PASSIONATE STORY CAMP
Paragraphs for Grownups
by Mark Aster
"'Passionate Story Camp'?"
"Yeah, it's like a, uh, grown-up comic book. Where did you find it? I mean --"
"It was under your pillow, silly, where did you think? Ooh, look at that! She's really enjoying that, isn't she?"
"Are you embarassed? Wow, he's really big!"
"It's just, you --"
"Let's keep it next to the bed here, on the night table."
"What if --"
"Maybe we can look through it together tonight."
What things that were found in your bed, at night, do you still treasure?
What things heard on the mountain attracted your ear?
What things, watching them standing naked in the sunlight, passed through your mind?
What things do you hold, what things do you love? What things have you forgotten?
Helen moves among the men in her dark heavy clothes, smiling and nodding, moving over the rough boards as though she were floating on a sea of cloud. Her hair is black and thick, loose around her shoulders, unadorned.
Now and then she leans over and whispers to one of the men, a beefy miner sitting before his beer, a beardless boy, here for the first time this year, looking around with his eyes bright.
She stops by me and bends from the waist. Her lips are full and crimson.
"Love," she whispers to me, softly so that only I can hear, "love and warm breasts on which to lie your head. Lips for your lips, and hands for your hands."
I look up, into the pools of her eyes, and she smiles at me, silently, beneficent.
While the teenagers make out in the back bedroom, the lady of the house is standing in the living room, in front of the mirror, with her blouse open, holding her long freckled breasts in her hands, considering her nipples. The curtains are open; she is not too close to the big picture window, but not too far away, either.
On the walk out front, the postman's nose is bleeding.
The street ends in a vacant lot, this time of year mostly sand and long dead strands of grass lying in bunches on the ground.
We walked until we got there, and then we stopped because there wasn't any further to go.
"You know that felt really good, last night."
"I thought so too."
She scuffled her feet on dusty pebbles cupped by a rain-dip in the dirt.
"But this morning I was sad."
"It's OK to be sad."
She looked up at the sky. Her skin was pale, a lovely admirable shade of pale. "I don't think I want to do that again right away."
"That's OK too."
I kept my eyes open as she kissed me again.
Over her shoulder, the water kept falling.
The curve of her hip is soft and simple, in evocative contrast to the ridged and highly detailed column of his penis, whose head is just entering her as she straddles him on the bed, her head back and her breasts (succulent, round, almost too large) not quite bouncing.
A drop of sweat drips down from her collarbone.
We stood on the embankment watching the Umbilicus sail out into the fog. Not even a seagull broke the silence and the stillness.
"Well," she said. I couldn't turn to look at her. "You're free."
Then she was holding my hand, and without thinking I looked up. Her eyes were soft and kind, with something in them that I knew couldn't be there.
"This is good-bye, then," I said. Nothing else was possible. But she shook her head.
"Isolde is upstairs now, packing her things."
"You're not going with her?"
"Never again." She looked down at the dock.
I thought my heart would stop. "But I saw you, last night, in the guardhouse..."
"I thought I heard someone in the yard. We talked for hours. She told me all about Brom."
"Marylin called her yesterday, from Geneva. Brom is in France again, with the dogs."
"My God..." My head was spinning.
"So now it's just you and me," she raised her eyes again to mine, and squeezed my fingers, "if you'll still have me."
I couldn't speak. In an instant, we were in each other's arms, her body pressed sweetly against me, her lips on mine. And I knew that, wherever the Countessa was now, I owed her a debt I could never repay.
"I -- Magda, she's -- what --"
"Yeah, looks good on her, eh?"
"But she, but, but! Is that, uh, sanitary?"
"She's got her little towel for sitting on. I'll bet she's way cleaner than you are."
"But -- I -- she's!"
"Does it make you want to fuck her?"
"Usually when people get upset about Magda being naked, it's because they want to fuck her."
"What the hell?"
"Come on, she's cute, she's got nice tits, a good broad ass. You want to do her, don't you? Nothing to be ashamed of."
"This is insane."
He went out into the living room, and there was Magda, naked as ever, on her hands and knees on the carpet, breasts dangling, with her face in Dante's lap, and Megan drawing smiley-faces on her buttocks with magic markers.
My wife had been hitting on Anton Kohler all evening. He was a dark, muscular young man with an easy smile and a quiet wit, and she was not the only big-breasted blonde orbiting him. But she was the most persistent. Once or twice, as Rita stood too close to him and found too many reasons to casually touch him, he looked over at me and made eye contact, and gave a helpless apologetic look. I smiled back.
He was probably used to women touching him too often, and I was slowly getting used to Rita.
We stayed late at the party, and then drifted off to our room, not saying much to each other. I was tired and vaguely annoyed, and entirely willing to put out the lights and say good night without any attempt to get between my wife's thighs, lush and smooth as they were.
