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‘I don’t believe it. Gary, I haven’t seen you since you left our little grind joint for Caesar’s. What’s it been, six months? C’mon in but first give me a big hug and a kiss.’

After hugging and kissing, Gary introduces me to his friend. ‘Loretta this is my very good friend, Bobby.’

Bobby took my offered hand and said, ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you Loretta. Gary has told me so many good things about you.’
‘Glad to meet you Bobby. Any friend of Gary’s is always welcome here. Both of you have a seat. Let me get something to drink.’

As I headed toward the kitchen, I paused to ask, ‘What’ll you guys have?’
‘I’ll have a beer.’
‘Bobby?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘No, you’re not. Tell you what. I’m going to open a bottle of wine. Would you like a glass?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
Loretta headed into the kitchen of her small apartment. I watched her go. At 5′ 8″, she seemed tall. At least taller than I was used to at the ripe old age of twenty-two. She had a cute face but her skin was dappled and weathered. She had large blue eyes, a turned up pug nose and full lips. She had on shorts and a halter. She had nicely shaped dying for free porn action legs but there were patches of surface veining from being on her feet so much. She did have a shapely posterior but there wasn’t much definition at her waist. I determined she must be in her mid to late thirties. In other words she wasn’t bad but I initially thought she looked used. That was my first impression of the woman that came to wield more influence on me than any woman and helped me develop into the man I am today.

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Have you ever experienced a free porn amusement park ride? Well, this woman has and here is the story.

I’m an amusement park aficionado. A rollercoaster rambler. A thrill rider. I’ve been to just about every theme park in the continental United States and Mexico and Canada, ridden almost every coaster and ride wooden, steel or composite fibreglass. I’ve been on more log plumes than a Quebec lumberjack, more jungle cruises than a great white hunter, and plunged down more white-water adventures and splash mountains than an Olympic kayaker.

So, when I was walking away from Universal Studios Hollywood on a recent vacation/pilgrimage to Southern California park country during my third-year college summer break, I was more than a little intrigued by the dirty old man who jumped out from behind a tour bus and cried, ‘Wanna see an amusement park not on the maps?’

He had a crazy look in his eye. But not the kind you get from cheap booze. Rather, the kind you get when you’re pushing 4.2 G’s at 96 miles-per-hour in an eighty-degree freefall from the 310 foot high point on the Millennium Force rollercoaster at Cedar Point, Sandusky, Ohio.

I was instantly drawn to the man.

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Today, I’m fed up with winter, and stride boldly down the steps of my chic brownstone walk-up in new pink pumps, incongruous as they may seem under leaden grey skies. The shoes hurry down the block with their determined cheer, and me with them, past the row of brownstones to where the shops begin, the pink patent leather almost glowing against the damp pavement and the overall gloom of the day, as if everything else had somehow been drained of colour. The shops provide slightly more shelter against the cold wind. My pace slows and my eyes dart from store to store, taking in and filing away the latest specials, the tomatoes and egg bread on sale. The buildings have seen better days, their edges grimed from passing traffic, yet it’s a pleasing jumble of irregular shapes and odd store-fronts, not exactly upscale, but not down-market either.

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I peered out of the carriage as it rumbled its way along the rough stone road.

‘This is the beginning of Lord Harestone’s land Miss. It’ll be another five minutes till we reach the Manor.’

Exhausted though I was by this interminable journey, I studied the land. It was bleak with lumpy hills reminiscent of an old hag’s face with the odd tuft of sedge grass. The hillocks were cropped by sheep who stared as we rattled past, then went back to pulling at what nourishment the impoverished earth afforded them. Heavy drips of rainwater spilled off the sheep’s grey wool, and off the edges of the carriage window, splashing on to my cloak. Hunger, the aching cold in my bones and hours of journeying all sapped my strength.

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Upon my eighteenth birthday, when I became a man in the jaundiced eyes of Romanian law, my father sat me down in the musty living room of our ancient cottage and told me the story of the Countess Sabrina Comaneci – the evil, vengeful, undead,  downy-pussied seductress with big breasts who haunted the backwoods byways of our impoverished province, hungrily supping the blood, and other bodily fluids, of virginal males.

