Tracy
This next excerpt is definitely ‘X’ rated and racy, because it was Tracy, (I can’t avoid a cheap pun. It shows that some sub-level on my brain is still working), but I include it as a preface to what follows, my overall view of women and beauty and relationships. I doubt that it’s a standard one, but I explain my viewpoint to understand myself. That’s my goal. Here’s the story.
She was a wild girl named Tracy. She was famous at the ‘Starry Plough’, her looks and reputation at least, and frequently talked about between guys huddled around, in low voices, sipping their beers. She only showed up there maybe six times in a year, about every two months. But every time she stepped in the door an electric charge seemed to flash through the room. All heads turned and an intense focus sharpened every man there, sobering them up, clearing their double vision instantly, as if their lottery number was about to be announced and with shaking hands they were scanning the ticket, all hearts a-pounding.
She was a panther roaming, the dominant beast in the barn and everyone else her potential prey. As she passed men's arms would freeze, their beer half-raised to their lips. The women also, eyeing her aglance with narrow and distrustful eyes as she prowled for her kill.
This is why. She was extremely beautiful, with a sharp, flawless face, dark, penetrating eyes, short, black hair and an unbelievably sexy body. She was slender and yet had the most perfect, full set of breasts, not overly large or in any way sagging, but melon sized and firm, with large pointy nipples, pointing straight out at you, (the slang term being ‘torpedoes’) declaring their impossible to ignore presence. And she always knew just what shirt or sweater to wear to display them in all their glory, leaving nothing to the imagination of every gaping, mesmerized man.
But this is only the beginning of the sketch of her mystique, of her fame. She followed the exact same pattern each time she came to the Plough, and everyone there knew what was about to follow. She came there to pick out a man, ask to be taken to his place and get laid, without idle talk or civilities, but straight to the point, to her purpose, her eyes burning bright with desire. She was always successful and usually conducted these preliminaries within a half-hour of arriving. She would step in around eight, go to the bar and order a half-pint, standing. Then she’d scan the room with eagle eyes and pick out her lucky target. She never slept with the same man twice. She had issues.
She was a twenty-five-year-old schoolteacher of elementary kids, grade three I think. She lived with her parents. But there was definitely something wrong in her head. ‘Crazy’ is too ugly a word to apply to such a paradigm of female beauty. And this one quirk of hers was far too infrequent and harmless a habit to deserve any condemnation. It never was maligned by anyone there. It was a scene of wonderment and speechless admiration to us all. And I’m sure in the intervening fifty-nine days of the year she was a perfectly ordinary being, a good teacher and probably seemed quite normal to all the faculty and even her parents, as she was so discreet in this one habit of sexual gratification. She was just dead to real intimacy, or human bonding, or love, for good reason.
From what I can figure of female psychology, in retrospect, she let all her sexual urges build up to a breaking point, like the string of a crossbow wound up to a near snapping point. It was sixty days of abstinence to be relieved in two hours of mad fury. Then she’d go to the only bar she knew and trusted, or felt safe in, (as it truly was filled with honest and interesting and decent characters). On this night she chose me. And I was prepared, as my friend Bones had been the lucky recipient of her bowstring sexuality some six months earlier and had told me in fascinating and minute detail of his night with her, her likes and dislikes, her expectations, almost down to what to say and what not to say. So I played the game demurely. I was prepped, primed and propositioned.
She walked up to me and asked if I had any pot or knew where to get some. This was the one thing she enjoyed with sex, or maybe it was just a preamble, or a clever part of the plot, as it involved a private place to go and smoke it. She touched my arm lightly as she said this. Dan was in the bar that night, (lucky for me), the doorman in fact, and could see what was going on, as he knew the whole saga, and kindly offered me one of the two joints from his top pocket, almost patting me on the shoulder and wishing me ‘good luck’. I returned to her and we left to my place in her car, right away. She always drove because she never stayed the night. It was always a weeknight, with her work the next morning, the excuse for leaving early.
