12-7-2023 Michael Charles Smith

December 7, 2023 – 1:23 am

The leaves changed color in October and in November JFK beat Richard Nixon to become the first Catholic president. The cold weather arrived in December and Pearl Harbor Day 1960 dawned with a hoary frost topping the fields south of the Neponset River.

During lunch my 3rd Grade class stared out the windows at sullen northern clouds. We ate our sandwiches in silence. The nuns believed that Jesus barely spoke during his Agony on the Cross and their students were expected to follow his example in thought and deed.

A shrill bell signaled recess and the classes boiled from the school into the sub-freezing temperature. Standing still on the icy asphalt meant frozen feet, so the girls skipped tattered ropes, while the boys kicked misshapen balls around the rear parking lot.

Right before the end of the play period our station wagon rolled down the school’s driveway and Chuckie joked, “Here comes the jail truck from Billerica Reform School.”

Having endured endless ribbing about the metal bars across the windows of the station wagon from family and friends, neither my brother nor I laughed with our classmates. Funny was for other people, but my father got out of the car with a broad smile.

Mother Superior demanded with a sense of command backed by the Church, “What are you doing here?”

In her mind a man’s place at this hour was at his job.

“I need to speak to my boys.” He waved for us to come closer.

“Impossible.” Mother Superior expected obedience from adults as well as children.

“No, it isn’t.” My father had been brought up in Maine and he confirmed that his authority superseded the Church by telling us, “Your mother had a baby boy.”

“We have a baby brother?” Frunk was confused as I was.

“You didn’t know your mother was having a baby?”

“I thought Mom was getting fat.” At age eight the ways og the Birds and Bees were as mysterious as the Holy Eucharist

Any woman would have gained weight from her recent feeding frenzy.

“She was fat with your baby brother. We’re going to see him.”

“You can’t disrupt the school day like this.” Steam fumed from Mother Superior’s dragon beak.

“They’ll make it up at Church this Sunday.”

As a convert to the faith he was immune to the nun’s wrath, but my brother asked timidly, “What about our books?”

“No one does homework on Baby Day.” My father waved to my sisters and they ran over to us.

“They’re going to the hospital to see their mother.”

“Is Mom okay?” I asked with concern. She hated birds.

“We’re going to the hospital to see your mother. She’s fine.”

We piled in the car and my father drove to Beth Israel Hospital, humming IT’S BEGINNING TO LOOK ALOT LIKE CHRISTMAS.

“This is not a playground,” my father said entering the hospital. The lobby smelled cleaner than our house.

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect you to be on your best behavior.No, running around or being loud.”

“Yes, sir.”

We filed one by one into the private room in Richardson House.

My mother lay on a bed with a small baby on her chest. My Nana held our now second youngest brother, Padraic. A white uniformed nurse sat on a chair reading the Record-American. We stood around the bed. Our new brother was very pink.

“He weighs seven pounds.” My father touched the small body and his little fingers squirmed like spring worms rising from the earth. We were a bigger family by one and each of us smiled with a shared happiness.

My parents named their sixth child after my grandmother’s uncle. The young priest had met the fourteen year-old girl off the boat from Ireland and placed Nana in a Salem household staff. My grandmother had danced with our grandfather at a church outing in Marblehead.
In my mother’s mind our next two generations owed their existence to Uncle Mike and she prayed that at least one of us might take up the Cloth to return the favor. I didn’t have the heart to confess my atheism.

Those first months Michael was a miracle and I rushed home from school to feed, bathe, and rock the tiny creature in a cradle from my grandmother’s house in Maine. After having six kids in eight years my mother was grateful for my assistance, however this peaceful period ended with his first bout of infantile teething.

My mother and I sang him GOLDMINE IN THE SKY a thousand times. His bawling destroyed our attempts at harmony. One day Michael fell asleep and we sat on the bed in relief. The support struts creaked under our weight and his unearthly howl filled the bedroom. He seemed shocked for a second, then smiled before drifting into a blessed slumber.

That was as bad as it got.

Michael Charles Smith was very special.

We love him always

By Peter | Posted in family | Tagged | Comments (0)

TORAH TORAH TORAH by Peter Nolan Smith

December 7, 2023 – 1:12 am

TORA TORA TORA was one of my mother’s favorite films. The infamy of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor burned bright in her memory. Her friends from Jamaica Plain enlisted in the Marines, Army, and Navy by the scores. Many of them failed to return to Boston. Their bodies rest on islands across the Pacific.

