Chapter 6
Steel wheels screeched to a halt in Windsor Station and the remaining passengers piled out. It was the end of the line for this train. Passengers going farther would have to transfer while the rest spilled out onto University Avenue and lost themselves in the sprawling city of Montreal.
Anne and I took a cheap hotel room on Dorchester Street and flaked out on twin beds to smooth out our agitated systems. It was a late Saturday afternoon and raining. For the rest of the day, we ventured no farther than the restaurant downstairs. Most of that evening was spent looking through the paper for flats, apartments and rooms to let. From the many that were listed, we selected a few that sounded suitable and on Sunday morning, after a twelve-hour sleep, we phoned them all from the pay phone downstairs.
The one that sounded the best was a two-and-a-half-room flat. It had a bedroom, living room and bathroom, with a small kitchenette tacked on to the living room. We hustled our asses right over to the address given by the man on the phone and within minutes of arrival had paid the first week's rent and moved in.
The next few days were dedicated to getting to know Montreal and one of the first things that impressed us was the competition we'd have as females. The cunt that walks the streets in that city is sexier than any other place in North America, I'm sure. Those French girls are taught to wiggle their little butts and stick out their tits from a very young age. They know that spot between their legs is for something, I can tell you that. In Vancouver we'd built up a reputation quickly and easily as the loosest broads in town. But here in Montreal, we would just be two more cunts in the sea, as it were.
On the other hand, the cock in that city was not terribly impressive. Most of the men were small and, I think, rather effeminate. They seemed to be more interested in themselves than in us. However, that was just a first impression. I found out later there was plenty of fuck to be had if you knew where to look.
When Anne and I were more or less settled and had the materials for casting, we invested ten dollars in printed cards which we had done at a small underground publishing outfit. The cards read: THE PLASTER CASTERS We make multi-colored statuettes of phalli and breasts while you wait. ONLY FIVE DOLLARS On each card was our telephone number and a loose sketch of an erect penis. We passed them out in the cafes and discotheques and went home to wait for the response.
It was unbelievable. That same night we got about twenty phone calls and the next day we lost count after fifty. We had to make appointments that stretched on for weeks and even at that it was all we could do to meet the demand. Most of the customers, of course, were male. They ranged from huge pricks to tiny ones and there were even a couple of VD pricks which we refused to cast.
In addition, there was a handful of females who wished to preserve their mammaries in plastic. We had never done breasts before but every one we did turned out beautifully.
The clients flowed into our apartment like troops-the money, five times as fast. The landlord, who was a pretty groovy guy, didn't find out what we were doing for about a month and when he did, he put his name on the waiting list. I'll have to digress here for a minute and tell you about him. He was a funny character.
His name was Orlandersen and he was Scandinavian. He had a wife of seven years whom he loathed-or, at least that's what he told us. He was, I guess, about thirty years old and he had one child, a little boy whom he seemed to like moderately.
We notified Orlandersen when his appointment was due and when his wife had gone downtown shopping, he came up to our flat with a broad grin on his face. For some reason he found our practice of casting cocks in plaster excruciatingly funny and the whole time we were explaining the process, he merely stood in the middle of the room and giggled.
When we were ready to begin, we asked him to strip and he did so sheepishly. With his pants around his ankles, and his white prick-a respectable one-dangling in front of him, he stood with his hands behind his back and a look of pure glee on his childlike face.
I took the organ in my hand and gave it a slight jerk. Instantly, it swelled to a full erection and, although I did go ahead and suck it, the fellatio in this case was redundant. I had barely enough time to lick the surface salt off it before Anne was ready with the plaster of Paris. We greased the area generously with vaseline and Anne coated it with plaster. When it had dried, we removed the cast and as Anne went away to pour the plastic, I went down on him right there in the middle of the floor.
