A journal of wanton and wildly inappropriate sex.
 Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Guess Who Has Jizz On Her Cheek The Trip West, Pt. VII NOTE: New posts go at the top, as in most blogs, but that means that in a story like this, spread over more than one post, you really need to find the first post in the series and read them in order. So, that's what I suggest you do here. "Daddy!" Amazingly, that wasn't me as we walked into the restaurant/nightclub where Paolo would be playing. It was Gina. Like I've said before, she was like a sister to me as I was growing up and, lacking a father of her own, she adopted my father as hers, and he was more than happy to fill that role. He's one of the good guys. She ran up to him so fast I was afraid she was going to forget that she's not 13 anymore and jump into his arms and wrap her legs around him as she did when she was too young know about any sexual context. But, she remembered herself and nearly knocked daddy over with the impact of an energetic hug. My father is over six feet tall, nearly a foot taller than me. He's not just tall, he's big. Not as big as he once was, since due to his age he's been forced to pay attention to his doctor. No longer 250 lb., he's now about 200. The skin on his neck is getting a little loose and the skin on his arms is getting dry and loose as well. No liver spots yet, but to me, he's the most beautiful man on earth, and probably always will be. He grew up in the tough Collinwood area of Cleveland during a period when the primarily Italian and Eastern European lower middle-class neighborhoods it served were grudgingly accepting black immigrants from Cleveland's incredibly dismal black ghettos. Tensions were high, but dad has never had trouble relating to anybody, and he and some of the black musicians he met in school formed several after school rock and blues combos. When a new sort of music called "fusion" came along which merged rock and jazz in a way that's never been terribly comfortable, he drifted into the world of jazz...and never turned back. He's one of those people with an intuitive understanding of music and musical instruments. He plays several instruments well enough to do studio work: piano, saxophone, guitar, and even drums. He never took a music course and started out playing by ear, but when it became clear that not reading was holding him back, he borrowed some books from the library and in about a month, I'm told, not only could he read music, but was composing pieces with multiple parts. While in college during the Vietnam war (studying philosophy, not music), he was on his school's student newspaper and actively protested against the War in Vietnam both through the paper and on the streets. Upon graduation, he worked odd jobs for several years, playing music with friends, be it in someone's garage or living room and even in the occasional local club. He was invited into several local combos and was heard by such luminaries of the time as Jimmy Smith, Tito Puente, Tony Williams, and Jaco Pastorius. It's not clear who, exactly referred him to Columbia Records, but he did his share of studio sessions for them, for Blue Note, Mercury, and several other labels. He also did a few years of touring with musicians whose names are household words. But, of course, I can't drop their names. I maintain my own anonymity by closely guarding any info that could lead back to me. He loved the music but hated the constant turmoil of traveling (usually in an overcrowded car) all over the country. Often showing up at clubs just in time to play, getting off at 2 or 3 a.m. one day and then having nothing to do the next. He was developing a sleep disorder from having no regular sleep schedule, and was finding himself drinking too much, too. My mom even began to wonder if her husband was an alcoholic. One day, another musician handed him a needle filled with heroin saying, "Give it a try." He took it, looked at it, and handed it back. The next morning, he quit the band and was on a Greyhound bus for a home with a wife and a newborn daughter waiting for him. (And if you have read my past stories, you'll know what I mean when I say that that newborn was not me.) He never toured again after that, though he's frequently seen sitting in with musicians visiting Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Detroit, and Cincinnati, among other cities. For a special occasion or a special person, he'll hop on a plane to New York, Los Angeles, or even London, Paris, or Oslo (some cities I recall). But very soon afterward, he's back home with my mom and younger brother. Every big city has resident master jazz musicians who don't want to tour. Maybe they teach, but they have a reputation and may sit in with a musician who's in town. Or they have a regular local gig and famous musicians who've heard of them will maybe fit an extra day in their tour so they can hear a set or two. In Cleveland, there's always been Bill Gidney filling that role. Bill may be the best known, but he's hardly the only one. Of course huge cities like New York City, Chicago, and Los Angeles will have more than one such musician, but many lesser towns play host to minor masters as well. (And by "minor master," I certainly mean no disrespect, for their low-profile is by their own choice and in no way reflects on their talent, having traded a life on the road for one with some regularity and normality to it. It may reflect on their importance, though, for it's difficult to be influential when you're a relative unknown and aren't willing to promote yourself. Such is the situation with dad: he'll always be one of those so-called "musician's musicians." So, I gave my daddy a big hug and kiss. This was followed by a warm hug from Kelsey. I introduced Mike, who went to shake hands, but dad hugged him instead, indicating that a friend of mine is a friend of his. So, we sat around and chatted until a waitress came to take our orders. The dinner was fantastic. At around 9:30, Paolo showed up with a couple other guys, probably sidemen. He waved at dad, and walked over to a man (obviously either the owner or manager). Paolo pointed toward our table and said something. The man, a tall middle-aged guy with deeply tanned skin and long, straight greasy hair, came and put his hand on dad's shoulder. He said, looking around the table, "Paolo has told me you are his friends. Your bill will be 'on the house' tonight." Now, out of respect, neither I nor my father got into the fact that Paolo had had his problems and that this was part of a comeback of sorts. We didn't really have to. Once the combo was on the stage, Paolo walked up to the microphone and recounted, in capsule form, the stages of his life, not dodging the bad parts at all. He went down a list of people he owed thanks to, and the last one on the list was my father, by far the least famous name on the list, and yet Paolo said it with the most love. He blew a kiss our way and what followed was one of the most inspired evenings of jazz I've ever heard. After the first set, dad was invited up on stage and, gee, I wish someone had been there to record what we heard. Now, I do have to admit that Paolo had aged and that I could no longer feel the attraction I once had. Or maybe not the same sort of attraction. He's a very charismatic guy, but no longer did I feel it in the loins the way I had when I was so young. Now I felt it in my heart. Between the first and second set, dad asked what we had done this day. Mike's guitar came up and this caused a discussion of John McLaughlin's unique approach to the electric guitar, which interested me but not the other girls, so dad (who picks up on such things) changed the subject to "What did you do for lunch?" We told him about the great lunch we had there and I happened to mention a photo of Ornette Coleman on the wall there. One that had been taken right in the restaurant. "That sounds like Chez Horace," said dad. "I've eaten there more than once. The owner plays a pretty mean trumpet, and can he sing!" Of course, there was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation. "What?" he said, looking around. "Dad, it's Chez Bruno now and the owners, well...they are among those who died in Hurricane Katrina. It's now run by their daughter, Tippy, who also cooks, and it's co-owned by her and a distant relative from Africa named Bruno, who helped her with the recipes and waits on tables." "I never knew," he said. "I'm so sorry to hear that. I haven't heard from him for a long time. I just assumed he was busy, or that if something had happened to them, I'd know it through the grapevine. I'm stunned. And little Tippy...I bet she isn't so little anymore. Funny, you always remember people the last time you saw them. She had to have been, I don't know, fifteen. It's ten years later now, I imagine. She's in her mid-20's. And you say the food is good?" Everybody nodded to indicate it was great. They nodded because just then the band started playing and soon we were listening to the second set. "You'll be here for the third set, won't you?" I asked. Dad said, "I'll be here as long as Paolo is playing. He's really hot tonight!" I excused myself and went out back where it was quieter. This allowed me to set up a surprise. When the last set was over, Paolo came by and we all congratulated him and told him to tell his sidemen that they were fabulous as well. I gave him a big hug and he gave me a nice uncle hug back. A lot of musicians are used to violating boundaries and they half-joke about becoming musicians because it makes a guy a "chick magnet," and heaven knows I've wet my pantaloons more than a few times over some mediocre player. It was so great to see him at the top of his form and free of heroin. I'm afraid I cried bit. He looked at me and knew why I was crying and said, "Never again, Jill. That is a promise." And so far, from what I hear, he's been straight as an arrow when it comes to drugs. And even though I no longer felt sexual longings for him, someone did, for when he left, he left with a local gal on his arm. And a lovely thirtyish woman she was, too. (I woulda done her!) So, we stepped outside after thanking the kind owner who'd "comped" us on our food and drinks (we still left good tips, though). It took my dad a little while longer, because he had to spend a little time rapping with the guys in the band. When he finally emerged to where Kelsey, Gina, Mike, and I were waiting along with my special surprise, Tippy, he recognized her immediately even before she could do a "Remember me?" "Tippy!" he exclaimed, "my golly how you've grown. Last time I saw you, you were knee-high to a..." whereupon she gave him such a big hug that I momentarily feared he'd uppy-chuck down her back. When the hug was over, he pushed her away and looked at her, saying, "I just heard about your mom and dad. That makes me so sad. With that she gave him another hug. One of those form-fitting hugs where you try to press as much of your body as you can into the other person, as if to borrow their warmth and bathe in their aura. I surmise that, Bruno aside, my dad was the closest she still had to a "dad," and daddy's perfect for that role. And speaking of Bruno, Tippy was so wrapped up in the little reunion she was having with my father, that she neglected to introduce Bruno, but no worry, Bruno stepped in and started to introduce himself. Tippy then realized her faux pas and finished the introduction. She also began to tell Bruno's story, but I interrupted and suggested she do so on her way to our bus, since I could see that Gina was on the verge of shivers. And so we strolled back to the bus with Tippy recounting the story of the hurricane and her discovery of her African "uncle," adding a few new details and lots of additional color to the story. It turned out that Bruno is pretty knowledgeable about jazz and was quite familiar with some of the jazz musicians dad knows (or knew, since many have passed on to that big band in the sky). Once we got to the bus, Kelsey went about making us all Spanish coffees and the subject turned to a celebrity who'd recently gotten himself in trouble for a remark perceived to be racially insensitive, and when Gina used the term "racist" to describe the guy, my father jumped in with just exactly the story I knew he'd tell. "You know, that term 'racist' is being used too