Chapter 4

The first few days of our stay in Vancouver were used up just looking in shop windows and buying whatever we could afford, which wasn't very much. But after The Short Hairs opened in a coffee house called The Little Wren, things started to pop as far as we were concerned. And I mean pop!

The night of the opening, a big party was thrown for the boys in the group. Naturally, as their official pieces of tail, Anne, Shanks and I were in attendance. The party was held in an old house which was occupied by a hippy and his woman. The house was due to be appropriated by the city within a couple of months, so there was no sweat about getting stoned and causing damage.

At first there was nothing different about the party. Except for the loud music, it was much like the parties my parents used to throw. There were people standing around in all the rooms drinking and yelling to each other over the sounds coming from the stereo. There were tall slim girls, standing in models' poses, twisting their bodies so that their tiny breasts would protrude through their flowered pantsuits. And there were shorter, more buxom girls in low-necked dresses who even at that early hour had deep red ridges across their breasts from their bras, which they bought a size too small so that they would hang out. And there were ugly girls who continually argued political subjects so that they would appear intelligent and the boys they were talking to would not get a chance to take a good look at them and see just how ugly they were. And then there were the men. The men with long hair down to their shoulders, who wore rimless glasses and tilted their heads to one side when they talked and said ridiculous things like, "Oh, mannnn, what groovy ear lobes you have." They think you're really intelligent or sensitive or something like that if you make a fuss over little things and ignore the big things. Then there were the men who had shorter hair and bigger bodies, who seemed as though they had an erection all the time. When they were talking to you, they looked as though they could see a cunt in your face. Then there were the you-can-have-me-if-you-like kind who just walked from one girl to another, talking with each one just long enough to see if she were interested. If she weren't they moved on to the next one.

But the one I remember the most was a stumpy little character named Joe. I never did get to know his last name, not that I wanted to. Joe had curly hair which he obviously set himself every month or so. He wore glasses and had a mustache that hung down like a Mexican's. He was a bit tubby and inferior-looking. The main reason I remember him was because he was the first person I fucked that night, or rather the first one I tried to fuck. Poor little Joe didn't have much going for him when it came to laying a girl. But I should go back and tell you the whole story, otherwise you're not likely to appreciate it.

I ran into Joe about an hour after I arrived at the party. He was standing at the bookcase in the broken-down living room. I overheard him telling someone about all the books he had written. He was saying that he had written three books on the subject of epistemology. I later looked that word up and found out what it meant, but at the time I didn't have a clue what it was all about. All I knew was that it sounded very impressive and here I was standing beside a man who had written not one but three books on the subject. I listened attentively. Someone standing nearby claimed that he had studied philosophy at the university and had never heard of Joe's books. Little Joe was almost too quick to point out that he had written them all under false names. That topic of conversation was soon dropped, but only minutes later I again overheard Joe talking, this time to a different set of people. He was informing them of his not-inglorious career as a painter, but when a sincere young girl asked him if he would do a quick sketch of her in the nude, he made excuses and walked away.

Well, to make a long story short, during the next three hours, as I followed this fellow around, I learned that he had been a writer of philosophy, novels, plays, an artist, a sailor, the pilot of a private plane, a musician of some recognition, a cowboy and an actor, not to mention the holder of an M.A. from the University of Southern California. I did not think it rash of me to conclude that since he was only 22 years old, little Joseph had to be the most proficient shooter of bullshit I have ever met. But even though he was a pain to listen to, the party wouldn't have been half as much fun without him. This is what happened.

Several of us were sitting in the corner listening to Joe brag about what a great lover he was. He could get any girl, any girl in the world, into bed with him within one week, he claimed. Apparently this was because, in addition to all the other things, he was an expert on female psychology.

"A rapist can get any girl he wants, given the right set of circumstances," I suggested. But it didn't phase Joe. He claimed he could do it without force. In fact, he said that in a week any girl would beg him to take her to bed.

