Stories / By Age / Kid /
When I was a kid, three years old, we moved to Rockville Centre. The house had a front yard and a back yard. The side yards were narrow and occupied by walkways, driveways. There were, for that moment, lots of trees: mid-’40s hurricanes would soon reduce that luxury severely.
Never mind any of that. The neighborhood had one thing I required at that period of my life, though at three, I couldn’t have said so, didn’t know it: the neighborhood had an empty lot! Ah, wilderness!
I also couldn’t have yet said that this was called “the suburbs.”
The houses, the built on, occupied lots, displayed families, mommies and daddies with children, widows who lived alone, widows who lived with children. Soon, when Mom threw Dad out, there would be at least one divorcee with children. All the houses had trees, front yards, side yards, back yards, walks, drives. All the houses had lawns! lawns that the daddies cut themselves, helped by the boys. But not my empty lot! The vacant lot had a rubble of weeds and vines. Paths were trampled through the weeds. For all I knew there were Indians in there! pirates! Treasure!! Wolves, spiders, witches by the Brothers Grimm!
I still can’t say what treasure there might have been: except for the treasure I myself buried there. I secreted my entire collection of tobacco devices and memorabilia. By the time I was six or seven years old I was picking up a little money, raking, pushing a mower … On occasion I’d get to be alone for a minute in the big pharmacy in town. There was a pharmacy counter, and a lunch counter, and aisles of find-your-own stuff. The cashier was in the front, the register surrounded by newspapers, magazines … and tobacco products. There were the Camels and the Luckies, the Old Golds, the Philip Morris …
There were also the Dutch Masters and the Muriels, the Anthony & Cleopatras: and the Bugler, and the ZigZags …
Thus: not only cigarettes, not only cigars, but roll-your-own tobacco, roll-your-own cigarette papers: plugs of chaw: and what I never expected: roll-your-own cigarette machines!
Of course I bought all of it! My father smoked cigars, my mother smoked cigarettes, Edward G. Robinson smoked cigars, Humphrey Bogart smoked cigarettes. In no time, almost on my second or third try, I could use the machine to roll a cigarette more fully packed than those in the PallMall package.
I bought all of it, of course, and buried it all in the empty lot across the street in a huge painted cookie tin. I buried my hoard, and I’d go and dig it up, and look at it, coveting my own possessions, and bury them back up again.
Alphonse Mucha poster, Job rolling papers
PS : gotta say, in 1976 or so I bought a Mucha poster, one of the Job series. In Baltimore. I knew my customer in Cedarhurst wanted one. I called her, this gallery would sell me the Mucha, good condition, for $900, I told Ro it would cost her $1,000. She said sure. I couldn’t afford $900 for anything, but I could hardly afford to pass up $100 for trucking an oversized piece of lithographed pure rag paper across a few state lines, lines I had to cross anyway. But she stiffed me, she didn’t take it. So I owned a Mucha for much longer than I could afford to. Beautiful, great art.
Cheez, I’ve indulged in asides here like Byron. Don’t worry the wilderness points are still to come. In a word, since I may take a break here:
When I was three, four, five, that single vacant lot served me and my imagination, my allowance for adventure, as “wilderness.” Rockville Centre was for me in 1941, 1942 the wild west, Africa, the Arctic. Our house in Jamaica had seemed bigger, had had a bigger yard, or at least had seemed to, but across the street were town houses, commercial buildings. Ours was the only house with any kind of yard: and not one single empty lot: not in that block and not in the next.
(As an adult, later 1970s, I was in Jamaica, found myself on Hillside Avenue: I drove around and around and found nothing that I could tell ever could have been our property. Jernt looked like Dresden in 1945: glass littered abandonment.)
If you live in Brooklyn, or the Bronx, don’t have any kids. If you do, don’t let them read Huck Finn, never let them see Errol Flynn. But, ah, if you move to old town, Detroit, and people live in each others armpits, but there’s a weed-filled empty lot why then your kid can think he’s Robinson Cruso.
Wilderness is a state on mind. I can imagine the cro-magnon thinking the world had come to an end once the eighth baby was born in the cave where the principal rocks already had some strong man’s scent markings.
What I did with the Apple plug I secreted among my treasures I tell elsewhere.
Philip Morris Ping Pong Porn
Philip Morris’ eager bell boy reminds me of a burlesque image I’ll share here. I don’t have the image but I just Googled a substitute. What I saw, what I’m remembering, recorded a gorgeous black girl on the stage baring her beaver to the ticket buyers. Two beaming “Philip Morris” bell hop midgets helped hold her ankles aloft, so her twat could spread for the entire audience. Her vagina agape, her vulva yawning to full alert, her #2 sphincter cleared of excess hair (and dingleberries, etc.) this goddess had mastered pussy suction and could spit ping pong balls from the stage into the upper balcony!
Maybe the Philip Morris midgets helped her reload.
Now I write English, full English, full tilt, damn the censors, damn the torpedoes, but I don’t normally show images of all I use words for. My writing may occasinoally touch on intellectuals pornography, but I seldom show plain smut. So: this pic is X-rated. Beware before you click: pussy pong. [So sorry, link disappeared.]
Pussy pong note.
Here’s a really cute girl, nice face, great bod, wide open cuny (Bowdlerizing K. 2016 07 29), ass hole not hidden. scrumptious bottom …
But the tasteless pornographers don’t leave well enough alone, they shove the ping pong ball into her ass as well as into her quim. This enlarges, engorges, her anal sphincter. Ugh, disgusting.
I love her open twat, I love her curvy buttocks; I hate her distended anus! I’d leap to eat her, then retch helplessly. Puking is not erotic.
Speaking of digressions, Byron, etc., this porn gaff reminds me of a novel by Gore Vidal where a mother prepares her two young sons to be temple whores, catamites, for a Saturnalia. The mother obtains a set of golules, mushroom capped wooden pegs for widening the anus to fit a spectrum of phalluses. Sick, sicko, sickorama.
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