Pussology 301

As is often said, the following is based on real events, with real people, in the place described. It just didn't happen exactly this way. Enjoy. Jb7

*

It was late summer of 1960, JFK was well on his way to becoming the first Catholic President; I was just out of my last summer school class and finally, a college graduate, on my way to Rochester in upstate NY, one of the few cities in the state with a healthy economy, or at least a healthy job market.

Some how, some one had fucked up my college record so that at the end of the regular school year, I showed up an hour short in my General Education requirements, and needed an extra hour of Physics. For some freaking reason, the only summer course in Physics being offered that year was, and I quote, "An in-depth review of the properties, applications, and manipulation of ultra low level atmospheric phenomena."

For those of you who, like me, have no inkling of what the hell that meant, it was a class about the production and use of vacuum technology in industry. No, not vacuum cleaners like the Hoovers. Can't tell you how many friggin' people asked me that. Vacuum technology, like how to survive in space, or produce really pure materials, and, god forbid, instant coffee and tea.

The course was actually fun, and it led to a really cool job in Rochester, working for an industrial engineering research firm, which would contract with companies all over the world to solve their engineering problems. I was only a junior technician, so didn't get to do any traveling, but I got to meet a hell of a lot of very interesting people, including the ex-husband of the lady this is all about.

After a couple of years of banging around Rochester (yeah, that kind, too), I found a studio apartment in the Park Avenue area of the city. The ParkAve area was about a mile square, just south and east of downtown, and inhabited mostly by twenty-somethings, artists, older liberals, and others attracted by its reputation for supporting a quasi-bohemian life style.

The building I moved into had eight studio apartments, and two shared bathrooms, on two floors. On the first floor were two guys and two young women, all between 21 and 29; the second floor, my floor, had a nurse, an ad agency intern, and a college instructor, all women, 22 to 53. The nurse and the intern were both in their twenties. And me, Mark McPherson.

I didn't meet Kay, the college teacher, for a few weeks after I moved in. I had to be up early to catch the bus to work, and she taught mostly late afternoon and early evening classes. And weekends, like any 25-year old, I was out 'bangin' around.

But, that Saturday afternoon, I was in my apartment, reading a Leon Uris novel, my door was open, and the radio was broadcasting another Cubbies' loss.

I was dimly aware of the sound of high heels coming down the hallway when they stopped, right at my door. I sort of glanced up, went back to my book and did a classic double take. In my door way...If simple words could have described Kay, we'd have had world peace 50 years ago. I can honestly say she was not beautiful. I'm not even sure she could be called pretty. I will give you attractive, she was definitely attractive. And when she smiled, it is said the sun hid his face for shame. At my double take, she laughed, and all the nightingales in that London square retired.

I know, I'm not making any sense. When I heard there was a 50-year old female college professor in the apartment next to me, I imagined some dried up old spinster, not a contestant for the Senior Penthouse Pet of the Year. And that is not a fair picture either; she was not overly huge or out of proportion anywhere. In fact, later, when we were better acquainted, she actually complained because she thought her bust was too small, or so she had been told. She was just very nicely put together, very nicely.

Back to the story, if you're still with me. She introduced herself, laughing at my inability to string two words together, including my own name. As she turned to leave, she thanked me for the compliment and invited me to stop by for a drink when I regained my voice. I glanced at the clock, saw that it wasn't quite three. I didn't have anywhere to be before nine, so I got a drink of water to put my throat back in action and went to meet my neighbor.

I think a bit of geography, house style, may be necessary here. Sally and Carole, the intern and the nurse, respectively, occupied the two apartments across the front of the house on our floor. The stairway came up in the middle of the right hand side of the second floor, looking front to back.

Right next to the stairs was my apartment, across the hall was the shared bath, and across the back of the house was Kay's apartment and the rear stairs. Kay's doorway opened directly into the hall, with the rear stairs immediately to the left of her door. From my door to hers, maybe five steps.

When I knocked on the closed door, she answered, "Mark? Come on in." That's when I learned she had no modesty, or if she did, it sure as hell was selective. I walked in, and there she was, in pink nylon panties and bra, digging in her dresser looking for something to put on. I must have yelped or something when I turned around. She turned to look and saw me with my back turned and I swear my ears must have been flame red with embarrassment. She laughed again (god, that laugh, have I told you about her laugh?) and said, "I wouldn't have thought the sight of a woman in her undies would upset you with all the thumping and banging I hear next door."

