Locked first upright, thighs ground together, shuddering mouth to mouth, breast to breast, legs enmeshed, then lying full length, with the good heavy weight of body upon body, arching, undulating, blind, growing together, force fighting force: To kill? To drive into burning dark of oblivion? To lose identity? Not love, this, quite. But something else rather. A refined hedonism. Hedonism because of the blind sucking mouthing fingering quest for physical gratification.
Back in Berkeley, I moved in cold calculation to sleep with someone, anyone, as my father had accused me of doing. It was a law student in my radical study group, whose deformed arm had kept him out of the war. I don't remember any joy, any feeling, except he was appalled when he discovered I was a virgin.
He asked, "You mean, you're going to give me some trim?"
I assured him that was exactly what I was about to give him.
When I was twelve, a trumpet player from a big Negro orchestra had had me for the first time on the floor of my grandmother's parlor. That was rugged enough to finish me with men for a while. I remember being hurt so, I thought I was going to die. I went to Mom, took my bloody clothes and threw them down in disgust.
"So this is what you and Pop used to do when I slept at the foot of your bed in a cedar chest," I screamed at her. (Baltimore, Maryland, 1927)
Three weeks later, having thought very little of the strange and strangely empty night, I found myself pregnant. (San Francisco, 1945)
The woman who ran the hotel [where I was a bellhop] was attractive and liked me. She confided in me often that there was something about Jews she could not stand; she could spot them in a minute, no matter what their name was or what they looked like. There was a smell about them.
As the end of the season approached, the lady proprietor grew more interested in me. I had tried to maintain my distance. The night before the hotel closed, my lady boss was more attentive than ever. She suggested we have a farewell drink in her room. I was certainly aware of the season finale she was planning as I climbed the stairs to her room. She talked about my coming back the next summer. I thought of all the things she had said this summer: "Hitler is right, the Jews should all be destroyed" and "No Jew will ever set foot in this hotel." After a few drinks, we were in bed together. Strange how hate can be such an aphrodisiac. My hate grew into a tremendous erection and I thrust it inside of her. She was wet and ready, extremely passionate, moaned and groaned. I made certain that over all of these sounds she could hear me very clearly when I said into her ear, "That is a circumsized Jewish cock inside you. Do you think you'll get contaminated? Maybe even die? I am a Jew. You are being fucked by a Jew!" I exploded inside her. She said nothing, just breathed heavily and lay there as I left the room. (Lake George, N.Y., 1935)
And wtf, David Bowie is bisexual? ???
Kathleen was in many of the same lecture sets as I, and she had the advantage of having her parents' house just across the road from college . . . For my sixteenth birthday she gave me a beautiful green and gold 1945 edition of Oscar Wilde's Intentions, which I have to this day, and a damned good fuck, the memory of which is also with me still.
We were up in her room, listening to Don Maclean's American Pie, as one did in those days, marveling at the poetry of "Vincent" and how it spoke us, when she remarked that it was odd that we had never screwed. I had told her early on that I was probably homosexual, but she did not see this as any kind of impediment at all.
It was a perfectly satisfactory experience. It was not as I had imagined from that horribly misogynist scene in Ken Russell's The Music Lovers, which seemed to suggest that because Tchaikovsky was attracted to men, he must also have vomited at the touch of women. I could not, afterwards, deny that the design features of the vagina, so far as texture and enclosing elasticity were concerned, seemed absolutely made for the job — ideally suited, in fact. We remained friends and tried it again once or twice, in a field and in a car. My heart was never in it, but my loins were very grateful indeed for the outing and the exercise. (Norfolk, England, 1975)
My childhood was spent playing with animals and lots of little girls. I had a very liberated sex life between the ages of four and seven, which I never really recovered from.
I think it was my first experience of sadism because there was one girl who used to love using stinging nettles in strange ways. I'll leave the rest to your imagination. (London, mid-1950s)
The first time we made it together, I couldn't believe it was happening. Beyond concentrating on the sex act, all I could think of was, "Wow, it's happening, I'm really making it with a girl!" I trembled with excitement and anticipation; so much so, I came before my prick touched her box.
One afternoon while riding the Central Line I was accosted by an Italian businessman.
"Allo, what izza yorr name?"
I snootily turned away.
The handsome stranger in an expensive Burberry mac stepped off the tube with me at Chancery Lane. I was miffed and flattered by the attention.
After dinner Danny took me to the bedroom. A poky white-walled room with a single bed. He closed the curtains and stripped me. That night I lost my virginity. I had expected to scream, cry and beg, but I experienced only pleasure. I woke the next morning in his arms. I wanted to stay there all day . . .
Danny was a sophisticated older man, late thirties, tanned with white teeth, dreamy eyes and warm skin. (London, 1977)
Man, poor Billie Holiday. She got Himumu'dQuoteWhen I was twelve, a trumpet player from a big Negro orchestra had had me for the first time on the floor of my grandmother's parlor. That was rugged enough to finish me with men for a while. I remember being hurt so, I thought I was going to die. I went to Mom, took my bloody clothes and threw them down in disgust.
"So this is what you and Pop used to do when I slept at the foot of your bed in a cedar chest," I screamed at her. (Baltimore, Maryland, 1927)
Today they call it child molesting. Well, man, there was no such thing back then. When I was a small boy, about six years old, there was a woman named Miss Boozie Owens who lived with her husband in the same neighborhood . . . Miss Boozie stayed at home raising chickens to sell in the neighborhood. She was about forty-five, fifty years old.
She explained that she wanted me to feed her chickens every morning before I went to school, and that she would pay me a nickel a week for doing it . . . One morning she came out and helped me with my job and I finished early. She said, "Come on, Sonny, let me clean you up so you can go to school." When we both went back into the house, she removed her robe and washed up first. She still had on this nightgown, but while I'm standing there, man, I can see through this thin thing. Without the robe, her whole body was revealed to me and as she stood with her back to me, bent over her face bowl, I could see the long hairs from her cat between her legs. She was standing with her legs spread wide apart and I got a good look.
After she finished and dried her hands, she asked me to come into the bathroom so that she could help me clean up. She asked me to remove my pants, and she helped me to unzip them, claiming that I had a spot on them. After Miss Boozie washed away the so-called spot, she set my pants down near the electric fan to dry.
We walked into the bedroom and she sat down on the bed while I stood there in my underwear. As I stood in the middle of the floor, nervously fidgeting, and not knowing what to do, she called me over to the bed. Miss Boozie reached out her hand and pulled out my penis. Then she began squeezing it, which made it jump hard. She then leaned across the bed with her cat at the forward edge of the mattress facing me. I was just at the right height, standing there, and she inserted my penis in her cat. She placed her hands on my hips and started pulling me backwards and forwards, making my penis move in and out of her.
This was the beginning of Miss Boozie teaching me what sex was all about. From then on, it became a daily routine. First I did my chores, and then received what I would call lessons. (Clarksdale, Miss., 1937)
KIRK DOUGLAS, KING OF MEN :bow :lol
And wtf, David Bowie is bisexual? ???