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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.
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…
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.
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…
Photo by Orchidee, click each photo for details and license
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SEX BLOGGER SHARES SHAMEFUL SECRET!
There are plumbers, nurses, engineers, gardeners, and cabbies; all of them, and thousands more, pursue honorable vocations. While their skill and efficiency may vary, at the end of the day each may say she earned an honest dollar for her honest labors.
Because newspapers and magazines desperately wanted you to buy their rag, the front page – or cover – screamed a bevy of large type come ons: The Shocking Truth About…. Will the World End Next Week… Goat Born with Three Heads… If you fell for the lure of one of the headlines you usually found out, when your read the article, the truth was much less shocking than the cover’s implied promise.
Today, as newspapers and magazines fade from the scene, digital media has taken up the art of writing alluring headlines. If old media angled for sales, Internet outlets crave hits. They don’t really care if you read the piece you click through to; your click is enough.
I admit, given my modest audience, I’ve been tempted to attempt to imitate my Internet betters. I normally try to find a song, book or film title or quote, or a play on words to head a post. These headers are usually honest in an plain spoken kind of way; they do not promise more than their subsequent text delivers. But with each post I edge closer to hyping the content: The Most Depraved Women in the World! – Shocking Tales of Sexual Depravity! – Depraved Political Tricks! Monster Ants Attack!
But – if I do fall prey to the unprincipled practice of pure postal prevarication – I promise, at least, to do my best to feel ashamed.
HILLBILLY COEDS PLAN CAMPUS ORGY!
There was a fairly bad English play once titled, “No Sex Please, We’re British.” While wildly popular in Britain in the seventies despite near universal critical scorn, the play managed a mere sixteen performances when it crossed the Atlantic.
I wouldn’t be surprised if someone writes a sequel entitled No Sex Please, We’re Tennesseans. The University of Tennessee’s student run Sex Week scheduled for early April has drawn the ire of several of our esteemed legislators. They were shocked – shocked – by the thought students might be interested in sex on campus and might actually want to enhance their sexual knowledge. The lawmakers demanded the University withdraw all funding for the one week program.
The university, citing the long cherished principle of academic freedom, stood firm…
You didn’t believe that, did you?
Of course the university mostly bailed and withdrew all university funding for the program but did allow a modest amount of student funds to remain available to fund the (greatly reduced) bacchanalian sex romp.
The outraged legislators are, of course, not mollified. They point out student fees are not voluntary and, therefore, money extracted from God fearing, pure minded Christian students will go to fund depravity.
The Vegas line is one in twenty-seven Sex Week will actually happen in Knoxville next month. Personally, I wouldn’t take those odds. This is Tennessee, after all.
THE SHOCKING SECRET DEMOCRATS DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW!
Politicians are a craven lot. Large majorities of the populace support universal background checks and restrictions on large gun magazines. The outlook for any gun control legislation passing, however, remains poor. The proposed assault rifle prohibition died prematurely without coming up for a vote at the hands of Harry Reid last week, done in by the defection of red state Democratic senators.
The NRA has managed to rouse its horde of single issue votes once again. “Safe district” Republicans would never support gun control (and would probably vote to legalize private ownership of bazookas and tanks). Democrats remain deeply traumatized by the party’s 1994 Congressional wipeout that followed their vote to ban assault rifles. Democrats in the house and Senate pray they won’t have to vote at all. Voting against would enflame the party’s base but voting for would likely mean facing a NRA firing squad. Public support for gun control, while temporarily strong, will wain as time passes. On the other hand, the NRA never forgets.
Once the public glare of Sandy Hook fades away, Democratic politicians will slither away in the gathering darkness, giving thanks they can make soothing noises but nothing more – at least until the next gun massacre hits the news.
photos by Alan Antiporda, subject to this creative commons license. Click images for details.
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