He was still giggling at the thought of it all. Nervously, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, causing his slippery cock to plop out of my mouth and slap me in the face. Each time it happened his laughter increased until finally, when my lips were practically numb from trying to hold his squirming bone and I asked him if he would mind fucking me instead, he had no objections and we both reclined on the floor in front of the couch.
"Give me a nibble first," I suggested, directing his head down to my still dry cunt. He obliged, gracefully gliding his sinewy body over mine until his face was between my legs. With his hands, he spread the lips of my cunt, exposing my clean, shiny clitoris to the stuffy air of the room. His tongue moved quickly and precisely in, on and around the clit as it engulfed my whole cunt. I felt his wet tongue push deep inside me. It tickled the vaginal walls, making them drip with anticipation while his left hand massaged my breasts and his right probed my anus. My head began to feel light and sweat oozed from my pores. I reached for his cock to make sure it was still hard and, when I found it, it was. It was as hard and as big as a rolling pin and I couldn't wait for it any longer. Pulling it over toward my wet, open cunt, I called down to the blond-haired cunt lapper whose face was half inside me.
"I love your tongue, but I need your cock. Fuck me!"
He did. With that long curved rod, he opened me as wide as I was made to go, right up to the dead end of my cunt. I could feel him bump against the wall. He slapped it in and out as I rolled my hips in a circular manner, rubbing every crevice and ridge of his taut cock with the juicy walls of my vagina until I finally consumed him entirely and his seed was released. It splashed against my uterus as his cock twitched and pulsed. He arched his back and pushed himself into me to the hilt and held that position while the last drops of semen drained out of him. His balls felt like hard little crab apples against my swollen, sensitive lips. It was a masterful fuck and when I stood up the sperm dribbled out of me, down my slender thighs, over my knee bones and off onto the rug.
In memory of Orlandersen we did not walk on that part of the rug for two weeks. You see, Anne and I loved a man's cream. We could eat it on our breakfast cereal every morning. In fact, we have only done it once!
That screw with Orlandersen was the first I'd had since leaving Vancouver and it sure felt good. My cunt yawned and smiled dreamily for the rest of the day.
Anne hadn't really been aware of how much she needed one until she watched us do it. She said she could almost taste Soren's cock (Soren, as I recall, was Orlandersen's first name). She said she could almost feel it pushing the sides of her cunt open. She said she would die if she could not get it soon and so we arranged to have Soren come back the next day to ball her between the hours of two and three (that's all the time she could spare).
And that's where the funny part of the Soren Orlandersen story starts. When he entered our apartment the next day, he had a Polaroid camera under his arm and he intended to have me take strategic shots of him putting the blocks to Anne.
"What for?" I asked.
"For my wife. I've had it with her. Seven years I've put up with her bloody 'Don't touch me tonight, Soren,' and 'What do you want it again for? You only had it last week.' I'm going to show her what her slit is for. I'm going to show her why I was built with this hunk of meat between my legs," he answered in a torrent, patting his testicles and penis with an exaggerated action.
We were willing to further the cause of sexual freedom, so while Anne took up her position on the bed, one leg straight, one knee drawn up and her long black cunt tilted for entry and Soren perched above her, cock in hand, eye on the hole, I began snapping the first of sixteen photos.
I got the perfect shots of the approach, the entry, the sucking of a nipple, the fingering of a cunt and the shooting of sperm over a rippling belly and straight young thighs. Lastly, but perhaps most important, I got a shot of the beaming, contented face of a thirty-year-old Swede who had just set the stage for the worst battle of his married life.
Exactly four hours later, Soren was back up in our flat relating all the gory details of the encounter. His wife had stormed out of the house after breaking every dish in the place. She had tried to cut off his organ, pluck out his eyes, rip out his hair and, failing these, had finally settled for tearing the photos into confetti. He was convinced he would never see her again, but to his immense surprise and to ours, too, she returned the very next night.
