The Back Story

Dear Reader, if your needs are urgent, you may skip this first part. It sets the scene and gives some insight about the behavior of the young subject of this narrative when he encounters the tipsy sexual attentions of two very horny matrons. Also, names are changed for privacy purposes.

So many years ago; so much forgotten—but some memories linger.

Their names were Constance and Elizabeth. The year was 1959. I was 18, just out of high school. Connie Kazmarek, mother of four, was 37. Her sister, Liz Campbell, mother of three, was 35. Connie lived in my town. At New Years eve her sister was visiting from a remote mining town in Northern Ontario. Her Scots husband was a miner who emigrated from the U.K., to Canada. Connie was a G.I. bride who came to the U.S. with her husband after WW II.

A few lines about me. The year before, I took pictures for the yearbook of the small Catholic high school I attended. One day at a basketball game the sports editor of the local daily buttonholed me. He offered me $10.00 to take pictures at the district playoffs. Other piecework followed and eventually a job. So I became a cub reporter and photographer making the munificent sum of $1.00 per hour.

A young Queen Elizabeth visited Canada that year in the royal yacht Britannia. When the royal progress reached our Canadian sister city, just across the river, I was in a gaggle of photographers who shoved, focused and snapped shots of Her Highness disembarking to the enthusiastic cheers of her many northern Ontario provincial "subjects" gathered at the quay. (Included for my U.K., readers.)

I was still very much a kid in many ways; nerdy "Buddy Holly" black glasses; a fresh innocent face with my beard only beginning to emerge and my body hair had not developed much except a pubic thatch from whence dangled my creditable but average cock. I was not an athlete or body builder but simply had the slender body of a youth on the cusp of manhood. I could muster almost 5"9" height with my shoes on. I was reared by my maiden aunt school teacher, sister of my mother, claimed by death suddenly when I was just 13 months old. My aged sight-impaired maternal grandmother rounded out our household.

I was utterly naïve about women and sex. My aunt was not forthcoming on the subject. No, even more than that. In all my life I have never met anyone who managed to so thoroughly sublimate her sexuality as did my aunt. She was utterly put off by and shrank from physical human contact. My grandmother, a petite lady, who had six children, obviously had a sex life once but she had been a retro-virginal widow for decades.

Nor were the nuns of the grade and high schools I attended a source of knowledge; veiled and coifed and draped in yards of black wool serge (before Vatican II) they were medieval in appearance and, many in their thinking as well. They and the Catholic Church made sure that by the time I finished high school I was shot through with scruples and a twisted moral compass that pointed at SEX as not only nasty and evil, but the greatest evil. There existed but one limited and highly restricted exception, i.e., in the missionary position, penis in vagina, by two persons married in the Church after "Pre-Cana" instruction and only if done just enough and always with the singular intent to produce children but never for gratification of ANIMAL impulses.

Ahem, no touching, fondling, rubbing, pinching, reading about it, talking dirty, or putting the sex organs or the mouth (Get thee behind me Satan!) anywhere on the body of the legitimate partner except you may put it in the vagina only; husband on top, wife below; that's it. No need to remove your nightwear; think of the children if one should barge in. Pull it out of your fly; she's not to touch it. Now just move her panties aside and put it in. Hurry up. Finished? Good. Then clean your dirty self and say a prayer to the Blessed Virgin for forgiveness just in case you had some filthy thoughts or groped the poor woman. And no carnal "checking" out other women or having nasty thoughts about them or (shudder) about other men.

I belabor the point. In fact, when it comes to sex nature does not give a flea's fart about morals, acculturation, propriety, dignity, relative age, location, friendship, decency, who is the keeper of theological truth, the ten Commandments, or man-made law. It cares only about ensuring that that biological thing over there, after whatever preliminaries it takes; that that thing will ultimately and inevitably be unable to keep from inserting its appendage into the willing and eager receptacle in that "other" over there; repeating as much and as often as possible leaving within the reproductive system of the other all the sperm any exultant producer can cum up with.

This nature does with a couple of hormonal soups and by packing a tsunami of bliss into the joining of the sex organs so that the act is the fundamental force that drives the world. Making love, and plain old lusty fucking, is as inevitable as the sunrise. But suppression of this fundamental truth about the human condition was the essential goal of all my upbringing and instruction.

