The Big Broad Jump

by Troy Conway

  “Name, please?” she asked over her shoulder as she went around a registration desk of sorts that was no more than a cubicle in the dim hallway. The wallpaper was atrocious. Knights, heralds, spears, lances, and deer rampant against a field of clovers. Everybody was hoisting one.

  “Rod Damon. I’m from America.”

  Me and my big mouth.

  She dropped the pen she had picked up, turned white, and then she screamed. And fainted. I couldn’t catch her. She fell like a ton of bricks behind the counter. With all the crashing roar of a brick shithouse.

  It all happened so fast I stood there with egg on my face and the scream lingering in my ears. She sounded exactly as if she had been raped. Or wanted to be. I couldn’t figure out which.

  Little did I know, to coin a nifty original.

  My fame, as sometimes happens, had preceded me.

  Even as I raced around the counter to make sure she was all right, I could see the half-opened book lying on the counter of the cubicle. A quick glance was all I needed and then I was bending over Gretchen and picking her up and carrying her to a nearby chair. I had to resist the urge to pull her up to a standing position via her tremendous whim-whams, they were such superb handholds. This kid was built.

  The book?

  Nothing but the Damon classic, in its ninety-fifth printing since 1968, ONLY A MAN CAN DO IT FOR YOU, or THREE HUNDRED WAYS TO LOVE A WOMAN. This copy was so dog-eared, thumb-stained and grease-lined, Gretchen must have read it a dozen times. Before, during and after milking cows.

  It figured.

  Another virgin had crossed my path and the trail toward the mystery of the silver pills was being literally strewn with them. Maybe it was a trend. How did I know Gretchen was a virgin?

  Don’t be silly.

  Who else but a virgin would pass out before a guy even laid a finger on her?

  Only a virgin would be green enough to do that and miss all the first fun.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Later on I got a nice back room upstairs, at the end of the second floor, which was the top one, and it commanded a fine view of the hills and dales and mountains. I also got a hot meal of green pea soup, knockwurst and sauerkraut and all the coffee I could drink. Then a large wooden tub was placed at my disposal plus a thick bar of yellow laundry soap and several woolly towels. I began to feel a lot better.

  But none of this came to pass until I got Gretchen revived and the landlord came running to see what all the screaming and commotion was about. Landlord, hah. It was Gretchen’s mother and she was everything her daughter was with about forty pounds extra. Still, as the Italian sexologist, Giuseppe Gorgonzitti said, “What nature has not forgotten, will give you much to remember!” You know how Italians are. They like everything in abundance. Loren, Vesuvius, babies, etc. Gretchen’s mamma would have made old Gorgonzitti do a tarantella of lust.

  She was big, beefy, clean-skinned and mammoth. Quite an armful in any league. And when she saw me slapping poor Gretchen awake, she near clapped her hands with joy. I got the picture the first time. Mamma was dying to unload Gretchen. Even though she probably made the kid do all the work, including being barmaid as well as dairymaid. I sensed the absence of a stern Pappa.

  When Gretchen came to, batting her wide eyes in amazement that the great Damon was actually a guest at her mother’s inn, Mamma hushed her and sent her off to milk some cows. The old girl—not old really; she couldn’t have been more than thirty-nine on a clear day —winked at me to be silent until Gretchen left. Flushed and trembling, Gretchen stumbled out, clutching her copy of ONLY A MAN CAN DO IT FOR YOU. She’d been too dazed to even ask for an autograph, but that could wait. Mamma was studying me from top to bottom, even as she took my money and signed me in. But she had more than dollar signs in her eyes.

  “I am Mamma. You will call me Marlene. Like Dietrich. So, you are he. The great one who has my daughter in circles. Why do you come here to Munich?”

  Now I winked. “An affair of the heart, mein Frau. I am to meet a lady here tonight. When you serve the wines and beers.”

  She chuckled and jabbed a heavy thumb into my ribs. Her breasts rolled and so did her eyes. She had a red, wanton mouth.

  “I am no madam, my American. Remember that I am glad you are here, though. Tell me. Do you like my little Gretchen?”

