Chapter 2

Like the minister before him, the alderman provided shelter and food for my mother and me. In return she gave him conversation and sex. The conversations became less and less and the sex went from bad to worse. He treated her as his whore. Even sexually the minister and the alderman were opposites. Causing my mother to orgasm excited the minister and gave his own greater intensity. When she wanted to give back, to suckle on his penis until his semen filled her mouth, he had to be sure she wanted it. With the alderman, he insisted she suck him. After he spent, he occupied the time giving my mother cunnilingus until his penis became large. It readied her for his size. Even then his enjoyment ruled over hers. He liked the taste. Guiding the minister with her moans mapped out what gave her pleasure. The alderman seemed to ignore her clues, moving to another area despite her moans as if bored. When he fucked her, he repeated the same progression: fast and hard, missionary for awhile and then doggy style. The length of the fuck with the cunnilingus preceding it gave her orgasms, but they felt superficial, disconnected, purely physical. She missed the spiritual orgasms, orgasms borne not only from friction but from love, from communication, from appreciation which made her faint, recovering consciousness with the minister kissing her ecstatically. The alderman treated her like business, like a hired vagina to make him ejaculate. Despite the truth, she resented it. The minister had taught her how joyous sex could be, and if the alderman let her, she could teach him. He wouldn't. She tried.

After a couple of months, he finally brought her to a sex party. She had been working on him, complaining that the minister never let her be with him outside the apartment. She wanted to meet new people. She wanted to socialize. The minister held her back. Though true, my mother understood why. The alderman's sensualist nature created the opportunity she craved.

She encouraged him to take her to a sex party for two reasons: his interest in her wouldn't last; and she didn't like him. Careful not to badger, she made it seem like his idea. Bringing up past parties while fucking intensified his pleasure, encouraging his desire to share them with her. She asked for money for clothes. He refused. He would provide her costume the evening of the party. Afraid of what he might clothe her in, she used a friend to help.

The fashion photographer was as queer as a two dollar bill, but liked her looks. When he spotted her rolling me down Madison Avenue, he propositioned her. Sensibly wary of strange men and warned about them by women at the home she avoided attempts at seduction on the street despite some of them making her squeeze her thighs together imagining them naked and fucking. Handsome and elegant despite his balding pate, the slight madness in his eyes furthered wariness. She learned to appreciate and seek that touch of madness in artists. After listening to his proposition, she laughed, mocking the age of the line. He laughed back and told her she lacked the proper equipment. A man of extraordinary beauty emerged from a boutique and amazed her by kissing the photographer. More of a peck on the lips, but she never saw anything like it. Feeling safe and excited, she followed the men to Park Avenue to the photographer's home and studio. Two metal racks with wheels stuffed tight with clothing and accessories, from the most minimal of swim suits and lingerie to the most opulent of gowns rested in the middle of the studio tempting her to try them all on. Unfortunately he wanted her nude. He posed her with his boyfriend, as beautiful and cold as marble. At first she moved as stiff as marble herself. Instead of getting frustrated with her, he brought out some wine and they sat chatting, Mother remaining naked. He told her of his success. She had seen his work, impossible not to if one looked at fashion covers at a magazine stand. Despite the success, he found it unfulfilling. He discovered his passion for nude studies, exploring the shadows and shapes and textures of flesh. She provided that for him. I did too, crawling on her and the beautiful boyfriend. Pleased with the session they exchanged phone numbers. He handed her a hundred dollars. She hid her surprise. When the gorgeous boyfriend escorted her to the door in a robe, he told her the fashion models the photographer works with got ten times the amount for less time. Before my mother could ask how she could get into the business, he told her she looked too voluptuous and unique to succeed, and suggested life study. He closed the door before she could ask what and how.

When she tried calling every few days, an impatient woman answered and noted the call if my mother asked her to. A couple of weeks later he called. Bringing a pen and paper to the session, she interviewed him about modeling. He gave her the information she needed and more. He gave her amazing signed nude photos of her to start her portfolio. He gave her another number to call if she wanted to speak to him, but warned her to use it sparingly. After the shoot the three plus me went out to dinner at a low key Italian restaurant in Little Italy and then uptown to a jazz club, a speakeasy full of smoke and Negroes. The most exciting evening of her life, her excitement infected everyone. The photographer loved her company. The Negroes did too, flirting with her and ogling me, a glowing white cherub in a den of dusky sinners.

Using the emergency phone number, she left a message with the photographer's mother. They talked congenially. The photographer called an hour later. He complimented her on winning over his mom. When she told him about the sex party he agreed to help, amused by the challenge.

