Though Momma X and I have been an item for over fifty years,
there were times when we didn’t live together. When her fragile health allowed,
she’d run off, spreading her sweet ass around Mendocino, New York or Bucks
County Pa. while I poked my dick into anything that moved or shook in the San Francisco
bay area. She and I were married at eighteen and twenty respectively, so
neither of us had time to be single. Considering her health problems, we both
needed something like freedom every so often, just for the experience.
Back in the 70’s, two gorgeous sisters, Alana and Roberta,
lived around San Francisco. Alana Banana and Roberta Perverta. You can guess
how they came by their nicknames. These sexually enthusiastic lovelies occupied
a class by themselves. Although they both held decent jobs, their main
interests were smoking opium and having sex. Always up for a party.
Alana and I had been fuck buddies for years. Somewhat of the
voluptuous hourglass type, Alana was younger, cuter and shorter than the slender,
more glamorous Roberta. I’d always wanted to get under Roberta’s skirts but hadn’t
yet turned an opportunity into reality. There had been chemistry between us;
we’d flirt and cop a feel when nobody was looking. Times we’d hug for a
greeting, I’d wiggle my fingers into the crack of her tush and she’d grind her pubic
bone on my thigh. She was never circumspect about wanting to fuck me. Alana
thought we’d make a good threesome and on several occasions had attempted to
get a scene going. But something had always come up.
I forget the bar where we started, but suffice to say that one
night Alana, Alana’s boyfriend Mike, Roberta and I were all blotto. Plenty of
sexual tension permeated the atmosphere as it became more and more obvious that
Roberta and I would finally get together. We just needed a bed. We ended up in
Mike’s Volkswagen bug, on our way south to a town on the peninsula where
Roberta lived with her kid. She and I took the tiny back seat, fondling and
fingering each other for the entire ride. By the time we reached our
destination, Roberta and I had worked ourselves up to the point where we were ready
to dash inside from sheer sexual frustration.
Not to be. Roberta’s ex-boyfriend was waiting outside the
house. He was crying, trying to get back with her. Damn!
Alana, Mike and I went inside, paid the babysitter and sent
her on her way, then poured more drinks while Roberta talked with her ex on the
porch, trying to get rid of the poor fuck. Talk about bolloxing the mood!
After some few minutes, a scuffle could be heard outside.
Mike and Alana were… um… involved in another room, so I went out on the porch see
what was happening. Turns out that Roberta’s current boyfriend had shown up. A bit of a tough guy. He proceeded
to punch out the ex and send him on his way.
New boyfriend glares at me and says “And who the fuck are
you?” At that point, it was looking worse and worse. To say the least.
By that time, Mike and Alana had joined us on the porch. One
of them chimed in, “Oh, Daddy’s an old family friend.” Thank goodness.
Boyfriend stared harder and said, “Were you with him?” a thumb over his
shoulder indicating the guy he’d just run off.
“No,” I said. “Never even met the dude. Just got here from
the city and there he was.” I grinned, showing
lots of teeth.
“He won't be back,” he said. “Can you imagine the nerve of
that punk? Coming over here after my girlfriend? I showed his ass.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “What an asshole.”
It was hard for those of us who’d shared the earlier ride to
keep a straight face. Here I was, my hand still smelling like the most intimate
essence of his very own Roberta. The guy wound up taking a liking to me and we got
on like old pals. Every once in a while over the course of the evening he’d
brag about the poor shmuck he’d chased off. We continued with the drinking and
smoking until all of us went to crash. I was lucky enough to get the guestroom
so I had a chance to masturbate.
Next morning, I became aware of a naked Roberta slipping
between the sheets beside me. She said the boyfriend had gone to buy makings
for breakfast screwdrivers and that she wanted to make up for the previous
night. That we’d have to make it quick.
Later, after breakfast, the boyfriend went out again to buy some
weed, so Roberta and I ducked into a first-floor bedroom and fucked again before
he got back. While we were going at it, her 9 year-old son came to the open
window, calling for “Mommy.”
Turned out one of the wildest nights of my career. I
remember it being quite Henry Milleresque.
I hate to think what it says about me that my first thought from your title was of Chaucer's "The Miller's Tale" rather than Henry's fine licentious work. Actually the Chaucer wouldn't have been that far off, but your tale is far more entertaining.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Sacchi!
DeleteIt does remind me of henry Miller and why I liked his stuff. I admit I envy your adventures. All that and being chased by Indians too.
ReplyDeleteGarce
Funny- I didn't equate this experience with Miller before writing this, but as I wrote it, the title became obvious.
DeleteFantastic story!!
ReplyDeleteRoberta and Alana sound the Halloween ghosts in your Gonzo story.
This tale, though, is wilder than most in you collection!
Truth can be stranger than fiction. At least not as predictable.
ReplyDeleteBut with Henry Miller, the women weren't written about as the instigators...unless I haven't read enough of his stuff. From what I remember, the men were the chasers, the women the "sperm receptacles" that were either readily willing, or needed some convincing. There's an old saying that the enjoyment is directly related to how much effort you had to put into getting it. That's what I remember from Miller books. I don't remember much from the women's points of view, to the point that whether or not they enjoyed it was beside the point. At least in your story, the women seem to have been as eager as you were.
ReplyDeleteYou've sure had an interesting life! You'll be on the porch of the old folks home, right next to me, rocking and laughing at your own memories of sexual peccadilloes. We can swap stories and chortle, while others try to figure out if we're lying or not (we aren't.)