Copyright 1998 by Jane Urquhart
The author is a member of the Net
Authors and Creators Union (NACU), which defends
the rights of Internet authors
and creators. NACU intends to bring suit against any person or corporation
infringing copyright.
Specific permission is granted for
publication in the news groups Alt.Sex.Stories and
Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated and for archiving
by the Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive
and DejaNews. All other
rights are reserved. Do not repost or distribute by any other
means without express permission from
the author.
NOTE: This story is part of a series. Later stories sometimes refer to earlier ones, but each also is meant to stand alone. Four stories have appeared previously--"Janey's January," "Janey's February," "Janey's March" and "Janey's Trip."
ANOTHER NOTE: After this, read
Sandman's "French Kisses"
to get the male point of view on the events narrated below.
JANEY'S APRIL (FM, FM, FFM cons)
by Janey
Well, that's not exactly true, as you'll see in a minute.
The thing is, I couldn't have written anything this month, anyhow, especially
since I
didn't do a thing that you'd be interested
in. My daughter got sick. She's only eight years old, and all kinds of awful
things have been going around in the Boston suburbs all this winter. We went
on holiday, and as soon as we got back she got something. She had a bad sore
throat, and she was allergic to the antibiotics. She had to go to the hospital,
which scared me worse than the disease, hospitals being what they are today.
So I spent a lot of time at the hospital in Newton, and I prayed a lot, and
I was absolutely petrified. Bob, my husband, was worse off than I was. You
know how men are when they can't do anything about something; it drives them
nuts. So he was teaching his classes with big black circles under his eyes
and bumping into things and wanting to kill somebody, only he didn't know
who to kill. (I know, Celeste, that should be "whom," but did you ever hear
anybody say, "I don't know whom to kill?" I haven't, so the hell with it.)
Besides, nobody's to blame--life's a bitch.
Judy's perfectly fine now. To hear her tell it she just had a big adventure
and she
doesn't see why everybody's keeping
an eagle eye on her and wrapping her up like the
Michelin man every time she gets in
a draft. Bob's sleeping again--that's actually his
greatest talent, even if he is the best
medieval historian in the whole world and the dearest man I know. Me, I'm
still shaking like an oak leaf in a gale. And let me tell you--compared to
worrying about a sick kid, sex is nowhere.
Unfortunately, I also suffered what I thought was another, lesser but still
horrible,
disaster. My mother came up from
Texas to help keep things going and look out for my
oldest, Alan, who's ten and swears
his sister was shamming, while Bob and I were running back and forth from
the hospital. That wasn't the disaster--I was really glad she came, because
she's an absolutely wonderful person. She loves my father, and that's what
led to the disaster.
See, I keep my story files buried in the computer in a folder called "etymolgy,"
which is in another folder called "voced"
for "vocational education," and that's in yet
another called "univbus" for "university
business." I figured those were places nobody in her right mind would go to
look if she were just messing around with the computer.
Actually, there's nothing wrong with
my system that wouldn't have worked perfectly well if I hadn't left a printout
of "Janey's March" lying right next to the keyboard when the school
called and told me Judy was sick.
Somebody else's mother would have put Alan to bed and watched Entertainment
Tonight or the latest news about Monica
Willy Tripp on the TV. Or read a big coffee table book I bought called
English Gardens. Or, possibly, picked up a copy of A Spanish Lover
that I had just finished--Joanna Trollope is really good. But that's not
my mother.
She waltzed right over and sat her cute little derriere down at my desk,
fired up the
computer, and started to write a letter
to my father. Then she saw my printout. She read it--what would you
do? Then she hit the Start button, clicked on "Find," and typed in the
filename, which, unfortunately, was
right on the top of the printout. Whirr, whirr, and up
pops "C:\msworks\univbus\voced. . .
." My mother's no dummy--she probably knows more about computers than I do.
I am undone, and I don't even know it--I'm five miles away and frantic about
poor Judy.
When I got home--even mothers of sick kids have to sleep sometime--she was
just
awfully sympathetic, forced me to sit
down in one of our big floppy chairs and made me a cup of tea. Loose tea,
in a pot, none of the crappy teabags I use all the time. She asked me all
about Judy, and how was Bob holding up (he was in bed at the time), and reassured
me about Alan, whom, of course, I was worried about, too. I relaxed for the
first time in about sixteen hours.
Then she smiled her absolutely most evil smile, and said:
"I didn't know you were interested in etymology."
"I'm not, particularly," I said, without a flicker of suspicion.
"Well, the projects you're working on looked interesting to me."
I'm often at loss about what to say, but my brain whirls around like mad
all the
time. It whirled. Stopped. The cold,
hard glare of reality hit me like a ton of bricks.
"What projects?" I said weakly.
"Well, for instance," she said, still smiling, "I thought the Sandman project
was
particularly fine. I suspected you'd
need that little spell sooner or later."
"You did?" I managed what I hoped would pass for a smile myself. Might as
well
go with the flow, that's what I usually
do.
"On the other hand," she said, "I thought the fellow who asked you for Beth's
phone number was way out of line."
Oh, no. She read my fan mail, too. (Well, of course I get fan mail. You can
send some to my mother if you want to. I'll read it before I give it to her,
so she won't be shocked.)
"You read my stories, you even read my fan mail--that wasn't nice--and you're
still
speaking to me?" I was working up to
being thunderstruck. I really like that word, mostly, I guess, because it
happens to me all the time.
"Look, dear," she said, her smile turning into one of great superiority, "if you really think about this, you'll realize that I was sleeping with men before you were born. It's absolutely necessary in order to produce great hulking wenches like you."
"Well, yes, but that was my father," I said, gulping, "and, anyhow, since
I couldn't
possibly imagine that, I always assumed
I was a product of immaculate conception."
"It's a smart girl who knows who her father is," she said. Then she had
the gall to
laugh at me when I turned pink.
"It's all right," she said, "He really is your father, I'm pretty sure.
The other
possibility was a fellow Angus called
a 'wee, strange little man,' and since I'm not very big, you had to get your
build from Angus."
Remember, it was eleven o'clock at night, I had been in a stew for as long
as I
could remember, couldn't sleep the night
before, and was generally a wreck. She could
have waited until morning to drop this
on me. But I was sure as hell awake now. Have you ever gotten a new mother
all of a sudden? It's a sobering experience.
"Look, you're going to tell me all about this, aren't you. I'm dying of
curiosity,
now."
