Teddy Boy

You opened your legs in the dark just this moment.  There is always the feeling in myself of seeking something, I don't know what,in that moment of fearful suspension.  The moment of slipping it in is a mutual act of faith.  What do you think about in that moment when you feel my weight come pressing down on you?  My firming stalk, your blooming to meet it and hold me inside, as if you could succeed this one time you might be able to keep me from escaping always. 

In the back of the bedroom Paul McCartney is singing "Teddy Boy" with the Beatles on a bootleg vinyl I bought from a record store back in 1969 when there were such records.  Though he later recorded this song for himself, he's playing it with the Beatles and faking his way through the words. "Teddy used to say wowahah mumblemumble . . ." When I was a kid we used to laugh over this rare song because we figured he'd forgotten the words and was too stubborn to quit singing. Later on when I came to understand something of the creative process I realized, it wasn't that at all.  Sir Paul doesn't know what the words to the song are - because he's still in the act of writing it on the fly, shouting random stuff into the microphone,looking for something that sticks, playing it back later with Lennon and George Martin next to him, to decide if any of it is any good.  Good enough to keep.  That's the process.  That's really how song writers noodle out  their songs.  He has the music.  Now he's letting the music write his words, or what words the music will allow him to write. That's how I write too.  You let the story tell you what it's about.

While I move within and without below, establishing rhythm, lifting her leg up with my knee so I can squeeze her meaty thigh hard against me, I wish I could knew some magic words that would conjure her orgasm like a demon.  I wish she were a reader.  She is not.  I dip my head, while the bed squeals and search in the depths of her hair for her ear, feeling for its shape with my tongue.  There, finding, whispering - do you feel that?  Do you like that?  Do you like to feel me doing that?  Say you like it.  Come on. Say you like it.

McCartney would always hang onto his songs, even the ones like "Teddy Boy" that didn't seem to work at the time, because he had faith.  He had faith like a saint, which an artist of any sort must have to survive the disappointments.  He knew if they were no good today, they might be good for something someday.  My stories are like that too.  I keep them all, even the duds.  Especially the duds, because those are the ones no one knows about but me.  I try to show the good stuff when I can, which is probably why I show so very little stuff compared to other writers.  Never Let Them See You Suck.

The erotica I read these days includes a lot of my own stuff.  Not the ones that saw daylight and may have been read by as many as almost a whole dozen people, but the duds.  The Teddy Boy stories that haven't escaped from the drawer yet, but I have faith they're just late bloomers.  "The Peanut Butter Shot" was a late bloomer.  I had the title for years before I had a story to go with it.  "The Dying Light" took me a year to figure out.  It's a good thing I don't try to make a living with this stuff.

I can feel it happening.  The thrill is rising up so that I want to close my eyes and live in this moment of release.  I run my hands roughly over her breasts a final time and whisper "Ready?" because I'm a gentlemen that way.  She whispers something I don't listen to. I rise up on my elbows, double a hank of her hair in my right fist and pull, press my loins hard into hers and let it rush. 

Her mouth falls open but she never speaks.  I want her to shout and laugh.  I want to bang such pleasure out of her that people in their cars driving on the night street below would slow down and listen and exclaim their children that this is the most joy they have ever heard.