss me around a little – you know, order me around the house, tell me how shitty the place looks, how crappy the food is, how I screwed up preparing it – well, that makes me happy inside, properly submissive and prepares the way for the right kind of "dominant-submissive" sex. Some people, I know, would say I'm a masochist.
Sure, I dig a little discomfort every now and then with my sex, but not the bondage or leather boot and spike heel bit, not the cat-o-nine-tails or the electrodes fastened to the nipples. Some screwy chicks would just as soon see your whole body covered with scratches, bruises and blood. That's not for me.
Oh, yeah, if some girl gets carried away in the throes of orgasms and rakes her fingernails across my back or butt, that's okay. As a matter of fact, that's exactly what I dig – what turns me on.
The way I started to find out about myself in this respect was unusual, for an angelic-looking young girl turned me on to it. I was, let's see, twenty-five at the time.
I'd been holding down a couple odd jobs while waiting for a better one to open up. I'd been working in a department store during the day and in a small bookstore a few nights a week. Living with an acquaintance who was an aspiring actor. We had a small apartment.
Well, this guy was gay. I can use that word now, although at the time, I couldn't help but think of him as a screaming faggot. He really got on my nerves. Now that I think back on it, I guess that's where I first ran into someone with masochistic impulses. This guy wanted to be hit – not hard enough to get hurt, but you could tell he was fascinated by violence.
A couple times, after I got home from a night of carousing and drinking beer, he wanted me to come right into his bedroom and piss on him. I remember thinking at the time that it was pretty sick to want a penis so bad that you'd be happy just to have one piss on you. It seemed to be part of his masochistic syndrome, or whatever, that included wanting to be beat up. It started me wondering what kind of life a person must've had to be that way.
But I was, and am, a confirmed lover of women. And if I playa passive or even submissive role in my affairs, that in no way diminishes my manliness or my love of the opposite sex. It's just that I enjoy a little bit of rough treatment from my sexual partners.
As I said, it was this young chick who first triggered my intimate personal interest in masochistic impulses.
I'd finally had to split from that East Village apartment. Couldn't take the pressure any more. I was staying at a friend's place, sleeping on his couch, until I could find a small, inexpensive place of my own. But I was enjoying the late afternoons and weekends when I could wander around the village and dig the scenes in Washington Square. The West Village was not quite as sleazy or paranoid as the East Village.
You could stroll through the square and watch some people playing chess, others strumming guitars while walking around the fountain. Pseudoartists, writers and hippies hung around grooving on the people and the scenery. Must've been like Haight-Ashbury before that place became a jungle for smack, meth and a general bummer.
Well, one Saturday afternoon I was idling through Washington Square when I caught sight of this exotic-looking, awkward, willowy, blue-jeaned park nymph. I first noticed the way her dark eyes flashed above a continuous angelic smile. Her movements combined the grace of a gazelle and the gawkishness of a camel. Every third step she looked as though she might fall forward over her feet. She had a way of tossing her long, black hair that looked as though it was supposed to be coltish, wild and irresistibly attractive. Which to me it was.
I thought to myself, God, how typical. I was smug in my wisdom, perspective and observance. I figured her for a freshman, maybe, at the university. Some freshman who's gone all winter trying to get the boys to tumble for her, and feels the sap stirring in her loins. She's ripe, I thought, ripe.
I watched her intently for a minute. God, how I'd love to luck her, I thought. Fuck her up one wall and down the other. Pump my hot, throbbing cock to her till she ached, and then drop a huge load of thick, creamy balm that soothed all her pains.
She abruptly stopped talking to the girl she was with, turned and looked directly at me for a brief second. Tossing her hair, she turned back to her friend. But in that instant-direct communication. She'd read my thoughts. Yes, yes, yes – I could almost hear her voice in my head. Fuck me, luck me, luck me. My penis grew thick in my jeans.
I must've watched her and stalked her for half an hour. And she, the little bitch, was as aware as radar. It was like a minuet we were doing. We'd get near each other, and she'd turn away or see someone beyond me and walk on by. Cat and mouse – and, man, did this cat ever want that mouse.
Well, at that time the protocol for picking up a chick in the village was you walk up to 'em, talk about the weather or Oistrakh's virtuosity with double-stopping or ninths, and then you ask 'em if they'd like to stop in for a cup of coffee. Or you walk up and say, "Baby, I wanna suck your pussy." Depends on your mood, and what you think the chick might dig.