  “She’s peachy,” I said.

  “Is she not? Very lovely, very smart. But she is a prisoner here. Her head full of ideas, full of faraway places like America. And men. She is yet a virgin. Think of that. Why, at eighteen I had already had my pick of a dozen of the men from the village. But my Gretchen? Ach! She will let no one near her. I am doomed to watch out for her best interests.”

  “I’d like a bath,” I said. “And some food. The plane trip was a bore. I must change my clothes.”

  She wouldn’t let me change the subject.

  “You will get those. And more. Listen to me, Herr Damon. I am no bluenose. If Gretchen catches your fancy, well—you are a man. A famous one, to hear her tell it Well, follow your own conscience. I will not interfere. My daughter is taken with you already. As if that book of yours had not done enough!”

  I shrugged. “Did you read the book?”

  She wagged her head. “A page or two. But you can tell me and show me nothing I do not already know.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Mamma Marlene smiled. She chuckled. She giggled. And then she gave me another jovial poke in the ribs that nearly dislocated several vertebrae. She was as aggressive as a lady wrestler.

  “Would I? Perhaps. We shall see. In any case, welcome to The King’s Inn. You are welcome here and you will like the beds. Genuine eiderdown.”

  She wasn’t kidding me. She expected me to nail Gretchen at the first opportunity and then play the outraged mother demanding I do the right thing.

  So that’s how I got my room.

  There seemed to be no men about the place. Just Gretchen and Mamma. What a setup. Later that night, some bartenders and waiters would show up, but in the meantime, in between-time, if I had the notion, I could have a lot of fun. Marlene Zimmer and her Gretchen liked me.

  So I ate a good meal.

  So I bathed. In the big wooden tub with the gallons of hot water fetched in by Gretchen. Then she tiptoed out meekly and I undressed and got down to the buff, drinking coffee and feeling wonderful.

  The afternoon wore on and I drowsed in the nice hot tub. There was a scent of lilacs in the air from the open windows. The curtains fluttered. The air had turned balmy. I felt lethargic and pleasantly lifeless. You know the feeling. Not a care in the world. Oh, yeah.

  I don’t know when it was but just as I was about to step out of the big wooden tub, Gretchen tiptoed back into the room. She closed the door softly and shot the bolt home so that it wouldn’t squeal on her. I watched her with some amusement. The poor kid was still dressed in her peasant blouse, skirt and apron, and her face was tired but her eyes were doing flip-flops of curiosity and anticipation. She drew closer to the tub and I lay back, knees jutting upward. She halted at the rim of the vat and stared down at me. Her tremendous chest of treasures was going up and down like an elevator. The tiny waistline was still ridiculous.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “It’s ... so ... big!”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And ... it ... floats!” She didn’t mean the laundry soap.

  “Of course it does. It is the most buoyant part of a man’s body.”

  “Could I ... just... touch it?”

  “I’d like that.”

  She got down on her knees, her breasts straining against the low-cut peasant blouse and her right hand reached out exploratively. I had some fun with her, making her target jump and twitch a little. The thing eluded her at first and the unpretty scowl started to come back into her creamy face, but when she finally trapped it, her face warmed up like toast.

  “Oh, oh,” she marveled. “Both hands I need!”


  “So? Who’s stopping you?”

  “Almost insanely, she grabbed the family jewels with both hands and for a second, she must have felt the same sensation she had with one of her cows. She began to hand-pedal me, up and down. And all that did was make the miracle larger. Her eyes popped.

  “Donnerwetter!” she blurted. “You are getting larger—”

  “A natural reaction with the healthy male, my dear Gretchen. Try Vixen and Prancer and Blitzen and see what happens—”

  She was beyond hearing me. She had guided me to her face and placed her warm cheek alongside. She crooned. She hummed. She moaned, and her nice strong fingers played and played. Before I could stop her or wanted to, she was raining kisses on the prize. It was a great finish to the act of bathing. I was transported. The kid had possibilities.

