franksolich acquires a primitive harem (now rated R)

[franksolich]

Crabgrass?  That stuff'll grow almost anywhere.

I dunno.  It's green, it's foliage, and it grows.

I grew up in a wonderland of natural life--this was before the Sandhills, when we still lived alongside the Platte River, when I was still a lilliputian little lad--and one can get too much of this sort of thing, nature, so I ignore it, leaving plants alone to do their own thing while the plants leave me alone to do my own thing.

[franksolich]

warning; we’re dipping into “R” territory again, for about three chapters, after which we return to matters that wouldn’t dent the “G” rating.

Her two women friends seemed somewhat, uh, hesitant, despite her constant reminder that I’m a nice guy, “one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet,” but agreed after she said, “Well, if it makes you uncomfortable, you can leave and come back here, no problem. 

“But I’m going with him,” she added, kissing me.  “It’s been a long time.”

My car was way over on the other side of the fairgrounds, so we took the car they’d arrived in; whose it was, I had no idea.  I sat in the back seat sucking face and caressing torso, occasionally pausing to give a direction or two, as we headed to Meyer and Alberto’s real-estate.

Once there, I bounded out the back seat, already half-undressed before my feet hit the ground.  By the time I’d gone around the back of the car to her door, I was done.

‘Whoa-ho,” I hollered, as she laughingly allowed me to pull her out.  “Let’s play, let’s play,” I said as I removed the top half of her clothing, tossing it back inside the car.  I kissed, cupped, and fondled her upper pair, and then we sucked face while the two other women stared.

“Oh, he’s just that way,” my woman explained to the other two; “always eager to get started right away.

“And you haven’t lost any spirit the past few years,” she said to me; "still the same."

I pulled down and off her pants, and her panties; we were now all set.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well,” she said to her friends; “we’re ready, what about you?”

She walked towards a shallow pond, suggestively swinging her derriere and turning her head to blow a “kiss” in my direction.  I didn’t move, however, instead waiting where I was, to see what the other two were going to do.

“This is weird,” one of them said; “we don’t even know you.  It‘s nothing personal; you have a great body with good-looking equipment and all that, but we don‘t even know you.”

“But she does,” I said, pointing to my woman, “and she knows I’m good.”

That failed to sway them, not even a move to loosen a button.

The woman I knew came back to us, suggestively swaying her hips.  I wanted in.

“He’s clean,” she assured her friends, “and he’s good, too.  As you can see, he’s hardly wanting in what makes him a man.  In fact, I feel myself generous in offering to share him with you.”

- - - - - - - - - -

One of the two women was standing behind me, her arms draped over my shoulders as she looked down past that.  “You know, you’d look really good shaved,” she said. 

I groaned.  “Well, fortunately for me, there’s no razors handy at the moment.”

“Oh, but I have some manicure scissors in my purse,” she told me; “it’s not the same thing as using a razor, but I’m sure I can trim pretty close.

“Without hurting you, of course.

“And if you don’t put up a struggle and resist, of course.

“And I’ll give you a special treat if you let me do it,” she concluded.

My hair--on top of my head--stood on end.  My partner, who was totally naked, and the third woman, who was still fully clothed, each grabbed one of my arms and held them back.  Not being the strongest person around, I was outmatched.

Kneeling in front of me, she trimmed the hair around the base of it, and then grabbed it to pull, so she could finesse the job.  My arms still locked behind me, I squirmed, but only feebly.

Lightly brushing the general area off with her fingers, she knelt back on her heels and examined the handiwork.  “Now, that looks really good,” she said approvingly; “there’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t want that inside of her.

“And now,” she added, “we”--indicating the third woman--”have to get back to the fair, and don’t have much time.  But as a reward for being a good boy, I’ve got time to quaff it dry, it’s so pretty.”

This was embarrassing.  If she did that, I wouldn’t be able to poke my partner for a couple of hours.

But my partner saved the day, embracing and kissing me, her upper pair smashed hard against my chest, and it being right about where it was supposed to be on her lower region, excepting still outside, as I groped her derriere.

“He’s mine now, all mine, so you two go back to the fair while we stay and have some fun.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We were laying in the grass, she on her back and I on my side, propping my head up with a bent arm, and fingers from the hand of the other arm playfully probing around inside her down there.

“Tell me,” I said; “what’s your favorite fantasy, and maybe we can do something about it.

“But I hope it doesn’t involve costumes or toys.”

“Oh,” she said, “it’s a rather silly one, but I fantasize about it all the time.  I’d like to be alone among one hundred naked men playing around--all these naked guys playing football, baseball, basketball, tennis, soccer, volleyball, field and track, hockey. 

“All these naked men around me, myself naked among them, and them doing whatever I wish them to do.”

Hmmm, I said,  “Not golf, too?”

Oh, she gushed.  “I’d love to watch you and [the business partner] play golf naked.”

I arched my eyebrows.  This was certainly interesting.

“But it’s not going to happen,” I cautioned her.  “I’d do it for you, but [the business partner]’s not as free-spirited as I am, and his sense of propriety‘s stronger than mine.

“About the best I can do for you there is, if we get back to the house early enough, play naked croquet for you to watch.  And I’m not likely to find ninety-nine other naked guys for you to enjoy looking at.  You‘d have to be satisfied just watching me.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She smiled, and asked, “well, what’s your favorite fantasy?”

I dunno, I said, staring up into the sky.

“Maybe it’s to poke a woman 24/7/365; there can’t be anything more fun than that.”

Oh now, she said, “be serious.  My fantasy’s far-fetched, but still possible, if some work were put into it.

“But making love to a woman 24/7/365 is impossible.  Something a bit closer to being possible, please.”

“Okay” I warned her; “I’d like to be naked all the time, never wearing any clothes, and always ready to accommodate any woman who wants poked.  There’s a certain freedom, an exhilaration, an exuberance, about being naked.”

She laughed.

Ignoring that, I pointed out, “but I can’t be, because the world’s full of people, each one possessing certain sensitivities and sensibilities that can be offended.  My feelings don’t trump everybody else’s or anybody else’s; we all have to be respectful of each other.

“If society in general says ‘wear clothes,’ well then, it’s a good idea to wear clothes, if one wishes to get along.

“One can’t control one’s feelings, but one can control one’s conduct.

“I’m a very courteous person, very sensitive of the tastes and morals of other people.”

She laughed again.

Ignoring that too, I pointed out, “and so when around others, I take care to be appropriately attired.

“Alas, the only chance I have to be naked is between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m., when nobody’s around to see…..but then I’m sleeping all that time.

“Or like right now,” I said, tickling her again down there, “when off in an isolated place where nobody’s around.

She laughed a third time.  “But there’s never any time here when nobody’s around; there’s always somebody around, but of course you can’t hear them, and so don’t see them.

“Think of all those early-morning observations--”

“Those don’t count,” I interrupted; “they’re either only guys, or they’re women like Crystal and Annette down in Joplin, and Amber down over in Tucson, who’re so coarse they can’t possibly be offended.

“Between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m., old folks, respectable women, and children are in bed, not running around out here.  I’ve never been spotted by someone who could be offended.”

- - - - - - - - - -

She hinting that she was “ready,” I got up and kneeling, sitting on my heels, began raising and folding her legs, after which I gently began coming down on her.

“If we get done soon enough,” I suggested, “maybe I can play a game of naked croquet to amuse you before we have to go back to the fair.

“But I’m not in any hurry; in fact, I’d like to poke all the rest of the afternoon, right here.”

- - - - - - - - - -

About an hour later, she hinted she was sated, and so we decided to leave.

But upon getting up, we both remembered something at the same time.

We’d left our clothes in the car.

The other two had gone back to the county fair, and we’d agreed that the two of us would just walk back to my place--it’s not far, only a mile--pick up another of the vehicles there, and meet them at the fair.

Well, excresence, I said; “but at least nobody’s likely to come this way anyway, so we’re safe just heading back home as we are, only unimpressed wildlife seeing us.”

So we started, holding hands and squeezing backsides, walking back to the house.

We were about halfway there when suddenly out of nowhere, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive and Wills broke through the trees and stepped onto the path ahead of us, walking our direction.

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Whoa,” I said, suddenly reaching down with my hand to cover up a certain triangle of hair on her; “don’t be nervous.  Act as if nothing’s out of the ordinary, that we’re just another couple strolling down a country lane.

“Eye contact, strong eye contact, and that’s all they see, the face and nothing else.

“But we’re okay anyway, because the reedy-thin woman prefers other women, while the gaunt emaciated guy prefers other men, and we’re straight.  Even if they saw, they wouldn’t give it more than a passing glance.

“I’m a pro at this, remember; distract, distract, distract.”

Greetings, I said to them as we walked past them, tipping an imaginary hat into the air.

They looked at my eyes, and not any other part of us.

“I’m not so sure,” she laughed.

- - - - - - - - - -

When we reached this place, the only vehicle parked outside that hadn’t been out here before was Romeo’s truck., and so it was safe to go right on into the house.

As we were standing in the kitchen, Romeo suddenly burst through the back door.

He’d been on the back porch, and announced, “Man, do I have things to tell you--”

After which he stopped in his tracks, seeing my woman and myself standing there, naked.

Oh my, he said, emitting a low whistle.

