Jules Abbot
11-08-2003, 02:49 PM
Chapter 1
Laura
I am a product of the seventies, when erotic encounters consisted of stolen kisses in darkened rooms while the door remained opened. For me, sex was learned in lazy strokes and in the written word. Xavier Hollander and Penthouse Forum- these were my guidebooks into the world of perfumed mystery that haunted my waking and sleeping thoughts. Over desired and under loved, my right hand grip became a silent weapon.
This explains why I never once dropped a tennis racquet.
Those were the days of crocheted bikinis with bulging bottoms and quivering tops, when girls had long hair scented of musk and patchouli. Hip huggers truly hung on hips, belly buttons were bare and devoid of glitter and metallic bits and we took pleasure in spying the depths of a girls navel. The only women ever seen with tattoos were those who traveled with elephants and clowns. In those days women were not enhanced surgically, but rather with the skill of an airbrush.
Those were simpler times. And for those in the audience who are creatures of the eighties or nineties, your turn will come. Memories will one day become part and parcel of your life. This I promise.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Some men love breasts. Others worship butts. Some are leg men, while others sing the praises of feet and bunions.
Personally, I love faces and hair.
Her name was Laura. I first saw her in my Junior year in High School, walking with her left arm around the tallest, most gangling limbed bumpkin, who happened to also be the smartest fellow in my class. They made a peculiar couple. It wasn’t so much the size differential. It was the Svengalian aspect: his long fingers always fiddled with her nipples as they walked the hallowed halls. I imagine that now, 25+ years later, he hogs the remote control and is always on the search for radio stations while in the car.
Laura was intensely smart, infact she later became valedictorian of my High School. They were an intellectual match from the stars. I’m certain David (the knob fiddler) during their intimate moments would conjugate 12 variants of cunnilingus in Latin.
When my senior year began and the class gathered for our “Introduction to Senior Year” meeting, she caught my attention. Or rather, I caught hers. Because for the first time in my life, a woman fucked me with her eyes.
I was old enough to be aware of it, and young enough to feel my feet sweat.
I returned her smile. But the tongue thing alluded me…
Kismet my ass. After the assembly , we sought each other out. To this day, any glimmer of Loves Babysoft will turn me into a hormonal beast.
Laura was a master at the art of flirtation. Her “Hi” came from the Veronica Lake school of mystical charm. Shoulder length ash blonde hair, thick and luxuriant, spilled over delicate ears. She had dark brown eyes, partially veiled. Eyes that knew the secrets.
Teach me.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Phase One of the first date: Foreplay with a putter. A lesson in gentleman behavior and restraint. But when she opened the door…miniature golf never looked so good.
She wore tight, oh sweet Jesus, tight white pants. Her hips screamed fertility. She also wore a denim shirt. It too screamed fertility. Three undone buttons. Sweet mother of God, Cleavage. Inches away. Three dimensional, rounded barely restrained shapes. This was the beach without the sand or crowds, this was authorized peeping.
How I managed not to wrap the station wagon or my manhood around a tree is still a mystery.
Later, she invited me inside. Her parents climbed the curved stairs, “Nice to meet you Paul. Don’t stay up too late Laura.”
She followed them, “Let me slip into something more comfortable…” (I swear that was her line. I’m been writing long enough to avoid such a cliché).
* * * * * * * * * * *
For long, long, long minutes I waited. If perspiration drops were egg timers, I could have cooked up a dozen.
The lights dimmed at the head of the stairs. The glory of a woman’s hips. Laura slithered (that’s my cliché) down the stairs in a mini skirt and a fresh, loosely buttoned shirt. Her hand caressed the banister like a curved 25 foot dong. She certainly had my attention.
She offered a drink. “Beer, wine, coke?”
I was already dizzy. “Coke will be fine.”
I heard the fsszzt of the bottle from the kitchen. I felt the same way. A little twist and Hello Mr. Foamy.
She placed the drinks down and mounted my leg. Every nerve alive, my leg erect, a launching pad for passion. Her mouth pressed against mine. It was my first tongue. It would have been a good day to die.
She slid off my leg and sat back. Her dog, a massive German Shepherd aptly named Ragnar, (you’ve got to admire intellectual’s names for pets) barged into the room and stuck his nose between her thighs. Laura pushed him away, and though steam erupted from my ears, I heard her tell the dog, “Not now. Later.”
