Fur Fairies and Fondly Fondled Memories of Yum
A Paean to Well-Pelted Women
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
Chary of Salutary Hairy, Finding the Faerie Queen in the Current Scary Climate
BRAVING HAZING BY BEHAVING AS IF SHAVING WERE INSANE
“Show me how Lord!” is one of my favorite Christian expressions. I’ve been wanting to speak of the time, just after Angie and I had spent our first month as a couple, when she wrote to me the famous line, “It’s very bloody, buddy!!” However, other than the hot sex and infidelity, always worthy of interest but lacking in any je ne sais quoi, I hadn’t come to terms with what the post woud be ABOUT. I can’t help myself; even when I write of the sweetest, hottest moments of life’s deepest and most maddening mysteries, I want a theme, a conversational nexus, ideas of consequence(to me, anyway, eh?)to be a part of the story.
An unplanned exchange with Joe and Casey, my miscreant beauties, presented me with the perfect approach to this earlier tale. We were together today, as is our wont on many weekends, and as is frequently the case when we are winding down the day or otherwise experiencing a lull in the action of our interaction, the television had engaged the two of them. I watch no TV, a rejection-of-habit at which it is hard to imagine anyone succeeding, especially someone who has produced for the medium and believes he has powerful material, which is in fact already partially produced in many cases, that would be successful and marketable in all electronic formats. Nonetheless, but for a mild film habit, I READ about “the media” rather than giving myself over to the experience.
I happened to pay attention as I passed through, though, because one of my favorite scenes from “Lethal Weapon” was playing on TNT.
“Dad, you’re too close to the screen,” noted my son.
“Yeah,” said Casey, “it won’t go away. Promise.”
I chuckled at their mocking my myopia, as Mel Gibson and Danny Glover survived the bomb-in-the-toilet routine, but when I rose to wend my way away from the ‘boob-tube’, a captivating commercial interlude riveted me in place. Very attractive women---not just beautiful but sexually alluring---in settings very provocative---bath, shower, bathroom, bed---and wearing nothing or strategically placed tiny bits of towel and tease, were preparing for rapture with a nifty device nearly as sleek and irresistible as they were. Schick offered this little item for sale, in order to remove all tendencies for women to be hirsute below the waist(although explicitly only legs showed up on screen).
I guffawed at the slickness of this mad insanity, its obvious social purpose to sexualize a ritual removal of sexual energy from our beings, in order to sell more stuff to the sad creatures filled with the deprivation inevitably attendant on this process. Biologically, one of the primary purposes of OUR hair, off the head and near the crotch in particular, is to transport odor. Our olfactory senses prefer the yummy scent of our cummalicious regions to anything else from God’s bakery. We perform, sexually speaking, in part due to this confluence of smell and desire. The recent recognition of an olfactory capacity in sperm is interesting in this regard.
“WHAT??!” Joseph and Casey responded as if to a cue card. Both of my children know of my thinking on this topic, and they love to bait me with their conventional ideas---that furry women are ‘gross,’ ‘disgusting,’ and---the ever hilarious notion---’unnatural.’ I didn’t care to take up the gauntlet today that they jointly cast down with such expert intonation and timing. I will write here, at some point, regularly, about the science of sex, the common sense and basic logic of human sexuality, which contemporary discussion-models encourage us to see in ways practically suicidal and always disempowering.
The beneficent serendipity of our chatter, this minute, is its connection to Angie, she with whom I had the “No Strings Attached Hope Your Discreet” fling thirty years ago, that led two years later---about which more at another time, YUM!!---to our reconnection, passionate mutual intoxication, and ten year coupling. Our Ivy League Christmas break briefly sundered us, although the month apart then seemed like one of the uneroded and impassable ‘grand canyons’ on planets without precipitation or atmospheres.
