For me, high school was simply a continuation of junior high. I still played jobs at night, taking care to stay away from the after-hours clubs. I missed the easy comradeship and good music of Jack's, Streets of Paris, How Now, and some of the other places, but I had made up my mind that I was through with all that shit forever.
I didn't miss hustling.
Judo now occupied me three evenings a week, Friday night was still symphony night, and there were lots of gigs to play.
Studying filled only a little of my time but I appeared to be doing passably in school. I still read everything I could and spent hours talking or arguing with friends about what I had read.
Though the hustling was finished and my life seemed to have settled down a bit, my parents didn't see it that way. After all, wasn't I a no-go odnick, a worthless bum with a duck's behind where my yarmulke ought to be, bringing only embarrassment and dishonor to my parents, who worked and slaved so hard all day so I could have the things they never had?
My father, in a fit of anger he was later to regret, finally offered up the ultimatum: either shape up or get out. Parental control had been completely lost and he was having no more of it. My poor mother, holding back tears and keeping the two of us from mauling each other by standing between us with outstretched arms, begged him to reconsider. "After all, Al, he's our son. Good or bad, he's our son and he should live here in our house with us."
My father was adamant. "No! Study every night, home by one-thirty when he's working, a haircut, and no schvartza clothes, being a good son for a change, otherwise, out he goes!"
Negotiations broke down and I made plans to move. My shoebox held so much cash I could hardly close it; so I had buried it on a shelf in the garage under a stack of old files from my parents' store.
Although I liked earning money and having it, I had never bothered to count how much was in the box. When I needed something I just took enough cash to pay for it, clothes being my greatest expense. Now that it looked as though I'd have to fend for myself, I decided I'd better take stock and see just how much I had accumulated.
I took the shoebox into the downstairs room and locked the door. It took me forty-five minutes to sort and count the contents. Altogether, there was nine thousand, seven hundred and twenty dollars. I was amazed, dumbfounded. Never had I dreamed that I was so wealthy.
I knew that I had spent about a thousand on clothes and other things since I'd begun hustling. That would make ten thousand seven hundred, roughly. Doing some quick arithmetic, I figured that an average of twenty dollars per trick, I had been blown five hundred thirty times in a year and a half.
Over five hundred mouths had sucked my cock for money. And at an average of five cubic centimeters per load, I had spilled two and a half liters of sperm into strange gullets.
If sperm were gasoline, that much would run a Volkswagen for over one hundred miles.
The kids at school, people my own age, seemed nice children to me, not that I wouldn't have been happy to screw a lot of those fresh little chickies walking the halls with then* breasts pointing hard and young into soft, cashmere sweaters, with their trim, youthful asses covered by plaid, ankle-length skirts. It was just that they talked about boys when I had lived in a world of men, that they thought of holding hands and necking and petting, while I was used to hard-humping cunts, that they were involved in school affairs and their families and who they might eventually marry, while I had only a black, dismal past and no future worth thinking about. I found it impossible to go back.
It was the same with the boys. Their constant talk of sports and whether they had been able to feel so-and-so's boobs last Saturday night, or speculating if she might eventually "go all the way." The sports jackets with block letters, the school clubs, the football games and rallies where pimply-faced mobs worked themselves into mass hysteria over how many times an oblong leather ball might cross a chalk line on a grass field, all were new and strange to me.
To be honest, I couldn't talk to them, either the boys or the girls. I seemed to be from a different planet and we had nothing in common but our age. A lot of girls must have thought that I was shy, but it wasn't shyness at all. How do you talk to a sixteen-year-old virgin when your conversation has been geared to whores and hypes for so long?
It was lonely in school and I stuck pretty much with the guys I had been playing with professionally for the last couple of years. In varying degrees, they were having the same problems.
But I did have one stroke of luck. Our band and orchestra teacher, Ken Johnson, played with us occasionally. He did most of his work with society-type orchestras, but we had played jobs together before, when the union stuck on extra side men.
Within a month we had it knocked; Johnson would write out passes for us anytime we felt like cutting class, on the pretext that we were needed for rehearsal. He also let us use the band uniform room to smoke so that we wouldn't be having nicotine fits in class. Because I was closer to him than the others he would often bring me to the teachers' lunch room, or TLR as we called it, where I could smoke, drink real coffee, and converse with the other teachers on an adult basis. Before long I was calling the faculty by first names, and felt more at ease with them than I did with the students.
