franksolich acquires a primitive harem (now rated R)

[ChuckJ]

“So…..how’d it end up?” I finally asked.

“I told her she didn’t have to contact you,” he said, at which I heaved a sigh of relief.

“I told her I could tell her myself, where Romeo lives.”

My hair stood on end.

“But really, I gave her dutch508’s address.

“’I don’t have his telephone number on me, but it’s okay to just pop in on him--make it a surprise.  And don’t worry about the timing, because any time’s a good time for him,’ I also told her.”

He could have at least told her to take a peach cobbler with her.

[franksolich]

With only ten days to go, before Big Mo and the anti-men girls show up here, I reviewed what’d been done, and what still needed done, for their ease and comfort while camping here.

Obviously, something still needed done so as to keep Big Mo’s chickens corralled, so they wouldn’t plop out their stuff all over the place, releasing parasitical hookworms on which bare feet’d trod; I recalled the unhappy, sad, melancholy fate of dear old sweet Lu, too tired to post in the cooking and baking forum.

And there was the matter of some sort of “warning system,” so that Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive could warn me that the carnies had discovered all these women, and were invading.

But then I thought of something else.  What about my safety, my protection?

In a match with primitive women who temporarily hate men, well, it’d be no match.

Despite that I’m male, and ostensibly look strong and healthy--please notice the “ostensibly”--because of deterioration of the infrastructure, Big Mo herself could flatten me into a red spot in the ground with just one swipe. 

Given her great age, CaliforniaPeggy might take two or three swipes, but she could do it without breaking out in a sweat.

Even the wimps of the group, Skippy and Wills, could mincemeat me.

- - - - - - - - - -

Illusions have been responsible for my survival in a rough-and-tumble world; it’s a pain to have to radiate illusions, but alas for some of us it’s necessary, such as my disguisement of my deafness.  If people with malicious intent were aware of it, and that I was only bluffing my way through things, I would’ve been sprung loose of this mortal coil long ago.

As for appearances, unlike my older siblings who’d been born and partly raised in New York City, I, who’d been born and raised in Nebraska, had grown up tall, straight, and imposing (as had my younger brother), probably due to that I’d grown up in a culture dominated by those of Danish derivation and their preference for diets heavy in dairy, eggs, and poultry, rather than junk food people in blue states dine upon.

But appearances could be deceiving; alone against any one of them, I’d be a goner.

- - - - - - - - - -

And deafness complicates the frailty; communication with me demands a closeness, an intimacy, which isn’t needed for hearing people talking back-and-forth.  I shudder when I think of all the people who’ve touched me, even though I’d rather they not.

But it couldn’t be helped.

I fully intended to keep my distance from Big Mo’s girls--not least because they weren’t going to like me anyway--my only concern being for their protection against the rapacious carnies.

However, I thought as I broke out into a cold sweat, women like to “talk,” and any man who looks as if he’s willing to listen, even if he’s not, might as well abandon all hope; he’s doomed. 

to be continued

[franksolich]

“You know, women get all the breaks when it comes to sex,” I said to the property caretaker.

He was in sort of a hurry because he’s got to go home to get something to bring for the birthday cook-out this evening, “a big surprise.”  It’s the neighbor’s twin daughters’ 13th birthday, and the festivities are taking place here.

This place is more amenable for big gatherings, in addition to that it’s easy to set up and clean up; and this way, everybody’s home life can continue as if nothing’s going on, nothing’s messing up the house.

“In the first place,” I said, “if she wants it, she gets it.  Every time.  Apparently we men never have headaches. 

“But if he wants it, he might not get it.

“However, the greater inequality is that he’s supposed consider her ‘special needs,’ to be played with for a while before getting on with the job, and so it can last for hours.

“But she never has to consider his ‘special needs,’ to simply poke her for two, three, minutes, and then turn over and go to sleep.

“Talk about female privilege.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

The birthday party for the twin 13-year-old daughters of the neighbor and the neighbor’s wife got off to a good start, but then had to conclude in a hurry when unanticipated rain came.

There was however time enough to enjoy the food and socially chitchat, myself mostly with the parents of the neighbor and the neighbor’s older brother.

The girls got plenty of presents--but no two alike--including from myself, two different kinds of Hermle mantel clocks, the sorts that one has to wind with a key and which chime.

One of the twins wants to be a ballerina, perhaps influenced by the femme (who’s currently in Chicago), and the other wants to be a lady veterinarian.

The neighbor and the neighbor’s wife have five children; these 13-year-old twins, an 11-year-old boy, a five-year-old boy, and a two-year-old girl. 

- - - - - - - - - -

I don’t know the elderly parents all that well, but as usual they seemed to know a lot about me.

It’s always discombobulated me, dealing with people who know more about me, than I about them.

They of course knew all about--who doesn’t--Big Mo’s party coming to camp here the week of the county fair, and that it’s because they’re all temporarily pissed off at their menfolk and want to sit around a campfire somewhere with each other to bitch and whine.

“You’re truly a nice guy to put up with these sorts of people,” the neighbor’s mother said; “I imagine at times it gets very trying, and you get scant thanks for all you do.”

“But why do you do it?” the neighbor’s father asked.

I gave my pat answer; “it’s a public service.”

No, no, the neighbor’s father insisted; “there has to be more than that, to it.  You put too much time and energy in trying to please them, and for all the thanks they give you, well, you probably would’ve been better off just having the carnies here.

“Carnies work for a living, and they’re grateful for anything, no matter how small, that’s given them.

“As compared with the hippies, malcontents, and freeloaders you allow out here.

“There’s got to be more than that, to it.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I wasn’t going to get away with lying, especially to ancients, and so I told the truth.

“I live out here in the middle of nowhere.

“I’m deaf; normal means of entertainment and amusement don’t work for me--television, radio, music, movies, chitchatting with people; they’re all pretty much useless to me.

“However.

“Being a human being, I have a ‘right’ to be illuminated and diverted in light and pleasant things.

“Yes, yes, having primitives here is a chore, a burden, a pain, but at the same time it’s amusing to me, watching how they act with each other, how they act with me, how they act with others from Big Red fundieland.