A month prior to this separation, we had pled troth to one another in as articulate a manner as the nerdy and wild and slutty likes of us could, concomitatntly continuing to make ourselves multiorgasmically noteworthy in the hallowed old halls and tiny twin beds of South House, along with other venues, often frigid but for the heat which we imparted to the scenes. Unfortunately, Angie missed a pair of doses of her birth control pills during the Thanksgiving interlude, which led us, in the event of her period being late, to obsess about the implications of pregnancy and other fundamental questions associated with enthusiastic fucking. I sent her off to France, her motherland---about which LOADS of additional material will be forthcoming in the fullness of time---with a sweet card, hoping for plenty of short-term memories of her sweetness, and for the sweet scent of bountiful blood in Paris.
In the period prior to the memory lapse which may or may not have led to the periodic lapse that so worried us, prior to our agreeing to twine our lives together for an indeterminate but hopefully eternal length of time, she asked me the question one evening beloved of highly intelligent women of all social millieu except the very top. We had engorged ourselves in the most fiery engagements for a length of time that had taken us from deep in Friday night to the wee predawn hours of Saturday morning. We were insatiable in that way that complete satiety brings about in folks for whom fucking, and erotic entanglement generally, is inherently the finest way for two people who love each other to spend time together.
“Why do you love me?” She had asked before, but never in a way that required an answer, as this moment surely did.
I had thought about my feelings, and I had consisdered extensively, in my year away from Massachusetts, what the nature of love was. I have carried that youthful assessment to this day, albeit with more emotional intelligence and a greater sense of responsibility, as well as as much experience as nature and fate would allow. Love is a choice, whatever the nature of one’s affections for a certain person or being. And that is what I told her.
“Love is a choice.” Then I continued, “every person, in my estimation, has some greater or lesser number of ‘chemically attuned’ love lights wandering loose in the human prospect.” She looked at me quizzically at this, so I added a brief list of the more standard qualities of hers that I held in very high regard. Her height, for one thing. Her accent, for another. Her analytical brilliance and wild sense of humor. Her ass. And then I admitted. “I like that your French, Angie. I’ve always thought most American girls were so fucked up about so many things; I’ve DREAMED of being with a European.” We looked at each other, sleeplessly fanatic in our interrelated love habit. “Therefore,” I grinned.
“I am your dream come true.”
And we laughed and lapped up some more of each other, my energy at that juncture of the night beyond anything climactic, in those years prior to Tantric mastery and new ways of coming, although Angie had one more wild flight: “le petit mort,” she liked to whisper to me. “The little death,” the estimably erotically expressive descendants of Charlegmagne called coming.
Before we slept that night, pinning me to her wet twin sheets as our own moist warmth twinned the best possibilities of the human condition, she told me, as if in a challenge. “Perhaps I should let my hair go then, if you like French girls so much.”
And I was clueless. I mean, I knew women shaved beneath their armpits and on their legs. But I never wondered about the origins, purposes, or possible alternatives to this practice. My first lover---what a HOOT that was, from coming in my pants to greeting the dawn from bushes at my high school almer mater while Jennifer exploded for the umpteenth time---hadn’t shaved and, as we said in South Texas, “I ate that shit up!” Nor did I have what one of my high school girl friends had described as the “icky” feelling she had when she pondered Jennifer’s proclivity for fur-like-a-fox, a red fox.
But I thought Angie was referring to her fine mop of a mane, which I hadn’t mentioned on my list but that was certainly one of the attributes of hers I adored---basically everything fit in this category at this early stage of our common law conjunction. I stroked her hair and murmured in the fitful throes of 5:00 A.M. fatigue finally hitting me, “I’d like that.”
She ground my still throbbing erection one more time inside her, slipped off of me, and said, “Not there, silly, and she took my hand and trailed across both her breasts to her left armpit and let my fingers linger their and cause my mind to contemplate fucking yet another time. “There!” Her hands were smiling along with her mouth when she placed my hand under her right arm, whispering “there.” And she giggled a bit when she took my fingers into her mouth, before putting them on her still throbbing sex, to tease me, “THERE!!”
That woke me right up, but she had to work at nine, so she sweetly kissed me to sleep instead of dallying any further. We spoke often, however, in the weeks that passed with us in love and lust so deeply we swam in each other daily, about this possibility to enlarge the feminine pelt which so beautifully graced her otherwise. The more I thought about the notion, the better I liked the idea. I recalled Jennifer and imagined that this was one of the reasons she won my shy virginal ass and saved me, just prior to heading North, from God-knows-how-long as a masturdebater only, so to say.