Ken was a nice guy and I've always been thankful to him because I trunk he knew how tough it was to be part-time schoolboys for those of us who were out in the world.
Conditions at home were intolerable, and I began sleeping at Herb's or Ed's house as often as possible. If I couldn't, I would sleep in the downstairs guest room at home, afraid that if I went up to my own bed a harangue would be forthcoming from my father. Apart from his yelling at me when I got home, we had slipped into a state of total noncommunication.
My fantasies, fed by my experiences, got wilder. I began dreaming about gangbangs and sex with two or three women simultaneously. Strangely, I would pick the clean cut virginal types from around school and picture them naked, getting soundly fucked by me, a number of faceless men, and other girls from school. The girls were quite clear in my mind, but the men always were faceless, like the Johns who used to blow me. I couldn't bear the thought of exposing my sexual inadequacies to anybody I knew, even in my reveries. I didn't want to think that somebody, somewhere, might have a bigger cock than mine, or fuck the girls better than I. So I would imagine myself in bed with girls who I knew, recreating the scene from the American Legion smoker. But, instead of tired old whores, it would be pretty Mary Daley from my Spanish class lying there, getting her pussy reamed by me while sucking off one phantom and jerking off two more. It would be her soft, sun bronzed skin, fresh from summer vacation, that would be soaked by the sperm of a multitude of these unknown partners.
I still hadn't learned much about women. By this tune I had made it with about fifteen, but had been successful with only two, and those by accident; I had sucked off one and the other had masturbated herself. To compound my stupidity, I didn't even know what was happening either time.
When I was with a chick, the idea of her being naked and of my actually being in her cunt was too much for me. No matter how hard I tried, my young, eager gun couldn't hold it for over a couple of minutes. Even on those occasions when I got a second shot at it, I couldn't make myself last much longer, the reality of the situation excited me too much.
But life is marked by one's own minihistoric events, episodes and adventures that change the course of your development and start you on a new, and hopefully better, road. Music was my first, Bobby the second, and Mora the third and most important step in my growth.
As with most things, it started by accident.
Every September, San Francisco held a fall fashion show in Union Square Plaza. The planter boxes in the plaza were full of beautiful, bright flowers in full bloom. A ramp had been built so that the models could show off the latest revenge of a few Parisian fruits on the whole of clothes-buying womankind. The pit hi the middle of the raised, wooden rectangle was for the band.
Actually I seldom played at affairs of this sort, but the regular drummer got sick or something, and my name happened to be at the top of the union casual-call list. Herb and I got a pass from Ken Johnson to cut school, as the show was scheduled for noon, Friday. Herb wasn't playing, but I needed his car to haul my stuff and I still didn't drive.
We got to Union Square about eleven, and had a hell of a time handling the drums over that goddamn ramp to set them up. A local radio personality was MC, and some well-suited dyky-looking broad from the House of Fashion narrated as the models pranced around the ramp.
We played "A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody," and all the other trashy music that is reserved for fashion shows and beauty contests. The models came out of a large, gaily striped tent that had been erected at one end of the rectangle. They walked all the way around, stopping now and then to pose and twirl for photographers, and went back into the tent on the other side to change into their next "creation."
She had shown several suits before I even noticed her, or rather, noticed her noticing me. She had soft brown hair done up in high-fashion style, which made her appear still taller than her five-foot-six or -seven. Every time she spun around, her dark eyes searched me out from the band pit and glinted a message of warmth that made me feel strange inside.
I guessed she was about twenty-three. She had a small, pert nose, smooth, light skin, thin ankles, a narrow ass, and breasts I couldn't even guess at under her tweedy, full jacket.
She went back into the tent and I turned my head to the exit, waiting for her to come out again. It took several minutes, and when she reappeared her eyes immediately found mine once more. Each time she turned inward, no matter for how brief an instant, we found each other. I sat there playing the drums and getting hard as a rock, and I wasn't even sure why.
After the show the usual confusion reigned, as we got busy tearing down our setup. Trucks were brought onto the sidewalk to load clothing, and hundreds of people milled around. I told Herb about catching eyes with the model and he suggested that I go back into the tent and look for her while he brought his car around and double parked so we could load the drums. He disappeared into the crowd and I headed for the tent.
Inside, scores of people were pinning back and forth. Electricians were unhooking the lights. Effeminate, overdressed men were pushing their girls to hurry up. Some of the models were still in slips and bras while matrons removed dozens of the pins that held the fashion dresses to them in just the right way. I searched for the brown hair and flashing eyes, but didn't see her anywhere. It was a feeling of loss amounting to near panic, and again I didn't know why. I finally gave up and left, figuring that Herb must have had the car at the curb by then.