“I guarantee you, it’s better than any half-hour situation comedy on television.

“Remember, I have a pretty boring life.

“Is it worth it, all the time and trouble?  I dunno, but as far as I’ve ever figured out, it’s the best amelioration of boredom I’ve ever devised.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Because of the approaching storm, events had to be curtailed, but not before the wife of the property caretaker drove up into the front yard, urging everyone to go down to the river-side for a surprise.

Since it’s quite a distance from the house to down there, most rode in vehicles, driving across the meadow.

Once down there though, there didn’t seem as if anything was going to happen.  The crowd milled around admiring the miniature Swiss Alpine chalet surrounded by flowers at its base, and with the Clivens-Moltrum inside, along the water-wheel that, as it spins, plays Ach, du lieber Augustin, Augustin, Augustin…..and the miniature Dutch windmill, surrounded by tulips at its base, and with a water-pump inside, along with giant blades that, as they turn, play Frere Jacques, frere Jacques, dormez-vous, dormez-vous…...

Then suddenly came around the bend of the river a miniature house-boat, ruddered towards the shore by the property caretaker, where a post and crank awaited to be lassoed from the boat, and the boat towed in.

It was doing some other stuff, this miniature house-boat, but as I can’t hear, I had no idea.

The caretaker leaped ashore, and explained the boat.  It was several pieces of 4’x8’ one-inch-thick plywood sheets covered with astroturf secured to pontoons, all around which ran…..chicken-wire fencing.

The “house” part of the boat had a second level, around which ran more fencing.

“Built from scrap,” he proudly said, “and when Big Mo’s done with it, I’ll take it to use at my hunting cabin…..after the plywood’s replaced.

“There’s plenty of room on it,” the caretaker said, “and it’ll keep Big Mo’s chickens from splattering in places where bare feet might go, so nobody gets hookworms, like dear old sweet Lu in the cooking and baking forum did.

“Now,” he went on, talking to me specifically, “you can’t hear it, but there’s a music box that blares out Old MacDonald had a farm….. when it’s time for Big Mo to feed them.

“Big Mo’s chickens are gonna love it.”

to be continued

 

[franksolich]

“That was a stroke of genius,” I told the property caretaker the next morning, “having the chickens stay on a boat while Big Mo’s here--and such a big, commodious boat, with plenty of room for them to pick-and-peck around.

“And they won’t be splatting hookworms all over the ground, to be stepped on by bare feet.”

The caretaker smiled.

“But we still got one problem--actually, now two problems--unresolved yet, and we’ve got only eight days.

“We have to have some sort of way for Big Mo or any of the others to let me know there’s trouble down there, because oh God, if something happens to them, the primitives on Skins’s island’ll never let me forget it--they still haven’t forgiven me for the late red round one, even though I had nothing to do with it.

“And then earlier today it occurred to me that I need some way of knowing if Big Mo or any of the others are coming up to the house, so I won’t be surprised.”

“Why don’t you just lock your doors?” the caretaker asked.  “That way, they’d have to knock, and you’d know you got visitors.”

“That’s the problem,” I said; “I wouldn’t hear them knock.

“And besides, I lost the keys to the doors here eight years ago, and it’s never been worth my while to get new ones.

“And don’t bother suggesting some sort of light that goes on when someone’s at the door.

“I swear, hearing people have no idea, no idea at all, what deafness means; it means a whole lot more than just a lack of hearing.  It means a whole lot of omitted perceptions from the other senses, too.

“Hitting us over the head with a big stick is truly the only foolproof, guaranteed-to-work way of getting our attention.”

- - - - - - - - -

The caretaker of course knew exactly what I was worried about; one of the men-hating primitives is likely to come up to the house while I’m sleeping, getting a rude surprise and being the way they are, totally misinterpret what’s going on, and my motives.

And as God and everybody else knows, franksolich already has a public-relations problem with the primitives.

“You know, I can’t do anything about it,” I said; “when BainsBane was here, out of consideration for her sensibilities, when sleeping I wore long underwear, and over that, a union suit, so there’d be no male skin showing, to offend her.

“It was like trying to sleep in a suit of concrete; I won‘t bother doing that any more.

“I don’t care what the primitives see--although I’d prefer not to offend Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive--but I care very much that if what they see incites some sort of salacious interest in them, when they get back to Skins’s island, they’ll yak all about it, much to the denigration of my character and repute.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

That out of the way, the caretaker asked me if I’d heard from any other men-hating primitives wanting to come for Big Mo’s big get-together.

No, I said; I hadn’t been to the post office to pick up any mail, but I’d get around to it on Saturday.

“I’m guessing there’s probably going to be six or eight more.”

“Who do you have coming so far?” he asked.

“Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, the NJCher primitive, the great aunt from Chicago, Skippy, LynneSin, the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive, the husband-hating elleng primitive, and Wills the William769 primitive, thus far.

“You got any requests?”

One, the caretaker said, checking his cellular telephone.

“It’s the In_the_Wind primitive, from some senior citizens’ village in urban New York.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The windy primitive was once the “psychic” JoanAlpern primitive, and she gave me much grief during the Scamdal eight years ago.

But what I could never figure out was this: the not-yet-late red round one was visiting her, and alleged to need some cash, $300 to be exact.  I dunno what for; maybe drugs or something.  Since the not-yet-late red round one was from Seattle, he’d have trouble cashing a check in New York City.

So he wrote her a check for $300, and she gave him $300 in cash.

The check bounced, much to her disappointment; she whined about it on Skins’s island.

Well, if she was a psychic, how come she didn’t know in advance the check was no good?

But the bigger consternation is, she loved, and still loves, the late red round one, as if he’d done her no injury at all.  And at the same time, she loathes and detests franksolich, who never cost her a cent.

“Negative,” I said; “tell her no, she can’t come, I don‘t want her around this place.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

By now, I'm hoping--but I'm not quite sure--readers are getting my drift.

The descriptions of, and comments about, women might appear to be general in nature; that all women are these ways.

