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Page 4.
 The only sounds in her apartment were those of the refrigerator dropping ice cubes now and then, and distant movement of water in pipes. Oh, and grit hitting the windows as an occasional snow flurry kicked in. I like this part. The fumbling. The trembling. The ache and the desire. The help from her. Oh, but first, the kissing. It is a long meeting of tongues. We find that we are compatible kissers. This is important. It has to be just right, and this was.
We were in tune, in rhythm. Maybe her being musical helped. Our tongues worked against each other, left, right, top, bottom, purple, moist, hungry. Our bodies grew more horizontal and I maneuvered more on top. My hands wandered over the sweatered contours of her body, her small breasts, her taut stomach and full hips and thighs. She was voluptuous, ripe, needing. She maneuvered me like a big boat and got my anchor caught in her bay.
So it turned out—a glance at the clock, which was close to one a.m., and the fact we both must be at work early—and she said something like "Let's relocate." That brought us to her bed, and, tired as I was, a stubborn insistence on getting under her flimsy (pink) silk night gown. "You have so much energy," she said as she pulled up her nightie, and I plunged upon that wonderland like a swimmer into an Olympic pool. And here's the critical thing, which makes this memoir worth telling. The woman had passion. After preliminaries—which included licking the soft pink nipples of her small, uneventful breasts—I pushed her knees back and rose against her like a bus parking.
She pulled me to her at the same time, hands around my buttocks, then helping my pointing prow through the gate. There was a momentary dryness, before her labia sweated themselves wet, instantly, and she barked with passion as she urged me on, or in. I slipped into that good sweet container that fit me like a body glove. I exulted as if I'd just been won an erection, been erected president. We were a great fit, A and I. We went to work the next morning, each of us with barely a few hours of sleep.
We met again the next evening (she was getting her little one babysat by grandma) and, after a nap, started in again. We could not get enough of each other. Understand that, until now, making love had seemed to me a quick thrash in the bedding with some girl as inexperienced as I was. This woman had seven years on me. In that time, she had wed and divorced, and undoubtedly had more than one relationship. So it was now that she introduced me to a few new things. She brought out the rumba, the passion, and the poetry in me. When she lay there on her back, pulling her knees to her breasts to open the gate wide for me, I developed a kind of rock 'n roll of the hips, a mechanical jam-bam action like a windup toy. I loved the wideness of that basin under me, the richness from thigh to thigh, the wealth that opened before me.
She liked to play. She had fire and imagination, and she enjoyed letting me look up her skirt as she did dishes. We had fun together. I remember crawling into the kitchen and looking up her skirt and playfully biting one buttock that was palely visible in the shadows. She knew I was there, and let me.
In the same vein, I remember walking into her house from a trip to the grocery store, blowing her a kiss, and starting to telephone a friend. She was wearing only panties and a hugely oversized sweater. Meanwhile, she was on her knees before me as I spoke on the phone. She got my cock out and sucked on it with energy and enjoyment, while laughing. Soon my conversation with the friend petered off as my voice grew faint and he said "Are you okay?" while I said "Call you later" and hung up. I closed my eyes and just stood there, enjoying the sensations while she licked my cock and my balls and pleasured herself with the fingers of both hands under her sweater. I noticed the panties now lay crumpled in mid-kitchen.
When she couldn't stand it any longer, she pulled me down by my cock like a pull-toy. As I got on my hands and knees over her in the small hallway containing the phone, between kitchen and living room, she held her labia apart with thumbs and forefingers and whispered over and over: "Get in, @ me, get in, @ me..." until I was in and @ing her and then she held me tightly by my buttocks and moaned, "@ me, Peter, @ me," over and over again until she came. Sometimes, she told me she momentarily passed out as she came during our sex. I believe it. A and I were a recurring item for several years. We became @ buddies after the initial passion cooled. It's more than that. We cared about each other, though her temper and my immaturity and our age difference wreaked inevitable havoc.
Sometimes, when I was unable to come visit her, she would call me. I was always glad to talk, so she only had to ask a question or two about the arts, about history, and I would recite all that I knew. She would listen quietly, and sometimes even cry out in wonder. One time, I asked her a question, and she was silent. I grew impatient and said something unkind. She said, "No, no, just talk, talk to me, Peter, I want to hear your voice. You have the most wonderful, soothing voice. It's like listening to music..." So I went on talking, and pretty soon her cooing noises and gasps told me finally that she called me to masturbate to the sound of my voice. Now who could feel slighted by such a compliment?
She had an absent habit of lying on the couch watching television, and lifting her dress slowly to rub her clitoris with her middle finger. At first, in my naïveté, I thought she was just scratching an itch; well, she was, but a different kind. I don't think she was aware of doing this most of the time. She would be engrossed in watching some handsome man on television, and start rubbing herself. When she then held her breast, and sighed heavily, and occasionally licked her finger, I understood that she had become very turned on. She liked it when I would come over, lean over the back of the couch, and help her with my finger. Sometimes our fingers took worked together on opposite sides of her clitoris. Sometimes together we brought her to a little shuddering climax that way. We enjoyed each other's company for many months and played together every time we got together.
Since this is a celebration, I won't dwell on how or why relationships sour. Leave that to the sociologists and anthropologists who study us as if we were a race of chimps wearing designer clothing. I was at that time intent only on hopping on her bones, as they say, and the bones were more than eager to get hopped on.
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