She, not knowing who he was, shifted in back of me, trying to shield herself.

I turned my head back to her, saying, “Don’t worry; it’s only Romeo.  It’s copacetic, it’s cool,” after which I pulled her to my side, and introduced them.

Whoa, he said, emitting another low whistle.  “I screwed up about tonight’s planned party, but it looks as if you’ve already taken care of yourself…..and how.”

He kept his eyes on her as I asked him, “Hey, dude, what happened?  You’ve been gone since Wednesday night when you went away with the Sarah Ibarruri bitch--I hadn’t heard a word, and people haven’t seen you around other than at work.  And the people you work with have no idea, and so didn’t ask.”

Still appraising her, he replied, “I was with her all the time when I wasn‘t at work--she was staying out at my place, and wouldn‘t leave--and man, what an ordeal.  I just now got rid of her, taking her to the hotel in [the big city], so she’d be with her fellow she-women primitives, and not me.

“But you, it looks like you had better luck.”

“Tell me about her, and the missing women from Omaha, later,” I said; “for right now, I’m engaged to play naked croquet, and you’re welcome to join us.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We went out to the back porch, and as Romeo started pulling off his clothes, she and I looked over towards Big Mo’s campsite on the river.  “There’s people down there,” she said.

I glanced through the telescope mounted on the porch railing.  The bitter old Vermontese cali primitive was still perched on the roof of the miniature houseboat holding the chickens, her finger constantly on the trigger of a swiveling Gatling gun.

The rest of Big Mo’s crowd, excepting for Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor the NJCher primitive, Skippy, and the Sarah Ibarruri primitive, who were probably still at the hotel forty-two miles away, were piling into two cars.

They were headed for the county fair.

“Yeah, but they’ll be gone in a couple of minutes,” I assured her.

Romeo had pulled off all but a white athletic supporter, when I mentioned to her, “See, when it’s hot, he doesn’t wear underwear either.

“Of course, he’s got to do a lot of rough-and-tumble work, climbing up and down things, wrestling with things, some of which might be hazardous to his male parts, and you’re going to see in a minute why he has to wear one with a supersized cup.”

Romeo, who of course heard me, grinned and wiggled at her before pulling off the jock strap.

Oh my, she said; “I thought only black men grew them that big.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Romeo and I played naked croquet, then two-man naked soccer, our lower ornaments dangling and swinging-to-and-fro, a sight that for whatever reason, seemed to titillate her.

But the late afternoon sun bore down, and it was humid, so we decided to just sit on the porch and chitchat.  I was perched on the edge of the railing, it dangling down--she probably goes nuts over decorated Christmas trees and all their hanging balls, I thought--and smoked a cigarette.

Romeo laid down on the chaise longue, and she laid on her back on top of him as he fiddled with her upper pair.  They smoked too, but dope, not tobacco.

After a bit, I got down and sat on a wooden stool near the chaise longue; Romeo was still fondling her upper pair and they were now sucking face, giving me dibs on her lower parts.  I inserted one finger, and then another, so as to tickle her into bliss.

As the sun began burning directly at us, we decided it’d be better to move operations to the air-conditioned bedroom, the only air-conditioned room in the house.  But before going in, we went down to the back yard again and doused cold water from the garden hose all over each other.

The bedroom like the other rooms here is large, but the bed therein is only a single-wide, as being only one person, I need minimal real-estate on which to sleep.  She seemed confused as to how three people were going to do it, but Romeo already knew how it went; after all, he’d been around when as many as four people were configured onto it.

It was obvious that Romeo expected to be vacuumed, and so her bottom half was all mine, to play with as I wished.  Romeo and I are tall, but all three of us being narrow, it worked out.

to be continued

[franksolich]

The sun was starting to come up the next morning--it was shortly after 4 a.m.--when I awoke, finding myself inexplicably on blankets and a pillow on the floor, while Romeo was still on the bed.  She was gone; I assumed correctly that her two friends had come here to pick her up after the county fair closed down for the night, and took her home.

I prodded Romeo awake, thinking he’d have to get ready for work, and wondering what’d happened after I’d dozed off.  No, this was his Saturday off from work, he said; he was free to hang around all day long, and then as he did after each stress-relieving “session,” gave me a critique of my performance.

It was all nonsense, of course; I’d already had my “first time” when Romeo was still in kindergarten, but as I’m a nice guy and it makes him feel good giving me advice and counsel, I listened.

“You were like the Eveready rabbit,” he said grudgingly but also admiringly; “you just kept going and going and going and going long after any other guy would’ve popped.  Your self-restraint is great, awesome the way you can hold it in until you want to pop.

“To be honest, even I can’t hold it in that long.”

Romeo thinks rather highly of himself, but as it helps him feel good, I let it pass.

“But I’ve never heard of a guy who puts so much concentration and energy into poking a woman, who when he pops, he passes out, collapsing on top of her.  It turns out okay, but still, it makes a woman nervous.

“You need to learn to conserve energy for afterplay too.

“We were afraid we might knock you off the bed, and so got up to put you down on the floor.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Since we were now awake, we moved to the kitchen to make some coffee, and then after that was ready, went out to the back porch, so I could be illuminated as to what’d happened with the Sarah Ibarruri primitive, and the three women in Omaha.

We sat on the steps of the back porch.  I lit a cigarette; Romeo doesn’t smoke.  Cigarettes, that is.

It might seem, uh, rather weird, two adult males sitting and talking, stark naked, their ornaments dangling down from the edge of the steps--we joked about how it‘d turned her on--but by this time, both Romeo and I had engaged in so many stress-relieving “sessions” together, that it was, really, nothing more than two guys chitchatting in a locker room after a game.

Romeo was a narcissist, an oaf, and lacking in creative imagination, but damn, I was having a good time during these “sessions.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“That Sarah Ibarruri she-woman,” Romeo began; “she was a bitch.  I’d never seen a woman s-o-o-o-o-o starved for sex, she was like someone who hadn’t eaten for forty years, she was so hot to trot.  All that we did, she kept wanting more and more of it.  This woman was insatiable.

“What was worse is that she has those muscles down inside there, that act like tentacles, trapping one’s appendage in there, and hanging onto it forever.  I felt as if I’d put it into a steel trap, and wasn’t going to get it back out until she decided to release me.

“Outside of work, it was sex-sex-sex, nothing but sex, sex all around the clock.  I didn’t even get any sleep between Wednesday evening and last night.

“But as her flight back to Florida leaves on Sunday, she had to get back to Big Mo and her pals; I never want to see that unquenchable bitch again.”

And about the three women from Omaha, I asked.

“Because I was so busy trying to satisfy that Sarah she-woman, I never called them, as I’d promised, to make arrangements to bring them up here for a party.  They’re probably all worked up and bent out of shape, especially the Argentine, who was really looking forward to meeting you, and I was really eager to take on the Italianate and the Greek.”

“Well, there’ll be a next time,” I assured him.

- - - - - - - - - -

Even though it was barely 5 a.m., we noticed some activity taking place down at Big Mo’s campsite; the figures were too far away to be distinct, but apparently there was some sort of “changing of the guard” on the roof of the miniature houseboat where Big Mo’s chickens were kept.

I got up to look through the telescope.

Yeah, I said, “the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive just handed over the Gatling gun to the great-aunt, who’s now sitting cross-legged on the roof, swinging the gun around.

“And ooooops,” I continued, “it looks as if cali’s walking up here.”

The two of us scrambled inside to get dressed, although there wasn’t time to shave.

By the time cali reached the back yard, Romeo was standing on the porch, dressed in his boots, Levi pants, a cotton shirt, and a cowboy hat, and I was standing there too, dressed in my Land’s End imitation 1914-1918 ANZAC desert warfare attire, khaki shorts, a cotton shirt, and a tan bush helmet protecting my face against the sun.

to be continued

[franksolich]

we’re back to “G”-rated material now, but the next two’ll dip into borderline “PG-R“-rated.

The bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, pausing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the back porch, looked at us, and uncharacteristically laughed.  She knew who I was, but she hadn’t met Romeo yet.

“Wyatt Earp and Lord Kitchener of Khartoum, I assume,” she smiled.

Since cali seemed to be, uncharacteristically, in a good mood, I invited her to join us for coffee.

No, sorry, she said; she drank only healthy drinks.

So I escorted her into the kitchen, where I showed her a vast array of herbal teas and some such; since the femme’s moving up to South Dakota, she’s unloading all the stuff she doesn’t want to take with her, on me.

Her eyebrows arching at the exclusivity of some of the brands, she commented, “I can’t even get some of this stuff in New England, and here it is, available in supermarkets out in the middle of nowhere.”

“You’d be surprised what’s out here in the middle of nowhere,” I replied, although very gently, as I wished to keep her in a good mood.

- - - - - - - - - -

cali finally selected something, although it took her an awful long time.

That’s one of the main differences between men and women, I thought, as I watched her contemplate.

Like in shopping, a man walks into a store, heads right for what he wants, gets it, pays for it, and leaves.

Women, on the other hand, tend to waste a lot of time comparing, considering, and deciding.

It’s a pain, shopping with a woman.

We went out to the back porch again, joining Romeo.

She illuminated me that she didn’t know if we already knew, but anyway, Big Mo is having a “farewell” picnic down at the campsite in the evening, and that we all were invited to come.