It was then that I issued the challenge. "Let's go upstairs and I'll be the judge of fucking abilities."

Right away he got scared, probably because I had so brazenly used the word fucking. But he had committed himself in front of too many people to back down. I got up and headed for the stairs. He would have followed me, so he said, except that he had not come to the party to have sexual intercourse. He had come to "partake of some intellectual conversation."

"Okay," said I, "I will discuss Shakespeare with you while you put the blocks to me."

Again he made excuses. "I don't do it on command. I do it when I feel like it."

I didn't have to answer that one. Practically everybody in the room was listening in on our little cat and mouse game by now and they all laughed in his face. He was trapped and he knew it. He had a choice between making a fool of himself in front of me upstairs, or in front of all the people at the party downstairs. Wisely, he chose to follow me up to the bedroom.

Once inside the room, I continued to goad him. While I talked, I stripped, leaving him fully dressed standing against the wall like a prisoner hoping for a chance to escape.

"I've found that people who brag a lot have inferiority complexes, but I'm sure you're an exception to the rule," I sneered, slipping my stockings off over my feet. "I mean, if you're not really a great lover you never would have said so in front of all those people, would you?" My skirt was off and my blouse was on the way.

"Maybe I don't like you well enough to screw you. Maybe I don't find you attractive at all. Have you ever thought about that?" he spouted, faking confidence.

"That's possible," I said, undoing the clasp on my brassiere and letting my boobs swing forward. "That happened to me once before, back in Toronto. Only once, mind you, but it happened, with a boy named Clarence. He didn't like me at all-not at all." I had my thumbs in my panties and was slipping them down. "But he liked my brother. He fucked him twice in the ass." Of course it was a lie, but it worked perfectly. I giggled viciously as Joe's face went scarlet.

I was standing in front of him, winding my pinkie through my pubic hair. "Well, Joe, aren't you going to undress? Don't you usually undress before you fuck?" I could see that he was getting angry, but I pressed on all the same. I was going to show him what I thought of bullshitters. I reached for his belt buckle.

"Look, bitch, lay off," he spat at me, spinning away and backing halfway across the room. "Leave me alone or I'll smash you."

"Is that part of your technique, lover boy? Do you beat girls unconscious before you fuck them?" He backed up to the wall again as I closed in on him. When I was right up to him, I leaned my cunt into him and lifted my breasts. "I hate to say this, friend, but if you don't find this appealing there's something wrong with you." I had a sarcastic grin on my face.

In a jerky, effeminate movement, he lifted his hand and smacked me across the face. I was livid, but before I could move a muscle, the door of the bedroom swung open and three of the guys barged in. They were followed by about ten people who crowded into the room and lined up against the opposite wall.

Shaggy, who was one of the first into the room, took Joe by the scruff of the neck and lifted him to his toes.

"Little man, you should hit girls only if you intend to hit their boy friends as well. Understand? Now you're going to put your money where your balls are, fellow, and we're going to see what kind of a lover you really are."

Shaggy threw him on the bed and, with the help of another boy, undressed him. When they were down to his underwear, they paused for a dramatic effect. "The moment of truth has arrived," Shaggy bellowed in his best baritone. And he yanked the undies down in one motion. There, under an impenetrable cloud of uproarious laughter, in the center of the room, in the center of the bed, in the center of his groin, poking its pink head out through the bushy pubic undergrowth was Mister Bullshit's wrinkled and pathetic one-inch penis. "It's a worm!" "It's a grub!" "It's a joke!" I forgot the numbness in my cheek. Vengeance is sweet. "With that you would fuck me? It would strangle in my cunt hair!" I picked up the weak excuse for a reproductive organ between my thumb and forefinger and stretched it until it was the width of a pencil. His balls, what there were of them, were tucked up almost inside his body as though hoping I would not notice them. What cowardly little testicles they were, perfectly willing to let pencil prick take all the punishment! They wrinkled and shivered in fear, peeking out from the wilting foliage of pubic hair to see if the coast were clear. Those balls, it was safe to say, had never known a gentle bump against a wet, gaping cunt. That prick had never seen the inside of a woman's genital tract and even if it had, the cunt in question would never know about it.