casually nowadays. Many years ago, in the 1960's, I was touring with a small combo. It was an ensemble, not built around a 'name' or lead performer the way most combos are. And probably because of that, we enjoyed little success. Anyway, it was at a small club in Mississippi and we played just one night before there was a hurricane warning and we were told that the club was being boarded up. We were also told that if we were smart, we'd just stay in our motel away from windows. "So, four of us were sitting in the bathroom throughout the first hit (often you get hit twice, because hurricanes are shaped like doughnuts with a hole or 'eye' in the middle. When things calmed down, we went out to take a look and out there in the street in front of the motel was a downed power line, which was dancing around in the street almost like a garden hose. There were also two groups of citizens, one white and one black. Not even a hurricane was able to bring people together across the race divide. "Apart from them and us, but within earshot enough that we could catch the occasional word or phrase were two cops holding things down until a crew could get there. I'm the only white guy in our little combo, and the other three musicians, all black, got more and more infuriated, referring to the cops as cracker asshole racists, to use some of the less vivid terminology. And don't think I didn't join in. I thought the cops were scum, too. We started to call the fatter of the two 'Officer Cracker.'" "Then something happened which shall forever keep me from using the term 'racist' casually. One of the black women let go of her child's hand while in an animated discussion with another woman and at first the kid just played at her feet, but then this child, perhaps just two or three years old, noticed the power line and headed over to investigate the pretty dancing power line. "We froze, bug-eyed, but one of those fat old cracker cops did not hesitate. Yelling "Nelly, your baby!" he ran like a shot. Now, the power line was right between him and the kid. Skirting the hazard wasn't an option. He stepped on it, which momentarily restrained its motion. Unfortunately, whether there was enough moisture on the surface to conduct the current or the power was strong enough to arc across the short distance, it got him. There was a loud noise and he stiffened and fell like a felled tree right onto the end of the power line, where he cooked until the power crew came along. "When he had yelled, the girl's mommy realized the situation and sprinted desperately to catch her baby. But loud noise and the falling of the cop stopped the little girl dead in her tracks and her mother scooped her up, hugging her for dear life. She would never have reached her baby in time otherwise. "The other guys in the band who'd called the cop a racist and thought of him as white trash were now silent, except for the drummer who said, 'Like...wow, man. Fuckin' wow!' The next evening, on the evening news, we saw that woman and her baby standing with the mayor and chief of police, praising the heroism of Officer Cracker. He left behind a wife and four young children, all of whom were proud but weeping. I've noticed quite a bit less prejudice against white people among those musicians since then." Turning back to Gina, dad said, "Honey, you don't really know what's in anyone's heart until the chips are down, and when the chips are down words frequently don't matter nearly as much as action. That cop, when the chips were down, risked and lost his white ass to save a little black girl. I bet a lot of us wouldn't do what he did, we who think we're so liberal. Speaking for myself...I froze." Gina sheepishly said, "Yeah, you're right. We are sometimes a little smug when we don't even know for sure what's really in our own hearts." Feeling that Gina had been put somewhat on the spot by my father, I said "Hey, let's tell them about that strange experience we had on the ocean liner." Gina, welcoming a change of subject, said, "Yeah!" Looking at her, I said "You tell it." (Remember, as you read, that Gina thinks of my father almost as if he were her father as well, and she calls him "Dad" or "Daddy" just as I do.) "Okay," she said. "When we were in our mid-teens, I accompanied Jill and Dad on an ocean liner trip to England. Dad was filling in for a member of the ship's cocktail bar band who had fallen ill at the last minute. I broke in with, "Dad, who no longer tours, was talked into making an exception because it was a one-time thing that would last less than a month and because the entertainment director, a friend from the old days, was in a jam. He sweetened the deal with cruise tickets. Mom had work obligations and my brother was at that stage in life when he couldn't bear to leave his friends for even a couple weeks, but I volunteered and we asked Gina to join us, which she was happy to do." Gina continued, "Well, Jill's dad was playing at night so Jill and I were on our own, free to wander the ship. Of course, we were looking for cute boys to hang with" (Dad gives us a look of feigned disapproval at this point.) "Anyway, this one night we were just leaning at the railing of the boat, the water was nearly as smooth as glass. It was a full moon that night and while I was looking at the reflections the moon was making through some clouds on the water, I saw something and said, 'Jill, what's that?' 'Where?' she asked. I pointed and she confirmed my impression when she said excitedly, 'It's a horse!' We were passing a horse swimming in the middle of the ocean. It couldn't have jumped off our ship. It was too far away, right Jill?" I nodded agreement. "What did you do?" asked Tippy. "We ran and found a ship's officer and told him what we'd seen. I don't know what we expected to happen, but his reaction was a mixture of 'You must have mistaken some flotsam for a horse' to 'What do you expect us to do? Turn this ship with about 500 paying passengers and delay their arrival by a half day? I think not.' "Well, we knew what we saw. We saw it clearly, but just as clearly we weren't going to get the ship to rescue the horse. "I remember that," said dad. "I'd almost forgotten about it. I had to console you the next morning. The officer was right, though. Tragic as it was. And any rescue involves risks, too. Getting a horse aboard an ocean liner without a gangplank would be a major undertaking and could very easily have resulted in death or injury to a crewman, and then how would you have felt?" Life sure involves some tough choices sometimes. Had the ship done what I wanted at the time, it would have been a major inconvenience for many of the passengers and could have actually put crew members in danger. All for a horse? I still have nightmares about the horse swimming in the middle of the ocean, though. What was it doing there? Dad says if indeed it was a horse (even he has his doubts) it almost had to have fallen or jumped off another ship. But we saw no other ships in the area. If it fell off another ship, it had been swimming a long, long time. Dad said it probably drowned after succumbing to hypothermia or exhaustion, unless it was attacked by a shark. My beloved daddy got up and came over to me for a big hug, which naturally I gave him. He said, "Honey, it's 3 a.m. and I have a 9 a.m. flight back to Cleveland. I need to catch a few Z's. He gave everyone else but Bruno a hug as well, because Bruno was getting up ,too. Apparently my dad was relying on Bruno to help guide him back to his hotel. I could tell there'd be a lot of talk about jazz, since Bruno had never met anyone who knew so many musicians personally. Tippy was staying, though, as per our invitation. She had never been in a luxury bus before and was interested in what spending a night in one would be like. Now, I've fucked a few black guys (as you know if you've read all of my stories) but precious few black girls. I was feeling kind of horny and I could see that Kelsey was feeling a little lusty as well. Gina and Mike took the hint and grabbed bunks while Kelsey and Tippy and I went for the king size bed in the back. We were all a little tipsy and drunk so getting sleep was the #1 priority. But in the morning, I was awakened by a hand very much feeling up my ass. I rolled onto my back and the hand that had been on my ass was now very much in my crotch. Fingertips were slowly massaging my clit and labia. Tippy's fleshy lips were on mine and her tongue was in my mouth. I was kissing back. Kelsey awakened to the fact that some fun was going on land joined in. Tippy stopped kissing for an instant, presumably as she realized that Kelsey's fingers were probing her pussy. I turned to face Tippy so that I could kiss her boobs. They were just little A-cup boobs like mine, with nipples the size of silver dollars they were just puffy enough to make me hot (I really dig puffy nips). Now Kelsey, who knows me like a book, hand turned from Tippy to me, and was sticking one of her long fingers, lubricated with spit no doubt, way way up my asshole. If you've been reading my stuff for a while, you know that as far as I'm concerned, my asshole is virtually a second vagina. I decided to go down on Tippy, and as I did so, Kelsey pulled her finger out and crawled up to Tippy's head for some facesitting. Tippy responded ferociously. From my vantage place between her thighs, I could see her tongue flicking furiously over Kelsey's bulging inner labia. Damn that was making me hot, so I redoubled my efforts on Tippy, and of course that made her more excited which translated to even better flicking and licking and sucking of Kelsey's vagina. Now, Kelsey was sitting facing my direction, supporting herself by dropping back on both hands. Unlike Tippy and me, Kelsey has absolutely magnificent knockers. Not just "on the large side," but when she's hot, her nipples get stiff as hell and look like little fingers. From her posture, her breasts looked like rockets ready to take off for the sky. Tippy's taste in my mouth and the very stimulating view I was getting of her breasts and Kelsey's body was making me unspeakably excited. I just knew that pussy juice was running out of my pussy and onto the sheets. Kelsey came, squirting just a bit onto Tippy's chin and chest. Tippy got up and rotated around my face into the classic 69 position and I soon found out how she got Kelsey off so quickly. This chick was a pussy licking machine! Wow, she really knows how to give head! So I did my best to keep up, which was hard because her technique was so distractingly effective. And yet she came first and came hard and loud, but to her credit, it didn't slow her down much and she finished me off. Before I came, I heard Gina's voice from a bunk down the hall yell: "Jill's a major squirter. Put on your goggles." Well I did squirt, but Tippy took it right in the mouth...and swallowed! This got me and Kelsey laughing. Tippy looked at her watch and said she had to take off soon to open up the restaurant for lunch. That was a disappointment, for I really want this little African goddess to stick around, but she had a real life going, whereas our little committee of sex perverts had lives on hold for the time being. Tippy found Mike in the shower stall, and perhaps because she had to keep things moving along (or perhaps because Mike is truly a seriously cute "hunk") she slipped in with him. And through the misted glass door, did I see her on her knees in front of him? I was hit with a minor wave of jealousy, but why? I didn't possess her. I didn't possess Mike. I don't want to be possessed. Mentally, I slapped myself and reminded myself that, for the time being, no commitments. After Tippy dressed, I walked her to the door and made a little funny: I pointed to my cheek with my forefinger and said, "You have a little jizz on your cheek." Gina and Kelsey, who had been out in the forward area drinking coffee while Tippy was in the shower with Mike, and thus lacked context, were silent for a second or two before looking at each other and then bursting out into gales of laughter. Tippy laughed a bit, too, but had to go. She waved an affectionate good-bye adding, "Give your father my love." I promised I would. Gina asked, well, shall we stay or move on toward Austin to see how Danielle is doing? Kelsey and I said in unison, "Austin!" Mike, who didn't really know Danielle yet concurred just to be nice.