The 1970 film flopped at the box office. Hippies didn’t want to see a war movie, but I went with my mother and father. She cried at the sinking of the Arizona. My father had joined the Army Air Force that January much like many young Americans volunteered for the armed forces after the 9/11 attacks.

The producers of MAGNUM PI and NYPD BLUE manipulated the Japanese Navy’s radio command TORA TORA TORA into TORAH TORAH TORAH for episodes about stolen Torahs. It has never been used by the IDF, who have been trying to draft Yeshiva students into the army without any success, for they consider the Torah trumps any secular laws.

Last Friday I was on West 47th Street and ran into Rondell, a religious diamond dealer.

“So nu?”The heavy-set Hassidic diamond broker was happy that I had a new job. We boasted about the health of our families and after a few minutes I asked his opinion about the power of the Torah over the laws of man.

“The Torah was dictated to Moses over the forty years in the desert. The words come from a divine source.” The Torah was the law for Rondell.

“What about the last eight lines? Some scholars considered that these were composed after the Death of Moses.”

“They are all sacred.” The youngish father of six was a true believer from a schul on Eastern Parkway and said proudly, “You know that the Torah is one of the most important school books in Korea. Its truth is taught to many of the young.”

“The Torah?” I understood how the five books of Moses formed the backbone of Hassidic tradition and the Christian accepting the Pentateuch into their Old Testament as well as the Muslims regarding the ancient text to be the words of Allah, but Korea was on the other side of the world and while 22% of its people claimed to be Buddhists and almost a third profess to be Christian, almost half the country adhere to no religion. “What’s the Torah have to do with Korea?”

“The Korean ambassador told Israeli TV that Talmud study is a mandatory part of the country’s school curriculum and almost every home in South Korea boasts a Korean version of the Talmud, and mothers commonly teach it to their children, who call it the “Light of Knowledge.”

“I know many Koreans are Christian. I had several baptized in my youth.”

My old boss shook his head. Manny had heard this schtick before.

“You were a missionary?” Rondell knew of my devotion to atheism.

“No, but as a child in Boston the nuns offered us a chance to support Korean infant orphans. $15 took care of them for the first month of their life and you got to name them.” Somewhere in Korea were four men in their late-40s with my name. “Koreans are also prone to Evangelism.”

“Evangelism?” Rondell was unfamiliar with Christian subsects.

“Born-Again Christians.” Manny was listening to my every word.

At the mention of these words my Brazilian co-worker turned her head. Ava believed in the God of the Only Faith and she prayed for my abandoned soul, so I won’t burn in Hell. I looked at her, as I said, “Yes, Born-Agains back Israel 100%, for without Israel there can be no Apocalypse and the Apocalypse bring back the Messiah to battle the forces of Satan. Ava, do you have a Torah in your house?”

“Yes, it’s called the Book of Light.” Ava’s was guided by the Bible. To her every word was true, especially the Apocalypse. She noticed her boss glaring at her. He hated my bullshitting.

“Thanks.” I respected her faith. This country the Constitution guaranteed freedom of religion and from religion. “The Talmud gets around and so does the Koran.”

“Not according to the Korean Ambassador. He says no Koreans read it, because it’s a book of Islam.” Rondell hated the Arabs; Christians as well as Muslims.

“That’s not true. I have traveled through Korea’s main airport on my many trips to Thailand and seen a few Muslim Korean in Inchon Airport, but no Hassidim. They prefer to fly through Tokyo or Beijing on the way back from the Hong Kong diamond shows Jews either, but then you don’t have to like pastrami to be Jewish.”

“What does pastrami have to do with the Torah?”

“Nothing other than it isn’t tref.”

“Goyim.” Rondell was ecstatic to have stumped me on this issue and said, “Call me if you get a deal we can steal.”

“Will do.” We had made money in the past and I hoped that we made money in the future. We hugged as men equal in love of the world and I walked him outside the exchange. I wasn’t making any money on the Street today and shouted, “TORAH TORAH TORAH.”

“Say the word.” Rondell pumped his fist in the air. He was a good family man and loved the Torah as should any rebbi.

That evening back home in Fort Greene I searched for ‘Korea, torah’ and found the following;

Nearly ten years ago, the Korea Times reported: “Interestingly, there are at least two different books currently sitting on Korean best-seller shelves that purport to explain the Jewish Talmud. The popularity of these books initially came as a surprise. But Koreans aren’t converting to Judaism. They read those books because Jews have gained a reputation for hard work and success, two things Koreans relate to well.”

