Archive for the ‘cum eater’ Category

Archive-name Miscellperfhandtxt

Tuesday, December 15th, 2009

Archive-author: Brooks Peters
Archive-title: How to Give the Perfect Hand Job

Sex means more than intercourse; exploring all the different
variations enhances your sex life and keeps it from getting
stale. Masturbating your partner can be very exciting for both
of you. So, read on and learn how to let your fingers do the
walking.

Mutual masturbation can be a thrilling experience, but first, we
need to study the basics of manual technique. Most men feel
women aren’t skilled at handling penises. Their grips are too
limp, lacking conviction and exuberance. They seem afraid to
apply pressure, yet often pull or tug at inappropriate moments,
disrupting the rhythm. They also have a tendency to scratch.
Clearly, we all need to be more knowledgeable about the proper
methods of mutual masturbation. Either you or your partner can
perform the following exercises. But it is written with an
experienced woman in mind.

The first concern is always a matter of size. Is it large or
small? Somewhere in between? No issue has ever received greater
attention than the size of a man’s penis. Man’s obsession with
cock size is probably a mental vestige of his primitive primate
past, but as far as human sexuality is concerned, it’s a waste of
time. A large penis doesn’t have any effect on a woman’s physi-
cal enjoyment unless she has a deep-seated psychological attach-
ment to well-endowed men.

How about its shape? Is it curved like a boomerang or is it
straight like an arrow? Does your fist fit around the spongy
mass of the shaft? Does your hand completely engulf it? This is
good because you can squeeze it all at once. But don’t be an
organ grinder. Be gentle, yet firm. If the penis has an unusual
girth, your hand may not completely encircle it. In such cases,
try both hands to insure you don’t miss any of the tender areas
while stroking.

Explore every square inch of his genital surface area. A man
loves to have his penis worshiped, played with, tickled, fondled,
massaged. Let him know that you are not afraid, ashamed or
disgusted.

Don’t start stroking or jerking quite yet. Just feel the full-
ness of it all. Let your fingers run from the balls to the top
of the cock head, swirl around there, then slide back down the
other half and end back down at the balls. The movements should
be swift and smooth, without bumping or stalling.
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Aussy

Tuesday, March 31st, 2009

“I hereby give myself over to chronic masturbation”, I announced to
myself. My words were chopped up in the ceiling fan and then fell dead in the
silent flat. Traveling alone to Cairns, Australia was exciting in one way. I
mean there is the barrier reef and islands and topless beaches. But in other
ways, such as at nine at night and being in a place where there were strict
blue laws, well it was not so exciting. But laying in bed and lubing my prick
with baby oil was giving me very little satisfaction. I felt restless. I had
to move.
That is why I ended up cruising the bars. One was sort of fun. I danced
with some women but nothing seemed to spark and the music and noise became too
much to bear. Finally I stumbled on the sidewalk of a storefront (oh yeah, I
guess I drank a few blue tinnies also) in which the window was blackened out.
It was about a block from the docks where the reef boats departed and it looked
deserted. There was an “ADULTS ONLY” sign on the painted black glass. I
decided to give it a shot. The inside was much cleaner and brighter than the
outside would have suggested. The walls were covered with racks which
contained soft porn magazines. Directly in front of me was a glass case which
contained various dildos and fake vaginas (one that even pulsated!). To the
right was a curtained entrance way which had a handwritten sign over top: FIVE
DOLLARS – ALL DAY. What really caught my eye was who was behind the counter.
I couldn’t believe that a woman who looked like that could work in such a
place. She appeared to be in her mid to late twenties, slender, with short
blonde hair. Contained in a loose string tie top were two perkie, firm looking
breasts. She was busy SEWING! of all things and every time she pulled the
thread there was a solid but definite tremor under her top. Her nipples stood
out as they rubbed against the fabric like the tips of two pinkie fingers.
“What does five dollars all day mean”, I interrupted her conversation and
pointed to the sign.
She looked up, her eyes were blue, and she smiled.
“Those are x-rated movies luv. They run all day. We’re not allowed to
have any of the hard stuff in print but it’s dinky di if we show movies.”
“O.K., I’ll take a ticket”, I said.
I handed her a fiver and she touched my hand for a moment.
“We usually don’t get young ones in here”, she said as she continued to
smile at me.
Out of fear I broke the contact but I still wished to bask in her
presence.
“Is that sewing your doing?” I asked.
“Ah Yeah. We have a live sex show coming up soon and I’m making the
costumes. It’s one week from now. You really ought to come if you are in
town.” She answered.
“Ah! That’s no good,” I say, “I’ll be flying back to Alice at the end of
the week.”
“That’s too bad, luv,” she said as she went back to her sewing.
Walking through the curtain was like walking through the entrance of a
cave. The room was dimly lit. Chairs and sofas were arranged in front of a
large screen television. Some men were sitting and drinking beers they had
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Anal Sex Circus