Unknown to the rest of us, Stan had slipped out of the room, slipped to the kitchen downstairs and slipped back up with a plastic bucket of honey in his right hand and a shaker of salt in his left. We coated the little prick, the cowardly balls and the sparse pubic garden with a liberal serving of honey, then ground in the whole shaker of salt. We watched as he inched into his undies, then into his pants. As he winced out the front door of the house in the dark street, we advised him to brag less and to think twice about hitting girls.

Within twenty minutes I was back upstairs on the torture bed receiving a different kind of torture-the sweet kind. That is to say, I was being fucked hard by Sunny Joe Brockford, a big Negro with a rod that rivaled Danny Bloomfield's for the honored title of biggest cock in the life and loves of Susan Biltmore. Sunny was the leader of a soul group called The Midnites. We'd been downstairs still laughing about Little Joe the braggart when Sunny quite unabashedly walked up to me and asked me if I wanted to ball. Well, the only reason I attended the party was to get screwed by some interesting people and, besides that, I had heard a lot about blacks and how they have such massive machinery, so I was quick to answer yes.

Once in the bedroom, he wasted no time. He had his clothes off before I did and stood in front of me, playing with himself while I stripped. He was probably about six and a half feet tall and well-proportioned. His skin was very black. I must say he was handsome enough, but there was something in his attitude I didn't like. I sensed it right at the beginning. Even though he asked me to ball, he gave me the impression as he stood there waiting for me to strip that he was doing me a favor. He seemed impatient, waiting for me to strip as though he was a busy man and couldn't waste time on any one girl since he had so many to satisfy. I was wondering as I climbed on the bed if maybe he had heard the same rumors I had about the size of black cocks and about how good Negroes were in bed and was a bit big-headed about it. He lay down beside me on the bed and held up his limp prick. It squirmed in his fingers.

"You gotta make it hard or it won't go in, baby," he said with a humorless grin on his face.

"I know, I've been fucked before," I said, taking the beautiful brown organ between my pink lips. I sucked on the head and rubbed the shaft with my hand, but it was several minutes before it responded. For an abnormally long time it remained jellylike in my hands, wrinkling and disappearing into itself as I shoved down on it, snapping back when I released it, stretching when I pulled on it. But when it finally started to stiffen up, it was a wonder to look at. It grew lengthwise first to about nine inches, then it started to thicken. The shaft was first, then the head which blossomed out into a powerful bulb with a ridge around it that must have been a quarter of an inch high. I had to tug quite strenuously to make the foreskin reach the ridge, the cock had grown so much. The shaft was like an iron bar. The ridge on the underneath side, the seminal duct I think it's called, was the size of my biggest finger.

"I think you can get it in now," I said lying back on the pillow.

Without saying a word, he lifted his huge frame and dropped it on top of me. He was about to push himself in when I asked, "Don't you think I should have some lubrication." I was hinting that he should stimulate me as I had stimulated him, but he seemed to have other things in mind.

"Don't worry, I'll get in."

