Chapter Two - My Four Horny Friends
Now that I remember her and recall her face and her figure in more detail, she was a good looking woman, a huge understatement, and one who haunted my dreams and fantasies for years, after our brief sexual interlude. Even now, remembering her, as I would an old, favorite teacher, I remember her with love, lust, and affection. I remember her in this story with fond, albeit still excited sexual memories of her naked body. If she's still alive, I wonder where she is now and if she ever thought about me again later in the way that I'm thinking about her now and always thought about her. Probably married with kids and grandchildren, by now, I wonder if she'd recognize me forty years later.
It all started innocently enough. What did we know? We were just a bunch of horny, young men hanging around our neighborhood haunt, Slide Park, aptly named because there were two granite slides, when first walking in the park.
She was a woman who lived in our neighborhood and, at first, we never paid her any mind, that is, until she started making a spectacle of herself. My friends used to whisper that she was lesbian because she didn't have a husband or a boyfriend and because they never saw her with a man. I don't think we even knew what a lesbian was back then because everything about alternative sexual orientation was hushed; everyone who was gay or lesbian hid in the closet, and nothing was out in the open and on the table, as it is today. Besides, if we thought of lesbians, the only lesbians that came to mind was the butch dyke type of lesbians, those women who wore men's clothes and who'd beat the crap out of a man for just looking at them the wrong way. In our minds, there was no way that a beautiful woman could be a lesbian. Back then, we never suspected Vivian Leigh, Marlene Dietrich, Joan Crawford, Barbara Stanwyck, and Judy Holiday of being lesbian. They were too damn hot.
Back then, it was just unusual for a woman to live alone in our neighborhood, a place of families with lots of kids. Just as it was unusual for someone to work from home. Rumor had it that she was a writer. Rumor had it that she was a widow, after her husband was killed in Viet Nam. She didn't look like any widow that I ever saw. All the widows in the North End, the Italian section of Boston, wore black for the rest of their lives. Rumor had it that she was evicted out of Charlestown, the next neighborhood over, the Irish section of Boston, across the Charlestown bridge, where Osama bin Laden's relatives lived, before 9/11, after she was caught having sex with young men our age.
She was old or so we all thought, even though she was only 32-years-old. A bunch of goofs, we were all 18-years-old and acting more like 13-year-olds. Our maturity stunted by our closed neighborhood, we were all so very immature. What did we know about life? Not so much.
Without having graphically explicit television, sex education, and X rated Internet videos, we didn't know very much about sex either, that was for sure. Back then in the sixties of censored TV, prime time television consisted of cartoons, Top Cat, the Flintstones, and the Jetsons, along with mild situation comedies, Lucille Ball, Ozzie and Harriet, and Leave it to Beaver. With church every Sunday keeping us in check the whole week, we all answered to a higher power. What fear the Nuns couldn't instill in us with their ruler, the Priest at Mass instilled in us with his sermon and with threats of our souls being damned to Hell. After reading Dante's Inferno and Milton's Paradise Lost in high school, I was already scared out of my mind not to do anything wrong, immoral, or illegal.
With all of us virgins, we did nothing more than look, stare and leer, actually. Innocent voyeuristic perverts and perverse peepers, we spent our days trying to see whatever we could see as fodder for our masturbation sessions later. Jerking off a lot, while waiting and watching for opportunities to see down women's blouses and up their skirts, we welcomed the advent of the sexual revolution and the day of the mini skirt. Whenever we saw an opportunity for a down blouse and/or an up skirt view, describing it in great detail and embellishing it, we told our friends what we saw with enhanced descriptions and imagery getting better every time we retold the story. We were all guilty of jerking off later about imagining seeing that for ourselves. Still, a time just before the birth control pill was accepted as an option to birth control, with so many woman morally modest, a sight of a down blouse bra or an up skirt panty was, as a big deal as it was a rare occurrence. When the mini skirt and tube tops took control of our neighborhood and our horny eyeballs, we were happy to be alive.
"I saw a woman today at the market. She was reaching for the cheese in the dairy case and her blouse was wide opened, wide frigging open," said Joey, playing the part of the woman that he saw. Unbuttoning his shirt and bending forward, as if he was leaning and reaching in a diary case, he was giving us a good story. "I swear on my grandmother's grave," he said raising his hand, while looking from each one of us. "The top of her blouse was unbuttoned and she wasn't wearing a bra. I saw her tits, her areolas, and her nipples. I saw her whole breast and she had big tits. I saw everything," he said breathlessly, while wiping his hand over his face, as if he needed a drink to calm his nerves, after witnessing a murder.
