Thursday, January 19, 2017

HAND JOB

A few days ago I posted an early sexual memory of my own and wrote out to previous contributors requesting more of the same kind. If I'm to do this book I have in mind, there would be a glaring gap if I were not to include memories about boys' discovery of their bodies and their early sexual memories. It seems that this is not something men are eager to talk about--and more's the pity. It's a big part of growing up. Also... I note that it's really hard to write about something so intimate as sex and hit the right note. Our language for the parts involved is quite inadequate in English--the words are either clinical, or coy, or simply pornographic. I stumbled into a solution in my novel, The Pilgrim's Staff, by resorting to 18th century English. It did sound a bit quaint, but then the narrator was an 18th century English gentleman, so it was okay if he sounded quaint.

What follows is one response to my appeal. This brave attempt at a truly difficult task comes from Walter Seavy (a pseudonym, per his request), remembering his experience at age 16-17. I have another charming story for my next post, but I'm still asking/hoping for others.

HAND JOB
by Walter Seavy

Memories of childhood on my Uncle's farm remain some of the best times where friends gathered to  play in the hay, milk the cows, and remember how raw milk tastes.  Today shoppers don't know what the taste of real milk is any longer. In today's super-pasteurized world, our processed milk lacks the layer of thick cream at the top and lasts in our refrigerator for a month or two. Milk is no longer real.  Like women's breasts. Time passes and whipped cream now comes in a pressurized can.

All of my life I have watched the young girls pass me by. They have come and gone with the rich cream of their lives that disappear from my sight, but not my memory.

Some inexplicable happenings are connected in another dimension by meaning. Coincidences are not by chance. The days of my folks driving to my Uncle OJ's farm to get milk and eggs for the house are fond memories...



While everyone was chatting inside, I would run out to the barn hoping to play with two blonde girls, Sally and her younger sister Elizabeth, who often came to play in the barn. We would build hay bale tunnels that led to a private place where I would sneak a kiss from Sally who would join me hiding from her sister in the game of hide and seek.  Those times didn't happen often; it was by chance, that Sally would be there. But when they were there it was a wonderful surprise. Sally and I made the most of our chance encounters. She reminded me of the bakery's hot cross buns with sweet white crosses of frosting across glazed raised buns. Besides sneaking a kiss and copping a feel in the hay, we would run inside and put our hands in the cookie jar for molasses cookies.

Then one day in the spring I rode my bicycle to the farm. Sally was there.  It was the beginning of the end. The days of feeding worm eaten apples to the cows and having apple slinger fights were soon to be over. 

A notice by the state Maine declaring eminent domain bought a portion of Uncle OJ's farm that split the farmhouse from the inner vale where the cows and sheep were in pasture.  Right behind the farm house, maybe twenty yards away, bulldozers and earth movers piled high rocks and dirt to put a turnpike spur across Uncle's land. Now he would have to take the cows down the road and under a bridge to the other side of the turnpike to reach the grassland and the historic grave yard near some crab apple trees.  Progress. There was nothing anyone could do.

Sally and I watched bulldozers come and destroy the well by raising the earth level behind the barn to 20 feet or more, rising above the farms' two-story roof.  A culvert was placed under the turnpike for drainage. One day, I asked Sally to take a chance with me and be like Becky Thatcher and Tom Sawyer. We would escape to disappear underground, searching to find if this mysterious hole went to a new happy land.

Sally took my hand. She was daring, and together we crawled into the dark recesses of this labyrinthine tunnel.  We  could not see the other side at first, but half way through the culvert a light began to appear. At the same time there was a deep hole where water dripped down to who knows where. We were lucky to have just enough light to avoid falling to our death. We did reach the other side. The apple trees were in bloom, and all was well. Together we had faced a challenge head on and were happy to be safe. We hugged and kissed as we stood outside the culvert. We were hot, sweaty and dirty.  Sally suggested we go down to the trestle. I had never been there. She led the way to where the creek made a bend to create a sandy beach and the water was deeper. I kissed her under the railroad bridge.

We stripped down to our undies. She lay back on the sand in the warm afternoon sun. I knelt down next to her. I touched her toes. They curled in the sand. I blew and brushed off the sand.  My mouth wrapped around her big toe, my tongue slipped between the toe cleavage. Down and up, in and out, then slowly stroking with my hands I licked my way to her ankles, her knees, then up to her thighs, to her soft blue cotton undies. The so-soft down protruded slightly from the edges of the fruit pie between her legs. I worked my way up to her stomach and then her breasts.

She reached into my pants. I was aroused. I fumbled to remove her bra. Her hot cross-your-heart bra finally exposed to the elements those pure snow white mountains with a cherry on top.  I was in heaven. Forget playing in dark and dusty hay tunnels. We kissed more. Her mouth opened wide and sucked in my curled tongue that slipped between her wet crevice, slightly salty with sweat, but which soon began to taste like vanilla pudding in my mouth. 

My hands started to tug at her dark cotton panties. She and I were panting, but she said, "No. I'm on my period." I was devastated. I was so very hard. I wanted her so much. She stroked me several times. It didn't take long. The cream rose to then shush down her delicious white mountain sundae like a skier's snow trail. It was my first time not doing it by myself, with fantasies of love making. This time it was real. My toes curled in the sand by the water's edge. She stroked my member, squeezing out every last drop. The last thing I did was grab her tiny fairy princess derrière and pull her essence toward me. There was nothing more I could do but seek further shrinkage in the cold water.

This was our last time together. After years of playing 'house' in the hay, dreaming of her under the covers at night in my bed alone, she left me with a memory that has lasted years. The next day she left for Washington state.  Her father got a new job.

        




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