And indeed he did. With his hand, he parted the lips of my cunt and worked the head of his cock inside, then he held my hips down hard and jabbed his way in a little at a time. He practically ripped me apart until my cunt lubricated in self-defense. I cursed him under my breath, but said nothing out loud. To tell you the truth, I was a bit afraid of him. I decided to lay there in silence until he had vented his lust but, in spite of myself, I found that the continual thrusting of his prick was getting to me. My body began to get warm and seemed to squirm of its own accord. Each jab of his impressive cock filled my cunt to capacity. Each time it slid along my slippery canal it bumped its blunt head against the door of my uterus. Twisted and hard as bullets, my nipples begged for attention, but he refused them that privilege. Instead, he concentrated on that gun between his legs and the holster between mine. His movements were unrelenting and monotonous. Back and forth, in and out, dipping his hard organ into the swelling hollow of my cunt. His hands were still on my hips, his body was arched and a look of determination consumed his face. I was getting considerable enjoyment from his manly organ, but it was incidental as far as he was concerned. His thoughts were glued on that impending moment when oceans of sperm would explode down the shaft of his prick and flood my cunt. His thoughts were only on that moment. If I was going to achieve a climax, I would have to help myself along and I would have to beat him to it, because I knew that once he had come he would roll off me and march to the bathroom to wash as though he had just had a bowel movement or something. Almost frantically I began to play with my breasts. I cupped them in my hands and massaged them passionately. I tweaked their nipples and rubbed them across my palms. In effect, it was mostly masturbation, but it worked. Only seconds before he came, I achieved a climax that bent my body with a shock of electricity. I flopped my head to one side and bit into the pillow while the painful pleasure cracked my entire system. Twice more after my climax, his iron prick sunk itself into the soft flesh between my legs, and then he too was in ecstasy. His body wriggled like a snake as the semen came down in a torrent. His cock pulsed inside me, squeezing out the last remains and then he collapsed on top of me.

For a few seconds, I forgot the animosity I held towards him and I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. It was a normal, post-orgasmic mood, a tender mood that you know won't last, but one that you cherish while it exists. But this one was nipped in the bud. Sunny tore himself away from me, taking his cock with him. As I had anticipated, he marched to the sink in the washroom as though he had just had a shit.

I had been fucked and fucked well. But it was a fuck I wanted to forget. However, as you can see, I haven't managed to yet!

Such a beautiful prick going to waste, I thought as I dressed slowly. Sunny was still in the bathroom. I guess he was making sure he got rid of all traces of my cunt. I couldn't understand how a man could enjoy screwing a woman as if she were nothing but a machine, something to put his prick into like a bowl of warm water. If that's all he wants, he might just as well do it himself into the toilet.

"Thanks," he growled as he entered the room again and charged over to pick up his pants.

"Thanks for what, the use of my cunt?" I said without bothering to look at him. He pretended to be perplexed.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, I feel more like a toilet bowl than a woman!"

"Well, baby, maybe you is a toilet bowl!" He stormed out of the room without putting on his shirt or his shoes. He carried them in his hands. Like the little fool that I was, I began sobbing right there. I was still whimpering when Anne came up twenty minutes later.

After giving her all the silly details, the two of us sat on the bed and cursed men, Negroes, singers, just about everything we could think to curse. As I recall it, it was a pretty ridiculous session, but then that's what girl friends are for. We still idolized sex. We didn't understand how it could be made to look ugly, or how it could be used as a tool for prejudice or revenge. Sexual intercourse to us was the most beautiful thing in the world and so when it went wrong, as it had just done with Sunny, it left a bitter taste in our mouths.

We vowed we would never speak to another male Negro as long as we lived. Naturally, it wasn't long before the vow was broken. As a matter of fact, only a few days later we saw Sunny himself, but I'll tell you about that later on.

So Anne and I sat and swore for a half-hour or so, then we dried up the tears and went downstairs, determined to be as tough as Sunny.

"I'd like to set his cock and balls in cement," I said quite seriously as we descended the stairs.

We rejoined the rest for a couple of hours before going back to the hotel room and turning in. Shaggy and the other Short Hairs didn't get in until much later. When they did they were all too drunk to ball so Anne and I were allowed a reasonably good night's sleep.

The next morning, I had pretty well recovered from Sunny's insult. Anne and I were in the hotel cafeteria having a breakfast when she reminded me of my statement about casting his genitals in cement.

"I think it's a fantastic idea," she said in a whisper. There was considerable excitement in her voice.

"But, Anne, I was only saying that because I was angry. I couldn't really do that to any man, no matter how badly he treated me."

