/ College Stories /
Tis is a Balinese word. I get it from Gregory Bateson. It means the moment of peace you feel after an orgasm. Everything, everything, is just right, at least for a moment: you’re neither too hot, nor too cold … just, for the moment, sated.
One time in college, in the John Jay dorm, a skyscraper of little student monk cells, just at dusk, my lights off, I was lying on my back, abed, I was having a moment of peace, self-generated, but still, peace, when Alan barges in, my door apparently unlocked. “You wanna go out to dinner?” No response from Paul. “You asleep?” No response from Paul. “OK. Never mind. See you later,” and Alan slaps me on the belly, turns to leave … His hand finds my belly naked, and awash in nice warm jissom. Splat!
“Oh,” says Alan. “Oh. I see.” And leaves.
Another time, also dusk, also his light out, I knock on Bill’s door. “O … uh, uh …” Very soft. I open the door, my mistake, Bill’s lying there, his belly bare, his pants around his ankles … “O … uh, uh …” “My mistake, see you later.”
That’s Columbia on the left.
Funny thing about a moment of peace, god bless us, it’s peace whether it lasts for five seconds or five minutes. Interruped, it was still peace. Tis.
I just read Snipers Honor by Stephen Hunter, still up to his old tricks. Characterizing a battle field the soldier stipulates “masturbation ignored”.
|What do they call couples who pracice coitus interruptus as a form of birth control?
I knew some weird people in college, David for example. Had to do I don’t doubt with my obsession with jazz. Once in the ‘Apple I had an unaccountable number of friends who played jazz, most of them Jewish: funny things sometimes going together. My weird friends, like David, themselves had weird friends. I’d hear about them. Truly weird. David told me about weird jazz musicians — a Jewish atheist jazz musician with a wife who hadn’t yet toilet trained their daughter by age seven … with a brother, practically a dwarf, who was catatonic in a hospital in Rockland County, friend of Bird’s! … More on that guy.
Morningside Heights was weird enough as it was: Columbia, coexisting with a crowd of other institutions: Barnard, Teachers College … Union Theological, Jewish Theological, Julliard, International House … some of them with stacks of dorms of their own … and dozens upon dozens of residence hotels, urban trash parks … And they had their own characteristics: this was a fag hotel, that was a dyke hotel … that was an A-head hotel … Somehow everybody trod each others toes in the West End Tavern on Broadway and 114th. David told me he knew a guy, a Jew, in his twenties, a guy who was really ugly … David! telling me about an ugly guy?! David said that this guy said that he was ugly as a Jew; but if he were an Arab, the guy said, he’d be thought beautiful: “I’m an ugly Jew, but I’d be a beautiful Arab.”
I just take this stuff in, I don’t say anything.
So David tells me this ugly Jew is in his bed in his trash residence hotel, off Broadway, around 111th or 112th, and nothing to do, he’s jerking off. Whip, whip, and in walks the hotel’s cleaning lady, she has her own key. (Did she knock? Who knows, he was busy.) (Maybe she kind of pretended to knock so she could sneak up on him …) She herself was sixty-something-going-on-ninety, ugly as sin, maybe she had Arab sensibilities … So this ugly Jew David says is beating off in bed, the maid comes in, Uh uh, ooo, he says, Oh, oh, she says, and the next thing you know the cleaning lady has her clothes off, has the ugly Jew’s dick in her mouth, and is placing her labia — just right — over the ugly Jew’s mouth. Mmm, slurp.
Well, I hope they both came, like bandits. (That is, I hope the story was true.) I hope further that neither of them was interrupted.
Funny, we hear stories, erotic stories about this Hollywood hero, that Hollywood beauty, all the time. I just love that story about the ugly Jew in the Morningside Heights residence hotel.
It’s also funny how alien sex stories about old and/or ugly people seem out of place: now that I’m seventy-six, and have known women going on one hundred as well as girls not yet in puberty, I know how avidly this or that old woman may want to straddle you, to have you breathing through her pubics.
I thought we were a little outré at Columbia till I heard a couple of years later that pussy on the mouth was SOP at Vassar, Barnard …
|What do they call Catholics who practice the rhythm method as a form of birth control?
Gee, the 1950s were so long ago, totally different world.
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