No; decent and civilized women, and Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive are exempt from my generalities, my broad-brushing.

This story, in describing how men really feel, is blatantly meant to upset and offend the dedicatee, and her fellowette women's-libbers on Skins's island.

The screeching she-women'll insist they're not reading this, but they are, and I fail to understand why they'd be embarrassed about admitting it.

[franksolich]

About an hour after I went to bed for the night, I was awakened by the harsh glare of the ceiling light that’d suddenly been snapped on.

“We’re here for some more fun.  Let the party begin…..”

I groaned as I got up; Romeo again, drunk, this time with two red-headed women he‘d gotten from only God knows where, one tall, one short, one with big ones, one with regular-sized ones, both thin.

No need to cover myself, as this wasn’t respectable company that might be offended.

“Oh my,” said the short red-head with the big ones; “isn’t he so nice, and so clean?”

“I like clean men,” purred the tall red-head with the regular-sized ones.

“What’s up?” I asked, to get some sort of conversation going.

“We came to party,” Romeo said; “let’s go out on the back porch, toke a few, have some fun.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We filed out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and out to the back porch.  It of course was dark, but it being mid-summer, warm.  I turned on one porch light, which illuminated slightly; if I turned them all on, we‘d be plagued by flying insects.

Romeo lit up a joint, offering me as host the first puff, but I demurred, instead taking out a regular cigarette and lighting that.  I was encouraged that as they smoked, they began disrobing, because one’s uncomfortable being the only naked person in a group.

After a couple of joints, Romeo suggested something to drink would be nice.

I’ll go out to the garage and get some beer, I said.  I don’t drink, but there’s three ancient refrigerators there, where the neighbor and his older brother, the property caretaker, and the ranch-hands who work across the road keep a stock of liquid refreshments.

The short red-head with the big ones followed me.  She’d taken off her top and her shoes, but still had on a pair of really tight cut-offs. 

She unexpectedly fondled me down on the lower back when I leaned over to pull out a twelve-pack, causing me to straighten up with a start.

“That’s a nice ass,” she said; “do gay men ever come on to you?”

I looked at her with the glazed stare of a man who’s just been shot in the stomach.

“Well, I’ll bet if you showed it off, they’d come on to you.”

I broke out in a cold sweat, visibly.

“Oh, don’t be thinking of that at all,” she said.  “But don’t be such a prude either.”

To assure myself though, I unbuttoned her cut-offs and pulled them down, which she allowed me to do without resistance.  There was nothing there but the usual-and-standard female anatomy, so I breathed more easily and yanked them back up, although they were so tight on her I fumbled with re-buttoning them.

Compressed against each other, we sucked face for a bit, until she grabbed one of her big ones, wiggle-waggling it at me, wordlessly suggesting I “do something” with it.

“Let’s go join the others,” I said.  “They’re impatient for the beer.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“This guy doesn’t like them” she announced when we reached the back porch.  “Is something wrong with him?”

Romeo was on a chair, the tall red-head with the regular-sized ones on his lap, and reluctantly pushed her away.

“Well, okay then, let’s trade,” he said, standing up.

The three of them had a whispered discussion, glancing my way as they smoked another joint.

“Well, maybe he’s queer,” said the short red-head.  “I’ve never seen a man who didn’t like my big ones.”

“How about if you two guys went at it, and we got to watch?” the tall red-head asked; “it’d be a real turn-on, seeing what guys do with each other.”

My hair stood on end, especially since Romeo’s didn’t.

The tall red-head came over to stand behind me, where I was sitting on the edge of the chaise longue, and gently taking my head, placed the back of it against in between her two regularly-sized ones.

- - - - - - - - - -

The short red-head sat on the floor of the porch, idly handling a soccer ball she’d seen underneath the table.  The tall red-head had pulled me back into a laying position and was hovering over me, trying to tickle my nose with her regular-sized ones.

“Let’s play a game,” the short red-head suggested.

“Girls against boys, and losers have to do what the winners want.”

“But there’s only four of us,” I said, nervous about what she‘d want if her side won; “four people can’t play soccer.”

“Four’s enough,” she said; “we can improvise.”

I pointed out it was pretty dark; after all, it almost 3:00 a.m.

“Well, you could turn on all the lights, and we could play near the edge of the porch.  Girls against boys, and losers have to do what the winners want.”

“But still, it’s dark enough we won’t be able to tell each other apart,” I protested.  “Usually teams have uniforms.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” the tall red-head said; “you guys can wear our shirts and we’ll wear our cut-offs.

I looked over at Romeo, who was hunched down in a chair opposite, dreamily gazing at a half-smoked joint.

For the first time, I noticed that BainsBane had been right; this guy was big, really big.

I’m far from diminutive, but this guy was really hung.

“Maybe we could wear athletic supporters,” I suggested; “after all, he and I have, uh, certain body parts that can be easily damaged, putting us at a disadvantage.”

“No, you guys should wear only shirts,” the tall red-head said; “after all, men are better at sports than women, and you could consider it a handicap, like in golf.  It equalizes things, making them more fair.”

I looked at Romeo again; his unspoken message was that it’d be fun to play soccer.

The tall red-head tore off her shirt and pulled it down over my head.  It was pretty tight, and at its lengthiest it reached my navel.  The short red-head gave her long-ago discarded shirt to Romeo, which likewise was way too short.

We played soccer and the men won, although I wonder if perhaps the women let us, given how I found myself really cautious about the soccer ball, and so didn’t play hard.

So Romeo and I got our choices, he sitting in a chair while the short red-head squatted in front of him.  “Nothing special,” I informed my own partner, the tall red-head; “I just want to poke.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We used every position possible, whichever one she wanted, just so I could poke her.  So she was happy, and I was happy.  As far as I was concerned, we could do it hanging from the rafters, or her standing on her head, just so I could keep poking.

But watching the other two from across the porch, I wondered if I’d made the wrong choice, seeing Romeo writhe in closed-eyed blissful ecstasy; he wiggled so much I feared he’d break the legs off the chair.