  “Gretchen,” I said sternly. “You are a very dirty gir. I suggest you get those clothes off and hop in. You reek of the barn. Come on, now. Do as I tell you—”

  She stared at me, but her hands wouldn’t let go of what she had dreamed of and wanted for so long. It’s like that with dreamers.

  “In the tub? The two of us—how is that possible?”

  “Live and learn. Dealey says you can’t make love in the water, but I’ve proven that old Limey expert wrong a thousand times. Come on. Last one in’s a dairymaid.” Even as I talked to her I was pulling the goods out of her peasant blouse. The idea was getting better and better. To hell with Mamma Marlene. She wouldn’t have a sperm cell to stand on. Meantime I could rescue Gretchen from the pitfalls of virginity. My date with tall, blonde Christina Ketch was a long way off. So was the solution to silver pill enigmas. Which right then didn’t mean a thing to me.

  One thing about virgins. Maybe they wait a long time, but when that time comes, they really move. Gretchen got her clothes and underthings off like one of those lightning-fast comedy routines in a Keystone Cops comedy. She was standing beside a pile of lace, cotton and stockings and shoes. Naked, she was gorgeous. The chest line flared and flounced. Two beaming, lovely globules with each rosy areola seeming to smile. She was still bashful, though. Her hands had strayed down to her Venus mound in the classic September Morn pose. But all that did, like with the dame on the calendar, was to throw her creamy, marvelous ass further out. She was as curved as a scenic railway, for all the baby fat, but her body was spotlessly white and unblemished. Like a bottle of milk or a bar of fresh butter. I began to drool a little.

  Maybe I’m the expert, but each time has something of the first time in it. After all, the girl was new. Anything could happen and just might. I could have one of the times of my life. And so could she!

  “Come on in,” I urged her. “The water’s fine. Just tepid enough to be unnoticeable.”

  She stalled. “What will you do to me, Herr Damon?” She sounded like a squeaky little kid. That wouldn’t do. So I laid the family jewels across the rim of the tub and held out my arms to her.

  “Stop calling me Herr. I’m Rod. As you shall see. Now just follow the yellow brick road. Spelling optional . . . Gretchennnnnn. . . .”

  That did it. The low, fervent husk of my pleading voice.

  She dropped her hands, shuddered once and sprang forward, clearing the rim of the wooden tub and coming down with a splashing, flying flurry of all the good things she was endowed with. I met her with open arms. I had thought to indoctrinate her slowly and carefully so as not to hurt or alarm her. But little did I know. She was way ahead of me. She threw a hammer-lock around my neck, planted her red, panting lips on my mouth and submerged with me into the foot of bath water. And then her long, fleshy, hungry thighs wrapped around me in a pretzel-like vise and before I could say Howdy, she had impaled herself. With me. Right on target. A long, sliding, slithery, walloping line drive straight into the furry, glory gardens. She didn’t scream or cry out, either. She just kept her mouth mashed onto mine and then began to piston like a dynamo. Her Teutonic take-charge attitude, which all Germans seem to be born with, brooked no denial. So she brooked and brooked and all I had to do was supply the artillery. I let her have her first round. She needed it. The water threshed, exploded and bubbled mightily. Gretchen’s coming-out party, the going-in one, was tremendous and tidal. The wooden vat rocked and rolled. And all I did was stay stiff, swell and pound back.

  Then her body shuddered, collapsed and she began to cry. It was the season for crying, it seemed. Maybe it was in the air. Or the beer.

  Then she stopped crying, just as quickly, and relaxed. Like a dead man’s float. She was face down in the water now and it was intoxicating to watch the liquid lap at her superbly arched buttocks, rivuleting and rilling in and around her two mighty hillocks. The small of her back was no wider than one of my hands stretched out I rubbed her back and she giggled in the water.

  “Scuba-duba,” I said. “Come up for air now. You don’t want to get it waterlogged.”

  She rolled over like a porpoise at play and as narrow as the tub was she pulled my face down to her, mashing it against the lovely twin hills of her chest. It was like floating on your own life preservers. This kid could never drown. It just wasn’t possible.

