Two Women, Two Times, Two Lives, One Marvelous Moebius Tale
From a Long-Ago November to the Flanks of Mount Mitchell on a Mission
from 
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Lost Lovers, Undercover Operatives Hovering
SPRING AND YUM, SCANDALICIOUS HUM
Angie and I met so long ago, the young man who encountered her sardonic, slender, rangy, eye-to-eye size is hardly recognizeable as a predecessor to the fellow tapping away at this text. But it was me, the bad band playing standard rock at the ‘mixer’ predictably cacophonous, the black light strobe just surreal enough for me to approach her when she smiled, only a little tipsy, liking what she saw or at least bemused.
What did I look like at 18? Wild hair, cute in a clueless Irish American sort of way, a bit of a swagger the primary front for the bravado I tried so hard to feel, confidence about as foreign to me as Mandarin, the unchanging parts of a person always below the shifting surface. I had read somewhere that “women” would occasionally find “it sexy” if a fellow were very direct and frank in suggesting a liason.
Angie could tell that I had a question, and she showed me the quizzical cock of her head, the playful arch of her swan’s neck, for the first time, that became as familiar to me as her gallic nose and high cheek bones, as much a part of my map of the world as the touch of her lips and the taste of smoked tobacco on her tongue. The pounding inside of me was just enough more powerful than the band to allow a smile to emerge before I put my lips to her ear, without having to bend an inch, to shout “You want to FUCK??!!”
She drew back, and her arched right eyebrow appraised me. “What?” I could read her lips well enough, and the questioning intonation came through audibly as the band screeched to a halt. Something impelled me to continue, something in her invited---the upshot turned out to be that she had just broken up with another blonde and handsome boy---and I put my arms around her waist and put my lips on her ear, whispering now, “what I suggested was that we go up to my room and have SEX!!”
She laughed, but not in a derisive way, looked to see if I would hold her gaze, and miraculously I did. “Let’s dance” was her response, letting her voice drift as she said it, the promise there of “first!” in spite of not stating it. And the band played a syrupy slow number that caused our yearning flesh to join through layers of denim, and we fit nicely enough that she was kissing my neck halfway through the song.
I lipped her earlobe and nibbled what I found in my mouth, and her hips undulated against me in the original dance of our kind. We bit like cats and clung like apes, as flesh tried to find a way to purchase flesh. Flashing lights turned smoky tendrils into pockets of rising fog, out of which groping couples emerged as instantaneous statues. All the chemistry and heat of human sexual longing surrounded the scene, with Angie and Jim at the center.
She took my hand, and I followed. The November air was almost balmy, a last tinge of moist and mild before New England’s bitter cloak enshrouded us. We crossed the muddy quad, away from my place, until we reached the ivied bricks of Cabot Hall. When we stopped, she slipped my hand into her suddenly unbuttoned pants, where the wet hot slit of her flesh opened to my fingers. She had me out in the sweet dewy air, the caress of the breeze on my shaft so wet that steam rose from my crotch---she told me later---and wanting sounded in unison from our throats.
“Kiss me,” she said.
And when I engulfed her she kissed me back for a moment, before disengaging to leave my sex and take my face in her hands as I petted her pussy to readiness. “Kiss me like this!” And in the same article that had suggested ‘directness’, I had also read that women liked men who were teachable kissers, that no two women were likely to enjoy exactly the same combination of lips and tongue and teeth and pressure and depth and all that kissing is. So I kissed her back like she kissed me, lightly feathering her eyes, her nose, her chin, her neck, and letting our lips glide and slide while our tongues barely danced along the edges of our embrace.
And she rode my fingers and came on my hand with a cry that turned into a little laugh, though her face was wetter than the foggy air would cause, I thought. She closed her pants and laughed again at the dancing divination that extended from my pants like some sort of fleshy sword. “You better put that away before we go inside.”
Her roommate was visiting a sweetheart at Brown, so we had two twin beds in which to play, candles and incense and pot to burn. We kissed standing for interminable delicious minutes, after she had a candle going, the light dancing the shadows like lovers fucking on every wall, until she began to peel off her clothes. Our mouths continued their ministrations as she stepped from her jeans and her panties, and I kissed her belly as she pulled her sweater to release her nipples, which rose like salutes in the cool air of the room.
