“Why? They never check after seven o’clock anyway. I might as well stay here all night.”
“But in the morning—”
“Who’s going to look? It’s a progressive place. You’ve got to work with it; why fight things?”
I take her clothes from under the bed where I have casually tossed them with a social director’s ease; where, poised like an arrow, I had hidden her garments in the same gracious gesture with which I had bent my mouth to her breasts. “I want you to go, though. I want to be alone now.”
“Oh well,” she says, “that’s different. If you want to be alone, I can’t stop you. Just don’t ask me back again.”
“Why not?” I say, finding my own clothing in the form of the shapeless bathrobe in which I had greeted her and belting it snugly. “It isn’t anything personal.”
“You could have some conversation too. It isn’t all sex.”
“What isn’t?”
“Sex,” she says. “It isn’t all sex.”
Somehow, I get through the moments between her nakedness and her entrapment, somehow I guide her without lapse of courtesy to the door, smooth over things, justify the equity of our act, our relations, the role they occupy in some larger scheme. Somehow, I enable her to pass through the door without disgrace, looking at her large rump dwindle in the hall, her step, a series of diminutions. I stand like a bird between heaven and hell; then opt for the latter with a bound, turning the key in my privates like a deep wound, moving out to cover all the inner and outer spaces. I seize the magazines and spreading the largest and most culpable all over the bed, I expose my organ from the (conveniently falling askew) bathrobe and holding it with both hands in a frenzy of disgrace I pull and pull until the last grey waters of consciousness have passed from inside to the outside of me and then I fall into a collapsing sleep, unstifled by groans, the magazines acting as a pillow for the precious rectal cheeks.
The name of this girl has been Carole and Carole is only one of the ten or so girls at this very progressive institution with whom I have coupled; there were Vivian and Portia and a girl named Helen with sloping, almost concave buttocks, and Marcia and Grace and Carole herself who dwelt in a double room above me and had found me interesting.
The true tenor and possibilities of this new residence had been unknown to me for the first several days; when they became appallingly clear in the context of the mixed-sexes dormitory and the caliber of most of the personnel, it was still several weeks before I could act upon it. For me generation had always been an unequivocal, inward act rather than the frantic outpouring which seemed to be the raison d’etre (can you spell that you idiot?) of this place, and when it did finally become clear that there was but one justification, one underlay, it took my atrophied skills a little longer to adjust. But now I was locked into the scheme of things: by day abysmal “classes” instructed by confused personnel, who seemed to be transfixed by latent possibilities which they could barely apprehend and of which they could never partake, functioned as a suitable bridge to the afternoons and evenings, and the evenings were full, rich, rooted in that causality which is the token aim of the most progressive of all education. While Carole had been correct in saying that a surprising number of my colleagues were probably masturbators, it was wrong to attribute this to sheer lack; one of the prime benefits of this institution as it contributed to my self-knowledge was to give me the apprehension that there were many like me: those who preferred rather than submitted to the sacred self-abuse as the rounding-out of the full man. No one of us could have felt simple lack there; the male-female ratio had been contrived by a demon in the administration office to function at a constant one to one and as an occasional girl would leave the school in a fit of depression, insanity or pregnancy; as an occasional male would find this astonishing gratification of all forbidden fantasies too much for his cautious consciousness to assemble; a member of the same sex would be brought in, almost instantly, as replacement. It appeared that the waiting list for this institution was incredibly long; it numbered in the hundreds or, perhaps, the thousands, there would have been no way of explaining how she had maneuvered me in on something less than two months’ notice had I not found out that one of the executive personnel had the same middle and last names as those of the social director, which cleared up part of the mystery. The girls were viable, cooperative, almost instantly gratifying, so much so that it was hard to believe that they, like me, were paying students; it was as if they had assumed a kind of staff function. I found out a great deal about the intricacies of female flesh during that splendid period; all the time holding my rod firmly in the final embrace behind locked doors to bring to my researches the final order of insight which could only be achieved by reinforcement-through-masturbation. Now I can construct for you a series of vignettes, picturizations, actually, which taken in toto can approximate a picturization of that period although, alas, it would be little more than a metaphor; insufficient data always leading to this conclusion. The name of this school was Rock Point and like the other resort it sat somewhere in desiccated heartland, and the two peaks which gave it its sole appeal held it clumsily, as two uneven palms might grasp a cup, as two frantic, grasping hands might catch a breast and squeeze its length away. Rock Point was privately supported by what was known mysteriously in the catalogue as “friends of the institution,” which endowment, added to the handsome sums paid for tuition and other benefits, enabled the school to have purchased the small cemetery lying directly on its westward flank. It had commissioned this cemetery as a “historical site,” so much of what occurred seems to have taken place within its confines.