Thursday, March 26th, 2009

Unlike so many of the bawdy houses of Amsterdam, the building bore no
signs. In fact, as I stood in front of the chipped, black door marked
#12, I almost thought it was all a practical joke. What did I know
about the strange Hazraj, the turk who, in drunken friendliness at the
hotel bar, had insisted, “A whore’s a whore all over the world. You
don’t need to visit Amsterdam for that. But…the Anal Sex Circus!
There is not another anywhere.”

I rang the bell. Was this really the place — or was he having a
joke at the expense of a white British tourist? When the door slowly
opened, I realized that he was indeed a friend! Stepping into the
interior of the townhouse, it was a though I had stepped through tent
flaps and into the most opulent carnival ever.

There was actual sawdust on the floor. The air smelled of beer and
popcorn. The big main room had concession stands where they were
selling popcorn — delicately laced with hashish – and white cotton
candy, also drugged. Beer and liquor were being sold by men in straw
hats, red vests, and white striped shirts.

Garish rotary lights whirled a dizzy array of greens and reds into the
air. Semi-nude women — black, Asian, and white — escorted the
various men as they ate, drank, and laughed uproariously. In
different languages, a barker in a derby hat shouted at the back of
the room, “Hurry, hurry. Step right up! Come, Come, Come to the Anal
Sex Circus!”

If the mad Turk Hazraj had not been so explicit in his description of
the place, I don’t know what my reaction to this bizarre spectacle
might have been. A beautiful Eurasian girl glided up to me. I
ordered a cafe pousse at the bar. In American money, it cost me about
$20. I was going to order one more for my “hostess” but reconsidered:
“You wouldn’t drink, would you? Just water one of these plants with
it.” I slipped here $20 cash instead. “Let’s call it a contribution
to the continuing survival of horticulture.”

She dutifully explained the “play” at the Anal Sex Circus. After I
finished the drink, I walked back to the back of the room where a man,
dressed in imitation of an American carnival barker, guarded the
entrance to the upstairs rooms. I bought two tickets ($100 each)
which entitled me to see three “shows” of my choice. The tickets were
actually more like plastic credit cards.

With insane calliope music blaring down the corridors of this two-
story townhouse turned madhouse, I made my way upstairs. In the old
carnival midways, you’d walk along seeing the posters for the midgets
and fire eaters and freaks. You’d pay to go into the tent to actually
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscell8preludetxt

Thursday, March 12th, 2009

Archive-author: Byron Elbows
Archive-title: 8-preludes to stories

1. Honey drips slowly from the edge of the jar. Emma takes the knife and
catches the falling stream, feeding it back into the jar’s mouth. I have
watched her do this, not this exact thing, but this sort of thing, for almost
an hour now. Either the honey falling, or the wind through the screen door
blowing papers onto the floor, or else the newspaper catches when she tries
to fold it back on itself. She fascinates me, in a humiliating sort of way.
I could watch her for another hour, unseen.

