July 20 1977 – Journal – Riis

July 21, 2024 – 7:47 pm

A hot day in the city. I finished serving lunch at the executive dining room on Wall Street a little past 1pm and caught the A train to the Rockaway Beach after which a bus transported me to Riis Park, the gay nude beach. Hundreds of queers and lesbian sunbathed naked. Spread legs showing cocks and pussy. I laid down my tow and stripped off my jeans and teenshirt. The sun was brutal and I went into the Atlantic. Not so cold for July. I swam out to the waves and bodysurfed for a good fifteen minutes, then rode one growler to the shore and stood in the knee-high shallows.

My skin tingled from the plunge. The sun bronzed my skin and the breeze caressed my flesh.

A classic pervert in a white shirt and black shirts wandered into this water, still wearing black socks and black shoes. He was in his forties and his skin was as white as chalk. Creepy and not in a good way. He waded closer and studied my semi-erect penis, licking his lips. He comes even closer. I smell the AquaVelva and his breath stinks of gin.

“Do you want me to jerk you off?”

“No.”

I’m not offended by the offer, but he’s not my type either.

He wanders off to haunt some other prey.

An amusing incident.

It was around 4. I towel dry and get dressed jeans and a t-shirt sneakers. I catch the bus to 116th Street catch the A train. At a payphone I drop a dime and call Rose at the Socialist Monthly. We’ve been seeing more of each other without Robert. Her friend wants me, but he’s not my type either. Rose answers the phone.

“I’m the only one here. I want you to come over. I’m working a little late. How long do you think you’ll take.”

“About an hour.”

The train is in the station. The air conditioning is a relief. The subway crosses Broad Channel and soon speeds through Brooklyn. I read the New York Times into the city. I get off at 14th Street over to the Socialist Review and take the elevator upstairs.

Rose is at the reception desk. She is wearing a tube top and tight jeans over her thin body. Her curly caramel hair falls to her shoulders like a Jewish verson of Jane Fonda i. KLUTE

“Anyone here?” The office was the entire floor. It sounded empty.

“No, it’s after 5. Everyone went home for the day. It’s just you and me.” She stood up and locked the front door to the left-wing publishing house. The air is stale and I hold her from behind. She smells like revolution.

“You smell like the Atlantic. Come with me ”

She grabs my hand and hauls me back into the book stacks

“There’s no one here, but me and you.”

“What about the FBI eavesdroppers?” The government hated Socialists. I was more an anarchist.

“Let’s give them a show.”

“Good.”

I undo my belt and tugged down my zipper, then pull down my pants. Rose drops to her knees and sucks my cock. It’s already hard.

“Salty.”
I pulled back both her hands behind your back. Her face on communist books of Marxism, she moaning, “Fuck me. Fuck me.”

I have no trouble with that and she moans sighing, “Do it now. Do it now ”

I spurt a load inside her and she shudders with a groan.

“Ooo, your cum in me ”

I withdraw and sperm drips down her thighs.

“Lick the cum from my skin. I want it on my tits. ”

I kneel and suck the cum and then tongue her pussy tasting her and more of my cum. I don’t swallow. I try to push my fist in her cunt. It’s too small, but she shakes in the throes in orgasm.
”
I stand.

She opens her nouth. We kiss and she takes all the cum in her mouth, then break away to dribble the semen onto her small breasts.

The gobs of cum melt like pearls and her palms wipe it over her breasts.

“That was good.”

“Same here ” My cock is still hard

“That was really good.”

“For me too.”

“Do you want to go up to Central Park and watch some Shakespeare?”

“If we fuck in the bushes afterwards I’m Your Man

“I still have some work to do. Go to the Corner Bistro meet you there.”

I grab THE OPEN VEINS OF LATIN AMERICA.

We get dressed and kissed at the elevator. Both of us tasting of cum. It was a good plan. The beer is cheap there.

By Peter | Posted in journal, semi-fiction, Sex | Tagged , , , , | Comments (0)

The Location of X

July 20, 2024 – 6:37 pm

My first major in college was Math. My mother had chosen that field of study, because a 710 score in my Math SATs provided convincing proof that her second son was a future Einstein. She was not privy to the fact that I was smoking pot and dropping acid. Both opened my mind to the realm of infinity, while reducing my ability to add and subtract to a preschool level. I survived the first two semesters through the genius of my mind. My grade for multi-variable calculus was a B-. Without the drugs it might have been a B.

I started an affair with a divorcee the summer between freshman and sophomore years.

Linda worked as a junior executive in the same office as my father. She wore lingerie. We had sex for hours twice a week in the back of my car. I moved into a small apartment near my college. Sex in a bed was better than in the back of a VW Bug. I drove taxi to pay the rent. My grades suffered, since my math class was at 9 am. I missed most of them. My professor for linear algebra was Rene Marcuse, who could calculate missile trajectories in his head. My mid-term result was a D+. I showed up for the final two weeks of classes.

“Who are you?” He asked from the front of the class.

I told him my name.

“I thought you had withdrawn from the class.” He was short and bald. A little overweight, but his eyes sparkled with an intelligent designed for NASA and not a pot-smoking underclassman.

“No.” I explained that I was working to pay for school.

“You know you’re in danger of failing?”

“Yes.” I hadn’t realized that you could pull out of a class mid-term. This was December. Too late to withdraw and my ignorance had committed me to taking the final.

My crash cram failed to pierce the intricacies of determinant and vector spaces. I showed up at the final with the book in my hand. I cheated without any fear. I paraphrase the text regardless of the question. Two hours were more than enough. At the end of time I handed in my test.

