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Page 10.
Chapter 5. The Story of E
 Stranger than fiction are some of the people you meet in real life. One such was E, the freckled and cute librarian with the horn-rimmed glasses. I was in the university library one day, doing some research on Kit Marlowe, when I noticed this slender librarian in a loose-fitting dress laughing as she read a book. She was in her late twenties, about five or six years older than I. She had dark coppery red hair, thick and braided, and freckles to match. Under the neo-Gothic vaults and stained glass windows of a major university's main library, a cathedral of learning, I heard her laughter peal out. As I looked up, she caught herself and made an oops face while bringing her fingers to her mouth. She shrugged self-consciously and looked left and right. I had only to turn and take two steps, which put me before the dark wood of her counter. "I need a laugh today. Can you share?"
She slapped the book shut. "Not on your life." Then she took another look at me and leaned her fine little chin on her fist. "Say, you're cute."
"Thanks. So are you. You know what the fine is for laughing in a library."
"No, what is it," she said buying into my come on.
"I get to torture you with coffee and pastries until you confess and tell me what you were reading that was so funny."
"Where?"
"Shartenberg's."
She thought it over, just for a second. "Well, okay. Will my sentence be long and hard?"
"It depends on how modest and remorseful you are."
She laughed. "Then we're going to fry in hell for all eternity, because I'm neither."
E was in some ways the youngest of all the older women in my life. To me at the time, being 23, she seemed like an older woman who had not grown up. With the thick, round horn-rimmed glasses off, she could pass for younger than I—unless you noticed the first streaks of gray in her hair before she rinsed it. I felt older than she seemed to be. Chronologically, she was older, but in every other way she was a giggly ditz. She was fun to be with, kind, patient, and sexy. She was one of those women that men turn around on the street to look after. I'm not sure what that quality is in a woman. Other women, too, stared, sometimes out of desire, but usually out of envy. Envy, masked as disapproval, is one of the ugliest traits a woman is capable of. I'll dwell no more on this, except to say that E and I hit it off. Her attitude was a bit like in your face, which is what I would have liked if I were more forward and less of a wall flower guy. I'll skip much of the preliminaries. We did meet for coffee and pastry at this fine (now extinct) American imitation of a European style coffee and pastry shop. She wasn't complicated, and she related early the usual palaver about my being tall, thin, handsome, thick wavy dark hair that she couldn’t wait to get her fingers into. It didn't take long to get her into bed, either. She'd never been married, had not settled down yet, was me in a sense but female and five or six years older.
Before I discovered her most unique trait, I enjoyed low key sex with her. She was not a starfish, meaning she was not one of those women who believe sex is something the man does while they lie limply and sprawled out waiting for the end. She humped and pumped like a champ. She liked the foreplay and steamed up a few car windows with me (because both of our apartments were too small, with thin walls and nosy neighbors, for much frolicking). She was a slender, soft woman, not an athlete. She was too lazy to be an athlete. She ate what she wanted, but had a metabolism that burned off calories like a furnace, with the result that she was skinny.
She was pale and skinny, with many freckles, and with hair the color of reddish copper. Irish, she was, through and through. She wasn’t a drinker, but a @er. E thought of @ing the way most people might sip at sodas. A day without a @ was a day missing its sunshine. I might have said that a day without a @ was [plug in any old somber philosophic thing] but E was light on her feet and didn’t read much into things. E, with that dark red copper hair and quizzical funny expression and cheery if slightly nutty brown eyes and skinny freckled body, was a woman in fifth gear and cruising down a highway with more entrances than exits if that makes any sense. I mean she saw more opportunities than barriers, while she struggled to make more of her life financially. She had a degree in German, of all things, and could say Guten Tag or Wie Geht's but couldn't remember a line of Rilke or Brecht. She was a good @ buddy. In her own way, she was true. I mean, she didn't pick up men right or left. She was actually quite selective. We talked about all this. God, this Irish girl could talk. Put a bottle of beer in her hand and hang her feet over the edge of a dock, and this girl would put you to sleep. I loved her. She was dangerous. No man could ever tame this wild banshee. I felt sorry for her. I worried, wondering how she would land as she got older, because she'd soon be pushing 30 without a man or a real job or a coherent thought in that funny head of hers.