2. She gets up now.
From my bedroom window, I can’t quite see her face when she stands up,
and just like on the tabloid shows where they replace the faces with a
featureless blue disk, I expect her or her body to betray some terrible
secret. Maybe she suffers from scoliosis, or psoriasis, or possibly some
horribly disfiguring congenital defect that now and then allows her navel
to grow as large as a football.
I wait, watching for the telltale swelling in her abdomen. Surprisingly,
it never happens. No, her body remains perfect, just like yesterday.

3. “Where’s my Pepsi!?!” she cries to no one in particular, staring into
her refrigerator. “All I wanted was a Pepsi \ldots” Well, I have to
laugh at that. Just what I’d thought about all day. But when I looked in
the cabinet, all I had was syrup of ipecac. Revolting, but hardly sufficient
for the job.

4. She walks over to the sliding glass door, opens it just wide enough to
slip her slim body through, then closes it. I can see her dress now, a sort
of twopiece summer outfit, leaving her midriff bare. God, I want that
midriff. She can have the rest of her body, but I’ll take this perfect,
smooth—
Was that—? No, she just took a deep breath, that’s all.

5. She lies down on the lawn chair, reclining nearly all the way back, with
a Pepsi in her hand (she found one after all). Emma, Emma, Emma. I repeat
her name like Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, whose name I see in front of me as the
answer to a Trivial Pursuit question. I shake my head, annoyed, and the
mantra returns. You may have the alpha and the omega, but in between, there
always lives Emma, sweet Emma, a pretty little Greek figure in the middle of
all that Roman nonsense.
Still wondering? I only took Greek to decipher the sorority house names.
Imagine my disappointment when all the letter combinations appeared random,
rather than producing lurid, lascivious names, such as \ldots But I digress.

6. Emma sucks Pepsi through a straw. Sounds vaguely like some sort of
childhood insult. Your mother rides a vacuum cleaner. Your father has a
nose like a rubber hose. Emma seems mostly unconcerned about this.

7. She puts down the empty can on the cement patio with a hollow clank,
and closes her eyes. They do not like the sun, after all. I scratch my
legs.
I want to fall on her. Fall on her, like a Georgian flower, unfolding,
pressing petal to petal, surrounded only by the echoing sound of soft
waterfilled fibers. In my mind’s eye, the Pepsi takes on ambrosial
proportions, linking me with a divine nature. I see all the things I should
not ever see: every unicorn that ever ran, my hands held by someone on the
street, bells I never heard ring, and besides, the reverent smile of a little
boy and a blue blue sky.

8. I shake off my reverie to find her gone. I let out a hmph. The orchid
has fallen into the pond to meet its reflection with open arms, only to see it
disappear as it sinks slowly beneath the water. Shh! and goodbye.

(c) 26 Apr 1993

Big Sur

Sunday, January 27th, 2008

He’d told her early on that this was one of his fantasies…to hike up to a
campsite near Big Sur. They’d packed all the necessary gear and driven as
close as possible early that morning, thoroughly enjoying both the scenery, as
they went south on Highway 1, and each others company. She never ceased to be
amused at an easterner’s comments as they admired the way the mountains met
the ocean on what seemed to them a backwards coastline.

Several times her hand drifted to his right thigh to punctuate a remark or
just to indicate her readiness for their planned outing. How often he’d
teased and cajoled her over the past several weeks both in messages and by
phone. Words like ’star- crossed’ and ‘destiny’ had leaped, rather than crept
into their many conversations, and she felt it to be true. They couldn’t
avoid being together, at least briefly. There was no sense of needing to be
hasty in their actions, just a feeling of fate needing to be yielded to.

They were intrigued by each other in ways neither had experienced in a long
time. Their conversations were sprinkled with puns and innuendos and much
laughter. He frequently accused her of littering his office floor with
innuendos which she countered by saying the cleaning staff should take care of
them adequately.

There was both a level of comfort and the excitement of the unknown which
surrounded them today. They had slept together only once in a somewhat
sterile hotel room, the previous night. But the experience was totally
fulfilling for each of them. They had performed as lovers but also played in
bed like puppies; exploring and frolicking joyfully.