"Well," she said, "I had an idea. Tomorrow, after Alan goes to school and
you and
Bob go away, I'll clean up this shambles
you call home, and then I won't have anything to do for three or four hours.
It occurred to me that it was most unlikely that you'd be able to write Janey's
April in time. I doubt that you'll even have the steam to do the research."
Another evil smile. "So I'll just write it for you. Naturally it won't be
up to your usual standard, but I'd hate to see you miss a month. When you
read it you'll know a little more about your origins."
I went to bed shaking my head.
Here's what she wrote:
MARY ELIZABETH'S APRIL
(FM, FM [same F, different M], then FMF, and
a couple more FM's, in each case not only cons
but positively salivated after by all concerned)
by Mary Elizabeth O'Brien MacDonald, A.B.
It was a dark and snowy night. . . . All right, just kidding, I'll start again.
Since I don't belong to this jolly group that Jane's all involved with,
I don't have to
follow your silly rules about story
codes, do I? I think mine are better. And I do find the
younger generation strange when I read
all the posts about grammar in your discussion
group. Everywhere else, all I hear about
is sex, and in your sex-story-author discussions
you write about grammar. And you think
we're weird!
Now I'll tell you my story.
Being born in Ireland in 1933 was not a very good idea unless you were born
rich.
Fortunately for me, at least we weren't
poor. My father was a newspaper editor, and, since he owned part of the paper,
he made a very good living compared to most people in that poor, benighted
land. So I lived in Dublin in a nice house and only learned how poor most
people were when I went to visit my shoals of aunts and uncles and cousins
out in the villages. Sometimes I spent most of the summer visiting one relative
or another, usually my widowed Aunt Grace, who was a witch but otherwise perfectly
normal, because my father said I should learn how the other half lived.
I never knew what my mother said because nobody listened to her.
Aunt Grace taught me how to dig peat and potatoes, and when I was old enough,
she taught me about sex, which she remembered
very pleasantly. (She also taught me a
little sorcery, but she didn't think
I was good enough at it to go through the whole
curriculum.)
In the winters I went to a nice girls' school in Dublin, where the nuns
taught us
Latin and history and English, because
they had some strange notions about women.
Nobody had ever heard of "self esteem,"
and girls were certainly not supposed to have it, but we picked up a lot of
it at that school. They taught us that God loved us and that we had a right
to our opinions and that if we didn't think our parents were right, we weren't
necessarily wrong. We taught each other about sex, mostly not very well,
but, of course, I had got most of it from Aunt Grace. By the time I graduated
from what you call high school here, I knew a lot, in theory. My father,
who was quite enlightened in many ways, paid for me to go to a good university,
from which I received my degree in 1954, at the age of twenty-one. For a
graduation present, he offered me a trip to Europe, if I could find someone
to go with me.
I still knew a lot about sex, in theory. Unlike many women of my cohort,
however,
I had a theory that sex would be really
a lot of fun--Aunt Grace certainly thought it was.
The problem that faced me was that it
was a disaster if any girl had sex before she was
married, and the men didn't get married
until they were around forty. The women,
perforce, also waited until they were
very much older than I was at the time I entertained this unorthodox theory.
A trip to Europe seemed to be just what I needed. So I set about finding someone
to go with me.
I found Alice, a girl (I think we were still "girls" then) I had known fairly
well in
college. She was a bit strange--she
was pretty, but she always looked just slightly angry.
Actually, she wasn't, but she looked
that way, and it put the young men off. She didn't
smile much, but she was smart and she
was good to talk to, when I could get her to talk.
More to the point, she talked her parents
into paying for a trip to Europe with no trouble at all. So there we were--two
well-educated virgins ready to see the sights. The sights I
wished to see were not the ones my father
had in mind.
I had a plan. Perhaps not a plan, but at least a nebulous idea of a plan.
I had known
for quite a long time how to give myself
orgasms (Aunt Grace had improved my technique quite a lot), but I was
extremely interested in getting some nice man to do it for me. I had resolved
that this trip was going to be my opportunity--I'd meet all these delightful
men, preferably French, and one or possibly several of them was or were going
to fuck me to a fare-thee-well. I finally decided I had to share this agenda
with Alice, but she wasn't very enthusiastic. I, however, was, and she said
she wouldn't hold it against me if I did something she didn't want to do.
We flew to Paris. It was beautiful, and we went to the Jeu des Paumes and
the
Louvre and walked along the Seine and
ate wonderful meals, but we didn't meet any useful men. My French was only
fair, and Alice didn't talk enough to do any good even though she could speak
the language a little. We didn't have a fixed itinerary, so we decided to
go to Venice by way of Switzerland and Austria because I could speak some
German. For all I knew, Swiss men would be better, whatever the folktales
said.
We took the train to Zurich, got off, got a hotel, looked around, and decided
it was
too stuffy for words. (I later learned
we should have gone to Geneva, but that's another
story: perhaps I'll tell you about my
trip to Geneva sometime, if Jane will let me. She's so strait-laced.) So the
next day we got back on the train and went down the line a bit to
Innsbruck. We were starved when we got
there, so we each had a bowl of goulash soup in the railroad station, then
we walked up into town and fell in love with the place.
You could stand in the main street and look up at enormous mountains. There
were
gasthauses--guest houses--all
over the place, and sausage shops and a theater. Everything was half-timbered.
It looked like pictures I'd seen on the labels of Black Forest cake
cans. And, just as an afterthought, there were all these dark, good-looking
men wandering around. Some of the older ones were even wearing lederhosen
, which are like short pants only made of leather. Big hairy thighs. I must
admit I liked that.
So we went and got a double room in the Hotel Central and went to bed.
The next morning Alice and I walked all over the place, had lunch, walked
some
more, and around three in the afternoon
decided to have a cup of coffee or something and sit down for a while. We
went into a small hotel, looked in at the tiny bar, and saw several people
sitting around drinking and talking. Only two little tables were free so we
went to one of them, shucked our rucksacks and sat down.
The other customers obviously knew each other. I was able to see pretty
quickly
that there were two Austrian women,
two French and two American. There was one
Frenchman and there were half a dozen
American men. One of the American men was
with one of the American women. They
were all talking to each other and laughing about
trips they had made or were going to
make to Zell-am-See or Salzburg or Venice, or about ski trips they had been
on last winter or were going on next. They were drinking everything imaginable--coffee,
tea, wine, beer, cognac, Pernod, even water. In all, they looked like a pleasant
group. Hence I was delighted when one of the American men came over and asked
to sit with us.