I'm Having A Lot Of Fun
I got a new toy. I'm going to try reviewing toys for a while, and I'm going to tell you up
front that (a) the toys I'm reviewing are gifts from a company but that (b) they asked me to
be honest in my reviews. I have a giant selection of toys and I guess I'd have to be called
a heavy toy user, so I'm well-qualified to use a toy and decide what I like or don't like about
it. If I do say something negative, don't take it as me panning the toy entirely, because
it's been my experience that toys, like boys, are very much a matter of a girl's taste.
My first toy review is of something called the "Dual Ended Pleasure Septer," and while the
name leaves me wondering where the "c" in "scepter" went, I must say I have been having a lot
of fun with this toy.
As you can see it has a fairly standard "plug" shape on one end, which I have been using
in both places where the sun don't shine, and I've been enjoying it very well used that way.
This end is 4-1/2" long.
The other end is 5" long and has a spiral blue stripe running down the outside. This can function
as a handle when inserting the plug end. But it's long enough to provide pleasure in
my pussy, too, and I'm having a hard time deciding which end I like better. Between the two
ends is a kind of thick flange that keeps me from using the entire length, which is my
only criticism of this toy, and like I said above, that might not be a deterrent to you
and it ceraintly hasn't prevented me from having hours of enjoyment playing with it.
Unlike some of the other things here (like the photos and links to sites like SapphicErotica
or JustTeenSite), I don't make any money off these reviews, I just get a toy to review
and I'm told to review it fairly, which I think I'm doing. That is the full extent of my
relationship to the company that sends me the toys, except that I do get to pick out toys
to review and, since I'm experienced enough to know what I like, I'm probably going to
enjoy whatever toy I get. Anyway, if you want a direct link to where you can find out
more about the Pleasure Septer, click
here.
If you want to see the full PleasureMeNow.com glass dildo line, visit their
glass dildo page.
NOTE: New posts go at the top, as in most blogs, but that means that in a
story like this, spread over more than one post, you really need to find the first
post in the series and read them in order. So, that's what I suggest you do here.
Traveling into The Big Easy (New Orleans), the devastation left in the wake of Hurricane Katrina
remained evident. Mud-stained abandoned homes and businesses were interspersed with ones whose occupants
had returned and who were in the process of cleaning up, rebuilding, or replacing their
properties. Few of the businesses had seemed to be actually prosperous, except for the occasional
building supplies or hardware store, which I can imagine would be doing land office business.
My father had mentioned in an e-mail that he might be able to connect with us in
New Orleans, which naturally excited me and Gina. As I've mentioned, Gina was practically a sister
to me when I was growing up, and my family treated her as such. She had no father present in her
life, so my father played the male role model for her, and that served her well as it had me.
Kelsey is also fond of my dad, though she's known him a much shorter time.
While my dad doesn't tour anymore, as a musician who did tour with many of the greats, be they
stars or "musician's musicians," he has a lot of friends and sometimes meets up with them, which quite
often leads to an offer for him to sit in, which he always does, so I know he must miss
the clubs which, for so long, were a part of his life.
What he doesn't miss is the insane sleeping schedules, the heavy drinking, and the temptation to
drown one's troubles in drugs, which led to various disasters, including prison time and death,
for quite a few of his/our musician friends.
This was a special mission for him, for he would be visiting with a musician he had done a lot
of touring with. A Hispanic man and a master of the saxophone, playing the full range: baritone,
tenor, and soprano. However, it was for his unparalleled tone on the tenor that he was well-known.
Talented as he was, tone in an instrument like the sax, is as much inherited as it is a matter
of skill. This is because, as I heard Stan Getz point out in a TV interview once, the sax player's
nasal cavities are actually part of the resonating system, and so the inner topology of a player's
head plays a very significant factor in the sound coming out of the bell.
This isn't to say that Paulo (not his real name) was untalented. My gosh, I could listen to him
play for hours, not just due to the richness of his tone, but because of his inventiveness and
timing and rhythm. To hear Paulo play is always an adventure.
However, he'd been on a downhill slide into heroin addiction for a few years, and had finally
hit rock bottom when, lying in an alley one St. Louis morning, having shot up after a gig in a
club that should have been far beneath his dignity, he nearly froze to death in his heroin-induced
stupor. The emergency room doctors credit hypothermia with actually saving him from a death by heroin
overdose. This led to an intervention by his friends and family which got him into rehab.
While Paulo was in rehab, dad called him just about every day to encourage him, putting me on
the line from time to time as well, since he was indeed a family friend who had been in the house
often enough, for dinner or to use our spare bedroom, that he had seen me grow up. I'd sat on
his knee many times listening to my father play piano. Of course, as I got into my teens, sitting
on his knee stopped, but I remember him giving the warmest, friendliest hugs, probably for the
children he had always wanted but never had. You see, Paulo is gay. And while, today, gay people
have options, back then they did not. In fact, back then it was unusual for a musician to even
come out of the closet. Jazz was (and is) one of the last bastions of macho in the world
of the professional musician. That he is Hispanic just made matters worse.
Don't think that Paulo was in any way swishy. I remembered him as one of the most masculine
men of my youth. In fact, I harbored a secret lust for his body that was crushed when I overheard
in a conversation between my parents that he was gay. That was when I was approximately thirteen.
According to my father, Paulo had formed a new combo that put his usual harmonic explorations
in a Latin American context, less mainstream and more reflective of his ethnicity.
The new band has two drummers: a standard jazz drummer and one specializing
in latin percussion. There would also be a bass player so in love with Paulo's playing that Paulo
had been able to steal him away from a more successful and better-paying musician, as well as a
young woman who played a synthesizer that could produce sounds ranging from a Steinway grand to an electric
piano to a Hammond organ or even a full cathedral pipe organ, not to mention a full range of less
familiar sounds qualifying more as "effects" than notes.
Anyway, I called dad on his cell only to discover to my delight that he was already in New Orleans
and had been for almost a day, visiting with Paulo. With the
agreement of my bus buddies, I arranged for us all to meet in this small club
on the fringe of the Bourbon Street midway for a mid-evening dinner followed by Paulo's performance. It was
a new club, formed in the wake of the hurricane in a club bought from an owner who had thrown
in the towel.
In the meantime, after parking the bus on a side street about 10 blocks off the main Bourbon Street drag,
we walked up to Bourbon Street looking for a good place to grab some lunch, finding a little
hole-in-the-wall named Chez Bruno. Now, Bruno is a strangely un-French name, but the menu in the window
was not just convincing, but irresistible.
Now, we live in a cosmopolitan world where-though political borders may be relatively hard—cultural
borders are relatively soft, so the fact that the owner and/or chef might be named Bruno, which is, I
believe, an Italian name meaning "brown," there is nothing to stop a Bruno from being French, German,
Icelandic, or Brazilian for that matter. Still, it was with some surprise that we found Bruno to be
a baldheaded, late middle-aged black man with a thick African accent.
He answered our descriptions as best he could, given his limited English. Whenever a correction or
qualification of what he said was needed, or whenever he needed help with his pronunciation, a female
voice wafted out of the kitchen with the needed information. That voice was far more understandable,
despite its thick "Loozianna" accent.
Sometimes the voice would correct one of us, and Kelsey, in particular, has a habit of falling back
into the Northerner's pronunciation of "New Orleans" as "New Orleens," whereas the locals pronounce it
as "Nawlins." She would say it right once or twice, then fall back to the more familiar (but wrong)
pronunciation, and we'd all laugh at her, while she blushed.