She stretched in the passenger seat with a cat-like abandon and he again
admired the curve of her breast as it pushed the knit top to new contours.
Even dressed in jeans and hiking boots she had a stately quality mixed with
the enthusiasm of a child. What an enigma she was!

And had he been able to read her thoughts he would have realized she felt much
the same way about him. Watching his hands on the steering wheel she
reflected back to the pleasurable way he had touched her body and memorized
the feel of her skin. Looking at his neatly trimmed beard reminded her of the
way it tickled her thighs as he kissed his way up her legs and beyond. He had
certainly mastered her quickly, knowing just where and when to apply butterfly
kisses to increase her already elevated level of desire for him.

Their sexual union began under the guise of being a backrub of course. How
often is that technique used the world over? But it was a pretense they were
content to play out.

Their choice to be together today was also a ruse. Each acknowledged it was a
spontaneous decision. But that didn’t explain why he’d packed the
appropriately needed items before leaving his home in Massachusetts, nor why
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Anal Sex Circus

Wednesday, January 9th, 2008

Unlike so many of the bawdy houses of Amsterdam, the building bore no
signs. In fact, as I stood in front of the chipped, black door marked
#12, I almost thought it was all a practical joke. What did I know
about the strange Hazraj, the turk who, in drunken friendliness at the
hotel bar, had insisted, “A whore’s a whore all over the world. You
don’t need to visit Amsterdam for that. But…the Anal Sex Circus!
There is not another anywhere.”

I rang the bell. Was this really the place — or was he having a
joke at the expense of a white British tourist? When the door slowly
opened, I realized that he was indeed a friend! Stepping into the
interior of the townhouse, it was a though I had stepped through tent
flaps and into the most opulent carnival ever.

There was actual sawdust on the floor. The air smelled of beer and
popcorn. The big main room had concession stands where they were
selling popcorn — delicately laced with hashish – and white cotton
candy, also drugged. Beer and liquor were being sold by men in straw
hats, red vests, and white striped shirts.

Garish rotary lights whirled a dizzy array of greens and reds into the
air. Semi-nude women — black, Asian, and white — escorted the
various men as they ate, drank, and laughed uproariously. In
different languages, a barker in a derby hat shouted at the back of
the room, “Hurry, hurry. Step right up! Come, Come, Come to the Anal
Sex Circus!”

If the mad Turk Hazraj had not been so explicit in his description of
the place, I don’t know what my reaction to this bizarre spectacle
might have been. A beautiful Eurasian girl glided up to me. I
ordered a cafe pousse at the bar. In American money, it cost me about
$20. I was going to order one more for my “hostess” but reconsidered:
“You wouldn’t drink, would you? Just water one of these plants with
it.” I slipped here $20 cash instead. “Let’s call it a contribution
to the continuing survival of horticulture.”

She dutifully explained the “play” at the Anal Sex Circus. After I
finished the drink, I walked back to the back of the room where a man,
dressed in imitation of an American carnival barker, guarded the
entrance to the upstairs rooms. I bought two tickets ($100 each)
which entitled me to see three “shows” of my choice. The tickets were
actually more like plastic credit cards.

With insane calliope music blaring down the corridors of this two-
story townhouse turned madhouse, I made my way upstairs. In the old
carnival midways, you’d walk along seeing the posters for the midgets
and fire eaters and freaks. You’d pay to go into the tent to actually
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Getting Lucky Once in a While

Thursday, December 27th, 2007

Atlanta has always been a fun town for me, but this trip had been
even better. I had ordered a custom Jeep from an Atlanta
customizer. Having a big-wheel four wheel drive vehicle had been
a dream for a long time and the time had finally arrived.

We signed the papers late in the evening, so after tooling around
town for a while, I had rented a motel room, planning to get an
early start back to Alabama. I overslept and after breakfast and
checking out of the motel, I didn’t get on the road until after
eight.

I quickly noticed a benefit to the large wheels I had not
anticipated. It put me way above the rest of the traffic and I
had a great view. But the view was even better from time to time
as I would pass cars and look down to see lovely legs through the
window. Occasionally, I would even catch a glimpse of frilly
panties peeking out.