Anne crouched over the table and conspiratorially explained what was on her mind.

"You see, I don't really mean that I like the idea of casting a man's fucking equipment in cement, but it was from that that I got this idea. Listen! Why don't we cast men's genitals in plaster of Paris, then make little statuettes from the mold? I mean, they'd make good conversation pieces and we might even be able to sell some of them."

On first thought, the idea was brilliant; on second thought it was even better. We wasted no time getting the necessary materials, which included vaseline, plaster of Paris, and plastic that could be melted down and hardened over and over again.

That night after Shaggy and the group had finished playing, we presented the idea to them. They were almost as enthusiastic as we were. Shaggy had his pants down before we had finished explaining the project.

"Cast away," he said holding his prick in his hand and we started our first statuette. Anne mixed the plaster while I sucked Shaggy. Naturally, he wanted to be as big as possible. After all, this might be his only form of posterity and he didn't want to be short-changed. He didn't want later generations to have the wrong impression of his manhood. And so I sucked him thoroughly and for some time. When Anne had finished preparing the plaster, I spread the vaseline all over Shaggie's cock and balls, making sure that his erection lost none of its magnificent swell. We were ready to cast. Anne packed the plaster into every crack and crevice, being careful to get the true shape, the true size and the true inclination of Shaggie's marvelous specimen, while I held my hand under the cast-covered cock to support the weight.

"I suppose this is what you'd have to go through if you broke your prick," said Shaggy, grinning broadly and looking for all the world like a little boy doing something he shouldn't.

Some people will think that casting a boy's hard-on is immoral, but really, what's so bad about it? For years actors and actresses have been putting their footprints in cement outside that famous theatre in Hollywood and what we were doing was not much different from that. The only thing is, we were getting closer to the real point of life. I mean, a man's cock is more valuable to him and the women who know him than his foot is. And besides, you can always see an actor's foot, but you can't, unfortunately, always see his cock and balls. What better form can posterity take than that of the reproductive organ? Just think of how exciting it would be to be able to show a great, great, great grandson all the pricks down through the ages that were responsible for his being here on earth? To me, there is nothing more symbolic of life than the male sex organ. One can learn a lot from a healthy cock. It can be soft and flexible or, when there's a job to be done, it can be hard and stubborn. It responds immediately to other human beings and communicates clearly and to the point. It does not discriminate against women because of the color of their skin. In fact, the list of good qualities of the phallus is endless, so why shouldn't it be cast in plaster and preserved in plastic for all the world to appreciate? It makes more sense to me than a cement footprint.

When the plaster mold had hardened, Anne slipped it off and examined it. It appeared to be perfect. Then, while she melted down the plastic in a homemade contraption she had rigged up, I finished off the suck I had started before the plaster casting. I washed the vaseline off Shaggie's cock and balls with a warm washcloth, then told him to lie down on the bed.

This sequence of events eventually became a patented routine. First, I would suck the subject to the longest, thickest and hardest erection possible, then we would cast the plaster. Then, when Anne completed the statuette by pouring in the molten plastic, I would clean up the subject and suck him off so that he didn't go away with lover's nuts or anything like that. I guess I've sucked a couple of hundred cocks since we started Plaster Casting Inc.

