Post by goldenmyst on Jun 29, 2018 16:13:21 GMT -6
Summer of My Vagabond Vixen
The headmistress of our group home for the divinely touched summons me to her office. There is a young lady dressed too casually to be staff. Ms. Kate says, “Paul, this is Laura. The police found her sleeping under the interstate. There were no beds available in any of the female psych homes. So I’m going to ask of you something I wouldn’t trust a single other man here to do because you are a sterling gentleman. Please, say you won’t mind her being your roommate for a while.”
I say, “Ms. Kate, I’ll treat her like my very own sister.” The young lady smiles at me. I teach her the ropes of this place and help her with the chores. She asks me, “What landed you here?”
I say, “I was crazy since the day I was born. In a madhouse contest, I’d be the looniest of them all.”
She replies, “Oh you’re kidding me. You’ve got all your marbles. Me, I was camping under the interstate. With the economy on the skids, I couldn’t find a job. Fortunately, I had a diagnosis as a bipolar. Otherwise, I’d be in jail.”
The next morning I wake up and take a shower.
Afterward, I browse one of my men’s magazines while standing over the sink. I left the door unlocked but figured she’d hear the shower and know not to come in. But to my surprise, she bursts in. “Paul, what fascinates you men about those women in the girlie magazines?”
I cover my pinnacle of rock with the magazine. She says, “Too late, I caught ya!”
I say, “I was just taking in some eye candy. I’m fully in control of myself.”
She smirks and points between my legs. “It looks to me like your tart popped out of the toaster.”
I hear the staff calling names to the boys for breakfast. She must too because she dashes out leaving my timber even stiffer.
Around noon she is out of sight. The door to the powder room is cracked open so I figure it is safe to enter. There before me, she is posing naked by the sink looking at my naughty magazine. She says, “Why get your thrills gazing at those hotties when you have me here? I can pose just like them. Look at the picture and compare it to me. Is not my pose exactly the same?”
I approach and glance from the image to her. “Yes, my dear. Your poise is even more graceful than the floozy. I could say you are art in motion.”
She says, “No one has ever said that about me. You have touched my heart. Let me turn for you. Describe what you see.”
“Your complexion is pale as a noon moon.”
“What about my bottom? Put that into words for me.”
“Your derriere is chiseled like that of a marble statue. It is proportioned in perfect symmetry but with the fleshly suppleness of a model Renoir might have done a study on.”
“And what about my nose?”
“Delicate as a rosebud encased in snow.”
She says, “I wish I could stay here with you. You sure do wonders for this gal’s self-esteem, but one last thing. How would you describe my breasts?”
“Not mountainous but rather hillocks, standing proud and rising with each breath into the softness of gentle clouds.”
She says, “Let me give you one more stance with me on the bed with the curtains wide open.”
“We can lock the door. But the farmers out here already think we’re nuts. If they saw you through the window posing for me it might drive them through the roof!”
“They’re taking lunch now and what they might see won’t hurt them. Am I hard on your eyes?”
“Good point.” I lock the door.
“What do you see now?”
“I see my wife from a previous lifetime in Pompeii just before Vesuvius erupted, lying on our bed about to make love to me.”
“My Eggs Benedict with a mimosa is yours to enjoy.”
“Let’s not tempt fate.”
“Well, there aren’t any volcanoes around here but what if a tornado swept us away? Wherever your soul migrated to wouldn’t you regret having turned down a luscious lass like me?”
I wrap her in her blanket like a tamale fresh from the oven but am careful not to get my fingers burned.
“This blanket is really uncomfortable and unneeded since it is summer. Mind if I take it off and sit up?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer but throws the blanket aside. “It was an unnecessary impediment to the flow of our conversation,” she says. She tells me, “If we’re going to do chit-chat, we need an icebreaker. So, God do you remember your high school teachers? My school days seem eons ago. Yet, I remember Ms. Heidi Goebel. She would slam your willy into the wall if you didn’t watch your grammar. She was a bitch Goddess.”
She elaborates, “Then there was Mr. Sanders my American history teacher. He was the bomb. Of course, you’re a guy so you won’t understand. But to me, Mr. Sanders was a gorgeous Sheik. I used to get off on him in the girl’s room after class. He just turned me on, I don’t know why.”
I tell her, “I grew up Catholic with all that guilt about sex.”
She puts her hands in her lap as her legs fall open. She says, “My father and mother are strict Catholics. They have really old-fashioned religious beliefs. They’re even more conservative than Baptists. They act like they’re living in the Spanish Inquisition. My father spanked me if he caught me with condoms. If he suspected I was having sex he told my teachers to monitor me. I can’t tell you how humiliating it was. He even made me do pregnancy tests and show him the results. He also made me take ovulation tests forbade me to leave the house when I was ovulating. I felt degraded. I love my heritage and my people but I couldn’t tolerate this.”