Anne and I did not know about it until the morning after her dramatic return. She herself came up to our apartment and threw her arms around both of us, which left us in a state of bewildering shock to say the least. She'd come to thank us for giving her a lesson in life. She claimed the photos and later the fight made her see what a prudish pig she'd been with Soren for the last seven years. Apparently, she bounced in the night before and even before two words could be spoken between them, she stripped off her husband's pants and sucked on his prick until it withered from fatigue. Oral intercourse was something she had never even allowed herself to think about before and now she was singing its praises to Anne and me and had solemnly sworn to perform it on her husband at least once a month for as long as he could raise an erection.
By the time she had gone from our apartment, Anne and I were feeling like sexual sages. Merely by doing our thing-fucking-we had saved a marriage that was otherwise doomed. I don't think I have to justify anything I've done in my life so far, but if I did, this incident would be all the justification I need. By showing them that sex is not only natural but necessary, we made two people happier and that is more than a lot of people can boast.
After that, our relationship with the Orlandersens developed to the point where occasionally we were fucking Soren in front of his wife to give her a few pointers on how to do it for the greatest effect.
But I must get on with the story. Over the next few months, Anne and I made an absolute killing with our plaster casting business. We grossed anywhere from two hundred to three hundred dollars a week and were understandably almost drunk with our success. But then, somethin happened that kind of punctured our balloon for a while.
One night about nine o'clock our apartment was raided by the police and I was caught sucking a guy off just after we had cast his cock. I was scared shitless. I figured I would be in big trouble for performing oral intercourse, because I had heard somewhere that it was illegal. But, as it turned out, all they charged us with was operating a business without the proper license. They took us down to the station and registered our names. Bail was set at twenty-five dollars for Anne and myself, fifty for the guy I'd been sucking. I don't know what the charge against him was.
But the next day when we thought we were out of the woods, we picked up the paper and found that the whole incident had leaked out and some bloody journalist figured it was newsworthy. That was the beginning of a lot of trouble for me.
Overnight we became celebrities of a kind. Several other newspapers picked up on the story and an underground paper in New York even sent up a man to interview us. I must admit that part of it was rather fun, but I would gladly have given it up to avoid the unseemly incident that was soon to follow.
It happened two weeks after we had hit the papers. Anne and I were in our apartment getting ready to go to an all night bash at a pad behind a boutique on Mountain Street when the buzzer from downstairs rang. Anne answered and let the person in, even though she did not recognize the voice. It was common practice to have complete strangers dropping in on us, what with the line of business we were in and all, so we just assumed that he was a client come to pick up his statuette which, incidentally, we were still selling on condition that the buyer promised to tell the police (if he were questioned) that we had given it to him.
The knock came at the door and since I was busy putting on my eyelashes, Anne answered it. There was a silence that seemed unnatural to me. I stepped out of the bathroom and edged down the hall to the door. Anne was standing with an embarrassed and extremely childish look on her face.
"What's the matter?" I inquired, craning my neck to see around the door. But Anne didn't have to answer. My answer, all six feet of him, was looming in the doorway with a cold, almost cruel look on his face. My father!
What I intended to be an invitation to come in and sit down came out as gibberish. I was traumatized. Even after he was in and sitting on the sofa, I couldn't seem to do anything but stutter. My father, here in Montreal, in my own apartment! I hadn't even thought of him for months, and now, when I least expected it, here he was, staring holes through me and enjoying every minute of my predicament. He watched me struggle into silence, then he began slowly.
"You're coming back with me to Toronto where you'll do as your mother and I tell you to. You're coming back and there'll be no arguments. Understand?" He clasped his hands together and sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. "Do you understand me, Susan?"
He obviously didn't know it, but he had just blown whatever advantage he had had over me by virtue of his surprise attack. Because of that familiar, unbending authority, that same old refusal to recognize that I'm a human being, not a domesticated pet, that tired old, 'I'm right because I'm older' attitude, brought back to me emotions I thought I had lost long ago and there was no room left in me for embarrassment.
