Chapter 11

Well, there are so many experiences we can have. And yet we are searching, always searching. I traveled the country again after that, hitting the road and going from coast to coast, up and down the land, seeking and searching, getting my kicks whenever I felt like doing it. And yet I still wasn't satisfied. I still wanted something else. Let me tell you how I almost found it.

Her name was Janice and she was one of the most striking girls I've ever seen in my life. Everything about her was beautiful, and yet not terrifyingly so. She was beautiful, but you weren't frightened away by her beauty or put on your guard or angry because she was so damned beautiful. Rather she seemed pleasant in her beauty; it was that kind of beauty which attracts, never repels, intrigues, draws you closer and closer. It was the kind of beauty you even think you might want to come home to at night. Do you know the kind of beauty I mean?

Her hair was neither red nor blonde nor brown, but rather a lovely mixture of all three. It was neither short nor long, but perfect it seemed in length. It was neither elaborately coiffured nor merely done in a flip, but rather strangely lustrous and textured and done with a simple elegance which you might never seem to master or fathom.

And so it was with everything about her. For instance, her breasts were neither grotesque objects of weird excitement nor miniature spheres unworthy of mention. They were just right in that way that a girl's breasts have of being just right when you really care about her.

Oh-oh, did I make a slip? I said, "really care." Do I sound like a person who doesn't care about women? Have I accidentally, or on purpose, conveyed that impression to you? If so, it might be the right impression-until you come to talk about Janice. Then you've got to stop, because everything else goes out the window.

You see, I really cared for her. Don't ask me why. There are things in our lives over which we have no control. We go through a lifetime seeing the sham and fraud and superficiality all around us, and then a day comes when, suddenly, we see nothing but radiant beauty. We see innocence and beguilement and an absolutely irresistible substance which makes it impossible for us to go on in our cynical or callous or gravely realistic ways.

Such an instance in my life was my meeting with Janice.

Oh, it wasn't anything special. That is, I certainly didn't plan it. I just happened to see her, and of all places, on a beach. It was summer, and the girls were out in their bikinis, and I suppose I even was at the beach for the purpose of gathering a few of them for a bit of despoilation. That may have been in the back of my mind.

Then I saw Janice. She crossed my path enroute from a hamburger stand across a strip of sidewalk at the back of the beach near where I was parked and was eyeing the lush fragrant offerings the beach world can provide in its season. She wore a blue bikini, and I suppose its color attracted me before I realized I was staring at a girl who for some reason unknown to me, really attracted my attention in a manner never before encountered.

I liked everything I saw about her. I saw those lovely tits barely banded in that cloth which a bikini's cut makes most revealing as it accents the swell of a girl's breasts. And I liked the flush smooth flesh of her bare hips and which the bottom accents as well. I liked the range of her flanks where the cut of the bottom also reveals more flesh. And with it, I was attracted to her pert proud thighs as they came at me and then passed so that I saw their pleasant forward thrust in its full fleshliness as well as the rear view with its uptight pressuring thrust seen from behind.

And she smiled to me as she passed, smiled somewhat shyly and yet perhaps amusedly at the stare I gave her. She was already past before I realized that I had been frozen by her beauty, or whatever it was that attracted me to her, and that I hadn't even been able to respond to that lovely smile. And I watched her until she passed from view beyond a rise of the beach and down somewhere nearer the surf.

As a matter of reflex, I suppose, I left my car and went after her. Why did I pursue her? How do I know? We go through a lifetime on a track, building something within us that forces out the world, that drives us forward, unendingly forward, and then one day we happen upon a breach in our very armor and we see the world in a fragrant strange new light which leaves us bereft of protective covering and makes us prey to the elements that hound all men. Such a thing can happen to anybody.

I went over the rise in that beach and searched the environs until I located her. She was beside a child, a little boy of about two, and she was feeding him one of the hot-dogs she had carried from that refreshment stand. He was eating it, munching it as a little boy of his age would do. He was so very intent on the hot-dog.