Reports of Korean schoolchildren reading the Talmud – or at least stories thereof – have also been known for several years. One American teacher in South Korea related that in 2005, his elementary school students told him that as children, they had all read the Talmud, which they called the “Light of Knowledge.” When asked if they had also read the Koran, they burst into laughter, saying, “Of course not, that’s the Muslim book.”

TORAH TORAH TORAH, but I prefer a good pastrami sandwich from Katz’ Deli.

Throw in a cream soda and I’m in heaven on earth.

By Peter | Posted in Bet On Crazy, NEW YORK, religion, semi-fiction | Tagged , , , , , | Comments (0)

BET ON CRAZY 1 by Peter Nolan Smith

December 7, 2023 – 1:06 am

In the 1970s I knew very little about diamonds as a child other than Superman could squeeze coal with his steel-hard hands to create diamonds and my father had bought a diamond ring for my mother. It was a hundredth of the size of the diamonds Superman never gave to Lois Lane, but my mother loved hers often singing, “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

Marilyn Monroe performed a breathy version of that song in GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES. I like my mother’s rendition, however this preference failed to diminish my ignorance about diamonds as did films like TO CATCH A THIEF and THE PINK PANTHER. All they taught was that diamonds were worth stealing. Murph the Surf must have seen the same movies, because in 1964 he masterminded the theft of the ‘Star of India’ from the New York’s Natural History Museum.

His arrest didn’t deter my casing Boston’s museums and jewelry stores. The guards were armed with pistols and the salesmen scrutinized every teenager boy as a potential thief. In the end I bought a gold locket for my girlfriend and abandoned this outlaw ambition to become a writer. My mother cried and my father said I would end up living under a bridge. I told them I’d be on the Johnny Carson Show within a year.

“Johnny Carson doesn’t appear under bridges.” My father believed in 9 to 5.

“Well, neither do poets.” At least none that I could think of.

My pursuit of literary success forced a move from Boston to New York in 1976. I lived in the East Village with my hillbilly girlfriend. Alice studied acting and I wrote detective poems. For money I worked at Hurrah, a punk disco, on West 62nd Street. An off-duty cop moonlighted as security. His 17 year-old nephew wanted to see the Ramones. As doorman I possessed the privilege of free admission. Seymour’s skinny nephew and his friend got their wish. Richie Boy thanked me with a gram of blow. The teenager from the Five Towns and I became friends.

That summer Richie worked for his father at his father’s jewelry store on Canal Street. The window glittered with diamonds and gold and pearls. All Manny’s kids were grown up and he was divorced from Richie’s mother. At the height of his powers the fifty year-old looked like the Jackie Mason and he wasn’t above not telling the girls he wasn’t the Jewish shtick comedian.

Once a week I came downtown to have lunch. It was a perk for getting Richie free drinks at the bar. Manny ordered from sandwiches from Little Italy and told funny stories about thieves, women, and diamonds. None of them explained women?
‘s attraction to the sparkle other than in base greed.

“Women like to see men spend money they don’t want to spend. If anyone who says it’s not about the money, then it’s definitely about the money.” Manny’s low estimation of humanity was based on his daily contact with gonifs, schnorrers, and starkers. I had read most of Isaac B Singer’s books and Manny was surprised by my knowledge of Yiddish. “My son knows nothing.”

“Weiss nichts, sagt nichts.” I had graduate from university. A good one, but all I knew was basically monkey no know, monkey no say.

“I know how to sell.” Richie had coined more than an investment banker that summer from buying graduation Rolexes from his high school friends desperate to finance their disco evenings at Studio 54. Richie smiled at his father. “I know nimmt geld. Take the money. That’s enough.”

“Alevai, my son, the genius.”

Richie Boy was supposed to go onto college, instead he followed my nightclub career from Hurrah’s to The Jefferson, an after-hours club frequented by movie stars, pop singers, and top models. Richie never got home before dawn. His professors failed grade a student whose existence was merely a name. They gave him an incomplete.

Later that summer I left my hillbilly girlfriend for a blonde model from Buffalo. Lisa disappeared in the summer of 1980 on a trip to Milan. Richie dropped out of Baruch and started full-time with his father when gold spiked to $800 in January of 1980. They ran a foundry behind the store on Elizabeth Street. They couldn’t count the money fast enough, but this gold rush died out after a few months and I was arrested by Internal Affairs for running an illegal establishment. I got off with a good word from Seymour, who told the judge, “Basically the goy was a schlemiel.”

