by Marco Vassi
“I guess you're right,” he grinned. I grinned. His sunburned cheeks glowed.
“So listen,” he said. “What's your sign?”
I saw Marvin Goldman twice that week and twice the next. Two weeks after we met, on my next alternate weekend, we made it together on a blanket in the dunes. It was not a passionate, romantic occasion with me ripping off a pair of bikini panties soaking wet with the juices of my desire. I liked Marvin. He made me laugh. Hut he did not turn me on. However, I'd been out with him six times and it was now or never. Marvin may have come on like a nebbish, but he was not a jerk. I could either fuck him or lose him. I didn't want the latter.
And so I slipped off my jeans and dry underwear and lay beneath Marvin while his thin, short body in its pale, freckled skin writhed on top of mine. The best thing about the sex was that It didn't last long. And only after it was over did I begin to lull for him. The bastard rolled off me, put on his glasses, pushed them up the rim of his nose with his finger, propped his chin in the palm of his hand and said, “That was the worst sex I ever had.”
“No kidding,” I exclaimed. “Worse than the first time?”
“A lot worse. The first time at least I was curious. This time I knew how it was going to turn out.”
“Worse than Miriam Skolnick?” (Miriam weighed 207 pounds. He had told me about her.)
‘’A thousand times worse than Miriam Skolnick. At least I was doing, a good deed with her. I felt charitable. I could have taken it as a lax deduction.”
“Worse than all the women you were angry with, hated, couldn't may no to, but didn't want to do it with?”
“Worse than every single one of them,” he answered solemnly. “Of all the lousy lays I've ever had,” he went on, looking at me tenderly, “you were the worst.”
I began to feel a stirring of desire. Who can explain it? “Do you really mean that?” I asked. “You're not kidding me?”
“I swear,” he said. “You take the cake. You are the rottenest fuck I ever had in my life.”
A warm rush went up through my thighs and I moved closer to him.
“Are you sure? Absolutely sure?”
“Positive,” he whispered softly. “Without a doubt.”
We were both grinning now. I pulled off my sweat shirt, which I'd left on during our amorous encounter, and pressed myself to him. My nipples were hard, my hands roamed his body. I ran my tongue over flesh that five minutes earlier I'd managed only to tolerate. I moved past his stomach toward his groin.
“Are you serious?” he said. “What do you think I am, Superman? I haven't been able to do that since I was 20.”
“If I'm the worst lay you ever had,” I said mischievously, “who knows what other records we might break? I'll take my chances.”
I licked his thighs, balls and limp penis, then took him in my mouth and swirled my tongue around his glans. As I kissed the base of his cock where it sprouted from stiff, wiry red hair, I felt a flicker of interest, but I wasn't sure.
“Well, what do you know?” I said.
“Don't get cocky,” he replied. “It means nothing.”
I kept working. He began to moan. “Oh God,” he cried. “Oh God. Oh God.” He became erect. Mounting him, I galloped, his body arching to meet mine, my buttocks slapping against his thighs.
The night air was chilly, but we were damp with sweat. Marvin was grinning wildly as I pounded on top of him. His hands wandered over my body and cupped my ass. I came and fell on him. Moments later he rolled me over and began to fuck me. His eyes were closed and his head flung back. Finally he shuddered, then slumped on top of me. I pulled the blanket over his shoulders.
“Am I still the worst lay you ever had?” I inquired.
“Not that time,” he answered. “That time you were the best.”
“The best?” I repeated. “You don't really mean that?”
“You're right,” he admitted. “You weren't really the best. I was just being nice. But the first time you were definitely the worst, and the second time you were really good.”
“Who was the best?”
“Kathleen O'Dougherty. My uncle's bookkeeper. We used to do it on the back stairs of his clock company in Fall River. She was the best. I'm sorry,” he said. “But you were definitely the worst.”
“I believe you,” I whispered tenderly. “I'm glad you told me the truth. I trust you now.”
There was an uncomfortable pause—the kind of pause that is the identifying mark of the bastard. A chill wind blew on the beach. I looked at him, waiting.