I didn’t tell her that I already knew this, because it gave me another opportunity to keep her pleasant, by thanking her.  I also suggested that since we’re a rather large crowd, we’d bring along stuff too, to augment the buffet.

Remembering something though, I cautioned her, “We’re a meat-and-potatoes crowd, and maybe some there wouldn’t appreciate what we bring.”

Yes, she sighed; she was aware of it, our what she considered “unhealthy foods.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, you saw what’s in the refrigerator and freezer, madam,” I replied.  “How about before you go back, you take a look again, and tell me what’s suitable to bring?”

“You do have a lot of food out here, for a single person,” cali commented.

Yeah, I said, “but most of it’s food brought out here by other people, because this is a popular place for cookouts and other gatherings; it’s spacious indoors and out, it’s naturally scenic, and the house is mostly empty, meaning it’s a breeze to both set up and clean up, hardly a problem.

“This way, nobody has to mess up their own kitchens and dining rooms.

“And they leave the leftovers here.

“I wouldn’t have to go to the grocery store at all, excepting that nobody ever brings over the essentials--milk, orange juice, sour cream, butter, cheeses, ice cream, half-and-half, real cream--and at the moment, tomatoes.”

cali looked at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.

“But on that hill”--referring of course to the Jungfrau-looking William Rivers Pitt, 740 cubic tons of antique swine manure, dating from 1875-1950--”you’ve got thousands of tomatoes growing; it’s more red than green,” she pointed out.

Uh huh, I said, “and other people do come out to pick them, but I wouldn’t touch one with a ten-foot primitive.”

The long-ago family, when in the swine business, fed their pigs household scraps and excess produce from their gardens, including tomatoes.  The current tomatoes are descendants of generations-ago tomato seeds that passed, undigested, through the intestines of pigs.  But I didn’t tell her that.

“Buying tomatoes at the grocery store’s safer.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I also remembered something else.

“Someone made some soup from a recipe NJCher posted in the cooking and baking forum, for the cookout we had Wednesday night, but alas no one took any.  The pot’s still full, in the refrigerator.

“Maybe us bringing something she herself suggested would make NJCher more kindly about us.”

“I don’t think NJCher’s going to be there tonight,” she said; “she hasn’t been out here at all, spending all of her time hanging around the Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool at the hotel, trying to pick up men from Los Angeles, New York City, Miami, London, New Delhi, Shanghai, Rome, &c., &c., &c.

“That’s quite a cosmopolitan crowd out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“You’d be surprised who comes out here to the middle of nowhere,” I replied, although very gently, as I wished to keep her in a good mood.

- - - - - - - - - -

“What was the soup?” cali inquired.

I got up and went back into the kitchen to retrieve the pot; the property caretaker’s wife had made it for the cookout three days previously, thinking that if she brought something which a primitive had suggested, and so which Big Mo’s crowd would like, the primitive she-women would become more agreeable company.

I brought it out, and opening the lid, showed it to cali.

cali blanched, turning ghostly white.

I know, I know, I said; “it looks like a bad case of diarrhea, where someone forgot to flush the commode.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I took it over to the south end of the porch, and dumped it over the railing onto the flowers below.

“You see,” I explained, “not all of the food you saw in the kitchen’s all of the food brought out here; that’s not even a quarter of it.  Since the only trash I can have hauled away has to be clean trash, it’s easier to just dump unwanted, decayable, food into the gardens, any one of the seven of them here, vegetables and flowers, and the torrid heat of the Sandhills summers and the frigid cold of the Sandhills winters fries and freezes it in no time at all, into fertilizer on which the foliage thrives.

“I recall an instance where your former colleague hippywife, Mrs. Alfred Packer, chastised someone for using white coffee filters, saying they weren’t decomposable.

“Well, look,” I continued, swinging an arm outward; “I toss used white filters and coffee out there all the time.  During the winters of course it just freezes, and so by spring the grounds look considerably littered with white paper, as if I’m a slovenly person or something.

“But now, do you see anything that looks like white paper out there?  No, because at least around here, white paper decomposes just as readily as the brown paper filters Mrs. Alfred Packer insisted had to be used.”

- - - - - - - - - -

cali was curious about what other sorts of food I used for fertilizer.

“Well, there was a case from about five summers ago,” I reminisced, “when a guy came out here with a whole pick-up truck loaded with watermelons from Texas.  He’s an older, short, dark little guy and lives around here, but he’s originally from Texas.

“He’d gone down there to his son’s farm, and picked up a truckload and a trailer load of watermelons, hoping to sell them up here, as he hadn’t seen any around.  He was gone for three weeks, and when he came back, much to his sore surprise, the markets, both the super and the farmers’, were glutted with watermelons.

“He gave some of them away, but he still had a truckload of them left, and thought of me.  I’ve done his income taxes for years.

“’Poor franksolich,’ he thought; “he’s probably going bankrupt feeding everybody who drops by.’  And so he came out here with them, thinking I could use them.  A whole truckload of watermelons.

“Well, being a nice guy, I didn’t want to refuse the gift, and it was a lot of work for the two of us to carefully unload watermelons onto this back porch, in the corner where there’s always shade.

“And then after he was gone, I was compelled to take the watermelons--…..one…..at…..a…..time…..--out to the gardens and smash them into the ground, so as to decompose and fertilize.

“But usually it’s just unwanted food that’s brought out here.  If I don’t want it, I thank the giver, and once the giver’s gone, I take it out to a garden and dump it.”

“What sorts of things do you dump?” cali asked.

“Generally, anything with olives, mushrooms, peppers, onions, coconut, and fish in it.  And the occasional canned vegetable or fruits that makes it way here; that’s just glop and gorp, canned vegetables and fruits.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

Even though it wasn’t 7 a.m. yet, and the sun was still in the front, not the back, of the house, it was already hot and humid.  cali, in an attempt to courteously give equal attention, tried engaging Romeo in chitchattery, but as Romeo was still tired out from his exertions with the Sarah Ibarruri primitive, he didn’t say much.

I got up.  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said; “I have to get something to drink, it’s so hot.”

I went into the kitchen, where I grabbed a particular flower vase, one that even when filled with ice, can hold a half-gallon of milk, and did just that, putting in ice and milk.

cali stared when I came back out with it.

“It’s okay,” I said; “it’s whole milk, real milk, not watered-down milk.”

Oops, that apparently wasn’t what she was thinking.

“I use a flower vase because it’s big enough; on hot days, even a 52-ounce cup seems about as much as a demi-tasse.”

That apparently wasn’t what she was thinking either.

“A flower vase, because those giant-sized insulated mugs from convenience stores, and ceramic steins, are heavy and clumsy.”

Well…..I had no idea what she was thinking.

- - - - - - - - - -

“That’s unhealthy,” cali insisted; “not only is it milk, but it’s way too much milk.”

I looked at her as if she were Bozo from Outer Space.

“It’s only 7 a.m.,” I said; “if it stays hot like this, by the end of today, I’ll probably will’ve put down four or five of these.”

cali gasped.

Trying to guess her objection, I continued, “I know milk’s expensive, but I tell you what--even if it were ten bucks a gallon, I’d still keep buying it. 

“I’d just give up coffee and cigarettes, that’s all.  I have to have milk.”

I raised the flower vase in a faux salute to her.  “Milk, the perfect food.”

cali kept staring at me, while I desperately flailed around inside my head, trying to guess why she was so hostile about it.

“I know it’s loaded with calories,” I said, trying another tack, “but when it gets too hot or too cold in winter, it’s what I live on.  Sometimes it’s just too hot or too cold to chow down on solid food; it puts too much stress on the system processing it.

“Other times, I just take some fresh fruits or vegetables--whichever’s the most convenient to grab out of the refrigerator--toss them into the blender, and juice them, which I drink for breakfast, lunch, and supper, avoiding solid chow altogether.”

cali finally gasped, “Exactly when is it ‘too hot’ or ‘too cold’ to eat?”

For me, I replied, “anything above 70 degrees is too hot; I’m sweating like a pig.  And anything below 10 degrees is too cold; I’m shivering.”

Obviously, she was thinking I was weird.

- - - - - - - - - -

“I don’t understand why milk--and other dairy products--are considered ‘unhealthy,’” I said, in a desperate attempt to keep our chitchattery cordial, “but to listen to the big well-funded anti-milk lobby, one gets the impression it’s poison.

“Fortunately, I don’t pay any attention to big money selfish interests.

“Milk’s the most perfect food there is.

“I’m thinking of your colleague the warped primitive, the one with a face like Hindenberg’s, who alleges herself to be ‘lactose intolerant.’ 

“It’s really funny, how Warpy’s ‘allergic’ to things that are good for her, but not allergic to things that are bad for her, like sugar or chocolate.

“It’s all bullshit.  It’s wholly reasonable to expect those of Asian or African derivation to not be especially endeared towards milk, but those of far northern European derivation have no such thing, their genetics having had thousands of years to adjust to it--and they had to adjust to it, because of the lesser sunlight in their lives.

“Adapt, or die.

“And the ones who couldn’t adapt, died off thousands of years ago.”

I shifted in my chair, having graciously given the chaise longue to my guest.