She pulled me up from her tummy and sex and began to unbutton my shirt, releasing my cock with a practiced flick of her hands. “So, I need to make sure, right? No strings attached?” the hint of accent when she asked this causing my penis to jump in greeting at this long delayed meeting of two old Celtic cousins long separated from the contact they wanted.
“This night is perfect unto itself” came out of my mouth without my contemplating a thing.
She nodded and her whole face smiled with a twinkle, her cheeks as ruddy as Santa’s when she added, “Well, I hope you’re discreet!”
When my mouth took her sex, she squealed and squirmed, albeit not with the delightful music I had discovered to be my ideal symphony. “My God!” She pushed me away. “That beard’s got to go!” Rapidly growing tiny razors have always plagued any attempt to be clean shaven, and Angie’s preternaturally sensitive sex wanted either fur or baby-soft flesh.
The final ritual of the night occurred when she led me, with a candle, to the bathroom, where we showered and then she shaved me, twice, before leading me back to the little bed, where she flowed the light of life into my mouth and burned her sex into my face. When I mounted her, the walls rang with her cries, which turned into sobs that were no longer the music of joyous abandon, but the minor chords of heartache and loss.
Out came the story of Kevin, the diplomat’s son who had abandoned her after a Summer affair on Cape Cod stretched into Autumn, their gourmet food service comeraderie---in which they had worked as a “duck-buzzard” team to find and rescue the half-eaten specialty of the house for each other----not enough for “Kev” to continue seeing a middle class girl whose father’s dark past precluded her from ever easily entering ‘polite’ society.
And thus followed the first installment of the unbelievable life story, of exile from Paris, kidnapping in Tangier, flight to Roxbury, and now a naked all night soul-baring with a mad Communist Ivy Leaguer who would choose love over money, sex over success, principle over opportunity again and again. And I discovered too, for the first time, that consummation can come without coming. Angie is still a friend, her entire life an incredible phenomena that will emerge as its own tender mercy, as well as the crazy story of our love affair.
She and I ended up together, Bohemian common law open relationship fiends for fucking and fighting and playing and dancing, for ten years. But after this first night, we did not see each other again for twenty two months, by which time my well-assembled talents would not so painfully recall the elegant “Kev,” and we could concentrate of finding what fate had in store for us.
Angie taught me that bombardment by beauty is disorienting, even if it is exhilarating. Her name is Dorina now, who introduced me to LuAnn, who is now Kaprananda. I still have the honor to spend occasional moments of congressional bliss with them both. LuAnn---damn! she hates when I still call her that---I mean to say Kapra, called me today and left a message, which is the real rationale for this post. She always has such interesting jobs for me to do.
God knows what Lu's got in mind for me. When you've got a lover who's a Buddhist nun---she insists that she 'removes the habit', so to say, when we have sex---you have to surrender to the flow of the river. I mean, I asked her when I returned her call what this was about, but she would only reply, "It's important, and I'll be at our spot on Mount Mitchell 'til four on the third. I won't say any more here or now. Come if you can Jimbo. If I know you're coming, I'll wait for you." She is well aware that I'd walk until my breath ceases, for the chance to run my nose along one of her creases. She isn't blatant about using this power, though, like I've experienced with other lasses a time or two.
Before turning to the Dalai Lama, Lu went from being Jewish to being Hindu as well as Kapra, under which name she then became a nun in a Tibetan order renowned for its wide field of activity. I have become one of her order’s couriers, on assignments about the purpose of which I am clueless. All I know is that I love this woman and have seen her ethics and passion for people in action on many occasions outside of bed. I would follow her generally even were she virginal, but since she is not and she loves me like a wild cat in estrus, I would walk into hell with a ‘fuck you’ note for Satan if she directed that it would benefit humankind.
In her 13 monts as a Hindu, Kapra’s favorite Uppanishad was one which posits that no higher love exists than the love that defies convention and defiles what is otherwise sacred. When she shared the intense intoxication she felt about overthrowing convention through love, I guess she was coming on to me for the first time.
What could be more defiling than upsetting oaths of celibacy with our wild abandon of furious fucking. God knows I don't know what makes love hot. The exotic erotic has a quixotic appeal, a jumbled combination of neurosis and psychosis with survival-of-the-fittest. God knows I'm a believer in no religion. I'm agnostic through and through. But this matter of animal passion, ingrained at such a depth that it simply and irresistibly IS, it is the sacred mystery at the heart of the cosmos. Of that much I feel comfortably certain.
