Chapter 3

My mother's business centered in her bedroom. She was expert. If sewing kept us alive I would have been used to the clacking needle and slept through a night's work. So it was with the rhythmic screaming springs and the headboard beating time on the wall and the wails of pleasure. Like an odor inherent to a house only smelt by a stranger I was inured to it. And yet when I became sexual and when my mother began detailing her adventures, like an unnoticed odor her pleasure business clung to me. Unlike the usual adolescent drowning in libidinous frustration, I became a precocious and prolific lover. Her male and female companions, a diverse lot alike only in their intellectual prowess gave me access to eloquent conversations in intimate one on one situations and at parties. I learned the art of dialogue early. As soon as my capability of understanding and adding my voice emerged, my mother encouraged it. She groomed me. Rewarding me with proud glances and smiles and laughter at my moments of wit, she trained me well. Like a seed needing the proper environment to sprout, my mother placed me among the children of the elite as soon as I reached school age.

The blonde wife provided my elite education. By that time she and her husband no longer sponsored us. (Mother referred to her keepers as sponsors like she was an artist. And if an artist created works to please the eye and stimulate the mind both aesthetically and intellectually, she achieved mastery. She stimulated all senses and the mind. Her body and her life were her art.) A year and a half after the sponsorship began the blonde wife gave birth to a daughter. The fact that my mother created the desire for the blonde to be fucked by her husband and conceive a child kept them in her debt. Also the couple loved my mother. The bond had always been more than sexual. However, the child needed a governess to look after her while the couple continued working. The search proved difficult and lengthy. The woman had to be willing to share the bed with the couple, including having sex with the blonde wife and being fucked in the rear by the well endowed swarthy husband and enjoy it. She didn't have to be beautiful like my mother, but attractive. The woman they found after several failures lacked beauty, but she had a lithe body and a good heart and the kind of looks that grew on you. Remaining friends with my mother, the blonde wife fulfilled a promise to matriculate me in her mother's school. Her mother became the school's principal replacing the mother's husband when he suffered a stroke. Unfortunately three other people had to approve my scholarship. One, a diligent moralist famed for helping close down the City's Burlesque houses, needed to be on the committee to give the school a moral overview, and had been reluctant to grant the mother the principal position because of his suspicion of her pre-marital affair with the old principal. He couldn't win that fight because she was the only qualified person. He found a new fight restricting my attending. My mother feared being forced to have me adopted by the principal. Frustration drove the swarthy man to hire the private detective that had revenged Mother's rape by damaging the alderman's reputation, and he tailed the moralist. Everyone laughed at the private investigator's report. Pictures proved the moralist hired a disease ravaged Negro prostitute to abuse him with whips and restraints and even a dildo up his bottom while he masturbated and ejaculated. However, my mother didn't want blackmail hanging over her. She and I met with the moralist for a couple hours. Her wit and charm and elegance and my good behavior and precocious mind won him over. At least that's what he claimed when he approved my matriculation. Six months later, having proven a well disciplined and intelligent student, the moralist visited our apartment. Again he enjoyed the conversation. But the longer he stayed, the more nervous my mother became. He kept staring at me. He knelt down in front of me and asked to see my little pee pee. My mother slapped him as hard as she could. It made him worse. He reached between my legs, his eyes wild. My mother pulled him down and straddled him, slapping him again and again. He reached around my mother, pulled out his penis, and told her he deserved to be punished. Exasperated, she demanded he leave. He told her he knew her whorish ways. He'd have me expelled. My mother's angry laugh filled the room. She told him she knew about the Negro prostitute. He laughed back, telling her no one would believe her or the Negro whore. My mother got off him and grabbed the packet of photos. He seized them from her and ripped them up. She had the last laugh. Negatives existed. If she ever saw him again or if the principal ever saw him near the children, they would expose his hypocrisy. Furious, his face as red as a New York State apple, his hands in fists and his body tight, for a moment she worried he'd fall down dead and she'd have to explain his body. He stomped out of the apartment never to be seen again. Ironically Mom's ex-sponsor the minister replaced him. Mom recommended him. After three or four times in her presence, he relaxed. In fact he relaxed more without sex looming.

Eventually I found four good friends, two boys and two girls in my grade. Like most humans throughout their lives, genders gravitated together at school. But I liked being with the girls as much as the boys. Not so much when we played with toys, because toys were gender specific: army men and dolls. But strolling around the city and having little adventures required no gender, and I made sure the two groups became one.

