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From: One Gallus <onegallus@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Counselor 4, 5, 6
Date: Wed, 25 Oct 2000 10:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "C 4.txt" begin>
{ASSM}
Title: Counselor Part 4 MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus,
<OneGallus@yahoo.com>
Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it
violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica
offends you.
Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way
without author's permission.
THE COUNSELOR
Part 4
The Maumee River splits the city of Toledo. When I was a child, the
Maumee waters were widely advertised as clean and safe for human
consumption. Roadside parks along the riverside featured hand pumps fixed
every hundred yards, and though it was charcoal filtered, the water did not
have to pass any other purification process. It came from the pump clear,
chilly, and utterly obnoxious. Mother used to pump the water into a wash
cloth and bathe my face and hands with it before the family's picnics. I
gagged when the cloth passed over my nose. Nonetheless, half the
businesses in town seemed to be proud of this stinking stream, and named
themselves for it: Maumee Lumber, Maumee Mill, Maumee Hardware, Maumee
Clinic, and Maumee Community College.
The college is not bad as community colleges go. It is more than
adequate for students interested in practicality rather than prestige.
Working class types, like my father, were proud to send their sons and
daughters to get their start here. Then they would move on to more
advanced schools as they finished their associate degrees.
As I parked my Escort Tuesday Night I was impressed with the number of
cars under the mercury vapor lights. I had to park in the last row, next
to the grassy berm, near the street. I looked at my watch; I had a long
walk ahead of me and it was only ten minutes till class started. I started
running, and by the time my sixty-yearold body was walking down the hallway
to Room 221, sweat was running freely off my slick head. I was now
worried, that I would have to make a grand entry, but luck was with me; I
entered the classroom from the rear. There were two or three desks toward
the back, and I sat down, breathing hard, and sopping my handkerchief on
top of my head. I pulled my light jacket off and looked toward the front.
There was a raised dais with a table, a chair, and a lectern, and
thankfully no teacher yet.
I then surveyed the crowded room. Seven desks across, and ten deep, one
or two of them empty. This was a large class! She came in though the
front entrance and strode directly to the desk, where she put down her
books and folders, and then took her place at the lectern. She looked
taller standing there than she did in my office. She wore a loose fitting,
long sleeved cotton twill dress of solid gray-green. She was girded with a
wide, woven leather belt of burnished brown fastened with a heavy buckle of
brass. Somehow, brass disks were fixed to the weave and on each disk was a
kind of pattern. The Celtic cross was there, between her breasts; it was
reversed with the coral color in striking contrast to her solid hued dress.
There was a green cast to her hose and her feet were clad in plain brown
loafers.
"Hello class, my name is Reilly Bartee, and you are in my Creative
Writing Class. It has been my experience that we need a classroom of this
size to begin with, and a smaller one later on. The reason? You may find
that you're not really interested in this free form style of learning.
Practically all of the grading is of a subjective nature; I mean to say,
that it is I who will be the judge and jury of your work. There is no
standard test that you all take. I will grade in two ways in this class:
Number 1: How far you progressed from where your started. Number 2: Do I
like what you are writing? If you are not comfortable with that, you can
get your money back this week and select another class. No hard feelings."
Reilly was completely relaxed, and so far, totally free from dependence
on notes. There was no tension, except for a sense of gathering
excitement. She leaned out over the lectern, bringing the class into focus,
making eye contact. I slid down in my seat, sitting on my tailbone.
Looking around, seeing mostly young people, a few gray heads, a few
baldheads, hoping she had not spotted me yet.
"Now, before you make any rash moves, let me say that I will be working
as hard, if not harder than you. I plan to read every paper initially.
Later, I will identify some teaching assistants who will help me in the
grading. It's been my experience that some of you come into class as
novices and some come as writers with at least a modicum of experience.
Again, if that does not set well with you, I understand. It is just the
way I do things, but I believe if you stick with me, and practice what I
preach, you will be one hundred percent better at your writing than you are
right now."
