The Belle of Syosset
When you are older than dirt, it takes a bit more than usual to raise your hackles. Having survived any number of threatened apocalypses, from Bird Flu to the totally fraudulent Y2K nonsense, to the end of the Mayan calendar, I take most everything I see or hear with a grain of salt. This e-mail subject line, however, totally floored me.
“Do the names Joanne Wilson and Syosset ring a bell for you?”
Do they ever! A well-remembered scene sprung fully to the forefront of my imagination. The luscious, Jezebel-like, tawny body of a young Joanne Wilson straining against all of her muscles to ride out the effects of the powerful orgasm my tongue had given her is still as vivid in my memory as it ever was and it happened nearly fifty years ago.
Joanne was the secretary to the president of the small company in LongIsland with which I was working. (The residents don’t voice a space between Long and Island, so why should I spell it?) She brightened what was otherwise a curious mixture of incompetence and corporate intrigue in describing my present situation.
I worked for a high tech defense electronics contractor in Florida. Our company had recently merged with a conglomerate that included Joanne’s company in their portfolio. Through some personal contacts, this small company had obtained a massive contract from the Navy for a system that they were totally unequipped to follow through on.
They were so ill-equipped to perform the required work that they did not even understand what would be required of them. Their comprehension was limited to counting the zeroes in the amount of the award. I was directed to take a team of six experienced design engineers to LongIsland for the summer, to create the technical specifications for the development of the various subsystems that would support the system requirements.
We were all completely unprepared for the LongIsland culture. We expected to be able to rent houses or apartments at a reasonable price, then learned that millions of Manhattan residents flock to LongIsland for much of the summer. The father continues working in the city and sends the family to LongIsland, visiting them on weekends. They commonly rent a house from a resident, who then goes to the Catskills. To put the prices in perspective, a summer rental there cost approximately the same as a new Volvo. This hardly fit our expense budgets.
To help us locate suitable accommodations, the president of the company assigned his personal secretary, Joanne Wilson, to help us, full time for a week. Not only was this lovely person hot, hot, hot, but she was sharp as a tack and had lived her entire life in the area. Using all her knowledge, skills and contacts, she managed to locate five prospective rentals, in the course of the week.
One of them was a huge edifice located in Oyster Bay. It would have housed at least four families, but we could not get any of our wives to agree to sharing a house. Another was a tiny house in Levittown. Levittown was famous as the first mass produced suburb in America. The name was synonymous with cheap and small. This one had been divided into a duplex! Two very tiny apartments had been created from one small house. The asking price was roughly three times our mortgage payments at home. The owner was a woman who said she was a cocktail waitress at a local club who had received title to the house in a divorce. As she extolled the features(!) of the micro-mansion, she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs, very, very slowly so that any one of us who cared to could have a good look.
All six of us were married and it is possible that any one of us might have done her if sufficiently inebriated, but no one was stupid enough to act on it in front of everybody. When she felt that we weren’t fully understanding her message, she upped the ante. She insisted that she be guaranteed an invitation to any parties we threw while living there. As a final incentive, she gestured toward the plaster donkey above the fireplace and reminded us, over and over, that “The ass goes with the house”, while uncrossing her legs again.
We couldn’t get out of there quickly enough. Meanwhile, we left our families in Florida and stayed in motels. We were allowed to go home for the weekend every three weeks if we could not find a suitable lodging.
I managed to find one way out near Port Jefferson, at Poquott. It was a sprawling old house that sat right on the bay and was usually rented to students during the school sessions. The rent was $175/mo for June and July and $3000 for August. Did I mention the Manhattan summer exodus?
It was quite a commute from Syosset to Poquott, but enjoyable on the way home. In the mornings, the expressway was simply a flexible parking lot. Coming home was much faster than going to work.
However, getting back to my e-mail, the memories of Joanne kept flooding in. I remembered being asked by her once to move her typewriter to another desk. After it was moved, she inserted a sheet of paper to test that all was well and her fingers made a sound that sort of sounded like a burp. Brrrrrp! When I looked at the paper, she had typed, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.”
Seriously. That is what she had typed in what seemed like an instant to me. I asked how many words per minute she could type and she claimed 250 wpm. Now, I took typing in high school and could type maybe 60 wpm, but she was much faster than four times my speed. I was impressed. This girl had beauty, brains, intelligence, personality and enough sex appeal for a dozen Hollywood starlets. I truly admired her and found her to be eminently fuckable. However, my position as leader of the group, operating in the confines of a sister company’s facility, combined with her position as personal secretary to the president of the company made me hold back.
After a few weeks, our group had been pretty well accepted by the employees of our sister company and even though we were all married, we were finding that there were several of the girls who enjoyed an evening out, especially as a group, which prevented too much gossip.
