June 19, 2005

• My Sexual History: Chapter 5

  Now That I've Got Your Attention Dept.

  "My Sexual History"(Chapter 5)
  A Personal Journey through the pleasures of the flesh
  An "essay" by Michael F. Nyiri
  (begun in December 2004)

  (NOTE: I am presenting this latest series of "essays" in serial form here on WhenWordsCollide. I am currently posting the fifth chapter of this latest "reminiscence"  here for your enjoyment. This week I actually lose my virginity, and the prose becomes a bit more steamy. I don't think this is ready for "protected posting" yet. I'll rely upon my readers' usually astute observations. So far, this story has only garnered positve "reviews." I knew at the outset that as I begin relating actual sexual congress, my pen might get hard and pulsating, causing a great ejaculation of prose on some of these subjects. Let's see how it progresses from here.  MFN)

  1. "Then the boy pees into the girl."

  2. "The Very First Kiss"

  3. "High School Daze"

  4  "Stag Films and Frat Parties, Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll"

  5 Whoreticulture

  Dad died in June of 1974, felled by heart attack number 13. Quite unlucky. The stress inherent in working full time and providing for his children, paying for his medical bills, and still managing to spend two or three hours each night with my mother in the hospital, where she existed almost like a vegatable, had taken it's toll. His death occured while I was on vacation with a few buddies, camping in the hills above San Francisco. We had left phone numbers with my brother and sister in the event that if mother suddenly died, which was somewhat expected, then the family could get in touch. Father's passing was a complete shock. After this tragedy, with my father suddenly dead and with my mother relegated to living in a convalescent home where she was hooked up to a dialysis machine, I was made "executor" of her estate, at only 21. It was now my responsibility to manage what was left of our family. I paid bills, stopped services, visited lawyers, and dipped my fingers into the belly of the beuracracy. I had to sell the family house so that Mother could obtain medicare benefits. In retrospect, I should have purchased the family home myself, but at the time, in my fourth year of college, and heavily involved in not one, but three separate "party scenes", buying a house was the last thing on my mind. I moved back to the town where I had attended high school and lived in a one bedroom apartment in one of those mammoth "apartment blocks" so common to Southern California. I was juggling 1. the responsibilities of getting my family's finances in order with  2. a particularly heavy social schedule. My performance at school had suffered that last year, and I hadn't graduated in June of 74 as I should have, coming up just 16 units short of the graduation requirements. I was to have made those units up the next semester, but when Dad died, I quit school altogether, and concentrated on working full time at the hardware chain, where I was managing the nursery department. I didn't have to juggle a schedule for work after quitting school, and living nearer to my work freed up a lot of my time. My sister had met a guy at school the previous year, and she married him almost immediately after we buried my father. The family home, still relatively new to us, having moved there in 1971, saw the wake for my father, and the wedding reception for my sister one after the other. My parents had never hosted parties or soirees of any kind, and as soon as they were out of the picture, our house became an open house, at least in the short time before it would be sold and fall out of our influence.

  At this time in my life, besides hanging out with either the high school gang or the work gang, or my friend Steve's work's gang,  I had two "best friends". One, Tom, had been in my circle of high school friends, and we became inspeparable in the two years following high school. I would stay with Tom and his parents on some nights when I couldn't make it back home after a night of drinking and partying. The other friend, Mark, worked with me and was heavily involved in church activities. Mark turned me on to my first "joint", or cigarette, containing marijuana, however, and I bonded closer with Tom too after that because we were the only two in our "gang" who indulged in the heady feelings smoking marijuana afforded. Although I had always been a "good boy" when young, after the parental leash was dropped in the gutter, I took advantage of the times and the availability of pot, which cost ten dollars an ounce. I bought my first ounce of the stuff at a frat party at Cal State, and the feelings I would get when stoned made me quite horny. Jon, another friend, would sit in front of an old girlfriend's house for hours after inhaling part of a joint, commisserating about the fact that the girl wasn't with him.

  I still held some unnaturally lofty views about "romantic love", and although I was watching lots of steamy movies, and participating in hot talk with my buds, and "cruising for chicks" on Friday nights, I remained a virgin, and my fantaisies of sexuality always included deep romantic love. After Kathy left my sphere of friendship when she broke up with Steve, I began to chum up to a few of the girls attending the other Steve's parties. During the parties, I sometimes would engage in some petting, usually kissing and sometimes gently massaging a girl's breasts, but sex without love seemed to be lacking, even in light of the fact that the sexual revolution was by now swirling around me and my cronies. My brother remained in the family home until the sale forced him to exit, and he brought girls into the house, for sex and for parties. Since I didn't live with him, I didn't see the shenanigans close up, but only listened to my brother's friends exalt at his social manifestoes. I felt that his dalliances were ethically "wrong". Still a prude, although watching pornography, drinking alcohol and smoking drugs, I maintained an obtuse view of morality as it pertained to sex.