He introduced himself as Don something-or-other and started asking all about
our
trip and where we were going next. He
was good looking; about five six, only a little taller than I was; he was
tanned, had black hair cut quite short even for those days, and brown, sort
of slitty eyes. I can't imagine what his ancestry was. He said he was a medical
student at the university there.
After a while Don said, "Come on over with me and meet the rest of the gang--
nearly everybody here hangs out together
all the time."
So we got up and walked over to another table. Don introduced us to the
people
sitting there, and soon the rest of
his friends got up, came over and started shaking hands like Frenchmen, telling
us their names. The American couple were free-lance
photographers, a little older than the
rest. The older of the Austrian women, Olga, was a
countess! There was an army officer
on leave, a couple more graduate students and a
newspaper reporter who for the moment
was just travelling around looking at Europe. One of the men turned out to
be a Canadian who was working for some large company there. Every time he
opened his mouth somebody kidded him about his accent, but he just sort of
shook it off and kept on being very serious about everything that came up.
None of them were married except the photographers, but I could tell the Canadian
had his eye on one of the American women.
We sat there drinking with them for the rest of the afternoon, occasionally
looking
out the windows at the huge mountains.
I finally switched to red wine, but Alice stuck to
tea. Once in a while somebody left,
and a couple of new people, two Frenchmen and a
Swedish woman, a gorgeous blonde as
tall as Jane is now, came in and joined the crowd.
The bartender, Fritz, an older man who
managed to look like an aristocrat in an apron,
joined in the conversation from his
position behind the bar. People moved around, talking to one and another,
but Don stayed close to us. He had one hurried private conversation with
the reporter, Jack, but came back to sit at our table. Having known few Americans,
I was amazed at the general friendliness.
Don was a little more than friendly. After a while he took my hand and put
it on
my leg under the table, then kept his
hand there and gently stroked my leg with his thumb. I liked it. I especially
liked it when he let his fingers slip off to the inside of my thigh. Of course
all the time we were still talking to everybody, and I didn't even notice
this. Of course not.
Around six someone suggested dinner, so we all trooped off together to a
big
restaurant down the block from the Kreid.
By that time I'd had three glasses of wine and felt rather jolly. When I
feel that way my language deteriorates until I begin to sound like one of
the sure-and-begorrah farmers I knew when I visited Aunt Grace. Everybody
else except Alice and the Canadian's girl got a little boisterous, too. Don
sat next to me and gradually worked his hand almost all the way up to his
obvious destination. It must have been hard for him to eat with one hand,
but I suppose he got a lot of practice. Once I smiled and offered to cut his
wiener schnitzel for him. He blushed right through his tan and moved his
hand away. But soon it was right back where it had been.
Supper finally came to an end and people started leaving. Don and Jack and
some
others suggested we go back to the Kreid,
where we had been drinking earlier. Alice told me she was going back to our
hotel; I told her I'd be back in a little while. I'd had a little
more wine with supper and couldn't
see why I shouldn't have just one or two more glasses.
Back at the bar there were only five of us left, Don, Jack, an Austrian
woman
named Lena and a big fellow named Jean-Claude.
And me. Lena kept nuzzling Jack and
he kept shifting away. Jean-Claude
smiled a lot, never opened his mouth, and looked like an innocent little
boy. Don talked--he talked a great deal--and pretty soon they were telling
stories, some of them fairly raw for a sheltered girl like me. I don't remember
any of the stories, although they were side-splitting at the time, and I
don't think I said much. I regret to say I think I just sat there with a
bemused grin on my face. I think I was grinning because Don had finally got
his hand right down on my bullseye and was rubbing it gently. I sort of rubbed
back against his hand. I began to see why some women preferred skirts to
the slacks I was wearing.
After a while Don got up and said to the others, "Mary and I have to go.
See you
guys tomorrow."
So I smiled brightly and got up, too. I was maybe a little tipsy, even a
lot tipsy, but I wasn't so drunk I couldn't figure out what Don had in mind.
I was happy as a lark. I was
scared to death. I was like a happy,
scared lark.
Don took my hand and we sauntered out of the hotel.
"Where are we going?" I said brightly.
"Well," said Don, "I know this guy that has a hotel room and some really
good
schnapps. Me."
"I've never tried schnapps," I said. I let go of his hand and danced lightly
ahead.
Looking back at him, I trilled, "Lots
of things I've never tried." I really did "trill." I'm
mortified to tell you, but that's the
way it was. You tend to trill if you're tipsy, happy and
scared out of your wits. Or at least
I do. It never happens any more. Pity.
"You'll like schnapps," he promised. "I'm glad to see you like to try new things."
I stopped until he caught up and he took my hand. I didn't know anything
to say so
I just walked along smiling a foolish
smile. Don smiled, too, but I think he wasn't as tipsy as I was, so he smiled
more normally.
His hotel was less than a block from the Kreid. It was about 10:30. He got
a key
out of his pocket and unlocked the door
to his hotel, leading me into a dimly-lit lobby.
"No bar here," he said, "and they lock up at ten."
We tiptoed across the floor to a tiny elevator and got in. While the accordion
grill
was still closing Don put his arms around
me and kissed me. He poked his tongue up
against my lips and opened mine. He
pulled me close to him and explored the inside of my mouth. I found this very
exciting, especially when I started using my tongue to examine his teeth.
The enormous bulge in his trousers tended to make me excited, too. Electric
shocks just like the ones I got from that big static wheel in physics class
started going up and down my body, only there were lots of them and they just
kept zipping through me. I could feel lubrication pouring into my private
parts. Bear in mind: the kisses, the hand up my leg, all this was absolutely
new to me. It did, however, match my theory. All this went on between the
lobby and the second floor, where the gate ground open and I jumped. My teeth
bumped his and it hurt quite a lot. So when he led me out of the elevator
I still had one hand over my mouth.
"Hey," he asked, "are you o.k.?"
I unhanded my mouth, wiggled my lips, and said, "Yes, I am now." I smiled
tremulously. He led me down the hall
a couple of doors to Room 607, unlocked it and led me inside. I was still
so afraid I thought my teeth would chatter, but I also thought that
would hurt so I kept my mouth tight
shut. But not for long.
No sooner had he shut the door than Don turned, took me in his arms, kissed
me,
hard, and began tearing at the buttons
on my shirt. I was not prepared. My theories on sex got a little hazy at his
point. I pushed him away as hard as I could, stood still a minute, and got
my breath. He was looking at me, puzzled.
"I'm sorry," I said. "You took me by surprise."
