Monday, September 25, 2006

Tune Out If You're a Minor...or if you're a miner.

Finding Out About Women's Breasts

I had admired nude women since I was 12 and a member of my family bought a newstand, magazine, and tobacco shop and I started helping him out by sweeping and mopping out the place on Saturday mornings for a dollar. One day, my relative was in his office doing the books, I went behind the cash register to check out a rumor going around at schooI. I was definitely not allowed behind the cash register when the relative was around or one of his workers, so I took this opportunity to run back there really quickly. The rumor at school said that my relative kept "nasty" magazines in an out-of-way place under the cash register. So I propped my mop up in the bucket and ran like a rabbit back to that forbidden area and WOW to my surprise I got back there expecting to have to search but all I had to do was look down and JESUS there they were, the nudie cutie magazines, with something called Modern Model on top of that evil little stack. Damn, it had a naked woman's photo on the cover--well, she was naked but not all that exposed. BUT...I found just by flipping up the cover, that BOOM, there on the inside cover was DOUBLE JESUS, the prettiest young woman I'd ever seen totally naked, sitting back on her legs, leaning back on her hands, and in so doing lifting her NAKED BREASTS up, up, up and away into my superman-libidinous desires. HOLY SODOM. I couldn't keep from daring to continue to take in those photographed naked breasts until I heard a noise from the offie and I quickly returned to my mop and continued sloshing the soapy water around the linoleum floor, though the knowledge that those magazines were just a few feet away under that cash register and that there were many many more unexplored pages in that tempting pile drove me almost as batty as a belfry bat. I had that photo in my waking and dreaming hours for the whole next week until I got back down there that next Saturday morning and, yep, I dared to check out anothers couple of pages and another couple of beautiful girl-women all nude, their breasts totally expose, nipples and all, sticking them out at me, tempting me, causing me pain between my legs. The Holy Grail for me--those nudie magazines, which when I later cashiered in the store became a constant source of young man sexual relief and also a source of extra-money since I'd steal a couple every now and then and take them to school and sell 'em in the boy's bathroom for a buck a piece.

The first real, actual, right-before-me-eyes woman's breasts I ever saw totally uncovered and used to titilate my youthful lusts was at a central north Texas county fair. I was with four of my best buds tooling around town in one of our showy cars intending from the beginning of avoiding the stupid fair, but then we met this Chevvy load of girls we knew at the Dixie Pig Drive-in and they said they were heading for the fair, so hell, suddenly so were we. We'd get there before them, we hottied in our best duck-tailed coolness.

This night we were tooling around on zoot-cool wheels, my friend the tobacco chewer's customized 49 Mercury, a green metallic beauty, weighted and shocked low to the ground, the body stripped of its chrome, the remaining holes filled, then the whole body sanded smooth as glass then painted metallic green, the paint baked on and then it, too, buffed until it had the just-right nonreflective brilliance (these customizers hated reflections off their car bodies--they wanted you to see their customized work right there in your face, every flawless span of it with no distractions--absolutely entirely photographic if you will--these guys did however use chrome heads on their rebuilt motors and Hollywood glass pack mufflers, though the tobacco chewer had taken the chrome off his glass pack's dual exhausts--Hollywood mufflers had the best damn low-mean sound when you revved your motor up to 300 rpms--those glass packs sung beautiful songs, a duet of harmonious pipes). A true cruisin' automobile.

By the time we got to the fairgrounds, we were definitely in a sportin' mood. On a poon search. Remember, we males have sportin' blood in us--well, some of us, though I admit, I do--I've actually enjoyed a couple of bullfight seasons in Mexico; as a kid, I got thrilled almost to death at an illegal cockfight; I've bet heavy on the nags, too; I've shot craps against alley walls, once in the backroom of a whorehouse (Papagaya's) in Nuevo Laredo, Tamalpias, Mexico; sportin' blood; yep, sports betting, too--you know, with a real bookie of perhaps Palermo heritage. We were four teenage mockers struttin' like rutty Tom cats down the alley of a county fair midway with its seedy, seedy hot dog stands and cotton candy stands and its many games of no-chance and then the filthy, oily rides (the Whip, the Bullet, the Rocket, the Octopus, the Caterpillar, the Wild Mouse), and then--YES, the sideshows. We strutted into the pits of a little Hell we'd discovered. First we passed the freak show. We weren't lookin' for those kind of freaks. Then we stopped a couple'a seconds in front of the African Dip where a big black dude was sitting on a jumpseat above a tank of water. He was hollering some shit at us white folks and the white folks loved it. Yep, those were the days of separate-but-equal Texas--the blacks had their own night they could attend the fair and then they were only allowed into the rides area and then the sideshows but not at the food stands. Silly shit, but it happened. This racist amusement, the African Dip, gave this black dude a chance to vent his hatred of the white man with impunity, unless you call having your jumpseat pop open under you when a white man hit the red-bull's eye trigger at the side of the tank punishment. It looked like a hell of a lot of fun to a fun-loving wide-eyed white boy like me. Then we got more black entertainment at The Cotton Club Review from Harlem. You know, a Slappy White-type comic out front of a string of black babes, some of them a little long in the tooth, dressed in coochie-coochie outfits, showing some tit and showing a lot of ass and promising all the white boys ganged around the platform in front of the big tent perhaps some nakedness if they behaved themselves, blah, blah, blah. The band was good; they were playing a Clifford Brown-Max Roach vehicle called "Blues Walk," that I knew because I had the Brown and Roach LP it came off of.