I'll cut you in on a little secret, knowing what I know now: E retired from the university system a near millionairess many years later. You see, she had this one quality nobody saw in her. She was loyal, and she stuck to it. That was the meaning of her loyalty to me. She didn't want or need another man. She knew we weren't a permanent thing. The minute I told her my age she turned that page. Still, she had that sense of who she was. In her stealthy manner, the freckled wine-dark redhead may yet outlive us all. I don't believe she ever married, but I'm sure she was never lacking for a companion.
She was a good @, as things go. Nothing complicated. The trick was to spend two or three evenings a week with her, and to make sure she had at least one good orgasm. Here's the deal. She had a pale, freckled body slim and lean almost as a boy's. Her breasts were full and white like milk, though small. Her nipples were red like the copper of her hair. She wasn't a pinkie or a brownie, but that rare thing, a reddie. Like her freckles, her oyster was orange. It was a dark, stained orange, like juice that has sat too long after being spilled.
Many redheads suffer in their beauty, not realizing what autumn leaf delights they are. This girl was the dark end of the leaves, the burning red, the bloody finality of the freckle before it gutters out like the ember that it is. If you don’t understand that, @ you. I am a poet with Irish and Celtic blood in my canals, and this woman E put me in touch with the wild fox in me. The fox, you'll recall, is a red animal with a thick tail, a pointy snout, and a clever mind. So what was it about E? She had a delightful little ass, buttocks that I loved to grab, each a handful. She liked being grabbed if she happened to be in love with you.
What was it about E? She had a good little oyster, nice and tight, with a respectable hood and a button of a clitoris under it—orange as her freckles. Roll her over, and she had shapely buttock buns with a nice little pucker down below. She didn't let you @ her heinie, as she called it, but you could play with her buttocks and put your finger, just one finger, slowly, ouch, not to hurt her, just one finger, in there if you must. And must you must, because she had a splendid white ass pale as a half moon, gorgeous in its round lines, lean as a boy's, soft as a girl's, tight as a fresh-baked bread loaf.
Another delightful thing about her, you could @ her in front and roll her over, @ her in the oyster from behind, and she was equidistant if you see what I mean. She was a rare girl, this E. Rock her in front, rock her in back, and it was about the same. You noticed that she was cooperative, breathed a little bit harder, maybe groaned a little, but she didn't really come in the cum sense very much. Something was missing. And I learned what it was.
One day, E and I were in this dark pub on a side street between the university's music school and residential colleges. It was a windy spring day, and the windows were just open a crack. She and I were in there like a pair of wraiths in the smoke, shadows, in the dark while outside it was sunny. She was sitting on the bench with her back to the window, while I sat opposite her in a chair, with the heavy oak table and its scarred top between us. Some instinct made me kick off my sandal and raise my foot so it grazed her soft white thigh.
She reached down and took my foot in her hands. That is when I learned the secrets of her inner life. E guided my foot toward her twat so that my big toe touched her clitoris. She was wearing a short skirt. Under that she had fine silk panties. Here we were, in this place smelling of coffee and echoing with conversation, and under the table she guided my big toe into her oyster. She pulled her skirt up, pushed her panties aside, and rubbed herself to make her oyster wet. Then she pulled my big toe toward her until it entered her oyster. She slid forward an inch or two to help my toe get into her.
With a little wriggling and sliding, she got the upper half of my foot into her oyster. What does this feel like? Well, first of all, your cock is on fire. Your dong is a motorcycle revving at max RPMs with flames shooting out of its pistons. Here is this beautiful girl @ing herself with your foot in a public place. We have to stop a moment and think about what you look like when you are a woman @ing yourself in a public place with a man's foot. She leaned forward, looking rather pale and concentrating, and her eyes wandered out of focus. Her mouth was slightly open, and she was breathing harder, but in a subtle way, and that is important. You are just there—you might as well be just a huge dildo, for all that it matters. You are a sex object. She has learned the art of concealing these public orgasms. As the spasms roll in waves across her belly, she just looks momentarily dazed as if realizing she should bend over and tie a shoelace whose knot has come loose. What an art! What a skill!
Later that evening in the privacy of her bed, I asked her about this event. She grasped my dick and pulled it into herself. "How did it feel?" she asked.
"I was going to explode like a hand grenade," I said.
"Did you come?" she asked while working the inner muscles of her oyster so that my dick felt massaged and I could only moan. I nodded. "It turns me on."
"What?"
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