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“You're a liar and a hypocrite. What do you want to lie for? I know I haven't 4ucked you properly. I can do much better than that.”


I was caught up short by his candor. “OK,” I confessed glumly, “you haven't  4ucked me properly. I admit it.”


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But we obeyed the final taboo— we never, to be cold and German about it, 4nicated. I washed her hair. She still cursed and threatened me. I soaped every inch of her body. I caressed her pointy nips with the palm of my hand. I dried her and helped her into her nightgown. I carried her to her bed. I brushed her thick reddish black hair in the candle-lit bedroom. Once she whispered to me, “To what are Chopin’s Preludes preludes?” and I kissed her. ‘


Sometimes after that, I lay with her. We kissed each other's lips and we embraced, but I never entered her. That restraint, which I adhered to religiously— Malkele, I am sure, would have welcomed me, though even she was never bold enough to ask … If we should omit these most private details from the historical record, there is no way to appreciate fully the richness of life for two young Jews, surviving temporarily, with false identifications as Pavel and Maria Witlin, on the Aryan side of Nazi-occupied Warsaw.


On an outing of our family association, I once cored an apple, saw to my astonishment (and with the aid of my obsession) what it looked like, and ran off into the woods to fall upon the orifice of the fruit, pretending that the cool and mealy hole was actually between the legs of that mythical being who always called me Big Boy when she pleaded for what no girl in all recorded history had ever had.


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In his room, I stripped to my birthsuit in one minute flat and lay on the bed.


“Pretty desperate, aren’t you?” he asked.


“Yes.”


“For God’s sake, why? We have plenty of time.”


“How long?”


“As long as you want it,” he said, ambiguously.


If he left me, in short, it would be my fault. Psychoanalysts are like that. Never 4uck a psychoanalyst is my advice to all you young things out there. Anyway, it was no good. Or not much. He was only at half-mast and he thrashed around wildly inside me hoping I wouldn’t notice. I wound up with a tiny ripple of an orgasm and a very sore cunt. But somehow I was pleased. I’ll be able to get free of him now, I thought; he isn’t a good lay. I’ll be able to forget him.


“What are you thinking?” he asked.


“That I’ve been well and truly 4ucked.” I remembered having used the same phrase with Bennett once, when it was much more true.


jerseys Jul 1 '19
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"I Love the Hour Just Before" by Todd Boss

“Song Out Here” by Juan Felipe Herrera

"After the Movie" by Marie Howe

"For N & K" by Gina Myers

"How I Am" by Jason Shinder

"Friend," by Jean Valentine


jerseys Jul 1 '19
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And another year or two later, I was in Paris on business; and one morning on the landing of a hotel, where I had been looking up a film actor fellow, there she was again, clad in a gray tailored suit, waiting for the elevator to take her down, a key dangling from her fingers. ‘Ferdinand has gone fencing,’ she said conversationally; her eyes rested on the lower part of my face as if she were lip reading, and after a moment of reflection (her amatory comprehension was matchless), she turned and rapidly swaying on slender ankles led me along the sea-blue carpeted passage. A chair at the door of her room supported a tray with the remains of breakfast—a honey-stained knife, crumbs on the gray porcelain; but the room had already been done, and because of our sudden draft a wave of muslin embroidered with white dahlias got sucked in, with a shudder and a knock, between the responsive halves of the French window, and only when the door had been locked did they let go of that curtain with something like a blissful sigh; and a little later I stepped out on the diminutive cast-iron balcony beyond to inhale a combined smell of dry maple leaves and gasoline…


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“Oh shove it in me, Big Boy,” cried the cored apple that I 4ucked silly on that picnic. “Big Boy, Big Boy, oh give me all you've got,” begged the empty milk bottle that I kept hidden in our storage bin in the basement, to drive wild after school with my vaselined upright. “Come on, Big Boy, come,” screamed the maddened piece of liver that, in my own insanity, I bought one afternoon at a butcher shop and, believe it or not, violated behind a billboard on the way to a bar mitzvah lesson.


jerseys Jun 29 '19
anmeet kaur

I pushed aside my pillows and turned onto my


stomach. My feet hung off the end of the bed, my toes 


hooked over the edge. The way I do. And through my 


cotton nightgown, I put two fingers of my right hand 


on my clitsss and thought of him. Standing in a room, 


coming toward me, watching me undress.… (It must 


always be through a nightgown or a pair of 


underpants. 


I’ve wondered if this is because of the greater friction. 


Surely that must be part of it, but there is something 


more, perhaps the thrill that first came to me as a 


small girl, pressing my fingers against myself, the cloth 


interceding between my fingers and my vag, 


interceding between shame and pleasure).…


One Sunday morning in boarding school I found my 


roommate lying on her back on the tile floor of the 


shower stall. Her legs … were splayed on either side of 


the spigots, the water cascading between her slack 


muscular thighs.… She remains to this day the only 


woman I’ve ever known who spoke freely of her own 


wanking. She urged me to try it. I didn’t have the 


courage to tell her that I had found my own way. 


Women will talk about anything— s e xual jealousy, 


dishonor, the lovely advantages of eating p u s s y or 


sucking c o c k— but they will not tell you about 


4ucking themselves.



anmeet kaur Apr 3 '19
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