- - - - - - - - - -

“I’m not of Danish derivation myself,” I went on, “being rather of English, Welsh, Scots, Brandenburgian, Slovak, and eastern European Hebraic stock.  But I was born, and the first ten years of my life, was raised in a part of Nebraska heavily dominated by those of Danish derivation, diet, and culture.

“Denmark, along with the Netherlands, produces the tallest males in Europe.

“In both countries, more so than anywhere else, the common diet’s ponderously heavy in dairy.

“My father was born and raised in Pennsylvania; all of my older brothers were born, and for a while, raised, in New York City.

“My father, and the older brothers, got to, maybe, 5’10”, 5’11”, 6’. 

“My younger brother and I were born and raised in Nebraska, immersed in this heavily-Danish area.

“I got to a razor’s edge under 6’3”, and my younger brother was 6’1” when he died.  He died when he was 17 years old, so I have no idea what his adult height would be, but I’m confident, he like me, would’ve towered over everybody else.

“So tell me now, madam, how is milk--and other dairy products--’unhealthy’?”

- - - - - - - - - -

Trying to avoid answering the question, cali commented, “Well, people around here do seem to go overboard in the consumption of beef--”

Right, I interrupted; “we produce the best beef in the world, and as there’s plenty of it around here, people tend to eat more of it than what’s perhaps good for them.

“Because it’s a Nebraska thing, I’m a big supporter--none bigger--of beef, and the beef industry.

“At the same time however, I personally dine so little on beef that I might as well be a vegetarian, much more inclined towards dairy.  In fact, the only beef I ever consume are from the most-excellent hamburgers thoroughly cooked especially for me by Swede, the cook at the bar in town, or one or two hamburgers from one of the cookouts here, preferably cooked twice.

“I’m only guessing, but it seems to me Rosalynn Carter was First Lady, the last time I ever bothered with having a steak.  It’s just not my thing.  Dairy is, and once in a while turkey or chicken, white meat only, and if it’s dried out from being leftovers, all the better.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“But you’re unhealthy, you’re a wreck, and it doesn’t take a physician to see it,” she insisted.

Ha, I huffed.  “It’s forgiveable, because you wouldn’t know, madam, but you have no idea what my people were like, from what sort of genetic stock I sprung.  Most of them were connoisseurs of culinary delights, and as they could afford it, they ate well.  Bon vivants, they were.

“They all, with one current exception who’s about ready to go, died early, troubled by all the ailments and afflictions of the decadent, too-secure, too-easy, too-comfortable lives, affluenza.

“They had high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes, kidney problems, bladder problems, and because of their overuse of pharmaceuticals, they got bloated with that loathsome dropsy.

“I, madam, have a medical checkup twice a year, a really comprehensive one at least once a year, because apparently I’m some sort of ‘genetic minefield’ that can go off at any time, for no reason at all.

“Thus far, it’s pleased God that I’ve shown not the slightest inclination--it’s a sheer miracle, given my compulsive chain-smoking, but there it is, there you have it--towards any of these things.  That doesn’t mean they’re not there, of course, the potential to develop…..it’s probably that I just haven’t done anything to trigger them.

“I’m very lucky, and I credit at least some of it to my nutritional behavior.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“But still, you look unhealthy,” she said.  “I’m no medical doctor, but I do know some things, based upon Buddhist medicine and acupuncture, and I think there’s at least two things very seriously wrong with you.”

I stopped in my tracks.  She was right, but I wasn’t about to tell her.

“And now, you’re all wrought up,” she said.  “You need something to relax you.

“I’m schooled in the arts of Buddhist massage,” she told me, “and I think having one would do you some good.  Take off your shirt, so I can rub your back.”

I recoiled in horror.

The problem was this: none of the she-women in Big Mo’s company had awakened even the least carnal twinge in me…..excepting the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive.  I was repelled by her personality, but her body, her shape, her size, had aroused me like a tomcat.  I wanted it.

However, while one can’t control one’s feelings, one can control one’s conduct.

My conduct towards her had been reasonable and cordial because I’d kept a “space” between us.

But if I let her actually touch me, there was no telling what would happen.

to be continued

[njpines]

My son, who is of German/Scotch derivation on my side and Polish on his dad's side, is 6' 4". But really it's the German genes from my dad that I passed on that tallness to him (I am not short either, 5' 8"). He and his other 3 brothers were several inches over 6' and his sister was at least my height.

[franksolich]

My son, who is of German/Scotch derivation on my side and Polish on his dad's side, is 6' 4". But really it's the German genes from my dad that I passed on that tallness to him (I am not short either, 5' 8"). He and his other 3 brothers were several inches over 6' and his sister was at least my height.

Those are northern Europe.

It's best viewed on a globe, rather than a flat map, to understand how far "north" these places are--including Warpy's own ancestors in Ireland.  While Denmark and the Netherlands lead in dairy consumption, I'm sure those areas you mentioned aren't too far behind.

[franksolich]

cali walked inside the house, while I stood against the railing, wondering what she’d do next.

About the same time, Romeo decided to retreat into the air-conditioned bedroom to get some sleep, which was understandable, and the neighbor came walking out the back door.

Barely had I greeted him when cali walked back out, carrying a bunch of towels.  She looked around, as if trying to decide how to do something.

“What’s up?” the neighbor asked her.

“He needs to have a massage,” cali explained, “and I’m qualified to give him one, at least the Buddhist version, where one’s massaged into serenity and peace.  He’s all stressed out, he needs relief.”

“Agreed,” said the neighbor; “he’s been under a lot of stress lately.

“The easy solution is to bring the two tables together and take off the back door--it’s detachable--laying that on top to form a bigger table.  Here, let me help you.”

My jaw dropped.  I was incredulous.  The neighbor, finking out on me?

The massage table set up, and the neighbor walked to the garage to get something, cali ordered, “Okay now, take off your shirt and lay down.”

Uh, no, I said.  “I don’t need a massage.”

“Oh, but you do,” she said, grabbing me by the collar.

I backed off, but she followed me, still holding onto me.

I walked backwards all over the porch, but she remained clasped to me, and started to unbutton my shirt.

“You’re not going to take anything else off?” I asked; “otherwise I’ll have to get violent, and for the first time in my life, hit a woman.”

No, she said; “just the shirt.  Remember, I know acupuncture too, and in your case of relentless stress, the focus is on the back, nowhere else.  Just the shirt.”

“Promise?” I said; “just the shirt and nothing else, and you’re not going to be touching me anywhere but the back, right?  Promise?”

Oh, don’t be silly, she said; “just the back, but your shirt has to be off.”

The property caretaker came through the back door onto the porch, from the kitchen.

“What’s up, dude?” after which he looked at cali.

“He needs to have a massage,” cali repeated, “and I’m qualified to give him one, at least the Buddhist version, where one’s massaged into serenity and peace.  He’s all stressed out, he needs relief.”

“You’re s-o-o-o-o-o right about that,” the caretaker said.

“I’ve never seen a massage done before; is it anything one can watch?”

In this case, yes, cali assured him; “after all, he’s just going to have his shirt off.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

cali had managed to tear off my shirt--but fortunately nothing else--and flung me down onto the “massage table” when a shadow suddenly loomed over me.

“That’s a nice flat chest, but it’s too bad it doesn’t have much hair on it.”

It was Big Mo, and she’d come to ask me if she and her crowd of she-women could swipe some tomatoes from “that big hill between your house and the road,” for the cookout in the evening. 

I said yeah, sure, no problem--cali was still rubbing her hands and not me, so I was cool--but made a mental note to not have anything with tomatoes in it when I was dining there.  “Oh,” I added, “you probably also see hundreds of watermelons laying around in the gardens--they aren’t quite ready, but maybe a few of them are, and if you want, take those too.  They were originally Texas watermelons, and grow wild here.”

Big Mo thanked me, and went over to sit down next to the property caretaker, the two of them engaging in merry chitchattery when the neighbor came back out from the garage and joined them.

There was an audience, and it didn’t bode well for me.

- - - - - - - - - -

Many years ago, when I was young, I worked in the accounting division at the state department of health, at the time a vast bureaucracy employing hundreds of people, all of us overpaid and underworked, making more money and enjoying more benefits, than our counterparts in private enterprise, the ones who were paying for all this.

Because my job was unchallenging, and not enough to keep me busy, I oftentimes looked around for other things to do. 

The department of health oversaw various medical and health examining boards, for the purposes of testing and licensing professionals in those fields (I was the one who did all of the accounting for these boards), including the Board of Chiropractic Examiners and the Board of Massage Examiners.

During those examinations for licensure, an applicant was compelled to demonstrate his professional skills on a real person, in front of the assembled board and a physician.  It was difficult to find “volunteers”--the department of health, not the applicant, had to provide them--as the role of dummy required some degree of undress.

Well, surely everybody’s seen overpaid and underworked governmental employees, and the fattening consequences of the too-easy, too-sedate, too-affluent life, and can understand why no one ever wished to volunteer.

I was bored, and so enthusiastically became the dummy, two times a year for each of the two boards.

During the examinations, because it involved a great deal of touching, caressing, and thumping, the inevitable (inevitable for a man) invariably occurred; sometimes when I turned over to sit up, it looked as if a tent-pole had been propped up underneath the front of my underwear.