When we had a few drinks, some of the girls danced with each other, since we guys were still trying not to get involved, at least publicly. When Joanne danced, it was like watching a movie of a Voodoo priestess performing a dance to rejuvenate a zombie. Damn! It was hard to concentrate on anything else when she danced. The whole room sort of stood around and ogled.
Her coloration suggested that there might be some Voodoo heritage somewhere back up the family tree, but she swore that there wasn’t. I had my doubts, but it was a story that her mother stuck by and I never met her father.
As time went on and my family was still in Florida, Joanne and I grew closer and closer. Thought of candles and moths came to mind. We both knew what we were feeling, but she was a good Catholic girl and I was married. Nothing could possibly come of our attraction, could it?
Living in LongIsland was a hoot. So many things were different from the culture in which I had been raised. One of my favorite comedians was Buddy Hackett. I thought he was a hoot. The news was full of his coming appearance at the local venue, so I made sure to get a ticket. It was one of the most disappointing experiences of my life. Apparently, his local supporters thought scatological jokes were the pinnacle of humor. I’m far from prudish and would fight for his right to repeat the word, “shit”, all night long, but failed to find it funny and left after a few minutes, sorely disappointed and feeling as if I had been robbed.
I was living in the Howard Johnson motel, which had a situation I never encountered before or since, in any hotel. Ordinarily, the telephone extensions in hotels have the same number as the room. When this system had been installed, it had not been a requirement, I guess. When calling another guest, I could call the front desk to learn what number to dial for room number xxx. This was not a condition I would expect to remain in effect anywhere else, but it seemed to be ok with the management.
Another act that came to the local venue was Diana Ross. I was still smarting from my disappointment with Buddy Hackett and chose to pass on this opportunity. However, there was considerable evidence that Diana, herself, was my next door neighbor. The flimsy connecting door seemed in danger of splintering from the screams of anguish nearly every night. “Oh, God! Deeper! Harder! Give it to me! I’m cumming, I’m cumming!” and such like filled the air.
Bear in mind now that I do not know for certain it mas Ms. Ross next door, but she did stay in the same motel. Also, whatever exact words my neighbor uttered are lost in the mists of time. That was nearly fifty years ago.
Now, where was I? Oh, yes. How should I answer this e-mail? Was there any reason to deny my contacts with Joanne? My memories of her were very warm and positive, although she never said goodbye when she left.
One night, after a particularly erotic dance by the lovely Joanne, I invited her to sit with me in my car before we went to our respective homes. I complimented her on her dancing and told her how attractive I found her. We had a nice, open chat about things. She was as aware as I of the reasons not to allow our emotions to control our actions and I learned that she was still a virgin, which really surprised me. How could someone who exuded sexuality to such an immense degree be a virgin?
Before we ended our talk, I told her once more how much I admired her on every level and wished her well on holding out for Mr. Right and marriage. “However”, I told her, and it must have been the right thing, “it just seems to be a terrible waste for you not to be able to do anything with all that sex appeal.”
The next time we were able to speak privately, a few days later, she shocked me by agreeing with me. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
“And?”, I asked, wondering where this was going.
“And I think you are right”, she murmured quietly, embarrassed by her admission.
“Does that mean that you have decided to do something with me?” I was afraid to hope. My admiration from a distance had never been based on hope. It was only a fantasy that could never be expected to happen.”
“Yes. I want you to show me what love is all about.”
“It hurts me to point this out, but you have considered that this is a bridge that cannot be uncrossed, haven’t you?”
“Of course. That is why I am still on this side. My body has been burning to be free to love since I grew these.”
“And a fine growth you have there, too”, I replied as I smothered my face in her cleavage.
“Stop, stop!”, she gasped. “Not here, not now!”
“Sorry, I couldn’t take that sort of news without doing something. Why don’t we give it another week and if you still feel the same way, you can come to my room. I will do my best to make it a memorable experience for you.”
“I don’t need a week to think about it, but I agree that we should at least do that much to prevent this thing from getting completely out of hand.”
“You do remember my telling you that I am trapped in a loveless marriage and have no hope of being free, don’t you?”
“I remember your telling me that she threatened to kill the kids if you left her. Did she actually say she would do that?”
“Absolutely. Perhaps when they are old enough to fight back I will call her on it, but for now, I must assume that she is deadly serious. Everything else about her supports that assumption.”
“Ok, but give me just one kiss to hold onto, till next week”, she said, longingly.
The kiss we shared brought us both closer to the flame than we had ever been before. When we broke it off, I was actually light-headed.
I went home to Florida that weekend and did my best to be a good father. If it had not been for the kids, I would have left that woman many years ago, but I knew her to be capable of hate, stronger than in any other person I had ever encountered. When she told me she would cut the throats of my boys if I left her, I did not doubt it for one minute. I was not proud of myself for some of my actions, but was unwilling to take complete blame.
Back in the present, I still had not replied to the e-mail. After receiving it, the potential reasons for the contact had been running through my mind and always came back to the same conclusion. It must be that Joanne had become pregnant from our brief interlude and had not told me. Now, someone, perhaps Joanne, herself, was looking for me.