This time when I opened my mouth, I didn't stutter. My words were precise and very clear-obviously too clear for his liking because he appeared very much taken aback by what I had to say. If I remember correctly it was something like this: "Listen, before you get started, I think you should know that I no longer consider you an authority of any kind. I see you only as the man who is responsible for my being in the world. I neither thank you nor hate you for that. It is just a fact. Beyond that you mean nothing to me. I don't even like you at all and I have very little respect for you. And so when you talk to me like that, you're only making a fool of yourself."
He hadn't anticipated that. He paused, evidently to regroup for an attack from another angle, then began ponderously.
"You're entitled to hold those beliefs if you please, but I can assure you, from experience, that you'll change your mind later on. Someday you'll see how unfair you've been to your mother and me. You'll see that everything we have tried to do is for your own good. I think somebody's been putting very bad notions into your head and you've swallowed them hook, line and sinker without thinking them out for yourself." He looked up at Anne for several seconds. That's a favorite ploy of parents. Blame it on someone else's kid and all that. I soon put an end to that argument.
"If you're trying to suggest that Anne or anybody else has talked me into doing what I'm doing, you're crazy! It's just typical of you to assume that I can't think for myself. That's the reason I left in the first place. You figure that if I'm not doing what you tell me or Mom tells me, then I must be doing what someone else tells me. I guess you think everyone in the world is just as obsequious as you are. Well, I've got news for you! Some people in this world don't like to be told what to do and when to do it. Some of us want the freedom to direct our own lives."
"Do you call this directing your life? You're just making a slut out of yourself, that's all. Any girl can do that, and she doesn't need direction."
"You may call me a slut, but then I may call you obsolete."
"Maybe I am, but I've had a hell of a lot more experience on this earth than you have."
"That's very true and I have no interest in gaining any experience whatsoever in obsolescence."
The battle raged on for several hours. I told Anne she could go ahead to the party without me and she did. Dad went on yelling about hippies and their long hair and beards and fleas and crap like that. I tried over and over again to tell him that just because some people do things differently than they did in his day doesn't make them wrong, but his mind was obviously deteriorated from so many years of idleness. He just kept cursing everything he couldn't understand and I kept telling him he was out of date. The argument, like so many of this nature, was at a stalemate and it seemed as if it would go on forever, but then he hit me with the strongest point he had-a point that I could not possibly argue.
"I don't see why you're making things tough on yourself. If I say so, you have to come with me. You have no choice in the matter. It's the law!"
I don't know why I hadn't thought of that before, but he was right. I wouldn't be eighteen for almost another month and in a month they could make life pretty miserable for me. I was in a fix and I knew it. I didn't bother to argue the point any further. Instead, I sat silently, trying desperately to think of a way to escape.
We passed about half an hour without saying a word to each other. I sat in the corner considering my next move while he snooped around the apartment-looking for tell-tale signs of my debauched life, I suppose. At length, he came over to me holding several photos in his hand. I knew they were the ones Anne had taken of some boy and me fucking. One of them was of me whacking him off and shooting his sperm halfway across the room. I was very impressed with that and so was my old man, but in a different way.
"Isn't that clever! Aren't they just lovely photos? Would you like your mother to see these?" I didn't look up or react in any way.
"Okay, come on, you little whore! I'm going to make sure you don't get a chance to do this ever again. We're getting the next plane back to Toronto."
I still did not move a muscle. I was waiting for him to grab me and he knew I was. But I could outwait him and he knew that too. Finally, he took me by the elbow and tried to lift me from the chair.
"Take your hand off me," I spat. "I'm not going with you. You'll have to call the cops." Instantly he let go and darted over to the phone. He dialed zero and waited for the operator to answer. When she did, he asked for the number of the nearest police precinct. He was trying to show me that he had no compunctions about bringing in the police against his own daughter, but he had underestimated me once again.