"Didn't you come here to get fucked?"
I blushed. "Well, yes," I said, "I suppose I did, actually."
Don smiled and said, "Well, sweetie, why don't we get started.?"
So I took off my clothes and put them on a chair. My hands were shaking.
I could
barely force myself to look as he disrobed.
Only a tiny bulb lighted the room, but I could
see his body. He was muscular, just
as I'd thought my first man must be. He wasn't smiling. I went over and sat
on the bed a few feet from where he was standing, I was very excited; I wondered
what would happen next.
Out of his clothes, he pushed me back and fell on top of me, our legs still
hanging
off the side of the bed. With his knees
he pushed my legs apart.
"Aren't you going to put it in?" he said. "That's what nice girls do."
"All right," I said. Something didn't feel right, but my theories simply
hadn't
covered this part of the endeavour.
I took his penis in my hand. Never having felt such a thing before, I marvelled
at its texture--very smooth, warm, and very hard. But I marvelled a second
too long.
"Put it in!" he said. "I'm so hot I could burn."
"But . . . aren't you supposed to wear something?" I had heard about
rubbers. You
may not be aware that the pill was yet
a long time off.
"Nah," he said, "we don't do that here."
As I've heard Jane say so many times, what did I know?
So I bravely began forcing his weapon into my vagina. It didn't go easily.
The
lubrication had stopped. And I was still
shaking.
He began pumping furiously. I just lay there, wondering what on earth I
had got
myself into. I didn't have long to wonder--almost
immediately, he came, shaking, moaning, and squeezing me so tightly I couldn't
breathe. Then he relaxed. After a moment he pulled his flaccid penis out
of me and stood up. I had had a moment or two of odd feelings I couldn't
quite describe, plus the not altogether unpleasant feeling of my vagina having
been stretched to what felt like its limits.
"Want some schnapps?" he said, smiling broadly.
"I don't think so," I said. I had been tiddly from the wine, but at
this point I was
more sober than I had ever been in my
life. "I think I'd better go."
He smiled and jerked his head. "Well, if that's what you want."
I put on my clothes while he stood there nude. I moved toward the door.
He
grasped my arm and pulled me around,
then he kissed me, fairly gently. That was nice, I
thought. Then he opened the door and
let me out. I walked down the hall to the elevator,
got on and descended. I walked on, down
the main street to our hotel. I rang the bell, was admitted, and went up
to our room. Alice was asleep. I quietly took a washcloth and some water from
the pitcher by the bed and washed myself--his fluids had dripped down my
thighs. I hurt a little, but not much. I fell into bed and went to sleep almost
immediately, still wondering what was wrong. Something was.
Alice got up early the next morning and brought us semmels--they're an Austrian
roll--and tea from the cafe downstairs.
When I finally waked up, she asked me how the
evening went.
"OK," I said. "We just had a few more drinks."
I put the night before out of my mind. We took a side trip to Salzburg for
a couple
of days, visiting Mozart's house and
the water garden, then returned to Innsbruck.
The next day Alice decided we ought to walk around in the foothills just
outside of
town. We did. Alice never talked much,
and that morning I was quiet. I finally began
thinking about my night with Don. My
theories about sex obviously were lacking in some way. I could simply decide
that I'd been misled about the glories of romping in bed, or I
could assume that somewhere there was
a better harvest to be reaped. I worried a little
about being pregnant, but thought it
unlikely, given the time of the month. I was quite
certain about that element of my theories--Aunt
Grace had made the cycle very clear. Still, watching the cycle was not a perfect
way of birth control. There'd have been a lot fewer Irishmen if it had been.
I decided it was up to God, and since I had done nothing to him lately, perhaps
he would do nothing to me. I decided to persevere. How, I had no idea.
The big fellow from three days before, Jean-Claude, did. That afternoon
Alice
wanted to wander around the shops again.
I begged off and went back to the Kreid bar. It was early; nobody was there
except Fritz, standing behind the bar polishing glasses, and Jean-Claude,
to whom I had hardly spoken. Fritz smiled, waved, and said, "Grüss
Gott, Mam'selle!" I smiled back--who could resist such polyglot
gallantry?
Jean-Claude, sitting in a banquette with a newspaper and a glass of that
horrible
Alsace beer in front of him, said nothing.
He merely smiled and indicated the seat beside him. I sat. A gentleman, he
stood while I took my seat. He still looked like an innocent little boy, this
time wearing a uniform, but when I saw that he was reading Le Monde
, I decided that he must at least be an intelligent little boy. Fritz brought
me a cup of tea--he'd even remembered what I ordered.
To my utter amazement, Jean-Claude spoke careful, accurate English made
more
delightful by his French accent. I can't
possibly write his words so that they sound the way he made them sound, so
you'll just have to imagine it for yourself.
"You should not have gone with Don that night," he said. "Don is an idiot."
That was a shot across the bow if I ever heard one. I decided to return his fire.
"Then why didn't you push him away and take his place next to me?" I said.
"I am shy. I am young and I am careful. Today I have no one to push out
of the
way, so I asked you to sit with me."
Obviously, a cease fire was in order.
"Well," I said, "I am young, too, and perhaps not as careful as I should be."
"I am younger than Don," he said, "but I am not an idiot. Please stay with
me this
afternoon. I will buy your wine and
make you happy to be with me."
I was young, but I was certainly old enough to know a good offer when I
heard
one.
Jean-Claude told me he was part of the army occupying the French Zone of
Austria. By that time the occupation
was largely a formality, and the French troops had
virtually nothing to do, but a French
force was still in place, as were British, U.S. and
Russian troops in their respective
zones. We were all expecting the Russians to invade
Europe at any moment--whenever the city
fire siren went off in Innsbruck we expected an air raid. Alice and
I had seen a few soldiers around, but had given them no thought at
all. Soldiers were a common sight everywhere in Europe.
He did indeed pay that afternoon for my two glasses of wine, which I drank
while I
listened to him describe his life at
home. He was merely serving his time in the army, he
explained, as every young Frenchman
had to do; he would be back in Lyons in three
months, free to begin working in his
father's wholesale paper business. He had three older sisters. He was only
nineteen.