When Shaggy had taken up his position on the bed, I nosed my way up between his legs and took his testicles in my hand. They rolled over my fingers like Captain Queeg's marbles. They rippled the diaphanous skin of the ball bag. They jingled at the ends of their cords. Holding the balls in my right hand, I picked up the still slack prick with the thumb and index finger of my left. It was about an inch thick and rubbery. It wriggled between my fingers. As I pulled the foreskin toward me, the soft meaty head tucked itself away like a turtle. I pinched the foreskin down over the blunt end and pushed the penis in toward Shaggie's pelvic bone. Miraculously, what had been three inches of male organ now became less than an inch. I don't know where it all went, I guess up inside the body, but when I released the grip of my thumb and finger, it all sprang out in my face. It regained its three inches and then some. The head began to swell and the shaft expanded. One and a half inches thick, four inches long, one and three-quarters inches thick, five inches long. The head pulled away from the foreskin, revealing a hard ridge that was full of minute glands. They were dark red in color and highly sensitive to touch. I stuck my tongue out and ran the tip of it around the ridge, feeling a torrent of blood gush to the prick as I did so. Two inches thick, six inches long. The normally soft, pliable head was now hard and stretched to its maximum size. The shaft, which had a slight bend upward, was as rigid as rock. It throbbed against the palm of my hand. I lifted the organ and left a moist trail with my tongue along the seminal duct that bulged out on the underside. The wet, shiny trail started at the base of the head and traveled in a straight line down the penis to the base of the trunk, where the flaccid ball bag joined with the body. I buried my face in the forest of pubic hair and with my lips nibbled playfully at the thin skin of the sac. Inside it, Shaggie's balls were rising and falling with an unsteady rhythm. His erect penis bumped against my ear. Two inches thick, seven inches long.

I gripped the pulsing organ at its root and pointed it straight in the air, then, with a slow, suspenseful movement, I opened my mouth wide and directed it down over the head and along the shaft until I felt the smooth blunt end bump at the back of my throat. I closed my mouth on it and sucked hard. Keeping the suction constant, I drew my taut lips up along the shaft, being careful all the time not to let my teeth touch the sensitive organ. The foreskin rolled between my lips, the cock bobbed and throbbed against the roof of my mouth, the ball bag in my right hand contracted, lifting the testicles to a safe elevation at the base of the cock. I sucked and sucked. Shaggy moved his hips, driving his cock once or twice partway down my throat. His hands clutched my head pushing it down and lifting it up. The climax was on its way, the tickling sensation must have started in his cock and the semen must have been on its way, because Shaggy was holding his breath, flexing every muscle in his body and driving his prick into my mouth at a frenzied speed. I felt the twitch, that last twitch before the explosion. The hard muscle jerked once, twice, three times. Shaggy lifted his hips and held them in the air. A gutty groan rumbled in his throat and then the first shot of white stuff splashed against my soft palate and slithered down my throat.

When Shaggy was sated, he bounced from the bed and trotted off to the bathroom. Anne was finished with the statuette. The plastic had pretty well hardened and she had just been waiting for us to complete our activity before revealing the creation. She waited until Shaggy had returned from the toilet and dressed, then with all the aplomb of a Picasso unveiling, she disengaged the mold from the plastic and proudly held the masterpiece high in the air for inspection. It was perfect-accurate in every detail and quite as impressive as the original.

"Reproductive organ reproduced before your very eyes!" she exclaimed joyously. "My greatest creation!"

The three of us indulged in the magnificence of the statuette. Shaggy was fascinated to look at his pride and joy from different angles. His eyes danced along its smooth, sweeping lines; along the shaft which had just the right tilt and the right thickness; along the seminal duct on the underside which protruded exactly as the real one had only moments before; around the perfectly shaped head which sat like a thick cap on the end of his prick; in and around the ball bag which displayed the same hard follicle bumps and flat curly hairs as the real thing.

Indeed, our model of Shaggy's fucking equipment was pure art and it was only the beginning of an exciting and lucrative career for Anne and me. The Plaster Casters we would call ourselves, and we would cast every cock we could get our hands on.

That night both Anne and I slept with Shaggy, but no sex was involved. It had only been a little while since I had sucked him off and he was not very interested in fucking. As far as Anne and I were concerned, we were too busy thinking about dipping cocks in plaster to think about dipping them into our cunts. Finally, we talked ourselves to sleep while our first creation watched over us.