"I assume you're aware," I began deliberately and with an indifference that unnerved him, "that the press will be along with the cops."
I didn't have to say another word. He pushed the button down immediately with his finger and held a pensive position, then slowly replaced the receiver on the telephone.
Once again, he approached me with a different tact. It was the fatherly one. He even had the nerve to sit on the arm of my chair.
"Susie, listen. Your mother and I-"
"Screw Mother! Say something on your own for once. She's not here so why bring her into this argument!"
"Your mother's here in spirit-"
"So's Bob Dylan but I don't pretend to speak for him."
"Okay, Susie, I am not trying to be cruel. I'm only trying to help. I know what's best for you and I'm just trying to make you see that."
"How do you know what's best for me? Did you know what was best for your grandfather?"
"Susie, don't be silly-"
"I am not being silly. If you pretend to know what is best for me, you must have known what was best for your grandfather."
"But you are being silly. How could I know what was best for my grandfather when I wasn't even alive then?"
"That's exactly the point I'm trying to make.
You're not alive now either so how can you believe that you know what's best for me?"
My father threw his hands up in mock despair. Everything he did was imitation. He'd forgotten how to feel real emotions years ago. Striking a pose that roughly resembled the thinker, he furrowed his brow to indicate the weight he was bearing and planned his next move.
"Susie, your mother and I, I mean, I love you very much and I'm sure your mother does too and that's why we want to protect you from yourself," he began, but I cut him off.
"If you really loved me, you'd let me live my own life as I wish, instead of always trying to push your values down my throat-values that you've never bothered to think out. You just accepted them because someone told you they were good."
The argument took several more turns, mostly for the worst. The old man got up the nerve to actually mention the plaster casts, but he used the word penis instead of cock. In the course of an hour he went through an aggressive stage, another fatherly stage and finally broke out into an utter rage. His face went as red as a beet and he swore several times. Then, obviously losing control of himself, he tore the front of my blouse exposing my left breast.
"You little slut," he bellowed, "you don't even wear underwear anymore. What's the matter, does it get in the way?"
I did not answer, nor did I make any attempt to cover my breast. I just let it hang out where it was and it drove him crazy. I don't mean with lust, because my father didn't have any lust left in him. No, it drove him crazy because he had made a fool of himself and every time he looked at me he saw that proud pink breast staring back at him, he was reminded of that fact. He wanted to order me to cover myself, I know that, but he knew damn well what my reply would be. So he paced the room like a madman, getting more and more agitated by the second. Finally, ridiculous as he knew it was, he charged at me with his fists clenched and screamed like a hysterical schoolgirl. "Cover yourself up!"
I raised my eyes slowly and glued them on his face, then I waited for him to make eye contact with me. When he did, I smiled an innocent and very sarcastic smile and enunciated in my sweetest voice, "Fuck you!"
The buzzer rang and I answered it. It was a boy I knew and he had come to see why I was not at the party. It was a timely arrival. I had never seen my father or any other man that mad before and I'm sure he was going to beat the crap out of me. But Joachin-that was the boy-had a good build and had been known to be pugnacious on occasion. With him in the apartment, it wasn't likely my father would try anything. Well, at least that's what I thought. As it turned out, my father was more courageous, or perhaps, more foolhardy than I ever suspected.
When Jo entered the apartment, naturally he wanted to know what was going on. He couldn't help but notice my bare breast hanging out and my father's rage was hardly less obvious. But when he asked, my father snapped at him to shut up and stay out of things that were not his business.
"Look, ole man," Joe had a distinct animosity in his voice, "when I come in here and see Susie's tits hanging out and you standing there like the Marquis de Sade, I think I should make it my business. I'm one of the few lucky ones who get to suck those tits and I don't want to see them abused by some old pervert." You see, Jo had no way of knowing that the old pervert was my father and by the time he found out, it was too late.