As I finished my second glass, he said that he would like to go walk in
the park for
a while, and asked very formally if
I would join him. As we walked, he was mostly silent,
stopping now and then to look at a flower
bed or one of the small statues that decorated the park. We watched a bunch
of boys playing football--what we call soccer here--for a few minutes. I
noticed how incredibly calm he seemed, especially after Don, who chattered
away every minute and seemed a bit nervous all the time. I fell into Jean-Claude's
rhythm, moseying along, drinking in the atmosphere, taking a lazy walk. After
a while we walked out of the park, along the street, and he stopped us at
the door of a small restaurant. He asked if I wanted to eat and we looked
at the handwritten menu set in a glass frame by the door. We went in and sat
down. It was pleasant--darkish, overdecorated like most Innsbruck restaurants,
not crowded.
"This is a good place to eat," he said. "Most Austrian food is not good,
but the
cook here has been to a better school
than most. If you let me, I will order for you. Will
you drink beer?"
"Certainly," I said. I could read the menu, but it seemed to please him
to be in
charge, so why should I complain? I
had a distinct impression that he was trying out new
skills.
When he had ordered he seemed a bit short of conversation. I couldn't help
teasing
him a little.
"How did you learn to please women so well?" I asked. For he was certainly
pleasing me, in his quiet way.
He smiled his little boy smile and blushed. Bear in mind that this young
man was at
least six feet tall and probably weighed
two hundred pounds. I was only five-four and
weighed half of that, but I thought
of him as two hundred pounds of blushing infant and
was moved almost to tears.
"Perhaps you overestimate me," he said. "I only want to please you."
"I like being with you because you are quiet and calm," I said.
"I am not quite so calm on the inside," he replied. "You disturb me. You
are a very
nice girl, yet you went with Don that
night so easily, as if you spend every night with a
different man."
"Oh, no," I said. Then I blurted out the whole story--my theories of sex,
my utter
lack of experience, the fiasco of three
nights before. I had thought of him as an infant.
Now I thought of myself as one.
"That is a very sad story," he said, just then the waiter came, bearing our dinners on plain white china plates. We sat quietly until he had served us and gone away. Jean-Claude continued. "I now wish that I had pushed Don away that night. After we eat our dinner, perhaps I will not be so shy." He smiled again and began to eat.
That was when I first realized that French people have a very different
idea of food
and how to treat it from that of the
Irish. They don't just eat, they think about what they are eating. We talked
intermittently about the things we liked in Innsbruck as we ate our wiebelfleisch,
a simple steak with onions, and our boiled potatoes. I thought the beer was
far better than what he had been drinking at the hotel, but he disagreed,
politely. I think he was a thoroughgoing patriot, rather than a connoisseur
of beer. I was pretty confident that the day the occupation ended there would
not be a single bottle of Alsatian beer anywhere in Austria, and a good thing,
too.
It was dark and beginning to rain, just a light mist, as we left the restaurant.
Jean-Claude turned to me and said, "When you talk to your very good friends years from now, I would prefer that you not mention that night. Instead, I will be your first man, and you will forget that night." He looked at me questioningly. "Will you come with me?"
That night was so very different. No hand up my leg. No assumptions. No
smirks.
Of course I would go with him.
Jean-Claude had an apartment. He told me he worked whenever he wanted; his
officers didn't care as long as his
work, some kind of supply accounting, got done. And he didn't have to live
in the barracks with the infantry. (I don't think I would have gone to the
barracks.) This was a typical, rather stark Austrian-style apartment, but
there were bright, modern prints on the walls, comfortable chairs, lamps that
looked like antiques, and even curtains at the windows. He said one of his
sisters had come to visit and was horrified. She insisted he was living like
an Austrian, which could not be tolerated, and spent a week decorating the
apartment. She may have been a bigot, but she knew what she was doing.
As he closed the door, Jean-Claude reached out, took my bag, and hung it
on a
hook by the door. Then he offered me
a chair and went into his tiny kitchen. He came
back with two cognac snifters and a
plate of little French cookies on a tray.
"This will make you feel daring," he said as he poured the brandy into our
glasses.
"It will also make me feel daring."
So we sat opposite each other and sipped warm cognac. What it did was make
me feel not daring, but relaxed. After all, what I had done a few nights before
hadn't made me feel any more confident in my theories--it had only made me
more determined to test them further. For all I knew, I was in for another
quick wrestling match with no gain to be had. But sitting there, sipping
very good brandy, made me feel as if Jean-Claude, young as he was, might
know things Don had never dreamt of.
Finally, Jean-Claude swallowed what was left of his brandy in a single gulp--a
most
un-French thing to do. He stood, reached
out, and took my hand.
"I have been wanting to kiss you ever since I first saw you," he said. He
gently
pulled me to him and looked me straight
in the eye, then kissed me. That kiss was a
revelation. It didn't begin on my lips.
First, he kissed the back of my hand--really, not an air kiss like those you
can still get from old men in France. Then he kissed the inside of my elbow.
That made me shiver. Then he pulled me close, put his arms around me, and
kissed my eyes, which were shut by then, one at a time. Then he began what
was to be the best kiss I ever got, before or since, by simply brushing my
lips. Gradually his tongue came out and he just touched my mouth. But my
mouth opened as if he had used a key. He moved slowly, increasingly moving
his tongue deeper, flicking my teeth, touching the inside of my upper lip,
pressing my lips harder, going deeper into my mouth. By that time I was clutching
him as if for dear life. When he finally pulled back, I opened my eyes. He
was smiling. Then he simply kissed me again, this time without the very gradual
approach. I felt as if I were going to lose consciousness. I was actually
dizzy. Inside, I felt like a bottle of carbonated water. He broke the kiss
again; I could have stayed there indefinitely.
"Come," He said. "I want to see you. Now you must take off your clothes."
He spoke so matter-of-factly that I started unbuttoning my shirt as if
I got such
instructions every day. He took off
his necktie and the hard wool shirt he was wearing,
then his shoes and trousers, while I
stripped. He took our clothes and put them on a chair, then led me into his
bedroom. Like the living room, it was warmly decorated, not feminine, but
carefully planned. The bed was typical Austrian nondescript. He stripped the
sheets back and turned to me, again taking my hand. Then he pulled back, looking
at me.
"You are much more beautiful without those clothes," he said. "I should
like to see
you in a beautiful gown, but now I think
this way is better." Once again he smiled a gentle smile. His penis was obviously
as hard as a rock, but he seemed totally unconcerned about it, just looking
at my naked body, examining me as if I were a picture on the wall. It was
very flattering. He himself was a big man, of course, well muscled, brown
from the sun. His blue eyes contrasted with the darkness of the rest of his
body. Like most soldiers, he had had his hair cut quite short. It was a nice,
ordinary brown. He was a handsome man, with, still, somehow, the look of
an innocent.
