Village Alice for a time had a “sex stories” section. I told stories of real girlfriends but without naming names: I called each of them “Bonnie”: to protect the innocent, and the guilty. Any number of people, not star athletes, not conquering generals, have more than one girlfriend, especially while young, but I think you’ll agree that the string I’ll recount part of here, from when I was waiting to be drafted, is unusual. Here I’ll leave out most of the sex but will name names: at least first names. Meeting my wife, Hilary, ended this string.

After college I was a guest in friend Alan’s Columbia-neighborhood apartment. I went to a party. I saw Sam Rifler, with a pretty girl on his lap. Sam wandered off, the pretty girl remained, talking to me, then remained some more. I said something about what a great guy Sam was, she, Alice, said, “I’m not with Sam. I’m with you: aren’t I?”
Driving down to the Village and her 10th Street digs in her VW she told me that she was expected for the balance of the weekend by her mother in Scarsdale. We could sleep first at her place, then drive to Scarsdale, or we could grab her bag and go on to Scarsdale. If we went to Scarsdale, her old home, we could slep in the same bed but not make love. If we sleept first at her house, we could. Which did I want?

That went past me faster than I could absorb, the more so since I was in a flurry over the prospect of being intimate with this beautiful Alice. My girl friend of the previous month had so annoyed me I’d ceased getting erections: how would I tell Alice I’d been impotent? in the midst of decisions about sleeping where? I’d only met Alice a couple of hours ago!

I asked her to run the choice by me again. She did. We could sleep a few hours at her house. We could make love. Then, she would have to go to Scarsdale: I too was invited. Or, we could pick up her bag at her place in the Village, and drive straight on to Scarsdale. There we could sleep in the same bed, but not make love. It was simple: she didn’t care if we came all over her sheets, she’s launder them herself; but she didn’t fuck in her mother’s Scarsdale sheets: her mother laundered those.
“Well,” I said, “I want to sleep with you, in your house first, and make love, but …”
Alice almost drove into the retaining wall of the West Side Highway as I said but. Her face lit with expectation. But …
“You’re not gay,”she said. “No,” I affirmed, “But …

“But I haven’t had an erection in weeks.” “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “I knew there was something about you …”

Alice had a cute little apartment on 10th Street, a few steps from where 4th Street crosses 10th Street, in the crazy manner of Greenwich Village, Manhattan’s French rational geometry made a mockery of. We went straight to bed, pausing only long enough to put some Wagner on her turntable. I awoke aware that we’d slept for way more than a few hours. I awoke aware that Alice was on the phone, with her mother, and had been for some time. No, she wasn’t coming to Scarsdale. No, she herself had solved the medical condition she’d wanted to consult with her mother about. How had she done it? I understood the question from her answer: “I found a new gynecologist.”

She explained to me later: Alice hadn’t had her period in months. Alice was fairly sure she wasn’t pregnant. (Alice and her millionaire ex-husband, and her millionaire father, would have it taken care of for her if she were. Millionaires’ cast-off women don’t have unwanted births.) Alice’s mother wanted to sit with Alice face to face for the weekend and discuss options. But Alice had met Paul. Alice had taken Paul home. Paul instantly had an erection you could do chin ups from. Paul fucked the bejesus out of Alice, hours, and multiple female orgasms passing before Paul finally timed his own orgasm with Tristan’s on the Wagner. And Alice woke up to her period: and heavy flow.

But Paul: Wagner? I thought we were talking about Beethoven!
We are. Bear with me another moment.
Alice and I fucked through the weekend. Monday I had to work at the bank in the evening: New York Trust, just about to be taken over by Chemical: stocks dept. But Alice invited me back after work. Day by day for a month I stayed with Alice, by daily re-invitation. But after a month I was re-invited: and when I arrived, and knocked, there was a fuss behind the door before a flushed and disheveled Alice answered the door. And a flushed and disheveled Alice’s brother’s friend looked like the cat who’s stolen the cream.

