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meant was that Katrine described at length her more or less absurd
adventures, and I listened.
Katrine talked and I drank, admiring her lovely, voluptuous body,
filtering out the noise of her conversation. While Katrine is on her
meds, her conversation is laid back but continual, as opposed to the
unlaid back hypertalk that she spouts when not on them. I have
trouble deciding which is worse.
I kept comparing Katrine to Annie, who is less beautiful but
infinitely more fun to talk to at dinner and afterwards.
Sexually, our time together was less than scintillating as well,
although amusing enough because I know what Katrine really gets off
on and provided her with it.
Most of the time, we played the game I invented for us two years
ago, when I promised Katrine’s mother that I would not fuck her
diagnosed bipolar daughter.
I was washing the dishes after dinner when Katrine came to stand
beside me, (not helping, I might add) asking whether we were going
to play it or not.
"Are we going to?"
"Going to what?" I asked, teasing.
"You know, play it," Katrine said, moving closer to me.
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"I forget," I answered. "What it is you want to play?"
"Milk The Cow," Katrine said, grinning. "MTC."
"Oh, I suppose," I said with feigned reluctance.
Milk The Cow is by far and away Katrine’s favorite sex act. I
invented it as a method to supply her with sexual satisfaction without
intercourse.
Because Katrine tells her mother absolutely everything she does,
she later informed me that her mom had no objection to these kinds of
"harmless experiments."
In other words, as long as what we did resulted in no chance of
Katrine becoming pregnant, it was all right and I was still a gentleman
in her mom’s view.
I learned of this in a long and excruciating three-way phone
conversation with Katrine and her mother almost two years ago, hence
the promise not to do anything that could impregnate Katrine.
"Believe me, that is the very last thing I want to do," I assured
Katrine’s mother.
The solution, as I have already stated, was Milk the Cow, or MTC,
as Katrine likes to call it.
MTC has singular advantages over regular intercourse, as far as I
am concerned. First, there is the fact that Katrine loves it, loves the
attention, and loves the feeling it gives her.
Another big advantage is the impossibility of an unplanned
pregnancy resulting from MTC.
To play Milk the Cow, Katrine doesn’t even need to be nude,
although she usually is and was on Friday when we played.
Before going in the bedroom, I made Katrine show me what stuff
she had with her.
Among the items included were a tube of clear lubricant jelly and a
box of large-sized condoms.
"We won’t need the rubbers, but we can use the lube gel. Did you
get these things yourself?"
Katrine shook her head. "My mother did."
"Why the condoms?"
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"Just in case you can’t help yourself and suddenly just have to fuck
me."
"Sorry, sweetheart. Ain’t going to happen."
I kissed Katrine on the forehead, saying, "Go in the bedroom, take
your clothes off, and get into position. I’ll bring a chair and we’ll play
good old MTC."
For the uninitiated, Milk the Cow consists of having your girlfriend
kneel on the bed on all fours, facing either the headboard or footboard,
but close to the side of the bed. Her pants need to be down but she
doesn’t have to be naked.
You, as Farmer John, pull up a chair beside the bed and fingerbang
her to your (and her) heart’s content.
I went all out playing Milk the Cow with Katrine on Friday night,
because despite the headaches attending on spending time with her,
the girl has an absolutely spectacular body, ideal for the application of
MTC. No two ways about it.
Physically, she’s just an incredible specimen, with a pretty face,
amazing long, blond hair, a butt that is beyond cute, and a truly
luscious pair of bazooms looming over all that more than deserve the
sobriquet "bodacious."
"Okay, Katrine," I said, as I plopped down in the chair next to the
bed, "let’s get the cow milked."
By then, I was also naked, having undressed in the bathroom. My
cock was sticking up like the Washington Monument.
Katrine presented herself for "milking," raising her bottom, and
resting her upper body on her forearms.
I know, I know.
The less said the better.
Yet here we go.
It was nice that Katrine’s mother had sent along a tube of lube gel,
as I had used up practically all my regular body lotion and mine
wasn’t suitable anyway for the task at hand.
I kissed Katrine again, fondling her nipples as I did so. They
became erect instantly. Using my left hand, I pinched and rolled the
delicate buds. Then I coated my right thumb with a thick dollop of
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lube gel and eased it into Katrine’s anus. She moaned as I pressed it
all the way in.
"Ooooooaaahhh..."
My hand was now fully anchored and ready to milk, as my right
middle finger was now poised directly over Katrine’s clit.
If I brought it in and up a wee bit, I could send my finger into her
vagina. I gave her opening a tentative poke, where it met considerable
resistance.