The first hour was a presentation on left brainright brain functions.
How the creative process was basically a right brain process, but that the
right hemisphere might as well be silly putty in a writer, unless she
brings the left brain into play. The linear left brain, is where language,
organization and other logical processes take place.
Then, at 8:15, (minutes were flying) Reilly looked at the clock and said
very seriously, "OK class, let's take a break. Everybody stand up and
straighten your underwear."
There was a short beat, then an abrupt spate of laughter, and we all
stood up, except for me. I waited till she exited the door at the front,
and then I rushed to the rear exit and looked at her back disappearing down
the hallway, in front of several female students. I knew where they were
headed. The males were making their way in the opposite direction, and I
joined them. I had no idea why I did not want to be noticed. Then
immediately, I absurdly thought, "If I want her to notice me, why am I
hiding?"
When I returned, I slowed as I approached the rear classroom door.
Keeping a milling squad of students in front of me. I shifted skillfully,
and was able to envelop myself in a group moving back into the room, and
seat myself at my desk.. However, I noticed that the classroom was filling
more slowly, and the students seemed scattered over the seventy desks.
At 8:30, Reilly mounted the podium and said, "OK guys, I told you it
would happen. What do we have now, about half a class? Some of you are
just being courteous, and will not return on Thursday, but that's fine. We
will meet in Room 225 on Thursday, which is half the size of this cavern.
Now, you stragglers, come up here and fill these empty seats!"
I tried to blend in, but I knew she would spot me as she watched us move
toward the front. I inadvertently aided her by allowing my book to be
knocked out of my hand by an eighteen-year-old blonde beauty. "Oh, I'm
sorry!" she said, and everyone looked my way as I dove for the text.
I retrieved it, stood up and was rewarded with, "Why, Clifford! What a
nice surprise!"
Baldness in itself really does not bother me but, when a bald man
blushes, it is with twice the skin of the hairy. "Very good class Ms.
Bartee."
"Oh, you can call me Reilly, we're very informal around here."
Somehow I remembered, and said with perfect coolness, "Ah, that's nice,
I'm somewhat informal myself."
Her bright smile drove the flush from my face, and I sat down in the
front row, ears cooling.
She summed up the right brain-left brain thing, assigned the first two
chapters of Gabriele Rico's book, WRITING THE NATURAL WAY and dismissed the
class at 9:00 PM sharp. The students crowded around her, and she
interacted with them, smiling all the way. Her eyes caught mine several
times, and lingered. I stayed at the rim of the circle and waited.
When the last two people left her, I stepped forward. I could see the
fatigue. Lines showed at her eyes, and at the corners of her mouth. Sweat
was beaded on her forehead. But she smiled again and said, "God, I'm
tired. I love this, but I feel beaten up and stomped down right now."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I was going to ask you out for a little refreshment."
"Clifford, I'm too weary to go anywhere but home and just sit back and
relax. I have some iced tea in the refrigerator. You come with me, and
let's drink it together."
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"After the rude way I turned you out?"
"You weren't rude, you were doing what you had to do!"
"Thanks Reilly, I can stop by for a few minutes."
I pulled my little Escort over to the faculty parking area and spotted a
dark blue Jeep Cherokee with a green arm waving out its window, and
followed it. We drove into Oregon, a suburb, whose streets wound around
several directions and thoroughly lost me. Finally, we entered a driveway
at the side of a large, frame, two-story house. In the dim light, I could
see gray siding and dark, colonial blue shutters. A front porch, almost a
verandah, guarded most of the front and side.
The two car garage door opened and Reilly pulled the Cherokee into the
space at the left. The right space was empty. She exited her car and
waved me into the garage. My heart skipped as I debated the invitation,
then I pulled in. We entered into a utility room hallway, along which were
the washer and dryer, and a bathroom on the other side. We came out into
the large kitchen. Large green ceramic tiles covered the floor. An
oversized refrigerator was on the left, sink and cabinets on the right,
stove in between.