In the next three days we managed to cast the rest of The Short Hairs plus Shaggy once again. The reason we did Shaggy twice was because the boys were so engrossed with the statuettes of their own pricks that they wanted to keep them. We had done four and still had nothing to show for it. So we kept the second one of Shaggy, telling him that we would use it to masturbate with whenever we were separated from the boys. The truth of the matter was that we intended to use it as a sample to advertise our little business. In other words we wanted to expand; not that we didn't like the boys in The Short Hairs, or anything like that, but we had big plans for our little enterprise and to fulfill them, we would have to be free agents, unattached to any particular group. We were looking for new horizons, for new cocks to fuck, suck and cast.

We started with The Midnites. Anne went to the club where they were playing with the model statuette in her purse. Meanwhile, I studied the newspapers to find more music groups that would be hip enough to go for the plaster casting idea. I came up with only two. Midway through the evening, Anne returned to the hotel room with good news. The members of Sunny's group were unanimously in favor of casting their pricks for posterity. Anne and I were to go with our equipment to their hotel that night after they had finished playing. That would be about one-thirty, an hour and a half earlier than The Short Hairs usually finished. This meant that for the first time since we arrived in Vancouver, Anne and I would not be there to greet them when they got back to the hotel. We feared there might be some trouble, but we really could not pass up the opportunity The Midnites had presented. Leaving a short note explaining only that we would be back, we packed up our materials and headed across town to the four cocks and eight balls that would be preserved for all time in plastic.

The first to be done, of course, was Sunny. He seemed to relish the fact that it was I who did the sucking. He stood with his legs open, his hands on his hips and his head tilted to one side. There was a cocky grin on his face which bugged me. But, much as I disliked him then and still do, I must say he had one hell of a prick! And as I sucked on it and watched it grow majestically, I forgot my hostility. As Anne remarked some time later, I'm a sucker for a well-built prick. It's true. I may hate a man, but love his penis. Such was the case with Sunny. He would have been an unbeatable lover had he known how to use the equipment he was blessed with.

So, anyway, I sucked on Sunny until his cock was its full size, then helped Anne apply the plaster. When the cast was removed I sucked him off. I did the same with the other three members of the group, all of whom had rather small organs, thus smashing the myth that Negroes have larger pricks than whites. When our evening's work was completed, we had four lovely molds from which to produce four even lovelier model cocks. All of The Midnites asked to have statuettes of their organs and we agreed, but only on condition that they pay us two dollars apiece for them. We then set out for home to face the music which, as we had anticipated, was not at all pleasant to the ear.

When we reached the hotel, Anne took all the casts with her and I bravely tiptoed into the room that Stan and I shared with Shanks and Ray Gaits, the organist. The first thing I saw as I crept through the door was a white ass bobbing up and down on the bed. There appeared to be two pairs of arms and the same number of legs and from that it was not difficult to determine the activity I was witnessing. The only question was, who was engaged in the activity?

We were not shy about these things, so neither they nor I was embarrassed by my walking in. I simply entered and walked silently across the room to the armchair in the corner. There I waited patiently for them to climax. I was delighted that both of them managed to do so and when they did, I turned on the light.

"Well, was it a good one?" I smiled, glancing down at Stan's gunky prick. I did not recognize the girl he had been screwing.

"Yep, she's a nice piece of tail. You know the rules, Susan. You weren't here when I got home and I felt like a fuck, so I called Carole."

Seizing the opportunity, I sat right down with Stan and within an hour, we had come to an agreement-I was leaving in the morning. In the discussion, he used lofty expressions like sexual freedom, existential rights and several more that I can't recall. But I'm sure the real reason he agreed so readily to let me go was that he liked the way this Carole broad put out. I was happy to be free, but I must admit that I was a little jealous at the thought that he might like her cunt more than mine. But, anyway, I had accomplished what I wanted and with much less effort and pain than I had expected, so I was feeling very good when I climbed into bed with Stan and his new piece of ass. I only hoped that Anne had been as lucky as I.