Then I figured no, it was more fun doing what I was doing. 

After Romeo seemed sated, he and the short red-head toked a bit more, watching us until he finally reminded us it was late, and he had to work in a few hours.

“But wait,” I protested.  “I’m not done yet.  She wanted to play first, and I’ve been giving her what she wanted--”

“Don‘t you ever pop?” the tall red-head asked me.  “I kept reaching a new level, and thought you’d pop then--”

“Just being considerate of the needs of the woman,” I said modestly, lighting a cigarette.  “If I pop too soon, I deflate, and turn over and go to sleep, and it gets the woman all upset and bent out of shape, and I never hear the end of it.”

But they had to leave, so they left.  I laid down on the chaise longue and drifted to sleep.

- - - -- - - - - - -

A couple of hours later, after the sun had just come up, I was shaken awake on the shoulder by the property caretaker.

“Dude,” he said, admiringly.

to be continued

[franksolich]

“I get the impression you’re not enjoying it,” Romeo said that afternoon, as he was driving us from this place to his boss’s place.  Both of us needed to pick up our paychecks, and as it was a distance, there was no point in duplicating gasoline.

“You’re about what?--eleven, twelve, years older than me, but you’re in great shape when compared with most much younger.  It’s in you--you could be engaging in hours’-long gymnastics with a woman twice a day during the week, and three times a day on weekends and holidays, given your stamina.”

I arched my eyebrows.  Usually as far as Romeo’s concerned, he’s the Great One, and nobody else even comes close.

“I’ve never heard of anybody who could go so long before finally popping,” he added.

“But still, I get the impression you’re not enjoying it.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Well, the reviews on that are mixed, I thought to myself; it’s not all bad, and it does release some, uh, intense inner tensions and pressures.

My biggest problem was with Romeo himself.

Although there’s nothing unaesthetic about him--he’s the usual and standard typical wiry blond cowboy in his late 30s--and he has winning ways, nobody but me chooses to have anything to do with him.

That part was okay; being a nice guy, I’m used to being the friend of the friendless.

But what wasn’t okay was his condescension; that I was a total Innocent and naif, and need his tutelage to learn the ways of the world.  Never mind that I’ve been around the block so many times the sidewalk’s been eroded into a ditch.

However, it does need pointed out that I get this treatment all the time, even from decent and civilized people; he’s hardly the only one.  We all radiate impressions of ourselves on which others base their judgements of us, and in my case, I suppose it’s because I’m deaf, and have the manners of the “lost youngest brother,” a double-whammy if there ever was one.

Someone who needs both protected, and instructed.

Even the nephews treat me this way; it’s my fate to never repast at the Table of the Elders, always to sit down with the kids.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, you see,” I said, “actually I’m probably having a better time than what I’m letting on, but really, there’s a problem.

“You pick up the women and show up with no notice at all.

“How about letting me have some say in the women, and time to prepare for them?”

He thought about this.  “You got any ideas that would make it better?”

Yeah, I said; “the carnies aren’t coming until Saturday August 9th, the same day Big Mo and the men-hating primitives start trickling in.

“So maybe we could do something out where the carnies’ll camp, before they get here.  It’s a great spot, and isolated--nobody ever goes there.”

“Good idea,” Romeo said; “unlike your place, where everybody seems to go.  It’d be great, the privacy, and the river’s just as good there, as it is at your place.”

Uh huh, I said.  “Nobody’d have the least slightest clue.

“But there’s something else.

“You always pick the women; I have no say in who you bring, and so sometimes you pick women who don’t especially turn me on, like short ones or red-heads or those with supersized jugs.”

“Well, we could do that,” he said; “just let me know what you want, what turns you on.”

I itemized the details.  “A little taller and thinner than most women usually are, dark brown hair, pale skin, appropriately-sized jugs, long slender fingers, slightly larger-than-average nose--I guess one would call it the ‘Hebraic look.’

“I tell you, Jewish women, or Jewish-looking women, turn me on like you wouldn’t believe.

“I dunno why it is, but probably it is because when I was a little kid, I was really enamored of children’s versions of eastern European Yiddish folk-tales; read them voraciously.  There’s never been anything, to me, hotter than a Jewish woman, or at least a Jewish-looking woman.

“But alas, such a breed’s nearly non-existent in goy Nebraska…..”

“You’re right,” Romeo said; “that’s a tall order.

“But I think I can fill it.”

to be continued

[landofconfusion80]

Jewish? nads suddenly appears in the story....

[BlueStateSaint]

Jewish? nads suddenly appears in the story....

[franksolich]

Jewish? nads suddenly appears in the story....

Oh no, she doesn't.

[franksolich]

“This is a hard one,” the property caretaker said, “figuring out some sort of warning system so that the she-primitives down there can alert you there’s a problem.

“Normally, all it takes is something that ‘beeps’ or ‘buzzes’ or blares, to tell someone their attention’s needed.

“But that won’t work for you, because you can’t hear. 

“So then one wonders, ‘what about something that blinks?’--but you wouldn’t know something was blinking unless it was somewhere within your line of vision, and such things aren’t always in eye-range.

“Okay then, what about something that vibrates?--but you’d be aware it’s vibrating only if it were attached to you, and you’re not about to wear attachments, and even if you were willing to, you couldn’t wear such a thing all the time.

“Because of the situation--the peril of the carnies ransacking the she-primitives--you need something that’s 100% guaranteed to get your attention.

“But about the only thing that would work is Big Mo coming up behind you and hitting you over the head with a baseball bat.  That’d be 100% guaranteed to get your attention.  But it’s the only thing.”

- - - - - - - - - -

There being no resolution to that, we discussed the flip side of the same sort of problem; my privacy and safety against intruding she-primitives.

It’s important that I be freely accessible to them, in case they need something, which of course means leaving all the doors unlocked, so they can walk inside and tap me on the shoulder or something, so as to get my attention.

Usually that’s not a problem for people, and it’s worked okay this way all my life, but that’s because decent and civilized people tend to be up-and-about during the day, when I’m of course decently presentable.