A single flickering tallow illuminated our sparsely furnished parlour, as a savage wind howled at the rotted eaves of our humble abode and twisted tree limbs clawed at the shutters as if seeking entry. ‘Her beauty is the stuff of the great artists Grigorescu and Luchian,’ my father intoned. ‘Men cannot resist her, and women detest her. It is legend that on a night many, many centuries ago, when the evening star Venus was at its zenith, the lust-crazed Countess succeeded in seducing one of her stable hands, a virginal boy of eighteen who had only that morning become betrothed to a poor peasant girl whom he had courted for years. And just as the Countess was teetering on the very edge of ecstasy, the young man’s fiance rushed into the room, saw what was happening, and in a fit of jealous rage seized a sabre from the wall and plunged it deep into the Countess, piercing her wicked heart, killing the beautiful temptress before she could attain sexual release.

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Swimming always gets me going. Blood pumping through these sluggish old veins after being holed up in the holiday cottage with a load of rutting couples. I love it when the water’s cold and rough. Far out there a couple of surfers are wrestling with the waves. Here the beach is deserted. And now I’ve earned a kip. The sun’s really warm after the cold water. I whip my bathing suit off and flop down onto my towel but my heart’s still dimming, my body still buzzing. I turn on my back, stretch my legs out, point my toes to make them look longer. Hmm, still pretty good.

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Oddly enough, defrocking a priest never really appealed to me. I always imagined them as anally retentive, grey old men, terrified of the opposite sex, so hiding behind celibacy. Or gay and hiding behind celibacy. Or just hiding behind celibacy because they hadn’t had any decent offers. Not even Richard Chamberlain in The Thorn Birds tempted me. Scrub that. Especially not Richard Chamberlain in The Thorn Birds tempted me. I must admit to quite liking the younger Gene Hackman as the tortured ex-priest in The Poseidon Adventure. Now me, him, upside down in a ship, with only a tub of Muller Fruit Corner to keep us occupied I could imagine.

Anyway, I digress. Not too much as it turns out. It all began with Ben. Gorgeous, virile, can go at it all night, Ben Brannigan. Or rather he would go at it all night when we finally got the chance. His family were religious, you see, and he believed in saving himself for marriage. Trouble is, he somehow got the impression that I was too. No, I didn’t lie. Not really. I just mumbled something when he asked if I was still a virgin and he took it for demure embarrassment.

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It’s so hot this morning. So unusually hot. Global warming, I’m sure. It’s almost like being in a foreign country. I’ve already started sweating and I haven’t even stepped outdoors yet. Outside, the birds are singing, plants and flowers are in profusion, the sky is azure blue, broken up with snow-white clouds, and that construction team is working away there, just across our garden fence, making a lot of noise. It’s cooler in here, but still too hot for comfort. I’m feeling clammy, sweaty and horny, drugged by heat, adrift with my thoughts. I feel a little unreal.

I can see him out there, working. In his T-shirt and tight jeans, laying bricks, one on top of the other, on the wall of that new house being built right next to ours. His hair is flopping over his forehead. His short-sleeved T-shirt is as tight as his blue jeans, emphasizing the rippling of his muscles every time he moves. So graceful, yet so masculine; occasionally looking in this direction, expecting to see me looking out, as I’m doing right now. I’m shameless, I suppose, though also absolutely helpless. Having visions of him finally getting the message and coming over here to open the back door, slip inside, and then…

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I’d like to blame it on the wine but I’m not much of a liar. I will chalk it up to a really good sweaty romp and then a rather erotic porn thriller. The movie got me going all over again but by the time the good parts were over, it was time for Steven to go to bed.

‘Good night, love.’ He ruffled my short blonde hair and gave me a long lingering kiss. ‘We need to do that again tomorrow but for now I’m off to bed. Early morning.’

And he was gone and I was horny. Again. I finished my wine, flipped through a magazine, and read a sex survey. That didn’t help. Basically, I stewed in my own juices, so to speak.

I was just about to give up. Throw in the towel. When it hit me. Again, maybe the wine, maybe the thriller, maybe the fuck. I really don’t know what did it. I didn’t care. I grabbed the pad of sticky notes from the desk and began writing furiously. When I went to bed, it was stuck to the coffee pot. My little love note for Steven. What do you want? Your wildest fantasy (or fantasies). Anything you want. Spill!

Love,

Loren

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