She said, "This is a standard kitchen with everything pretty much the
way anyone would arrange it. The tea and ice are in the fridge; the
glasses are in the cabinets. Fix it up, and I'll be down in a minute."
"OK."
Then she walked into the dim room beyond, turned and was gone from view.
I heard her somewhere beyond, padding up carpeted stairs. I turned back to
the bathroom, and relieved a bit of liquid pressure that had been building
since we left the college. I looked carefully into my hand, and observed
that I was giving rise just a bit. I zipped up, flushed, rolled up my
sleeves, and went to stand at the sink, looking into the mirror. I too was
tired; the wrinkles were far deeper than any Reilly carried. Below my eyes
was a slight puffiness, a shade darker than the other skin. I let the cool
water run over my hands, soaped them, and washed my face. I washed all the
way to the back of my neck. I rinsed in cool water, and then washed my
hands up to the roll of my sleeves. I found a puffy white towel and rubbed
my face and head briskly. My gray hair stood out in a ridiculous half ring
with the naked hemisphere pushing out the top, and I thought of a daisy,
half plucked. In a low voice, I looked at the image in the mirror, and in
a barely audible voice I said, "Allan, why are you here?"
I pulled a comb through my hair too quickly and went back to the
kitchen. In the refrigerator was a large plastic pitcher full of tea.
There were some dark bottles on the bottom shelf, some Guinness, probably.
I took out the tea, found the glasses, filled them half way with ice, and
poured the tea. I stood and sipped my glass and felt the wetness travel
all the way down my gullet and splash in my stomach. My glass was
half-empty when she walked in barefoot, wearing a white terry cloth robe.
END OF PART 4 <1st attachment end>
<2nd attachment, "C 5.txt" begin>
{ASSM}
Title: Counselor Part 5 (MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus,
<OneGallus@yahoo.com>
Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it
violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica
offends you.
Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way
without author's permission.
THE COUNSELOR
Part 5
Her hair, now close to her face in small wet rings, had a darker cast
but retained its red glow. Her face was scrubbed from makeup. Red
splotches showed on her cheeks. She smiled and said, "We're quite informal
around here. By the way, you look like a daisy with one petal," pointing
to my hair.
I swiped it with my hand, then reached for her tea and handed it to her.
"Umm," she said, took it from me, and drank it down, loudly gulping as
she did. I watched with fascination as her white neck bobbed with each
gulp. Then she set down the glass and said, "Come in here and rub my feet,
they're killing me."
I followed her into the dim room, made slightly lighter by her switching
on a small lamp. We walked past a wooden dining table with straight-back
rope-bottomed chairs placed around it. We moved past a fireplace, a plaid
love seat, a television and several bookcases. A large leather couch was
at the very end of the room. A large green and grey oval rug centered the
room. We maneuvered around a heavy coffee table, toward which she pointed.
"You sit here," she said, and then she sat down carefully on the couch,
across from me.
I sat on the coffee table facing her. A distance of two feet separated
our knees. "Reilly, are you OK with.?"
"Don't ask me anything. Don't talk, I'm too tired to talk."
"But what about Del...?"
"No!" She shook her head vigorously. This is another world, and I am
not leaving it tonight. Her eyes were moist and her look was fierce.
I nodded my head, sat for a minute with my elbows on my knees, hands
dangling between. Suddenly her right foot pushed away my elbow and placed
itself on my knee. I sat up and grasped it with my fingers over her arch,
my thumbs firmly under the ball. I looked into her hazel eyes, and she was
smiling. I held her gaze and began to press gently and release, moving my
thumbs as I did.
I don't know why, but I have always been good at massage. My fingers
seem to instinctively seek out the small, invisible indentations on the
body and press them easily. When she closed her eyes and sighed through
her teeth, I looked down at her foot and leg. The robe was covering her
right knee, but I could see the light freckles on her shin. The foot was
soft and though it was not small, it was nowhere near my size thirteen.