I put the Jeep’s cruise control on 73 mph after I got out of the
metro area. I figured that there would be fools going a lot
faster that would get the unwanted attention from those Georgia
Patrol cars that seemed to lurk everywhere on the interstate. Up
ahead, I noticed a red convertible with long blond hair flying in
the wind. My speed was a little faster than hers so I slowly
crept up on her. As I closed in, I heard the sound of her stereo
system blasting over the wind noise. The music must have covered
the sound of the Jeep, because there was no reaction as I drew
along side the lady.

To my delight, the lovely lady seemed to have other things on her
mind. Her skirt was pulled up and her hand was busy frigging her
pussy inside her panties, keeping time with the beat of the
music. It looked like she was having a ball as she cruised. I
had a hard time concentrating on the road and watching the
display at the same time. I hoped she wouldn’t notice me for a
while so I could keep watching.

Finally, she reached for something on the seat beside her and saw
me. Her only reaction was to lower her sunglasses to get a
better look at me. She must have liked what she saw, because
she reached back into her panties, glancing up at me with a
smile.

We were well into a long deserted stretch of highway and I saw
her check her mirror for other cars. Seeing none, the blond
reached down and unbuttoned the four buttons keeping her short
skirt closed. The sides fell back to reveal her bikini panties,
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellgigolotxt

Saturday, October 27th, 2007

Archive-author: Adam Starchild
Archive-title: How to Become a Gigolo

There’s no other line of “work” as pleasurable and as
overflowing with opportunities to enjoy luxury, travel
and riches as that of the gigolo. And believe it or
not, today it is easier than ever for a man to enjoy
life as a gigolo!
To become a successful gigolo and enjoy the benefits of
this kind of life, you must develop and project the
proper way of thinking. There’s a great difference
between a “male prostitute” and a gigolo.
The male prostitute makes himself available to all
women of all ages, generally concentrating on bored,
frustrated and “exploring” housewives looking for extra
loving as well as variety to satisfy their sex needs. This
type of woman is very easy to spot, and even easier to take
to bed. It makes of a lot of, and a variety of beautiful
sex, but it’s all for free. You have to know precisely how
to cultivate these women to start, and then get them to
continue paying you for each time you “service” them — not
just the loan of a few dollars — which you never intend to
pay back — but $50 or $100 plus expenses for each tryst
you arrange with them.
The gigolo concentrates his efforts on making himself
available to widows and wives of busy businessmen who
really don’t care what their wives do, so long as they
don’t become emroiled in a public scandal. These women
range in age from about 45, on into their 80s.
So the first thing you’re going to have to do is stop
looking for ladies at or about your own age. Dress
yourself more neatly, more stylishly, and begin
“hanging around” the places these women frequent.
You’ll find very few in church! Those that you do find
in church will want to possess you, and somehow or
other steer you to the altar. You’ll find most of them
in night classes at your local college; in
self-improvement, self-awareness, and new life-style
classes; and of course, in all the better class supper
clubs and hotel type lounges.
Relative to evening college courses and
self-improvement discussion groups — these are your
easiest and most fertile “hunting grounds,” because
psychologists long ago proved that the basic reason for
adult enrollment in self-improvement programs is
directly related to a person’s need to be loved. All
you have to do is understand this basic fact, and make
yourself available to fulfill the needs of the women
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellfucktxt

Friday, October 26th, 2007

Archive-author:
Archive-title: Fuck You

Perhaps one of the most interesting and colorful words in the
English language today is the word “Fuck”. It is one magical word which
just by it’s sound can describe pain, pleasure, hate, and love. Fuck, like
most words in the English language, takes it’s name from another language,
the German word “Friklon” which means “WHOOPEE”.

In language, fuck falls into many grammatical categories. It can
be used as a verb, both transitive (John fucked Mary) and intransitive
(Mary was fucked by John), or as a passive verb (Mary doesn’t really give
a fuck). It can be used as an adjective (Mary is fuckin’ beautiful). As
you can see, there are not too many words with the versatility of “Fuck”.