"I want to touch your breasts," he said, "but I will wait until we are in
bed." Then
he gestured as if he were holding a
door for me. I climbed into his bed as gracefully as I
could, given that I was shaking just
as I had on the night with Don, but for a very different reason. I was consumed
with lust in a way I had never been before. Then I looked up at him standing
there, and I was the one who smiled. I held out my arms for him.
He joined me, holding me again very gently, kissing my brow, my eyes, my
neck,
then my mouth. Still holding this wonderful
kiss, he ran one hand up and down my back,
over my buttocks, back to my shoulders.
Then he moved down a little and began to kiss
my breasts, all over. Finally he put
his mouth on a nipple. I found myself pushing my body forward, my hand on
the back of his head, urging him to taste more of me. He did. He kissed his
way down my stomach, and my legs opened, again with no instruction from me.
On to my vagina he went, exploring with his tongue, now using his hands, reaching
up to stroke my breast. When his tongue
entered my vagina I came instantly, without any preparation at all. I found,
as I came back to earth, that I was pushing his head so hard it must have
made him feel crushed. I relaxed, but he kept his tongue moving, and I almost
immediately began to writhe and feel the onslaught coming again. Then he stopped.
and looked up at me.
"I think I will find you ready for me," he said, smiling.
Ready? I'd have killed him if he hadn't quickly moved up between my legs.
I put
my hand on his penis and moved it into
my vagina, now so wet he slipped in quickly, and
we were joined together as closely
as we could be. He kissed me; he licked my closed eyes; he leaned on his
elbows and moved in and out once and I was gone again, writhing, moaning,
demanding more of him. But he was giving his best, and it was wonderful.
He
himself took only a few strokes more
and gasped, moaned, and fell on me, holding me so tightly I couldn't breathe.
Then he eased his grip, looked up and smiled again. We lay there a few moments,
and then he rolled off, keeping one arm under my neck, holding me close.
He was obviously very proud of himself, and I certainly couldn't object.
"You are lovely," he said. "I am not a poet, but I wish that I could write
a poem
about your breasts. They are fine, and
firm, and soft and oh, so wonderful! And you taste like nectar. And I love
to look into your eyes."
I moved my finger down his cheek.
"You are a wonderful man," I said. "My first." I smiled as he was smiling,
rather
widely, sort of impishly. "I will be
your slave."
"Good," he said. "That is the way you are supposed to feel."
"And, once again, I ask, how did you learn to please women so well?"
"I think most important," he said, "is that I want to please you. I love
my sisters,
and I know from them a little about
not being pleased. I have held my oldest sister, who is years older than I
am, while she cried." Then his smile became very superior. "Also, my father's
mistress is a very nice woman."
"Your father's mistress!" I said, astonished. "You know your father's mistress?"
"Of course," he said. "She is very nice to me. Does your father not have
a
mistress?"
"Not as far as I know," I said, beginning to wonder. "No, of course not.
Not my
father!"
"I suppose things are different in France," he said. "We lost a generation of men in the first war, and more in the second. It would be--I think you say, ungallant--for my father not to have a mistress. It is also very fortunate for me." He laughed. Somehow I got the idea that his father's mistress had given him considerable practical instruction, though he never quite said so. I was already very grateful to her.
"I suppose so," I said, not sure how that would go down in Ireland. Not
at all, I
decided.
"Now I have a job for you if you are really my slave," he said.
I looked at him inquiringly.
"I do not think we are finished here," he said, caressing a breast. As his
hand
moved over my nipple I conceded that
he might be correct.
He then gave me a concise but complete lesson in fellatio. I don't suppose
it's
necessary for me to describe it in detail,
given the way things have changed, but I do want to say that Jean-Claude was
very patient, for I was a bit wary of the idea. On the other hand, it seemed
to me that I was a victim of the Golden Rule; I really should be prepared
to do unto him as he had done unto me. Besides, I thought, as the idea became
more familiar, I might like it. I did, actually.
He asked me nicely if I would take him in hand and just give him a lick
or two,
implying that it would be great favor.
I did. That brought his hand to my head, and he
guided the rest of the journey, being
very careful not to choke me, and indicating that he
was quite satisfied with my amateur
efforts. Indeed, it took only a two three licks and good taste of that purple
head and I was quite ready for anything he had in mind. But he stopped me
before I got too enthusiastic, pulling me up beside him so that he could
mount me once more. By then I was more than ready, and we enjoyed a much
longer, more deliberate session. He would push and pull a bit lazily; I would,
of course, push back with great enthusiasm, then he would pull himself up,
look at me and laugh. He made me laugh, too. Once he pulled back and supported
himself on his hands a long time, just looking at me.
"I must tell you," he said. "You are even more beautiful when I am inside
you. It
does something to your face. It makes
you look innocent, which is peculiar. But very nice. I think you should make
an effort to see that I am inside you quite often."
He smiled beautifully. I couldn't have agreed more. Then he came down so
that my
breasts were pressed against his chest
and began moving rapidly in and out. I matched his ardor, and soon we both
were groaning and clutching and coming to each other just as we had the first
time. That there even could be a second time filled me with astonishment and
joy. I was quite sure that not another nineteen-year-old on the planet was
either nicer or more accomplished than Jean-Claude. I was pathetically grateful.
My theories about sex were right after all--you just have to have the right
partner.
------------------
My sanity returned--at least partially--the next morning. But I was still
pathetically
grateful to Jean-Claude, and, whereas
I was interested in sex before, I was suddenly more than interested, I was
hooked, wildly enthusiastic.
For three days I just deserted poor Alice, though she insisted she was having a good time. Doing what, I didn't bother to ask. It was shameful. I spent the next two nights--all night--at Jean-Claude's apartment. He worked at the base in the mornings, and in the afternoons, when he habitually ignored his work, we talked. In the park, in restaurants, walking along the street, climbing little hills, everywhere. We stayed away from the Kreid--too many prying eyes. I loved the talk, I loved the sex.
But, as you surely know, familiarity breeds, if not contempt, at least increasing
amounts of sanity. My Aunt Grace had
taught me long ago to back off now and then and take a hard look at
whatever I was doing. She believed in taking care of herself, and she drilled
that into me. As we talked, I found out that Jean-Claude was a sports nut.