"It was such a sexy sight it caused an immediate, uh, mm, biologic reaction," I replied, or some such shit. But I did confess that the sight of her in her 'undies' pretty much had given me the king of boners.

"What, this old body turned you on? A young stud like you."

I sort of half turned to look at her, still majorly uncovered. "If that's an old decrepit body, lady, when you were my age, you must have been a fucking goddess! Excuse my french, please, but...wow!"

"I think that's the nicest thing anyone has said to me this year." She lifted her arms and slid a long dark blue tee shirt over them and onto her body, covering up everything from knee to shoulder, but not before I saw the shadow of her nipples and snatch through the semi sheer fabric. "Coffee, tea, wine, beer, soda or..." and she smiled that damn come hither smile I was going to fantasize over for the next five years.

"You're teasin', right. Please tell me you're teasin' or I'm gonna melt and die right here on your floor."

"Aw, c'mon, Mark, you're a big boy. You can take a little, uh, flirting, can't you. But you got to give me something back. Otherwise it's torture, and that's no fun. At least not for me, I'm not sure how you like it, yet. Besides, I can't put me on the menu. I'm taken."

"Damn," I said, "there goes a whole afternoon's hopes and dreams."

"That's the way! Now, what to drink?"

"Uh, the wine sounds good."

"Red? Or are you allergic?"

"Allergic to wine? Not that I'm aware of, not yet anyway."

"Some folks are allergic to something in red wine. As a health educator, it's part of my responsibility to my guests to help make them aware."

"Health educator? Where?"

"At the new community college." She handed me a large, stemmed glass of burgundy.

As I started to take my first sip, I asked her what she taught.

"Sex."

I am afraid that whatever impression I may have made on my lovely neighbor as to my maturity, sophistication, worldliness, my cool factor, urbaneness, deserving of a platinum playboy club key, whatever, went out the frikkin' window at that point as I choked, coughed, spit, and spilled my wine. Thank God, it was a wood floor.

After we got me and the wine cleaned up, she sat down on the sofa in the living room area, and patted the cushion next to her. As I walked over to the sofa, she curled her legs under her, and pulled the tee shirt down to cover her knees.

She sat there, her blue eyes twinkling with laughter (did I tell you how her eyes could chase thunderclouds away?). "You're precious," she smiled. "I teach adult sex education; actually the course is titled Health and Hygiene. Although I assign readings from the whole book through the semester, the class discussions seldom get beyond the plumbing and mechanics of sex and pregnancy, including how to avoid it. Pregnancy, not sex.

"It's amazing to me how many women, let alone men, have no idea about how we women are constructed down there. I'm willing to bet a show and tell that you can't name three of the parts of a woman's genitals. If you can, I'll expose myself and show you where they are located. If you can't, you show me yours, and describe the parts."

God dam! She had me friggin' tongue tied again! All I had to do was come up with three parts of a pussy, lessee, the hair, the uh, whachacallit, the hole, and uh, uh, uh...shit!! I stood up, and said, "Mrs. Rogers, I have to say this has been a, no, the most interesting Saturday afternoon I've ever had. Maybe some year, when I'm grown we can have a lunch or dinner out, but right now I have an appointment next week I need to go get ready for. It was very nice to meet you, I think."

"Aw. Mark. Did I scare you? You don't even want to try to get a look at my coochie? Sit down, tell me about your job."

I did sit, across the room. And told her about the everyday crap that went on in an engineering research facility. She asked some really astute questions, impressing me all to hell. I understood how when she told me her husband, ex-husband, also worked, had worked there while they were married.

That led to my asking about the breakup. She told me she thought they had a good marriage, and a good sex life. She was ready whenever he asked, and did whatever he wanted, she said (did I tell you how uninhibited she could be). But, she apparently wasn't enough. On some of his business trips to California, he got involved with some 'young chippie' and wasn't man enough to admit it or give her up when Kay confronted him. She had tried for a year, but when it became obvious he wasn't seriously trying, she looked around and found George, her gentleman caller.