No one locks their room doors at Dennemeade, and when sometime later ours quietly opened, I felt no alarm.
I lay there, half-awake, my eyes open a crack, as Anton stepped in and closed the door behind him. He was wearing only a pair of loose pajama bottoms, with a towel around his wide shoulders. The dim glow of the nightlight accented the planes and slopes of his bare chest and stomach.
I was about to rouse myself and whisper a question (Rita was on her side across the bed, snoring gently) when he opened the snap at his waist and let the pajamas fall to the floor. His legs were strong, his penis coming erect out of its dark sheath. I swallowed.
Standing there in the night looking down at us, he dropped the towel to the floor and circled his left hand around his penis, stroking gently. It came fully erect, long and wide and firm. Was he going to fuck Rita there in the bed, with me lying beside them?
Despite myself, I felt my own erection building.
With that same smile on his face, bringing to him an innocence that somehow perfectly fit his nakedness and the staff standing out from his hips, he bent down over the bed, and softly kissed me on the mouth.
So, your little scheme has failed again, eh?
Please, be kind!
It feels good to be, finally, under very hot water, soap in her hair, the laundry done, dinner in the oven, and no one, no one at all, expected.
Almost alarmingly good.
It's almost not about orgasms at all. I mean, I know how to have an orgasm, and it doesn't involve lying here touching ink pictures on a page. It doesn't need this sweet confusion of love and shame, looking at these six women sitting around a campfire laughing and self-conscious.
This one, the short-haired woman with full lips and long legs, I like her particularly. If I turn the pages, will I get to see her naked? Will I get to see her orgasms? Maybe that's what it's about.
Maybe she wouldn't want me to see her naked.
I wish I could draw like this. Or maybe it's a good thing I can't!
his hand under her skirt
here in the warm dim whiteness, licking her long pale nipples over and over with my tongue
the feel of icy water, his voice harsh with need, his hand against her flesh over and over and her legs spread so wide
her mouth sucking at me
pretty women, pretty women with their pens held between their teeth, pretty women with their panties off, dangling from their fingers. eating.
men, hard-muscled boys with sweat on their pectorals, kissing ardently in the door to the shower, holding each others' throbbing penises in smooth uncalloused hands
her tongue in my mouth, my hands stroking her until she moans and presses up against me, thrusting my fingers into her between her wet juicy labia up into her my thumb on her clit and her mouth open so wide in the light
he kisses me
she stands over us with her shirt open, holding her breasts in her hands and rolling them forward and back, forward and back, smiling and licking her purple-painted lips
his hands on my bottom, her thighs wrapped around my head, the apricot smell of her warm clear juice on my face; someone's cock long and hard in her mouth and she has her eyes closed sucking, sucking, sucking
I want (I want) I want
That particular frat party was especially loud, especially out of control, and Donna was in the thick of it, helping out the band, bringing up more booze from the basement, and when Tozzy, who was a bit of a jerk but a hell of a drummer, grabbed her from behind and pulled her over to the edge of the stage (carpeted risers she'd helped lug out of the storeroom and set up that afternoon) she wasn't real upset.
"Hey, who wants to see her tits!" Tozzy'd shouted at the crowd boozing and swaying and yelling on the floor during the band break, pulling Donna's arms further behind her so her chest stuck out, the lights swinging across her body.
The crowd screamed in approval. Donna stepped backward, hard, and got it the first time; an inch of almost-pointy heel into the top of Tozzy's sneakered foot; then her fist swinging up and down from the elbow into his groin, and a hard elbow into his stomach, and he disappeared off the back of the stage to lie moaning motionless in the debris.
The crowd screamed again.
"You wanna see these tits?" Donna yelled into the lights in her best crazy-girl no-shit voice, "You wanna see 'em??" and she put her palms on either side of her chest and bounced them up and down.
"Whoo-hooo-hooooo!" yelled the crowd, "aw-raaaaaaght!"
"You wanna see these tits, I want ta see some COCK!!" Approving screams from the scattering of females in the fevered beery darkness, swimming submersed in the male sea of breath and hands, "Some COCK!"
"Hoo-hooo!" Donna yelled, throwing her head back, shimmying her shoulders so that her breasts shook in rough unison, awakened creatures under her sweatshirt. No cocks yet.
"C'mon, WUSSES!" and the guitarist popped the amp on and ran a loud jarring riff even though the break wasn't over yet and the light stopped on Donna's face.
"Here ya go!!" and there was Jeet Paulsen with his pants open and his prick sticking out, half-erect in his hand and his pale furry balls dangling underneath and the crowd roared and Donna shook herself harder.