We got a variety of local specialties, Gina and I both got bullfrog gumbo, taking the Okra option (he
also offered it with Arrowroot as the thickening agent, but I think Okra, while not to everyone's taste
because of its sliminess, is the more traditional way to go. Kelsey got a crawfish etouffé and Mike got
blackened chicken. This was washed down with Lone Star beer all around.
We were then offered an elaborately layered torte for dessert, which we accepted. This small cake (about
6 inches in diameter and four inches tall) was cut
into four equally-sized slices and Bruno gave us a coffee so strong and rich it was almost like drinking
straight espresso, even though we watched him make it in a good-sized French press.
As the other customers straggled out, Bruno became more talkative and we became more inquisitive. At the
same time, the disembodied kitchen voice became embodied. It turned out to be a young black woman, no
older than 19 or 20. She was gorgeous. You think Halle Berry is beautiful? Take Halle and triple her
beauty and you have this young charmer.
Nearly as tall as Kelsey's 6 feet, when she took off her hair net, we saw that she had a head full of
loose curls in the general shape of an "afro." Nearly as slender as a fashion model, but with shapelier
legs, she looked smokin' hot.
And her name was Tippy.
Helping Bruno when he needed it, their story and that of Chez Bruno came out.
The restaurant once operated under the name Chez Horace when it was owned by Tippy's
parents. Tippy had grown up coming to
the restaurant almost every day to be with her parents and help out in the kitchen. The restaurant did
well enough, and Tippy did well enough in school, that between what her parents could do to help her and
a scholarship, she had gone off to school in Oxford, England.
And England was where she was when the horror of Katrina unfolded. Of course, she knew a hurricane
was coming, but nobody imagined the disaster it would turn out to be. Well, that's not exactly true,
because the flooding of New Orleans after the massive failure of its levee system was anticipated.
In fact, I remember seeing a science show about major disasters that more or less said it wasn't a matter
of if, but rather when New Orleans would experience this catastrophe.
Of course, had she known, Tippy would have been home to help her parents. And if she had, perhaps she,
too, would be dead, for her parents both drowned somehow. It took several months for their remains
to be found as refuse was being cleared out more than a mile from their home, which was flooded almost
to the roof line. She imagines they ended up on the roof, drowning while trying to help someone else.
Perhaps one of them grabbed for a person, was pulled off the roof, and the other jumped in to rescue.
How they died, will probably never be known.
Once they were declared dead in the eyes of the law and the process of dealing with their
affairs started, Tippy discovered something totally unexpected: they had a will, which was good because
they were wealthier than she had ever imagined.
An additional surprise was that 1/3 of their $3 million estate went to someone named Bruno Kilimanjaro.
What an odd name? Who was this Bruno Kilimanjaro?
Among their records, she discovered that they had paid a sum of money to an investigator whose
specialty was helping African-Americans discover their roots. It appeared that she and this Bruno had
some DNA in common. Apparently, they hadn't quite gotten around to approaching Mr. Kilimanjaro.
Curious, she arranged to go to Africa to meet this distant relative. She couldn't imagine why they
wanted to give him a million dollars, but she wanted to break the news to him in person. He was in
Kenya, in an inland town not far from the capital, Nairobi, named Machakos.
After the lengthy flight, she found herself in Nairobi, a city where almost everyone was black
and her heart, unexpectedly, opened up to Africa. And she knew that, in some sense, she was at
home. The people, poor as they obviously were, seemed honest and happy. To her surprise, there was
almost no language problem. While the native language is Swahili, English is regarded, along with
Swahili, as an official language, and is spoken by many, especially the educated.
Tippy didn't have a lot to go on, but with the help of a young black man at the Consulate, who
used his local contacts, she tracked Bruno Kilimanjaro down to a Catholic mission near Machakos.
In order to meet him, she would have to go through some sort of chief nun at this mission.
That turned out to be easy, and in a leisurely meeting with this woman, she learned that
Bruno Kilimanjaro was an orphan, raised by the kindly nuns. His name reflected his skin color
(in Italian) and of course the massive mountain Kenya shared with Tanzania, the tallest in
all of Africa. He was highly regarded, well educated, and worked as an
elementary school teacher in one of their schools.
A nun took her to where Bruno was teaching and she sat for an hour outside his class, listening
to his kindly voice as he talked in halting English, growing to admire him more by the minute.
When the class let out, she snagged him.
She asked him if he'd ever heard of her parents. He hadn't. She told him about the hurricane.
Like most people, he was quite aware of it, and he was sad that her parents had perished in it.
She dropped the bomb that she was his distant relative and that her parents had left him a large
sum. Apparently, for him, a large sum would have been a few thousand dollars, or perhaps a few
tens of thousands of dollars. The concept of a million dollars beggared his comprehension.
Beyond her initial comprehension, as well, was his response. He said without hesitation that
he would give the money to his school. But looking around at the school and its spare, overcrowded
classrooms, and then looking into his kind and sincere face, she knew that there was no arguing
with him: this is what he had to do with the money.
However, she did convince him to come back to New Orleans with her, which was easy because he had a
yearning to travel. Using her newfound wealth, she rebuilt her parents' restaurant, renaming it
after Bruno, who, despite the distance and ambiguity of their actual relationship, she had come
to refer to (and think of) as her "uncle."
That they had grown close was evident. Despite the language problem (he understood 90% and could
say about 75% of what he wanted to say), with Tippy's help, though, he could say almost anything
he needed to say. She knew him well enough by now to read his mind and finish his sentences.
With promises to return someday, we bade Tippy and Bruno a fond good-bye and headed out to
visit the local shops, since we still had several hours to kill before meeting with my dad
at the club. When we passed a guitar shop, Mike couldn't resist going in. Telling the girls
we'd catch up, I went in with him because I was drawn by the beauty of the guitars in the window.
We take guitars for granted. We girls, in particular, tend to look at the musician. But,
perhaps because my father is a musician, I pay attention to instruments, and over the decades
guitars have become works of art in a way that no other instrument has. Forget the most
expensive car you've ever seen, a $500 guitar can have a finish that puts an $800,000 Maserati
to shame.
My father once remarked that the Stratocaster guitar was one of the classic designs of the
20th Century. I looked puzzled, so he got on Wikipedia and showed me a car from the early 1950's.
A Studebaker. He told me that in its time it was regarded as a futuristic design. Then he brought
up the Wikipedia listing for the Stratocaster and told me that the Stratocaster was designed
at about the same time. "Do you see what I mean?" he asked.
I said, "Yeah, the Studebaker looks dated, the Stratocaster looks just as cool today as it did
back then." "That," he said, is what makes a classic, whether it be an instrument or a song.
I think that is when I really understood what the word "classic" meant in terms of something
I could relate to in my own life. Before then, I might have cited Shakespeare or Plato as examples
of classics, but that would have been based on what someone told me, not so much due to my
own experience with Shakespeare's plays or by having been impressed by Plato's Dialogues. Here
was something that was part of my teenage life that was a classic.
While I looked around, admiring the many gorgeous guitars, Mike was approached by a punked out
salesgirl with pink hair who flirted with him rather outrageously. Actually, she was rather
hot with a very nice body, as revealed by her skin-tight black denims. She wore a top made,
inconguously, of some kind of stretchy material with a plaid tartan pattern. And of course,
in true punker fashion, there were plenty of studs and chains.
When Mike called me to ask what I thought of a guitar he liked, the punker girl finally took
notice of me, giving me the once over, and I suddenly wished I'd visited a powder room to
spruce up a bit, for I most definitely was feeling the hots for this one.
Her smile was friendly enough, and she shook my hand (something girls don't routinely do with
each other) and it was a warm handshake. Was she subtley telling me that whatever might happen,
I would be welcome to join?
The guitar was handsome indeed and I could see that Mike was in a buying mood, so it was coming
down to whether to get the candy apple red model with dual humbuckers (aka n "HH") or
the natural wood finish one with humbuckers at the neck and bridge and a single-coil pickup in between
(aka an "HSH"). Both had that dual-horn look pioneered by the Fender Stratocaster, but this was
made by one of the many other fine guitar companies which have sprung up along the way.
The girl got both guitars off the wall for him, putting them on little guitar stands. She ran off
and came back with a little amp. This little amp had a lot of punch and was louder than I expected.
It also put out a distorted guitar sound that emulated a way overdriven larger amp.
When he started playing, it became clear that Mike had developed some pretty good technique.
The girl plugged in a big Fender bass guitar that dwarfed her, and they jammed for a good 20
minutes. When Mike slipped from really primitive rock ("Johnny B. Goode") into a fairly jazzy
piece with a slippery rhythm scheme, she kept right up with him.
He ended up buying the candy apple red model and a soft case just to protect its finish.
While writing up the sale, she said something about getting together to
jam sometime, and gave him her card, after writing something on it. Presumably her cell or
home phone number.
Mike and I walked back to the bus, because (understandably) he didn't want to be carrying a
guitar around with him the rest of the day.
I called the girls and told them we'd meet them at the restaurant. As he was stowing the
guitar, I mentioned that the punker chick was hot. He agreed and even mentioned that she'd volunteered
her home phone number.
I said, "That's nice. Are you going to look her up sometime?"
He looked at me with a smile, and said, "Maybe...Jealous?"
"Just a bit, perhaps," I admitted.
