the buttons on his shirt. Sitting up, I reached for the
hem of my Arab-type robe and pulled it over my head, I was still wearing my green tights, I leaned over him, letting my tits
graze his chest. Then I started sucking his nipples.
Nipples, in my humble opinion, are the most neglected part of a man’s body, dudes tend to melt with gratitude when you pay
the slightest attention to them. After a while L. Falk’s became erect, which I took as an auspicious, even positive, sign.
I began to escalate. I undid his belt buckle and the top button of his trousers and slowly unzipped the zipper on his fly
and snaked my hand down along his belly, which was surprisingly smooth, I had expected steel wool—to discover this soft, wilted
Willie of a cock cringing in a tangle of underbrush.
My
Homo chaoticus
had a long way to go to become a
Homo erectus
.
L. Falk became very agitated, clutching his trousers, tugging at the zipper. “Oy … I said you I was a run-down battery.”
I stretched out alongside him, one thigh draped over him, I kept my hand on his cock, nothing aggressive, just holding on
to it the way you hang on to a strap in a subway, and I started whispering in his ear. “I don’t know how things are in Russia,”
I remember saying something like this, “but you have an awful lot to learn about we Americans. There’s nothing that turns
a girl on more than a dude who has trouble performing. We get fed up with all those hard-ons men get at the drop of a hat.
Some stud asks you to dance and, whoops, he’s got to advertise his goddamn erection by pushing it into you. What we really
like, what welust after, is a dude whose sexuality is more subtle. You’ll get it up, L. Falk, and when you do it’ll be me who did it, it’ll
be me who gets the credit.”
The funny part was I had never thought these thoughts before, but when I heard myself say them, I knew I believed them. L.
Falk must have believed I believed them too, because I could feel his body, which had been to say the least strung like a
bow, relax under mine, I could feel his cock begin to stiffen in the palm of my hand.
Weird how the body can grow soft while part of it grows hard.
I won’t bore you with dirty details, I’ll only give you highlights. At one point, when we were kissing, I came up for air
long enough to tell L. Falk, “Hey, I like your music.”
Thinking I was talking about the Rebbe’s LP, he said breathlessly, “Schubert … it is his quintet … in C major.”
“C major, wow! Rock ‘n’ roll. Like what can you do that I haven’t done before?”
In the other room the phonograph needle began scratching around in the end grooves. “I can put the record on again,” he said.
If I am ever nominated for sainthood, don’t smile, the idea may not be as far out as you think, if I’m nominated, for sainthood,
right? it will go on the credit side of my ledger that I went to Mass every single Sunday I was in Italy and I was impatient
with my
Homo chaoticus
, L. Falk, only once that night. “I don’t want to hear What’s-His-Face’s C major,” I coolly informed him. “I want to hear
your
C major.”
It must have been about then he rolled over on top of me and began paying attention to my boobs, which is when he spotted
the tattoo, which is located in a field of freckles under my right tit. I got the tattoo on sale in Atlantic City in a moment
of madness. L. Falk must have been a butterfly in a previous incarnation, because the tattoo made a big impression on him.
He reached for the lamp on the floor and held it up to get a better look.
“A Siberian night moth!” he cried, touching it with his fingertips.
“It’s a goddamn butterfly,” I corrected him, but I don’t think he heard me.
“Imagine coming across a Siberian night moth in Backwater, America,” he whispered in surprise. Then he said some strange things
I didn’t really understand, things about how turbulence is created
hem of my Arab-type robe and pulled it over my head, I was still wearing my green tights, I leaned over him, letting my tits
graze his chest. Then I started sucking his nipples.
Nipples, in my humble opinion, are the most neglected part of a man’s body, dudes tend to melt with gratitude when you pay
the slightest attention to them. After a while L. Falk’s became erect, which I took as an auspicious, even positive, sign.
I began to escalate. I undid his belt buckle and the top button of his trousers and slowly unzipped the zipper on his fly
and snaked my hand down along his belly, which was surprisingly smooth, I had expected steel wool—to discover this soft, wilted
Willie of a cock cringing in a tangle of underbrush.
My
Homo chaoticus
had a long way to go to become a
Homo erectus
.
L. Falk became very agitated, clutching his trousers, tugging at the zipper. “Oy … I said you I was a run-down battery.”
I stretched out alongside him, one thigh draped over him, I kept my hand on his cock, nothing aggressive, just holding on
to it the way you hang on to a strap in a subway, and I started whispering in his ear. “I don’t know how things are in Russia,”
I remember saying something like this, “but you have an awful lot to learn about we Americans. There’s nothing that turns
a girl on more than a dude who has trouble performing. We get fed up with all those hard-ons men get at the drop of a hat.
Some stud asks you to dance and, whoops, he’s got to advertise his goddamn erection by pushing it into you. What we really
like, what welust after, is a dude whose sexuality is more subtle. You’ll get it up, L. Falk, and when you do it’ll be me who did it, it’ll
be me who gets the credit.”
The funny part was I had never thought these thoughts before, but when I heard myself say them, I knew I believed them. L.
Falk must have believed I believed them too, because I could feel his body, which had been to say the least strung like a
bow, relax under mine, I could feel his cock begin to stiffen in the palm of my hand.
Weird how the body can grow soft while part of it grows hard.
I won’t bore you with dirty details, I’ll only give you highlights. At one point, when we were kissing, I came up for air
long enough to tell L. Falk, “Hey, I like your music.”
Thinking I was talking about the Rebbe’s LP, he said breathlessly, “Schubert … it is his quintet … in C major.”
“C major, wow! Rock ‘n’ roll. Like what can you do that I haven’t done before?”
In the other room the phonograph needle began scratching around in the end grooves. “I can put the record on again,” he said.
If I am ever nominated for sainthood, don’t smile, the idea may not be as far out as you think, if I’m nominated, for sainthood,
right? it will go on the credit side of my ledger that I went to Mass every single Sunday I was in Italy and I was impatient
with my
Homo chaoticus
, L. Falk, only once that night. “I don’t want to hear What’s-His-Face’s C major,” I coolly informed him. “I want to hear
your
C major.”
It must have been about then he rolled over on top of me and began paying attention to my boobs, which is when he spotted
the tattoo, which is located in a field of freckles under my right tit. I got the tattoo on sale in Atlantic City in a moment
of madness. L. Falk must have been a butterfly in a previous incarnation, because the tattoo made a big impression on him.
He reached for the lamp on the floor and held it up to get a better look.
“A Siberian night moth!” he cried, touching it with his fingertips.
“It’s a goddamn butterfly,” I corrected him, but I don’t think he heard me.
“Imagine coming across a Siberian night moth in Backwater, America,” he whispered in surprise. Then he said some strange things
I didn’t really understand, things about how turbulence is created
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