My body did not agree with the indoctrination of my mind. Figuratively it said, "Fuck it." Literally, it urged me to fuck it. At 18 I had inevitably taken my place in the ranks of testosterone soaked but virginal young men; upshot— I was horny all the time. Nature had me locked in her grasp. My body rebelled at the notion of being denied. I had learned early on that some amazingly delicious, mind blowing pleasure radiated from my fingerling cock's head; whenever I got a chance to give it a frantic rubbing; that I could bring forth, gasping and shuddering, multiple spurts of cum, each driven out of me by a sublime diffusion of toe curling ecstasy through my groin and down my legs. I knew generally and even instinctively that as good as masturbation is, it does not approach the bliss to be found in a woman's body. I yearned for initiation.

I came to assess practically all the women who entered my field of vision as potential sex partners. This one's tits; that one's great ass, the beauty of another, the glimpse of this one's thigh or that one's cleavage. Or it could be the sway of a woman's hips; a glimpse of armpit and beyond in a sleeveless blouse; a warm smile or a toss of the hair. Age mattered little. The smell of women opened yet another axis from nostrils to a neurological olfactory center thence urgent messages dispatched directly to the glans of my penis and instantly redirected blood flow to lift my ever anxious cock. I masturbated my way through fantasies about dozens of women. Early on for some reason, I am not sure why, I became most excited at the thought of sex with women much older than I; women old enough to be my mother or grandmother.

It was at this threshold of my young life that I met Master Sergeant Casimir Kazmarek (RIP), U. S. Army; husband and through him, his wife Connie and their family. Our acquaintance grew out of my role as newspaper neophyte and his, as public information NCO of the Army camp in our town.

He was a very tall and lanky man, thin faced, intelligent and inquiring piercing brown eyes, a narrow face, pencil moustache, dark complexioned and spoke in a rumbling base voice. When we met he was in his mid forties and had been in the Army perhaps 16 years. Both his parents were Polish immigrants to the U.S., and he spoke Polish as fluently as English.

When Kaz and Connie met he was one of the many thousands of GIs gathering in England for the invasion of Europe. As many Brits said or thought, "They're over paid, oversexed and over here." The GI's caustically responded that Brits were "underpaid, undersexed and under Ike [Supreme Allied Commander Dwight D. Eisenhower]." Connie was then in the ranks of the WRNS (the Wrens). I was to learn that she and her sister were not "undersexed."

What brought me to become friends with the Kazmareks is difficult to pin down. "Kaz" seemed to me to be worldly wise, smart and well schooled in life and in public information as PR was called then. He treated me as a colleague and I think he took satisfaction in something of a mentoring role with a pliable young man. There was a paucity of male role models in my life. He and Connie were very much "people" persons who seemed to enjoy life. Their home was a frenetic place filled with the detritus of multiple persons living under one roof. Soon I found the door open to me whenever I felt like soaking up the earthy family atmosphere that fascinated and excited me. It contrasted so sharply with the staid, muted ambiance of my own home. My better angels liked them both, admired and respected them. My cock wanted Connie without regard for any sense of loyalty or decency.

Over the Christmas holidays the Kazmarek household became even more frantic than usual when Liz, sans husband but with children, arrived for a reunion with her sister. Neither had seen each other since Connie had departed for the New World with her GI husband 13 years earlier.

New Year's Eve

On the last day of 1959 Connie called and said I should join them for New Year's celebration. The Kazmareks had readily taken me into their family circle so Connie's call was welcome did not come as a surprise. I had no other invitations and was glad to get out of the house and the two staid (boring) women I lived with. I said I would check with my Aunt. Connie said," let me talk to her." I handed the phone to my Aunt.

My Aunt did not have unfettered faith or confidence in the Kazmareks. She spoke diffidently of them; not quite able to focus on why she harbored misgivings; perhaps because they drank and smoked and appeared to live life in intimidating gusty chunks. The two women spoke and after hanging up my Aunt said to me, "Well alright but be home by midnight."

I said, "It's a New Year's eve deal. The whole idea is to be there at midnight!"

Mumble, mumble, one o'clock then and I was out the door into the freezing cold night air, hoofing it the eight blocks or so to the Kazmarek's house. Little gusts swirled some snow that had begun to fall; an event in that clime about as unusual as a shower in a tropical rain forest.

I was pretty cold from my trudge through the snow upon arrival. A gaggle of the two families was out in the yard spilling into the street where a section had been shoveled down to the ice beneath. There was Kaz resolutely exploding illegal fireworks purchased on the Canadian side of the river. I greeted all but went in to warm myself.

The women, in Fifties housedresses, were in the kitchen. Each of the women had a an open bottle of beer. Connie introduced Liz as I shed my cold weather outerwear. Liz was a prettier than Connie, more full figured; not fat but no longer at her maiden weight, bigger tits, smaller ass. She was shorter than her sister; about my height. Connie was an inch or so taller than I was. Both had the matronly child bearing round bellies I find quite stimulating.

