Doing It! - Going Beyond the Sexual Revolution (John Warren Wells on Sexual Behavior Book 13)

by Lawrence Block

  How does one learn to perform fellatio? A call girl whom Harold Greenwald interviewed said that she learned various techniques from male homosexuals. The average wife probably has no access to such sources. If any of you out there have some suggestions for W.S., I’ll gladly pass them on. Let us hear from you.

  Dear John Warren Wells,

  When I was a young man in the Philippines (I am not a Filipino), we learned a great many things. Some of them had to do with human relations; some of those had to do with—if I may use the word, and in correspondence with you, one must—sex. Please allow me to assure you that you haven’t seen anything yet.

  Attempting to inquire into the reasons why people find enjoyment in reading such magazines as yours, boggles the imagination. Sexual stimulus is, of course, a tactile series of enjoyments, rather than a quasi-literary or vicarious one. I am given to understand that there are odd persons in this jaded and decadent world of ours who presume to, or contrive to, achieve sensual gratification from the perusal of mildly erotic reading-matter; however, from my broad experience both in the United States of America and on several fronts abroad, I should venture to say that verbiage is no more a substitute for physical caresses than is Old Maid a substitute for Officer’s Stakes poker.

  Nonetheless it occurred to me, upon browsing through your journal and chancing upon your letters column, that your readers might be interested in a smattering of knowledge, albeit second-hand and as cold as type-upon-paper must render it: knowledge of one or two curious and singular practices of sophistication and gratification which, while unknown to our supposedly omniscient Western culture, are fully understood and cheerfully practiced by our good neighbors in the Pacific. (The self-same neighbors whom we regard as “primitive” if not “savage.”) In New Guinea in 1943, while attached to General Douglas MacArthur’s staff, I first encountered the fascinating practice of what is described by journals such as yours as “Communal Bathing.” In New Guinea, of course, this particular enjoyment takes place in cool fresh-flowing streams rather than in tubs or swimming pools; indeed, I should think the effect would be totally obliterated in heated water. Nevertheless, the practice of underwater cohabitation has great delights which must be recommended to the jaded Western Man who has no broader experience than the soft-pillowed motel bed or the backache-cure mattress. (By “underwater cohabitation” of course I do not refer to total immersion; we are discussing a sensual experience rather than a religious rite. It is taken for granted that the heads of the participants remain above water.)

  The most intriguing aspect of New Guinea’s communal bathing practices, at least to my mind, was not merely the fact that the various participants entered flowing water in order to copulate, but principally the fact that such copulation was enjoyed by groups of from three to eight individuals. The accompaniment of the actual act, by much laughter and joking, is testimony, I believe, to the healthy and straightforward attitude toward the “sex act” which our supposedly primitive neighbors enjoy, as opposed to our own guilty and smut-bordered conceptions.

  Another “savage” practice which we Westerners seem to ignore is the most gratifying and pleasurable experience of initiation-by-seniority, which one finds among tribes inhabiting certain islands of the Malayan archipelago. I had the good fortune to be posted out to Malaya (before it became Malaysia) during the time when the British forces were demonstrating the only proper methods of dealing with Communist insurgency, and during that liaison tour-of-duty I was introduced most instructively to this practice, which begins from the assumption that the elder members of a given tribe are those who are most likely to be best-versed in the varieties of sexual enjoyment, and that therefore these elders are the best equipped members of the society to train pubescent members. When one stops to think about it, of course, this theory is simply a logical extension of those educational precepts which have governed child-development in western societies for centuries, indeed for millennia. But in no other society anywhere in the world have I encountered such a practical putting-into-practice of such premises as in the Malay archipelago, where it is a commonplace for grandmothers to initiate adolescents (the adolescents being, of course, grandchildren of elders other than themselves) and for old men to deflower budding virgins. I might add, parenthetically, that the success of these enthusiastic initiations is most evident in the fact that on some islands in the archipelago the young males go about, wearing only loincloths if anything at all, in a permanent state of semi-erection.