Besides it’s sexual connections, this lovely word can be used to
describe many situations as follows:

Fraud…………….I got fucked by my insurance agents
Trouble………………………I guess I’m fucked now
Dismay………………………………..Oh! Fuck it
Agression…………………………………Fuck You
Passive……………………………………Fuck me
Confusion…………………………….What the fuck
Difficulty……I don’t understand this fucking business
Despair……………………………….Fucked again
Philosophical………………………Who gives a fuck
Incompetence…………………………He’s fucked up
Laziness……………………………He’s a fuck off
Displeasure………What the fuck’s going on around here
Rebellion……………………………Fuck the world

It can be used in descriptive anatomy: He’s really a fucking ass-hole.
It can be used to tell time: It’s fucking’ Five-thirty.
It can be used in business: How did I get this fucking job?
It can be used as a prediction: Oh well, I’ll be fucked.
It can be maternal: Mother-fucker!
It can be nautical: Fuck the Admiral!
It can be political: Fuck the President!
It can open the door to wonderful relationships: Lets fuck, baby.
It can be used to enhance the meaning of a word: Fuckin’ beautiful.

The mind fairly bogies at the many creative forms for this most
functional word. How can anyone be offended when you say “Fuck”? Use it
in your daily speech. It adds to your prestige.

-Tell someone today, “FUCK YOU”

Archive-name Miscellfantfacttxt

Saturday, October 13th, 2007

Archive-author: Rod Longley
Archive-title: Fantasy Facts!

About 88% of women studied experienced sexual fantasies, according to a report
published in ‘The Journal of Sex Research’. Researchers determined that the
subject of the most frequently experienced fantasy was involvment in an
extramarital affair (41%). Other fantasy subjects reported reported by the
women studied included:

Previous sexual experiences, other than the first (39%).
Different sexual positions (38%).
Current sex partners (36%).
Sex in rooms other than the bedroom (35%).
New sex partners (30%).
Sex on a carpeted floor (28%).
Sex in a motel (27%).
Pretending to be with a former lover (27%).
Reliving the first sexual experience (26%).
Sex on a beach (26%).
Having multiple orgasms (25%).
Engaging in oral sex (25%).
Being Sexually uninhibited (25%).

Some other FACTS on a percetage scale:

75% of Americans say good sex is ‘very important’ to a marriage.
25% of American married couples say they argue about sex or adultery.

16% of American men earning less than $5,000 annually say they cheat on their
wives.
70% of American men earning more than $70,000 annually say they cheat on their
wives.

47% of American men say they enjoy sex more than money.
26% of American women say they enjoy sex more than money.

Archive-name Miscellerosia10txt

Thursday, October 11th, 2007

Archive-author: David P. Thomas
Archive-title: Erosian Theory and Practice

Growth Possibilities for 1989/90

Understanding is the key issue. The majority of people are
repressed into believing that they are sexually fulfilled
and happy and therefore they don’t need to explore all
those interesting little thought that creep into their
subconscious. They play these ideas of experimentation off
and write off their curiosity to “weird stuff”. Others
recognize their interests, but because of guilt, learned
reaction/shame they shun these experiments. Others learn
to enjoy their pleasures alone, and feel ALMOST totally
fulfilled via masturbation, but fear the possibility of
contact. In 1989, it is my fondest desire that the word
spread concerning Erosian Theory and Practice. There is a
huge audience out there that hides in the closet, jerking
and occasionally venturing out. Erosian Theory is ready
for them. If as you read this, you feel like I am speaking
to you, then I am. ETAP is not a sensation or a good
excuse to get laid. ETAP is a fundemental way of life and
looking at the physical sexual creatures we are and
learning to enjoy that. Whatever your orientation, ETAP
will carry it, as long as it adheres to the Code of
Conduct. If you know that you enjoy sex for sex’s sake, if
you want to learn and explore without fear, without guilt,
then read, study and live this practice. Contact the
electronic bulletin board that this document is produced
on, and leave the author more information. A final release
of this info will include an address where you can write
to obtain more info. The most important things to remember
are: if interested, get involved. If not, stay away. We do
not, can not, and will not take the time to fight
detractors and idiots who cannot understand that we don’t
want to change their world, just our own.