As soon as we entered my humble abode she ripped off my shirt, my belt, unzipped my pants and her skirt next, and practically pushed me backwards onto my bed. Her sex drive was wildly pent-up because we went at it for over an hour straight. She was on top of me before I could pull down the sheets or turn out the light. That didn’t matter to her. She was pure business. She began riding me wildly and in the first minutes started having orgasms, one after another, screaming in delight. I’d never seen anything like this before so I just lay there, glad to be of service, like a manikin, hard as one too, while she violently ground away, back and forth, doing small push ups from her elbows on each side of me. Then she slowed down and lay flat on me, slid her arms under my back and squeezed me against her own warm body and breasts with all her might, gyrating her hips in a slow and steady swirl, which brought her a whole new set of orgasms, moaning ones. In the intervals of moans she started kissing me madly. But this was too much for me and I came.
I wasn’t wearing protection. She gave me no time for that, so I said to her: “I hope I don’t get you pregnant”. She replied right away: “Not a problem”. She said this in a businesslike, emotionless, voice, as her horniness was just getting warmed up and she wanted no interruptions. I thought we were done. But she sat up, pulled my leg up knee high and started rubbing against it, her two arms and hands stretched out on each side of my head. She did this for a minute but I guess it wasn’t good enough. So she changed plans, pushed my leg down, pulled herself higher up on me, grabbed my hand and pushed my two long fingers deep inside her, telling me to ‘rub it’, guiding my hand with hers and showing me the motion she wanted. I got the idea and continued at a steady pace while she once again slipped her arms around me to pull me closer, kissing me all over the chest and neck and face, in ascending order and in an increasing fury, working herself up for another one. So I slid my fingers all the more furiously and she came again, this time with another loud moan.
I thought: ‘this has got to be it’. Wrong again. She flipped on her back and pulled me on top of her. I thought this spelled a break and had my hand out of her when she grabbed it again, which I knew meant: ‘keep at it’. So I got up on my knees, straddling her and straight above her waist for a better position and began again, with much more control, like a workman servicing a machine. I started off slowly and went a little deeper with each thrust, taking my time. And she seemed to be enjoying it, just lying there, smiling, almost like getting a massage.
But from this vantage I was looking straight down on her and I couldn’t believe how lovely she was, and her unbelievable breasts, (the light was still on). With my other hand I couldn’t help but start fondling them, then leaning down and kissing them, her nipples, which was slowly getting her excited all over. I didn’t even notice but it was also getting me excited again and then I felt her hand on me and start to stroke, with the same pace as mine, like a true professional, totally in control, and me the helpless tool of this goddess of lust.
She sat up. We were face to face and she began kissing me again, French kissing, all the while rubbing it and getting me fully excited. Then she flipped me around, rolled on top and we started all over again, exactly like the first time, as if we’d just begun. She had another round of groaning orgasms and this time I lasted longer. But she knew exactly what to do to make me come, and when she was fully satiated after one last, low, whining orgasm she did just that, with a tight embrace and an almost suffocating kiss. Now we were both satisfied to exhaustion, dripping in sweat and panting.
She rose up like an Olympic athlete, still bristling with energy, dressed quickly and lit up the joint that was been lying on the table and which I thought was to be our ‘foreplay’. She took a few hits, calming herself, like a cigarette after sex. She then told me to get up, to say goodbye, as she had to go home. Now I was up and standing beside her, in only my pants, planning on taking a shower. She told me in a kind voice never to try to contact her. I swore and agreed. (Bones had forewarned me on this, said she’d ask it, and that it was part of the deal). But just as she was about to leave, she took one last big hit, stepped up to my face and blew it right in my mouth, like an alluring kiss, something you’d see in a spy movie on a bridge on a dark night by some ‘femme fatale’. I gasped. All I could think was: “wow, this girl is a work of art, a man-slayer”. She told me she had a good time, turned, and walked calmly out the door. She was home by eleven.