Where the toes touched each other, there was a pale, pink color. I held
the arch with my left hand and bent her toes back firmly, holding them
there for a long moment. She groaned.
Having such wonderful results, I repeated the action several times.
When the groaning ceased, I moved to her ankle with my left hand while
cupping her heel with my right hand. As I pulsed firmly at her heel, I
lightly chaffed around her ankle. The groaning began again. I looked
toward her face, but her neck was slack and her eyes were softly closed.
Her lips were slightly parted and the low, breathy alto came with every
squeeze of her heel. The groans eventually stopped, and so I stopped
moving my hands. She slipped her right foot out of my hand, and replaced
it with her left foot. I traced through the same movements with little
variation.
"God, I love your hands," she said, head still bowed, features still
loose.
"I love your feet," I said and started pressing my thumbs to her arch.
"Umm," she crooned, are you a lover of feet?
"I love YOUR feet," I said, still working away.
"Well, that's interesting," she said, her speech slurring with her
relaxation, but lifted in mock shock.
"But, I also love your ankles and your legs," and with this I ran a hand
under her ankle and up her calf, where I paused and kneaded the firm flesh
there.
"Oooo, Clifford," she cooed.
"And I love the backs of your knees." I ran my hand up into the shallow
cavity created by the slight angle of her leg. The robe fell away halfway
up her thighs. A grassy fragrance floated up to greet me. I breathed
deeply taking it in. The backs of the knees, I believe, are some of the
most sensitive spots on a human being. A few people are even ticklish, but
most feel a radiating relaxation when stroked there. I love to be massaged
here myself, and I hoped Reilly would not jump and giggle. She didn't.
"Whooo" she exhaled in a whisper.
I pressed down her knee till her leg was in a straighter position, and
rubbed the same area with flat of my palm. "Whooo," it came again. Then
the most extraordinary thing happened. She raised her right foot and
placed it firmly on my hardening penis. As I rubbed her knee and leg, her
foot rocked back and forth on my crotch. I could hear a voice inside my
head. It was obviously shouting, but seemed miles away, I clenched my eyes
and it came again, "Allan, what are you doing here?"
"Clifford?" Reilly asked.
I looked up, and her hazel eyes were staring me squarely in the face.
"Take them off, NOW," she said.
I jerked my hands from her leg, and lifted them with my palms open and
startled.
She chuckled low, and rocked her foot on me again.
"Take these pants off!" she said.
I reluctantly put her foot down on the floor, crossed my legs and
removed the bulky, dull black Rockport from my foot. I pulled off the sock
as well. Then came the other one, sock and shoe at once, flipping out of
my hand and somersaulting off into a corner of the room. Then I stood, and
slid down my khakis, and stepped out of them. As I did, it occurred to me
that I had on my "senior underwear." I like to refer to them as my
"professional baseball underwear," seeing them outlined through the sleek
uniforms of the Toledo Mud Hens, as well as the big league teams. However,
when your pants are at your ankles, they are definitely your grandpa's
shorts. I was about to lower them.
"Wait a minute," she said.
I was dying. I waited through the long inspection.
"That is one pair of sexy underwear, Buster!"
"You say the most appropriate things, Reilly."
I stepped out of them and tossed them aside, much aware of my shrunken
sex, I then took a step toward the couch.
"Uh-Uh, your not through yet, Darlin', sit back down," she said.
I sat, the wood table was cool on my naked buttocks, my softness lost
and hanging somewhere below and in front of me.
"Here, rub some more," she said, and placed her soft foot directly on my
limp penis.
I felt myself stirring again as she rocked back and forth. I reached
down to her foot and began stroking its instep and ankle. She brought it
to my chest and played lightly over the front of my shirt. Then on a whim,
I lifted my right foot, and placed it between her legs.
