Tangled 'L-Word' Triangles Jangling Thankfully
Sweet Memory and Righteous Recollection
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JoeUser Forums
Dangling Angles and Bangles to Untangle Blessed ‘L-word’ Triangles
WHEN ONE SORT OF ‘CONVERSATION’ LEADS TO ANOTHER!
I didn’t realize they were listening when Angie and Jennifer and I were talking. The three of us, about thirty minutes prior, had imbibed a cup full of Allissa’s magic Psciloscybin potion, and the predictable loosening of tongues and other routinely constricted aspects of ourselves was unfolding apace. I’ll be posting about Allissa’s parties soon---wild orgies of every possible description that were more conversational and interactional intercourse, for most people, than sexual exploration.
Not that these affairs lacked carnal congress---far from it, Allissa always elicited eros: she liked to watch, both for competitive and comparitive reasons, and for the strictly scientific rationale of wanting to know how people really fucked when they cut the strictures that normally made them love according to safe formulas divorced from their more fundamental proclivities. I’m wandering, of course. More will follow, later, about these mad, long-ago soirees, after I’ve figured out where I’m heading now. Ah, yes!
The listening “they”---from just above---about whom I will convey a plausibly interesting, possibly meaningful, story today consisted of a pair of lesbians, Jina and June. Jina was big and butch and as full of orgasmic energy as it’s possible to imagine a woman being who is not actually actively in the act of climaxing. June, on the other hand, like an elegant doll who concealed a banked furnace beneath all the porcelain and frills, exhibited a cool and critical exterior, but for eyes that burned holes in what they observed---which as things transpired tended to be the erogenous zones of those not watching back.
I never noticed them at the time, however, because Angie and Jennifer and I were howling through an interlude about bisexuality that emanated from Jennifer complaining to Angie, about her jealous boyfriend, who wanted to play along with one of Jennifer’s gal-pals, who tended to be buffed and discrete sorority girls. Each guffaw caused Angie’s breasts to dance beneath her blouse, pointed little waves on a windy pond that transfixed my eyes until Jennifer let loose another screamer.
“I mean, what would he do?” she giggled. “We use toys that are bigger and faster than any boy! I know Brad, he’d be embarrassed.”
Angie chuckled, “I like bigger, but I’ve had enough of fast!”
We all laughed, and I blushed, at which Angie fondled me wantonly and kissed my mouth. “Until I found Jimbo, they were all too fast.” Nothing wrong with reassurance, God knows!
“I like fast,” Jennifer said assuredly. “Fast and hard and BIG!!!”
“What kind of toys?” I was the eager journalist, even stoned out of my mind and ready to find a quiet corner ASAP. I giggled at what my imagination conjured, while Jen rummaged in her bag.
“Like this!” She slammed a double-dick-dildo in the middle of my lap, and the bean bag cushion she and Angie and I shared rocked with my sweetheart’s delighted squeals.
I hooted as well, of course, especially after Angie offered, “Jim’s a lot bigger than that!”
“May be, but he’s not nearly as long,” the rubber tube was at least a foot, probably an inch or two more, “or as flexible.” And Jen picked the two-headed anatomically accurate shaft up, precisely halfway between the crowns, holding it as she might encircle a cock, between her thumb and forefinger. “See!” She looked me in the eye and blushed as she gently jiggled the thing and caused each head to bounce concentrically, opposite each other, so that all eyes riveted on the patterns until the drunken laughter of lusty love exploded once again.
“Listen, you!” I’ve always got some insight to announce, right? “You ought to invite Brad along. I guarantee you’d have more fun with a warm live one, in between, you know!” And I licked my lips and ground my hips so that we all moved in unison on the big bag chair, until Angie jumped on top of me and Jennifer went off to find other friends.
Of course Jennifer ended up spending a few nights, coming between Angie and me, so to speak, but this night was not the first of those encounters. Angie and I went home to our big bed as we peaked on the drug, and our own experiences of each other made any idea of heaven other than the pair of us, as we were that moment, seem a pekid and pallid place. The next peek we had was as we awoke to the sun, coming through our bottom Levilore, to kiss our faces nestling in each other where we had collapsed four or five hours before, in some interminable state of satiation, engorgement, and eternal starvation for all the intersections of mutual intoxication that two lovers make possible.
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A few weeks later, Angie had absconded with her rangy buddy, Thomas, to New Hampshire and Boston, to visit her parents and leave the desert Bozart of Alabama behind for a time. Thomas was the fellow who, she informed me, “constantly asks what I’m doing with a loser who would ‘LET YOU GO WITH OTHER GUYS!?’” I felt like a loser about that a lot, too. But we had taken a path, a long and winding road full of all kinds of interesting twists and turns, one reaction to the false bullshit that many people enforce in the name of a monogamy and fidelity that they neither understood nor, in most cases, followed through to lifelong committed relationships.
I was in the Chukker, the bar that sponsored the soccer team for which I had just begun to play---one of the many activities I came to appreciate after my youth---contemplating the feelings and longings attendant on the choices I’d made. Michelle---my goodness, what a ‘thing’ we shared---had broken off with me before Angie left, “tired of being used,” she said, insistent that I couldn’t possibly love another as I loved her and that I had to be “God’s biggest idiot.” Martha, who ran the bookstore and had seduced me in spite of my complete conviction that she could never care for me, was with a gaggle of girls and said it wasn’t “a good time,” indicating her period. She was a woman who don’t like to fuck while bleeding---I swear to God she didn’t want to ruin any of her sheets or carpets: “so don’t buy cream colored shit,” I’d told her the first mess we made.
