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Somehow I expect you to have a wide array of female apparel here, in various
colors and sizes. You tell me you can only offer one of your shirts, but since
it is nearing darkness no one will be able to see but you and I.

I can now appreciate the Van Husen commercials better. The blue oxford cloth
shirt felt wonderful against my skin. My upper thighs are covered by it and
the tails tickle me as I walk, barefooted of course. I have the sleeves rolled
up to my elbows and the top three buttons open. Hopefully you can only guess
that I have removed my bra, leaving me dressed in only bikini panties and your
shirt. You also change to tight often-washed jeans and a polo shirt, looking
spectacular. But then you’d look good in a paper sack, I’m sure.

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At last it was time to leave the office and proceed to the street again. My
breathing was inconsistent and my normal walk with the perky stride was
impossible. I alternated between almost running and slowing to a very slow
pace, trying to arrive at precisely the right time. As I approached I was
disappointed to see no one there. Suddenly, a car horn broke into my thoughts
and there you were. A Black 1957 Thunderbird, with a white top. Naturally it
was in mint condition and sparkled all over. You reached over and opened the
door for me. As I climbed inside my dress raised a little to show you my left

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Handing me my purse you also press your hand in mine again. I ask your name
and apologize for running into you. (Why do we always lie in these situations?)
You tell me it was your fault and take a card from your pocket, handing it to
me also. I notice your name, Trevor Brown. Business consultant. Not
knowing what to do or say next I’m relieved when you ask if you may call me.
Taking my own card and quickly writing my home phone number on the front I
answer yes, please do.

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Only now do I notice my purse had fallen and spilled on the sidewalk. You
release my hand and begin to pick up the lipstick, keys, wallet, loose change
and other sundries. As you pick up the open business card case I notice you
study the name and number carefully. You comment that we work in the same
building and perhaps we could have lunch sometime. My heart pounds and I
almost ask if now is too soon.

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The immediate reaction in my breast must have been noticeable to you too,
through the silk blouse. It was more than a desire to know you, it was instant
knowledge that we were destined to have a place and time together. You smile
and take my hand, asking if I am ok. I smile back, a slightly embarrassed
smile. Not so much for my clumsiness as for the thoughts running through my
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It is said the best measure of a man’s cock is his hands and fingers. Your’s
are strong and long and wide. This too intrigues me. I was thoroughly loved
just last night and do not understand the sudden stirring I am experiencing.
You lean down and look into my blue eyes asking again if I am all right. I
didn’t realize I had not yet answered your previous inquiry. Yes, I nod. And
unconsciously squeeze your hand tighter.

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The ways of love are many, or so they say. And I have been very attracted to
many men. Some I have known, in the Biblical sense, others only glimpsed from
a distance. Why can a stranger seen only briefly start the electricity flowing
through my body? Why can the thought of new hands touching my breasts make
them so excited? What activates the hormones, when I observe a man walking
toward me with obviously large equipment?

And why did I see you and know immediately that we would become lovers?
Walking around at lunchtime, looking for a new dress to ease my depression I
bumped into you, literally. I was looking in the shop window and you were
reaching into your suit pocket when it happened. I almost stumble and you
reach to steady me, brushing my breast with your open hand.

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A week passed and June came back earlier than planned —
because, she said, she’d missed me and was itchy for me.
Barbie had left for home two days before and I was randy as
I got over to June’s apartment at six. I had just sold a
piece and was feeling jubilant. As soon as the door was closed, she
got a liplock on me and the only thing that kept my cock out of her
was the aroma of broiling steak. She fended me off and we had a
delicious meal. I didn’t do it justice; I kept thinking of desert.
When we got upstairs, June wanted to tell me of the Special
Olympics regionals and I was more than willing to listen. But after
forty minutes, as we were closing doors and shutting windows (heat,
remember?), she suddenly turned to me and said, “Oooooh — I am so
itchy thinking of a big rubber dick.”
“I was surprised you could take that big dildo in your little
cunt,” I admitted.
“I told you my boyfriend-boss was very big,” she said.
“I thought you meant simply tall.”
“I don’t want to think about him,” she said. “I want to be
with you. We can always use that big rubber cock.”
I smiled sadly. “I didn’t think to bring it with me,” I
confessed. I was standing behind her and slid my hands under her
blue sweater to hold her nipples. She pushed her ass against me and
shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, her breath hissing.
“But — we can improvise.”
She reached back and rubbed my cock through my pants. “This
cock is so nice and hard — ” I bent and licked the back of her
neck. She shivered and said, “And this tongue is so nice and wet –”
“I want to fuck you — now!” I breathed into her ear.
That’s when I began to discover just how kinky this lovely
little Singaporean girl really was.

