Songs She Never Sang…

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Let’s call her Sally (I do remember her real name, however…) She transferred to Tennessee from Northwestern. She was a petite brunette, originally from Jersey. She said she had been a nightclub singer in Chicago. We met, if my memory has not failed, when she wandered into the shabby headquarters of the Gene McCarthy campaign  in the old Farragut Hotel on Gay Street in downtown Knoxville.

Sally’s mother was Baptist, her father Catholic; she was an intelligent neurotic. I found that alluring. In those days there was nothing I liked more than a half crazy, sexy girl to light me up. With her I burned at about 500 watts.

Terry was carrying a torch for a guy named Bill back in Chicago. She talked about him a lot in a melancholy way. I listened patiently, doing my supportive guy thing. She had large, beautiful brown eyes and they grew moist when she talked about him and her voice filled with slow sadness. He was the Love of her Live, she said. She would always love him, she said.

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What was I to her?

Whatever I was, it only lasted about three months. The sex was OK, although I suspected then, and am more certain of it today, that she was non-orgasmic. I did my good guy, supportive, gonna make you come thing and did my heroic best to bring it off. I still remember the massive ache in my jaw and tongue as I spent what seemed like a week going down on her one day. One night, both of us half-blind drunk, we ended up in a dilapidated motel screwing in a small, shabby bed in a  shabbier room. Half way through our awkward carnal dance she spilled a large glass of iced bourbon on my naked back. The sudden burst if ice cold liquid half sobered me up and put me out of the mood. I later wrote a fairly awful poem about that night.

The trouble with my good guy supportive shtick was it never lasted all that long. Sooner or later my resentment at having to be forgiving, understanding and supportive gave way to resentment and anger. So it was with Terry. One night, near the end, we were sitting in my car in her grandmother’s driveway when all my anger boiled over. I had been drinking Tequila. At one point I think I told her that if she tried to leave the car I would kill her. I said it calmly. I like to think I didn’t really mean it. The truth is I just might have…

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Not long afterwards, I told her as we drove away from a university dorm – she’d been staying with a friend -I was going to screw her hard, then dump her. Of course that was a product of my still simmering anger. Amazingly my cruelty turned her on. True to my word, after fucking her as selfishly as I could manage I drove back to the dorm and told her to get out, that  we were through.

Somehow, and I can’t quite remember how, later that day we bumped into each in a university parking lot (was she looking for her car?) A drenching, cold rain forced her into my Triumph TR-3.  She was in tears and professed strong feelings for me. We sat huddled in my car. She insisted on going down on me. Her obvious enthusiasm pleased me. Maybe, I hoped, I could replace Bill. I  wanted her back and told her so.

That was a mistake. Of course you can guess the rest: she dumped me a few days later. I realized much later she was masochistic. My abandonment of  my good guy persona, my sudden burst of cruel dominance, turned her on. When she groveled for me and stuffed my cock in her mouth, that  good guy came back, wanting again to take care of her. When that happened the bubble burst and she was on her way.

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One night, perhaps relatively early in our misguided affair, she looked at me and sweetly declared, “tonight I almost love you.” How that pierced my famished heart. I wanted so badly to erase that almost. I wanted to replace Bill. I couldn’t. His place in her melancholy heart and dreams remained secure.

She went back to Chicago at the first of the year. We wrote for a time. Ine of her first letters she gleefully narrated, in her elegant handwriting on pink note paper, the story for me of how she finally manageed to orgasm on her new boyfriend’s more  patient and talented tongue.

One last thing. Sally never sang for me – not once. Even today I like to imagine her voice was softly intimate, a little husky and could just melt your good guy heart…

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Photo by Orchidee, click each photo for details and license

FEMALE SINGERS BEAUTIFUL BRUNETTES

Read all of VISIONS

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