He was just killing time, waiting for the first snow. It seemed that he already
had a reputation as a skier, and he wanted to get better yet. He dreamed of
the Olympics. He wanted me to
come to Grenoble in the winter, when
he could teach me to ski as well as he did. Now I
was the exact opposite. Whenever the
urge for exercise comes over me, I try to lie down until it goes away. For
some reason, I don't get fat, and the walking I do seems to keep me in fair
shape. When Jane started going out for the track team and becoming a really
good swimmer, I always wondered where that came from--her father's not much
of an athlete, either. But then, she had been fat, and she seems to worry
about getting that way again.
At any rate, it soon became clear to me that although I loved spending time
in his
bed, I was not the least in love with
Jean-Claude. We had very little in common. He
confessed, after some prodding, that
he felt the same way.
Meanwhile, Alice, despite her claim that she was doing fine, began to pester
me to
tell her what I was doing that took
up so much time. Naturally, I finally told her. She was
fascinated, and she demanded detailed
descriptions. I reminded her that when we came on this trip she had said that
she wasn't at all interested in sex. After I had told her more than I should
have, she made it clear that she had developed an interest that hadn't been
there before. Then she began moping around. She was jealous, she admitted.
I understood perfectly. Had our positions been switched, I'd have been green
with envy, positively chartreuse. When she came up with an idea on furthering
her education, I wasn't surprised. But I was shocked silly when she told
me her scheme.
We were sitting at a table in a little outdoor cafe having breakfast when
she broke
the news. I had just met her there,
coming from Jean-Claude's.
"I want to watch," she said. "I just want to watch. I don't believe it can
be what you
say it is."
I believed her. Alice was the literal-minded type; if she said she wanted
to watch,
that's what she wanted. Still, I tried
to get her to see reason. We didn't want her to watch, I explained; it would
spoil the whole thing, and, if we let her watch, what she saw wouldn't be
what she was looking for anyhow--the fact that she was there would change
it. Actually, that's Heisenberg's principle, but he and I discovered it independently.
I suggested we go back to Paris, where I'd go with her to someplace in Montmartre
and we'd both watch. I thought I could find her a willing man at the Kreid,
maybe that reporter. No. She wanted to watch the real thing, but she was not
about to do it herself. It had become a research project. This was one stubborn
young woman.
"All right," I finally said, "I'll tell Jean-Claude, and he'll think I'm crazy."
"Good," she said. "That's what I want, to watch you and Jean-Claude."
I immediately asked myself why I'd agreed to such nonsense. Was she queer
(that's what we called it then)? Was she hatching some scheme to develop
some kind of thing with me? But the idea grew on me. I wasn't an actress
yet, had no idea of becoming one, but I suppose I was already at least a
show-off. After breakfast, Alice left to go to some
museum, and as I thought about it, the
idea began to appeal to me. Oh, Lord, I thought,
am I the one that's queer? I thought
over my past history, and decided that wasn't it. I just wanted to show off.
Besides, I rationalized, an escapade like the one she had in mind would keep
her mouth shut when we went home. I was ashamed of myself. But I was
smiling just a little. Why not? I could
take care of myself.
So that afternoon I told Jean-Claude all about it.
He smirked.
I was expecting a lecture on morality or some other such boyish idealism.
I got a
smirk.
"You wouldn't have told me," he said, "unless you were willing." He smirked again.
"It might be fun."
Several years later, when I saw Jean-Claude on television fighting off his
admirers
after he'd won first place in the Olympic
downhill, I saw that very same smirk. He was as much an exhibitionist as I
was. We had something in common after all. I think he also had some idea that
this might be a way to uphold the reputation of Frenchmen--he was a bit sensitive
about France's part in the war--but he couldn't make quite clear to me what
this sort of thing had to do with national honor, so I just accepted it.
He was also nineteen. He was not only willing, he was eager.
So I dug Alice out of her museum, and told her we were willing after all.
Alice smiled.
We met for dinner at the restaurant Jean-Claude and I had been going to
ever since our first evening. He was transformed. In public he had always
seemed very serious and
cautious to me. In the bedroom he was
different, much more playful, but this wasn't a
bedroom. While we ordered, while we
ate, while we drank cognac after dinner, he was a
bon-vivant, bright, sweet, charming
poor Alice out of her socks. She had a cognac, too,
and soon she was all excited, chatting
away with Jean-Claude and smiling as if she were
talking to a long lost friend. At this
point, I was beginning to get jealous.
Why was he so chatty all of a sudden? Maybe he was just reacting to the
fact that now he had not one, but two, women to share his bed with.
So we meandered off to the apartment, Jean-Claude waving his cigarette and
talking ninety to the dozen. Up the
elevator we went, and into the living room, me trailing a little behind.
"I think," said Jean-Claude, "that we must show Alice the ways these things
begin,
as well as the mere mechanical aspects."
He took my hand, and spoke to her. "Now that Mary Elizabeth and I have become
friends, we always start with a nice big kiss." Which he then demonstrated
with enthusiasm. As usual, his expertise was faultless, and within a minute
I was as enthusiastic as he was. Alice was standing there, looking fascinated.
In no time at all we were in the bedroom. Jean-Claude disrobed, jumped into
bed
and beckoned to me. Alice sat on a small
chair against the wall, saying nothing, continuing to look fascinated. I
took off my clothes and joined Jean-Claude. He and I both sneaked looks at
her as we went through what had become the usual routine--but what a delightful
routine! Then, as I was recovering from a positively outstanding orgasm, I
glanced at Alice again. She was coming out of her clothes at an amazing speed.
I gaped. Within seconds she was in the bed with us, lying next to me. Jean-Claude
sat up and smirked (again) at her.
"My turn!" she said. "Do me, too."
"Now, wait a minute!" I said, "You were here to watch!"
"Not any more," she said. "I did watch. Now I want Jean-Claude to do me.
You
don't mind, do you?"
"Me, I don't mind," said Jean-Claude. "But you haven't seen the entire show.
Are
you sure you want to do this?"
"I'm sure," Alice said. "What next?"
"Well, I'm the one who's not sure!" I said, looking angrily back and forth
at them.
But that was really for show. I couldn't
just be casual. A little outrage seemed to me
absolutely de rigueur. Actually,
I was beginning to think the whole thing was funny. Dear
little shy Alice, jumping into bed and
demanding action! I thought I just might allow it,
after demurring enough to assert my
rights. I did have rights, didn't I? Maybe not, I
thought.
"Please," said Alice. "You can't keep this all to yourself!"
"You might even help," said Jean-Claude helpfully. "Let her get between us."
So I did. Alice slithered over me instantly, squashing me on the way, put
an arm
around Jean-Claude's neck and kissed
him. I couldn't actually see this process--I was
looking at the back of her neck--but
I could imagine what was going on, especially when it went on for quite
a long time. Then Jean-Claude broke away.