  It follows from these and other observations I have made in a long lifetime of service in the Pacific, that those human societies which enjoy sex most and suffer the least guilt concerning it, are those in which sex is regarded purely as a good practice. It would seem to me that we in the west could learn a great deal from these so-called primitives. One cannot fail to note that they do not require pale and flaccid titillation by books and magazines to sustain their sensual health. Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned from this; and if so, I submit we have yet to learn it.

  Sincerely,

  D.D.E., Col. U.S.A. (Ret).

  Some interesting observations; I think they can stand alone without much comment on my part. The myth of the Noble Savage, and the concomitant myth of the nobility of primitive sex, is a persistent one, whether one has been schooled in it by personal experience or by an adolescence spent reading Margaret Mead. If I have any reservations, they stem from the suspicion that those who endorse primitive sexual attitudes most wholeheartedly are those who have been most deprived in their own sex lives. But I’m not sure that’s a valid criticism.

  Dear JWW,

  I have seen your column a couple of times, and I can’t claim to be a regular reader, but I have a curious problem I think you may be able to help out with. You see, I’m a furrier in San Francisco, and fur is ‘my thing’ as they say. But I’ve looked into some of the swinger-type magazines which you’ve recommended in your column to ‘rubber freaks’ and people like that, and there doesn’t seem to be much in my line—because I’m a little more than a furrier. In the fur line you might say I’m a connoisseur. Not just a connoisseur of furs, but a connoisseur of what to do with furs. I guess in fact you could call me a fur freak.

  Have you ever made love on a fur rug? I’m sure a lot of people have. This just gives you an inkling. Now imagine what it is to make love completely enveloped in the softest of furs!

  Of course, because of my line of business, I have no lack of opportunities for variety. But I’ve had a lot of girls complain about suffocation. They say it’s hard to breathe when you’re covered with fur. No kidding. I mean, my wife years ago refused to go any farther than the fur bedspread (under us, not over or around us). It makes it kind of rough. (That’s a pun, hah. I mean, to somebody who really digs the softness of a shroud of ermine, drip-dry cotton-blend sheets are kind of a scratchy drag. You get what I mean?)

  I don’t really know how I got into this bag. (Hah hah.) I mean, a fur-lined one-man sleeping bag is my idea of heaven for two people to make love in. I realize this sounds fetishist and freaky. But don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it. Female pubic hair is great and all that, but to my knowledge they don’t make sleeping bags out of it, and until they start producing them for the mass market, nothing is going to take the place of a cocoon of soft animal fur.

  I don’t imagine you have any interest in the details of furs—that is, the difference between one kind of animal skin and another, or the different qualities (tactile qualities as opposed to qualities of hue or finish) that one finds in various furs. Most average people seem to think mink is the softest to the touch (think mink, get it?), but actually the softest fur you can lie on, or in, is the properly cured fur of the so-called Alaska Seal. I say so-called because the real seal pelts don’t come from Alaska at all, they come from the Pribilof Islands in the middle of the Bering Sea. (Real seal, huh?) This brings up altogether a different problem concerning conservationists and do-gooders and whatnot, but that isn’t the motiv
ation behind this letter so I won’t go into it. The point is, you can still get Alaska Seal furs—at least us furriers can—so the source of supply isn’t a big problem for me, the way it was for your correspondent who wrote in to you about the difficulty of obtaining rubber suits and stuff like that.

  As a matter of fact I guess there isn’t any real point in me going into a long lecture on furs or seals or anything like that. That’s strictly in the trade, you know—I mean I don’t imagine the majority of your readers would be interested. The point is, there really is at least one genuine fur buff out here, and I’d be a whole lot interested in getting in touch with any members of the female persuasion who happen to share my interest. (Fur buff, right? I once thought I’d be a writer. I really did.)

  I started out to say I didn’t really know how I got into this bag, but that isn’t really true. Actually my father came out to California in the depression with a Model T pickup filled with ranch-bred mink coats, the source of which was somewhat dubious at the time and never got cleared up because my father had a different explanation every time we (my sister and I) asked him where they came from. At any rate by the time I was old enough to take an interest in things, we were in San Jose with a little dyeing and cleaning shop where my father did some fur business on the side, and I sort of grew up in the trade so to speak, so I suppose it’s no great surprise I had my first sexual experience on a bed of furs.