The girls were a Mutt and Jeff duo. The big tall girl with curly black locks encapsulated childhood femininity. The other girl, petite, her straight dirty blonde hair in a pony tail or in a braid inclined toward the tomboy. Though she played with dolls as enthusiastically as her friend, she looked wistfully at us with our army toys, unsure whether she found them interesting or foolish. Of all of us, she demonstrated the most daring: the first to climb trees or jump walls. As vivid an imagination as mine, we shared leadership of our little band of elite miscreants, switching off who led an invented adventure. And she was the first girl I saw naked besides my mother.

More interesting and excitingly secretive than titillating, playing doctor discloses differences between boys and girls. There exists a transgressive element in the event. We were being naughty. I'm certain that the discovery of it by parents has caused not a few sexual problems. In our case worrying about discovery didn't trouble me. I don't think it damaged the tomboy. Mother opened the door while I examined the tomboy's naked genitalia. The girl screamed and grabbed a pillow to hide her body. My mother amused began calming the tomboy which ended in Mom giving us an anatomy lesson.

Years later in the same room the tomboy and I got naked and I used the Jewess's lessons to my mother to make her cum. By the next week, she lost her virginity. I enjoyed several girls and women in my life, some while still with the tomboy. As I said before, permanence doesn't exist in youth. Of all the things ending our sexual relationship after more than two years, two proved most significant. Communication apart from the physical declined gradually, nearly completed when it ended. No more long walks holding hands and promising each other the world or post orgasm moments dreaming of spending every night together and waking up together and making breakfast together, which occurred only twice, or being surrounded by friends at the neighborhood ice cream fountain but alone with our intimate whispers happened. We got together at my apartment and fucked. Then she left. Secondly, our social differences excited her at first, but ended up tearing us apart. That my mother was a professional mistress and I was of a lower caste worked its way into her heart like a cancer. That I was fucking other girls had been negotiated and agreed to, letting her experience other boys as well. Neither of us found sex with others competition to our lovemaking. But the frequency in which I fucked other females made the difference. The cause of our separation came from a particular tryst. The discovery of me and another of my friend's mother by that friend exploded everything. Relationships between me and my elitist schoolmates ended with the tearful ending of my first sexual affair, at least her tears.

By the time I finished at the private elementary school, a retired general had become my mother's sponsor. A proud and rigid man, my mother made him melt. They met at a gallery opening. He had been dragged there by his wife. Nude drawings adorned the walls and most depicted my mother. The general found them both seductive and repulsive. When he met the model the ambivalence deepened making him nervous. Amused by her effect on the powerful man entering the cusp of old age, she cornered him and talked to him and plied him with drinks until he succumbed. She let him vent his displeasure at being there. She asked him where he'd want to be. She got him to tell her about his service, his pride in leading brave men, his sorrow at every loss of life, his frustration at being in command of a bunch of lily livered pansies, his relief in retiring, his distraction from retirement doldrums and the riches it brought him through careful investing and sitting on three corporate boards, his distaste for the commute to upstate New York, his love of his four daughters, his frustration not having a son.

"You should stay in the City during the week," she told him. "You should get an apartment. I could help. And..." she whispered into his ear, "I could help with the son problem too." Handing him a slip of paper with her phone number, she kissed his cheek, slid her hand subtly across his crotch discovering an engorged penis, and winking, sashayed away.

He called as soon as he could. The call needed privacy. She invited him to her apartment. The nudes of her hanging there didn't bother him anymore. The nudes of me did. Once no longer a baby and having gained definition, the life study modeling ended for me. But a couple of the artists who used my mother as their model, having seen her when the Jewess or the fashion photographer told them about her life model classes and hired her, used me as well. One was heterosexual and wanted to study my body for a change of view. The other was queer. My mother made it clear he couldn't touch me. But he could fantasize. The general said nothing and then he stopped thinking about it or anything else. Readying him to consummate his attraction took awhile. This didn't bother my mother. She had experience resurrecting the dead.

Such training started with her landlord. She loved the man and hated his loneliness. Within weeks after occupying the apartment, she seduced him. He acted stern with her once she had his penis available to suck, refusing any exchange of favors. She laughed and stuck her tongue at him and told him not to be mean and began working on his lax flesh with that very tongue and her lips and her fist. She had never encountered the situation. His breathing suggested his interest, but his flesh denied it. She worked patiently. She asked him what he wanted. Did he want to see her breasts? He nodded. Did he want her to squeeze them? Did he want her to touch her pussy? Did he want her to make herself cum for him? It worked. Once erect, she slowed, building his pleasure but not letting him cum. When he pleaded, she teased a little longer and then released him, swallowing his bitter seed, not letting him see distaste, only pleasure.