I will write more about all of this, from time to time as fancy directs and events transpire that require our collective consideration.
SPRING AND YUM, SCANDALICIOUS HUM
Angie and I met so long ago, the young man who encountered her sardonic, slender, rangy, eye-to-eye size is hardly recognizeable as a predecessor to the fellow tapping away at this text. But it was me, the bad band playing standard rock at the ‘mixer’ predictably cacophonous, the black light strobe just surreal enough for me to approach her when she smiled, only a little tipsy, liking what she saw or at least bemused.
What did I look like at 18? Wild hair, cute in a clueless Irish American sort of way, a bit of a swagger the primary front for the bravado I tried so hard to feel, confidence about as foreign to me as Mandarin, the unchanging parts of a person always below the shifting surface. I had read somewhere that “women” would occasionally find “it sexy” if a fellow were very direct and frank in suggesting a liason.
Angie could tell that I had a question, and she showed me the quizzical cock of her head, the playful arch of her swan’s neck, for the first time, that became as familiar to me as her gallic nose and high cheek bones, as much a part of my map of the world as the touch of her lips and the taste of smoked tobacco on her tongue. The pounding inside of me was just enough more powerful than the band to allow a smile to emerge before I put my lips to her ear, without having to bend an inch, to shout “You want to FUCK??!!”
She drew back, and her arched right eyebrow appraised me. “What?” I could read her lips well enough, and the questioning intonation came through audibly as the band screeched to a halt. Something impelled me to continue, something in her invited---the upshot turned out to be that she had just broken up with another blonde and handsome boy---and I put my arms around her waist and put my lips on her ear, whispering now, “what I suggested was that we go up to my room and have SEX!!”
She laughed, but not in a derisive way, looked to see if I would hold her gaze, and miraculously I did. “Let’s dance” was her response, letting her voice drift as she said it, the promise there of “first!” in spite of not stating it. And the band played a syrupy slow number that caused our yearning flesh to join through layers of denim, and we fit nicely enough that she was kissing my neck halfway through the song.
I lipped her earlobe and nibbled what I found in my mouth, and her hips undulated against me in the original dance of our kind. We bit like cats and clung like apes, as flesh tried to find a way to purchase flesh. Flashing lights turned smoky tendrils into pockets of rising fog, out of which groping couples emerged as instantaneous statues. All the chemistry and heat of human sexual longing surrounded the scene, with Angie and Jim at the center.
She took my hand, and I followed. The November air was almost balmy, a last tinge of moist and mild before New England’s bitter cloak enshrouded us. We crossed the muddy quad, away from my place, until we reached the ivied bricks of Cabot Hall. When we stopped, she slipped my hand into her suddenly unbuttoned pants, where the wet hot slit of her flesh opened to my fingers. She had me out in the sweet dewy air, the caress of the breeze on my shaft so wet that steam rose from my crotch---she told me later---and wanting sounded in unison from our throats.
“Kiss me,” she said.
And when I engulfed her she kissed me back for a moment, before disengaging to leave my sex and take my face in her hands as I petted her pussy to readiness. “Kiss me like this!” And in the same article that had suggested ‘directness’, I had also read that women liked men who were teachable kissers, that no two women were likely to enjoy exactly the same combination of lips and tongue and teeth and pressure and depth and all that kissing is. So I kissed her back like she kissed me, lightly feathering her eyes, her nose, her chin, her neck, and letting our lips glide and slide while our tongues barely danced along the edges of our embrace.
And she rode my fingers and came on my hand with a cry that turned into a little laugh, though her face was wetter than the foggy air would cause, I thought. She closed her pants and laughed again at the dancing divination that extended from my pants like some sort of fleshy sword. “You better put that away before we go inside.”
Her roommate was visiting a sweetheart at Brown, so we had two twin beds in which to play, candles and incense and pot to burn. We kissed standing for interminable delicious minutes, after she had a candle going, the light dancing the shadows like lovers fucking on every wall, until she began to peel off her clothes. Our mouths continued their ministrations as she stepped from her jeans and her panties, and I kissed her belly as she pulled her sweater to release her nipples, which rose like salutes in the cool air of the room.
She pulled me up from her tummy and sex and began to unbutton my shirt, releasing my cock with a practiced flick of her hands. “So, I need to make sure, right? No strings attached?” the hint of accent when she asked this causing my penis to jump in greeting at this long delayed meeting of two old Celtic cousins long separated from the contact they wanted.