  It wasn’t really a bed of furs. That makes it sound classier than it was. What it was was a pair of rather second-rate mink coats that my sister and I spread out on the floor back in the stockroom. I was thirteen and she was fifteen at the time. We had started fooling around, you know the way kids do. One thing led to another. I don’t see any need to go into detail. The only funny thing that happened was that this was right shortly after the war (you know, the real war, the cockamamie war back in 41-45) and maybe you remember what the fashions were like back then. These two mink coats had shoulders out to here. The padding was unbelievable, it was like football uniforms, and believe me it is hard to find a nice comfortable position on a floor covered with two mink coats that have four lumpy great shoulder-pads all over the place. Somehow that’s the main thing that sticks in my mind about the experience after all these twenty-five years.

  But what got me to thinking about writing to you was the letter you printed from the ‘rubber freak’ who remembered his earliest sexual experiences taking place on a rubber crib-sheet or whatever you call it. In my case of course all this took place somewhat later in life. I have no recollection of infantile sexual experiences or masturbatory fetishes before the age of thirteen, although I’m sure some fifty-dollar-an-hour headshrinker could worm some out of me. My first real sexual memory is of that stockroom smelling vaguely of tanning oils and my sister’s oddball perfume. (I’ve met people since then who use the same brand, in fact even my wife likes that brand, but at the time it was a smell I identified exclusively with my sister.)

  Gee-zus, this letter is getting way off base from where it started. But I suppose now that I’ve started I may as well go on. I did say I was a frustrated writer, didn’t I. As a matter of fact I submitted a couple of stories to mystery magazines a few years ago.

  I don’t really pretend that my first ‘all-the-way’ experience in the stockroom had a traumatic effect on the rest of my life. It was only that I enjoyed it. I mean, we really had a ball. ( In fact, I had two. Hah, hah!) But to tell the truth the next few times I had sex, there was no fur involved at all. I can’t pretend it wasn’t fun or wasn’t any good. But somehow I kept coming back to the idea that sex, if it was going to be the best, had to take place in the best possible surrounding. And my father had taught us very deeply that there was nothing finer or more luxurious in the world than a prime fur. I know that sounds corny, but truth often does. I believe it to this day.

  The second time I had sex, of a sort anyway, was with a girl in high school in the back seat of my father’s ’38 La Salle. I’ll bet most of your readers don’t even remember the La Salle. It was sort of a junior grade Cadillac in its day and I can testify it had a hell of an uncomfortable back seat. But anyway there was this girl who lived just up the park from Fort Scott in San Francisco, and she really had the hots. I don’t pretend that she had the hots for me exactly. She just had the hots. I suppose you’d call her a nymphomaniac, but back in the late forties we didn’t have much luck with headshrinker words; she was just a girl who had the hots, as far as we were concerned. The trouble was, she came from a very religious background, and she seemed to think it was immoral to let the boy go all the way, if you see what I mean. She was all lovey-dovey and passionate when it came to having her little private parts tickled with your finger until she got all wet and panted and exploded all over you, but when it came to taking care of your problems, she always managed to come up with great arguments for saving herself for marriage and all that crap.

  That’s why I say I only had sex ‘of a sort’ with that girl. But later on I talked that over with my sister, and she said she thought maybe it was that experience that turned me onto fur. I know you may not understand the chain of reasoning there, but it made sense to me the way she explained it. My sister nowadays is married of course, she lives back East in the suburbs and swings a lot the way people do back there (as a matter of fact my wife and I have done a little bit of swinging too), and a friend of mine who met her once described her as a ‘parlor psychologist’. She reads a lot but I don’t know how much she actually knows. But she’s two years older than I am, and I’ve always respected her. She has good judgment and good brains.

  Anyway what she said to me was, I’d had a great sexual initiation on those fur coats in the stockroom, and after that, so to speak, things went all to pot in the back seat of that La Salle, so maybe it was no wonder I reverted to more pleasant memories and relapsed into the fur thing.

