flamboyant undoing, I have not spent the last three days reveling in it. Oh, no. I have had other forms of entertainment superior even to that slapstick performance. Jill, bless her, delivered the goods. Well, Mom did, shockingly.
I’m talking about porn! Lots and lots of porn. Six full-color magazines crammed with it.
Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, Juggs, Swank
and
High Society.
Let me take you on a little tour.
Crystal, a veterinary science student at USC, has pale blue eyes, pert little knockers and light blond hair that is, how shall I put this, clearly a dye job. LaTanya, from Louisville, Kentucky, enjoys dirty dancing, pancakes and attempting to lick her left nipple with an impressively agile, if not quite long enough, tongue. Betsy, twenty-four, from Cleveland, prefers to tinker with the engine of her red Mustang on laundry day, which is the only reason I can think of for why she’s doing it naked.
Then there’s Martha. Sweet Martha with the wild tangle of chestnut brown hair. Oh to be that horse on which Martha lay draped, naked, eyes unfocused. What are you thinking about, Martha? Are you sad? Are you bored? Are you waiting for a hot steaming hunk of man to rescue you from equine ennui? I’m right here, Martha. Dig in your spurs and ride on over: 23 Trask Road, Winterhead, MA, 01984.
Martha’s my favorite.
Not that I’ve given the other ladies short shrift. There’s plenty of Jack to go around. At one point yesterday morning, I had all six magazines opened and spread out on the bed. Half a dozen naked and semi-naked girls stared up at me like I was their god. What a party that was. It was better than Christmas.
But this morning, something very troubling happened: I started reading the articles. On the right-hand page, there’d be a photo of a naked girl spread-eagle on the hood of a Ferrari, and I’d be reading some blather about cuff links on the left. I was choosing journalism over tits! I’ve never even worn cuff links. I’ve never even
seen
cuff links. I’m seventeen years old, for cripes’ sake. I’ve spent my life in one room, utterly deprived of female contact. I get three days with a stack of porno mags and what happens? My most sacred base desires conk out on me like the engine of Betsy’s Mustang.
Am I broken? Diseased? Do I need Viagra?
Nope. My malady is far worse than that, ladies and gentlemen. It’s terminal. It’s the reason I requested all this porn in the first place. You see, these beautiful girls, naked and compliant as they may be, are no more than stand-ins for the true object of my desire. Their explicit poses and ingenious sexual experiments with door handles and produce are just lurid enough to distract me from my obsession for a few days. Ultimately, obsession wins.
Good-bye, ladies. So long and farewell. My heart and my libido belong to . . .
I won’t say it. If I don’t say her name, she’ll have no power over me. Right?
I have her photograph hidden between the mattress and box spring. Jill doesn’t know about it. I mean, technically it belongs to her. She had it taken at one of those silly booths at the Liberty Bell Mall. I’ve spent all morning trying to banish its existence from my mind, distracting myself with horseback Martha and nipple-licking LaTanya.
But at 11:36 p.m., after a struggle that was always doomed, I succumb to the inevitable. Digging the tiny photo from between the mattress and box spring, I sit cross-legged on the floor in my underwear. My hands in prayer around the forbidden object, I hesitate to look, knowing that once I see it, the old desire will return, potent, all-encompassing and never fully slaked.
This is not my fault. I’ve tried. Lord knows I’ve tried to squash this obsession. But I’m only human.
I open my palms and there she is.
Ramie.
Her thick, full lips pucker as she plants a big friendly kiss on Jill’s face. On
my
face. Yes, I remember that moment. I remember every fractional instant of that moment, because I
I’m talking about porn! Lots and lots of porn. Six full-color magazines crammed with it.
Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, Juggs, Swank
and
High Society.
Let me take you on a little tour.
Crystal, a veterinary science student at USC, has pale blue eyes, pert little knockers and light blond hair that is, how shall I put this, clearly a dye job. LaTanya, from Louisville, Kentucky, enjoys dirty dancing, pancakes and attempting to lick her left nipple with an impressively agile, if not quite long enough, tongue. Betsy, twenty-four, from Cleveland, prefers to tinker with the engine of her red Mustang on laundry day, which is the only reason I can think of for why she’s doing it naked.
Then there’s Martha. Sweet Martha with the wild tangle of chestnut brown hair. Oh to be that horse on which Martha lay draped, naked, eyes unfocused. What are you thinking about, Martha? Are you sad? Are you bored? Are you waiting for a hot steaming hunk of man to rescue you from equine ennui? I’m right here, Martha. Dig in your spurs and ride on over: 23 Trask Road, Winterhead, MA, 01984.
Martha’s my favorite.
Not that I’ve given the other ladies short shrift. There’s plenty of Jack to go around. At one point yesterday morning, I had all six magazines opened and spread out on the bed. Half a dozen naked and semi-naked girls stared up at me like I was their god. What a party that was. It was better than Christmas.
But this morning, something very troubling happened: I started reading the articles. On the right-hand page, there’d be a photo of a naked girl spread-eagle on the hood of a Ferrari, and I’d be reading some blather about cuff links on the left. I was choosing journalism over tits! I’ve never even worn cuff links. I’ve never even
seen
cuff links. I’m seventeen years old, for cripes’ sake. I’ve spent my life in one room, utterly deprived of female contact. I get three days with a stack of porno mags and what happens? My most sacred base desires conk out on me like the engine of Betsy’s Mustang.
Am I broken? Diseased? Do I need Viagra?
Nope. My malady is far worse than that, ladies and gentlemen. It’s terminal. It’s the reason I requested all this porn in the first place. You see, these beautiful girls, naked and compliant as they may be, are no more than stand-ins for the true object of my desire. Their explicit poses and ingenious sexual experiments with door handles and produce are just lurid enough to distract me from my obsession for a few days. Ultimately, obsession wins.
Good-bye, ladies. So long and farewell. My heart and my libido belong to . . .
I won’t say it. If I don’t say her name, she’ll have no power over me. Right?
I have her photograph hidden between the mattress and box spring. Jill doesn’t know about it. I mean, technically it belongs to her. She had it taken at one of those silly booths at the Liberty Bell Mall. I’ve spent all morning trying to banish its existence from my mind, distracting myself with horseback Martha and nipple-licking LaTanya.
But at 11:36 p.m., after a struggle that was always doomed, I succumb to the inevitable. Digging the tiny photo from between the mattress and box spring, I sit cross-legged on the floor in my underwear. My hands in prayer around the forbidden object, I hesitate to look, knowing that once I see it, the old desire will return, potent, all-encompassing and never fully slaked.
This is not my fault. I’ve tried. Lord knows I’ve tried to squash this obsession. But I’m only human.
I open my palms and there she is.
Ramie.
Her thick, full lips pucker as she plants a big friendly kiss on Jill’s face. On
my
face. Yes, I remember that moment. I remember every fractional instant of that moment, because I
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