Dear Penthouse Forum….
The years of closed-door study of Ms. Hollanders works, the years of Penthouse Forum passages unfolded before the third eye. It was a night of tongues, a night to practice what I had spent years reading with moist palms.
“Paul, have you done this before?”
“No.”
“I think you’re lying…” She sucked my breath away.
* * * * * * * * * * *
I explored her ear and her neck. Thank god I can see up close with out my glasses. I saw the flush around her neck that dipped into the shadowed cleavage. (Page 230, June 1975…) My brain, pinging hormones and pheromones, my moist fingers touched seventeen year old skin. The internal battle raged; to touch or not to touch, to caress or grope.
What would my mother think? Don’t go there. I never liked that letter… Catholic school- it does tend to haunt ones soul.
My hand opted not to grope. Rather it held. Supported and caressed. The blouse pulled aside, Laura’s breast in my hand, my lips circled around pink areola and the stiffed nipple. Kisses between the cleavage, delivered at an oblique angle. The flexibility of youth.
The clock struck twelve. Her hands pulled me away. Trembling fingers close up the blouse. “Paul, thank you for a wonderful evening.”
What? I feel like its noon. I want lunch. Screw the pumpkin.
She lifts a leg. White panties. Clean. No bunnies. I’m nearsighted. I can’t see any more detail. Shit. “Paul, want to come over on Monday after school?”
“Sure.”
At seventeen, erections are embarrassing things. After all, you never saw Carey Grant in that state. I’m Mr. Casual. I stand up, making sure my shirt is no longer tucked in. I kiss her goodnight. She grind’s against my cock. No wonder Ragnar is a happy puppy. I put my arms around her before I stain myself. “Laura, you have any plans for homecoming?”
“No. Why?”
“Care to be my date?” The frontal assault of the nice guy.
“Let me think about it.” She’s a chess master.
“Good night Laura.” Knight to Q6.
A five second pause under the bug light. “I thought about it. Yes.” The queen blushes.
One final kiss. Check. I’ll mate you later.
I’m driving home, feeling sophisticated, around twenty five. I’m a man of he world. I can feel the hair sprout on my chin and hands. Monday….
© Jules Abbot 2003
Laura
I am a product of the seventies, when erotic encounters consisted of stolen kisses in darkened rooms while the door remained opened. For me, sex was learned in lazy strokes and in the written word. Xavier Hollander and Penthouse Forum- these were my guidebooks into the world of perfumed mystery that haunted my waking and sleeping thoughts. Over desired and under loved, my right hand grip became a silent weapon.
This explains why I never once dropped a tennis racquet.
Those were the days of crocheted bikinis with bulging bottoms and quivering tops, when girls had long hair scented of musk and patchouli. Hip huggers truly hung on hips, belly buttons were bare and devoid of glitter and metallic bits and we took pleasure in spying the depths of a girls navel. The only women ever seen with tattoos were those who traveled with elephants and clowns. In those days women were not enhanced surgically, but rather with the skill of an airbrush.
Those were simpler times. And for those in the audience who are creatures of the eighties or nineties, your turn will come. Memories will one day become part and parcel of your life. This I promise.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Some men love breasts. Others worship butts. Some are leg men, while others sing the praises of feet and bunions.
Personally, I love faces and hair.
Her name was Laura. I first saw her in my Junior year in High School, walking with her left arm around the tallest, most gangling limbed bumpkin, who happened to also be the smartest fellow in my class. They made a peculiar couple. It wasn’t so much the size differential. It was the Svengalian aspect: his long fingers always fiddled with her nipples as they walked the hallowed halls. I imagine that now, 25+ years later, he hogs the remote control and is always on the search for radio stations while in the car.
Laura was intensely smart, infact she later became valedictorian of my High School. They were an intellectual match from the stars. I’m certain David (the knob fiddler) during their intimate moments would conjugate 12 variants of cunnilingus in Latin.
When my senior year began and the class gathered for our “Introduction to Senior Year” meeting, she caught my attention. Or rather, I caught hers. Because for the first time in my life, a woman fucked me with her eyes.
I was old enough to be aware of it, and young enough to feel my feet sweat.
I returned her smile. But the tongue thing alluded me…
Kismet my ass. After the assembly , we sought each other out. To this day, any glimmer of Loves Babysoft will turn me into a hormonal beast.