The sad fact is that Katrine has an exceptionally tight vagina. I had
learned this the hard way the summer before, when I took her on a
picnic to the Columbia River.
We spent most of the afternoon necking in this sheltered sandbank
while faraway, big ships plied the river.
Despite my solemn promise to Katrine’s mother, I decided, after
three beers, that I would insert my penis into Katrine, once and for all.
Performing an outdoors variation of Milk the Cow, I brought Katrine
to the pitch of excitement where she will do anything I tell her. This
time, however, when she begged me to fuck her, I actually did.
But Katrine’s pussy simply would not cooperate. Though she was
wet as the Hoover Dam, she was also as tight as a fucking drum, and
it hurt both of us when I tried.
I was defeated by dyspareunia.
Well, it didn’t matter. Without a cruel effort, a cock like mine just
isn’t going to get inside a narrow little sleeve like Katrine’s vagina.
At the time, I consoled myself by remembering that, at the very least,
I was still a promise keeper.
Now a year later, I consoled myself in the present while we played
milk the cow. I fingerbanged Katrine with only a small amount of
guilt, reasoning that even mentally troubled girls like her deserve a
sex life.
Oddly enough, Katrine wasn’t a virgin, having been broken in by
her high school boyfriend, the one who originally dumped her, setting
off her downward mental spiral.
That guy must have had a dick like a pencil is all I can say.
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and on two occasions thereafter, before splitting early for summer
school at Stanford.
I met him one time – a soft, sniveling rich kid, in many ways
reminiscent of Chesley.
But enough digression. Back to MTC.
With my thumb firmly lodged in Katrine’s rectum, my finger
dipped in and out of the front end of her vagina, getting enough juice
to tease her clit.
Meanwhile, I used my free left hand to play with Katrine’s big,
shapely boobs, hence the term "Milk the Cow."
As always, Katrine loved it, getting her nut off more times than I
could count. At one point, she had her face jammed into the pillow,
screaming like banshee while my middle finger frantically diddled her
button.
"AAAAeeaaaahh!" Katrine hollered. "EEEEaaaaahhh!"
Another reason we called it "milking" was how Katrine gushes
pussy juice when we play. That comes along with the noise she
makes.
On this occasion there was more juice and less noise than usual. In
other words, it wasn’t so loud that I had to push her face down in the
pillow to dampen the noise, which I have done on many previous
occasions.
When Katrine indicated that she’d had enough, I withdrew my
thumb and finger.
"Good, because my arm’s getting tired," I said. "Besides, it’s your
turn to do me."
"Whatcha you want me to do?" Katrine asked.
"Suck it, as usual," I said. "But not here in the bedroom. Let’s go
out in the living room so I can relax in the armchair. Bring that pillow
along."
"Yes, Patrick."
As ever, Katrine was willing to do whatever I wanted her to do.
The trick to getting her to open up sexually was to be gentle but firm
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with her, explaining exactly what I wanted and how I expected her to
provide it.
"Come here," I said, sitting in the neutral-colored, overstuffed
armchair in the living room. I had Katrine put the pillow at my feet
and told her to get down between my legs.
"Kneel on the pillow, Katrine," I said. "We’re going to be at this
for a real long time, so I want you to be comfortable."
"Yes, Patrick."
Outdoors, the town drowsed through the approach of a lazy spring
weekend. Nobody was likely to disturb us.
Last summer, I trained Katrine in the ways I liked getting sucked,
and she showed she was a good pupil.
Kneeling between my legs, Katrine’s lovely while body was like
marble in the late evening light. A South Eugene Venus De Milo was
about to give me a nice, satisfying blow job.
My cock stood up like a spring, hard and ready. If I felt like it, I
could make Katrine suck it for an hour or more, without a complaint,
her head bobbing as fast or slow as I ordered.
Apparently, the training I had subjected Katrine to likewise had
been reported to her mother, I later learned, including the exercise
where I had taught Katrine to overcome her distaste for swallowing
cum. This was described by Katrine to her mom in graphic detail, she
said.
Well, there was nothing to do about it now. If Katrine’s mom is
dying to know that her daughter sucks my cock and swallows my
cum, so be it.
Because I made her do it again on Friday night.
The fact that she swallows readily now means that I get the greatest
possible pleasure from Katrine’s suckings.
I closed my eyes as Katrine’s mouth deftly caressed me, first
engaging the head and then tonguing down the length of the shaft, as I
have directed. Although Katrine has never been able to comfortably
deep throat me as some women can, she is still very good. I
especially like having Katrine lick the shaft from the underside. That
she does superbly.
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On Friday, I made Katrine suck me for over thirty minutes, the only
sounds in the room being the action of her mouth on my cock and the
clock ticking on the counter.