This didn’t bother me, because the audience consisted solely of professionals who’d probably seen such a thing hundreds, if not thousands, of times in their careers; it was no big deal to them, and hence not to me.

- - - - - - - - - -

This however was different, and I dreaded cali laying her hands on me.

“You’re doing it all wrong,” a voice out of nowhere suddenly said.

I twisted my head and looked up, seeing the overweight over-tattooed over-mascara’d chain-smoking Gerta of the carnies standing there, with the handkerchiefless one, the old guy with white hair that stood straight up, a bug-eye, and a perpetually running nose.

“You’re doing it all wrong,” she repeated to cali.

to be continued

[franksolich]

As the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive and the chain-smoking Gerta debated the differences, the advantages and disadvantages, of Buddhist massage as compared with Swedish massage, each of them standing on either side of me, thumping my back for emphasis as needed, I began feeling the presence of other people, although not actually seeing them.

The property caretaker and Big Mo had been sitting in a corner of the back porch, merrily chitchatting away, when the neighbor came back from the garage and joined them to watch.

But now I was also scenting the presence of the carnies Italianate Jesus, hippyhubby Wild Bill’s brother born with both eyes on the same side of his nose, and the handkerchiefless one.

Turning my head to look out (not up), I saw most of Big Mo’s crowd; CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, flyarm, the husband-hating elleng primitive, the great-aunt, LynneSin, Wills the William769 primitive, were all there, standing on the ground peering in between the porch-railings.

Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor the NJCher primitive, and the scorned woman the Sarah Ibarruri primitive, were probably still at the fancy hotel in the big city, and didn’t plan to come out here anyway.  As for Skippy, he was probably sleeping off a hangover, but whether at the campsite or at the hotel, I couldn’t guess.

The business partner had showed, as also had the neighbor’s wife and their five children, the property caretaker’s wife, the retired banker’s wife and her nerdy grandson, the neighbor’s older brother and two of his four children, the insurance man and his wife, Dane the automotive mechanic of Norwegian derivation, and the femme, along with some of her friends from the big city.

- - - - - - - - - -

Both cali and Gerta began using water-soluble color markers on my bare back, delineating boundaries and diagrams, the Buddhist version in green, the Swedish version in red.

They both took turns in demonstrating the caressing, rubbing, and thumping exercises of their respective arts, which gave me a jerky, unconnected sort of feeling, as both techniques are very different, and they alternated quite often.

Having a massage can be fun, yes, but if it goes on too long, one begins feeling about as solid as Jello.

I was past that, feeling rather soft and spineless, when cali, demonstrating what was allegedly a finer point of Buddhist massage, thumped a certain place in my lower back that abruptly caused me to mast, lifting my mid-section up into the air.

“Careful,” Gerta said; “that’s an erogenous zone.”

“No it’s not,” cali replied; “it’s a Buddhist zone for peace and serenity,” thumping me there again.

Having barely collapsed back down on my stomach, I jerked up again.

“See?” Gerta said; “you’re arousing him, not serenitizing him.”

“But my manual says this is the Buddhist zone for peace and serenity,” she insisted, thumping me there a third time.  After which the collapsed pole poled up straight again.

“No, you’re wrong,” Gerta said.  “It’s a major erogenous zone you hit there.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor, curious, came over to look.  Gerta took a red marker and drew a circle on my lower back.

“It’d be good for you to know this,” she told the neighbor, “because it’s the same on a woman, as it is on a man, and your wife might enjoy it.  Try it.”

The neighbor thumped me there.  I jolted up into an inverted v-shape again.

“That’s very interesting,” Big Mo said, coming to the table.  “I know something about massage, but I never knew this.”  Then Big Mo thumped me there, causing the inevitable.

I began sweating; if this sort of thing happened often enough, it might snap in half.

The cbayer primitive gave it a try, but a weak one, and so while I poled, I didn’t bend up into the air.

Then they all lined up to try it, curious about where it was, and how it worked, this erogenous zone.

I felt as if I had a folding leg springing out from down there.

to be continued

[franksolich]

After having been aroused as many times as there’d been people curious about an erogenous zone on my lower back, mercifully the thumping tapered off, as the carnies departed to work at the county fair, Big Mo’s crowd went out front to collect tomatoes off the William Rivers Pitt, and the others went off the see the county fair.

This left only the neighbor, the property caretaker, the business partner, and the insurance man on the back porch with me.  As they had nothing planned for the day, they sat in the corner drinking beer and talking.

Romeo was gone, but he wouldn’t have hung around anyway, given that he’s not, uh, popular with most people.  He’d either gone to sleep in the air-conditioned bedroom, or had gone home, but I was too limp to get up and check.

It was still only mid-morning, a long drag until Big Mo’s big cookout in the evening.

I was starting to doze off on the “massage table” when Skippy came bounding up the steps to the back porch, all recovered now from his hangover, and ready to start generating another one.

The others didn’t seem to know what to make of Skippy, but as he was a guy, a guy who drank beer, they accepted him into their chitchattery.

- - - - - - - - - -

I wasn’t so impressed myself, with Skippy, whom I’d known about ever since he’d called me out on an error I’d made.  Some years, eons, before, I’d compiled a list of primitives that involved culling through, and comparing, more than 5,000 screen-names…..and then when that list was ancient history, Skippy’d discovered a single sole error in it, and gloated about it.

A single error, out of a possible “more than” 5,000 errors.

Anybody else would’ve been impressed, such a negligible error rate, saying, “Wow…..only one mistake, only one single mistake, out of more than 5,000 that could’ve been made.

“That’s awesome.”

But Skippy had obviously never read Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People, and instead of being impressed, had castigated me for making one single sole solitary mistake…..out of a possible 5,000+ mistakes…..and several years previously, on something that didn’t matter any more.

- - - - - - - - - -

Skippy’s in his mid-50s, an overpaid and underworked desk-sitting governmental employee out in California; I didn’t know if he’s been married before or not, but currently he’s single, and apparently straight.

He’s known Big Mo for years, and the great-aunt, also near Chicago, for a year or so.  He also hangs with the cliffordu primitive, but as the cliffordu primitive’s one of the faceless lynch mob, part of the amorphous lumpenunterprimitiven with no distinguishing characteristics, I have no idea what’s up with that.

Skippy’s notorious for his bad haberdashery, as if he buys his clothes by mail-order from Blair in Warren, Pennsylvania or Haband in Oakland, New Jersey.  Polyester plaid pants, shirts with straight hems that aren’t tucked in--he looks like the caricature of the middle-aged guy vacationing in Hawaii.

Skippy could probably stand to lose about 40 pounds and has the prematurely-aged leathery skin from too much time in the sun, but on the whole, generally, he looks better than many men his age, or even younger than his age.

Some months ago, Skippy suffered an aneurysm of the brain, caused by untreated high blood pressure, that in turn probably caused by a subconscious guilty conscience that he’s not nearly as much as he could’ve been; great potential, negligible performance.

to be continued

[franksolich]

Skippy’d begun life with much promise; it was true that his father deserted his mother, his sister, and him when a little lad, and that they then were compelled to move in with his mother’s parents out in the rustics of California, where they owned an asparagus farm always under the dark cloud of potential bankruptcy.

Having had a strong father-son association with my own paternal ancestor--but alas it lasted so short a time; he dying at the age of 59 years when I was 17 years old--I’ve never been sure what growing up without a father means, only that it’s pretty serious business.

However, the hurt doesn’t seem worth the bitterness it seemed to engender in Skippy, which is a great deal, and stunted his potential to be a decent and civilized person.

I of course was born deaf, never having had hearing in my life--but I’m aware of something missing, and its absence has affected me greatly, not always in good ways.

But if that can be compared with growing up without a father, I dunno; all I know is that both of them are pretty serious business.

- - - - - - - - - -

However, “bitterness” and “resentment” seem to be missing from the whole gamut of feelings I’ve ever had, and I can say that, easily, with a straight face.

It’d been a great surprise to many, when I finally revealed that I’d been born without ears simply because my mother, when pregnant with me, had washed her hands using a bar of soap containing Accutane.  All it took was one 10-second lathering of her hands, and my evolving head inside of her sealed up its sides forever.

Their surprise was in my reaction to learning the news; I merely said, “Well, my mother was a nurse, and had to keep her hands clean.  And the dangers of Accutane weren’t known at the time.  It’s just some random act that happened.”  After which I’d gone on to discuss something else.

Yes, being born without ears, being born deaf, has considerably complicated my life, but all those years since I’ve learned this (when an adult), I’ve never seen the point of getting all upset and bent out of shape about it.  It’s caused me untold confusion, frustration, vexation, but bitterness, never.

We are commanded by God to take all that we are given, and to make out best we can with that.  We are to be grateful to God for whatever we are given, even if we’re given “less” than other people “get.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Skippy was born exceptionally bright, sharp as a tack.

He’s denigrated that he attended school in a “two-room, two-teacher” country school--all the while forgetting that that education got him a full-ride scholarship into the most prestigious engineering college in America.

But something, and it wasn’t good, seemed to happen to Skippy about that time.  Before then, he’d grown up among loving, caring people; honest people, hardworking people, people who valued Skippy highly, and wished him to do well.