Thus, when I gave Angie the card that dispatched her to Logan Field and Europe with undying love and prayers for gushes of blood, I spoke intimately into her ear during our final embrace, under the watchful gaze of her amazing father---readers are in for a treat as this comes out, believe me---”and come back with a hairy pussy, baby!” She laughed and blushed, a very difficult trick to bring off with Angie, who prided herself on her imperturbability, and her mother ushered her away from me with a knowing Gallic nod.
I stayed in Boston that Christmas, the poker game with all my rich nuts continuing through the holidays---another whopper to await with bated breath---and no particular impulsion to visit San Antonio extant. Also, my director wanted me to read some scripts---another yarn if I may be so bold as to be the pain-in-the-ass I can’t help but being when I think of all these tales---and, as the case came to pass, wanted to hear about how I was in bed after Colorado, after the hilarious affair with “Fukwanda” during my freshman year.
He had asked me about Angie a bunch, figuring I must be a different fellow and all. And of course I was---very different now, dapper and dandy as well as diligent and randy. But Ricardo was an “inquiring minds want to know” sort of Harvard man, so he had me do a few ‘readings’ with Amanda, a friend---and no doubt a lover, as well as a cousin---of his from Puerto Rico.
Amanda wore her shag hair expensiively, as even I could tell, even in 1975. She invited me home after our second reading, and after missing Angie for two weeks I was probably the easiest conquest on earth. I’ve always been a cheap date, but even an artless fool with Amanda’s tight tennis body and well-bred manner could have taken me that night. When I finally asked, at two in the morning, after we had been kissing for an hour, “Would you like to make love?” she chortled in her sophisticated way and replied.
“You mean, as a topic of conversation?” And I howled with glee as we proceeded to have at each other until we sauntered off for a Courier House breakfast at 7:30.
The issue turned out to be that, always quick to love and give my heart away, I fell for her---another furry femme who grew her wiles into exotic pools of pheromonal delight that I found almost impossibly delicious. And for some reason: because she was a rebellious woman from a culture that left little room for that; because she recognized my earnest genuine affection for what it was; who knows why? she also wanted me. Not as a stud-on-the-side did she ask for my attentions. She begged me to leave Angie; she expressed love as the choice I knew it was; she argued cogently that what we had was love.
Amanda would never have asked “why do you love me?” Family money, unparalleled opportunities, and more of like ilk awaited the young man who won her heart. When Angie wrapped herself around me at Logan, though, locking her legs around my hips and shouting with glee in front of her mother’s pursed smile and her father’s modest nod of approval, fate decided the matter.
Angie’s blouse, on her arrival, was very inappropriate for New England’s harsh January. But she needed to show me, to display, to offer for my sense the scent of her approval in the lush bush beneath her arms. I wonder to this day if I would have made the same choice had she returned shorn and naked in the third warmest crevass we carry about from cradle to grave. She didn’t, and we spent years about which folks will hear more.
Amanda and I saw each other a few times further, before she drifted away in recognition that this competition---she was a Radcliffe woman, after all---was beyond even the plethora of resources that she could bring to bear.
A few days prior to returning, I received the only true telegram I’ve ever gotten. “FROM: Angela Altman,” graced the cover, as I recall. Inside, to my guilty delight was the message I wanted. “LOVE YOU MADLY. STOP. IT’S VERY BLOODY, BUDDY! STOP. NO BOY HERE IS AS CUTE AS YOU. STOP. XXXXXX”
The analytical unravelling of body hair is loads of fun, of course. This reconstruction, though, is all the evidence I’ll ever need that the case against shaving is unarguable. We are made to sprout, to wear our fecundity for nose and lips and thrilling touch of skin to behold, in every way that sense makes possible the carniverous consumption of these blessed sacred scents.
As I like to say, eh? THAT’S MY STORY AND I’M STICKING TO IT!!