  “Ah, liebchen. ...” All the German endearments began to spill out of her. My women are always grateful. Especially the virgins. And this one hadn’t seen nothin’ yet! “Rod, das ist so gut. . . .”

  “Ready to try the bed now?” I asked. “We don’t need towels. I’ll show you a great way to dry off ... the love way.”

  She stopped moaning, blinked again and her breasts rose and fell with excitement. Nothing like me, obviously, had ever found its way to Munich and The King’s Inn. Not since G.I. Joe went marching home.

  “No towels? You make joke with me?”

  “I never joke about sex.”

  “But, but—”

  “Upsy-daisy. You first. Get on the bed and wait for me. Have I got a surprise for you!”

  She was my slave. She did as I told her. She shot to the bed like Native Dancer, plopped down, spread-eagled herself and waited for me. I followed soon after. Approaching that eiderdown, pillow-stuffed fourposter was one of the delights of my Munich stay. To see Gretchen like that. Poised, ready, willing and able, her fine, big body still stipled with beads of moisture from the bath, her blonde hair in disarray, all her goodies in full view and waiting, was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  And as I walked toward her, I grew and grew and grew.

  Her eyes were amazed but she was speechless. I could see her pink tongue wetting her lips nervously. The water was fun, but this was the acid test. The water was like a kid’s game. But this was a bed. The place of trial. The moment of truth.

  I stalked her. Just like Ordonez with a brave bull in Majorca. She quivered, shivering, not knowing what I was going to do. She had kept her eyes closed in the tub. She didn’t dare close them now. I relished the moment, reveled in the throbbing apparition of her chest. Her long thighs were twitching nervously. Her navel danced. The glory mound bristled, for all its dampness. Her tiny waist was undulating. I could hear her catching her breath. She was in thrall. I had her by the nuts.

  So I got down at the end of the bed and began to blow softly on her toes. I kept on blowing, fanning a warm breath over her as I gradually moved up the line. I waited and teased and waited and teased. And each hot breath made her body jerk in frenzy—Nay, in ecstasy—so that she was out of her mind by the time my questing mouth reached her knees, and then inched ever so slowly up the high trail toward the bonanza. That did it, and nowhere in Greek erotica is there anything to compare with the Kiss And Softly Blow syndrome. Believe me, it changed Roman history.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhh—!” Gretchen cried out, gasping.

  Just as I met the man in the boat, that delicate little muscle which lies waiting in the female clitoris, and my tongue rolled it with loving care and attention, Gretchen went ape.

  Her thighs spread out in a V that I thought would surely break them; she tried to rise up to grab
my face and pull it down, but I was way ahead of her. After all, I’d been there before. She hadn’t. I was the pro.

  She was as open as she would ever be and there was no more time to kid around. I swept her ankles up in both hands, passing her thighs above my shoulders. I raised my hips on high for The Damon Drop and I went up, up as far as the law of gravity allowed. Gretchen’s eyeballs did a loop-the-loop of fear and uncomprehension. And that was the moment.

  I dive-bombed from the ceiling at the almost perpendicular angle that amazes sexologists the world over and entered her. But what an entry! Guns should go off, trumpets blare, fanfares roll, when you hit them with that one. You go in up to your elbows. Pushing, thrusting, rocketing, bursting and all the glory hole can do is widen, widen, widen to accept the gift. It must surround you with marshy gratitude or perish.

  There was a fast, furious fusion of both of our bodies and poor Gretchen was overwhelmed. She lanced back at me, arching almost to break her back and her great breasts and buttocks tried to withstand the assault. But they couldn’t. The Damon Drop once put Madame de la Roni away in Naples and that old pro had had her ashes hauled a million times when I got to her. So it goes. They’re all only human, after all is laid and done.

  Gretchen did, once again, the only thing possible, considering her green salad history.

  She let out one hoarse bleat of mad ecstasy.

  And fainted again.

  It figured.

  Too much of a good thing at the very onset of knowledge and pleasure would knock anybody out. Gretchen Zimmer was no exception. And she’d done plenty all right for herself, for a first time around the block.