I dunno what it was, but I suspect it was his search (ultimately successful, although nearly too late) for his father, various discombobulations involved with being 18 years old and flung into a strange world 3,000 miles away from what one’s only ever known--from rural California to congested New York City--and a serious weakness in his character.

The famous journalist, author, and Hollywood publicist, Eugene Fowler (1890-1960), who grew up under circumstances eerily parallel with those of Skippy more than half a century later, once commented that a boy searching for his father is really searching for God.

- - - - - - - - - -

It’s all speculative, of course, but it seems as if Skippy, when in college, allowed himself to fall under the influence of certain elements there, perhaps “international students” from northern Africa and southern Asia with a hate-filled contempt for America, Americans, and those principles which guide this country (or at least used to).

After which followed his adoration of the terrorist William “25 Million Dead” Ayers.

The primitives on Skins’s island are pretty extreme, way over on the fringe, but of them all, Skippy appears to be the most far-left, the most radical.  One doesn’t doubt the walls of his home are covered with framed and autographed photographs of prominent personalities such as Kim Jung-on, Robert Mugabe, Yassir Arafat, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, the Aytatollah Khomeini, Saddam Hussein, Papa “Doc” Duvalier, Mao Tse-tung, Muhummar Khaddafi, Nicolai Ceausescu, Enver Hoxha, Jean-Bedel Bokassa, and other bloody murderers, usually of their own people.

Skippy looks like a genial, almost cherubic, slightly portly middle-aged man, but one shouldn’t be fooled by appearances.  What seems to be, rarely is.

- - - - - - - - - -

It’s all very sad, the future of Skippy.

If those elements which Skippy so enthusiastically supports ever gain power by whatever means, franksolich of course is doomed.  But not before Skippy’s own head is hoisted aloft by a hooded face; such people get rid of their useful idiots first, and only after then, the rest of us.

I was thinking about this when Romeo suddenly showed up here.

“I’ve got some women at home,” he told me; “if you want, we can have fun.”

For a moment, I hesitated.  “But there’s Big Mo’s cookout on the river this evening.”

But I hesitated for only a moment, after which we headed out.

to be continued

[franksolich]

Note: the next few chapters--I dunno, four or five of them--descend once again into the dark abyss of an “R” rating, after which this story has its denouement and conclusion, all of that being suitable as bedtime stories for young children.

For those who might, or might not, find the next few chapters offensive, there’s no intent to offend; it’s all meant as a parody, a mockery, of BainsBane’s constant hyper-paranoia about the “objectification” of women.

- - - - - - - - - -

When we pulled up into Romeo’s front yard, I first saw two cars parked in the yard, with “Hope and Change” and “diversity” rainbow bumper-stickers, and then I saw one of those big galvanized steel round stock tanks used for watering cattle and other livestock, about 30’ across, and about two feet high.

“That Sarah Ibarruri she-woman had me haul that here,” Romeo explained, “so we’d have water to play around in.”

One couldn’t help noticing there were eight women of various shapes and sizes and appearances in it, leaning over, bending down, splashing water at each other, laughing and giggling, their exposed jugs flopping around.

“They’re all from Lincoln, good old Nebraska U.,” Romeo said; “I found them camping at a state park south of here, and they told me they were bored.  I’m sorry they‘re all so big up there, but it was an opportunity, so I took it.”

“But they’re still wearing thongs,” I pointed out; “it’s true that on most of them, it’s covering only a dime-sized area, but still, they’re not completely naked.  And I really like women completely naked.”

“Oh,” Romeo said, “the other thing is they don’t want to be poked.  I‘m not one hundred percent sure, but I think they‘re women who like to do it with other women.”   

He was a little tardy in telling me this, but I remained optimistic.

It was as if a teenaged boy’s fantasy, all these 20-something bare-breasted women prancing around, jiggling their jugs, but whatever; it sure beat dining with Big Mo’s crowd.

- - - - - - - - - -

The woman who was in charge of all the women came rushing up to the truck before we could get out; she of course already knew Romeo, and perhaps was checking me out now. She was reasonably aesthetic--as they all were--but struck me as being somewhat, uh, bossy.

She planted her elbows on the edge of the opened window on my side, her uncovered big ones jutting inside, almost under my chin.

“Now, just because we’re women and that we’re playing around like we are, doesn’t mean we want to be ogled and touched by men. 

“We deserve to be treated with dignity and respect,” said this woman, who had less on her than what a postage stamp would cover, and that only on her lower half.

I arched my eyebrows.  As if Romeo and I’d had planned not to.

“Women have always been ogled and touched by men, and it’s about time men got treated as the meat, rather than the customer, at the market.”

I had no objection to that, and didn’t think Romeo did either.

“Well,“ the head woman said, “we‘ve been grilling, and it’s almost done.

“Women have been forced to work as waitresses, cocktail servers, dancers, in various states of undress, or no dress at all, in sordid, tawdry dives such as those your pal Skippy and his pal the cliffordu primitive patronize, and it’s time men got an idea what it’s like, to be debased, humiliated, like that.

“How about if you two waited on us?  The same way they have to wait on men.”

“I’m game,” I said; “when do we start?”

As I got out of the truck, I stripped off my shorts and slipped out of my shoes.  We’d left my place without my putting on a shirt after the massage, and so that’s all I’d been wearing.

Romeo, on the other side, was doing the same thing, as the other seven women surrounded us, chirping and squealing and clapping, their substantial unfettered jugs flip-flapping up-and-down in excitement. 

It was something to gladden any male impulses, although I’d like it better if they’d unburden themselves of those pesky thongs too.

- - - - - - - - - -

All eight women sat down at the long picnic table, covered with oilcloth and stocked with condiments, paper napkins, plates, and plastic eatingware.  As they sat in their places, some of their ponderous jugs sagged low enough skim the surface, tickling their nipples, causing them to giggle.

As Romeo and I started distributing the dishes, one of the women protested.  “Oh, don’t be so shy; stand closer to us as you put things down.”

He and I’d never waited on tables before in our lives; it was all new to us, and we were trying to be courteous.

The problem seemed to be that given the height of the benches, when either Romeo or I bent over between two sets of twitching jugs to put down something the middle of the table, a personal part of us brushed up against the shoulder and cheek of one of them; we hadn’t thought they’d like that, but they did, oftentimes turning their head so as to gently brush the bridge of their nose against it.

“You smell so nice,” one pair of tingling jugs said, nuzzling me there from the side; “what do you use?”

“’Preferred Stock’ cologne,” I said; “after my face and neck, of course, and then I rub down there to wipe the extra scent off my hands.”

“You perfume there?” a squirming pair of jugs asked.

Well, I said, one never knows when it might come in handy, smelling nice there. 

“Waiters,” the head woman announced, “don’t walk too far away; you need to remain within reaching distance.

“We want to touch and fondle and grope you, just as your pal Skippy and his pal cliffordu‘ve done, to women having to degrade themselves to make a living.

“At least we’re not demanding that you sit on our laps, too,” a statement which disappointed me.

After which Romeo and I, as we served, were constantly groped, usually in that area a few inches below the navel and a few inches above mid-thigh.  I didn’t think it was so bad, and it didn’t appear Romeo thought so either.

“You know, I’m actually enjoying this,” I said.   

- - - - - - - - - -

“You’re not supposed to enjoy it,” said the boss of the women.  “Women don’t enjoy it, and we’ve had to put up with it since forever.  You need to feel the same humiliation we do.

“You need to learn how it feels, being a sex object, a toy.”

Well, I wondered what was so bad about that, and I was sure Romeo wondered too.

to be continued

[franksolich]

After all the flip-flapping jugs had finished dining, and the table cleared, their leader told Romeo and me to stand at the end of the table for “inspection“ and commentary, “just like men do when discussing women at one of those debasing ‘beauty‘ pageants.” 

The sixteen jiggling jugs had already seen all of us that there was to see, but she insisted.  “Back first, and then front.”

“Whoa, they’ve both got nice asses,” the women agreed, “and without that unsightly crease under them.  These guys work, or work out, hard.  Those are great asses, nice tight asses, both of them.”

“It doesn’t look like they sit on them much,” a pair of perky jugs said, ”keeping them nice and firm.”

“They can sit on my lap any time,” a set of effusive jugs suggested.

“But his has hardly any hair on it,” one of the women said, referring to me.  “I’m not big on hairy asses, but on a man, there should be at least some, a little bit, and all he’s got is down, fuzz.  The other one doesn’t have much either, and it’s blond, but he’s got some.”

The sixteen waggling jugs however agreed that both Romeo and I were equally well-seated.

- - - - - - - - - -

Then, upon demand, we turned around, where the differences were more stark.

The effervescent jugs first had Romeo and me lift our arms, discovering nothing objectionable, both of us being possessive of only light tufts of hair under there.  Then they moved on down.

“His chest has just a few scraggly brown hairs on it,” another of the women complained, referring to me.  “I’m not real big on hairy chests, but on a man, there should be more than what he’s got.”

“But the other one‘s,” another woman said, “almost as bad; of course, he’s got blond hair and it doesn’t show as much, and so maybe there’s more there than it looks, but still it looks sparse, and so I’d call them equal.”

The sixteen quivering jugs thought however that our hard flat chests trumped the absence of hair.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Now wait, before you look down,” the head woman told the assembled jugs, as if they hadn‘t already been looking down plenty the past hour, and didn‘t already know what all was there.