Alice had introduced me to her brother and his friend. Alice had told me of her incestuous issues. It didn’t surprise me that she’s wound up fucking the friend — if not the brother too. But I believed that Alice should not have invited me over the witness it. So, for the first time in a month, I went home to my own home, Alan’s apartment uptown, to stay, not just to change my pants. Alan’s arartment was empty, grim. I was pissed, I was hurt. I wanted a friend.
Ah, I know. Saturdays, midnights, Alan goes to the West End Tavern, to have a beer and to buy the Sunday New York Times. There he was, fresh Times in hand. I said, “Alan, I need a friend.” He said, “You look a mess, let’s go home.”

And we walked up Broadway, turned down West 116th Street, turned up Claremont Avenue, the most Parisian street in New York, I am assured by those who know, and we walked along the rear wall of the Barnard dorms, then the Barnard Library …

Barnard Library is the lowest roof on the right, the party was on the left

Music, Beethoven floated down to us from the faculty apartments on the west side of the avenue. “Beethoven,” one of us said. “Beethoven,” the other of us agreed. “But which Beethoven,” I mused … “It’s not the Third, the Fifth, the Ninth … “It’s not the Sixth, the Seventh,” one of us continued. “It’s not the Eighth, not the Second …” “Can’t be the First …”

A female appeared at an open walk-out terrace. “Hey,” I called up, “Is that the Fourth?” A verry sexy young female voice answered, “Why don’t you come up and find out.”

Alan and I did a quick estimate of which building entrance that apartment with that terrace had to have. 37 Claremont Avenue, for sure. We pressed any bell and someone buzzed us up. We’d counted floors, we pressed an elevator button.
But as the doors opened we were swarmed with drunken Vikings in steel helmets swilling beer from horns. They were all gigantic, or so they seemed at first assault. But a tiny little female scurried among the Vikings, plucking them off us. “Leave them alone,” she scolded, “Let them in. They’re invited.”

As their assault evaporated Alan and I saw that only one of the guys was much bigger than us, and not one of them wasn’t a kid. They were teens, we were past twenty-one. I was waiting to be drafted, Alan was fooling with Columbia grad school, more English.
Anyway, I got a gander at these kids. Our hostess, the tigress in the elevator, was sixteen. There was a cute London girl there, Alison, also sixteen. Good God!
But I edged toward the terrace, getting a full ear full of the Beethoven. Yes, definitely the Fourth. There was a lone female on the open terrace. I joined her. That same incredibly sexy voice said, “Hello.”
The girl, Judy, another Judy, another sixteen year old it proved, was stacked like a brick shit house. Jesus, what knockers! But apart from the divine voice, and the Walkyre quality boobs, she was no goddess. Nevertheless, I quickly told her that if she liked Beethoven, she had to hear the definitive performances I had in my record collection, just up the block. (Toward the top of the photo)
A half hour later I was mounted mid-Beethoven on Judy’s substantial torso, our genitals clenched, when an extra hundred and thirty-odd pounds further imprinted my hips onto her hips. Alan had forgotten his keys. Alan was climbing in through the window from the fire escape and stepping right in the small of my naked back, little English sixteen year old Alison followed as if in tow!
OK, that was the Beethoven part. But there’s more to the story (just as there had been a different Judy prequel to the story):

Judy, the Judy under me with the Beethoven, was a school mate of Alison. Judy stayed shacked up with me for several days, I don’t think we came up for air more than once, but that one time, Judy had gone out, and come back announcing that we were invited to Alison’s the next morning for breakfast. And at Alison’s a cute English girl, just off the plane from Germany, opened the door: Hilary, Alison’s nineteen year old sister, just transferring from BrynMawr to Barnard.

I entered the apartment attached to Judy. Two hours latter, attached to Hilary for those two hours, Hilary and I left the apartment to walk up Claremont Avenue to my place, and Beethoven, where we didn’t come up for air for years and years. We married several years later, she left eleven or so years later. We’re still married, meaning we’re not divorced, but we’ve had little civil conversation since the mid-1960s. Except for our son’s wedding, I hadn’t even seen her in decades.

2012 05 20 Whew, is that last statement out of date: Hilary phoned me when I turned sixty. Then I saw her at the wedding, 2002. These days we email almost regularly.

Stories by Age

About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
This entry was posted in chronological pk, limbo, pk Personal, stories. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s