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But what was wonderful about her was her sweetness and
compassion. She loved my delight in licking her cunt and found it
simply amazing that I wasn’t fixated on her tits. (I’d gotten over
my big-tit cravings when I was 17. See, I had this cousin, the same
age — But that, as Conan’s biographer would say, is another tale.)
So Barbie was coming to stay with me for a few days while she
visited friends in the city. I filled her in (in more ways than
one. Heh.) on what I’d been up to and we made love a lot. She
reveled in waking me one morning with her mouth locked on the tip
of my cock and sucked me off, drinking me moaning dry and then
sprawling on me and kissing my lips with my own cum on hers. We
slept again, till nearly one in the afternoon, and then made love,
with her on her face and a pillow under her hips, and then drowsed
till dark. I can still feel the wonderful weight of her breasts
pressed against me and the firmness of her ass under my fingers and
the wet heat of her cunt against my hip and the slightly salty —
from perspiration — taste of her ear when I kissed her awake that
night. I went out and bought the fixings and prepared an odd dinner
of broiled filet of sole, mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus.
Then we went back to bed and made love again. Barb, wherever you
are, you are precious. If you are not happy, call me and talk to
me. You saved my life and my heart and I want to do for you.

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I had seen her around the building from time to time. She had
a sweet face and a placid demeanor and seemed like a nice, plump
girl. I had no idea what kind of figureshe had, since she always
wore big, loose mu-mu dresses. At about 2:30 a.m. on the second
night of the blackout, after we had killed about two-thirds of a
bottle of cheap red wine that she’d brought, she announced she
really would prefer to stay with me rather than risk waking her
roommate (whom I’d always found more attractive) by coming home
late. Between the emotional shock of the breakup a few weeks before
and my weariness (an hour of sleep at a time was rare) and the
wine, I thought it sounded reasonable — and no more than that.
But in the darkness of my bedroom, I felt something against my
face, then something else. I stood and lit a candle and discovered
Barbie had absolutely enormous breasts. “Where did THOSE come
from?” I’d demanded. She’d laughed — gently, as with everything
else — and beckoned me back to bed. I was rather unprepared for
the body so carefully hidden under the loose, oversize dresses.
Imagine a woman who’s five foot tall, has 32-inch hips, a twenty-five
inch waist and a bra labeled 32-D … and who overflows the
brasierre’s cups.

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True, the day before she headed for JFK and her transAtlantic
flight, Annie and I lolled about in bed for about eighteen hours of
sexual bliss. True, June stopped by the very next day, flipped up
her skirt to reveal her pantyless cunt, grabbed her ankles and
winked at me upside down between her knees. But that was going to
be it.
Ahh well, I figured. I needed to spend more time at the
Selectric. And in a pinch, there were always the Palm Sisters and
Fond Memories. Hell, what was ten days? I told myself.
It could be a very long time, I told myself.
To my amazement, on the Thursday night that Annie left for
France and June left for Albany, I got a phone call from Philly:
Barbie Shelton was coming to town.
I had known Barb for about four years, at that point. She’d
lived with Bertha, also an NYU student, in the same building as me
during the Great Blackout of ’77 and had come down to keep me
company. Bertha knew I had just had a very bad breakup and was
going — quite literally — crazy. Barbie saved my life. No shit —
I was seriously contemplating suicide when she decided to take me
under her wing.

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But things were not perfect. For one thing, their periods
coincided. No big deal, I thought, since it didn’t bother me,
either for fucking or sucking. But June was uncomfortable and Annie
got cranky. And that was the least of it.
See, while June was about to be tied up with her Jaycees
project, Annie was about to spend two weeks visiting friends in
France. She was doubly annoyed at the timing.
I, on the other hand, had gotten used to fucking two or three
times each day, sometimes with more than one woman — and now I was
looking forward (if that’s the right term) to about ten days of
Doing Without.