I am holding the girl named Vivian close, close in the small shelter I have made of chest and huddled thighs and she is burrowing beneath me eagerly, seeking my privates, her free hand caressing me aimlessly in the area of the nape of the neck. We are clutched to the right of a small gravestone, the northern drizzle coming down slantwise and I feel the guilt once again surging within me that I had not taken her to my room, and insisted that we get a “breath of outdoors” despite all signals to the contrary and had subjected her to what can only be a complex humiliation, her body dampened by the unrelieving blanket of rain which I can feel chill on my exposed, upturned buttocks. But she does not seem to mind for all of that; she is embarked on a complex, careless journey of her own, her hands gripping and squeezing with amazed and growing discovery; her mouth also enlarged and slippery under mine as her tongue whickers inside. Wet, wet, she is murmuring, her upturned body careless in the slick moisture and I am reaching as best as I can, squeezing as best I can, while trying to make that difficult contact. She is open before me, a furnace stoked by its own heat, unneeding of operation and for an instant, trying to make the contact, I can feel the foolishness; the sheer pointlessness of it all as I try to burrow inside her; the position always striking me, somehow, as irrelevant and pointless, the supple ease and graciousness of the masturbatory turn having conditioned me. Her mouth presses against mine, unyielding rubber and I reach forward with my loins to find her slender flame; as I do so we slide, gracelessly into the very stones of the gravesite so that the crown of her head touches and obscures some chiseled letters. “Oh, oh,” she mutters, “never anything like this before,” and I feel her rising to greet me, her slight, superfluous breasts trembling and puckering with the cold impact of the stone and still fighting, still pillowing within her, I reach a damp palm up to grasp the gravestone for support and feel the hollows of the letters pressed against my hand; apparently it is the word BELOVED although I cannot be sure. “Inside, inside you ass,” she is muttering to me—all of them curse at the moment of gathering, I have learned this; their revulsion at the act being so deep that even the Magazines themselves could hardly explain it, make it comprehensible—and as best as I can I point myself within her, reaching the other hand also for the gravestone because without that clinging support surely I will fall from my kneecaps and strike myself a blow in a more vulnerable spot from the stone. So as I move over her I am not touching her but the polished slickness of an epitaph, eyeing her nipples with rolling eyes, the eyes distended and flattened against the palm of my skull by the enormous effort I am making; the seriousness of the commitment. I feel absent flashes of fire, a rumbling below and my glazed eyes, fastened upon the stone, close; now I see the images of The Magazine itself and the images are less what is upon the page, the familiar dismemberment and narrowed focus upon breast, thigh, buttock, but rather upon the pages themselves, their uneven glossiness, the slickness of their feel: the Words written under the pictures that are themselves part of the picture and as her nipples rise up toward me in a trembling of gratitude I bend slightly, my eyelids still fluttering and put the last inches into her; feeling then the steaming and rising, the entrapment itself and my palms graze against the stone, entrap the stone, feeling the stone itself and yet at that moment it is probably not the stone but the very pages of the Magazine that I am feeling and so I come that way in a small spot of gloom, a cove of misery too deep to be reached let alone filtered by the bucking motions of thighs, the sound of cries in the air around me, the rain sifting down. “Come on,” she says, grabbing me when I have worked out the last agonized spurts, “come on now and come you bastard,” and this works me through the storms and stones of another orgasm, my palms falling from the slippery surface of the epitaph and I crumble on her quite helpless, quite drained while in an orgy of pragmatism she draws me over her body to cover her completely while one semi-detached hand, possessed of its own cleverness, begins to search for her pants.
I am in the cemetery again on a late-winter evening but far from the gravesites this time with a huge-breasted, tiny-buttocked girl named Jane who says that she has always wanted to do it open in the cool air, tickled by trees. The tree we have found is a wispy remnant of some crazed itinerant’s mission, its leaves rustling dimly around us and somewhere in its very center, protected against all elements, we huddle, the two of us quite naked this time while the huge, glowing surfaces of her breast flop a merry drum against my chest, my lips having found fuller purchase on her forehead where, discovering a full fold of skin, they suck and suck away. She is not cursing to me but singing this time; singing one of the popular tunes of the era in a voice which both transcends and subsumes its banality; the song is all about love and Jove, heart and start and her voice, an unpleasant contralto, lifts to the uneven pounding of my thighs. I have caught her hole the first time out for once; the practice of fucking outweighing its disadvantage in some cases, the tiny hole possessing rewards which the more easily found (because instantaneously adjustable) closed fist could never provide and as best as I can, I am fucking away my private fuck on her, listening at the same time to the toneless melody which, absurdly, shifts now and then to a whistle, searching for her breasts with thumb and closed forefinger, and what she is singing blends, finally, into the better part which is what she is not seeing and so I come that way, poised bird against her huntressy determination, flicking seeds from my bill into her pouch and she clasps me in an orgy of gratitude as my magazine-inspired sperm greets her ripening and eager Egg. “Oh boy,” she says, “oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, you’re all heart; that’s what you are; a Jove of love.” My throat, crackling with retrospection’s saliva, would tell her something, but I am obviously speechless.