"No need," he said. "I do lust after you, you know." I was leaning back with my ass cheeks pressed
into the edge of the counter. Before I knew it, Mike had moved in on me, his pelvis against my
tummy. I put my arms around him at the waist, and waited for the kiss I knew would be coming.
It came.
It was one of those long, lingering kisses that we chicks love, especially when punctuated by
by hands that wanted to wander all over my body. I unbuttoned my jeans for Mike, which I thought
was a pretty strong hint. A hint which he did not ignore, and soon his hand was in my
underpants, where he discovered that my pussy was already sopping wet from anticipation.
While one hand alternately massaged my clit and then sought out my labia to pick up some
natural lubricant, the other hand was wandering all around under my shirt. I rarely wear a
bra. With my little A-cuppers, there's really no need in terms of support or restraint, and
when it comes to modesty...well...I'm not very modest. Because I was braless, his hands were
soon on my boobs, sometimes cupping a tit and sometimes rolling and squeezing a nipple between
his thumb and forefinger.
Soon he had two finger in my pussy and was being very forceful. He knew how to find the G-spot,
and as he did so, with his fingers deep inside me and curled up behind the pubic bone, he
used this position to lift a lot of my weight off my feet. By now, my hands were behind me,
supporting me on the counter.
Oh, fuck. He found the spot. Whether it was by feel or because he noticed my eyes
go as big as saucers, I don't know. But the shivers went all through me and I got goose-bumpy
and tingly and I kissed him ferociously. I realized this was my first time truly alone with
him, and quite possibly it might be my last, so I was ready get greedy and get what I wanted.
"I really like being fucked in the ass," I whispered.
He laughed. "You girls really like the backdoor stuff." "Well," I replied, "Kelsey has never
been known to favor being buttfucked, so I guess you can count that as a little sexual success
story." He laughed some more. I continued: "I, on the other hand, have always liked getting it
in the tail. In fact, it gives me my best orgasms."
I pushed him off long enough to shove my jeans and undies down to my ankles. I then turned
around and presented him my ass. I heard his belt buckle hit the floor, so I knew he was taking
my "hint."
We keep a bottle of Astroglide in every room of the bus, for obvious reasons, and I told him
where to find it in a nearby drawer. Soon, he had a finger up my ass, which felt good.
Then it was two fingers. Then three. All of which felt good.
Then it was his cock, which felt extra special good. When being fucked in the ass, I'm not
looking for the thickest, girthiest cock around. I prefer length, and his dick was fairly
long, but girthy enough that I could feel his pumping through the vaginal wall, and so I
got some genuine vaginal stimulation as well.
And of course I was masturbating furiously.
"Fuck me hard," I demanded. He redoubled his efforts. Now, while the sun was going down,
it was still a little light outside, and every now and then someone, or a couple, or even a
family would go by and look in the window and suddenly realize that there's a girl up
there takin' it up the poop chute, but I didn't care. I was in my own little dirty girl
world.
Now, this is going to sound rough and mean, but I said it in a tone of voice that he
knew was play-acting, "Come on, you fucker. Don't be such a pussy. Fuck me!"
You've heard the expression that someone tore someone a new asshole. Well, I almost
regretted my exhortation to be fucked harder, because he totally took control then,
throwing me down on the floor, pulling my jeans off my ankles roughly, whipping his own off, and
rolling me onto my tummy, crossing my arms behind my back, which made me helpless,
and then re-entered my ass with his dick.
Now I was getting it good, just the way I want it. Sometimes I want it gentle; sometimes
rough, and that day I was all in for some rough sex.
When I knew I was going to be able to cum soon, I managed to indicate, by rolling,
that I wanted him off me, and he rolled off, releasing my arms at the same time.
The thought of what I was doing (I guess) excited him to the point that within seconds
he shot his wad. This set off a chain reaction, for as soon as I tasted his sperm combining
with the taste of his asshole-flavored cock, I had a fiercely intense series of orgasms
that sent little fountains pussy juice flying onto the floor.
That's when I heard a female voice say, "You're cleaning that up."
This woke me up from my orgasmic fog. Gina and Kelsey were both sitting down at the
table.
"How long were you watching?" I asked.
"Not long," said Kelsey. "But long enough," said Gina with a big Cheshire Cat leer.
Mike, who suddenly felt a pang of modesty, was pulling his pants up with his back
to them.
I was going to change into something more suitable for wearing to a nightclub, anyway,
so I walked back to the closet where my duds were stowed.
"We decided to change clothes and freshen up, so we came back. We didn't know it was going
to be a case of 'If this bus is rockin' please don't comie a-knockin'" which had us all
laughing so hard our sides split.
"Anyway," asked Gina as she sidled up next to me at the closet, "how was it?"
"Well," I replied with a giggle, "I don't think I'll want to ride a horse or a bicycle for
a few days, but in general, I can't complain." She smacked me on the butt and said, "Well,
it sure looked like you were having fun."
Within a half hour, we were all dressed in nightclubbing dresses, all primped and
preened as far as hair and makeup goes, and with Mike in tow, we headed off to
the nightclub to meet up with my dad.
I was looking forward to seeing Paulo after all these years. I had had major hots for
him when I was young.
And, of course, even having been away from Cleveland for just a few days, I was
already missing my lovely daddy.
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And so we set off for New Orleans under threatening skies with Gina back at the wheel.
We drove for a a little while, but then it started to rain hard. After slogging through the downpour
for a good half hour, Gina was forced to
declare that she was no longer comfortable driving, given the impaired visibility.
Kelsey and I wandered forward and, looking out the vast window, agreed that things
looked grim. We told
her to find a way off the road, and after a few minutes there was an exit, which we
took. It led to a marginal road which Gina crept along until she found, emerging out
of the rain-fed haze, what appeared to be an entrance way to a mall.
She pulled in and, lining the bus up along a curb at the edge of what was probably
the mall's parking lot, she stopped it and set the auxiliary brake. The rain redoubled
and, given our inability to move, Gina started some coffee and I broke out the cards.
We agreed on Texas Hold 'Em (with toothpicks as stakes)
and played for perhaps an hour. Mike was ahead of us all
at first, but gradually Kelsey overtook him and when, all of a sudden, the rain stopped
and the sun broke through, we looked around and saw the mall.
It was a typical mall with a Sears at one end and some other department store at the other.
Maybe it was a Macy's, I don't know. (We passed so many malls along the way.) Since
we needed some things, a visit to a mall seemed called for, so we locked up the bus
and crossed the now visible parking lot to the nearest entrance, dodging puddles
along the way.
No doubt Mike, like most guys, would rather be kicked in the nuts than wait around
while chicks shop and try on clothes. Even so, he stayed with us as we prowled
the stores for a good two hours. It was by then early afternoon and we were all
hungry, so we looked around and found a table. As we stood there, a couple at
one of the counters got into a loud altercation. It seemed like they might soon
come to blows, so everyone in the court stopped what they were doing and stared.
It was over as soon as a swarm of security men arrived, and so we started to think
about food again. It was then that we realized something was wrong. Gina said,
"Where's my purse?" She had brought along a small clutch just big enough
for her checkbook, a slim wallet, and her keys. She said she had set it down on the
table just as the argument erupted. At some point, it must have been taken.
But the purse wasn't all that was missing...
So was Mike!
At first, we just looked under the table and, talking among ourselves, agreed that
indeed Gina had had the purse when we got there, so it hadn't been left in a shop.
While Mike's absence might be a mere coincidence, we were all thinking that we really
didn't know him that well. Everything pointed to him having seen a chance to take
Gina's wallet, and then acting on that opportunity.
What did she have in it? Well, Gina is rich and has lots of money. You or I might
have $25 or $100 in our wallet. She thought she had somewhere in the neighborhood
of $750 to $1500. She also had two credit cards. Between a VISA and an AmEx card,
both of which had limits so high they were effectively bottomless pits of money,
she really needed
no other cards. She also had a checkbook for her personal account, which was also
so vast as to be without practical limit. Ray, her life partner, shared his wealth
with her so generously that she was for all intents and purposes as rich as he was. She could buy
a yacht if she felt like it.
Still, she called Ray who had all of the accounts closed and arranged to get new
accounts set up for her ASAP. He also arranged for one of his planes to meet us
at an airport the following day with a large cashier check for the interim, which Gina could turn
into traveler's checks at any bank.
Of course, in addition to taking care of Gina's accounts, we lost also several hours
making reports first to the security staff and then to the local police.
By this time it was about 6 p.m., fairly dark, and too late to travel. We took the
goods we'd bought and headed back toward the bus, where we sat around glumly for quite
some time. Finally, Gina decided to cheer us up by announcing that she'd make us filet mignon
for dinner.
We all pitched in and made salad and rice pilaf to go along with the steak.
Over dinner, we talked about the guys who'd betrayed us in our lives. The ones who
cheated on us or took advantage of our naiveté or the natural codependent
tendencies of teen girls, who sublimate their burgeoning maternal instincts into
a desire to take in the lost and sick puppies of the world, be they canine, feline,
or human.
Some females outgrow the need for "fixer uppers"; some
don't. I think perhaps we all felt we'd relapsed in the case of Mike. We all
thought we were too smart to ever be taken in again, but perhaps we were more
vulnerable than we thought.