No one liked being called an idiot even if it gets them off with a full dismissal, but Seymour also said I was the shabbas goy for his family, the gentile who turned on the lights for holy days. That comment was a little nicer and closer to the truth. I attended a whole slew of the Jewish family functions; weddings, funerals, bris, and Sedars.

“If there was some way to make you an honorary Jew, I would,” Manny declared after a few too many cocktails at the Hanukkah party in 1981. He held up a knife to demonstrate how.

“Sorry, but my schlong is already schnitten.” My circumcision came at birth.

“So you’re still a sheygutz. Some people think that’s a bad word for a goy and it can be, but for me it means you’re a smart goy, unless of course I mean sheygutz the other way.” Manny liked leaving himself an out for every eventuality. I thanked him and wished everyone a happy holiday. Richie wasn’t happy, since I was leaving in January for Paris.
“I don’t know why you’re going.” Richie was teary-eyed. He was two drinks ahead of his father.

“The new club is doing great.”

“True.? I was grinding $500/night at the door of the Continental on West 25th Street. The owner, Arthur, had partnered up with the FBI and Russian counterfeiters. My ex-,Lisa, being the Russian’s girlfriend had been nothing more than a coincidence, but Arthur had warned that Uncle Seymour couldn’t save me from the rumored Internal Affairs investigation.

“So why leave?”

For Richie the Continental was simply a good time. Like almost everyone else not written into the main drama the minor participants would have to learn about the NYPD payoff scandal from the New York Times.

“Weiss nichts, sagt nichts.” I knew nothing and said nothing. “Trust me, it’s better I get out of town.”
“

Yeah, sie gesund.” Richie had learned how to say ‘be well’ in Yiddish.

Two months later I was sitting at the Cafe de Flore on the Boulevard St. Germain. I read in the Herald Tribune about a cop scandal in New York. Arthur had kept my name out of the paper, although my subleasee said a Grand Jury subpoena had been stuffed under the door of my East Village apartment.

I remained in Paris through the 1980s, coming back once a year to see my family and friends. In New York I stayed with Richie.

The jewelry business bloomed under Reagan, although Little Italy was overwhelmed by the influx of Chinese illegals from Fujien province Richie was looking to move uptown to 47th Street. His father wanted to stay put on Elizabeth Street. They argued about the future, especially when Richie’s older brother entered the business after a failed career as a car salesman in New Jersey.

“I don’t mind him coming into the business as long as Chet doesn’t affect my income.”

“He’s your brother.” Manny cared for all his kids. “How could he affect your income?”

Chet was crazy. A horse had kicked him in the head at a stable outside Boston. My older brother was a lawyer. I had called him to see if Googs had a case. My brother had explained Googs had been whipping a horse in a stall.

“Oh, so there’s no case,” Manny had said after hearing this story. “But no arrest either,so all is good.”

“I guess so,”I had answered, because nothing about Chet’s head was right.

I returned to America later that year to write porno scripts for my cousin, Sharon, in North Hollywood, hoping to become the Hemingway of XXX. Her producer criticized my scenarios as too pseudo-intellectual.

“Too much cheese and not enough pizza boy.”

A literary agent read one of my straight efforts GONE TO HELL and hooked me up with an albino film producer. We wrote WHERE THE HIGHWAY ENDS in a snow-bound cabin outside of Kent. Ct. Flush with money. I stupidly rejected the producer’s offer to meet the film’s prospective lead in Thailand and jetted to France instead to write a collection of semi-fiction. The agent disowned me for this move and the producer refused my phone calls. When I returned to New York, Manny castigated my decision without any restraint, “What’s the first rule of New York?”

“Don’t trust anyone.”

“Yes, and what’s the first rule in selling diamonds?”

“Nimmt geld?” I had learned Yiddish from Leo Rosen THE JOYS OF YIDDISH and Isaac B Singer’s writings.

“Yes, take the money.” Manny threw his hands the air. “You fail to obey this rule and we might have to revoke your honorary Jew status.”

Richie was more forgiving. They had made the move to a diamond exchange on 47th Street. No more Italian subs, but the pastrami sandwich from the Berger’s Deli was built for two. Richie and I shared one.

“So what are you going to do?” Richie positioned napkins on his lap and chest to avoid any greases dripping onto his Armani suit. He had bought it :hot’ from Frankie Fingers, the street’s haberdasher.