“Every sperm is sacred was our mantra.”
“While we’re on the subject, I found your latest erotica book in the drawer by the sink. But I admire men who get turned on by reading.”
“I read Virginia Woolf too.”
“Yes, but I bet you don’t get off on her.”
“My risqué reading is purely mental gymnastics for when I meet the right woman.”
“And I guess those nudie magazines are to learn the female anatomy?”
“Precisely.”
“Didn’t you take sex education in school?”
“It was just a woman drawing doodles on the board.”
“You need an illustrated physiology book.”
“I need to find another hobby, like basket weaving.”
“Do you prefer arts and crafts over me?”
“Only until I’m ready.”
“I normally don’t do it with basket cases. But with you, I’ll make an exception.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Hey, you know what? I think Ms. Victoria took the other residents shopping in the van and left us behind. Let me take a look around. Yep, they are gone pecan. I guess she thought I was visiting my parents this weekend. While the cat’s away the mice will play.”
“Hot diggity dog, you came through after all.”
“You make me feel special in a good way.”
“Hey, I have an idea which may be better than you jumping headfirst into sex, pardon the pun. Ok, see that stereo sitting on the floor? You must strip for me. Then we’ll sit on the floor cushioned by pillows and wrap our legs around each other with only the speakers between us propped respectively against your cock and my Mamie which is my name for mine. You better hug my hips me like you love me.”
“Ok, you’ve got me naked which I never thought would happen again. Now, I’m just wondering is there a diagnosis for this form of deviance in the DSM?”
“Aurally fixated?”
“Saxodicktion.”
“Nymphonic.”
“All right my sensual psychonaut. I’m a gonna pump up the volume and jiggle your noodle. So for our foreplay, you sing along with this chanteuse of yesteryear.”
“Music has never been my aphrodisiac but rather an accompaniment. But let’s jam to that jazz and let come what may pardon the pun.” The dusky chanteuse pours her blues from the stereo for us like a barmaid serving whiskey on the rocks. It feels like a ménage à trios with the jazz singer on the tape deck as the other woman in our tryst.
I belt out, “Ev’ry morning, ev’ry evening, Ain’t we got fun? Not much money, Oh, but honey Ain’t we got fun?”
She chimes in, “The rent’s unpaid dear We haven’t a bus But smiles were made dear For people like us. There’s nothing surer The rich get rich and the poor get children In the meantime, in between time Ain’t we got fun?”
I sing, “Just to make their trouble nearly double Something happened last night To their chimney a gray bird came Mister Stork is his name. (‘Jezus, don’t you dare get me preggers, you rascal you,’ she says). And I’ll bet two pins, a pair of twins Just happened in with the bird Still, they’re very gay and merry Just at dawning I heard.”
She reenters. “Ev’ry morning, ev’ry evening Don’t we have fun Twins and cares, dear, come in pairs, dear Don’t we have fun We’ve only started As mommer and pop (I am in the not ready for maternity fraternity.)
The music turns symphonic with Mozart’s “Jupiter Symphony.” The sonic waves rise like beachcombers on a sea after a storm. They roll from the speakers and jingle my bells with the roar of the ocean.
My voice cracks like I am in for a good cry. Then something like whale song yet oh so human
bursts from my voice box as Amadeus’ music inspires her psychobabble which in turn sings pleasure into my vibratory body.
She exclaims, “Pillage me! Plunder my treasures!
Hallelujah Screwtilicious!!! Be my sexual salvation. Slam dunk my hoop like you’re the NBA all star from heaven. Let me be the first female coach to lick you into shape.” She pulls the sound machine into her Mamie while grinding her hips.
The feel of her hips pumping between my legs makes it hard to focus on the music, pardon the pun. And so my panting becomes an unscripted motif or phrase in the music. Her moan lingers until the last movement of the symphony climaxes as do I. “Damn, this is a better place to be mad than in a nunnery such as Hamlet proposes to Ophelia because this girl can’t hang with being a virgin bride of Christ” she pronounces.
“This is like a monastery” I refute.
“Yes, but our Abbess treats sex as a personal matter.”
She says, “Oh no. I hear the van pulling up. Let’s put on our bathrobes, sit in the living room, and turn the TV to the Gospel channel.”
Ms. Victoria says, “Look at you two raggedy heads. Ya’ll look like you just got out of bed. But it is great to see you two listening to the word. Too many young’uns don’t pay no heed.”
“There are a lot of lost souls,” I say.
“Amen,” my girlfriend says with a giggle.