One can hope the she-primitives go to bed at ten or before, and don’t get up until six or after, but knowing the way primitives are, that might be too much for which to hope.  And the last thing I need is an anti-man primitive coming in during the middle of the night…..

“You know, I’m wondering if maybe you covered the windows, that might help,” the caretaker said.

“You can’t count on the others, but at least Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive have enough good manners and courtesy that, if they see the curtains are closed, it’s impolite to disturb.”

When I’d first moved out here, there were roll-down shades on the windows, which I immediately took down, as shades remind me of the squalor and poverty of desperate people during my childhood. 

I’d intended to pick up curtains or draperies in the big city at some time, but never got around to it.

This place is more than half windows; the old woman who’d lived here before I did--in fact, she lived here all her life--had been going blind the last twenty years of her life, but still liked light, and so was always having walls replaced with windows so as to let the Sandhills sun shine in, cheering her up.

Having uncovered windows has never been any big deal to me; this is way out in the middle of nowhere, and so there’s nobody around to peek inside the house.

“hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer did, though,” the caretaker reminded me, “getting an eyeful that one early morning.”

“As also did Warpy and Ms. Ed the unappellated eohippus,” I added, “but at least Judy grasswire didn’t.

“I was favorably disposed towards Judy grasswire at the time, and would’ve been really embarrassed if she’d seen what they saw, a wholly unadorned franksolich.

“But hey, these are primitives here, and they’re not going to like me anyway no matter what they see of me, so it doesn’t make any difference.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“This is a hard one,” the neighbor’s wife said.

“You want me to show the primitive ladies all around, take them places to see and do things, and that’s okay with me, but…..what?

“What sorts of things would blue-state primitive ladies like to see and do?”

You’re a woman, I reminded her; “you know what women like to see and do.”

“These are primitive ladies, though,” she insisted, “and I’m getting the impression at least a few of them are uppity about us, having all these silly snobbish elitist east-coast ideas about how we are, how we live, out here in the hinterlands.

“In fact, it looks to me as if Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, and the cbayer primitive are likely to be the only ones to treat us with any respect.

“And it’s complicated in that these are, temporarily, anti-men she-women; they’re coming here to get away from men.

“But just about everything women do around here involves men, too; even the city council’s got a man on it.”

“Remember,” I assured her, “we have no idea what Big Mo’s girls expect, and it’s reasonably possible they won’t want to have anything at all to do with us, you and me, and we’d be home free.

“But if not, during the county fair, the Ladies’ Altar Society is hosting that soup-and-salad supper, along with a bake-sale, and they might go for some home-made cuisine."

to be continued

[franksolich]

During the afternoon, when I was outdoors rotating the headlights on the automobile, a beat-up old truck hauling a miniature trailer home pulled into the yard.

It was Italianate Jesus, Wild Bill’s brother with both eyes on the same side of his nose, and two carnies new to me; a heavy-set older guy with stiff white hair, significantly carbuncled, and afflicted with a permanently-running nose, and a considerably tatooed middle-aged woman, sort of flabby, with overly-bright red lipstick and too-heavy mascara, who seemed to chain-smoke cigarettes even more than I do.

“Hey, man,” Italianate Jesus greeted me; “things are slow up in South Dakota, and so Louie told us we’re laid off, to skedaddle until the carnival comes here, where he’ll take us on again.

“Do you mind if we camp here until then?  It’d be only eight days until we’re on the payroll again, and we’ll stay out of your way.”

This of course messed up other, uh, plans, but as they truly needed a place to stay, myself being a nice guy, I said, “yeah, sure, cool, no problem, whatever.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The business partner arrived as I was dusting out behind the plastic electrical-outlet plates on the walls, coming to pick up some work I’d done, and bringing with him more work.

“I got a telephone call from someone who wants to come out here to meet with Big Mo’s women,” he said.

I of course have a telephone, but because I’m deaf it’s a pain to use, and so usually I have the neighbor, the neighbor’s wife, the femme, and the business partner take my calls and return my messages.

“I told her I wasn’t sure if she’d be eligible, because while she was once a primitive in good standing, she’s not any longer.  But I’d ask you first.  flyarm.”

Oh my.  I brightened up.  “Of course flyarm’s welcome here; a blast from the past.  I remember flyarm fondly, and’d be delighted to meet her.

“flyarm had been one of those supporting poor stupid Beth during the Scamdal eight years ago, but as time went on, it became apparent she was just a trite, silly old woman being used, wholly innocent of any evil intent.

“I became enamored of her when I discovered she was one of my most-avid readers, and in fact she clumsily tried emulating my style.  She didn’t do so well, but at least she tried.

“It’s difficult to dislike flyarm.

“Yeah, true, she lives in Streisandian opulence in New Jersey, with another expensive place down in Florida.  Her main residence is New Jersey, but she claims Florida because taxes are lower.

“And flyarm’s loaded, loaded to the gills, and so taxes can hurt.

“What’s even more appealing about her is that she was once very poor; unlike the elitist NJCher primitive, flyarm had to work her way up in the world.  She was an airline stewardess, back when airplanes still had propellers.

“She met some rich radio sports announcer, married him and his money, and’s been in clover since.

“flyarm’s all right.

“And with the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive also being here, there should be some fireworks--”

“Who’s cali?” the business partner asked; “I’m not sure I know of her.”

“An Obama fanatic,” I explained; “a little taller and thinner than most women usually are, dark brown hair, pale skin, appropriately-sized jugs, long slender fingers, slightly larger-than-average nose--I guess one would call it the ‘Hebraic look.’”

- - - - - - - - - - -

A little before suppertime, Romeo came by.

“Hey, after church on Sunday, I’m headed to Omaha for a day and a half, and while I’m there, I’ll look around for a couple of women to fill your bill, and we could get some action before the carnies come.”

I broke the bad news to him; some of the carnies were already here.

“But be of good cheer,” I said; “just find, and bring up, the right women, and I’ll figure out another place to have fun.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“I’ve been hearing stories,” she said.

“Aren’t you worried about what [the femme] would say?”