We all knew the story of Gina's constantly disappointing father, but prior to meeting
Ray, she'd had her share of bad experiences, including a guy who was promising
marriage, not just to her, but to any other girl he wanted to have sex with,
which turned out to be five or six.
Kelsey, in her career as a fashion model, had actually dated a guy for several
months, and was totally in love with him. He disappeared one day after having
taken all the cash in her purse, her checkbook, and her credit cards, which he
used to get cash advances and about $12,000 in goods and services. When she finally had
the full details, she found he'd bought two plane tickets to Hawaii. Tickets
for two! That just added insult to injury.
My last boyfriend, Erik, had been a model partner, and when we broke up it was
simply due to growing apart, not due to anything nefarious or nasty. Other men in my
life had been less than chivalrous, though.
While in high school, a certain boy I thought was "The One" took me to a party, got me
drunk for the first time in my life, and ended up making me available to several of
his friends for sex. In today's legal climate, I could probably have him serving prison
time, because he, at 18, was an adult, but I just took it as a life lesson
and I've been in control of my drinking ever since. I get drunk, but not so drunk
I can't say no.
If you've read any of my thoughts on feminism, you'll know that I object to the
kind of feminism that treats us as children, more vulnerable than the boys and
more in need of paternal (or maternal) protection. Yes, we're smaller and less physically capable in
many ways, but we aren't dunces and I resent any hint that we need to be treated
as such. I made a bad choice with that boy and I learned from it. It helped me grow up.
If I do anything now, it's because I want to do it.
After-dinner coffee was followed by small glasses of a mint-flavored liqueur while we selected a
movie that suited our somber mood. In the end, we decided to rekindle our love
of men by watching a sappy love story: A Man And A Woman which holds up
well over time and has a wonderful soundtrack that could only belong to a French
film.
It's the story of a widow and a widower, both with small children about 3 or 4
years old. Their attraction is palpable from the start, and yet both are so wracked
with psychic pain related to their recent losses, that they are caught in a cycle
of what a psychologist might call an "approach-avoidance conflict."
The movie makes no attempt to meet the high standards of crisp, sharp hyper-saturated
cinematography
exemplified in even "B" Hollywood movies. Instead, it opts for an intentionally
grainy look, subdued colors, and a hand-held look. The dashing Jean-Luis Trintingnant
plays the man, a race car driver, and the sublimely beautiful Anouk Aimée
plays the woman, a cinema script person.
The scenes of Trintingnant's character driving Ford GT's on test tracks and in
Le Mans are some of the most beautiful scenes of race cars ever done.
The final scene where they run toward each other and embrace is such a cliché.
But it's such a very effective cliché that it had us all in tears.
This would not be a night for sex, it seemed. We were much too hurt and pensive to
consider lust. So it was that at about 11 p.m., we said goodnight and wandered off
to where we would spend the night. It was Kelsey's turn to use a bunk, which left
the big bed in the bedroom at the rear of the bus to Gina and me. It was one of the
few times Gina and I had ever been in bed together without making out.
It took me a while to get to sleep as I thought about this strange thing we call
sex. No...not the act. That's not what I was thinking about. I was thinking about
sex in terms of the differences between males and females, with the female being the
attractant, the honey so to speak, and with the male being the attracted. Sometimes
honey attracts bees, sometimes bears.
How could our "radar" have been so wrong? We're all experienced girls who've been
around the block a few times. We all thought we were past being naive and
overly trusting. And yet, look what had happened! A full-blown disaster had been
averted, and yet we felt as if we'd been, in some sense, raped. We had let someone
past our guard and that trust had been abused.
We slept in the next morning. Apparently, all of us had had difficulty getting
to sleep. So it was about 10:30 a.m. that we found ourselves sitting in the bus's
small dining nook munching on muffins and drinking coffee.
All of a sudden Kelsey, who had been moping like the rest of us, perked up. Her
attention focused on a corner of the room. Mike had left his backpack behind. It was
a rather large soft pack. She looked in a closet, and his duffel was there as well.
She said, "This doesn't make sense." We all knew what she was thinking: He and
Gina both had keys to the bus. Why wouldn't he have scooted back to the bus for his
stuff before taking off with his loot?
We opened up his pack and duffel and the mystery deepened because we found a lot
of personal stuff, including his laptop computer and a small album full of
pictures of his dead wife. Even his cell phone was there in the pack, as was his
checkbook, which showed that he had a bit more than $50,000 remaining in his checking
account!
Mike's actions now seemed very puzzling indeed. We were even torn over what to do
with his stuff. Should we leave them with the mall cops or the police? Or should we
take them with us to force him to find us if he wanted his valuables back?
We decided to keep them.
Morning clouds parted and I took the wheel and pointed the bus toward what had once
been one of America's most magical destinations. New Orleans.
Would any magic be left in the tragic
wake of Hurricane Katrina? We'd know soon enough.
We did make a quick detour to a small private airport where one of Ray's pilots
was waiting for us with the promised cashier's check. In the nearby town, Gina went
to a bank and the cashier's check was converted to $100 and $1000 traveler's checks.
New credit cards and checks would make it our way somewhere along the way.
The driver has a mirror that gives him/her a view of goings on behind
the cockpit, and almost always when I looked back I'd see Gina on one side
and Kelsey on the other, staring out the window, hardly a word being spoken. The
bus was not the joyful place it had been before our unscheduled detour to the mall.
About an hour into the ride I heard a siren and noticed that a highway patrol car
was behind us with its lights on. There was no place to pull the bus over for about a
mile so I put the blinker on to acknowledge him. A rest area appeared and I pulled in,
wondering what I'd done.
By this time, Kelsey and Gina had become aware that something was happening and
I explained that a cop was pulling us over. We all stepped out of the door onto the pavement
to see the cop walking toward us with Mike! We were all wondering if perhaps we were to make
an identification.
What other reason could there be for him to be approaching us with Mike?
And yet...Mike wasn't cuffed. Strange. Very strange. In fact, they seemed to be exchanging
pleasantries.
"Hi, folks," said the cop. "I guess this guy belongs to you. And so does this." With that,
he held out Gina's wallet, which she took. The cop said, "This boy's a hero." "Or a fool,"
added Mike. "Well, son. Sometimes there's no difference." Turning to us, the trooper said,
"A lot of guys wouldn't have done what he did."
We looked puzzled. Mike said, "I'll explain." He thanked the trooper who shook his hand,
turned around, and was off with a wave of his hand.
We all went back in the bus. Gina confirmed that everything was there, including the
cash and the now worthless credit cards and checkbook.
I got behind the wheel and while Gina made a pot of coffee, Mike told this story:
"I had gone to get a drink of water from a drinking fountain. As I walked toward you
guys, that argument broke out, and while you watched, I saw a girl at the next table
look around and take your wallet. I froze, not knowing whether to yell or confront her
or what, but I didn't have time to think about it because she got up and quickly
walked out of the food court.
"I followed her out to the parking lot, hoping to see a security man along the way,
but I suppose they had all been called to the food court.
"I tried to look blase and appear not to be paying attention to her. She got into
a pickup truck, the kind with a camper cover over the bed. The back gate was hanging down,
half covering the plate, which was pretty muddy anyway, or I would simply have noted the
license number. Instead, I did something which in hindsight was foolish: I climbed into
the back as she pulled out of the spot and hid myself in the bed under the rear window
of the cab where she couldn't see me.
"My intention was to call '911' and get some help, but when I tried to find my cell
phone, I found I'd left it behind.
"She drove for what seemed forever, at least two hours, eventually getting off the highway
and onto a side road which turned onto a rough dirt and gravel drive that taking her far out
into a bayou.
"She came to a stop and called out to someone. I heard one of the doors open, and while
I couldn't hear everything said, I did hear a gruff man's voice say something about
getting some stuff and going into town to use the cards while they were still good. They got out of the
cab and walked out of earshot. I hazarded a look through the back window of the cab
and saw her walking up the steps to a cabin with a very large and muscular man dressed
in a denim farmer john over a wife beater.
"The way the pickup was parked, on the diagonal, I could walk up one side of the truck
and be pretty much out of their view. So, I got out and sneaked up to the cab. Looking
through the side window, I was glad to see that they had left the wallet laying there
next to Gina's purse, though some of the credit cards were out and laying on the seat.
I slowly opened the door and grabbed the goods, tucking everything into the purse.
"What to do then? Well, looking around the cab I determined that she had probably taken
the keys with her. They weren't in the ignition, on the floor, or up with the visor,
and I didn't want to spend a lot of time looking, so I snuck off into the woods, reasoning
that going down the road would just make me easier to find. As I walked away from the
cabin, I did hear the man utter a loud "Oh fuck!" followed by a lot of yelling.
I quickly discovered that the area was a mix of dry land and swamp. In fact, the
first time I saw swamp water, I discovered that I was being watched by an alligator, and so, in
addition to my desire to get back to civilization was added the desire not to become
an item on an alligator's menu for the day. If I could have gone in a straight line, I would have been
out of the woods early yesterday evening, but I had to skirt the swamp which, it turned out,
had many serpentine arms and led me up a number of paths that turned out to be peninsulas.
I could either hazard walking waist-deep in dark brown swamp water or carefully pick
my way through the swamp.