  She could be right. How am I to tell? The fact is, after the cockteaser girl (a term I only learned later, unfortunately), the next sexual experience I had was on fur again. Because it was a good experience, my sister says, my ‘sexual imagery’ was fixed firmly, and from then on, I associated soft furs with good sex. The way it happened, it was right after the senior prom. They still had proms in those days. I don’t know if they still do. But ours was the usual thing, the boys in white jackets, the girls in frilly formals that were shoulder-padded out to here and cut down in front to show the insides of their breasts. Maybe you remember them—I’m not quite sure how old you are. But the thing was always that the prom ended around midnight and everybody was supposed to go home.

  We didn’t have the La Salle any more then. My dad had a ’48 Buick he’d had to stand in line to get after the war, and for the prom he’d let me take it. In the trunk he had a couple of cartons of coats some ladies had left off at the house to be cleaned. The back seat had a lot of crumbs and dirt on it from my cousin’s baby—I won’t go into that, but they’d borrowed the car two days earlier—and anyway it was very uncomfortable, so I had to find something to cover the seat with and the only thing there was were these two coats in the trunk. One was a mink and the other was a silver seal coat, a real beauty.

  I guess, like my sister says, that sealed my doom. Because this girl and I really had a great time that night. In fact she is now my wife.

  But the trouble is that she didn’t dig the fur idea as much as I did. She claims it tickles, she says every week or two that if she’d wanted to be tickled by hairs she’d have married a guy with a long shaggy beard. She prefers nice clean linen sheets (that’s her phrase).

  To me, the truth is nice clean linen sheets are no better than burlap. I really dig being surrounded by nice soft fur that you can feel gloved in. The thing is, like I said my wife and I have done some swinging, and she doesn’t really object to the idea of my finding a female type who shares my peculiar interest (she says they’re peculiar), but the question is, how do I find a woman who likes two things as much as I do: sex and fur?


  I really hope you can help me. You’re just about my last resort.

  Yours truly,

  C.N.H.

  Fur out!

  I don’t know as I’m nonplussed, but I’m not exactly plussed either. For the past couple of years, the one thing that’s grabbed me is the plight of the Alaska fur seal. In case you haven’t been similarly grabbed, here’s where it’s at. The big bold brave seal hunters go out on the ice floes with clubs, and they find various baby seals, and they club them over the head. Well, I think it’s sufficiently revolting when they do all this so that some woman can have something fashionable to wear on her back. When it’s just so somebody can have a fur coat to screw on, it’s ecologically unjustifiable.

  All seriousness aside, I think C.N.H.’s account of the development of his fetish is interesting in several ways. Once again, it confirms a theory we examined in this column some time ago—i.e., that fetishes are conditioned by one’s primary experiences with sex. It may not necessarily be that C.N.H.’s experiences on a fur rug are exciting, but that balling his sister is exciting, and that he has been enthusiastic for the wrong thing all these many years. If so, he has two alternatives—either he moves east, or his sister moves west.

  In terms of swinging, it would stand to reason that the author of this letter has more moves at his disposal. A standard component in swinging is tolerance. People who are into the New Morality in a meaningful sense are cognizant of the fact that other swingers are apt to have off-beat desires, and by and large are willing to indulge those desires if they don’t run against the grain. Fur fetishism is one sexual peccadillo in particular to which the average person does not object, and I suspect that C.N.H. will find that women in general will not be at all averse to making love on a fur coat or rug should he suggest as much to them.

  Does it make any difference if it’s artificial fur? I know that balling on fur is a predilection that transcends fetishists, and there’s a big thing going on at present of buying fur rugs and throws as a complement to water beds. I think it’s somewhat revolting to have all these animals wiped out for this purpose, and I can’t see why it would be any problem to screw on real Dynel instead of on real fur. You fur freaks out there—any opinions on the subject? Is the texture the same? Or is the concept of making it on an animal’s skin essential for true enjoyment? Let us all know how it works.