I expected to feel the moist curls of her pubis against the sensitive
sole of my foot. There was moistness, to be sure, but I felt only smooth
skin. There was no harsh stubble, just a sweet softness. "Reilly, you
have no hair," I said tenderly.
"Not much," she smiled. I felt again, searching this time, and detected
a few filaments with the ball of my foot. Then she took my foot into her
hands and ground it against her vulva. Her other foot was moving toward my
face. She ran her toes along my cheek, caressing me. "Reilly, please," I
made a move to come to her.
"Clifford, please stay there." She pulled my foot to her, and I felt my
toes slipping into the wet folds. Her left foot moved down my cheek, her
toes now over my mouth and tapped there, lightly. I opened my lips and her
toes slipped inside, and I touched the tip of my tongue to each, licking
gently.
My own toes were now on her clitoris and I tapped lightly as she did on
my lips. My penis was now distended its full length, slightly past its
foreskin, which she deftly shifted about with her right foot. Every move
was slow and and flowed naturally into the other. Then I felt her hips
begin rise to meet my foot, which thrust firmly against her clitoris. She
pushed my foot down into her wet opening, taking over her clitoris with her
own fingers. She plunged forward then, sliding both feet to the floor and
lifting her pelvis toward me, then dropping away, impaled on my foot. I
have never felt anything so wonderfully unique in all my life.
Her movements were now furious, and she was panting audibly and deep,
"Uh, Uh, Uh." Finally, in one grand thrust, she held my foot into her as
far as it could possibly go, and went into a rigid tremble. Sharp,
falsetto, whimpers, strangely animal, chirped from her throat. I seemed to
me, I had never before given anyone quite so much pleasure; I felt nine
feet tall and my chest was light, and my heart was beating a steady rapid
rhythm.
She relaxed her hold on my foot, and sat up and back into the couch. My
foot dropped away. Her eyes fluttered, and she smiled. "Stay right where
you are, Darlin'." Then she closed her eyes for a full minute and sat with
a transfixed smile on her face. Then she suddenly dropped to her knees,
and took me into her mouth. I felt the chill of her wet hair against my
belly. She slid her hand along my penis with long slow strokes, stretching
back the foreskin, then lightly scratching her teeth against it as she went
down. Then she sucked on the upstroke, then stretched the foreskin back
again, and placed her thumb into the place where the tissues all come
together, the point of her nail sticking me there, just a little. I was
audibly panting. Her teeth gently gnawed the head of my penis.
"Oh!" I tensed, "Oh!" Then I groaned, loudly and sent my semen hurtling
up into her mouth. She greedily slurped and swallowed, letting the excess
run down across her hand. She lapped at it slowly and gently, and smiled
up at me. After a while she dreamily looked into my eyes.
"I am now relaxed and refreshed Clifford," and she lifted her body back
to the large couch. As she did, the fullness of her legs and glistening
vulva revealed themselves, but her robe was cinched at the waist, and her
breasts were hidden still. Floating up, and out from between them spilled
the Celtic cross. She lay back on the couch, on her side, her back against
its back. Her left breast fell over her right one and formed a crevice
four inches above the V of her robe lapels. Her right arm extended
straight out from her body. "Come lay beside me," She said.
As I lay facing her, her right arm came up around my neck, and she
pulled me to her mouth and kissed me, her lips parted. Then she lay,
breathing into my mouth, my right arm around her waist, my weight upon my
left arm. Her left arm was over my shoulder and arm, and I felt her breath
on my chin, tickling me, but I did not dare to move from the moment. Mouth
to mouth, belly to belly, hip to hip, we lay. Her left leg moved slowly up
between my legs and pressed gently against my scrotum. An hour past, she
was sleeping deeply.