"I did pass some ramshackle houses, but I reasoned that they might be friendly with the thieves,
so I kept on going, staying far enough a way so as not even to make a dog bark. If those crooks
or any of their friends found me out there, I could just disappear and no one would ever know
what became of me. So, I ended up having to sleep in the woods. I spent a cold, creepy night, even
though I did manage to make a small fire.
"The next morning, I kept going and finally, homing in on a few columns of smoke and steam,
came to a small town. The cops there weren't
sure about where I'd been and or even if they had jurisdiction, so they called the state
police. This nice officer you just met came out, heard my story, and we drove around while I looked for
some of the landmarks I'd seen while in the back of the truck. It took a couple hours,
but finally we found it. Actually, it was quite easy for me because when that woman left the
main road and started up the drive leading to their cabin, I had noted
a burned-out barn across the highway with an old blue tractor parked next to it.
"Several other patrolmen arrived within a half hour and we drove up to the cabin. Along the
way, I learned that if the man was who they thought he was, he was a fugitive who had escaped
from a work gang a few weeks prior. If he was staying with this gal, an old girlfriend of his,
she would be charged with harboring, which would get her a neat prison term.
"As the cops rolled up, he tried to make a break for it out the back, but since they had
a K-9 unit with them (anticipating that he might run for the woods), he soon had a German
Shepherd locked on his arm. Within minutes, he was cuffed in the back of one patrol car, with
the woman in the back of another one, and the police were thanking me.
"As they drove me back to their headquarters, I learned that he had been in prison for
manslaughter, having killed a man in a bar fight. He was a real desperado, and would
certainly have killed me if he felt he had to. He had little to lose, having declared that
if he escaped they'd never get him back into prison no matter what it took.
"After giving a deposition, I told them I'd like to catch up with you, because you have all
my stuff. You were no longer in the mall parking lot, but they put out an all points bulletin
to watch for the bus, and soon we got a fix on you. They put me in a patrol car, turned on the
flashing lights and while one patrol car stayed a distance behind you to keep tabs on your
position, we gradually caught up with...and you know the rest!
Looking at us, he said, "I'm guessing you thought I took the purse. That's what I would have
thought."
Our sheepish looks told him the truth. Looking at Gina and Kelsey and then back at him I
spoke for all of us as I said, "We're very sorry. Please forgive us!"
He shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "I would have thought the same thing in your shoes."
Gina said, "Well, in our defense when we realized what you have left behind, we started
to have our doubts about that possibility." She walked over to him and gave him a big kiss
on the cheek and a long lingering hug. "Thanks. You took a bigger risk
than you should have. It was only money." "Yeah," I said, "suppose you'd been killed. And all
over a purse!" "Yeah," said Kelsey, nodding in agreement.
"I wasn't thinking about that at the time. I just saw someone take something from a friend.
I suppose it was a dumb thing to do..."
"Well, you proved your friendship, and now we're all ashamed that we ever doubted you," said
Kelsey
Kelsey and I hugged him as well and then I said, "Let's get on to New Orleans!"
"Yeah!" was the universal
response.
We found a spot very close to New Orleans after crossing patches of Alabama and Mississippi.
A sports bar with a gigantic parking lot that was
half full out front and empty out back. The owner gladly gave us permission to park there, rightly
assuming we'd be buying four meals.
It was Fish Fry Friday night at this bard, and in Louisiana, and in Louisiana "fish fry" means catfish.
Now, my mom cooks up great catfish, but I have to say that I've never had catfish to match what
was being served in that simple neighborhood bar.
Cooking catfish isn't like cooking trout, sole, or cod.
You don't just barely cook it past the raw state, as you do with most other fish. Catfish
is best when overcooked and this catfish was well cooked with a very dark brown crust that consisted
largely of cornmeal, making it good and crispy, so that consuming it was almost like biting into a shellfish
of some sort. In fact, we were even encouraged to eat with our fingers, as if we were having
lobster or crab.
This got Mike to talking about the places he'd been where he'd had the best seafood. He had
done some work for a hosting company on Koh Samui island, Thailand, and had spent nearly half
a year there. The variety and delectability of the seafood there was astounding, he said.
It turned out that he'd also spent a little time in another seafood-oriented city as well.
A city that I had had some experience with: Bremen in northern Germany. This brought out
some of the stories you'll find back in my series named My European Holiday,
which is about the trip Erik and I took to Europe.
Erik and I had several great seafood meals there, including crab and some kind of flat fish
(halibut? sole? flounder?), but I've never gotten into raw fish, and so I missed out on some of the
seafood specialties Erik particularly liked. I don't know why, but I'll eat a nearly
raw steak, no problem. I'll eat a lobster or crab, and what are they but distant cousins of
the spider who moved to the sea? And yet, I'm not repulsed. So, I'm not all that picky, but
for some reason I draw the line at raw fish.
We were washing all this down with bottles of Beck's Beer from (speak of the devil) Bremen.
We stayed there a good two hours after dinner, drinking and talking. Talking and drinking.
We were a little tipsy as we trundled back to the bus. As we walked in, Mike declared
he needed a shower. And he did, because he was mighty grimy and scruffy after spending the
better part of a day in the woods.
Quite frankly, he was beginning to stink.
He was in the shower stall no more than a minute when we all looked at each other, giggled,
and started stripping down. I was first in, and of course he was pleasantly surprised. I was
on my knees and sucking cock in a matter of seconds. This is when Kelsey climbed in.
She kissed him passionately and between my sucking, Kelsey's kissing, and the presence of her
ample boobs on his chest, he got hard very quickly. It's lucky that Gina is so tiny, because she took up
just about the last available space in the tight shower stall.
Now, as you may know, Gina is "taken," and would never give her heart to any man other than
Ray, and she certainly didn't do that here, but I believe it was her hand I saw in front of
my face as I was sucking cock. I do believe she was copping a feel! I made a point of not looking up
to find out whose hand it was, but it was a very small hand, and Gina is, as you may know,
well...tiny.
I'll never tell. Quite frankly, Mike had risked his neck for her and if she was the one giving
himheadb as a reward, I'd never tell, but if grabbing his dick and feeling the roughness of his
nut sack gave her a rush, that was fine with me.
If it was her, that was all she did, and soon she was sucking on Kelsey's knockers, which
were, to tell you the truth, just about perfectly level with her mouth as she stood there.
This put her pussy right by my cheek and from time to time I'd feel the stubble of her
recently shaved pussy on my cheek, which excited me quite a bit.
Kelsey took charge at this point and said, "Come on guys, let's fuck!" And so,
drying ourselves off along the way, we walked back to the big bed. Kelsey had
grown tired of kissing and wanted a nice cock in her mouth, so I took over kissing him while she
gave him some of the best head I've ever seen.
Gina was also going down on me by then, and from time to time I had to push her away
because she was doing it so well, and wasn't even nearly ready to cum.
Kelsey invited me to join her down by his dick and for a while we took turns sucking
and licking his delicious stiffy. The sounds he was making made it all the more
exciting for both Kelsey and me.
This is when she shocked me by asking him, "Do you like fucking ass?" It shocked me
because while she's done it from time to time, Kelsey isn't known as the #1 fan of
butt banging. That would be me.
He was taken aback, too, but said, "Well, I've never done it. Is it good?" "I love it,"
I said. Kelsey said, "We're treating you. Tonight what matters is whether you like it
or not. Want to give it a try?"
It didn't take him long to say, "Sure!" (Talk about making a man an offer he can't
refuse.)
I went with Kelsey's flow and got the Astroglide out of the bed stand. I showed him how
to lube a girl's ass. I stuck my lubed finger up her asshole slowly, showing him that
one mustn't get pushy and must wait for the girl's sphincter to give you permission
to enter.
He was a good student and did it perfectly, first with his finger, then with his
thumb. By switching to his thumb he was able to massage her clit at the same time
as he thumb-fucked her asshole. Kelsey seemed to be enjoying the anal attention quite
a bit more than I might have expected.
I lubed up his dick as he did this, jacking him off a bit, keeping him hard. Nodding
with my head, I encouraged him to get started, and so, with her in a low doggy position,
her tits and shoulders on the mattress, her ass well up in the air, he mounted her,
straddling her butt and resting his hands on either side of her shoulders.
Kelsey was really enjoying anal this time, and I felt happy for her since I get
many of my best orgasms while being fucked in the ass. It wasn't my favorite
at first, either. And she really was having fun, I could tell, because there was a slow
drip of juice from her clit.
I really wanted to be fucked in the ass, too, but I could tell this would be Kelsey's
night, not mine.
Such is life.
Gina, who can pretty much read my mind, had pity on me and started giving me pretty
serious analingus, sticking her tongue way, way up my asshole. As she did so, she massaged
my thighs. I got pretty excited as she did this, and I'm sure I was dripping as well.
She rolled on her back then and continued to do me, concentrating her efforts this time
on my pussy, which made me even more excited.
She started to finger fuck me first with one finger, then two, then three, and
finally all four. I could feel myself stretching more each time. Each additional finger
caused a little
pain or discomfort to start with, but then I adjusted and was ready for more.
Then her fist popped into me and I looked down to see that she was in well past her
wrist. She was grinning ear to ear as she started to pump me. She pumped harder and
harder until at last I came, letting out a fierce yowl that even stopped Mike and
Kelsey momentarily, as they both looked back to see what was going on.