“This night is perfect unto itself” came out of my mouth without my contemplating a thing.
She nodded and her whole face smiled with a twinkle, her cheeks as ruddy as Santa’s when she added, “Well, I hope you’re discreet!”
When my mouth took her sex, she squealed and squirmed, albeit not with the delightful music I had discovered to be my ideal symphony. “My God!” She pushed me away. “That beard’s got to go!” Rapidly growing tiny razors have always plagued any attempt to be clean shaven, and Angie’s preternaturally sensitive sex wanted either fur or baby-soft flesh.
The final ritual of the night occurred when she led me, with a candle, to the bathroom, where we showered and then she shaved me, twice, before leading me back to the little bed, where she flowed the light of life into my mouth and burned her sex into my face. When I mounted her, the walls rang with her cries, which turned into sobs that were no longer the music of joyous abandon, but the minor chords of heartache and loss.
Out came the story of Kevin, the diplomat’s son who had abandoned her after a Summer affair on Cape Cod stretched into Autumn, their gourmet food service comeraderie---in which they had worked as a “duck-buzzard” team to find and rescue the half-eaten specialty of the house for each other----not enough for “Kev” to continue seeing a middle class girl whose father’s dark past precluded her from ever easily entering ‘polite’ society.
And thus followed the first installment of the unbelievable life story, of exile from Paris, kidnapping in Tangier, flight to Roxbury, and now a naked all night soul-baring with a mad Communist Ivy Leaguer who would choose love over money, sex over success, principle over opportunity again and again. And I discovered too, for the first time, that consummation can come without coming. Angie is still a friend, her entire life an incredible phenomena that will emerge as its own tender mercy, as well as the crazy story of our love affair.
She and I ended up together, Bohemian common law open relationship fiends for fucking and fighting and playing and dancing, for ten years. But after this first night, we did not see each other again for twenty two months, by which time my well-assembled talents would not so painfully recall the elegant “Kev,” and we could concentrate of finding what fate had in store for us.
Angie taught me that bombardment by beauty is disorienting, even if it is exhilarating. Her name is Dorina now, who introduced me to LuAnn, who is now Kaprananda. I still have the honor to spend occasional moments of congressional bliss with them both. LuAnn---damn! she hates when I still call her that---I mean to say Kapra, called me today and left a message, which is the real rationale for this post. She always has such interesting jobs for me to do.
God knows what Lu's got in mind for me. When you've got a lover who's a Buddhist nun---she insists that she 'removes the habit', so to say, when we have sex---you have to surrender to the flow of the river. I mean, I asked her when I returned her call what this was about, but she would only reply, "It's important, and I'll be at our spot on Mount Mitchell 'til four on the third. I won't say any more here or now. Come if you can Jimbo. If I know you're coming, I'll wait for you." She is well aware that I'd walk until my breath ceases, for the chance to run my nose along one of her creases. She isn't blatant about using this power, though, like I've experienced with other lasses a time or two.
Before turning to the Dalai Lama, Lu went from being Jewish to being Hindu as well as Kapra, under which name she then became a nun in a Tibetan order renowned for its wide field of activity. I have become one of her order’s couriers, on assignments about the purpose of which I am clueless. All I know is that I love this woman and have seen her ethics and passion for people in action on many occasions outside of bed. I would follow her generally even were she virginal, but since she is not and she loves me like a wild cat in estrus, I would walk into hell with a ‘fuck you’ note for Satan if she directed that it would benefit humankind.
In her 13 monts as a Hindu, Kapra’s favorite Uppanishad was one which posits that no higher love exists than the love that defies convention and defiles what is otherwise sacred. When she shared the intense intoxication she felt about overthrowing convention through love, I guess she was coming on to me for the first time.
What could be more defiling than upsetting oaths of celibacy with our wild abandon of furious fucking. God knows I don't know what makes love hot. The exotic erotic has a quixotic appeal, a jumbled combination of neurosis and psychosis with survival-of-the-fittest. God knows I'm a believer in no religion. I'm agnostic through and through. But this matter of animal passion, ingrained at such a depth that it simply and irresistibly IS, it is the sacred mystery at the heart of the cosmos. Of that much I feel comfortably certain.
I will write more about all of this, from time to time as fancy directs and events transpire that require our collective consideration.