Thirty Years Ago…
Thirty years ago I disproved Harry Truman’s sarcastic comparison of civil servants to von Braun’s early Cape Canaveral rockets: They won’t work and you can’t fire them.
To wit, I worked so hard trying to convince a gubernatorial sexual predator to mend his ways, or at least better conceal them, he decided I knew too much and had to go. I could not persuade him the media were already on his scent. Three years short of early retirement, I was sacked without ceremony.
That was just the first personally awful thing. Worse was discovery my oddball brother in law, my wife’s babysitter of choice, was a pedophile. It was incomprehensible to me after he abused her all their young years — and handed her off to other creeps — she turned our kids over to him. And me oblivious to it all until he was arrested when non-family kids told on him.
I felt trapped in a bell jar with all the air pumped out.
Clinical depression with bipolar tendencies is how the shrinks described me. Not quite manic, more an “agitated depression.” I desperately wanted escape and did a lot of running away as the new century approached.
One such escape led me to what I entitled “Blonde Rhapsody” in a memoir:
Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore
But was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
— Omar Khayyam, Rubaiyat
I met her on a solo Florida road trip from my brother’s house. I had never laid eyes on her until she opened her door that evening. It was like finding a marvelous Christmas package in mid-spring. She was a lovely, large, brown-eyed blonde with Ruebenesque curves and a brilliant, happy smile.
Though we had corresponded for more than a year, she never sent me a photograph. So I had no idea what my correspondent would look like in the flesh. But damn! She was really good-looking.
She walked into my arms right in the doorway as if I was a sailor home from the sea. We did get her door closed before clothing started coming off. My fourth outing with a woman from Cyberia, I feared not being able to perform. Old enough, and depressed enough, to have experienced lamentable failures. But this went much better than with the vegan poet. By the time she knelt to take me in her mouth, right in her foyer, I sported a satisfactory erection. She used it as a handle to guide me to the living-room couch. Not the first time a woman used it that way. Every time one did, it created a poignant emotion I can’t name.
The couch was far as we got. Depression vanished. She came loudly and happily, more than once, before I did. When we subsided to murmur and caress and laugh, I doubted I could spell depression. I was amazed — absurdly grateful — when my cock engorged again. She was delighted.
“You said you were havin’ difficulties.” She had a happy Mississippi drawl. “I told you if I ever got hold of you, you’d be just fine.” We never got off that couch before we did it again. When we were done I felt comfortable enough to ask why she never sent me a photo.
She had that common female fear men only want slim, model-like women. But, confident of her sexuality, she believed if she got her hands on me before I was put off by her size it would be okay.
Holy smokes, it was amazing given our separate insecurities we were here at all. Full-figured or slim, tall or short, redhead, blonde or brunette, I considered such things extraneous: it was the woman inside who drew me. Or not.
But she hadn’t believed that any more than she believed I had trouble sustaining an erection. So she managed our meeting carefully to achieve this: post-coital contentment, candid conversation, tender touches. She was quite a manager, as I found out in due course. I never was a good candidate for being managed. But for the moment all I cared about was this sweet interlude banishing depression like magic.
Thanks to the internet. An old manual typewriter man, I did not enter the computer age until a free-lance job required it. Knew nothing about lonely American women using computers as an electronic condom to fulfill sexual fantasy.
She did not believe my ignorance. When I didn’t take up her veiled hints for “cybersex,” she concluded I liked younger women, and created a provocative younger screen profile to engage in anonymous seduction. But the self-described thirty-something seductress slipped up. She lopped ten years off her age — but forgot to change her birthday.
The aggressive creature behind the screen was either her in disguise, or an amazing coincidence. I had written fictional sex on a typewriter, so I went along with the gag to see how far she’d take it. She took it a quite a way.
A typewriter never talked back to me, reporting distension of nipples, wetness of vagina, shortness of breath, impending orgasm. It was my second cybersex experience. The woman who initiated me had seemed as into it as this one — until she just stopped typing and signed off. I didn’t know why — for a writer, it was almost better than sex. Almost.
This one, in a cyber version of post-coital murmurs, said she got so excited she stroked herself to orgasm as we typed. I was shocked. First that she would do it. Second that she would tell me. I also thought she was the world’s fastest typist, to keep up the dialogue while masturbating.
Fully into young-chippie facade she asked if I “came for her.” Of course I hadn’t — or even tried. I felt like blushing in front of a screen of typed dialogue.
So I changed the topic. Said if her intent was the online equivalent to seduction at a masqued ball, she should change her birthday as well as birth year. Because her masque had slipped.
She instantly replied when did you know? I expected recrimination or embarrassment. Naif, I say. Instead she thought it sexy I let her carry on knowing it was her. Strangely, we never again “cybered” but developed a conventional correspondence like pen pals. Sometimes we spoke on the phone, so I knew her drawl — and that she was female. There was paranoia in Cyberia about people changing genders but I never encountered it.
She said if I was ever down her way I should look her up. I lived on the other side of the continent, so it was unlikely. But my brother’s invitation — and book-contract money — cleared the way.
She showed me her house, both of us wandering in nonchalant nudity. She laughed about being so aroused she forgot to lock the front door. She had a high brass bed you had to climb into. In my fifties with both erectile dysfunction and migraines having occurred during sex, I couldn’t believe I was ready to go a third time. But I was. She laughed like crazy when she almost brought the brass headboard crashing down on us in throes of orgasm. We dozed, and woke for more sex play. When she backed her fine round rump into my groin and huskily demanded back-door entry I damn near lost it right there.
Women who like anal penetration really like it. She was one of them. I read somewhere the correct angle applies perfect pressure to the famous Venusian G spot through the thin membrane between the two passages. Sometimes wondered if esoteric physics that posit interacting “brane universes” was inspired by knowledge of that secret flesh.
I must have found the correct angle. We achieved something approximating nuclear meltdown. Finally we slept. It was broad daylight when she left bed to prepare a shepherd’s pie for a house party. I lazed around naked with coffee and watched her bend and move along kitchen counters and appliances.
The pale green silk top she had donned made her fine ass seem even nuder if such a thing was possible. I couldn’t help myself. My re-energized cock led me across the room to where she busily filled a large baking dish. I casually slotted myself into her anal opening. She gave a little whoop and giggle, and rotated around me. But she was not to be distracted.
“Get out of there and go check your email or something,” she ordered. “One thing at a time!” Her managerial side showing.
So I found my discarded pants, slipped on shoes without socks and went into her backyard to stand by her swimming pool and listen to Florida mockingbirds. The day was sunny and mild by sub-tropic standards. I was in that blissful almost-forgotten state of a male who has been well and truly fucked, and expects he will be again, very soon.