She had gotten real serious talking about herself and her life. Her voice was soft and low, just above a whisper at times, but when anger and bitterness showed, it was as hard as concrete.

She and George hadn't been real discreet in the beginning, and when she filed for divorce, her husband, Nels, countersued. It was messy; she lost a bunch of friends and her job. In the late '40's and early '50's, you didn't get divorced, at least not publicly and especially not scandalously, if you worked for a school. She had had a set of twins just before WWII started, so when the divorce was finalized, custody went to her because of his job requiring so much travel. Good thing, otherwise there probably wouldn't have been any alimony.

It took a couple of hours to get all this out, with all the pauses and the refills. Her language when she talked about her husband wasn't exactly clean either. Christ, she could make a longshoreman blush.

We must have gone through three fuckin' bottles of wine, I know I was a bit more than half shit faced. Somehow, I got up to leave just as she was walking past my chair, and she stumbled and fell into me, knocking me back into the seat. She fell on top, her back to me, and her nearly bare pussy square on my rod. My arms were around her, one hand in her crotch, the other somehow under the blue tee shirt in full possession of a wondrous melon. As soon as I realized what I was holding, which took about a half a millisecond after I hit bottom, the old sex thermometer started to respond.

Bother her? Not a fuckin' whit. She sat there another millisecond, then started doing the fucking shimmy on my lap. In less time than it takes to tell, I was shooting my load all over the inside of my jockeys. Then she reaches down and slides my hand in the leg of her panties and says, "You owe me one." So she guides my hand and shows me how to play with her cunny. And that was how I got my first lesson and insight on how to pleasure a woman.

A month or so after that, I actually got to do some traveling for my company. I was sent to Houston, to the NASA headquarters to help them install and implement some equipment and gauging we had helped them develop (read, we did the work, they paid the bills).

It took a bit over a month, but the contract specified that every day I was in Texas, it was seven hours of double time, and double time and a half when my actual work time exceeded seven hours a day. Since I was putting in twelve to fifteen hour days, six times a week, I didn't have a lot of time to spend any of the money I was making, and room and board was on the company. I couldn't complain. I grossed nearly three grand on that trip; not bad for the early '60s.

When I finally did get home, there were new neighbors, downstairs. The two guys had moved out and I was now living in Estrogen Central Hotel. Two English girls, both from Manchester, but complete strangers before they met at the house, had moved in.

Kay was still there, but when I saw her, it seemed like some one had turned off some of her inner lights. I had got home on a Wednesday, and had planned to go through mail and shit, to clean up, that weekend.

I noticed George hadn't been around on Friday, so come lunch time Saturday, knocked on her door. The door flew open before the third rap, and her smile faded like red longjohns in bleach. I badgered her until she finally agreed to go out to eat with me. "Just to shut you up," she laughed.

There was a new joint a couple of blocks up Monroe Ave that was getting a decent rep, and it didn't cost more than an arm and a half for the two of us. I kept prodding until I got her to open up. It was George.

After the divorce, because his mother objected, he wouldn't commit himself to her. For nearly ten friggin' years, she had been dating the dumb fuck, waiting for Momma to kick. Turns out Momma had some damn strong longevity genes. She had lived through two freakin' strokes to the age of 85 and was still kicking along.

Sometimes George came and went on Friday night. Sometimes, he would leave on Sunday. She wouldn't know until he got there how long he was staying. Lately, if he fuckin showed at all, he was gone in a couple of goddam hours. This was the second Friday he had missed. Last week, he had shown up for an hour or so Saturday, but had called Friday to let her know. So far, no show, no call.

I started to get pissed at her, letting herself be fucked like that. As soon as I opened my mouth to berate her, I realized I was about to beat up the frikkin' victim here. I apologized to her and explained why. Then I blew it and kissed her. I don't know why, and when she asked, that's what I told her, followed by because I wanted to.

We got up, paid our bill (of course I paid, whaddaya think I am), and walked home. On the way, I snuck my arm around her waist, and she let it stay there. When we got home, still no word from George, so I invited her to one of my seldom home cooked meals. She accepted, and I ran out for supplies to make (the only fuckin' dish I can) meat loaf and mashed potatoes. I also picked up some beer and a few bottles of Beaujolais.