Damn the luck! The clock said 12:00, meaning the time was actually 12:30, and I was about to head out, pondering through the stink of smoke and human-flesh-made-fluid whether Thomas and Angie had engaged in something more enthralling for their Saturday night. She would return next Friday, most likely, and the prospects seemed far-fetched for me to enjoy much “congressional support” during that period of time.
Caught thus between rue and melancholy, between a rye smile and a sigh, I was unprepared for the size that sidled and slid in, across from me, at the booth I always took on nights like this, when Angie was away or otherwise engaged. A big woman, dripping with energy of the most interesting sort to a man in my condition, looked me full in the face. “We’ve been watching you,” she smiled, inclining her head vaguely through the miasma of smoke and noise and paltry light.
My laugh barked a disbelieving and wondrous, “WHOA!” in response.
“We wanted to know, basically,” and she paused and sucked up power with the tobacco fumes, “if you meant what you said a couple weeks back?” I stared and grinned, clueless but RWA for pretty much anything. “You know: that we’d”---her eyes rolled away from me, to recollect exactly the words she’d rehearsed---”’have more fun with a warm live one, in between, you know?’”
And I laughed loud and long, Alissa’s bean bag chair and the amazing night that accompanied it flooding over me and coursing especially through my loins, so that I shifted to relieve the sudden tension in my shorts, a motion my new friend noticed with definite interest, eyes akin to the greedy ownership of a child who had just obtained the toy she’d been begging to have for many moons.
“I’m Jina,” she extended her hand to me, as my laughter subsided, and my eyes fixed on nipples more erect than I was, so far. She held my hand, a warm glove enfolding me, and she did not let me go even as she turned her head to acknowledge a taut and quiet “Hey!” from the edge of the booth. “This is June,” Jina patiently directed my eyes to follow her glance, to take in the Alabama redneck doll rising from the side of the table like a Mason-Dixon Venus, big hair and tight bra somehow as natural as silken locks and seaweed.
Jina blocked the seat June wanted and willed her ‘girl’ to sit next to me, willed her, as Jina continued to fondle my fingers and caress my wrist, to prance her inch long nails up and down my bare legs and into the warmer places until Jina’s buttons were but seeds to the oak I’d become. June nodded to Jina, who let go my hand and gave me the look of the dealmaker triumphant.
“We’ve got an offer for you,” she said. “We’ve talked to Jennifer, she says the word is that you really like,” and we all chuckled a little as she licked her lips, even nervous and nasty June, who couldn’t take her eyes from the darkness where her hand still touched my swollen crotch, “girls---even girls like us.”
The mirth bubbled out of me like froth from cheap champagne.
“You have to do exactly what we say, you can’t...”
The bubbles kept coming, like a pent up geyser from deep inside, and I nodded; “Yes, yes, yes, YES! Whatever you ask, whatever...”
June gave me a little pinch and Jina released my hand, interrupting me: “Good! Let’s go.”
How much would folks like to know, of the night that followed? I’ve written both ‘R’ and XTRA “XXX” versions, dear good Lord help me. Jina related to me that it was all June’s wandering eye that had brought us to this pass. “She hadn’t been with a boy since high school, you know? And he was a bastard.” That silence was not conducive to libations or turgididy, I assure you.
Jina was quite a conductor; she picked us all up again. “That night at Alissa’s, though?” She couldn’t take her eyes off of you and Angie. She wouldn’t let me take her home, til you guys left.” Jina wanted June to be more “assertive,” which, for lesbians ALWAYS means hot in the hay, and figured whatever she saw in me might be just the ticket.
For this interlude, suffice it to say, that many hours later June came to a point of screeching wildcat wonder that a man could care enough to let her find her way, find the combination of rhythm and route and ride that let loose the most powerful force on this sweet earth, astride me like she was a y oung girlbreaking in a new pony.
Jina---a furry waterfalling wonder of juice and jism---well, if imagination doesn’t suggest her posture as she kissed her lover just at this juncture, just as she too released another load of honey in my face, perhaps another time will demonstrate the physics of fucking more explicitly. That night was the second joyous instance of such yummalicious exquisite eruption in my lucky life. And I had figured out, thanks to Angie and Jennifer and my own hungry nature, to lap up the cascading rush of life’s most precious fluids without stint or scrimp or any hint of the penitent potentate.
Out of this night grew the recognition, valid to this midnight scribble twenty seven years later, that I and most men who do indeed love the womanly feminine goddess goodness of Gaia’s gifts are nothing other than lesbians with dicks. What tonight’s Vernal confluence of air and human scent might yield, in any given moment, is a matter of timing and history and fate. But these patterns, which Jina and June and Jim burned in our collective consciousness, are as old as the human condition.
If ever Eden existed, these were its gentle jumbles of wanton whim and wildly wilful sacred play.
As folks know I like to say, “THAT’S MY STORY, AND I’M STICKING TO IT!!”