Three Short Shorts

EDUCATION

It was my Aunt Lisa who turned me. The summer I turned 18, my mother sent me to stay with her for a while. Farm boy, gone to summer in the big city. Backwards, right? Totally. It was hot enough on the farm. Hotter'n a three-peckered goat in the city—as we'd say on the farm. But I was an underdeveloped pretty boy. Boys my age were spoiling to kill me because I wasn't like them; my dad was too. Old perverts were eager to get in my pants. Mom sent me to her kid sister to get me out of harm's way.

Heading uptown from the bus in a big yellow taxi, gawking. The first sight I riveted onto were these two guys outside a club, one more out of drag than in it, and the David Bowie look-alike with his hands inside Nancy's skirt (Nancy was what my dad called me). I felt Lisa leaning in, small breast pressing my back, murmuring. "Put that tongue back in your mouth before you drag it on the floor. Slut." Three shades of crimson. She knew. I turned, saw the cabbie watching. He knew. I turned a few more shades.

She had a 5th-story walk-up. Fold-out couch in the living room, tiny kitchen at the end, her bedroom around the corner with nothing but a bead curtain for a door, bathroom in between with a door that didn't close. She turned me onto weed that first night. Lisa, my chaperone for the summer. In the morning she woke me out of sweaty sheets for breakfast. Took me for a long Sunday walk around town to see the sights and fix bearings, show me where was safe to go and where wasn't.

Next morning before work, she brought me out a stack of magazines. Playgirl, Cosmo. "Sorry I don't have any Playboys, but lots of steamy stuff here if you like that. If you want to walk, go down to the arboretum. It'll be cooler. There'll be gay guys there trying to get into you, so you watch your step. Pretty girls too, if that floats your boat." She must've seen a look on my face then; she reached up to touch me. "Hey! It's okay to like both. It really is."

I caved then; tears came. Those five words I'd never heard before. Where I came from you were a man or you were a faggot. No middle ground. And the girls were the harshest judges of all, which side of that line you belonged on. She pulled me, pressing her slim body to me, held me a minute. "Billy, it's okay." Pushing me away again, grinning. "You just watch your step out there. Don't get any diseases." Then she was on her way. I ate, looked at the mags till I came, then went for that walk. I didn't talk with anyone that day, but I saw some awfully pretty sights, and they weren't all trees.

Skip ahead, now. Friday night she left me alone again with the magazines and the television. Promised me she'd take me clubbing soon. I went to sleep late. Naked. She'd taken one look at my pajamas Sunday and said it was way too hot for that. Told me she slept naked, and I should too. By now I was comfortable enough to take her advice.

She came home in the early hours, tipsy, with a guy. I pretended to be asleep. Lack of a bedroom door and freedom of speech—or scream—left nothing to the imagination. Much later, "O-god" came out, took a long piss, then went to the kitchen for a beer. In the refrigerator light I could see the length of his dick, hanging spent but still swollen. He drank with the door still open, illuminating it, glistening. A minute later Lisa came out. Pissed without even trying to close the door, then went to him. "Are you trying to put on a show for my Billy, hmmm?" He muttered something. She took a long drag from his beer, said "It's a pretty nice show." He muttered something again. "Let's make it better," she said. "I'll show him how it's done," and then slid down to her knees in front of him.

"No, wait, are you crazy. . ." but the minute she took him in her mouth the protests died away. Refrigerator door was still open, silhouetting them. She, slim, turned slightly away from me, looked like. . . me. Sucking him. He with a beer still in his hand and his hips undulating slowly to her rhythm. I, beside myself, sweating under the sheet, trying to be quiet as I stroked.

"Billy?" she called softly. "Come here. Let me show you. . ."

And so my education began.

***************

1969

We were college drop-outs, on the road. Like half our generation. He was a man-boy— a scruffy fluff of a beard, no more, but I loved it— it was cute, and besides it held my pussy scent just fine. My mark. I watered it daily, sometimes several times a day. If he took a shower, I pushed him down after and rubbed myself on his beard till I got off, several times, and until he was well-marked.

It's true I pushed him around a bit. 'Dominance' and 'submission' were words we never heard used with sex in those days, but he knew who was boss, and that turned me on constantly. Once, we got into a roaring big quarrel about some stupid thing, I pushed him down, got on top, and planted my pussy square on his face. I never wore underwear in those days, none of us girls did, just thin flowing 'hippie skirts' that could allow instant access. And once he opened his mouth to lick as he'd been taught, I pissed right in his mouth. No aforethought, I was just so pissed off, and piss seemed like the best way to show him. Then I saw him getting hard underneath his jeans. And even though I'd never once thought about doing something like that before, doing it now, showing him where he stood— and then seeing him get hard from it. . .

So anyway, one night we were at the Fillmore West. The New York Rock and Roll Ensemble and some other bands were there—all cutting edge groups at the time, that nobody nowadays has ever heard of— except Bob Weir was there with a couple of friends. Nobody even knew who they were at first. The air was thick. You didn't need a pipe to get high, just breathe. The seats had all been pulled out of the place. Sometimes people sat on the floor on blankets, or nights like this when it was too crowded to sit, we stood or we danced.