First, my left shoulder went numb; then my back began aching. I
disentangled myself from her, slid my lower body into the floor and
awkwardly stood up, using the coffee table to support me. Aside from
closing herself into a fetal position, and smiling, she never showed any
signs of consciousness. I found a green afghan across the love seat, and
placed it over her limp body. Then I gathered my clothes, found my shoe in
the corner and dressed. I did not muffle my sounds, but she didn't stir. I
kissed her on the side of her head, and walked back to the kitchen. There
I found her ice tea class, filled it with tea, dropped in some ice cubes,
and drank it straight down in loud gulps. I visited the bathroom, flushed,
lowered the toilet seat, and washed my hands. I looked into the mirror. I
asked myself no questions. Then I headed for my Escort.
END OF PART 5
<2nd attachment end>
<3rd attachment, "C 6.txt" begin>
{ASSM}
Title: Counselor Part 6 (MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus,
<OneGallus@yahoo.com>
Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it
violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica
offends you.
Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way
without author's permission.
THE COUNSELOR
Part 6
I then stepped into her garage, reaching immediately for the
button-switch nearby, and the door opened. I got into my Escort and backed
out. I was reaching for my own remote door control, when it occurred to me
that I couldn't shut the garage door, duh.
I did not dare to leave it open; one doesn't do that in Toledo. I
didn't want to disturb Reilly, now sated and asleep. Actually, I was
pretty dissipated myself, and wanted to do nothing quite so much as lie
down on a wide bed and drift away. However, I had to navigate through a
strange neighborhood, and once I found my way out, I faced fifteen minutes
of freeway, and a late return to my wife.
I stared blankly at the open garage with the dark blue Cherokee inside.
Fianally, reaching a decision, I walked back through the garage to the
button, pressed it, and sprinted for the driveway, breaking through with
time to spare. But then the door immediately stopped, reversed itself, and
opened again.
I saw it then, a safety-light beam, a foot high, guarding against
accidental closures of the garage door on human heads. Tired, and now
winded from the dash, I walked slowly back into the garage, turned to
measure my distance. I set my feet for the fastest getaway, and hit the
button again. The door travelled its relentless pace downward as I burst
toward its opening; I reached it when the door already a third closed. I
crouched for head clearance, jumped to clear my feet over the beam, and
hurtled through in a distorted posture. When I landed, the door closed
nicely, but an old familiar pain bolted through my lower back. I stood,
bent and panting, feeling the tightness close around my spine. I was
exhasted from the long day, the sex, the sprints, and the spasms. My hands
on my knees were all that kept me from collapse. Slowly, I pushed my self
upward and emitted a "shhhhh" sound through my clenched teeth.
Now my back was overly straight, but my legs were flexed and splayed,
like I was holding my pants up, but I couldn't use my hands. I forced
myself to waddle back to my car, and I considered that neighbors could be
watching this strange commotion. Shamefaced, I backed into the car, sat,
then lifted my legs painfully inside. On the way back, I my teeth were
gnashed and my forehead creased, but the pain did keep me from falling
asleep at the wheel. Finally, I was at my own garage door and the opener
worked this time. I forced my feet up the two steps leading into the
house, and dragged my feet down the narrow carpet to my room. I could see
the light flooding in from the turn in the hallway, and her voice called
from inside. "Clifford! Where have you been?"
"Just a minute, Emily, I called, and limped into the hallway bathroom. I
kicked off my shoes, dragged off my socks, dropped my pants and shorts in a
pile, tore off my shirt and tee shirt, and slid open the shower door and
stepped into the bathtub. Thankfully, the handicap grab bars I had
installed for Mother enabled me steady myself and to turn on the water
which was soon not. I pressed the shower button and the mericful steamy
waterfall beat against my lower back like so many liquid needles.
Emily came to the doorway, "What's going on?"
"Ah, ooooh, ooooh!," I backed into the spray. "My back went out! I
went through a door and somehow twisted it the wrong way. Would you get
bring me a pain pill?"
She fished through the medicine cabinet and then called, "You want it
now?"
"Yes!" give it to me now!" She slid open the door a bit and put her
closed narrow hand through the crack and in and dropped the Darvocet into
my wet palm. I popped it and then took a glass of cold water, "How come
you're so late?" she asked.