“How you think you did?” Professor Marcuse asked staring at my textbook.

“Aced it.” I went out and smoked a joint and then went to work driving a cab. I didn’t get home until 3am. I made over $70. This was good money in 1972 and would have to be. I read my test score on the math department wall.

15.

“Aced it?” Professor Marcuse was standing behind me.

“Better than a zero.” Zero was the most powerful number in mathematics with the power to negate any equation, but I was in danger of failing out of my college. My lottery number was 96. If i wasn’t going to school, then I was headed for Viet-Nam. “But not good enough to keep me for of the Army.”

“If you drop Math as a major. I’ll give you a D-.” Professor Marcuse was offering a lifeline and I took it. My mother was disappointed, but I sat out the war with Linda in my cold-water apartment and I thanked Rene Marcuse for keeping me a civilian.

Bad math would have determined another destiny.

ps X is 5. I’m better at math now.

Counting on my fingers is easy. I have all ten.

By Peter | Posted in science, semi-fiction, youth | Tagged , , , | Comments (0)

Burning A Draft Card Never

July 20, 2024 – 6:26 pm

After the 1963 assassination of JFK, the United States became more embroiled in the Vietnam civil war.

Support for our involvement was widespread, however according to Wikipedia a twenty-two year-old conscientious objector, Gene Keyes, setting fire to his card on Christmas Day 1964. While the federal government declared the destruction of a draft card a prison able crime. From 1965 to 1973 over 25,000 young men set their draft cards afire.

In 1968 I tried to join the US Marines at 16. My Uncle Jack had served as a combat USMC lieutenant in Korea. The recruiter at Lower Mills, Boston said I was too young to join, but to return the following year when I turned 17. I wasn’t interested in fighting the Viet Cong, but getting out of my hometown on the South Shore and away from a Catholic education under the Black Robes.

In May of 1969 I returned as requested. The same recruiter gave me a parental permission slip for a seventeen year-old. My mother, despite being a virulent anti-communist, refused the signature and I was stuck in that town.

In June 1970 I received my draft card and draft lottery number. A very low 96 and the Pentagon had almost a half-million troops in that involvement with no sign of the promised peace. I went to a local college and grew my hair long.

In 1972 then an anti-war hippie I failed Multivariable Calculus in my sophomore year of university. Failing out of college meant loss of my student draft deferment. My Selective Service # was low. 96. An F meant I was Vietnam bound. Professor Remy Marcou took pity. His daughter was my friend and he passed me with a D- on the promise that I drop my math major. Thusly I was spared from the slaughter.

I never burned my draft card, but protested the War as I now protest the current Endless War.

I still have my draft card.

ps I left Boston in 1976 never to return, but I named my son Fenway.

By Peter | Posted in semi-fiction, War, youth | Tagged , , , , | Comments (0)

Super Brat Charlie XCX

July 19, 2024 – 1:04 pm

Charlie XCX

Contemp glam pop selling the illusion of attainable wealth and fame to the underclass dreaming to be special. Charlie XCX sings the songs for the forgotten masses wanting a message of we are us. Her hook in YOU’RE ONLY ONE is YOU”RE ONLY ONE and she sings this lyric seventy-three times.

In 3:24.

HEY JUDE was less, but according to answers.com in the original release of “Hey Jude”, the words “Hey Jude” are mentioned once in each verse, once in the first Middle 8 and twice in the second Middle 8 (7 times). During the lengthy outro and fade out, the words “Hey Jude” are sung 18 times, plus sung, yelled and screamed indistinctly by Paul McCartney numerous other times. Paul McCartney features “Hey Jude” in his live performances and the song is seriously ad-libbed during the outro. I am not a fan of the Beatles, although seeing the movie YESTERDAY altered my antipathy.

THe same goes for Charlie XCX

I can see why she is a star.

If she can be a star, what’s ’bout me?

Not a chance.

By Peter | Posted in fame, music | Tagged , , , , | Comments (0)

LAST CALL IN BUTTE, MONTANA

July 17, 2024 – 12:45 pm

Tonight I rolled into Butte, Montana.

Beating the M&M Bar’s last call.

Gram Parsons on the jukebox.

“Streets of Baltimore.”

Mona loved that song

And I never done her wrong___

Last week in Bozeman, Montana

I woke to an empty bed

No sign of Mona. Only a burning egg

And a note saying

Don’t follow her,

Because she never liked this town___

So it’s last call in Butte, Montana

One whiskey, one beer

And still no sign on Mona

But I keep seeing her here___

She wasn’t in Lakeside or Malta,

Not a trace in Helena or Great Falls too.

So I drove west on I-90

I always knew where she had gone___

Last call in Butte, Montana

Holding hands with a can of beer

And still no sign of Mona,

But I keep seeing her here___

Mona loved the lights at the M&M.

She loved the cowboys too.

The bartender looked at her photo.

Said, “Two night ago she came through.”

She hadn’t said where she was going,

Because this was where she’d gone___

Last call in Butte, Montana.

Holding hands with a can of beer

And still no sign of Mona,

But I keep seeing her here___

I nodded my head and left the M&M.

The bartender was happy to see me go.

Out on North Main Street

Rain coming down

Every drop hitting my face

Making me feel like a clown___

High heels on the sidewalk

I know that sound.

Mona in high heels

Coming here

To save me from all my fears

Especially if Butte, Montana

’cause we both loved it here.


THE STREETS OF BALTIMORE by Graham Parsons

By Peter | Posted in Activities | Tagged , , , , , | Comments (0)