“Don't trust me,” he murmured.
Another pause. I knew what I had heard.
“Why not?”
“Just don't.”
He rolled off me. The moment passed. I could have pretended that it never happened. Marvin put on his glasses, propped his chin in his hand and asked, “So what's your sign?” Could such a person be a bastard?
I began spending weekends at Marvin's, where he had a full share and only two roommates instead of eight. We made it together often, in the dunes at night, on a sailboat in Gardners Bay, and in Marvin's bedroom, which opened onto a deck with a view of the ocean. During the week we ate dinner together in town and went to the movies. (I'm a school teacher and was off for the summer.) One of the movies we saw was Annie Hall.
“You remind me of Woody Allen,” I told him after the movie. We were walking up Third Avenue toward Marvin's apartment. “You're funny like he is, confused and sort of shy. You even look a little like him. Just a little bit.”
“Women have told me that before,” he informed me. There was another one of those pauses. I was getting better at ignoring these long moments.
“Especially about the confused part,” he added.
There was another pause. Mine. And then I asked, “What do you mean confused? How?”
“I get scared. I run. I don't want to. I feel like a louse. But things get to a certain point and then I have to cut out. My shrink tells me I'm not a little boy anymore, but so far I haven't stopped.”
“Will you do it to me?”
“I hope not,” he responded. “I like you. Sometimes I think I even love you.”
“Sometimes I think I love you too,” I confessed.
“Don't,” he warned. “Just don't.”
“Why not?” I asked. I knew the answer but felt exasperated. “We have so much fun together. And we have great sex. So why not?”
“You said yourself. I'm confused.”
That night I made love to Marvin more passionately than ever before, as though I were trying to blot out his confusion. But in the weeks that followed, we discussed his problem with increasing frequency. He told me about all the women he had left and how he did not want to spend his life “going from woman to woman.” Sometimes his eyes filled up with tears. But by late August it became apparent he was not going to change. One Sunday night at the end of the weekend Marvin dropped me at my apartment and said, “I'd like us not to see each other for a while. I have to get my head together.”
“What about next weekend?” I pleaded wistfully.
“Let's not.”
“But it's not even my alternate weekend,” I joked. “Besides, I was going to tell you my sign.”
“Please,” he said. “Don't.”
I waited all week for the phone to ring and it didn't. I couldn't believe it. We had made love on the beach, gone sailing and cooked lobsters. By Saturday I had to see him. I took a train to Southampton, planning all the way how to tell him I would live with his confusion. He could stop seeing me for a few days every month. When I arrived at the house Marvin was leaving for the beach with a French designer we had met at a party. Marvin turned red and said, “Hi.” At least he had the grace to look ashamed.
“I was just in the neighborhood,” I said, “and wanted to pick up my hairdryer.”
I caught the next train back to New York. En route I saw in the papers that Annie Hall was playing at the Festival Theater. I decided to go because
Woody Allen would remind me of Marvin. The city was a steaming canyon, but when I reached the Festival it looked as if every human being in town had come to see the movie. The last ticket was sold just as my turn came. So I stood on 57th Street feeling worse than I had in a long time. At that moment it occurred to me that Marvin Goldman was a bastard. It made no difference that he was confused, shy, scared, neurotic or hated doing what he had done. He was a creep. As long as I permitted people like him a foothold in my life I would be at the mercy of their confusion. Marvin had screwed up my weekend for me and it was his fault that I did not get to see Annie Hall.
Since then I've stayed away from people who didn't seem to know what they wanted. Two years later I married my husband Hal, who has never been confused for more than 10 minutes, and that was in the hospital, when he was given a large dose of Demerol after his hernia operation.
LOUSY LOVERS: A REPAIR MANUAL
By Christina Tagliari
The other day I had lunch with my girlfriend Sheila. Quickly dispensing with the preliminaries—jobs and families—we moved on to more important topics—men and sex. Sheila mentioned that our mutual friend Felicia had broken up with David whom I had once dated.