“I’m not worried about it,” I said; “yes, yes, yes, she’s in Chicago, 500 miles away, but that’s not why I’m not worried about it.

“[the femme] already knows exactly what’s going on; you hearing people have some sort of extraordinary perceptual abilities where you know things without having to be told them.”

I had a visitor, the woman who as a Ph.D. student had stayed here one summer a few years ago analyzing the William Rivers Pitt for her doctorate in soil chemistry.

“Look,” I said; “it’s general knowledge around here, but you wouldn‘t know, living way over on the other side of the state.

“You’re upset by stories you’ve heard; they bother people around here a little bit, but knowing the situation, not enough to get all worked up about it.

“[the femme]’s had a bad summer, a really rotten summer, what with the death of her father, and that she was undecided about taking a teaching job up in South Dakota.  Well, she‘s decided now to take it.

“I’ve had a bad summer, an imminent tragedy that was supposed to happen, and is definitely going to happen, but hasn’t happened yet.  It’s dominated my whole life, just waiting, and I wish to God it’d be over soon.

“I love her very much, and she obviously cares for me.  If I had to, I’d die for her, and I‘m sure if I needed a kidney or something, she‘d give me one of hers.

“But things are rarely as they seem.

“[the femme] and I are never going to get married, and we were aware of it from the beginning, years and years ago.

“No, nothing’s wrong with either of us, and there‘s only good feelings and tender concern for each other.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Why, oh why, do so many people use beer and dope when having sex?” I asked.

“I’ve never done it, and so I don’t know for sure, but it seems to me artificial stimulants would dullen the senses, making it less exhilarating than it should be.

“Me, I’d just as soon do it with a clear head, to get the full joy of it.

“And you, madam, made me very joyous last night,” I said as I rubbed her on her derriere.

“I thought you’d never quit,” she said.

I got out of bed, and flexing my arms as if stretching for a new bout, demonstrated that I’d recovered, and was ready to go again.

“Oh no,” she said; “you may be up for it, but it’s late, and we need to get going.”

- - - - - - - - - -

As she stood in front of the counter making coffee, I embraced her from the back, holding her very tightly, my appendage slipped in the cleft of her derriere, my fingers twiddling in the lower part of her front, and my lips nibbling her on her chin.

“I love you I love you I love you,” I said; “I’d like to be going in and out of you forever.”

As she went to take some milk out of the refrigerator, I followed, still glued to her.

When we walked out to the back porch, I sat down and motioned for her to sit on my lap.

“But I don’t want it right now,” she said.

“No problem,” I replied; “you could just sit on my lap, making me feel good with the press of your body.

“Remember, madam, the greatest gift is that which gives pleasure to another person.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We eventually got dressed and went to town to do what we had to do, including picking up the mail, which included several hand-written envelopes addressed to me, hand-writing I didn’t recognize.

But as the sun was in the right place overhead, she wished a tan and a massage, so I put the correspondence aside for later, and we stripped and went out to the back porch again.  She laid down on her stomach on the chaise longue as I rubbed suntan lotion into her.

“Why oh why,” I asked, “do people need to use costumes and accoutrements when having sex?

“I don’t care for it; to me, there’s nothing more uplifting than just the sight of a woman’s naked body, nothing on it.”

I helped her turn over on her back, and began massaging suntan lotion there, paying particular attention to, ahem, certain parts.  Feeling impish, I kissed her down there, and then sent my fingers to twiddle around.

“Why oh why,” I asked, “do people need to use toys and gadgets when having sex?

“It seems to me what one has naturally attached to the body is toys and gadgets enough.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Then we switched, with her lotioning and massaging me.

“It’s odd,” she mused; “once you told me about [the femme] last night, it seems you immediately forgot all about her.”

Uh, no way, I said, sitting up.  “I think about her all the time; [the femme]’s immortal to me.

“It’s been a real drain on both of us, and we’re both very tired.  Just really tired.  It’s been going on for almost a year, but nothing that one should discuss with others far removed from the scene, or on the internet.  It’s one of those things I’ll be able to talk about--but not today, not tomorrow, not next week.  I dunno when, but just not right now.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“About a month ago, she suggested that while she wasn’t interested, if I wanted to, I could see other women.

“That was about the time I got to know Romeo.  He’s worked for the cattleman across the road for a few years, but I’d never paid attention to him. 

“He said he could help me deal with the unrelenting stress and tension I’ve been under.

“You know, Romeo’s not the best guy to have hanging around, but I figured what do I have to lose?--after all, even a broken clock’s right twice a day.

“So far we’ve had two sessions.”

“What kind of sessions?” she asked.

Just sessions to release pent-up pressure, I said.

- - - - - - - - - -

“You’re not as thick and bushy as you used to be down here,” she commented as she rubbed my groin.

“Never mind,” I said; “it’s been growing back, although not fast enough to suit me.”

“Oh, but you’d look good, really good, shaven--you wouldn’t be covering up so much of one of the nicest things about you,” she said as she proceeded to check the suppleness of it.

to be continued

[franksolich]

Later in the afternoon, when the property caretaker was here, we sorted through the mail to consider the requests for permission to come to Big Mo’s big anti-men primitive meet-up, which starts in only a week.

The caretaker rattled off the names, and I approved or disapproved.

“msanthrope, the MsPiggy primitive--”

“Negative; it’ll be like having a dead fish here.”

“demtenjeep, Pamela--”

“Negative; no reason needs given.”

“Skidmore, the skidmarked underwear primitive--”

“Negative; the anti-men primitive women are already bitchy as it is, and don’t need her whining too.”

“DemGurl, the DUmbGirl primitive--”

“Negative; LynneSin already has the allotted slot for protuberant chins.”

“the truemud primitive‘s, trumad’s wife.”

“Negative; she’s only married to a primitive, not a primitive herself.”

And so on it went.

When we were done, the caretaker asked, “Okay, so who’s all coming?”

“Big Mo, CaliforniaPeggy, the cbayer primitive, the NJCher primitive, the great aunt from Chicago, Skippy, LynneSin, the bitter old Vermontese cali primitive, the raccoon-bitten Aerows primitive, the husband-hating elleng primitive, Wills the William769 primitive, and flyarm.”