Laura was a master at the art of flirtation. Her “Hi” came from the Veronica Lake school of mystical charm. Shoulder length ash blonde hair, thick and luxuriant, spilled over delicate ears. She had dark brown eyes, partially veiled. Eyes that knew the secrets.
Teach me.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Phase One of the first date: Foreplay with a putter. A lesson in gentleman behavior and restraint. But when she opened the door…miniature golf never looked so good.
She wore tight, oh sweet Jesus, tight white pants. Her hips screamed fertility. She also wore a denim shirt. It too screamed fertility. Three undone buttons. Sweet mother of God, Cleavage. Inches away. Three dimensional, rounded barely restrained shapes. This was the beach without the sand or crowds, this was authorized peeping.
How I managed not to wrap the station wagon or my manhood around a tree is still a mystery.
Later, she invited me inside. Her parents climbed the curved stairs, “Nice to meet you Paul. Don’t stay up too late Laura.”
She followed them, “Let me slip into something more comfortable…” (I swear that was her line. I’m been writing long enough to avoid such a cliché).
* * * * * * * * * * *
For long, long, long minutes I waited. If perspiration drops were egg timers, I could have cooked up a dozen.
The lights dimmed at the head of the stairs. The glory of a woman’s hips. Laura slithered (that’s my cliché) down the stairs in a mini skirt and a fresh, loosely buttoned shirt. Her hand caressed the banister like a curved 25 foot dong. She certainly had my attention.
She offered a drink. “Beer, wine, coke?”
I was already dizzy. “Coke will be fine.”
I heard the fsszzt of the bottle from the kitchen. I felt the same way. A little twist and Hello Mr. Foamy.
She placed the drinks down and mounted my leg. Every nerve alive, my leg erect, a launching pad for passion. Her mouth pressed against mine. It was my first tongue. It would have been a good day to die.
She slid off my leg and sat back. Her dog, a massive German Shepherd aptly named Ragnar, (you’ve got to admire intellectual’s names for pets) barged into the room and stuck his nose between her thighs. Laura pushed him away, and though steam erupted from my ears, I heard her tell the dog, “Not now. Later.”
Dear Penthouse Forum….
The years of closed-door study of Ms. Hollanders works, the years of Penthouse Forum passages unfolded before the third eye. It was a night of tongues, a night to practice what I had spent years reading with moist palms.
“Paul, have you done this before?”
“No.”
“I think you’re lying…” She sucked my breath away.
* * * * * * * * * * *
I explored her ear and her neck. Thank god I can see up close with out my glasses. I saw the flush around her neck that dipped into the shadowed cleavage. (Page 230, June 1975…) My brain, pinging hormones and pheromones, my moist fingers touched seventeen year old skin. The internal battle raged; to touch or not to touch, to caress or grope.
What would my mother think? Don’t go there. I never liked that letter… Catholic school- it does tend to haunt ones soul.
My hand opted not to grope. Rather it held. Supported and caressed. The blouse pulled aside, Laura’s breast in my hand, my lips circled around pink areola and the stiffed nipple. Kisses between the cleavage, delivered at an oblique angle. The flexibility of youth.
The clock struck twelve. Her hands pulled me away. Trembling fingers close up the blouse. “Paul, thank you for a wonderful evening.”
What? I feel like its noon. I want lunch. Screw the pumpkin.
She lifts a leg. White panties. Clean. No bunnies. I’m nearsighted. I can’t see any more detail. Shit. “Paul, want to come over on Monday after school?”
“Sure.”
At seventeen, erections are embarrassing things. After all, you never saw Carey Grant in that state. I’m Mr. Casual. I stand up, making sure my shirt is no longer tucked in. I kiss her goodnight. She grind’s against my cock. No wonder Ragnar is a happy puppy. I put my arms around her before I stain myself. “Laura, you have any plans for homecoming?”
“No. Why?”
“Care to be my date?” The frontal assault of the nice guy.
“Let me think about it.” She’s a chess master.
“Good night Laura.” Knight to Q6.
A five second pause under the bug light. “I thought about it. Yes.” The queen blushes.
One final kiss. Check. I’ll mate you later.
I’m driving home, feeling sophisticated, around twenty five. I’m a man of he world. I can feel the hair sprout on my chin and hands. Monday….
© Jules Abbot 2003