“Felicia said he was cheap and a lousy fuck,” cracked Sheila.
I was surprised. David was a tightwad all right, but a lousy fuck he was certainly not. In my arms he was a sensuous, passionate and energetic lover. On trips to the country David brought along massage oils, leather whips, velvet ropes and a stack of erotic novels. In short he was a splendid fuck—like most of the men in my sex life. Not wishing to appear boastful, I kept my recollection of David the Swell to myself. If I had been totally honest, I would have told Shelia that I had never had a bad lover, that is, not for long.
When I was in my early twenties, I was pretty wayward. My friend Arlene and I dressed up in evening gowns and went to Philadelphia's snazziest hotel.
In the cocktail lounge we ordered daiquiries, hoping to lure some wealthy businessmen on expense accounts. A handsome pair quickly claimed us. We had a few laughs and were soon persuaded to go upstairs with Herb and Andrew to get stoned.
They shared a room with two double beds. Herb passed around a joint and immediately went to town on my body. Not unexpectedly Arlene had her hands full on the other bed. The moment Herb's month touched my cunt, I came—again and again, in my usual multiple fashion. A few minutes later I heard Arlene's meek little orgasm. Andrew came quickly and rolled off Arlene. But Herb kept pounding away on top of me for another 10 minutes. Then we all switched. I reacted the same way with Andrew. He had a thick, hard cock that he used adeptly. “You're so goddamn sexy,” he whispered hoarsely.
The next morning after a room-service breakfast, Arlene and I quit the premises. Walking home, we compared notes. “That Andrew was really lame,” she griped sourly. “He could hardly even keep a hard-on!”
Apparently, Arlene has endured many similar disappointments at the hands of men. Even though she is more attractive than I, with long, honey-blonde hair and cover-girl looks, I get far more satisfaction. I think our sexual styles make all the difference. She expects men to perform for her, whereas I challenge men to prove themselves.
Once a friend dragged me to a feminist consciousness-raising session. Many of the women present were attractive, even sexy. But when the topic of male performance arose, the majority castigated men as selfish boors concerned only with their own pleasure. “The day I meet a man who doesn't just want to put it in and come,” groused an olive-skinned dancer, “is the day I throw away my vibrator.” Her comment gained a round of applause.
My heart pounding, I raised my hand. “If women could only teach men to be perfect lovers … ,” I started to say. But I was booed into silence. These foolish women did not want to hear about rehabilitation. They preferred to let their drippy faucets drip.
If they had let me speak, I would have spelled out my ten rules for fixing lousy lovers. And here they are:
1. I never play games with myself. I do not pretend that a dinner date will conclude with a good-night kiss. I allow for the possibility that every encounter will end up in bed. So I come prepared—impeccably clean, smelling sweet and carrying my diaphragm in my pocketbook.
2. I take great care of myself. Being a desirable sex object is extremely important to me. Exercise keeps my body firm and muscles toned. I also lavish attention on my skin to make it smooth and soft. I want men to like touching me.
3. The environment and accoutrements of lovemaking are crucial. My apartment is always clean. I light candles, dim lights, put satin sheets on the beds. I dress in lingerie and utilize vibrators, K-Y jelly, massage oils and whatever else will enhance the experience.
4. I frankly appraise men as potential lovers. If I am attracted to a man, I immediately fantasize about him as a lover. I am curious about the size and shape of his cock. If he seems uptight, rigid or unimaginative, I do not encourage our friendship. The qualities I admire are a good physique, self-awareness, intelligence, intensity and humor. Body language is always revealing. And I like to share a meal with a man before he eats me. If he is blasé about food, or dumps salt on his steak before tasting it, I suspect that he is equally crude as a lover.
5. The role of sexual aggressor suits me just fine. When I am interested in a man, I call him up, ask him out and in general pursue him. I do not sit around waiting by the phone for calls that will never materialize.
6. I disassociate my ego from lovemaking. My aim is mutual satisfaction. If a man hints that I am sucking him too eagerly, or stroking too passionately, I immediately accommodate him. In fact, I often inquire beforehand about how he likes to be licked, touched and kissed.