“But you didn’t add anybody new,” he pointed out.

Yeah, I said, and it was on purpose.

“I’ve got to write a character sketch of each individual attendee, and it’s looking to be about as big a job as writing all the annual Top DUmmie awards.  A lot of work.

“And so the less, the merrier.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

After the property caretaker left, I let out a whoop! and started tearing off my clothes.

“Let’s go down and swim in the river,” I proposed.

“But someone might come,” she said; “remember your rule about being presentable from 6 a.m. until 10 p.m., so there’s no rude surprises.  And you already have those four carnies camping down-river.”

“The rule’s only for me when I‘m here alone, madam,” I said; “it doesn’t apply other times, when there’s someone else here, with ears who can hear if someone’s coming.

“You might recall when you were here three summers ago, you and I romped and played all day long--every day for all hours for eleven blissful days--and nothing happened, there were no unpleasant surprises for us or anybody else.

“It’s because you were around here to hear, if something needed heard.

She thought about it, agreed, and started taking off her shoes.

No, I said; “leave it all on, so I can take it off.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We ran down to the river, but because I faced less wind-resistance, I got there first.

I didn’t want to start poking right away, instead preferring simply to rub up against her while we sucked face and I slowly unclothed her.

After some minutes, I’d tossed aside her brassiere, but she still had on her panties although my hands were running around all over inside of them.

She laughed as she ran her fingers through my hair, the hair on top of my head.

“I wish I’d kept those panties as a souvenir, from the time you came charging into the kitchen and leaped up into my arms, poking away down there.  You tore a hole through the panties, in your frenzied haste to get to where you were going.

“Is it me, or is it all women, or is it something else, that makes you like that?”

“It’s you,” I said dreamily, which was the truth.  My head was nested in the middle of her chest, and I turned slightly to nuzzle one of the pair.

Of course it’s her, what with her being a little taller and thinner than most women usually are, dark brown hair, pale skin, appropriately-sized jugs, long slender fingers, and slightly larger-than-average nose, an instant turn-on, a provocative trigger.

“I wish I could excite other men like that,” she said.

“Well, too bad for them,” I responded as I nuzzled my way from one of her pair up to her neck; “it makes me the luckiest guy in the world right now.  I s-o-o-o-o-o want to get in you.”

- - - - - - - - - -

But she wasn’t ready yet, and changed the subject.

“You know, one of your habits makes me really curious.

“When I was here three summers ago, for example, for eleven days about half the time I was nude.

“But you were nude all the time, excepting when other people were here.  By the time I left, you’d probably forgotten what clothes were.

“Think of how you treated fizzgig, the fizzy primitive.

“You completely undressed right away, but didn’t pull of her clothes for nine hours, long after she’d become impatient, fearing you’d never go into her.”

“Well,” I said; “the fizzy one’s a woman, and likes playing around first.  Women as a general rule aren’t fond of being poked for two, three, minutes, after which their man pops and turns over to go to sleep.  They gripe about it all the time, as if the needs of a man aren’t as important as their needs.

“She wanted foreplay, and so she got foreplay.  I don’t see what the problem was.”

“Also,” she resumed, “think about Warpy several years ago, when she tried to seduce you.

“You got naked right away, and after some hours of playing cat-and-mouse, she was just taking off her pants when you were all dressed again.”

“If you knew Ms. Hindenberg,” I replied, “you’d want her to keep her clothes on, too, in addition to covering her face.

“But anyway, I dunno why it is.  I imagine Sigmund Freud has the answer and I haven’t read that chapter yet.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

Man, this is hard, writing pornography for BainsBane and her cohort screeching she-women on Skins's island.

I'm trying to keep this reasonably clean, and have been resorting to a promiscuous use of euphemisms; it taxes the imagination, trying to think of "nicer" words to call something.

When writing the chapter to come, I've suddenly discovered I've invented a euphemism for a euphemism for a euphemism for a thing.....

[franksolich]

“You like being naked,” she insisted; “you really like it.”

“It’s great to be naked,” I replied, rubbing the tips of her pair; “it’s liberating, it’s exhilarating, it just feels so…..good.

“But it’s the same thing as how men want nothing more than to poke a woman 24/7/365--if we did that, nothing else would get done in the world.”

“I hope there’s no problems when Big Mo and her crowd are here next week,” she said.

“Women are nosy; they pry.

“And if one tries to hide something, women’ll look around for it.”

“Yeah, I am kind of concerned,” I replied; “they’re anti-men, and they aren’t going to like me no matter how nice of a guy I am.  But unlike the courtesy extended to BainsBane, I’m not up to donning long underwear and a union suit again, especially since it’s forecast to be hot. 

“I don’t care.  This is my turf.”

- - - - - - - - - -

I was kneeling at her feet, pulling down her panties.

“What do you feel like when you’re caught?

“Like the first time I saw you; didn’t it embarrass you to be caught like that?”

“I don’t remember,” I said; “I’ve been embarrassed lots of times.

“It’s generally true that nobody’s around here from about ten at night until six in the morning, and so it’s generally safe; I can be as I wish, without offending anybody.

“But ‘generally’ isn’t the same thing as ‘all the time,’” I said, having finally gotten her totally disrobed and sitting back on my heels admiring all that lay before me.

“Because I can’t hear, sometimes when I’ve gotten up in the morning and everything looked okay, nobody around, but then oooops, somebody is around, and I didn’t hear them.

“The worst times are when I’ve awakened stiff, and I’m not talking about arthritis,” I said as I folded her legs and commenced to poke.

to be continued

[franksolich]

The femme came in mid-morning, bringing with her a book she’d bought for me while in Chicago, a biography of the late Clare Boothe Luce.  I in turn gave her a coffee-table-sized book of colored plates of court fashions in Balkan Europe circa 500 years ago, which she’d wanted.

“How was the trip?” I asked.

“It was okay,” she said; “but I’d rather have been back here, getting ready to move.”