When she had come to my room that night, she was understandably nervous. “How do you want to do this”?
“Let’s just get comfortable. If any of your clothes become uncomfortable, you may remove them, but there is no need to rush into anything. I will take off my shirt and pants and get on the bed. You seemed to enjoy the kiss we shared and I know that I did, so why don’t we try that again?”
She seemed to relax a bit by the fact that I wasn’t immediately jumping her bones and shrugged out of her sweater and skirt, joining me on the bed in bra and panties. I knew that bra was going soon, but I could wait a bit.
I began softly making love to her face with tiny kisses on her eyelids, nose, ears and neck. She slowly relaxed and moved her mouth around to capture mine so we could repeat the kiss of the century from the previous week.
To my great relief and pleasure, she soon began reaching around to find the clasp on the industrial strength bra that was required to keep her jiggly bits unjiggly.
Without removing my lips from hers, I felt for the tit on my side and thought I had found her shoulder. Sort of the reverse of my first female grope. The reason I thought it was her shoulder was because it was hard as a rock. There was no reason why this woman wore a bra, other than to minimize her profile and satisfy the priest and her mother.
I had to stop and look. “Oh, shit!”, was the best I could manage.
“What’s the matter? Is there something wrong with them?” She was visibly worried.
“Are you kidding? These are without a doubt the most perfect set of breasts ever placed on a woman’s chest. If I were an artist and tried to paint the highest degree of perfection, I would want to use you for a model. It is a crime against humanity that you are required to cover them. Images I have seen of Ishtar, the Earth Mother, look exactly like you, except those images are always shown topless, which is exactly how you should be allowed to be.
“You don’t need to flatter me. I’m already yours as far as you will have me.”
“That is not flattery, but the honest truth of the matter. Now let me suckle these wonderful mounds while my fingers do a little walking.”
I guess she had never been fingered or had her tits sucked because she went completely bonkers. If I thought she was wild when dancing, she had been comparatively sedate compared with the tigress I now held in my arms.
“I take it, you like this?”
She was unable to respond immediately, but held up a finger for time, so I marked time by continuing my fish bites on her lips, neck, breasts, eyelids and mouth while continuing to spread the copious fluids that were gushing from her lower region.
“Excuse me for a moment”, I asked as I ran to the bathroom for some heavy towels to put under us. I don’t know why I had not thought to start with some, given her virginal status.
After getting her situated, I began kissing my way down her breathtakingly firm body. I don’t know what she did to stay in shape, other than dancing, but there was no fat anywhere on her body, including her tits. What had I gotten myself into? It was going to be very difficult to go back to mashed potatoes after this.
“What are you doing?”, she gasped. “Isn’t that nasty?”
“No, I gargled while I was getting the towels, so my tongue should be very clean.”
“Asshole. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do, and can’t imagine anything I would rather do at this moment than to kiss you over every inch of your body. There will be something else I want to do more a bit later, but that is a bit later.” I expanded my fish kisses to areas she had never expected fish to visit.
Soon, she was ramping between being as flexible as a Dali watch and as rigid as the matter to which I planned to introduce her a bit later. She hardly knew what sounds she was making and none of them made words that I knew. Perhaps they were words in the language of whoever had contributed the dusky skin color to her family tree, but who knows?
“Put it in me, Baby. Please put it in. My body is screaming for you to put it ALL THE WAY IN and DO IT NOW!”
“Not until the way has been properly prepared.”
“What do you mean by ‘prepared’? Can’t you see that I am dying to know the feeling of your maleness inside my femaleness?”
“Yes, I see that, but there is still one more step along the proper pathway to paradise.” I probed for her hymen, but failed to find a real obstruction. I was convinced that this woman had not lied to me, so there was a good reason why she had no impediment to our consummation and no good reason for me to question her about it. The absence merely made it easier to do what we came here to do.
I found the rough spot that I had read about and began lightly massaging it. Her body became a bow, a drawn bow. A very tightly drawn bow. I was about to help her release the arrow,
As she began drawing a tremendous breath to scream her passion to the world, I covered her mouth with mine and rolled on top. Her lungs drew back for another intake although they were already filled the unspent volume she had previously prepared, as my entry began.
The entire length of time it took me to slide all the way in through the hot, velvet confines, she continued trying to take in more air.
Just as I completed my journey of love, she collapsed, the withheld breath flowing from her loose lips without disturbance to her vocal cords. She was no longer a virgin, but she was completely unconscious of her new status, as well as to the rest of the world.
Her new life as an ex-virgin would begin when she rejoined the world of the awake and alert.
This was the moment that stuck in my mind whenever I thought of Joanne. I had idly wondered some time ago whether she might have been carrying my child when she left so suddenly, but had no way to prove or disprove the reality. Could the mysterious e-mail be connected with that question?