  Tom wasn't as much a prude as I, however, and we would frequently go up into Hollywood and "check out" the massage parlors. Usually, when we entered one of these small establishments, usually located one street to the north or the south of Hollywood Blvd, we were met with an assembled "line" of girls, scantily dressed, for our "inspection". Tom was always talking about getting laid. Indeed, our "cruise nights" were unsuccessful attempts to "cruise for chicks" and "to get laid". Sex was on everyone's mind, and I would partake of Tom's "inspecitions" knowing that one day, he would "go all the way" to the back room with one of the "massueses" lining up in the front room to the parlors. For a while, we would "look over the merchandise" and then gracefully bow out, and exit the establishment.

  "Mike, here's one that gives away a record album as a door prize."
  "That's nice, Tom"
  "For $35.00 you can either play pool or watch television with a live nude girl."
  "Who would watch television with a naked girl in the room. I'd be too busy watching her."
  "Mike, let's go. You got $35.00 to spare."
  "Sure, Tom, but you sure you want to. I don't know about losing my virginity to a hooker."
  "Well, I'm horny." Tom bellowed, and we made plans to drive up into Hollywood. First, there was a stop at Ricardo's another friend of mine from work, who belonged to a Mexican Car Club and was rooming in a motel nearby. We smoked some dope with Ricardo, and then got in my Volkswagen for the trip to Hollywood. The "Massage Parlor" was located in a house on a residential street below the boulevard. When we got there, I was somewhat skeptical. Would I enjoy myself? But Tom's pecker was directing traffic, and we entered the smallish Craftsman home and sat down in the front room, which resembled the living room it was in actuality. This place didn't offer a "line of girls". Two women approached, and we eventually split up, after receiving record album "door prizes". Tom's gal was tall, thin, and hyper. Mine was shorter, and a bit chubbier, with silky long black hair, and dark skin. She was good looking, and wore a red negilgee. Tom was going to "play pool" and I was going to "watch TV". Time was going to be up in a half hour. We paid the $35.00 each "house fee" and an additional $30.00 for the girl. Then we were to negotiate with her while playing pool or watching TV. I and my "girl" retired to a back bedroom, where the light was bright. She turned on the television in the room, which was tuned to the same progarm that had been playing on my friend Ricardo's set in his motel room just about a half hour earlier. I negotiated with the prostitute for "all the way" which euphemistically meant we were to have sex, and she began to remove her negligee.

  In the movies, even in the somewhat less well produced pornos of the early 70s, sex is always linked to some romantic gesture or experience. The chubby hooker doffed her negligee with workmanlike precision, there was no hint of delicious sexual delights to come. With the television blaring and the lights still on in the room, her volcanic breasts and dark skin glistened in the glare. She seemed almost as a mannequin, with impossibly smooth unblemished skin. Her hair fell back languidly behind her head, and she openend her calves slightly. "We've got twenty minutes." she exclaimed. I didn't engage in any conversation, didn't divulge my virginity to her, didn't have at all the sort of experience shown in movies or read about in books.

  I removed my shoes, shirt and pants, and approached her on the bed, where she lay like a piggy bank ready to accept a nickel in her slot. I didn't kiss her. Although in movies, romance with hookers has happened often, my hooker didn't give in to any health risks. Kissing was verboten. I haphazardly placed my hand on her breast and began to massage the small mountain with it's erect but polyetheline nipple. I gained no thrills or special feeling from this action. She gazed up at me, as if still impatiently keeping track of the time, and I "mounted" her. The sight of the naked girl of course is enough to give a young man a sizable erection. Men are easily aroused, and I was no exception. My penis began to throb as I inserted it into the envelope of her womanhood. This was during the sexual revolution, and condoms were not used. I had never even masturbated, and now I was fully enveloped in the musky world of a woman. I plunged and withdrew, first slowly, then with increasing rapidity. Her skin was like polyurethane. Her nipples looked like they could pop at any moment. She kept her eyes closed, and was probably thinking about tomorrow's shopping list. The lights glared overhead. The television commented inanely with a commercial. The minutes ticked unwarily.