She came in and watched me cook, commenting on how I'd make some woman a good husband someday. We passed the time bull shitting about work. I told her what I had done in Houston, that one of the engineers who had gone down with me was a Nels Rogers.

She got quiet at that, shook herself, and asked what he looked like. Fifty-ish, not quite as tall as me (six two), thinning average brown hair, wire rimmed bifocals, a bit of a paunch, rounded shoulders, like he had been beaten down hard once and never recovered.

She shook her head, couldn't be him. Hers had gone out to CA to marry his chippie. It sounded like this guy was going to seed. Her Nels wouldn't do that.

By that time, dinner was ready, and the first bottle of wine was gone. Then George appeared in the frikking doorway.

"George..."

"Hey, you guys need to be alone, I can go wait on the porch."

"No, no. Stay, young man. Are you Mark? Pleased to meet you. Uh, I can't really stay that long. I just came by to return your key."

Kay looked like someone had hit her with a dead fish across the mouth. "Return my key? Wha...why...George, what's happening? What the hell is going on?" The answers must have been occurring to her as she spoke. You could see the temper building in her eyes, and hear it in her voice. (Did I mention her short fuse) George was aware of it, too. He laid the key on the table next to the door and started backing out.

"Come back here, you rotten mother fucker! (Did I mention she had a mouth on her that would put sailors to shame)" It took George about 30 fucking seconds to get down the stairs and through the front door. In that time, I heard every dirty name I knew and about 25 new ones, a few more that I had read about, and several combinations I didn't know were curse words until she screamed them after him.

George had had the foresight to write a note of explanation. On his way out, he had dropped it on the fuckin' mail table by the front door. Sheena, the blonde Manchesterian, was kind enough to bring it up. I had Kay quieted down, and had offered her some vodka and coke. She gave the highball back and grabbed the bottle of vodka and started swigging.

"That pusillanimous little mother fucking cocksucker! (swig) The limp dicked shit eater! (Swig) Goddam chipmunk dicked turtle fucker, I hope his marble sized balls turn square and fester at the corners. (Swig) I hope the next time that cunt licker gets a hard on, the damn thing turns on itself so when he pisses, he drinks it. (Swig) That shit eating, piss drinking, pussy munching mollycoddle. (Swig) Only way he ever made me cum was in my dreams, (Swig) hardly knew he was in me, the needle dicked bastard..." She carried on that way for an hour, maybe more, swigging between curses.

Then Sheena showed up with his fucking note. I took it from her, dreading to let Kay see it. Well, she saw Sheena pass it to me and asked about it. Never give a shy girl something concrete to say. Make that your number one fucking rule of relationships. Cause if you do, she will fuck up something. Sheena told her it was a note the gentleman had dropped flying out the door, a note for her.

She asked for it, took it, looked at it, started to tear it in pieces, then threw it at me. "You fuckin' read it to me, Mark. Tell me what the fuck he says."

I had a bushel of fuckin' dread in my stomach as I opened that goddam note. I was cursing that fuckin' Sheenatwat under my breath like a tornado, calling her every kind of cunt I could think of. The fuckin' last thing Kay needed right now was to hear fuckin George's last fuckin' note to her.

I quick read through the sucker's note and groaned. Kay heard me, and snatched the goddam thing from my hand. He had it typed frikkin' single spaced, and it took up three quarters of the goddam page. The fucker must have been a CPA, he had detailed all the sonuvabitchin' reasons his precious momma objected to her, then had the freakin' gall to blame her for his mother's fuckin' strokes. The capper? He was going to marry the prissy special duty nurse assigned to take care of his mother at the goddam nursing home. A cute young thing, just out of school, he said. It is a good fuckin' thing he was gone, 'cause if Kay hadn't hurt him, I would have. You just fucking don't treat people that fuckin' way!

Suddenly I became aware of the total silence in the room. I looked at the door, Sheena was gone. I looked at the sofa, Kay was sitting there, tears running down her face, dripping onto the note. I went to sit next to her, put my arm around her shoulder and pulled her to me. "The fucker isn't worth it," I told her. "He don't have the sense God gave a fuckin' piss ant."