So I was up front with my man-boy, call him 'Jimmie,' right by the stage, and we were packed together, dancing like we were all one being. Jimmie was on my left. We were facing the band, making eye contact. I felt this guy behind me, pushing. I don't think he was pushing me at first, it was just the press of the crowd. But I put my hands on the stage and started pushing back with my ass. Just playfully. But then I felt him getting hard. I looked back. This guy was older, and a regular lumberjack. Thick black beard, muscles everywhere. My skirt was just one of those India prints, wrapped around. And I'd cut it down to use some of the fabric for something else, so there wasn't much overlap. I started working it around so the opening was in back instead of on my side.

His hands on my hips now, I felt him grinding into me. I wedged my hand between us and started working his zipper down. He got inside my skirt, reached around, fingering. I pushed back again, felt his cock crawling out of his pants and getting harder. I leaned on the stage again, arching my back, dancing, I was so fuckin' wet, and his cock continued its crawl right on up between my legs. I was stoned out of my head, gazing up straight into the guitar player's eyes when the guy slipped inside me. God he was hard. And so big. And the dance went on, perfect rhythm with the music.

About this time, Jimmie figured out what was going on, started flailing and pulling, trying to get us apart. This lumberjack guy, he could've just swatted Jimmie like a fly, but he had an iron grip on my hips and he just kept up his dance, never even looked at Jimmie, and me dancing with him, until I felt him gasp and push in and up so hard he lifted me right off the floor and I could feel him pumping into me, then sperm running down inside my thighs.

I turned when he was done, wrapped my arms around his neck, kissed him deep. But never a word, and he pulled away after, fading back. I turned then, grabbed Jimmie, he was till thrashing till I kissed him, too. We started working our way out of the crowd. I knew just how things were going to go. When we got free of the crowd he was going to start yelling and carrying on, maybe even try to hit me. And I was going to put my foot on his, and push him back, and he'd collapse on ground. And then I'd be on top. And feed him. I shuddered and came, then, just thinking about it. . .

***************

THAT GIRL DOWN AT THE CORNER GROCERY

The one with that sweet smile she doles out like bread in a soup kitchen? With the cute ass that she doesn't show off most of the time, except when maybe certain people are around? I want to fuck her, right there, right up that sweet ass. But only after I'd licked it until she was squirming with eager, till she was muttering those dirty thoughts that you just know run around inside her head like mice in drafty old house. Then when she's soft and wet and open, slide it in slow, backing and forthing as it deepens, a little deeper with each forth, till it's all the way in, and then hold it there while she quivers, hold it in tight while I reach under her, lifting her hips with one hand till I can reach her clit, but I don't, instead I take her wrist and guide her there, till she diddles herself, and I start sliding again, nice and slow, in and out, until her quiver becomes a long deep shudder and her shudder becomes an earthquake, and hold it, hold it, while the quake thunders on, and them pull back once and in like a pile driver, pumping seed into her garden, that garden of fecund delights, and me shuddering now, shaking, sobbing, and hold—hold—hold— and then at last to roll off as she rolls to face me, and gives me that beautiful rationed smile and kisses me softly and says "You dirty, dirty old man."

But maybe it wouldn't go that way, the best laid plans of mice and men in drafty old houses falling through the cracks in the floor, maybe instead it would be I'd undress her slow when we first meet, her hesitant at first, then more eager as I go, as I kiss my way downward to each newly discovered place, those nipples of new upturned breasts, the belly, licking inside that bellybutton as I pass it, and then kissing that soft roundness below it, the belly-bottom, and then the pants drop to her ankles and nestling her soft and scanty bush, inhaling the scents there, the faint smell of piss and sweat because she's just come off a 12-hour shift and no time to clean up, floating on the hot heady scent of animal arousal, and her holding me by the head, fingers in my thin gray hairs, grabbing, pushing me into her center with no time now for play and tease, to lick there, and to suck, and to swallow the flood, until she can't stand it anymore and shoves me away, "Stop," a rough cry almost angry, and collapses beside me, and we together onto the bed or the floor or the straw or wherever we are, and she nestles into me from behind, fitting like a hand in glove, her breath sweet in my ear. . .

And then her hand, exploring, tickling, teasing my cheeks, and then with agonizing slow finding her way between, then pausing to reach around and take the wetness oozing from my unfulfilled tip, and then back behind and between again, swirling around in slippery circles, zeroing in on center, and then one finger probing, testing the waters for resistance, and finding none, forging boldly onward where noman has gone before (or so she may think!) and sliding in, finger into a new glove fitting snugly but not too snug, and then rolling me onto my belly, she rolling with me, legs astraddle mine and thrusting, inside me now as far as she can reach, her pubis pushing against the back of her wrist, again and again, trying for deeper with each thrust, until she cries out, sharp, like a fox in the night, and freezes there against me, rigid, holding, holding, holding—until her breath comes again, in ragged gasps, and she relaxes, melting slowly into me, and then her breath comes back to her and then she murmurs into my ear, "You dirty,

dirty

old man."