"Oh!" I yelled out sharply, as I staggered against a feinted pain. I
regained my posture and said, "We went out for tea afterward, the teacher
was there too, had sort of a seminar. I was going through the door to my
car, and the pain just hit me! Remember when I picked that necktie off the
bed that time and it went out? I feel beat up and stomped down," I
grunted.
"Well, you could have given me a call, I was worried sick!" she whined.
"I'm sorry dear, we were so into it, I didn't even think about it," I
said. "Would you put a blanket and some pillows down on the floor in my
room? I don't think I can manage in the bed tonight.
The next day I was extremely sore, but I could stand straight. A little
tender loving selfcare, and I could possibly make it through the day. I
was late, and KC greeted me with, "You look like fifty miles of bad road,
Boss." That day, besides several other cases, I struggled through two
looming divorces, one teen age rebellion, and a repentant wifebeater. It
was burden enough for any one man, even with a good back.
That night, I set a foot-high step-stool under my computer monitor,
pulled out the center drawer of my desk, and put a large plastic storage
box on it. On the box I put a composition book and two Bic pens. I stood
and went to work on the exercises in "Writing the Natural Way."
I drew a small circle in the middle of the page, a "stalk" for my
cluster. Inside the circle I wrote, "Celtic." I drew a line shooting out
from the circle, and at the end of it I drew another circle. Inside I
wrote, "Reilly." Again. going back to "Celtic" I drew another line in the
opposite direction, drew a circle and wrote in "Pagan."
Then "Pagan" became my focus, and I drew a line from it, made a circle,
and wrote in "Bridget." Then another line from "Pagan," ending in a cirlce,
where I wrote "Sex." Then I drew a line from "Reilly" to "Bridget." Then
from "Sex" I drew a line and put a circle at the end, and wrote in "Naked."
Then another, "Dance." Then another, "Red." Then another, "Feet." Then
another, "Belly." Then my left brain threw a switch, and I immediately put
the notebook flat on my desk where I could see it. I placed my keyboard
and mouse on the storage box and began to write. Twenty minutes later I
read it to myself. With a few tweaks, twenty minutes after that, this is
what I had:
PAGAN GRASS Here I kneel on the soft turf of Erin, Dampness rising up
from the ground, The evening smell of earth and grass Musks at my flaring
nostrils. I gaze, fixed upon her dancing feet, Flecked with green seed and
black loam, Crushing and stamping, pressing into the earth, Beating out the
blood and marrow of the grass In the hot bright light of a peat-fire. Her
smell fuses the air, the grassy air upon her body. My hot eyes follow her
feet to her mottled legs, Her legs, leading thence to dusty thighs, Brushed
by the tatters of moving sackcloth. Through its coarse shreds I see her
reddened sex, Her rounded belly, sweaty, undulating. She dances near, and
I encircle her moving knees, Reaching outward, and upward, and behind, Till
I clasp my hungry hands into her nether flesh, And pull her glistening gut
to my mouth, and taste.
Clifford Allen
I worried a bit about the assignment, yet it was the result of what she
told us to do. I trusted to the cluster technique, which was nothing new
to me, having used Rico's method since 1984. It was a marvelous way of
releasing right brain, creative energy, and it would work for anyone. I
printed out a copy and slipped it into my notebook for tomorrow's class.
Then I checked the sheet Reilly had given out to the class called,
"Guidelines." At the end of the sheet was printed this request: "You can
save both of us a lot of work and time by e-mailing your assignments. They
must be in the form of attachments with full information. My e-mail
address is `LifeOfReilly@maumee.edu.'"
I attached the poem to a short e-mail note of explanation and sent it
that very moment. Then I went to the floor with Rico's book between and
before my elbows, and began to read over the first two chapters again. A
half hour later, "You've Got Mail" came out of my speakers, and I stood up
to check it.
It had one line. "Tea? Tomorrow Night?"
END OF PART 6
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