Song for story “Summer of My Vagabond Vixen” “Ain’t We Got Fun” is a popular foxtrot published in 1921 with music by Richard A. Whiting, lyrics by Raymond B. Egan and Gus Kahn. (Public Domain)
The headmistress of our group home for the divinely touched summons me to her office. There is a young lady dressed too casually to be staff. Ms. Kate says, “Paul, this is Laura. The police found her sleeping under the interstate. There were no beds available in any of the female psych homes. So I’m going to ask of you something I wouldn’t trust a single other man here to do because you are a sterling gentleman. Please, say you won’t mind her being your roommate for a while.”
I say, “Ms. Kate, I’ll treat her like my very own sister.” The young lady smiles at me. I teach her the ropes of this place and help her with the chores. She asks me, “What landed you here?”
I say, “I was crazy since the day I was born. In a madhouse contest, I’d be the looniest of them all.”
She replies, “Oh you’re kidding me. You’ve got all your marbles. Me, I was camping under the interstate. With the economy on the skids, I couldn’t find a job. Fortunately, I had a diagnosis as a bipolar. Otherwise, I’d be in jail.”
The next morning I wake up and take a shower.
Afterward, I browse one of my men’s magazines while standing over the sink. I left the door unlocked but figured she’d hear the shower and know not to come in. But to my surprise, she bursts in. “Paul, what fascinates you men about those women in the girlie magazines?”
I cover my pinnacle of rock with the magazine. She says, “Too late, I caught ya!”
I say, “I was just taking in some eye candy. I’m fully in control of myself.”
She smirks and points between my legs. “It looks to me like your tart popped out of the toaster.”
I hear the staff calling names to the boys for breakfast. She must too because she dashes out leaving my timber even stiffer.
Around noon she is out of sight. The door to the powder room is cracked open so I figure it is safe to enter. There before me, she is posing naked by the sink looking at my naughty magazine. She says, “Why get your thrills gazing at those hotties when you have me here? I can pose just like them. Look at the picture and compare it to me. Is not my pose exactly the same?”
I approach and glance from the image to her. “Yes, my dear. Your poise is even more graceful than the floozy. I could say you are art in motion.”
She says, “No one has ever said that about me. You have touched my heart. Let me turn for you. Describe what you see.”
“Your complexion is pale as a noon moon.”
“What about my bottom? Put that into words for me.”
“Your derriere is chiseled like that of a marble statue. It is proportioned in perfect symmetry but with the fleshly suppleness of a model Renoir might have done a study on.”
“And what about my nose?”
“Delicate as a rosebud encased in snow.”
She says, “I wish I could stay here with you. You sure do wonders for this gal’s self-esteem, but one last thing. How would you describe my breasts?”
“Not mountainous but rather hillocks, standing proud and rising with each breath into the softness of gentle clouds.”
She says, “Let me give you one more stance with me on the bed with the curtains wide open.”
“We can lock the door. But the farmers out here already think we’re nuts. If they saw you through the window posing for me it might drive them through the roof!”
“They’re taking lunch now and what they might see won’t hurt them. Am I hard on your eyes?”
“Good point.” I lock the door.
“What do you see now?”
“I see my wife from a previous lifetime in Pompeii just before Vesuvius erupted, lying on our bed about to make love to me.”
“My Eggs Benedict with a mimosa is yours to enjoy.”
“Let’s not tempt fate.”
“Well, there aren’t any volcanoes around here but what if a tornado swept us away? Wherever your soul migrated to wouldn’t you regret having turned down a luscious lass like me?”
I wrap her in her blanket like a tamale fresh from the oven but am careful not to get my fingers burned.
“This blanket is really uncomfortable and unneeded since it is summer. Mind if I take it off and sit up?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer but throws the blanket aside. “It was an unnecessary impediment to the flow of our conversation,” she says. She tells me, “If we’re going to do chit-chat, we need an icebreaker. So, God do you remember your high school teachers? My school days seem eons ago. Yet, I remember Ms. Heidi Goebel. She would slam your willy into the wall if you didn’t watch your grammar. She was a bitch Goddess.”
She elaborates, “Then there was Mr. Sanders my American history teacher. He was the bomb. Of course, you’re a guy so you won’t understand. But to me, Mr. Sanders was a gorgeous Sheik. I used to get off on him in the girl’s room after class. He just turned me on, I don’t know why.”
I tell her, “I grew up Catholic with all that guilt about sex.”
She puts her hands in her lap as her legs fall open. She says, “My father and mother are strict Catholics. They have really old-fashioned religious beliefs. They’re even more conservative than Baptists. They act like they’re living in the Spanish Inquisition. My father spanked me if he caught me with condoms. If he suspected I was having sex he told my teachers to monitor me. I can’t tell you how humiliating it was. He even made me do pregnancy tests and show him the results. He also made me take ovulation tests forbade me to leave the house when I was ovulating. I felt degraded. I love my heritage and my people but I couldn’t tolerate this.”