Connie did not have a pretty face; she was not ugly rather just plain and unremarkable. Since I could not do otherwise, as with practically all women in my life I thought about her as a sex partner. As our friendship developed I spent time at Kazmareks as much to be near her as to visit with Kaz. If I went by and Kaz was not home so that I could spend time just with Connie I was secretly pleased. I couldn't possibly summon the courage to make a pass at her; but as I would learn she knew I wanted her. She had the insight to know it was as a function of access and proximity to a woman as much as from any infatuation; not very flattering but she nevertheless enjoyed my attention. In retrospect I think Kaz knew that I lusted for his wife but was bemused and in no way threatened by any notion I might make a cuckold of him.

As the evening ticked into the waning hours of 1959 the kids and Kaz came in; pot roast (or hotdogs for any recalcitrant child) was served with mashed potatoes and gravy, then cake and ice cream (never too cold for ice cream). I was somewhat surprised but felt quite adult when I was offered a bottle of beer which I accepted.

After the meal Kaz got out his bottle of flavored brandy and warmed himself with several shots. He also got out his concertina and played Polish folk songs; looking very "bistroee" squinting against the smoke rising from a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

I was quite taken with the music; he played adroitly and sang with a dark and melodic voice. While he played he seemed to block out everything and everyone else.

Hej, tam gdzie z nad czarnej wody

Siada na ko kozak m ody.

Czule egna si z dziewczyn,

Jeszcze czulej z Ukrain.

Hej, hej, hej sokoy

Omijajcie góry, lasy, pola, doy.

Dzwo, dzwo, dzwo dzwoneczku,

Mój stepowy skowroneczku.

Wiele dziewczt jest na wiecie,

Lecz najwi cej w Ukrainie.

Tam me serce pozosta?o,

Przy kochanej mej dziewczynie.

Hey, there, somewhere in the black water

He sits on a young Cossack horse.

Tender bids farewell to the girl

Even more sensitive to the Ukraine.

Hey, hey, hey falcons

Bypassing the mountains, forests, fields and ditches.

Call, call, call dzwoneczku,

My skowroneczku steppe.

Many of the girls in the world,

But most of them in Ukraine.

There, my heart remained

With my lovely girlfriend.

(A Google translation; there are numerous additional stanzas.)

I didn't understand a word but still enjoyed it. After what seemed a long time, maybe only 30 or 40 minutes actually, as well as after the liquid level in the brandy bottle dropped significantly, he simply put his concertina away; announced he was going to bed and walked a bit unsteadily out of the kitchen where we sat. It was not unusual behavior for Kaz. Apparently he was not going to be with us to greet the new year.

In that moment I realized that the youngsters had disappeared and fallen quiet off elsewhere in the house or exhausted had fallen asleep. I was left alone with Connie and Liz at the kitchen table. Where there had been two bottles on the table when I arrived there were now 10, including my second that I nursed. So each of the women had become a bit inebriated and inhibitions began to slip. Trips to the bathroom had begun as the beer filled their bladders. They had learned to drink during the war and could hold a good deal of alcohol while revealing little overt effect.

My cursed "tiny bladder" spoke to me as well. I excused myself and went to pee. I passed an outside window and paused to see in streetlight glow a snowstorm had begun to blow and the white stuff was piling in windrows obliterating the street. Typical weather for that place. It looked like I would be trudging home in a storm; a prospect I did not embrace with good feeling. But the party seemed as if it had petered out. When I went off to pee Connie and LIz were quite absorbed with one another. Neither had yet given me any signal, at least one I recognized, that could be considered an entrée to some "fooling around" much less anything more intimate. I supposed (wildly off the mark) that by their mutual presence each cancelled out any inebriated impulse of the other in that direction. It came to me that I had been fantasizing anyway; why would or should there be any signal or possibility?

Things changed when I returned from the bathroom. Not mentioned then, I later learned my Aunt had called expressing concern about my returning home in the storm; driving was already out of the question. In making the call she became an unwitting enabler in my first sexual encounter with women. Connie told her she would put me up on the living room couch and my Aunt reluctantly agreed it would be better that I not try to make it home through the storm.

When I returned Connie and LIz had their heads together talking in very low voices. When they saw me they moved apart and tried to compose their faces. But Connie snickered and that did it for them. They fell into fits of giggling like a couple of high school girls...

My face flushed because it seemed to me that I had been the subject. Seizing on the worsening storm as a pretext, I announced that, "I'd better get going. Storms getting worse." It was fifty minutes from the new year. "This is crappy," I thought, "I'm going to greet the new decade freezing my miserable balls off in a blizzard."