Instead of his studio, they met at a fashion magazine. Clothes of the richest quality filled racks in a large storage space. She found heaven. A prancing queer expert at such things created the perfect outfit, both elegant and revealing. An artist sketched me while my mother got fitted. The artist looked like another beautiful queer. My mom addressed the person as sir, admiring the sketches. Mistaking the gender, the artist waved away embarrassment. Thin and nervous, a dome of brunette hair thick enough to stay in place after two inches of growth perfectly coiffed, large brown eyes and a large nose, the tip hooking down subtly though noticeably, she wore a brown woolen three piece suit and a deep maroon tie on her long figure. Despite the gender correction, my mother remained attracted to the exotic Jewess. Handing my mother her card and shaking her hand carried intimacy and seduction. The Jewess wanted me for an ad campaign selling the gentleness of soap. Excited to make a buck off me, the chance of meeting the Jewess again and find out where the attraction led excited her more. On one of the sketches the Jewess wrote the address where she worked and the time, early Monday following the weekend of Mother's sex party.

Like the old Minstrel song "Dry Bones," the connectivity of life functions as profoundly and innately unforgettable and interesting as the connectivity of the body. Events coincide where one ends and the other begins. Meeting new people and flowing into their lives happens through and often at the expense of current friendships. A bone connects to another in one's attention, one's awareness of the present. After leading one to the new bone, the old bone becomes a figment of the past, important in the development of the body of life, its experience of the world and its place in it, but not important in the moment. My mother lived in the moment, embracing it, devouring it, letting it expand and strengthen her body of experience until she moved on to the next.

The outfit the alderman bought to wear to the party made her laugh. It was Burlesque. The g-string, high heels and fish net stockings worked. The bauble encrusted bra didn't, nor did the tacky wispy see-through frock. The red draping velvet dress, slim under her breasts to accentuate her supple tummy, hung low at the front showing cleavage and low at the back showing cleavage. The skirt draped below her knees unevenly revealing a flash of thigh. She liked the way her legs looked wearing the heels. The alderman did too. Not having worn high heels of that height before, she practiced during the hour and a half before the party until comfortable. By the time they readied to leave, she felt enticing, hoping to reveal the g-string to a stranger and entice him to become her new lover.

As it turned out, she enticed a couple. The Jewess opened her eyes to the fairer sex. Connectivity of a particular part of her life led her to expand the possibilities of pleasure. Predictably, the alderman went off playing and conversing with men. The women, more ornaments of beauty than humans to the men got pawed and pawed back as the men chatted. After consuming enough champagne, the men concentrated on the silent companions. Various sized and shaped groups drifted away to fuck behind closed doors in the many rooms of the baroque estate: one man and two women; two men and one woman; and two of each or more. Bored with the chatter and the women's silence Mom stopped observing, shutting her eyes and dancing to the viola, violin and piano accompaniment. At first she revealed her ballet training. Then she danced Burlesque. Not having witnessed a stripper, she knew the terminology and moved her pelvis, bumping and grinding. The champagne enhanced her grace. When she felt two pairs of hands, she swallowed the flash of fear and let herself be stripped. Opening her eyes, she saw a woman pushing the fabric from her breasts and touching flesh. Despite her blazing eyes and tongue wetted lips, with her hair set in a loose bun and her expensive blouse, though undone and revealing her soft white handfuls of breasts tipped with rigid brown nipples and hanging in gentle curves, and her respectable skirt circling the slight bulge of her tummy, the blonde wife looked educated and successful ... The woman raised her head, revealing her pretty, delicate face. She pressed her lips against my mom's lips. Except for my baby flesh, my mother had never felt anything so soft. But this softness moved sexily and opened and slipped a tongue into my mother's mouth. While the woman's hands played with my mother's breasts and her tongue played, other hands caressed her rump. With the g-string, everything became available. The man's large hands had rough skin but gently touched everywhere except the two entrances. When a finger slid across the orifice for shit, my mother broke away. Excited and breathing deep, her vagina tingling, she wanted it better.

"Can we talk a little while?" she asked the blonde wife. "I want to know you."

"We can't think straight," said the blonde wife. "We're too horny watching you all night and touching you. Help us cum and we'll talk." Mother agreed.

The party room having been abandoned for various bedrooms, the couch became theirs. The husband, a large swarthy man of Greek heritage with a touch of the moor stripped off his pants and revealed a huge penis. Sitting down at the end of the couch with his penis pointing straight up, the two women kissed and sucked and stroked it. Then they paused to reposition themselves. The blonde wife lay with her head on the opposite side of the couch. She beckoned my mom to straddle her face. Enjoying the best cunnilingus of her life, my mother kept stroking the huge shaft with one hand. The other hand removed the blonde wife's panties and rubbed her clitoris. Pushing the cockhead into her mouth, she massaged it with her lips and tongue. Then she moved her mouth to the blonde wife's vagina and tasted a woman for the first time. She liked it. Moving from vagina to penis and back, her body heated and distracted by the wife's cunnilingus, she finally brought the man to crisis. His ejaculate arced in front of her face and onto the fancy Persian rug. What little concentration she had she used on the woman. Eyes closed, she envisioned what gave her pleasure and worked to bring her first vagina other than her own to orgasm. The woman bucked jarring her nose. Sucking the woman's clitoris throughout her orgasm, ignoring pleads for mercy, holding on like a leach, she brought her to a second orgasm, being knocked off the couch by the force of it and by the need to escape her mouth.