Dodging among the milling crowd, we loaded the stuff into his car. I told him I couldn't find the chick I wanted and he shrugged; after all, it was no skin off his ass. We were at the curb on Post Street, between Powell and Stockton, and the car was fully loaded. I started to get in when I heard a honk from a little MG convertible parked in front of us. I looked at the girl, who had turned around in the driver's seat, and for a minute didn't recognize her. She had let down her hair and it was flowing around her shoulders in soft swirls of brown. The high fashion had become a simple skirt and sweater, but the eyes were still unmistakable.
I walked over to her car, uncertain of what I would say. I had never been very good at that sort of thing.
She leaned over, opening the passenger door. "Get in," she said simply.
I had no idea what was going to happen, but I waved at Herb, who gave me a jealous, comprehending nod and waved back. I climbed down into the cockpit of the MG and without waiting for me to close the door she threw the car into gear and took off, jerking from first into second.
It was the strangest ride I ever had. I made several attempts to at least say hello over the roar of the engine, but she couldn't hear me. She didn't speak to me at all, though she turned her head toward me and smiled often, her eyes telling me things I only vaguely understood. She was even lovelier close up than she had been on the stage. I studied her small, square chin, thin, sensuous lips, delicate ears, and a small, almost unnoticeable scar at the right side of her mouth. Her green wool sweater skied out gracefully over her breasts, rising and falling rapidly with her breathing.
In a storm of noise we headed up Leavenworth Street and turned left onto Pacific. She downshifted for all the stop signs, double-clutching from second to low, and drove like a beautiful maniac, smiling at some secret joke the whole time. When we got way out into fashionable Pacific Heights, between Pierce and Steiner, she pulled hard over to the curb and cut the engine. She threw her arm over the back of my seat and in a low, cultured voice said, "I'm Mora, and you're sitting in front of my flat."
I was blushing. "I'm Richard, and I don't know what to say."
She smiled and nodded her head to show that she understood. "Then don't say anything. You never have to say anything with me if you don't want to, I mean, if it makes you uncomfortable."
She looked at me for a few seconds. "Let's go inside. It's too warm out here."
She grabbed a large handbag from behind her seat, while I got out.
Pacific Heights is one of the ritzy areas of San Francisco. It's a mixture of large houses where people from the society pages live, and large flats with spacious upstairs and downstairs living quarters for two separate families. Mora's flat was one of the newer ones, with an expansive redwood front, metal sliding windows, and planter-covered balconies facing the street. There was a steep, brick stairway leading to the lower front door with a well-kept lawn and hedges on either side. From the front portico, a second, wrought iron stairway wound gracefully to the upper entrance.
Mora lived in the top flat, and by the tune we finished climbing all of those steps we both were winded.
She fished a key out of her handbag, opened the large, white oak door, and we walked into an entryway of white terrazzo tile.
I could only suck in my breath with wonder, I had never seen anything like it. To my left was a black iron grating and two steps leading down to a huge, living-dining room area. The floor was covered with white, thick-pile carpeting, and a gigantic flagstone fireplace dominated the rear end of the room. In front of the fireplace was a massive bed covered with a purple satin spread and bright yellow pillows. To the right of the bed was a twelve-foot semicircular sofa of red velvet, with a free-form glass-top coffee table in front and heavy, metal lamps hanging over each end. There were several smaller -tables around the room, topped by pieces of modern sculpture. Separating the living from the dining area was a red leather chair and ottoman. Beyond the chair was a white walnut dining set with eight chairs, and a large, glass breakfront containing dishes and trays, which sat against the far wall, opposite the fireplace.
The entire north wall of the room was glass, and beyond the glass a balcony, containing plants of every type in brightly colored boxes. Beyond the balcony was the most breathtaking view I had ever seen of the shimmering, clean-white Marina district below, and the Bay with the Golden Gate Bridge on the left and Alcatraz on the right, a lovely fall panorama of white and blue that made the expensive-looking modern art on her walls pale by comparison.
Directly in front of me was an open door, through which I could see a spotless white-metal-and-stainless-steel kitchen. To my right was a hallway, which doubtless led to the bedrooms, although it was obvious that Mora must have preferred to sleep in the large bed in the living room.