And then, down just past the Cotton Club Review, back a dog-trot off the main strip itself, a little white sign shaped like an arrow with green letters saying, "This Way to The Green Valley Nudist Colony." The Green Valley Nudist Colony. Now they were talkin'. Wahoooo. That's what the hell we'd were at that tacky fair for.

"You boys 21, right?" the old dude at the opening to the tent in which the Green Valley resided. "Oh, hell yeah, Your Honor," we all chirped. "Well, then come on in boys, except first I gotta check..." Uh-oh. IDs. " see if you got a 50-cent piece, you know, boys, the price of one of these here tickets."

We handed this chisler a half-a-buck a piece and he gave us back a ticket then ushered us through a curtain that had a handpainted view of the actual Green Valley Nudist Colony somewhere out in the hills of California we assumed, a delightful Wateau-like scene complete with barely visable but noticeably naked maidens enjoying life all over that pleasurable Green Valley.

Inside the curtain were two lines of hump-shouldered boys and pot-bellied older guys, all rarin' to go to the object of their desires just behind an unpainted plywood wall separating us from the treasures of feminine wile we'd paid 50 cents to see with two big holes cut into it just big enough for a horny fool to stick his noggin' through.

I got in one line with the duck--we called him that because his mother looked like a duck not him. There were seven guys ahead of us. Then we heard the guy at the front of our line say, "What the fuck! I just gave you another 50 cents, goddammit." Then a couple of geeks from the freak show I guess went and ordered the guy to leave and he left but he was cussing out the world as he left. "Bitch. She won't show it boys for less than 2 dollars."

"Wow, duck, what the hell; I've only got a dollar and a half." "Don't worry; I've got a fistful of halves. She'll show us her snatch, but that's what costs your ass." Holy Christ, my timbers were shivering in anticipation of feminine nakedness as we gradually shuffled forward. It took a long time with some of these guys. One guy had his head in the hole a long time. The rest of us got antsy and started bitching about us not getting our turn. "Hold your horses, boys; there's plenty'a time; these little ladies aren't going anywhere."

Finally my time came. "OK, you two heads in the holes." He was talking to me and the tobacco chewer who was sticking his head in the other hole. In went my head. I looked over and saw the tobacco chewer's head but we didn't anything. We were looking down at a red pallette surrounded by pillows that I saw were trying to invoke a Persian spirit in us. Yep, that's what the Green Valley Nudist Colony was, a Persian fantasy in all kinds of reds. Then the girl came into the little room and sat down on the pillows. She was between our heads and we looked down on her and she was just right beneath us. She wasn't bad. In fact, I found her damn pretty. She was a Beatnik-looking girl wearing a Persian costume, shear pantaloons, and a top like Jeanie wore on the I Dream of Jeanie teevee show--you know, fabulously built Barbara Eden as a genie who lives in a bottle with a US astronaut--hey, I believed it was possible in those years! Then there was music. It sounded like Hawaiian music and this babe looked up at us and batted her eyes and took off her little see-through bolero top. She didn't look anymore naked to me than she did when she had it on.

"Ya wanna see more throw another quarter through the hole." I now know she had a Brooklyn accent.

Wha? We protested. "Either you throw a quarter in here or we'll throw you out." We through in a couple of quarters.

She wiggled around a bit, batted her eyes, and then quickly, like a snake, flashed her tits. It was so fast I thought I saw them but I wasn't for sure. I certainly hadn't seen enough that I was up on a sexual high. It wasn't sexy.

"You want me to take my top off you have to throw in another quarter."

Wha? Again we protested. It was getting serious. I only had one quarter left. I threw it in.

She wiggled around a little more and then, like a flash, she floated a veil up from somewhere and while it fluttered over her breasts she whipped off her top and lay back on the pillows, waving the veil over her naked breasts. Ah come on, we started saying. The tobacco chewer said, "Come on, baby, let us see 'em. Come on."

"Throw in another quarter...." Shit. She had us over a barrel. "Can I borrow a quarter from you?" I asked the tobacco chewer. He threw in fifty cents.