Looking at Romeo and me, she said, “Now you’re aware of the humiliation, the degradation, a woman goes through when posing for Playboy magazine, but she has to do it, to make a living.

“But the ignominy that posing in that magazine, the embarrassing public shame it brings, is nothing, nothing at all, when compared with the plight of working women posing for Hustler magazine.  Men need to feel what those women feel.

“Now look, and evaluate,” she told the eager congregation of ebullient jugs.

On the lower attributes, while I’m far from diminutive myself, one has to remember that Romeo is hung like a horse, and so I expected to suffer in comparison.

“Well, they’re both cut, and such nice snip jobs, and that’s a big plus,” one of the women said.  “So clean and pretty that if I didn’t prefer other women, I’d have no problem taking either one inside of me.”

The differences in sizes were noted.

“He’s too big; the other one’s exactly right, exactly in proportion.”
 
My eyebrows arched.  “But I thought--”

“Size matters only to oppressed straight women,” the boss of the women interrupted.  “What really counts is proportionality, being exactly right for one’s height and body frame; it‘s not too large and it‘s not too small.  It‘s just exactly right.

“Proportionality is aesthetic.”

“But he cut off all the hair down there,” another woman protested; “because of the thick dark hair on his head, and the lack of hair on his ass and chest, he’d look better with hair down there, lots of hair.  If he’d just let it grow, he’d look s-o-o-o-o good that if I was turned on by men, he’d turn me on something wild.”

I winced.  “Alas, it’s been my misfortune twice this summer to meet women who thought otherwise…..”

“Look at what dangles, though,” a pair of inquisitive jugs pointed out; “they hang lopsided.

“I guess they’re supposed to hang this way, although I don’t know why.  I suppose if I were straight, it’d turn me on, this disequilibrium, but because I’m not, it just looks odd.”

“They look so heavy, too,” a set of scrutinizing jugs said; “it’s a wonder they don’t fall off.”

I was hoping they’d want to see us prolonged too, but the jury of eight pairs of wigwagging jugs went ahead and decided it was a draw, “too big” being better than “shaved,” but “proportionality” more important than “bigness.”

“Now are you getting it?” the boss woman asked us; “don’t you feel the humiliation in being so closely examined and critiqued?  Are you starting to feel like what it makes women feel when men look at them like we’ve been looking at you?”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Finally, consider the total body,” the main woman said, directing an imaginary pointer at Romeo and me.  “Taken all together, what do you think?”

The swirling mass of jugs hubbled-and-bubbled, considering us, the upshot being that, if they were to do it with men rather than other women, if one wanted raw unbridled hard-hitting sex, Romeo was the man, and if one wanted gentle refined sex, I was the man; another draw.

Man, I thought, remembering all the “sessions” Romeo and I’d had.  They got that all wrong.

One pair of quivering jugs dissented.  “The big one looks rather passive, while this other one, well, he might as well be advertising, ‘have cock, will travel, anywhere, any time, willing to pay own expenses.’”

The wobbling jugs tittered at the funny.

“Well, I like confidence and audacity in a man, and he’s got it,” the quivering jugs added.

“Don’t you feel the humiliation that women feel,” the leader of the women asked, “when men inspect, and talk about, them like this?  Can’t you just imagine your pal Skippy and his pal the cliffordu primitive, when at one of the dives they like so much, talking the same way about women?”

I was confused, and I’m sure Romeo was too. 

“Actually, I’ve enjoyed it, being looked over like this.  I wish I could be inspected more often by more women.  Constructive criticism always helps make one a better person--”

to be continued

[Chris_]

  Finally, something interesting for the jugs to take offense at.

[franksolich]

It was early afternoon, and hot and humid.  The skies kept threatening rain, but it never rained.

We all moved inside the stock tank, laying so we were up to our necks in the water.

I relaxed and observed.

Maybe I’d seen it before, but hadn’t paid attention; I marveled at the sight that jugs, rather than sinking into water, appeared buoyant, floating, as if they weighed nothing at all.  No matter how big and fat and long they were, they floated, not sank.

Because it couldn’t be seen under the water, my woman allowed me to stick my fingers inside the front of her thong, exploring and tickling that concavity, hoping to dispel some of her grouchiness.  Once in a while I moved so as to put myself into position to stick something else in there, but she shoved me away.

“But madam,” I whispered; “you can’t blame me for being a man, and having the needs of a man.”

“Men are selfish,” she hissed back; “men think only of themselves,” slapping my extended appendage.

It was pretty obvious I wasn’t going to get to yank off the thong, and put anything more than my fingers in there.

One of the other women, bored, went to sit with a second woman on the rim of the stock tank, a piece of tarpaulin padding the sharp metal edge, and began sucking face and caressing each other.  They still had on their thongs, but one of them reached inside the other’s so as to finger her, and I watched as closely as I could, to see if there was anything new about this technique I could learn.

While I was ascertaining no, there wasn’t, two other women bridged over myself to suck face, four jugs dangling perilously close to my nose.

Within a short time, six of the eight women--two were still attached to Romeo and me--were doing, uh, various things with each other, as Romeo and I watched, intrigued.

- - - - - - - - - -

Finally, the women looked at us, noticing we‘d become extended watching them.

“Okay, we’ve shown you guys how we do it with each other.

“How about now you two showing us how you guys do it together?”

My hair stood up on end.

And again, it bothered me considerably that Romeo’s didn’t.

- - - - - - - - - -

Romeo and I were saved, however, from such a dread fate by the sudden appearance of a third vehicle, bearing license-plates from Lincoln, and in addition to the “diversity” rainbow and the “Hope and Change” bumper-stickers, there was a third one, ABORTION NOW.

There were four more women in it, and they belonged with the eight sets of bouncing jugs already here.

Twelve women, two guys.  Romeo and I were going to jug heaven.

Or so I thought; at first, it looked as if they were all upset and bent out of shape because they’d gotten lost on their way here, but it soon became apparent it was that they didn’t like the presence of men here.

I waited, expectantly, for them to strip down to thongs and flaunt their jugs, but that didn’t happen.  The driver of the car had a pair that stuck w-a-a-a-y out in front of her, and I was enormously curious what they’d look like when not covered up; phenomenons like that aren’t seen every day.

If the earlier arrivals were representative of the usual-and-normal women’s-libbers from Skins’s island, these later four were obviously from the extreme far-left revolutionary Maoist-Trotskyite men-haters.

“Why are these two penises here?” asked the driver.

to be continued

[franksolich]

“’Penis.’  Penis,” I snorted.  “What is this about reducing thinking, feeling, caring human males down to being simply a cock, and nothing more than that?  As if instead of being people with two arms, two legs, a torso, and a head, we’re just phalluses interested only in poking women?

“You’re just envious, madam, because you don’t have one.”

If she had been wearing pearls, she would’ve clutched them.

“Why, the brass--” she said, looking at me slowly, from top to bottom.

Of course she was thinking of the situation, a naked person confronting a clothed person, in which the usual reaction is for the first person, being so vulnerable and exposed, retreats, out of embarrassment or timidity.

“I never--” she started, waiting for me to back off.

“Of course you haven’t, madam,” I interrupted; “confident, self-assured men scare you, and so you run away from us, wish we’d go away, wish we’d never existed.”

“But you’re naked,” she sputtered.  “It offends me, and it’s supposed to embarrass you.”

She obviously wasn’t thinking about Romeo and the eight pairs of heaving jugs trotting around, although admittedly, they weren’t quite totally nude, still wearing those irksome tiny patches that blocked entrance into them.

Of course, one wishes never to be caught thusly by children, respectable women, or old people, but generally I’m blasé about being caught in the buff by women whom I have no desire to impress, or by my own kind, adult males, who already know what we all look like anyway.

“It doesn’t bother me, because you’re just as naked, just as bare, just as exposed, just as vulnerable, as I am,” I said, without bothering to explain. 

Ever since my earliest memories, I’ve always imagined other people as stark naked; it was probably a psychological “defense mechanism” developed when I was a small child, so as to deal with people who frightened me.

I get much grief for my lack of “paying attention,” but it’s only that I’m busy looking at things other people are too busy hearing, to see.  Even when covered with six layers of clothing, there’s enough hints and suggestions to observant eyes, about what one really looks like, underneath all that padding.

If a person’s agreeable to me, I mentally slap the clothes back on so as to restore dignity and propriety, but if otherwise, that other person might as well not bother being dressed at all when in front of me.  (In case one’s wondering, all members of conservativecave look clothed to me, while Skins’s island is nothing but a vast nudist colony.)

- - - - - - - - - -

Well, I thought to myself, my own father had predicted such a thing years ago.

He wrote me a letter on every anniversary of my birth, beginning with the first and continuing until I was 17 years old, dying two days after that birthday.  I still have all of them.

The one he wrote me the year I turned 13, he advised and counseled me that secure, confident, strong people would never feel nervous about me, and in fact like me.  However, I was also destined to considerably discombobulate insecure, distrustful, paranoid, weak people.  So it was best for me to avoid the second sort as much as possible, so as to not incite anything, getting them all upset and bent out of shape.