Surrounded by darkness above and below, I am suspended on my bed, hands and knees to full flight, moving eagerly in the ascension and reversal of love, locked into a cell of sensation so private and interesting that I could as well be alone but underneath me is the girl named Margaret, her body spread like drifting water, porous on the surfaces of the bed and she is accommodating me; accommodating me as best she can in her slippery hole, her hands working idly on my chest. Margaret is one of the “less advantaged” members of the student body; she supplements her scholarship and meager allowance by doing “housekeeping” tasks in the dormitory, and it is in such circumstances that I have come to greet her, her mop, broom and housedress to the side of the bed, her industry forgotten as we move in another, intricate kind of cleaning-gesture. I have then, it seems, done it to the housekeeper here, as well as everybody else, but the housekeeper is 17 years old and is mumbling to me in a credulous voice: this is terrific, this is really terrific; I didn’t know you guys had beds like this; you couldn’t imagine what we girls have to sleep in; I could lie like this forever. And so she could, but I am pursuing her with unprecedented industry, unprecedented business, her breasts so superfluous in the welter of sensation I have aroused through our joining that I am barely conscious of their presence or appearance. This is really the lap of luxury she advises me as her thighs thrash in confirmation.
Above me, the cheerful, rattling thump! bump! of my magazines in their locked pouch indicates perilous movement on the shelf, the possibility of collision, disaster, falling action at any time and the knowledge that these magazines could truly fall, right into the cup of my exposed buttocks, bringing a kind of triumphant finale to my researches, fills me with ever-quickening excitement; I can imagine how they would feel clouting me slowly like a large covey of emergent insects and the explanations I would have to give—oh, the explanations!—all of this sending me even further and deeper into necessity’s groin and her arms gather listlessly to drag me in. I have to finish off the other rooms soon, she reminds me behind her closed eyes, otherwise I’ll lose my stipend, and I moan to her in a burst of cooperation and feel myself open and open above her, a reciprocal opening below; breezes seem to drift over my buttocks and I get it inside her to its fullest length, feeling her fingers scrapple on my shoulders and the tube of her gathers around me all ferocity, all obligement and I finish then to a feeling of slow scattering, thousands of sheets of paper drifting down around me; fall upon her in the rigidity of the corpse itself imagining how it would be indeed if all of this texture and stock, photography and art would came down over the hushed and tenanted spaces of my distantly bartered grave.
I am at a “drive-in” movie with tiny-buttocked Jane again; this time she wants to do it in a new and novel way during which she can examine celebrities and because of her help and attention I am in poor position to protest. There is no way in which I can tell her that the trunk of the rented car which we have jointly taken (but which I must pay for and which Jane must drive) is jammed, almost to the top, with magazines; a hasty room inspection during the morning had determined that these would have to be out of my premises before was conducted what was called there the “mid-semester audit.” This procedure, nominally to determine whether or not students were living up to the health habits and ways of the institution was actually, I long suspected, in search of prophylactics or the remains of aborted fetuses but I judged it unwise—oh, the cunning now that I had at last learned what they really meant!—to have my magazines for discovery; masturbation was the one excess which the school, even in its convocations, would never imply. (We must learn to love one another, had been the suggestion of the Headmaster during the mid-Christmas assembly, even if some touching is required in the process; he had said nothing about Loving Oneself). So the magazines, carried from class to class in a large imitation leather briefcase with a self-locking clasp, had been unobtrusively tossed in the rented trunk during the conclusion of the rental process; now as I jounced and bounced my lonely way above Jane’s watchful breasts I hoped that somewhere in the rear there was no suggestion of reciprocal, less joyous, bouncing of the hidden and more important load. Before my stunned eyes had drifted the slight convexity of the screen, huge images locked with one another in two or three colors, suspended above us, and in the soundlessness acting out scenes far more intricate and beautiful than we could ever conceive, but now I had turned down upon her again, making rough work of the entrance because it would be quickest and the quicker fruition would lead to quicker retrieval of the magazines, but she wanted it slow, begged to me in her small popular-singer’s voice to extend it as far as possible, all the time her eyes rolled to the screen where she absorbed the images in a kind of placidity and contentment which I could only dimly apprehend. Her mouth, working on some gum, chewed evenly, her eyes calm and bright surveyed me with an owner’s pride as I jabbed and jabbed at her slender receiving reed and then, hastening over her, my eyelids clamped and fluttering against her breasts, I must have had an accident; I must have jabbed something with an elbow because the speakers suddenly flicked on, both of them and the voices began to boom and shatter in the car, words of love and rage tumbling over one another in unbearable volume and I reached out my hand, trembling, to smash or reduce the sound but found it stayed by two tentative fingers she had raised to stay it. “No,” she murmured, “leave it on; it’s nice,” and I fought with the cripple’s weakness to free myself of that clasp and shatter the sound, but, confident of what her thighs had done to take my strength, she merely held the pressure and said again, “It’s so nice this way; what do you want to spoil all the fun for; it’s just like they’re right in the car or we’re up on the screen, isn’t that more exciting?”