Her eyes reflected the humor she must have felt, seeing a dumb kid like me catapulted into a setting like that. "Do you like it?"
"Yes," I answered, awestruck. "I like it."
"Good," she said brightly, "then I'll give you the fifty-cent tour."
Mora led me to the back of the house, which had two bedrooms side by side, with balconies overlooking the street. Next down the hall was a large room with bookcases on three walls, all of them full of books and phonograph records. The middle of the room held a work-table, a simple, straight-back chair, and an artist's easel holding a blank canvas.
"Do you paint?"
"I work at it a bit, but I'm not very good." She shrugged.
"Can I see some of your paintings?"
Mora looked at me intently, her thin lips half smiling. "You'll see them later. You'll see everything later."
The bathroom was next. It contained a sunken tub-shower, the first I had ever seen, plus a large makeup area, a toilet, and a bidet. It was the.first bidet I had ever seen, also, but I had heard about them.
"It's a bidet," she said.
"I know, from France."
Mora laughed. "Right, from France."
When she laughed there was something in her face, her eyes, that made me want to laugh, too.
"Let's go in and sit down," she said.
We entered the living room, where she motioned me to the sofa and headed to a small bar next to the fireplace. "What would you like to drink?"
"Uh, I'll have a scotch and water," I said, making it up on the spur of the moment, because scotch and water was then popular in the movies and I wanted to appear sophisticated.
She turned quickly and, still smiling, said in a slow and very distinct manner, "No, you will not. You will not have a scotch and water, or anything else and water, or a martini, or a grasshopper, because those are drinks for men who are queer or who have no taste. You will also not have a beer, because that is a drink for a man who has no class. You will also not drink anything through a straw, ever, because if you do I will break your pretty head."
I didn't know what to say to that, so, following her advice, I shut up. She put some ice cubes into an old-fashion glass and poured something into it. When she came back she handed it to me and sat down close. "This is bourbon. It's Jack Daniels, one of the best. You will drink it only on ice and after a while you will learn to like it."
She stopped smiling and looked at me purposefully. "Daniels is a man's drink and you're a man. From now on this is what you will order, and always ask for it 'on ice,' never 'over the rocks.' "
I didn't want to argue with Mora. I just wanted to get her naked on that big bed and fuck her, so I tasted it. The first sip sent a shiver through me, but the second was smooth and I found the taste very appealing. "It's good," I said.
"See?" she said, as though she had proved the point.
"Would you like a cigarette?" I asked, pulling out my pack of Luckies. She nodded that she would, so I tapped one up and offered it to her, but she shook her head.
"Put it in your mouth and light it for me, then put it in my mouth." I did. "Never light a cigarette for a lady any other way," she said. "It's much more personal when you do it like that, almost like a gift."
We sat in silence for a minute. I looked around the room and Mora looked at me. Finally her voice broke the – stillness. "Would you like to know why you're here?"
I took another sip of the Daniels and nodded, noticing how soft her complexion was, how her features, plain by themselves, when put together in her particular combination gave a face great beauty, beauty and something else, but I didn't know what.
"The minute I saw you, I wanted you." She paused. "Does that shock you?"
"No," I said. "It's happened before."
Mora smiled and the room brightened. "I don't think you understand. I don't mean I want you just to make love with. I mean I want you as a person, all of you.
"I walked onto that platform today and you were the first thing I saw, just for a fraction before I turned to the crowd, but enough to make me spin back quickly to see you again. I saw your eyes, and they seemed to come before me twenty tunes life size, and I saw so much in them, great depth, great sadness, but most of all, I think I saw in you a capacity to give love that has never been realized. And it made me want to help you develop it, because if you have as much potential as I think you might have", she lowered her voice to a whisper, "then I want to be around to receive it, at least for a while."
I wasn't sure I understood. My brain was reeling from her beauty, from the apartment, the whole situation.
"How old are you?" she asked.
The fatal question. I figured that she was going to find out how shitty I was in bed, anyway, so I might as well tell her the truth and give her a chance to throw me out.
No, that wasn't why. It was because I wanted to tell her the truth, everything. She made me feel as nobody ever had, a strange, warm glow pervaded my insides, and it wasn't the bourbon.
"Fifteen," I said.
It didn't seem to shock her. She only smiled, telling me again with her eyes that it was all right.
I explained to her how I happened to be a musician, and then, following an uncontrollable urge toward total catharsis, I spilled my guts.