  In no time at all, I found myself ejaculating inside her. The feeling of my balls slapping up against her black curly, and massively springy vagina hair was enough in time to cause climax, and I shot my wad inside her, causing me to feel momentarily ecstatic, but then somewhat guilty about nothing in particular scant moments later. I withdrew, wiped myself off with a handy towel, and began to get dressed. Not once did we experiment with postion (and other positions probably cost more) and the complete act was in missionary, with me on the top, and she lying in exactly the same place. Certainly, having first sex with a hooker was not intellectually or spriitually satisfying. I began to get depressed, collected my album, a jazz record I'd later call my $90.00 record album. Tom exhibited pleasure and epiphanic behavior, relating his experience as if it were the Book of Revelation. I said mine was "okay" and secretly regretted having lost my virginity in this manner. We drove home. Two young men who were now no longer "virgins" but "seasoned pros" having paid for their first lay.

  The second lay came a few weeks later, courtesy of my brother. One of the girls he frequently partied with was Susan, who was regarded as "loose" and had earned the nickname "Susie the Horse", possibly because she was a willing saddle for any number of "riders." One of my infrequent trips to the family home, I ended up spending the night one evening, while Susan was "rooming" on the living room couch. The single bed on which I had been sleeping just a few months previous was still in my old room, and I ended up engaging Susan in conversation, and we both ended up sitting on my single bed, while I read her poetry about Emma and love. With a real girl beside me instead of a prostitute, longer feelings of building ecstasy were able to manifest themselves as I recited words of love. Susan was slightly overweight, and common looking, with a farm girl's ruddy complexion. She sat blissfully while I read my tales of broken hearts and longing, and before long, we were cuddling with each other, and kissing. I put down my volume of poems, and we removed each other's clothing silently while exploring our bodies. Susan wore one of those triple clasp bras to contain her voluminous breasts, and upon thier unclasping, her bounty presented itself to a willing mouth. Our foreplay lasted about a half hour, and before long, she was reclining in a missionary position, removing her grannie panties. Susan was not made of plasticine, as had been the hooker. Susan was a breathing, living human being. With my clothes fully removed, I slowly and purposefully inserted my willing member into the wet, damp orifice between her legs. We kissed, hugged, and fuc*ed, and the experience for me was more satisfying than with the whore. We engaged in sex until my climax, and then I began to feel somewhat depressed and guilty again. I quickly excused myself to the bathroom down the hall, and then told Susan that she could go out to the living room couch where she had been sleeping so I could go to bed. I was very abrupt and unforgiving, acting a bit like an a**hole. Susan got dressed and went out to the living room. I half heartedly tried to explain why I was engaging in wham bam thank you ma'am behavior when we were both sleeping in the house that evening, and perhaps it made sense to her, but more likely she thought I was being rather illogical "after the act".

  When going to parties after this, I watched women closer than ever before, and I began to believe sex was just something else to do, like drinking beer, or smoking dope. My first two back to back experiences were not filled with any sense of closeness or love. The media was preaching sex without consequences at the time. It was called "love" but mostly the practice was physical for all concerned. One of the girls who frequently attended Steve's parties at his girlfriend's house danced with me for most of one evening, and we necked and petted all around the grounds of the mansion, almost tearing our clothes off out in the garden. Somebody was taking photos of the party that evening, and some of the shots of me dancing with the girl found their way into the hands of Paula's girlfriend Ruth, who attended Cal State Long Beach as a Sex Ed Major. Ruth had read some of my poetry, since I was always lending my poems to Paula to read, and when she saw my photo she wanted to meet me. Ruth was liberated and smart. She was the perfect woman, free in her ideas about life and sex. She was an activist, a vegan, and had her own off campus apartment. One evening while hanging out with Steve, he showed me her photo, and told me she wanted to meet me because she saw how "hot" I acted around the gal at the party. This turn of events intrigued me. From then on in my poetry, the theme of "serendipity" becomes a major influence in my work. So far, sex had been, for me, an unthinkable abomination for most of my young life, a means of physical release that made for conflicting thoughts during wet dreams, which were sometimes populated by my sister, and ultimately a contrived physical exercise that meant little and didn't add up to much. A girl in Long Beach like my poetry, and cared for the words. She thought I looked good from a photo she saw, in which I was essentially with another girl. Her presence was to make a major difference in my sex life, and I would never be the same. 

  • 6:41 pm
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