And she was beautiful. Her entire interest was absorbed in feeding that little boy. She knelt before him and gave him the hot-dog to bite and wiped his mouth free of mustard with a napkin, and had eyes only for him. I felt certain she was his mother. And I was surprised to realize how young she appeared, surely not more than nineteen; and I was intrigued to go forward, to speak with her, to make her acquaintance.

Crazy? Probably. But who can know what are our destinies? I only knew that I wanted to know her. To hell with the consequences. To hell with everything except to know that girl.

Crazy, yes. Assuredly insane; for what cunt, regardless of her motherhood is worth a damn? Every cunt in order to become a mother had to fuck somebody somewhere. And the very act of her fucking pronounced her own weakness of the flesh, her own need for cock, her own inability to refuse a prick. So why be taken by a mother feeding her little child?

Yet I went to her. I sat on the beach near her, studied her lovely body, and watched her continue that feeding. The little boy was the first one to notice me. Somehow he became distracted from his exciting feast and saw me. His eyes fastened on me. He was a blonde little fellow, tan and chubby, and he suddenly grinned at me with a mouthful of hot-dog and mustard and relish. I grinned back, intrigued by his innocence, and his mother turned to see what fascinated her young son.

For a second, the look of recognition passed her lovely dark eyes as she knew exactly who I was. Then there was too that second in which those orbs swept the hill of sand in their gaze as if to see beyond that hill to the vehicle I had left and thus to confirm the fact she knew to be true: that I had followed her to that place on the beach. And I answered that sweeping gaze, saying, "I couldn't resist. I hope you'll forgive me."

"For what?" She seemed genuinely curious, and her voice was so perfect, so free from inhibitions as well as deceptions. When you meet an open person, it is such a wonderful thing.

"That I followed you," I said, and actually heard myself sounding as candid as did she. No; not as candid. I never could be as candid. My life has been a history of deceit, deception, and destruction. But I know I certainly, and quite reflexively, tried to be as open and free of contrivances as was she.

She didn't answer me when I said that. She only smiled. It was not a lavish smile. It was not intended to beguile, and yet it did beguile. Hence it was truly a lavish smile. You see, the most lavish smiles are the true smiles. In a world of violence, viciousness, and vindictive assertion, the true smile is indeed lavish; and it always beguiles.

Then she went back to feeding her son. I immediately decided to confirm my assumption that he was her son. It also was an opportunity to further our conversation. I asked her if he was her child, and when she said he was, I told her she didn't seem old enough to have a son. It was flattery, I'm sure, and yet I meant it too. But her answer was so strangely beautiful that it destroyed everything I could have intended in flattery and denied my intention of sincerity as well with a beautiful truth.

And all she said, simply was, "A girl of eleven can have a son."

"How old are you?" I asked quickly, knowing her infinite wisdom in such a small remark. And I pressed the question also to cover the strangest feeling I ever had known; a feeling of insecurity, I'm sure; a feeling that I was inadequate for the first time in such a relationship.

"Nineteen." She looked at me just long enough to indicate her desire to tell me that fact; but then concentrated anew on the feeding of her son. He was almost done with his little feast.

"What's his name?"

"Randy."

"I'm Ace."

"Hello, Ace." She looked at me again in that wonderful way, and smiled gently. "I'm Janice."

"Hello, Janice." I couldn't help repeating her own greeting. What is it about another person whom we admire that causes us to imitate him or her in some small way; causes us almost against our will; carries us on the flight of an impression.

So we began a relationship. We spoke of Randy and of his love for hot-dogs. We spoke of his age; he was two years and three months. We spoke of trivialities and the sea, the sand, and everything inconsequential in the world, it seemed. And I had no intention whatsoever about anything. Crazy? Perhaps.