“Work in a club, I guess.” Fifteen publishers had rejected my stories.

“Any ideas?”

“None at all.” I stalled getting a job for several months, while I rewrote my short stories. The amount of typos was astounding, almost as if my fingers suffering from dyslexia.

The New Year brought an eviction notice. I didn’t panic. My landlord couldn’t take me to court for another three months. The refrigerator went empty and the heating was augmented by the gas range, as I typed away at my kitchen table, imagining fame and fortune would save me two minutes after I wrote THE END, then the springs of my typewriter broke with a off-note twang.

I walked to the repair shop through a snowstorm. The man at the counter said fixing the Olivetti portable would cost $50. My wallet held $10. Richie had returned from a ski trip to Jackson Hole. He had to be in a good mood to lend $50 and I trudged up 5th Avenue to his store. My toes were wet icicles and my fingers frozen worms by the time I opened the glass door to the diamond exchange.

Richie stood behind the counter. He wasn’t wearing his usual tailored suit, but a fleece sweater and jeans, which had been sliced to the knee to allow access to the steel pins screwed into his legs.

“What happened?” This was not good. No one on crutches likes to be asked for money.

“I popped both my knees skiing. I’ll be off my legs for six months. You working?”

“No.” I could see what was coming and realized THE END would have to wait until summer.

“I need someone to schlepp around goods.”

“Goods?? I knew ‘schlepp’ meant to carry.

“Diamonds, jewelry to repair, money. Someone I can trust. Manny, what you think?”

“Why not?” Manny glanced up from a small pile of iridescent stones. ?As long as you show up on time and don’t break my balls, you’ll do fine. $100 a day.”

“Cash?” I hadn’t paid taxes in ten years.

“I’m not the IRS.” Manny dropped a necklace into a small manila envelope and wrote an address. “Take this to the setter. Have him call me, then come back here fast. I got more for you to do.”

“Okay.” I had become a worker in less than a minute.

“Don’t lose anything.”

Sure.” I stuffed the envelope inside my damp jacket. “What time is lunch?”

“The goy hasn’t been working for more than a minute and already worried about lunch. I’ll order you a sandwich for when you get back.” Manny resumed sorting the diamonds.

“Thanks,” Richie said from his desk.

“Thank you.” I would be able to pay off my back rent within the month.

“Can you two stop the love story and let the goy get going?” Manny sighed with annoyance.

“You know, Manny, I know nothing about diamonds.”

“And you don’t need to know shit. You go where you’re told and come back. Now already.”

Six hours later we locked the merchandise in the safe. I hadn’t lost anything.

“So now you’re an official shabbat goy.” Manny flipped me a twenty. “For dinner. Now help Richie to a cab. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Will you tell me about diamonds tomorrow?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell you a story or two.”

There would be much more than one or two, because I had survived day one as a goyim on 47th Street and my life wasn’t going anywhere fast. At least not in 1990.

By Peter | Posted in 90s, Bet On Crazy, NEW YORK, semi-fiction | Tagged , , , , , , , | Comments (0)

12/7/1960

December 7, 2023 – 1:01 am

Seventy-SIX years ago Japanese aircraft attacked the US Pacific Fleet. Nearly every capital ship in Pearl Harbor was sunk of severely damaged by bombs or torpedoes and the Pacific Ocean became a Japanese lake until Midway.

The next day President Roosevelt declared before Congress, “December 7th shall live forever as a day of infamy.”

This morning I asked a score of NY teenagers what was special about December 7th.

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a Monday.”

“No.” I shook my head.

“It’s the start of winter.”

“No, that’s December 21st.”

I decided to give them a hint.

“It has something to do with Pearl Harbor.”

“Where’s that?”

“Hawaii, so you don’t know that December 7th is Pearl Harbor Day or what happened that day?”

The group of high school students shrugged with disinterest.

“It’s the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.”

“Are the Japanese Muslim terrorists?”

“No, the Japanese come from Japan?” I gave up on my attempt to comfirm that FDR’s Day Of Infamy has receded into the mists of history, proving that America’s blissful ignorance is a long-cherished national asset, but I know what December 7th means most to me. It was the birth date of my youngest brother, Michael. A day I remember better than most, because fifty-four years ago I was standing in the parking lot of Our Lady of the Foothills. It was recess time. The weather was cold for December. My classmates were kicking a big red ball for fun and warmth. Our family station wagon pulled up before the school’s front door. My father stepped out of the car. He waved for my older brother and I to join him. My younger sisters too. We were all in uniform.