Not the place for interesting conversations, after gathering me from the nursery where the nurse slept, they drove to the couple's home. I was the center of attention from the moment the couple saw me until they arrived at their Greenwich Village townhouse. Because of me, my mother divulged her life. Being so different from theirs and from all the rich keepers, it fascinated. My mother told it well. Afterwards, being sunrise, she hadn't learned their stories, but exhaustion postponed the telling. Led to her own bed in a guest room, she and I slept.

Awakened by a kiss and fingers sliding in and out of her vagina and rubbing her clitoris, my mother climaxed. The blonde naked wife smiled her pretty smile.

"I want to know everything about making love to a woman," said my mother.

"We'll see," said the blonde wife. "First make love to my husband. Give him everything he asks and more."

"I need to talk to him first."

"That's fine, honey. He's waiting for you in our bedroom at the end of the hall. I'll watch your lovely baby."

The swarthy husband lay in bed wearing a silk pajama top and whatever if anything under the blanket. A small table straddled him full of food, too much for even a big man. His head rested propped by a large pillow. He smiled. My mother being naked, he pointed to a closet and told her to put on a robe and join him for breakfast. As they ate and drank, the swarthy husband explained his life. The son of a successful tradesman, the family escaped Greece when accusations against his father for siding with the Turks early in the century because he traded with them threatened their lives. Able to exchange his money for valuables and turn a profit in the City, his father had the capital to become successful. Despite his disrepute in the home country, much of his income came through importing items from both Greece and Turkey. The swarthy husband emigrated as a child. As he grew he stayed at his father's side. Greek was the language of his house, and Turkish was a language of trade. Unlike his parents he became proficient in the language of the school and the street: English. Excelling at academics, he matriculated at Columbia, learning the law of the trade. Foreign trade and the agreements being negotiated and signed became his expertise especially those involved with his region of birth. His knowledge of law and languages and trade and his skill at writing created a demand for his services from ambassadors and their minions.

When my mother asked about the blonde wife, he told her she had to wait for the wife to explain. Ordered to set aside the table of empty plates and cups, she obeyed. Then she made love to him. Though powerful physically and commanding verbally, kindness shone in his eyes. Unlike the alderman, he didn't make her feel like a bought tissue of flesh. His kisses warmed and welcomed. While she suckled his immense penis his gentle caresses discovered her breasts, rediscovered her bottom, enjoyed her thighs and titillated the space in between. His dark fingers looked massive against her pale flesh. The rough tips caressed her. When she rolled on the condom and guided his magnificent tool inside, the widening passage had been eased by slickness. Despite the pleasure she gave him, his stare into her eyes searched for deception. When she angled herself on his shaft to maximize pleasure, she brought herself to climax. His smile approved. He took over the fucking, pushing up at a brisk pace, bouncing her with his thighs. She leaned further down and they kissed as he drove towards climax. Lips separated. He roared. She felt the expansion as he ejaculated. It triggered her climax. She clutched his big body, moaning into his ear.

"Can you stay?" he asked upon recovering.

"As long as you want," said my mother.

"Put on your robe and go get my wife and your son," he ordered. They could hear me crying. I nursed on my mother's teat on the large bed as they negotiated terms. Afterwards they spent the rest of the day making love. Mother learned to make love to a woman. The swarthy husband watched with me encompassed by his large arms. Placing me in a makeshift cradle, my mother provided the extra pleasure the blonde wife needed to enjoy being fucked by her husband. Being licked to orgasm while caressing the wife's clitoris, the shaft fucking beside it also being rubbed as the three lay side by side, the swarthy husband lying behind the blonde wife and squeezing her tits and nipples made for an enviable job. The most difficult part came when the man desired to bugger my mother. With the blonde wife expertly rubbing her clitoris and kissing her with soft lips, it turned out less painful than it could have been. She grew to love the fullness, but never preferred buggering.

The blonde wife told her story. She began life as a middle class kid whose parents taught school. They lived on her mother's meager income as an elementary school teacher when her father lost his professorship at a small New England college. When her father took to alcohol and shame, not returning home nights because of those vices, her mother gave up and took a job in the City at a private elementary school. The blonde wife matriculated at the school and received a scholarship to continue her private school studies. Graduating from Sarah Lawrence through a full scholarship, she became a lawyer and met the swarthy husband negotiating a treaty. They fell in love, but realized her lesbian tendencies made sex less than perfect. The sex parties enabled their enjoyment. The pool of mistresses proved dull or the women proved too narcissistic to succumb to the couple's needs or both. Prostitutes depressed them. Finding my mother for both her and them proved a godsend.