"And here!" "Here!" and a dozen pricks, beer-soft or girl-hard, thick and thin, blunt and tall, thrust out of red jockeys or hanging down in blue-and-gold patriotic boxers, waggling themselves in the night at Donna from between their owners' legs, and Donna staring down at the crowd, at the young cocks, pulled her sweatshirt up around her neck, took her bra in both hands and crumpled it up around her neck her breasts pink and firm and shockingly innocent, picked up a half-empty pitcher of beer and UPENDED it over her face and her chest, shaking her shoulders so her breasts, her boobs, her tits with the nipples puckered hard pink from the frothy liquid and her jeans wet her skin goose-bumped shouting another "HOOOOAAA!!" down at the bobbing penises.
She stayed there for an instant, all wet belly and shaking tit-flesh her face vivid and damp, then two of the boys with cocks jumped up onto the stage toward her and she shoved them off back again into the crowd and leapt back, over Tozzy knocking him down again on the way by and vanished.
The crowd screamed in ecstacy, the band came back onstage and the ball and the lights spun harder and Tozzy eventually found his feet and the party rumbled on.
Not too many minutes later, someone passing in the hall, looking for somewhere to pee, might have seen through the half-closed door Donna on her back with her legs open and one hand on Jeet Paulsen's head, his lips on her beery nipples, his fingers spread on her tits and her other hand working his pants down over his hard hairless ass, reaching around for that hot fleshy thing that seemed, right now, like it might after all be something that she needed.
Why don't you stop
It sort of drags in there.
They are in bed, separate lumps under the covers.
The room is dark.
Her eyes are open, his are closed. Everytime she begins to fall asleep, he snores, just once, loudly enough to wake her up (a scrawl of loud-looking characters above his head, her face screwed up in frustration).
Finally she sits up, enraged, the sheets fall from the top of her body; she is naked and angry, big round breasts shaking and her handsome face scowling. He is woozy from sleep, confused, needs a shave.
She says something, he says something; a closeup of his hand on her breast, his face beyond it ambiguous open-mouthed.
She is on her back, and he is fucking her. Very conventional, very obvious, but her face is lovely and surprised and her thighs and his buttocks are the ideal shape of sudden desire and ardent bliss.
Her eyes are closed, her hands tight on his shoulders.
She had me take off my skirt and my panties and kneel on the carpet, and she's tied my wrists behind me, and tied my ankles together, with something soft but kind of tight. She's down on the floor with me, smiling into my eyes, and I want her to kiss me.
She unbuttons my shirt. I didn't wear a bra, because she told me not to wear a bra, and the air is cool on my breasts. She smiles at my body, and starts scratching me with her short fingernails, like you'd scratch someone's back except that it's my front; she's scratching me slowly up from the top of my thighs to just under my breasts, and my eyes are closed and my mouth is open and I don't know why I'm moaning but I can feel the blood flowing into my clit and my labia and I might die of shame if it didn't feel so good.
"Pain," she says, "is nothing to be afraid of." Her fingernails dig a little deeper. "We all should learn to master pain, use it for our own things." She leans forward and kisses me quickly on the mouth, just touching me with her soft pink lips and the tip of her tongue, and my body shudders. I open my eyes.
"Consider," she says, her eyes bright, holding up a shiny little thing, all metal and blue plastic, with a dangling chain, "the humble nipple clamp."
On the round scrubby top of the mountain, the woman lies at ease with her back against a boulder, her legs out in front of her, an opened pack beside her. Her t-shirt is dark blue with white writing. It says, perhaps, "Tell me something I don't already know."
He comes up the trail from the west, stops for an instant when he sees someone's already there at the top. Reads her shirt. Sees that her eyes are closed.
He sits on the lichen a little way from her and puts down his staff. She opens her eyes.
After awhile, he speaks. Perhaps he says "I would like to spend an entire afternoon sitting by the window, watching the sun shining through blue bottle-glass."
The images are still, frozen on the page; the page is static, lying passive under my fingers. I trace a long smooth line of leg, the curve of a breast under her shirt.
Air comes in, too warm and too wet, through the window. Should I turn the page?
She stands there, in the panel, dressed from the thighs up, her head turned. Talking to someone off-camera.
She's beautiful. I whisper it to myself: "Beautiful".
I'm thirsty again.
Going home on the subway, in a car that was mostly empty. I picked up a book, or a thick little magazine, someone had left lying on the seat beside me.
"Passionate Story Camp" it said on the cover. All the other words were in Japanese, or Korean, or something. The pen-and-ink women on the cover had big eyes, cute smiles, very short skirts. Nice legs.
I opened it at random, the pages soft cheap newsprint smelling like city. The lefthand page was four views of a mountain, zooming a panel at a time toward a small elegant house, around a serene pine, in at a window.
On the righthand page the women still have large eyes and cute smiles, but they are naked, they are arched backward over a table, hands are on their breasts, and thick tongues licking between their thighs.
I stuffed it into my backpack. For later.
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