I told her about school, my parents, my music, my life as a stud hustler, my life on the streets, the women I had known, my inexperience, my apprehensions about myself, everything. I had been storing it up for so long that I couldn't stop. It was for me a soul-shaking emetic, and Mora's face reflected my moods as I spoke, sometimes frowning and glum, sometimes light and happy, but always with a concern that I knew was personal and deep and genuine.
When I finished, it was dark and I was exhausted. In just a few hours this strange, lovely girl knew me better than friends who had known me for years. What was it about her?
Suddenly it occurred to me that she was a friend, this stranger was perhaps the closest friend I had ever had. It seemed that every time I thought about her I surprised myself with an unanticipated conclusion. What I had thought to be a casual piece of ass was now my best friend.
She had sat for hours and listened to me, not interrupting once, though she must have been tempted many times.
Mora had kicked off her shoes and had tucked her feet under her on the sofa. I was working on my fourth Daniels, and, looking at my watch, noticed that it was almost eight o'clock. I felt much better having talked to her, drained and tired, grimy from the dried sweat of a hot day, but better than I had felt in a long time.
She was looking at me with that funny expression again. "Would you like to take a shower and clean up?"
"I'd love it," I said. "I feel pretty raunchy."
"So do I," she said. "It was so warm out today, and that dressing tent was like a pressure cooker."
She took my hand and brought me to the back bedroom. Opening a large, walk-in closet full of clothes, she fished out a couple of hangers and threw them onto the bed. "You can use these so your clothes won't get wrinkled."
I took off my band jacket, expecting her to leave the room. Instead, she pulled off her sweater and, folding it neatly, put it into the drawer of her dresser bureau. Without even looking at me Mora reached back, unhooked her bra, and took it off, putting it carefully into another drawer and chattering about some of the problems that had developed for her at the fashion show during the day. She unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, hanging it away in the closet before she noticed me staring at her.
Her breasts weren't large, but she certainly wasn't flat-chested, as some of the others had been. They rose out from her gracefully, with small, darkish nipples at the crest.
I was getting hard.
She saw me gawking and came over to me. I wanted to take her in my arms and put her on the bed, but I realized that I didn't have control of the situation. Mora was running the show, and whatever she had in mind, I knew that she would be leading me.
Standing very close, she took off my tie and unbuttoned my shirt. Then, moving away, she stepped out of her slip, sat on the edge of the bed, and, unhooking her stockings, rolled them over thin, smooth legs.
I had taken off my shut, but that was all. She motioned me to the bed beside her but when I sat down she slid off and removed my shoes and socks, moving up to undo my belt and zip down my fly with nimble, practiced fingers. Knowing what I had to do, I stood up and took off my pants, rather ungracefully, and while I was doing that, Mora got out of the panty-girdle she was wearing. The hair between her legs was lighter in color than the hair on her head, almost blond. Her ass was small, solid and athletic.
Fuck it, I figured. If she can strip so nonchalantly, then so can I. Trying to act like I did this sort of thing all the time, I dropped my shorts and kicked them away. My prong sprung out in front of me and I tried not to look down at it.
Mora did. "You have one hell of a hard-on," she said, smiling but not taking her eyes away from it.
"Can't help it, you're very beautiful."
She held out her hand to me and, taking it, I followed her back into the living room.
She pointed over the balcony. "Do you find the view beautiful?"
"Yes," I said.
She led me hack into the study and pulled a large art book from the shelf. Turning to a sylvan scene by one of the baroque masters, she asked, "Do you find that beautiful?"
Again, I said, that I did.
She grabbed my hand and dragged me back into the bedroom, the globes of her ass hardly even jiggling as she guided me purposefully down the hall. She tuned a bedside radio to one of the classical-music stations. They were in the middle of the first movement of Mozart's Hafner Symphony. "Do you find that beautiful?" Mora asked.
"Sure," I said. I knew she was driving at some point, but I still couldn't see it.
She grabbed my hand and marched me across the room to a full-length mirror on the front of the closet door. We stood there naked, looking at ourselves, Mora with her beautiful breasts and dark-golden-covered cunt, and me with my hard cock still sticking out like an unadorned flagpole. "Richard," she said softly, "if the view was so beautiful and the painting was so beautiful and the music was so beautiful, then how come they didn't give you a hard-on?"
I had to laugh. "Because it's pretty tough to make love to a symphony."
But Mora didn't think it was funny. She was looking at me very seriously. She pointed to our reflection in the mirror. "It's just two naked people, that's all. A man, and a woman standing naked, and we're both beautiful, but that's no reason for you to get a hard-on.