And confined now by a small and terrible rage, a rage which exerted a pressure which screamed only for Justice—whatever that must be—I found the resolve she wanted, which was only the resolve for perishment, for completion, for a connection so rapid as to lead to an immediate withdrawal, which would be the end of shame, but with her clever, fluttering box she held me off for a long long time and so I was forced to listen to strings and horns, shrieks and giggles, sobs and scenis obligatoria while my reluctant weapon ground out its few spurts of enthusiasm and I came mumbling against her, as contrite, humbled and profoundly embarrassed as any character in the commedia she was witnessing. Throughout she took me with a massive and almost sympathetic air of contrition, her thighs grinding against my organ, her hole exerting the last inch of pressure against myself and at the apocalyptic moment, as through memory I raged and bucked thinking of those lovelies in the trunk, her thumb rose to her mouth and she sucked it earnestly, her eyes averted as I spent into her. Finally free, I was able to turn down the sound, still clamped within her and as I did so she sighed and looked at me as if for the first time, her fingers winding, winding below to complete the circle of causation.
“It’s really a good movie,” she said, “you know that? There’s so much sense to it, just good common sense. What did you do down there? Did you finish? I wasn’t sure.”
“You weren’t sure?”
“Well, I wasn’t really concentrating on the movie and like that. I mean, I hope you had a good time, I didn’t want to stop you or anything like that. It’s just that I’m not really in the mood.”
“I guess I finished,” I said. “Do you want me to go outside and pick up anything? You want something to eat?”
“Well, that wouldn’t be a bad idea, I guess. I’d want some hamburgers and drinks and so on. Maybe some candy. You sure you won’t get lost outside and not be able to come back? I’d hate to have to return this car alone; I’d owe the whole thing.”
“I think I can make it.”
“Make sure you remember what row we’re in and what number car. That’s the best way of doing it.”
Still within her, I tried to withdraw. “Okay,” I said, “but I have to get my pants on.” For a fine, slender moment of panic I thought that some of the horrid blue-covered texts in my parents’ dresser which I had once read had intimated the truth after all; that I was in the grip of glans penis captivus. The harder I tugged, the more snugly the conjoinment seemed to fit. Finally, I lost my balance and tumbled on top of her, her little jaws still earnestly compressing and contracting the gum. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t get out.”
“What do you mean, you can’t get out?”
“I mean, it seems stuck in there.” I guided her unwilling hand down, let her fondle the dilemma. “You see what I mean?”
“Oh,” she said, “that’s just the thighs. Nothing to worry about at all; I’ll just move my legs a little.” I felt her grunt underneath me, her body heave. “Of course it’s difficult to move because you’re on top of me.”
“Well, I can’t get off you, can I?”
“I know that. Gee, this is really kind of embarrassing.” Her fingers pinched, brought a glimmer of pain. “Try it now.”
I tried, seemed to be on the verge of a small but boisterous withdrawal, but felt the pressure even harder, somewhere near the tip. “No, that won’t do it.”
“Jesus, I’m getting all out of position. I can hardly see the screen. We’ll miss the whole movie and all.”
“I’ve still got to get out of there.”
“Couldn’t you just kind of lie around and nap for a little while, until the picture’s over? Then we can both work. It isn’t anything to worry about; this has happened to me before. I have a very small, nervous thing.”
“But I thought you wanted me to go out for some food.”
“Well, yeah. Yeah that’s right too. Okay, now. You know, once a boy got caught inside for an hour. Boy was he mad! He didn’t know what to say; we just had to wait until he got small enough to get out. That wasn’t you, was it who got stuck?”
“No, this is the first time it’s happened.”
“Oh. I guess I was thinking of someone else. All right, try it now.”