"Look, you young bugger, don't start talking to me like that. I'll have you know I'm her-"
"You're nobody special, buddy. Susie's public property, so everybody who balls her has a say in how she's treated and I say she's not to be pushed around."
I sat in the corner chair, tit still bobbing in the open air. I watched the proceedings without attempting to help my father identify himself. As I saw it, he had walked into this trap himself and therefore deserved everything he got. If he was blind enough to think that he could still dictate my life, perhaps a confrontation with Joachin would open his eyes for him. I only hoped that he would not push it to the point of physical combat. I may have had my back up at the old man, but I didn't want to see him get the shit kicked out of him. I don't think anyone could stand to see his or her father beaten up.
But the old man's temper had gotten out of hand. He was no longer in possession of any common sense whatsoever.
"You pig, who do you think you're talking to?" He charged at Jo with his hands outstretched, presenting a greater threat to his own health and welfare than to Jo's. When he was four feet away, a well-timed, well-measured blow from Jo's knotted fist met with his face and sent him heavily to the floor.
I was on my way over to Jo to tell him that the man he had just struck was my father when the old man lost his head. He swung his arm in front o me, driving his hard elbow between my breasts and knocking me back onto the floor. He grabbed Jo by the neck and made several wild thrusts with his knee, trying to catch him in the groin. Luckily, he couldn't get a square shot, but that certainly didn't stop him from trying. He flailed with his arms and kicked repeatedly and the more I screamed for him to stop, the worse he got. He was a crazed man and I was genuinely frightened of what he might do or what might be done to him by Jo in self-defense.
But it ended suddenly and without warning. Two quick jabs to the head thrown with Jo's customary accuracy put the old man down for the second and last time. He was out cold.
Joachin helped me bring him around with some cold towels, then we sat and watched him regain his senses. Still numb and a bit dizzy, he lifted himself from the sofa and made a futile attempt to smooth the wrinkles out of his clothing. He pulled, brushed and twisted with the exaggerated action of a defeated man who won't admit he's defeated. He looked at me briefly, then at the floor.
"Okay, Susan, I won't take you back with me. As ... as a matter of fact . . . you'll never set foot in my house again as long as I live!"
It was his last stand and in a way it was admirable. But he was soundly defeated. He had been since he first lost his temper. All of this was just superfluous emotion.
"I could have told you it would end like this, but you don't listen to anyone younger than yourself. Too bad! You're going to be old some day and you might want somebody to take an interest in you."
Without saying any more, for there was nothing more to be said, my father left the apartment and I have never seen him since. But I've heard indirectly through Anne's parents that my mom and dad are on the verge of divorce and that doesn't surprise me in the slightest.
When our nerves had calmed down, Jo took me in his arms and held me firmly. His hand moved to my shoulder and slipped my tattered blouse off my back. I was naked now from the waist up and my breasts flattened out against his gently rising and falling chest. As he wriggled out of his shirt, I felt the coarse hair on his chest brush against the very tip of my nipples. It brought them up hard and round and they pointed to the mouth that would suck them, the bristled mouth that had known every part of my body on several occasions.
He dropped his head and drew on the brown flesh that surrounded the nipple of my left breast. The whole mammary gland was cupped in his hand and flowing through his busy fingers. His left hand grappled with the belt of my hip-huggers and when it gave way, the zipper fell with ease. The pubic hair that had been flattened all day by the pressure of my skintight pants rose like a garden in spring. It felt light and airy. Jo dropped to his knees, inserting his hands into my pants as he went. They were smooth hands, smooth hands on my smooth, firm ass and they brought my hip-huggers down much easier than I could ever have done myself. They brought my hip-huggers down to my thighs, uncovering my cunt, only inches from his face. They brought my hip-huggers down over my knees, over the long, slender bones of my shins to my ankles and off. I felt clean and beautiful in my nakedness. It was a clean beauty that my father could never understand, with all his professed experience. It was a cleanness that could only be surpassed by a fuck-a deep, succulent fuck.