She hadn't! The next morning Stan, Carole and I were awakened with a jolt as Shaggy came crashing through the door. He was incensed and started pulling me around the room threatening to ram a guitar up my rectum. Luckily for me, Stan stepped in to prevent any damage being done to me or the guitar. While the two men were arguing, I took advantage of the situation to get dressed. I was just thinking of making a break down the hall to Anne's room when she appeared at the door. The whole left side of her face was as red as blood and her eye was beginning to turn purple. She had a suitcase in her hand.

"Come on, Susan, we're leaving," she said with almost no emotion in her voice. I threw all my possessions into my suitcase and made a move for the door. Shaggy shot his arm out across my bosom.

"You're not going anywhere, either of you. Not until we say so!"

Anne stepped into the room and stood directly in front of Shaggy. Her eyes were like ice. "You dare touch her or me again and I will call the cops."

It took a while, but the threat sank in and he dropped his arm. Together Anne and I walked from the hotel into the early morning sun and that's the last time we ever saw any of The Short Hairs, the boys who were really responsible for our emancipation. I wish it could have ended in a more civilized manner but then, that's life.

On the street Anne told me what had happened between her and Shaggy. When she got home he was asleep, but he woke up the minute she touched the bed. He demanded to know where she had been and what she had been doing and told her he'd beat the truth out of her if he had to. So, Anne told him precisely what had transpired that evening and he flew into a rage. Had she told him she'd been out getting gang-banged, he probably would not have minded nearly so much, but casting other men's cocks was an outrage to him. Don't ask me why. It doesn't make much sense, but I guess it was some kind of insult. It's also possible that he figured this meant we were getting independent and from things he had said and done before, we knew that thought would not be a pleasant one to him. He loved girls who were free, but free to serve only him. So, anyway, when Anne told him what she had been doing and when it was apparent to him that she was not going to repent, he started shoving her around. He found the casts and smashed them all on the floor, then slapped Anne several times across the face. He even punched her once and that's what gave her the black eye. Only when he had taken most of his anger out on her did he flop on the bed and fall asleep. Anne slept sitting in the chair.

In the morning it started all over again and he slapped her again. It was then that he stormed into our room to inform Stan of our goings-on.

So, there we were, walking around Stanley Park in the warm forenoon with the freedom to go where we wished, but with nowhere to go to. We had some money, so we started by going to a store and buying more plaster and more plastic. Then we went to the hotel where The Midnites were staying and waited until a respectable hour before calling on them to explain the situation. They were understanding and agreed to stand for us again that night after their show. It was obvious that they were as interested in the plastic replicas of their genitalia as we were. That's the way most men are-proud as punch of their manly organs. But I don't blame them. As I have said before, the cock is a wonderful instrument and if a man isn't proud of it, he is only partly a man. If he doesn't like to hold it in his hand and study it from time to time, he is sexless. Any man who ignores his cock is ignoring life. And there's no reason on earth why a girl shouldn't feel the same way about her pussy. The pussy in its way is just as magnificent as the cock. It's just that for centuries women have been told that their cunts are ugly and dirty things that they should be ashamed of, especially when they're being used for the purpose of sex. Women have always tried to act as though they didn't have cunts and any woman who didn't act that way was automatically labeled a slut. But that's what emancipation is all about, not whether or not you can vote, but whether or not you love your cunt as much as you love men's cocks and whether or not you are able to use both for as much pleasure as you can possibly get out of them. That's what cocks and cunts are for and long may they rule the world!

The Midnites had a rehearsal that afternoon so Anne and I decided we'd just wander around the city and enjoy the gorgeous weather. Before we set out, Sunny stopped us at the door of his hotel room.

"You might as well come to the club tonight and watch the show. Don't worry about getting in, I'll look after that. Then after the show we'll come back here and you can do your plaster casting. And then, if you're good girls, you can sleep with us tonight, but only on one condition."

Simultaneously, Anne and I asked what that condition might be. When Sunny told us, we looked at each other, raised our eyebrows and giggled inhibitedly, then agreed, perhaps too hastily, to the condition.