In terms of growth, this document and the accompanying
documents will be archived and uploaded to multiple adult
bbs’s all over the country when complete. In my home town
of Tampa, FL. I am waiting and looking for others to read
and embrace this holistic approach to a comfortable free
thinking sexually full and busy existance. I would be
happy to see 3 cities develop a full scale three Temple
system in twelve months, but in honesty I must believe
that many small groups will form in many areas.

Who is the target of this document? Swingers, lurkers in
bookstores, horny folks everywhere. If you have grown
tired of no sex, or tired of sex that’s weak, sloppy and
meaningless, look towards ETAP.

Above all, if you read this document,and desire the
structure and development discussed here, then you must
contact me for more. DON’T LET IT JUST SIT AND FESTER!
If you contact me and find that you are not interested,
then simply drop it. There is no money involved, no
mailing lists to worry about. If you are interested in
knowing more, this is the most absolutely easy way
possible to learn.

My dream is that some day you will be able to feel
comfortable in the knowledge that in your city there are
50 to 100 Erosians with desires and feelings similar to
yours, and that a phone call can elicit a kind word,
sexual actions, new ideas or support for what you want to
try by yourself or with another.

Archive-name Miscellcarpentrtxt

Tuesday, September 4th, 2007

Archive-author: Neil Bernstein
Archive-title: John the Carpenter’s Tale

(c) Neil Bernstein 1993

One Sunday, driving Dolores’ truck back from a provisioning
trip, Pete stopped along the riverbank to watch a crew of panting
scullers labor their way against the current. Their slender craft
slipped around chunks of floating ice smoothly as a ballbearing
sliding down a greased track. Got all the time they need to do
that, he thought bitterly. Men who could go home to adoring wives
and get up the next morning to go to work.
In Lombard’s General Store he met old John buying feed for his
three geldings. The man’s belly nearly split his overalls as he
carried the sacks out to his car. Pete hid a chuckle.
“You come back for coffee now,” John bellowed.
Pete could see no reason to refuse him. He followed John’s
rusty truck up a series of gravel paths, shook hands with his
pretty wife. John eased himself into a great armchair. He bade
her serve them their coffee and an endless succession of snacks:
toast, honey, ham sandwiches, spiced drumsticks, maple candies,
pear cobbler…
When she was done serving she settled back on a kitchen stool
and nursed her baby. Pete watched her play with the suckling,
bouncing him gently on her knee. He knew, feeling the certainty
only the superstitious know, that it could not be John’s child.
John had been a carpenter for twenty years. One morning he
found the work too exerting and gave it up violently, pitching his
toolbox through the window of the house he was building. He tried
a variety of jobs after that, settling on delivering the Weekly
Argus. He sat long hours alone at the head of his kitchen table,
playing solitaire late into the night, gaining ten pounds a year.
He always left a half-finished puzzle set up in the living room.
Pete remembered the last time he’d been out to John’s house.
A selectman was giving Grandpa Goosehair some problems, badmouthing
him in town meeting. The old man wanted Pete to see if John could
dig up any incriminating tax information. John looked over
everyone’s tax forms, considered it his neighborly duty. He got so
he could do the arithmetic so quickly that everyone brought him
their crumpled forms: farmers who could only read with a certain
pair of spectacles they’d lost years and years ago, folks who could
read Latin but couldn’t be bothered with figures.
Pete’d got himself lost on nameless gravel tracks and had
arrived very late. The ex-carpenter’s wife had just finished
showering and now stood before a full-length mirror. Her hips were
swathed in fine linen, her arms left half-bare by a silk-finished
nightgown. She braided her hair and rubbed fine powder and oil
into her tremulous neck. John knelt on the parlor floor, his
…End of the part1. To be continued..