A month went by, and I finally went to bed with her. You may think me insane, but it was that long; I hadn't even kissed her during our first three weeks together despite the fact I was in her apartment already on the third afternoon of our acquaintanceship.

Then came the day when sexual pressure mounted within me, and I was unable to withstand the temptation any longer. Oh yes, I admit it had been a temptation, and I admit that I had viewed it as a temptation and therefore had fought a rather losing battle to withhold myself from its lure.

But a man is a man, and so forth. And I craved her body enough to go after it when I could no longer withstand its attraction. It was in the afternoon when it happened, and I want to describe it for you.

We had been to the beach as was our custom on various days of the week. I wore swim-trunks and she wore her bikini. We put the baby to bed for a nap upon our return. On such previous occasions, we had gone to the kitchen for cold pop and had sat opposite each other, talking about all things and none. That particular afternoon, however, it was different.

Instead of drinking the pop in the kitchen, we went to the living room and sat together on the sofa. I could have sat elsewhere, but I didn't. I chose to sit beside her, very close, and our bodies touched along our flanks. It wasn't long before I playfully set my cold bottle to her warm thigh. She shivered and laughed, though uncertainly, and crossed her legs as she moved the bottle away.

I placed my hand on her thigh next, and she removed my hand. "No, Ace, please don't," she said, and gazed to me strangely. There was an uncertainty in her eyes, and her smile was weak. I could see she was nervous, and something in me told me to stop. I wanted to stop because I knew the consequences that would follow my not stopping. In other words, I was sure I could make her.

What girl can't be made? I've said that often enough. Every girl wants to be made. There is no girl anywhere in the world who doesn't really, at least secretly in her innermost heart, want to be laid. It is just the rule of the world.

So I knew I could make Janice. I always had known I could make her. But something had always kept me from making her, and now that "something" was stopping; that "something" slowly was receding from me, as a wave leaves the shore, leaving me naked to my passion.

And I moved in on her. I went after her forcefully. I wrestled with her and brought her to me despite her protests and her attempts to be free of my embraces. And I forced my lips upon hers and locked our mouths in a solid hold and drove my torrid tongue between her yielding lips. And hated what I did even while I hated her for yielding and then hated myself again for making her yield.

Yet I moved in on her. And soon I had her bikini top unsnapped and thrust upward, and I was nibbling at her titties. At first she fought me off, or tried to fight me off; but then the weakness that is part of a woman came to the fore. And her last pleas that I not touch her became blended with her first sighs and moans. And soon she was caressing my hair as a mother might stroke her baby's locks when it sucks upon her nipples. She ran her hands lovingly through my hair and squirmed beneath my adept licking.

From there on, it was simple. Though she protested again as I slipped away her bikini bottom, she didn't really protest much at all. And she even lifted her haunches accommodatingly when, purposefully, I pretended to be having difficulty removing her drawers. I slipped them off then without any trouble and knew she was just another fuck.

But such a beautiful fuck she was. There was something really lovely about her body. Her curves allured me, and I loved every fleshly inch of that wonderful creature. I loved everything about her, and I simply had to fall between her legs when I had slipped away her bikini bottom, and had to nuzzle her bush. It was a beautiful thing, brown and gold and red, just like the rest of her hair. And I dipped my tongue to its furry loveliness even while she begged me not to eat her.

Oh, it was a phony beg; that is, she meant it, but didn't mean it at all. She didn't want to be eaten, but yet she did want to be eaten. She was confused in that way every woman always is confused; and in the end, sex won out.

I plied my tongue to her slit. Her juices already were flowing. I parted her cunt lips, wielding my tongue like a spear, and went against the lining of her twat. And I licked her walls left and right, and lifted her legs over my shoulders as I dug deeply with my tongue to her hot orifice. She locked her ankles around my neck and stretched her hands to caress my hair, and she threw her head back against the top of the sofa and let out a low and pleased moan. Soon she was humping my mouth with her hot vault.