7. I say sexy things. A man gets incredibly excited when he hears me whisper, “I'd like to sit on your face and come all over your mouth.”
8. I give guidance when necessary. If a man is licking my clit too hard, I tactfully tell him to ease up. Most men respond favorably to this kind of openness.
9. I will experiment with anything that does not cause serious physical pain.
10. I come a lot. I am multi-orgasmic and have long, sensuous, expressive orgasms. Men usually try to give me as many as they can.
Some men do not rate a “10” or even an “8” during our first encounter. But if a lover seems willing to please, I give him another chance. A majority of males are nervous the first time they make love to a different woman.
John was typical. We met at a rock-and-roll club. A videotape editor, he was very poised, handsome and self-assured. We danced and he charmed me with his sense of humor. Afterward we shared a few lines of coke. The sexual tension between us was hot and highly electric.
We closed the club. John suggested that we leave together. After a visit to an all-night diner, we decided on my place. In the taxi, John kissed me. I was disappointed. He had a small, stubby tongue and he scarcely pushed it into my mouth.
“We'll get down to some real kissing later,” I thought. Once in my apartment, I put on a reggae tape. The sexy, sensuous beat may have annoyed my neighbors at 5 A.M., but it turned me on. We huddled together on my couch and did some more lines.
This time I took the initiative in kissing John. Thrusting my tongue deeply into his mouth, I tried to excite him. But he still did not respond. I wondered whether I had misjudged his potential as a lover simply because he looked sexy.
“Let's go to bed,” I whispered.
He hesitated, then followed me. Though dawn was coming in, I lit lots of candles. They cast an exotic glow around the room. When he began tearing off my clothes, I felt disappointed. He was depriving himself of the pleasure of admiring my breasts encased in a black lace teddy.
After some brief but skillful foreplay, John penetrated me. He did not perform cunnilingus. We fucked. He foiled over and fell asleep soon after.
His performance showed all the signs of first-night nervousness. I decided that if he was to be upgraded from a “7” to a “10,” I would hav
e to take the initiative.
A few days later I invited him over for dinner on a Friday night. This gave us the opportunity to sleep late the next day. I prepared a five-course Italian dinner. John brought wine and champagne. Both of us enjoyed the meal immensely. For dessert John lit up a joint. Afterward we drifted toward the bedroom. As we embraced, I whispered, “Let's do this nice and slow, okay?” We kissed.
“Kiss me deeper,” I requested. He stuck his tongue an inch deeper into my mouth.
“No, deeper, deeper,” I urged.
Soon we were engaged in a passionate, earthy kiss—the necessary preliminary to a great fuck.
“Do you mind if I take off my clothes?” I asked coyly. He laughed. In the dim candlelight, I slowly stripped for him. When he saw my garter-belt and black stockings, he moaned with delight.
“You're so sexy,” he murmured.
“And I want you to really give it to me,” I replied. “I want you to fuck me all night long.” I unzipped his stiff cock and took it into my mouth.
Only a wimp would refuse such a challenge. John performed admirably and has remained a lover for more than a year—one of many.
But my girlfriends are still complaining about their Mr. Wrongs.
A Fly on the Locker-Room Wall
THE PROFESSOR OF SEX
By Jack Martin
Whenever I hear stories about coeds trading sex for grades I have to laugh. I have taught for 12 years at various colleges around the country and talked to dozens of colleagues about making it with students—and guess what? Few of us would even think of risking our careers by bartering bodies for grade points. Why should we? Getting laid on campus is more a matter of selection than seduction.
A lot of good old-fashioned romance and affection springs up between a student and a teacher. With men and women both interested in the same subject and spending a lot of time together, inevitably some of them are going to fall in love. I know. I've been there—often.
Perhaps the odds favor those of us who teach creative writing. We have more reason than our colleagues in the sciences to sit over coffee and bare our secret hopes and deepest feelings. The kind of soul-talk that ordinarily grows out of sexual intimacy can also grow into it.