Another man, the man in the park when I was five, had the same problem. Only when she got him hard, he would either cum before he entered her vagina or would lose his hardness inside. At first she succeeded in giving him satisfaction. The longer they stayed together the worse he got. The sponsor only lasted five months. He felt too ashamed to continue. She figured he went to cheap whores to give him blow jobs.

Once the general got hard, he remained hard. Not enjoying cunnilingus, she climaxed because of the length of time he fucked her. He performed relentlessly for an old man. Gentle when he first entered her, he worked up to a speed that brought friction where she needed it and would sustain the speed for a quarter hour before ejaculating into her with a bellow.

I arrived at my house three hours after his first visit began having been at school and at play. The general sat in the living room while my mother prepared dinner. He looked at me with his steely gray eyes, his bushy gray eyebrows emphasizing concentration. "You like girls?" he whispered.

It had been recent when I awoke damp around my crotch, dreaming of the tomboy playing with her vagina. I repeated the situation on subsequent nights except awake. Using the bed as friction against the head of my penis, I fucked it. I blushed and nodded in answer to the general.

The general almost adopted me. Despite his shortcomings, his age and his distaste for cunnilingus, my mother liked him. (He did make her cum most of the time, and she had lovers, men and women, mostly artists for whom she modeled, who could satiate her libido. The male artists less, being narcissistic, but the women more than made up for them.) She liked his bravura and his gentleness. She found him charming and amusing, and his polarity of character cute. Afraid to admit her amusement, when she did, he laughed and winked. It became their secret. She liked him enough to offer him her son for adoption. She wanted me to continue private schooling. My mother would have to put me into public school otherwise. He wanted me to go to the military school he had gone to as a child, a boarding school in North Carolina. The advantages were twofold: I would continue to be among the elite and I would gain discipline. In other words I would become the son the general never had. Up through my departure Mother remained happy. Within weeks after she missed me. A piece of her had gone, and like the toe of an amputated leg, she ached.

She fought her emotions heroically. However when I returned for Christmas, she stayed with me constantly. When she led me to my bus we both cried. She wanted the last hug to never end. "Mom, I have to go," I repeated. I wrenched myself from her, embarrassed about her treating me like a child and my childish crying, and escaped onto the bus. She told the general she wanted me back. She promised him a child, a boy of his own. She would get pregnant for him and give him the baby. He insisted I remain until the end of the school year. If she made him a boy, they would reconsider my fate. After three months of trying, a doctor informed her of her barrenness. She hated the general's smug smile. She had accused him in one of their frequent arguments of being too old to conceive. Their relationship ended.

After a month of missing my mother and my friends and the City, I got over it. I liked playing soldier and I liked the challenging schoolwork. I even liked the strictness, the early morning reveille and arduous exercises and the more arduous punishment. I was too good a boy to be punished often, only once.

Ironically, for all the determination of the general to make me manly, the first real queer events in my life happened at military school. Surrounded by adolescent boys whose testicles and brains drowned in sperm, contests happened. We competed to see who could ejaculate first, who ejaculated the most, who had the biggest penis and things like that. With lights out, anything could happen. One of the boys was homosexual. We found time in the latrine to play with each other. He kissed me. He kissed my penis. He swallowed my cum. The kissing made me uncomfortable. I refused to kiss his penis. I masturbated him though.

Before going any further, I need to tell you my character. Stoic and inscrutable describe me. Buster Keaton comes to mind. I rarely cry. The two tearful moments I described above, the scene in the park with the policeman and my mother crying at my departure forcing my tears constituted nearly all once I grew out of infancy. The fear of losing mom made me cry. Nothing else did. And now with the threat of losing her maybe forever I'm not crying. The stoicism is complete.

Good and bad come from showing no emotions. Anytime I hate someone because of prejudice given to me by my mother or friends or movies or whatever, I never reveal it. It helps me get over my ignorance. The person unaware of my distaste is not put off and is willing to be with me. Or if I am disinterested or repulsed by a woman, I never reveal it. My penis says otherwise. It is as unemotional as I am.

That's not true though. I am emotional. I'm sensitive. It's kept hidden, burning inside me, kept lit in a hermetic space like a candle flame with the perfect fuel untouched by a gust or starved of oxygen.

I'm certain my mother knows I love her. In the case of the tomboy, not showing emotion, not crying when she broke it off might have sealed our fate. If I had shown sadness, I might at least have lessened her pain.

In the case of the queer boy, he could imagine his own desire on my stone face. Women did. Friends did. It's like the famous Eisenstein experiment. Juxtaposing the same close up of an actor with film clips depicting different emotional contexts made the viewer think the actor reacted appropriately. It's called projecting.