“You have a baby brother,” he proudly told us. The nuns appeared annoyed by his unapproved appearance, being fiercely protective of their authority. My father was a late convert to Catholicism. His faith was newborn and he ignored their glare.

“We have a brother?” Our mother had exhibited no sign of pregnancy over the past months and I was mystified by this potential immaculate conception.

“Yes. Michael. Your mother named him after your uncle.” My father hugged my two sisters close. They were a little more than a year apart.

“The priest?” Uncle Michael was a monsignor for Cardinal Cushing. He had met my grandmother Nana at the Boston docks after her passage from Ireland at the tender age of 14.

Six years older than me in 1960.

“Yes, and he’s going to baptized your brother at the church. Go get your things. Your mother wants you to see Michael.”

The nuns protested his request to take us out of school, but my father’s greatest love was for his children and we piled into the station wagon. The drive to Boston Lying-In Hospital took less than fifteen minutes. My father liked to drive fast.

Our small tribe entered our mother’s hospital room. She was holding Michael in her arms. Nana was holding Padraic, the fifth of our brood. He was all of two. Our family was now six. A family of eight counting my mother and father.

“There goes my pony.” My older brother whispered in my ear.

Year in and year out Frunk had requested a pony from Santa Claus. I never thought that he had a chance of getting one since my mother hated animals.

I stepped closer to the bed. The red-faced baby in my mother’s arms looked more like a furless monkey than a human.

I touched his small hand. It was warm.

“Say hello to your brother.” My mother beamed with a Madonna’s love.

“Hi, Michael.”

He was my baby brother that day and has been every day since.

Sadly Michael passed from this world in summer of 1995. I think of him often and my father’s telling me that I had a baby brother. I still do have one, because December 7th is a day that will live forever in my memory as Baby Brother Day.

Michael Charles Smith RIP.

My baby brother is sorely missed by family and friends.

He would have been 54 today.

Forever young.

I’ll raise a glass for Michael later.

He was my Pearl Harbor Boy and I’ll never say to him or his ghost, “Sayonara.”

Only.

Up the rebels, boyo.

By Peter | Posted in 60s, family | Tagged , , , | Comments (0)

November 28, 1978 – East Village – Journal Entry

December 3, 2023 – 6:40 pm

Alice is busy with the play again. Two dates at Irving Plaza scheduled for December and I have been employed as the bouncer. That’s all I am good for thanks to my wicked smile and speedy fists. Alice’s only reason to be with me is as her protector, but never her pimp, although she denies it.

We haven’t fucked since the night her brother left for the mountains. Two minutes after his departure she said atop the loft, “Come up here.”

“Only if you suck me off.”

“Get up here them.”

Once up on the lift she wanted to do it missionary style which was difficult , because of the low ceiling. As she got close to climax, we switched to female dominant, her pelvis grinding into my bone to reach orgasm. Her body sags over my chest, shuddering from satisfaction. My penis loses hardness and she slithers off to get it erect with her mouth. Thirty seconds. I fuck here mercenary style from behind.

“You only get off when you hurt me.”

It’s the truth. Her pleas for mercy turn me on.

But back to tonight.

I told Alice I was staying here. I hate th loft and want to tear it down.

“If you want to fuck, come down and you can ride me on the chair. It will be good and you’ll be in control.”

“Only if you take off your clothes.”

I did and she climbed down from the loft. My hands grabbed her ass. It was fleshier than when we first met. She must be eating at rehearsals for the show, because she never eats here. We fuck. She gets off. I go limb. For the second time. I wish she was a promiscuous cocksucker, but she’s square with me.

I try to get aroused eating her pussy, but it has a tangy taste and I stop.

“Do you mind if I just masturbate?” You don’t have to do anything.”

Go ahead.”

Her hand got her off for the second time that evening.

I love Alice, but we’ve been together for a long time and I’m bored with her body. I’m sure she’s bored with mine. In the last month I’ve had several one-night stands in alleys and CBGBs bathroom. Zipless fucks. One with a redheaded chubby nympho who wanted it up the ass and then cum in her mouth For that I was hard. She wa a star in Divine’s WOMEN BEHIND BARS. A great dirty fuck.

By Peter | Posted in East Village, journal, punk, Sex | Tagged , , | Comments (0)