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She was also completely uninhibited. Annie would do anything
that felt good and anything she didn’t like, she wouldn’t do. She
could suck cock expertly, loved to be licked, enjoyed cock in her
cunt from any angle and enjoyed ass fucking. She was multiorgasmic
in the extreme and very vocal about it. She liked men, she liked
women, she liked threesomes, she had even enjoyed orgies.
When I was fifteen and jerking off, I would construct the
perfect sexual partner in my imagination. That image was Annie. I had
to wait till I was in my late twenties to meet her and discover
that reality could exceed imagination. Not only was she lovely,
incredibly sexy and sweet, she was smart and perceptive.
Of course, if this was fiction, Annie and June would have
drooled over each other at first sight and we all would have fucked
off together into the sunset. The fact was, though, that June
hated the idea of doing anything with another woman and Annie didn’t
find June attractive (Annie liked — and likes — women with larger
breasts and voluptuous hips and has a special weakness for long
nipples.) In a way, that was no problem for me, since — oddly
enough — being in bed with more than one woman at once has never
been one of my major fantasies.
In another way, it was a good thing. Considering how
passionate and sexual both women were, a man caught between them in
bed would have gone up in a puff of smoke. No cremation necessary;
by dawn, there’d have been nothing left of the poor bastard but
I should have been in pig heaven. Here were two women whom I
found tremendously attractive and felt the same way about me. For
one reason or another, neither was willing to assert a claim of
exclusivity on me. One was willing to get weird at the drop of a
dildo, while the other simply Liked Doing Things. And one of them
was going to be busy — and had a sore ass! — for a few days while
the other was more than eager to make up a little lost time.

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My game was to run it up in my head. (Not that tough, dividing
by sixteen and keeping a running total, once you practice it; try
it and see.) That scared customers who weren’t accustomed to using
those mental muscles. They only trusted calculators and adding
machine tapes. So I had this deal: If they wanted, I would run it
up on the adding machine. If I was wrong, they got the coffee free —
I would pay for it out of my own pocket. If I was right, they’d
pay a fifty percent premium … to me.
Few took me up on it. Those that did, lost — always.
Annie came in on a crowded Sunday and ordered two ounces of this
and three ounces op that and so forth. Ended up with six different
beans in the pound. When I turned to tell her the price, she said,
“Wait a minute — five seventy….three? Yes. Yes. Five seventy-
three, if you round up for a half-cent.”
That’s what got my attention. Then her face. I asked her if
she was half-Chinese and half-Irish. She had reddish-brown hair and a
fine boned faced. Her cheekbones were high and her eyes were
slanted. She explained that she was part Magyar — the result of
Mongolians overrunning eastern Europe Way Back When. Her face was
fascinating and her mind was terrific.
Her body was outrageous. Imagine a woman who’s just over five-
foot-one and weighs about ninety pounds. Sounds scrawny, right? No
way. She was very small-boned. Annie had absolutely beautiful,
perfectly formed, firm and sumptuous breasts. Her waist was slender
and her hips were narrow. She had a delectable little ass and the
tastiest cunt…

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At the time I met June, I had already known – in every sense
– Annie for more than two years. I, like she in those pre-AIDS days,
had other lovers. Annie knew about June, and June knew about Annie.
Annie was a lot more at ease with the idea of June than vice-versa.
When I said June and I fucked about every eight hours on the
average, I meant “average.” Annie and I spent two nights a week
together, usually. Annie, like June, was a couple of years younger
than me. We’d met when I was working a part-time job selling
coffees and teas, during a publishing drought. What first got my
attention was, oddly enough, her mind. I had a game I sometimes
played with customers. Since the various coffees we sold had
different per-pound prices, blends called for some arithmetic.
After all, a couple of ounces of Kenya Double-A at $4 per pound and
a quarter pound of French Roast Columbian at $3.65 a pound and two
ounces of Yemen Mocha at $5.10 a pound, etc., gets one into the
realm of challenging numbers. I made a gam of it.

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She was working with the Jaycees (yes, they
exist and even flourish in the Big Apple) on the Special Olympics,
a sports competition for “special” children. Special meant
retarded, for the most part, and frequently, physically disabled.
In addition to her routine 60-hour-plus-4 a.m.-Telex weeks, June
donated her enormous energies and ingenuity to things like the
Special Olympics. The timing of the sore asshole, in a way,
couldn’t have been better. The program was going to greatly limit
the time we had together for the next week — and it was one of the
many reasons I was becoming more and more taken with her.