- - - - - - - - - -

She remained standing by the side of her car, ranting and raving against males and masculinity.

I moved to within less than a foot of her, standing by her side, leaning against the car, arms crossed over chest, my groin subtly jutting out.

Whenever she wished to stress a particular point about how men “are,” she pointed at me, slapped me, or slugged me.  Being someone who’s never struck a woman in my life, I merely stood there, silently absorbing the blows.

The scene reminded me of something I’d read in a class I’d taken at the University of Nebraska, dealing with early feminist literature, pre-1600 or something, an 11th-century morality play featuring a duchess and her servant.  It was in medieval French, practically a foreign language, and the monologue--because only the duchess spoke--lasted almost four hours.

It features the duchess sitting at a table writing a letter and talking to the audience, castigating the male race--his being, his character, his habits, his anatomy, his doubtful uses, and whatever other grievances women in France in, say, 1087, had against men.  The servant is a man who stands beside her, as she pokes and jabs and strikes him whenever she wishes to stress a certain point.

The duchess is clothed, but the man is naked, full frontal nudity so the duchess can point out the silliness of his parts, and he has to stand there without moving, even when she hits him.

They were bawdier back then, than we are today.

The dominant-submissive roles are Freudianly clear, of course.

It’s a women’s-libber’s wet-dream, this ancient play.

However, it has two possible endings, depending upon the sympathies of the audience.  In one, she kills him; in the other, he seduces her.

- - - - - - - - - -

Since I was by her side, instead of in front of her so I could see her face so as to “hear” her, I had no idea what she was saying to the audience; Romeo, the sixteen exposed tremoring jugs, and the six still-covered angry jugs.  It was obviously a pretty good anti-men diatribe, and she slapped me to make special points about our perfidies.

But a most alarming thing began happening, as I watched her, her massive jugs shaking and convulsing in righteous indignation as she spat out invectives against the male race.

A part of me had originally been pointing downward, in a flaccid state, but watching those jugs shake-rattle-rock-and-roll, it slowly began rising, like a piece of artillery being winched upward so as to aim at things in the sky.

And from where I was standing, everyone but the speaker could see it.

I felt embarrassed; it was like when I first discovered such a thing as a little lad sitting in a pew in church next to my mother, and something inside my pants stiffened.  I was pretty young, and utterly entranced by the sight, even more so after I discovered I could make it turn too.

And I made it turn plenty.

Unbeknownst to me, my mother was watching, as were the people in the pew behind us, but never mind.

It’d risen past 90 degrees, and still headed northward, when the angry woman noticed the flittering-and-fluttering jugs watching the show, and looked too.

to be continued

[franksolich]

“I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!“ she shrieked, pummeling me, knocking me down to the ground and mounting my midriff, vigorously slapped my face back-and-forth.

That I made no attempt to fight back wasn’t that I was averse to hitting a woman, but more simply because she was stronger than me, capable of pounding me into a red spot in the ground.  Although a male, and a tall one, appearances can be deceiving.  Because of a fragile infrastructure, it’s rare that I encounter someone who can’t beat me up if he--or she--wished to. 

One of the still-covered pair of angry jugs came over and gave her something.

My eyes turned as big as saucers.  No, we couldn’t have this.

It was a pair of disposable plastic handcuffs, law-enforcement grade.

Two sets of still-covered angry jugs turned me up into a sitting position, and bound my wrists behind me.

I looked over in Romeo’s direction, to see if he could help.

Nope.

He was also sitting, his wrists cuffed behind him.

But at least they didn’t slap his face, like they did mine.

I was escorted away from the car over to where he was, and rudely pushed onto the ground.

- - - - - - - - - -

We sat there, morosely, watching as both the covered jugs and the bare jugs held a conference, obviously trying to agree on what to do with us.

It made me nervous, really nervous.

I was thinking of historical narratives of Native Americans, both continental Indians and Alaskan Eskimos, in which it’d been described how their women-squaws delighted in sadism and torture of captive white men; how, when it came to cruelty, the warriors fell way short of their women.

There must’ve been some sort of disagreement, because the four pairs of covered jugs got into that car, and drove away.

“Do with them what you will,” they told the eight pairs of wobbling jugs.

It’d been lightly misting, and then lightly sprinkling, when the oratoress had begun her anti-men rabble-rousing and I’d been standing beside her.

They took Romeo first, to a nearby tree, where they re-cuffed his wrists behind the trunk.

Then they came for me; I shuddered when I saw the main woman, the one with whom I’d played, was also carrying a pair of scissors.  It didn’t take much imagination to assume what she intended to do with them.

- - - - - - - - - -

Four sets of sashaying jugs walked me over to the back of Romeo’s pick-up truck, pulled down the gate, and shoved me aboard.  They cuffed one wrist to one side of the back of the truck, and the other to the other side, compelling me to bend at my knees and squat on the laid-down gate.

The rain was beginning to come down heavier now, and the thronged jugs seemed in a hurry.

The women were camped twenty-five miles away, and it was probably beginning to rain there too, so they had to go.  They began hurriedly dressing, but before leaving, the main woman snipped off a few hairs covering Romeo’s male parts, and despite the lack of it, managed to collect a few from me too, which she slipped into two envelopes, probably meaning to press the locks in between pages of a book, as keepsakes.

I thought it was nice she wanted something to remember us by, but…..

They inexplicably blew kisses at us, and left. 

Romeo and I were still cuffed, he standing with his wrists bound around the tree, and myself strung to the sides of the back of the pick-up truck, squatting over the laid-down gate.  If I tried sitting all the way down, I’d pull my shoulders out of their sockets.

“Damn, damn, damn,” I said, struggling with the cuffs.

“This is a pretty mess we’re in; someone has to come along and take a pair of wire-cutters to set us free.

“And that’s the bitch--someone has to see us.  Like this.

“The gossipmongers in town’ll make hay out of this.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We stood out there in the rain--it wasn’t terribly bad, but our predicament was insufferable--and I was about ready to drop down no matter any hazard to the joints, when help came, in the person of the village idiot riding his ancient bicycle seeking the nearest refuge from the downpour.

The village idiot lives in a trailer house only a couple of miles away, and Romeo’s always suspected him of peeking through the windows at this place whenever Romeo’s entertained company.

He stopped, and stared.

“Don’t just stand there,” I hissed; “get that pair of wire-cutters out of the tool-box and cut us free.

The village idiot looked at me.  “I dunno if I want to,” he finally said, in his high-pitched falsetto voice.  “You guys are always making fun of me--”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, we won’t do it any more,” I said, impatiently; “now get us cut loose.”

“You’re a good guy,” Romeo added; “we won’t do it any more, if you set us free.”

The village idiot contemplated the offer, then said no.

“You say you won’t, but you’ll still make fun of me.”

No, no, no, I said; “I swear, I swear on the Head of St. John the Baptist that if you cut us loose, we won’t make fun of you any more.  I swear we’ll say only nice things about you.”

“We’ll build you up in the public eye,” Romeo assured him.

“I don’t believe you,” he replied.

This was vexing; I don’t know how Romeo felt, his arms being pinioned back for so long, but my knees were aching from having been squatted suspended in air.  And too, it was just downright embarrassing, the two of us caught in such positions.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Come on now, be a good guy and cut us loose,” Romeo said.

The village idiot thought of something.  “If I do, what’ll you give me?”

“Anything, anything you want,” I hissed, irritated.

The village idiot chewed on this for a while, and then looked at Romeo.

“I’ll cut you loose if you promise to get me a woman,” he said; “you’re always good at getting women.

“But it’s got to be a special kind of woman, one who’ll hop around in the sack with me, a fat redheaded dwarf with jugs the size of torpedoes.  Big torpedoes, the kind used for sinking battleships.”

“I’ll get you a redhead with jugs three times that size, if you want,” Romeo promised him.

Then the village idiot looked at me.

“I’ll set you free if you promise to give me a thousand dollars,” he said.

to be continued

[franksolich]

  Finally, something interesting for the jugs to take offense at.

Well, that's all the porn in this story.

Now, on to the denouement and the end, all of which is "G" or "PG" rated.

A new saga's already in the making, "the rabid terrapin primitive [madinmaryland] visits franksolich."

[franksolich]

Well, damn.

I tried and tried and tried, every which way, and none of the endings worked; in fact, all of them were lousy.

This of course is something that happens when one writes simply off the top of his head, on the spur of the moment, everything a first draft (I‘m not patient enough to re-write things).  But at least I’ve never made any secret that such “stories” are merely casual literary exercises to practice wordsmanship.

Also, the problem might’ve been that my motive was all wrong, as I’d intended this simply and only to be a crude, coarse, vulgar insult to the women’s-libbers on Skins’s island, rather than a tender, warm, mawkish, sentimental, maudlin, saccharine, lovey-dovey story about Big Mo coming to visit here.

My apologies to Big Mo, who should’ve been the subject of the story, but who got tossed away in pursuit of the real goal, that of overtly and purposely offending the women’s-libbers.

I’ll use Big Mo, and probably Skippy, in the future, during which time I hope to focus on them, and not on some grievance against something or someone else.  I owe it to them.

But for now, next up is “the rabid terrapin primitive visits franksolich,” and I’m hoping to give “madinmaryland,” for whom I have nothing but the best feelings, a good tale.