She’s moving up into South Dakota at the end of the month, where she took a job teaching dance and theatre arts at a community college.  This however wasn’t the reason for the parting of ways; she’s going to be only three hours away.

“How are you?” she asked.  “Has anything changed?”

No, I said wearily; “it’s still the same.

“I don’t know how a hospice nurse, especially someone who’s been one for years, could be so wrong.

“Nobody but God knows beforehand for a certainty the hour of death, but I think a long-time hospice nurse would at least have a vague idea when the end’s imminent.”

It’d been early March when I was notified such was rapidly coming, and I’d braced myself.

Five months is a very long time to live in suspended animation.

One never wants someone else to die, but in this case, the mind had corroded away a long time ago, from several decades of chomping down fistfuls of pharmaceuticals as if popcorn.  It’s been more than ten years now since I was last recognized by a mind slowly dissipating into the darkness.

“He doesn’t know anybody, and when awake, he ‘talks’ with his long-dead parents, and the whole assembly of his late brothers and sisters, ‘addressing’ each by name, and with uncanny accuracy connecting them with other people, places, and events, at the same time not knowing his wife or children.

“At the end of a monologue, he mentions my name last, cursing and damning me to the deepest pits of Hell.

“It’s senile dementia, nothing personal, but still, it gets unnerving.”

- - - - - - - - - -

We went to the bar in town to eat lunch; Swede, the cook of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, brightened when he saw me.

While the femme was distracted, turning and talking with someone behind her, he commented dryly, “I heard someone got a shopping-list from you, to get a couple of things down in Omaha.”

I glared at him, and ordered.

to be continued

[vesta111]

Thank you Frank for rating this [ R] , gave me a chance to prepare myself for all the memories of the past to come flooding back.    

No drugs, just a beer or two, darn that was an innocent time.    Come to think of it  is difficult to say I have wasted my life and never taken a walk on the wild side.

Your story is going very well, not too porno but enough to make me look back and  think of others I once knew or married, straight laced and nothing wild or memorable about our sex lives.  No imaginations on the males, just a hit and run.

One thing has made me question, why is it men do not want to have sex when in the water, a pool or a lake, never understood that.



   

[franksolich]

Thank you Frank for rating this [R], gave me a chance to prepare myself for all the memories of the past to come flooding back.   

As you know, vesta, dear, there's been lots of primitives reading this story.

Which tells me that Skins isn't paying attention to his "customers."

The primitives so badly want to read about sex, yet discussion of the topic doesn't happen on Skins's island--and so they're compelled to come over here to read about sex.

It's okay that they come over to read this, no problem, but why is franksolich, rather than Skins, catering to primitive needs and wants?  And I'll bet Skins could churn out a better "product" too.

No imaginations on the males, just a hit and run.

A man can't help being a man, and despite the Lysenko-like hopes of the women's-libbers, men aren't going to stop being men.  Genetics is stronger than "social engineering;" despite that the screeching she-women think we can be changed through "education" and "conditioning," it ain't gonna happen.  Genetics is stronger than "social engineering."

Too bad for the women's-libbers on Skins's island.

[franksolich]

The neighbor’s wife, sensing some impending event although she wouldn’t admit it, came to visit Sunday evening.  It’d been a hot, muggy, miserable day, and I wasn’t up to chitchattery, but as she’s who she is, we sat on the front porch, away from the sinking sun of the west.

She inquired about the femme, although that wasn’t any impending event.

“You know,” I said, “it would’ve worked out for life, if nine years ago, we would’ve just remained what we were, friends.

“But both of us were facing certain, uh, pressures at the time, and encouraged an impression that seemed to alleviate those pressures.”

I lit a cigarette, and smoked it all the way through before continuing.

“This is a place that values marriage, as it should.  Marriage is important for the stability of a people, of a society.  And very fortunately, it’s not unpopular.

“[the femme], being in her early 30s at the time, was feeling pressure from her family and friends, because she wasn’t showing any inclination towards that popular institution. 

“She has four brothers older than her, three brothers younger than her, and at the end, a sister, as you know.  They by this time were all married, again as you know.

“And so the usual-and-standard ‘what’s wrong with you’ hints.

“Myself, I’d been here four years by then [i.e., the time the femme and I met], and there were always comments--uttered outside of my ‘hearing,’ of course--like ‘he’s a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet, and he’s a decent and civilized person, not a primitive--but given his age, why wasn’t he married a long time ago?’

“And the inevitable whispered question: ‘might he be gay?’

“One thing I’ve learned is that [the femme] and I are highly susceptible to social pressures; we want to please.

“It’s a fine and noble thing to please others, a decent and civilized virtue, but one really needs to keep it in equilibrium; it’s equally important to please oneself.  Without going overboard and becoming selfish, of course.

“[the femme] a very long time ago told me why she wasn’t the marrying type, the ’why’ of it being nobody else’s business.  I don’t want rumors about her, as the real reason has nothing to do with her being dysfunctional or ‘different’ in any way, as she’s not.

“Myself, I guess I proved my machissimo a long time ago now, being s-o-o-o-o-o-o widely known as ’the guy who stared down a loaded gun…..twice.’  I’m known as far away as Sioux City for that.  That’s not quite what happened, but hey, who am I to disagree with perceptions that enhance my reputation?

“So in either case, I think both of us proved we’re not less than straight, she a woman and I a man.

“But that’s the way it is now; before then, we felt all this intense pressure, and so staged the impression we were an ’item.’

I snuffed out another cigarette, ruefully smiling.  "Remember, madam; she teaches the dramatic arts and I'm a great actor--it just seemed a natural thing to do.

“The past year or so, our situation aroused a new question, ’Well, what’s wrong with them?  They’ve been together for so long, and haven’t tied the knot yet.  Might there be something funny going on here?’

“At the same time, the usual-and-standard ’bad things’ that happen to people as they grow older--loss--began accelerating.  She had hers, I’m still dealing with mine.

“We both being very tired, drained, simply decided to close down the show.

“It‘s a bitch, when one tries to please people too much, going overboard.”

to be continued