John Holmes - Porn King

“Where have you been all day, John?” Someone in the family would ask when I returned home.

“Walking in the woods,” I’d reply. Or “hunting.” I didn’t dare tell the truth. The library had become my secret hiding place where I could weave fantasies without their interference. The first really happy time in my life, thinking back, was spent sitting by myself reading a stack of books.

The library happened to be located in what was known as Town Hall. The police department and jail were in the basement; on the top floor were administrative and mayor’s offices. The rest of the building housed the local movie theater. That was another good place to escape on the one day a week when it was open and I could afford the price of admission. We didn’t get too many big movies, mainly old Westerns and serials with Lash LaRue, Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers. I especially liked the way Lash LaRue brought the bad guys to their knees with his whip. I wanted one like it to beat the shit out of Harold.

The really good movies played in Columbus, but that didn’t stop me. I’d hop a bus and I was on my way to the big city. With John Wayne or Spencer Tracy waiting at the other end, I would have trekked almost anywhere. I often saw their films two and three times, if not in one sitting then on successive weekends.

Not all of the movies that passed through town were wholesome and clean; some never even made it to Columbus. I’d recently turned twelve when I heard about a foreign film that was causing quite a furor across the country. The movie starred a young French actress, Brigitte Bardot, and from its title, And God Created Woman, it sounded rather pious. According to the paper, it definitely wasn’t. There were scenes where Bardot, who was fast becoming known as a “sex kitten,” bared her breasts while portraying a pouting child-woman who openly advocated freedom of choice in sexual partners. Members of our town council insisted on screening the film prior to scheduling it for showing in the local theatre, a practice they followed with every film. How else could they uphold the strict moral standards of the community? Silently, the council members probably enjoyed Bardot and her shameless sexual appetite (on film, anyway), but being responsible men, they blackballed the movie. The fuss they created in judging the film “dirty” undoubtedly left more of an impression on me than if I’d seen it.

Sex was not a subject to be discussed openly. The slightest reference to anything sexual at a mixed gathering brought gasps and glares from the women present, and a certain reprisal for the offending party later on. No one fondled in public; few people touched. Men told “shady” stories and talked of lustful escapades in private or in small groups at neighborhood taverns. Boys gathered in hidden places, like behind barns, to exchange secrets meant only for young ears. As kids growing up in Farm County, we all knew what was going on. We’d have had to wear blinders not to know. Everywhere we looked, animals were mating, constantly and without inhibition. Watching them became a natural part of our lives. My first sexual experience occurred when I was eight years old. I’d fooled around some before that, playing “stinky finger” with one of the little neighborhood girls, but nothing more serious than “let me touch yours and I’ll let you touch mine.” She touched—at time stroking my “thing” as if it was a pet snake—and I probed. We both giggled.

There were no laughs with Gloria. Every once in a while Mother and Harold liked to go into town at night. Mother hesitated leaving me alone after dark (my brothers and Ann were never home), so she lined up a baby sitter. Young girls who’d work for nothing weren’t easy to find, but Gloria didn’t mind. A few jars of Mother’s homemade preserves would be payment enough, thank you.

Gloria was a high school sophomore and very pretty, although slightly on the chunky side. She wore tight sweaters and skirts, which tended to make her appear heavier than she really was. “I’ve found a new diet,” she’d tell me each time she came to visit. Do you think it’s doing any good?” Then she’d stand before a mirror, suck in her stomach, and rub her hands along her ample hips, thighs and breasts.

One night, Gloria put me to bed and went directly into the adjoining bathroom, leaving the door partially open. I didn’t think anything about it; in fact, I tried to sleep, but Gloria had other plans for me. It wasn’t the light that bothered me, nor the sound of water running into the wash basin. It was Gloria herself. Gloria in action! From my bed I could see not only Gloria’s reflection in one of the full-length bathroom mirrors, but also Gloria peeling off her clothes. She liked to disrobe and admire herself. She was good at it, too. She performed one of the most erotic stripteases I’ve ever seen. The only thing missing was bump-and-grind music.

Standing before the mirror, as if in a spotlight, she unbuttoned her blouse and slowly let it fall from her shoulders to the floor. Then she unhooked her bra, shaking the straps loose one by one until her huge breasts were fully exposed. Unzipping her skirt, she stepped out it and pulled down her panties. Fully naked, she stood basking in her own reflection, caressing her body with smooth, tender strokes. Except for the photos in the nudist magazine, which I hardly remembered, I’d never seen a woman naked before. I knew I liked it.

Gloria could see me in the mirror just as I could see her. I pretended to be asleep, but she wasn’t fooled; she knew I wasn’t lying under a tent pole. It pleased her to know that her body excited me, even though I wouldn’t let on. “What do you think you’re looking at?” She shrieked, as if suddenly stunned to discover she was being watched. She held a towel primly against her breasts, even though she knew full well that I could see her breasts, even though she knew full well that I could see her exposed backside in the mirror. “I know what you’re thinking, you bad boy.” I was certain that God would strike me dead!

Once Gloria had her say she returned to the mirror for more self-examination and adoring caresses. When she tired of that, she moved to the bathroom sink, filled it with warm water, and began washing herself with a dampened cloth. This process took a good half-hour, most of which was spent on her breasts. Gloria worshiped her breasts, and they were magnificent, large and firm with dollar-sized pink disks surrounding the nipples. She washed over them, and around them, and under them, the repeated the cycle before moving down her stomach and between her legs. Finished at last, she disappeared momentarily. The next thing I knew, she was standing over me wearing only a towel, sarong-style. “Did you take a bath before you went to bed?” she barked. I had, but I didn’t want her to know. More than anything, I wanted to get in the bathroom with her. “No,” I fibbed.

“Well, you have to take one,” she ordered. Gloria marched out of the room and started filling the tub. I followed in my underwear and watched as the water began to rise. She squirted something under the faucet that brought forth a wave of bubbles. “OK, get in,” she said, “and make sure you wash everything.”

As I pulled off my underwear and stepped into the foamy tub, Gloria returned to the basin, dropped her towel, and began cleansing herself all over again. With her back to me, my view was obstructed, but from the position of her hands I could tell she was working around her genitalia. “What are you staring at?” she snapped, looking over her shoulder. “Nothing,” I gulped.

She glared momentarily before darting toward me to grab my ear. Tugging at it, she said angrily, “Don’t you ever wash these things?” Without waiting for an answer, she took the wash rag, the one she’d been using on herself, soaped it and stuck it in my ear—hard (Gloria had the strength of a bull). I started to yell, but she ran the soapy rag across my mouth, muffling my cries. “Now for the rest of you,” she said.