“Every sperm is sacred was our mantra.”
“While we’re on the subject, I found your latest erotica book in the drawer by the sink. But I admire men who get turned on by reading.”
“I read Virginia Woolf too.”
“Yes, but I bet you don’t get off on her.”
“My risqué reading is purely mental gymnastics for when I meet the right woman.”
“And I guess those nudie magazines are to learn the female anatomy?”
“Precisely.”
“Didn’t you take sex education in school?”
“It was just a woman drawing doodles on the board.”
“You need an illustrated physiology book.”
“I need to find another hobby, like basket weaving.”
“Do you prefer arts and crafts over me?”
“Only until I’m ready.”
“I normally don’t do it with basket cases. But with you, I’ll make an exception.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Hey, you know what? I think Ms. Victoria took the other residents shopping in the van and left us behind. Let me take a look around. Yep, they are gone pecan. I guess she thought I was visiting my parents this weekend. While the cat’s away the mice will play.”
“Hot diggity dog, you came through after all.”
“You make me feel special in a good way.”
“Hey, I have an idea which may be better than you jumping headfirst into sex, pardon the pun. Ok, see that stereo sitting on the floor? You must strip for me. Then we’ll sit on the floor cushioned by pillows and wrap our legs around each other with only the speakers between us propped respectively against your cock and my Mamie which is my name for mine. You better hug my hips me like you love me.”
“Ok, you’ve got me naked which I never thought would happen again. Now, I’m just wondering is there a diagnosis for this form of deviance in the DSM?”
“Aurally fixated?”
“Saxodicktion.”
“Nymphonic.”
“All right my sensual psychonaut. I’m a gonna pump up the volume and jiggle your noodle. So for our foreplay, you sing along with this chanteuse of yesteryear.”
“Music has never been my aphrodisiac but rather an accompaniment. But let’s jam to that jazz and let come what may pardon the pun.” The dusky chanteuse pours her blues from the stereo for us like a barmaid serving whiskey on the rocks. It feels like a ménage à trios with the jazz singer on the tape deck as the other woman in our tryst.
I belt out, “Ev’ry morning, ev’ry evening, Ain’t we got fun? Not much money, Oh, but honey Ain’t we got fun?”
She chimes in, “The rent’s unpaid dear We haven’t a bus But smiles were made dear For people like us. There’s nothing surer The rich get rich and the poor get children In the meantime, in between time Ain’t we got fun?”
I sing, “Just to make their trouble nearly double Something happened last night To their chimney a gray bird came Mister Stork is his name. (‘Jezus, don’t you dare get me preggers, you rascal you,’ she says). And I’ll bet two pins, a pair of twins Just happened in with the bird Still, they’re very gay and merry Just at dawning I heard.”
She reenters. “Ev’ry morning, ev’ry evening Don’t we have fun Twins and cares, dear, come in pairs, dear Don’t we have fun We’ve only started As mommer and pop (I am in the not ready for maternity fraternity.)
The music turns symphonic with Mozart’s “Jupiter Symphony.” The sonic waves rise like beachcombers on a sea after a storm. They roll from the speakers and jingle my bells with the roar of the ocean.
My voice cracks like I am in for a good cry. Then something like whale song yet oh so human
bursts from my voice box as Amadeus’ music inspires her psychobabble which in turn sings pleasure into my vibratory body.
She exclaims, “Pillage me! Plunder my treasures!
Hallelujah Screwtilicious!!! Be my sexual salvation. Slam dunk my hoop like you’re the NBA all star from heaven. Let me be the first female coach to lick you into shape.” She pulls the sound machine into her Mamie while grinding her hips.
The feel of her hips pumping between my legs makes it hard to focus on the music, pardon the pun. And so my panting becomes an unscripted motif or phrase in the music. Her moan lingers until the last movement of the symphony climaxes as do I. “Damn, this is a better place to be mad than in a nunnery such as Hamlet proposes to Ophelia because this girl can’t hang with being a virgin bride of Christ” she pronounces.
“This is like a monastery” I refute.
“Yes, but our Abbess treats sex as a personal matter.”
She says, “Oh no. I hear the van pulling up. Let’s put on our bathrobes, sit in the living room, and turn the TV to the Gospel channel.”
Ms. Victoria says, “Look at you two raggedy heads. Ya’ll look like you just got out of bed. But it is great to see you two listening to the word. Too many young’uns don’t pay no heed.”
“There are a lot of lost souls,” I say.
“Amen,” my girlfriend says with a giggle.
Song for story “Summer of My Vagabond Vixen” “Ain’t We Got Fun” is a popular foxtrot published in 1921 with music by Richard A. Whiting, lyrics by Raymond B. Egan and Gus Kahn. (Public Domain)