Mike, who it seems had never seen a girl being fisted before, was wide eyed for an instant,
but soon got busy again rogering Kelsey's ass.
I took Gina by the hand, and as we left to return to the shower, I saw that Mike and
Kelsey were now in the spoon position, still having anal sex, but in a much more loving
and relaxed way. Kelsey seemed so contented that I was happy for her.
With them in mind, I got down on my knees in front of my best friend in the world, Gina,
as she leaned her shoulders against the wall, her hips thrust forward to give my tongue
good access.
Taking one of her ass cheeks in each hand I gave it to her good.
Real good!
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NOTE: New posts go at the top, as in most blogs, but that means that in a
sto
We wanted to go to Austin to check up on our new friend, Danielle, but a quick
look at our highway map told us it was more than a thousand miles away, which
meant it'd be either two fairly long days or three more comfortable days of
driving, so we decided not to push ourselves, overnighting at Panama City or
thereabouts on our first leg, and then going to New Orleans for a day or two,
and thence to Austin.
After a few halting lessons, Mike learned to drive the bus and so we girls
had the luxury of being passengers together without one of us having to concentrate
on driving. We were traveling through what is not the most prosperous part of
the country. An area with little to draw tourists and suffering from the seasonality
of all farm and agriculture country. Even along the Atlantic and Gulf coasts,
where tourism replaced farming, it was feast about half the year, famine the
rest.
While we were having unseasonably good weather, considering it was hurricane
season, all the sun did was give us a better view of so many ramshackle homes
and people hanging about, obviously unemployed, with very little to do. Certainly,
Hurricane Katrina hadn't made things much better for these people.
It's about 350 miles from Orlando to Panama City which, with a lunch stop and
a refueling stop, got us to Panama City at dinnertime. We asked a couple
locals about restaurants and ended up in a fairly high-toned restaurant that
nevertheless had surprisingly "haute cuisine," especially given the
pricing, which was like: $11 for seared ahi, $9 for a peppered quail dish, and
$13 for their ultra-delicious crab cakes.
Despite all the seafood, Mike ordered a steak, which was quite good (according
to him) and equally well-priced.
We went to the restaurant bar for after-dinner drinks, and as usual got lots of drinks
bought for us and lots of shallow attention from the guys. Mike took a position
apart from us and made a lot of headway with a couple of the local chicks, who were
no doubt fascinated to discover this seeming cowboy was also a college-educated computer
hardware engineer.
Given his prior sexual reticence, we were happy to see him opening up to random
women. So, when he disappeared on us, we were concerned but thought that perhaps
it meant something good was happening.
We drank and danced until 2 a.m. and were escorted by a couple of the guys back
to our bus where of course we invited them in for some fun, and of course they accepted.
Gus was the tall blond one, in a white business shirt and wrinkle-free brown pants.
Bob was shorter and had a full head of wiry hair à la Eraserhead.
We got their pants down to their ankles in no time and were soon sucking their
cocks. As is often the case, the smaller guy turns out to be the hung one, and that certainly
was the case with Bob, who had a cock as far around as my wrist and a good, I'd say,
8" if not more. But Gus wasn't totally deficient. While he had a very average 6" dick, it
was still fairly thick and rock-hard.
Kelsey got Gus and was not displeased with her choice, as I could tell from the devilish
look in her eyes. She blew him with long strokes of her head, interspersed with licking
and diddling and other attentions of the tongue, all the while gently holding his
balls in her hand.
I concentrated on sucking Bob's cock on the glans, alternating between that
and licking up and down the shaft, where his veins bulged so prominently that my
tongue could actually feel them!
Before long, Gus had Kelsey wearing nothing but her shoes, her knees to her chest,
and her beautiful vulva and asshole ready and waiting to be ravaged.
By this time, Gina, who of course is faithful to her boyfriend, was enjoying herself
voyeuristically, by watching and masturbating, naked from the waist down.
So, I wasn't unhappy when Bob, who, despite his huge size, apparently didn't have the
control of some men, started to cum. I took the first couple squirts in my mouth,
painting the rest on my lips and cheeks, letting him fall onto the floor in a steaming
heap of afterglow.
After wiping my face off at the sink, I wandered over to Gina who, seeing me coming
her way, opened her legs wide. I dropped to my knees and soon was tasting the very
familiar taste of her lovely little cunt. She closed her eyes and laid her head back,
zoning out into Ooh Ahh Land as my tongue probed the contours and folds of her labia
and tasted her delicious vagina.
I could feel wetness creeping down my thighs as I did this, for I hadn't had an orgasm
yet and wanted one dearly, knowing in the back of my mind that Gina knew my body so
well and had the exquisite talents required to give me The Big One...the best of the best.
So...I was far from unhappy when she volunteered to change places with me. Soon her
tiny little munchkin head was on my pussy, doing what Gina knew how to do so well.
When had we first fucked each other? Was it in the 6th grade? Were we fifteen? By then,
she had been having sex with our neighbor, her abuser, so she was pretty much the
teacher.
But I was a good student, and it was a miracle my mom or hers never caught us in
the act of 69. Perhaps we never got caught because we kept our Catholic schoolgirl
outfits on, not even taking off our panties but just pulling them aside to gain access
to those special parts of our bodies that, back then, we gave to each other totally
monogamously. I know that more than once, we heard someone approaching the door
and had to hurriedly look like we were studying by rolling apart and grabbing a
book or writing pad.
I'm not sure our parents would have even cared, figuring that we were in a stage
of life involving sexual discovery, and that at least we weren't doing anything
that could get us pregnant, thus short-circuiting our education and career goals.
We were monogamous except, of course, for Gina's recently revealed sexual abuse, which I'm
sure that she, even more than I, counts as not giving sex but as having it
taken.
Her style of lovemaking involves a lot of sweet nothings interspersed with oral
attentions, and so it was that she took me to the brink time and again, but knowing
me so well, held back just enough to keep me almost there, only to cut back for a
while, then take me back, and so on until she knew from the touch of my hand on her
head that I wanted to be finished off.
I came long and hard with a prodigious squirt that landed full on her chin and
dripped onto the floor. Kelsey had been watching and laughed hard. She squirts only
occasionally and is fascinated by my ability to do so nearly every time. Poor Bob
wondered momentarily if she was laughing at him, but soon realized what had
caused the outburst and got back to plumbing her asshole with his tongue.
Then, I was all over Gina, kissing her on the lips and whispering things I knew
would make her hot into her ears. I did this for at least five minutes before
going down on her, giving her asshole a nice external thumb massage as I performed
cunnilingus as well as I knew how, for she was my best friend and someone I love
as I love life itself.
I would take a bullet for Gina, the nicest, kindest, most loyal, and all around
best person I've ever known.
I dragged it out as long as I could, until I got her signal that she'd had enough,
so I gave it to her good for about two minutes until she came so hard, she planted
her feet on the floor and lifted her hips up in the air, to get her pussy away
from my mouth. She doesn't squirt the way I do, but a nice flow of liquid out of
her pussy told me that I'd done very well.
Somewhere in there, Gus had gotten Kelsey off. (I hadn't been paying much attention.)
She was back to sucking him off, so Gina and I watched as she sucked his glans and
stroked his shaft vigorously until a fountain of white semen shot up her face,
covering one of her eyes and landing on her dark hair.
We told the guys we needed our sleep and sent them on their way, giving them our
voicemail-only numbers, since we really didn't feel we needed to see them again.
As we cleaned up, we realized that Mike hadn't returned, but reasoned that he
was probably off having a good time, and so we didn't worry much as we went
off to bed.
Gina, who's the worry wart in the group, was up early and was preparing us some
pancakes and sausage. Mike still wasn't back, which presented us with a problem:
His stuff was still with us, so should we continue to wait for him or try to
figure out something that would occur to him, like leaving it with the owner
of the bar.
Just as breakfast was winding down, all this planning became moot as he knocked
on the door which we opened for him.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," said Kelsey. Mike had a Cheshire Cat's smile
on his face. Obviously, it had been an eventful night for him.
"Want to tell us about it?" I asked.
He mumbled something about a sorority house and Margaritas, which explained a lot,
but, gentleman that he was, we got no details, though I'm sure we would have enjoyed
hearing them.
Likewise, he got no details from the night before, though had he been there, he
surely would have made a great addition to the fun. We told him to feel free to
bring girls back here. "We're into girls," said Kelsey. "Yeah," I said, adding,
"Share!"
We had a big belly laugh about that and set about planning the next leg of our
trip, which would take us to New Orleans.
Little did we know the nature of the crisis that lay ahead, and the degree to
which we would have to examine our judgment.
Sorry I've been longer than usual updating the blog, but as you may
know, I've moved to Portland with my boss Kelsey and we are opening up a branch
office, and so we've both been super busy, working 10-14 hour days,
so my writing has been slowed down. However, I have added a new
installment detailing our trip west, plus here is what can only
be described as a "flood" of erotica from the folks who put up SapphicErotica,
IFGirls (In Focus Girls), and OnlyCuties. I think 270 galleries will probably
keep you busy wanking for days, so don't say I never gave ya nuthin'!
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