"Our stupid, backward, primitive society has told us that there's something shameful about a body, something erotic. But it's a lie, it's all a great big he, so that the popes and rabbis and ministers can keep their businesses going by saving us from the sins that they themselves have created.
"We are beautiful, but we're no more erotic than the view of the Bay, or the painting or the music. We're just two naked human beings who ought to be intelligent enough to see through the fabric of lies and man-created sins with which we have to live.
"Men get excited by big breasts. Why? Because some smart movie producer says that big tits are in this year. In the twenties, men got excited by fiat-chested women. Girls even used to bind their breasts down to make themselves look smaller. At the turn of the century, women we'd consider fat today were considered the most beautiful, and they were. And so are fiat-chested women and women with big tits. I mean, what difference does it make? We all have the same equipment. Some are bigger here and there and some smaller, and so what?
"The only thing that's really exciting you about me is that my body isn't all covered with clothes now, and because somebody once told you that uncovered bodies are supposed to be taboo, are supposed to be so erotic, you talk yourself into believing that they actually are, when they're not.
"I don't care if your cock is ten feet long or two inches long, because it doesn't make any difference. It's you I want, all of you, and your big cock doesn't excite me any more than Jane Russell's big tits ought to excite you. What excites me is that I like you as a person, as a man, because you have subtle, hidden qualities that I sensed when I first saw you, and that excited me tremendously.
"I know what men say to each other, 'Boy! Look at the tits on that one. Gee, what a nice ass she has,' and all of that garbage. It's all so stupid. They're just little boys who grew older but never grew up, and I don't want you to be like that.
"If you want to be excited, then be excited by a whole woman, not just a tit or a cunt or an ass."
It was the first time I had ever heard any woman of quality use those words. Yet they flowed from her so naturally that if she had used the phony words we utter in polite conversation, they would have seemed out of place. She led me down the hall and into the bathroom, and turned on the shower to warm up the water as she continued talking to me.
"Can you imagine all the little boy-men who jacked off to Betty Grable's legs during the war? Or being excited by a girl in a bathing suit?, a lousy bathing suit!" She shook her head. "It's too much to believe! Religion and the puritan ethic, that's what it is, they've made us all sick, all deformed in our minds and our values. We don't even see people anymore, we just see pieces of anatomy."
I thought back to my Varga calendar and my pornographic book, to scenes of jacking off in class while mentally undressing the girl across from me, and I felt embarrassed at my insatiable search for tit and cunt. Mora was right. They were never attached to a girl who I regarded as human, they were just a collection of anatomical odds and ends to put my hands on and my cock into.
We got into the sunken tub-shower. Mora drew the plastic curtain and, taking a bar of soap from a glass shelf, began to wash me.
It was the first time I had showered with a woman. We rubbed each other all over with the delicate-smelling soap, touching and exploring gently. She washed rny genitals and reached around to do my ass, sliding her fingers into the crack and sending little shock waves through me. I was back to full hardness again and when I felt her soapy fingers massage my asshole I thought I would lose my load down the drain.
I soaped her breasts, belly, and pubic hair, letting her fingers guide me down to her cunt, and then still further down to her ass, as she bowed her legs so that I could reach everything. She came into my arms and, slippery with suds, we rubbed our bodies together in a slow, side-to-side motion.
It was a tremendously erotic feeling, standing there with sheets of warm water cascading over us. With her heels off, Mora was several inches shorter than I. I wanted to grab her and hold her to me fully, but she pushed me gently, preferring that our bodies just barely touch. The feeling produced was electric, much better than flesh hard on flesh.
She turned around and backed into me, and with her soapy-soft backside against me I caressed her breasts and belly, slippery-wet and yielding. I tried to squat down to shove my cock into her from behind, but she turned around again, put her mouth to my ear, and whispered, "No, I'll tell you when."
Standing there with the water pouring down on us, I was finally hit by the "aha phenomenon." It finally sunk in just what she was doing to me, the bourbon, the cigarettes, the lecture on nudity, and now the shower, showing me how much better it was to touch lightly than heavily.
She was teaching me. She was taking a poor, dumb kid who really knew nothing and she was going to teach him, what? How to love? How to fuck? How to live? I didn't know, but I decided that I would have to look a long time to find as beautiful or as knowledgeable a teacher. I made my mind up not to fight her, but to learn all I could.
Among the few smart things I've ever done, that was the smartest.