"I’m going to cum," I said, as my discharge neared. "Be sure to get
every drop, Katrine, and suck when I tell you to."
"Mmmm..." Katrine murmured agreement, hunkering down in
preparation for my climax. This is where she really succeeds
nowadays.
I came very suddenly, spewing big bolts of cum in Katrine’s mouth.
She’s careful to keep the head covered as I ejaculate, the juice
spurting from the tip. She caught each jet, swallowing and gulping as
she consumed the whole load.
"Oh yessss..." I said, letting it all go.
Afterwards, Katrine got as animated as she ever gets while on her
meds.
"Was it good? Did I suck your cock good?"
I patted Katrine on the head and assured her that indeed, it had been
a pleasant cocksucking. Very good indeed.
Three more times this past weekend I made Katrine suck my cock.
One other time I made her put lube gel on her boobs and came on
them, another incident about which she will surely tell her mother, in
detail.
Had it not been for the sex, the time I spent with Katrine would
have gone terribly slow.
At home with her mother, Katrine does little but watch TV and
dream the days away. She has no ambitions to speak of and hasn’t
had a job in over a year. Her mom is kind of on the weird side too,
first telling Katrine that her job is to "get better," and then crabbing at
her daughter for her slug-like inactivity.
Maybe it’s the meds that take the wind out of Katrine’s sails, I
don’t know. Maybe it’s just her and the fact that life was so easy
when she was little. When things got rough, Katrine never learned
how to cope.
Whatever the case, there is no "future," as Polly Ellsworth used to
say, for me and Katrine. She’s a fabulously beautiful mentally ill
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daughter of a university professor, whose superior beauty is wasted
because she ain’t quite there.
I know me, goddamn it. I want a woman who is my equal, who can
both challenge and support me. I can’t and won’t be somebody’s
caretaker. Sorry. As beautiful as Katrine is, we are finished forever.
* * * *
May 10, 1978
I’m getting progressively behind at work. My papers are all sloppy
and half-assed. I try hard to care.
I want the cover of The Dark City to be a bright red heart with blue
lettering and a white border. An all-American tale of romance,
confession, and betrayal, like one of those gloppy true romance mags
at the grocery store. In it, I am settling accounts, speaking the truth
through fiction.
My childhood story will have a pale green cover, like spring leaves
sprouting from the branches of a willow tree. If I ever wrote a story
about my affair with Polly Ellsworth, the cover would be black with
red lettering, maybe adding a collage of old photos. A literary dirge.
Getting to know my neighbors. We hang out, we laugh, we drink,
we yak. Harry has a new roommate – Rand, who is likewise getting a
divorce from Clarice, his wife of six years. After trapping these guys
into marriage, the women are now tired of them. Very interesting, if
you ask me. Makes me think maybe I was on solid ground, resisting
the unreal pressure Polly always put on me.
Harry and I are ten days apart in age. Nick is five years older than
us. Are they about where I’d be now if I’d caved in?
I wonder.
* * * *
May 13, 1978
Had dinner with Harry and Nick again last night. Made a huge
feast. Harry selected the wine and Nick bought the steaks. I chopped
a giant salad and seasoned a sourdough loaf with butter, garlic,
pepper, paprika, and Parmesan. The trimmings that make a meal a
feast. Also baked half a dozen potatoes, these big brown Idaho
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russets. We ate ourselves sick and then got good and fucking drunk
on Harry’s excellent wine.
Later Harry brought out these Dominican Republic cigars he likes
and I smoked one with him while we sipped wine. The wine was
from a shipment Harry had left over when he and Shana sold the deli.
That stuff tasted like liquid silk.
Nick wouldn’t puff a cigar, sticking to Marlboros instead.
Sitting around the table afterwards, we lacerated every woman we
have ever known, describing them down to the minutest physical
detail and analyzing their varied personalities in excruciating depth. It
was a rich field of exploration. Both Harry and Nick got married
young and are now getting the boot. Having slept with about four
dozen different women, I am way ahead of both of them in breadth of
experience.
Instead, they have spent the last six or so years married and they
swear to zero infidelity during that span.
I believe them. But I’m sure the same is not true of their soon-to-be
ex-wives. It is very typical of many women, I suspect, to demand
total fidelity but not to reciprocate the favor.
They both envy me for not falling into what Harry calls "The
Fucking Trap," meaning marriage. I had to laugh at that.
The Fucking Trap. I love it. We listened to Nick’s Tom Waits
records (I love that bachelor song of his) and talked a blue streak,
sometimes shouting over the music. Around midnight, Nick put his