Excerpt #8: I turn to walk towards the food pavilion … I want some of that

sexy-beautiful-woman

I mean, I hope to be able to make her acquaintance, then I want some of that.

You guys know what I mean; you women, too, if you’re halfway honest with yourselves. We are sexual beings. Some of us are on the lower end of the continuum—on the unfortunate plane of being sexually repressed or simply not capable of engaging in sexual behavior in any meaningful way, due to an anguished or flawed mind, or to a body that doesn’t function right, or to some other piece of abysmally bad luck. I cannot imagine a worse fate than not liking to fuck or not being able to.

I reside on the upper end of that plane and am happy that is true. I believe sex is one of the—no that’s not right—I believe sex is the single most pleasurable experience a human being can have, while residing on this plane of existence.

I have thought that since the day early in my 11th year when I masturbated for the first time. The memory is vivid. For some weeks I had been stealing into the bottom of my father’s closet and reading the trashy novels he had stashed in a paper bag there. I had polished a couple of pairs of his shoes (a weekly duty) and went to replace them, when I stumbled on the bag of dirty books. Eureka! One of those books was a Henry Miller novel: Tropic of Capricorn. Not trashy at all—brilliant literature, or so it was deemed decades later—but a few of the scenes were so evocative, so raw, that I got a serious boner.

Miller described the time that he fucked a Jewish girl. For some reason, Jewish women flipped his switch. He repeated in a lustful trance, as I recall anyway, “A Jewish fuck, a Jewish fuck.”  Ol’ Henry was a randy bastard; only instead of living in the U.S. in 1984, he was blissfully residing in Paris for most of the 1930’s. I cannot conceive of a better place and time to be a young man at the height of his sexual prowess. Countless beautiful women, French women, no need to wear a rubber unless she was a whore, and a complete laissez faireattitude about the whole notion of sex.

Of course, as an 11-year-old, I had none of these thoughts. My only response was through my new best friend, Angus, which is what I named my cock and have called him affectionately ever since.

Angus seriously loved it when I read those passages. To put icing on the cake, however, my dad also had these calendars called Parts Pups. The name referred to the distributor of the calendars—a regional auto parts store. Every month’s issue showcased the most voluptuous girls my adolescent mind could conceive of. These girls were beautiful, and each of them had the most perfect tits a young man could ever hope to see. I had not discovered Playboy at this point in my sexual odyssey, but Parts Pups did it for me. I became a connoisseur of nipples: giant areolas, little areolas, inverted nipples, and my personal favorite—lug nut nipples as big as the end of your thumb.

How does a young man know how to beat off the first time? Instinct is all I remember. Angus was hard, it felt good to stroke him, and the more intensely I did, the better it felt. Until voila! Angus exploded like a geyser, shooting ejaculate several feet into the air.

It would be years before I realized that the main reason sex dominates most people’s thoughts is that the physical act of lovemaking is one of the few times men and women can find true release—some measure of transcendence from this absurd, relentless world. At least in that one moment of orgasm, we feel

. . . something.

With the mantra of lovemaking we are finally in touch with our bodies—distanced from the incessant drumming of the repetitive thoughts in our heads.

No think . . .

just do . . .

No analyze . . .

just touch . . .

suck . . .

fuck . . .

come. . . .

Thus we are present and whole, however briefly.

The poorest slob fucking the cheapest whore can experience this momentary bliss, as well as the corporate billionaire. Maybe better, since unlike the corporate dude, the poor guy is more in touch with himself and his surroundings. Life is all too real in his world; it kicks the shit out of him with every single breath. Unlike the billionaire with the myriad buffers that wealth, power and status afford, who is more likely than not completely out of touch with himself and has the insight of a bowl of lime-green Jello.

To heap insult onto injury, because of our fucked up Puritan ethic we entangle sex with the concept of love and create countless guilt trips around the act. People are so ashamed of their bodies and feelings about sex that what once was a natural expression of feelings along a continuum from lust to genuine love, now becomes a neurotic compost of guilt, shame and repression. What a nightmare!

Having said all this, my net feeling is what it’s always been: Sex is good. So long as you are honest about your intentions and nobody gets hurt, sex is very good.
That is why I want to break into the open at this stupefying- ly boring garden party and lay eyes on that exquisite blonde named Jacqueline.


 
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Stallworth’s life next!


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