"Alice," he said, "I told you you missed part of the show. See this?" He
pointed at
his somewhat shrunken tool. "It must
be inflated."
By this time I was sitting up on the side of the bed so that I could see
Alice's face.
She looked puzzled.
Jean-Claude took her arm and pulled her down closer to me, then explained.
"It is essential that you help me by using your tongue to make it come back."
Then Alice looked at me. I nodded.
"Just sort of suck on it a little," I told her. "You won't mind."
"If you say so," she said doubtfully. Then she simply took it in her hand,
opened
her mouth and took it in. Shy little
Alice!
From my lofty position as an expert I thought she was remarkably able. Perhaps she was just a natural. I sat beside them and watched, she worked away enthusiastically, and Jean-Claude stroked her back. Her treatment worked.
Jean-Claude stopped her and flipped her over on her back between us and
sat up,
facing me.
Then he spoke to me. "I think we must caress her breasts, don't you?"
"You definitely must," I said.
"No, no," he said in a very serious tone. "I have not done this before, but I think we should both do this."
I gave this a whole lot of thought in about ten seconds. What I finally
came up with
was, "Why not?"
So Jean-Claude began to caress her right breast, and I touched her left
one. With a
gesture, he urged me on. She did have
nice breasts, and her skin felt good to me, although the light caresses I
gave her did nothing sexual for me, at least. Alice began making little mewing
sounds. It did something for her.
Then Jean-Claude leaned over and began to kiss her nipple. He stopped and
looked up at me with a quizzical look. So I took a nipple in my mouth and
flicked my tongue over it. Alice began writhing so it was hard to keep contact.
Jean-Claude sat up and smiled,
saying, "I think now I had better do
this alone."
Fine with me, I thought, watching as he slid between her legs. I took her
hand and
placed it firmly on his penis. "Put
it in," I said. "It's not doing you any good waving around that way!" She
did.
I'm not sure the show was as good as the ones in Montmartre, since I never
got
there, but it was not bad. Having already
performed once a few minutes earlier, Jean-
Claude was able to draw out the proceedings.
He worked slowly. Alice began moving
rapidly, then gasped and moaned long
and loud. After a moment she looked at me and
smiled. Then Jean-Claude began moving
again, in and out, and she closed her eyes and
gave as good as she was getting. In
a minute or so both of them were gasping, moaning,
and obviously in the throes of ecstasy.
Then Jean-Claude rolled off. He winked at me. I
winked back. What else could I do?
I had just learned that I myself was interested in sex with men--only. What
Alice
had learned she told me at some length
during the next couple of days, with gestures. She talked more about that
half hour than she had talked about her entire life up until that moment.
The next day I sent her off to Jean-Claude by herself. I am a magnanimous
person.
------------------
I intended to tell you a lot more stories, but my Jane says this is long
enough--if I
want to post more stories I should
get my own Hotmail pseudonym and not tell her what it is. So sensitive! I
will, nonetheless, summarize the rest so I can live up to the story code
I put on this little memoir.
Our trip continued with no further experiments of this sort. Alice was loathe
to
leave Innsbruck, but I persuaded her
that she really had to go to Venice in order to justify the trip to her parents.
Jean-Claude saw us off with kisses and hugs and invitations to visit. Alice
sulked through the short train ride into Italy, but soon she was back to normal,
except for a tendency to smile at unlikely times that she had not had before.
Back home, I happened to get a job doing publicity for a theater company
and drifted into acting. During the three years I worked in Dublin I had
the usual short-term affairs and one-night stands that go with the theater,
but nothing serious. Then I was swept off my feet by a gorgeous, six-foot
Scotsman. My Angus had been a war correspondent in Korea and had worked in
several capitals when he was sent to Dublin. We married, and almost immediately
he spirited me off to the States; he was sick of Europe, he said, and wanted
to work in a medium-sized town in the U.S. We wound up in Dallas.
I had two lovely children right away. (By the way, Jane, I think it would
be unwise
to tell James or Grace about this little
story--it might upset them.) About five years later Angus and I decided we
wanted a third, so we began working at it. (As I used to sing
sometimes in those days, "Nice Work
If You Can Get It!")
In November, 1963, we attended the opening night of some Mozart opera--I
can't
remember which one. The Italian tenor
was exquisite; short, a bit pudgy the way tenors
often are, but lovely to look at and
a marvel to hear. Because I was still marginally involved in the theater,
we were invited to the party after the show, and I met Fulvio. He certainly
looked different. Instead of a doublet and hose, he was wearing a beautiful
three-piece pinstripe suit, tiny pointed Italian shoes, and very thick eyeglasses.
I was totally smitten.
The next morning Angus left for Washington; he was on some government
committee. That afternoon Fulvio called:
could he take me to dinner? He could. He did.
We spent most of the next two weeks
in bed. (Fortunately, there were baby sitters in those days, too.) If
I get my pseudonym, probably something like "Janey's Mum," I'll tell you all
about our delirious fortnight. At any rate, Fulvio's company finished its
stay in Dallas and he left. Angus came home. By then I was certain I was
pregnant--some women don't need a test to know. Two weeks later it was confirmed.
I was certain I was going to have a cute little boy who would grow up to
be a short,
chubby, weak-eyed man who would sing
like a bird. And I was delighted. But Angus had
been there first. Instead of a tenor,
I got a darling little girl who grew up to be as tall as a giraffe and as
strong as a bear, who swims like a dolphin and is a pillar of the community.
(Well, that's what she told me.) I fell in love with her immediately, and
now I'm just so-o-o proud of her!
--------End of Mary Elizabeth's Story, for now------
NOTE FROM JANEY: I think you
ought to know that my mother is famous for
telling stories that have no foundation
whatsoever in the truth. She's an actress, you know--still is, though she
didn't mention that--and sometimes she gets so involved with make-believe
she doesn't know what's true and what isn't. You should have heard the fairy
tales she told me when I was a kid; they'd scare a grizzly bear.
Besides, everybody knows that all
our mothers were virgins when they married and
only had sex to produce children--that'd
be three times, in my mother's case--and, even
then, they didn't enjoy it. I hope you
liked her story, but I thought I ought to warn you; it's pure fiction.
------THE END-------
NOTE: Don't forget--go find Sandman's
"French Kisses
" to get a male point of view on
the events described above, and find
out more about how Jean-Claude learned to "please women so well." You'll like
it!