I helped Jo off with his pants and when we were both cleanly nude, we lay on the floor and kissed and sucked and ate each other until he was erect and saliva glistened on the head of his penis and I was dripping for want of that penis in my cunt.
We righted ourselves and Jo slipped it into me. He slipped his whole hard prick up the avenue of my cunt and thrust it back and forth.
He had a well-shaped cock. Not one of great length or breadth, but one of perfect conformation, about seven inches long, about two inches thick at the base. Just the perfect cock to please a woman. It glided in and out of me sending shivers up and down my spine and bringing goose bumps to the surface on the insides of my thighs. His mouth engulfed my mouth and his tongue licked my gums. His fingers rolled and twisted my dark brown nipples, making them stand up like mushrooms and his cock moved in and out, in and out.
His whole body moved on mine until I thought it was a part of me. We were melting into each other-becoming one person, helpless in our consuming passion, helpless in our fornication.
The fuck. This is where life is created and where it is transcended, where the male and the female meet and become one, where there is equality, where the cock meets the cunt and is sucked in by it, where the balls meet the asshole, where the nipples meet the hairy chest and where mouths become Siamese twins.
My cunt was loose and wet now. It dribbled into the hairs between my legs. It dribbled onto Jo's balls and onto the rug. It gobbled up the grizzly male meat and spit it out again, creating friction, bringing on a climax.
Our movements became frantic as they always do at this point in the fuck. We were well-lubricated machines, the right sized shaft fitting the right sized sleeve. Then the end came. My clitoris sent out pleasure shocks that seemed to wrench my body away from some deeper self. I was foreign to my own body, but at the same time enjoying its pleasures. That was the transcendence of sex.
And I was delighted to feel Jo undergo that familiar, rigid pause before the twitching of his cock, the pause that his body needed to build up the pressure to blast sperm against the wall of my uterus.
Our mechanisms moved again in a few last coordinated thrusts and then we collapsed into each other. Our bodies were as flaccid as water.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the fuck that my parents objected to, the fuck that they refused to let themselves enjoy. And without that fuck no male and female relationship on earth will survive.
Jo withdrew, but remained on top of me. I could feel the semen oozing out of him, inching across my abdomen and dribbling down my sides. I was aware of the pool of it that had formed in my navel and the odor of it filled the room. The aftermath of the fuck-the limp, sticky cock, the closing cunt, and the precise mixture of cunt and sperm in the air-the aftermath of the fuck, the most relaxing moment of anyone's life.
Jo and I showered together and dressed to go to the party.
We were there by twelve o'clock and most of the guests who had been partying since seven and eight o'clock were fresher looking than we were. There was a fantastic band playing when we arrived and drugs as well as booze were floating around like water. But the biggest attraction was body painting and wouldn't you know it, there was Anne, the center of attention, sitting stark naked while an artist put the finishing touches on her legs. She was painted all over in gold paint and looked for all the world like a statue. Even her cunt hairs were a glittery gold and the reflection on her tits was almost enough to blind you. Several other people were painted up in various colors and patterns. One guy had red, white and blue rings on his prick and, you guessed it, he was British. Another cat had crude looking cunts painted all over his body in brownish red paint and he had his cock tied up with a string around his waist for some ridiculous reason. One girl had black patches painted across her nipples. It really was an unbelievable sight, all these human art pieces drifting around the room, high as kites on drugs or liquor, chanting weird slogans and generally having the time of their lives.
I had intended to tell Anne all about the clash with my father, but I realized after I got there that it would be out of place. Besides, Anne was bombed out of her mind.
Jo and I joined in by stripping off our clothes and slapping crazy, multi-colored abstractions all over each other. After the first few nearly straight vodkas, I remember very little about the party. I have some vague recollections of a lot of fucking going on and I think I must have taken part.
I do remember waking up the next day at twelve noon with a hangover and trying to get ready for the big event, the event that had been planned for months and months.