Again she wiggled, moaned a little, and then, in a breathless sort of way, she let the veil creep off her breasts a little at a time and then, came the veil and there they were? Naked titties. Dairies, as my dad called them. Hermans. Bosoms. Boobies. Boobs. And she then jiggled them and they were so beautifully erect and they weren't big but they were perfect to me--they looked just like those naked breasts in the many girly magazines I'd pored over. "Can we touch 'em?" the tobacco chewer asked.

"No." the Brooklyn Persian girl said. "I'll spread eagle for a dollar."

What? What had she said. I didn't know what that meant.

The tobacco chewer quickly threw a solid dollar into the room.

I was broke. I looked at the tobacco chewer. He looked back at me and shrugged his shoulders with his eyes; he was tapped out, too, now. I pulled my head out of the hole and asked a guy if he could loan me a dollar until I found my friends and I'd give it back to him. He told me to go to hell and get the hell out of the way if I was broke and let him look. The nudist colony attendant told me to move it along--no money no fun--plus, when the next guy in line tried to go up to the hole he told him he had to wait until the tobacco chewer got his money's worth. The guy started cussing very viciously at the attendant but then he calmed down. I was told to exit down a little hallway like way and I pushed into a curtain and suddenly found myself in the room with the Brooklyn Persian girl. She was taking down her pantaloons. "What the hell are you doing in here, get the hell out of here, Randy, get this asshole out of here." The attendant jerked my ass out of the room and said, "That way, you little bastard" and pointed me toward the real exit.

The tobacco chewer had been the only one of us to see her spread-eagle. He talked about it gushingly all the way back to town. I couldn't believe I missed that. Simply because I hadn't had a dollar. But, I'd seen naked breasts. Live. Jiggling right before me eyes. They danced in my memory like the Sugar Plum Fairies in Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite.

Later, after I was fully mature, I was 26, I lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in an artist's studio. The artist was a Santa Fe legend who had come to Santa Fe from Philadelphia in the 20s after studying with Robert Henri at the Pennsylvania Academy of Art. This guy was also a best friend of the artist John Marin and in this studio I found a whole shelf full of books on Marin and then I found a folder full of letters from Marin to this artist. The letters were marvelous reading. All about Marin's techniques, how he painted, sketches of his studio at the Chelsea Hotel in NYC; sketches of Santa Fe, too; then a whole binder full of sketches of women's bust with emphasis on drawing their breasts. In one note by a beautifully drawn pair of perfect breasts Marin wrote, "You do not draw a woman's breasts with the nipples pointing straight out at you; one breast points one way, sort of at a diagonal slant out from her body while the other breast points slightly more toward you but still at a slight angle outward. One nipple points one way the other nipple the other way. Also, on most women, one breast is slightly larger and rounder than the other." I never knew that, even after looking lovingly long at my wife's wonderful breasts so many times. After that, it became so obvious to me. So that a woman can suckle two kids at once, I assume.

At that time in Santa Fe, I was still with my gorgeously endowed ex-wife. She said she had had 40Ds since she was eleven--and what breasts she had; they were so perfectly developed as an integral part of her fecund body; they were full and healthy, heavily light, and lushly warm and nourishing, with rose-budding nipples, and I lavished between them on many a night of love; and I made mad kissing love to them at every opportunity I could take for ten years I was with her. You couldn't look at this beautiful woman without bringing into her beauty her breasts; they were so evident and though she had been ashamed of them as a kid, I made her feel proud of them as a woman and she allowed them to be admired, so fittingly a part of her lush and totally seducing symmetry.

I only recently found out my ex-wife had passed away 2 years ago. And again, only recently, I contacted one of her nephews to verify the fact she had died. Yes she had died, he said. And what did she die of, I asked. Breast cancer he replied. I cried after we finished to call. I didn't cry for her breasts, no, I cried for her. Even after those beautiful breasts were surgically removed, the cancer kept on biting into her beauty, chewing her up; even after horrible radiation tried to kill it, it rebelled, stood on its hind legs and continued chewing into her. She opted to discontinue radiation, it was too painful for her; she said she'd rather be dead, so she was hospiced in the adobe house out in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristos she had built with her own hands and with her friends and family around her, she died. They cremated her and bought a young Aspen tree and put her ashes in the hole and then planted the tree in the hole. If you've never heard the wind playing the harpstrings of an Aspen tree's leaves then you don't know how serene a sound it is; how peaceful and contented it leaves you feeling. I remember a contentment I had many an evening nestled against that good woman's breasts, feeling the warmth of her sweet-pumping heart rocking me into the arms of her Morpheus calm.

I hear her harp a playin' as I now swing back in time; in that wind I hear her singin' that soft song she's left behind.


for The Daily Growler

1 comment:

Don Anthony said...

Enjoyed! Yes I am in your shoes but still here in Dallas.

You must remember these two songs from the Cotton Club then: