Richard Sharon - Diary of a Lover

I slid into the seat, somehow found the ignition, and with my shoes on my lap I left the scene, donating most of the rubber from my rear tires to the pavement in front of Bonnie's house.

When I saw her after school on Monday she was waiting for me by my car and looking around nervously. As I came up to her she started to cry, and as if to distract my attention offered me a small paper bag. My shirt and one sock were balled up inside of it.

Her parents had grounded her for a year. Bonnie went to Lowell High School, which was not in the area where she lived, but did have a student body that was about ninety percent Jewish. All Jewish parents, especially those with girls, pulled strings so that their children could go to Lowell and meet Nice Jewish Boys, so that they wouldn't be infected by association with goyishe trash. Bonnie got out of school at three-thirty, and her parents wanted her home by four. Yet she had taken the time to come to my school and let me know what happened.

Neither of her parents were speaking to her. Her mother told her father that we were doing something awful, something worse than intercourse. She said that she couldn't date, or even go out with girl friends for a year-no school activities, no movies, no dances, no nothing,

I told Bonnie that I was sorry, and I was.

I told her that I would try to see her sometime soon, but I never did.

Anyway, I quickly forgot Bonnie, and as I became accustomed to being on my own, time passed more rapidly. My seventeenth birthday came and went, so did my junior year in high school. Relations with my parents improved after I finally told them the truth about how long I had been living alone. No matter how much Jewish parents may be convinced that their son is a no-goodnick living a fast and loose life, a report card containing all A's can smooth their discomfort in a hurry. I had moved to three different apartments since my first little basement room, which I found too depressing; first to an older place in the outer Richmond district, the kind with bench seats built into bay windows with no view of the Bay, then to a more modern apartment in the Marina district, where the weather was nicer, and finally into a newly completed fourplex, one-bedroom furnished apartment at the corner of Franklin and Jackson, on the edge of Pacific Heights. The rent was one hundred forty-five dollars, considered moderately expensive at the time. The apartment had a stainless-steel kitchen with a full-size range and refrigerator, a garbage drop, a garage, and above all it was light and cheerful and new.

My mother, her maternal instincts revived, took me shopping for furniture. I ended up with conservatively modern stuff: a couch, two easy chairs, lamps, tables, a small dinette set, and a blondwood bedroom set complete with vanity and mirror. My father, just to prove that his heart was in the right place and by way of a peace offering, paid for the whole thing. If he'd known how much I had in my bank account, he wouldn't have done it.

I was really excited about the apartment. It was the first place I had lived in that I really considered a home for myself. I was happy and content to stay alone and read, study, and listen to music. I bought a big bookcase, which soon became filled with books, magazines, and records, and I got a real hi-fi to replace the old portable phonograph I had used. The walls became filled with paintings and pictures of my own choosing. Life had become a ball.

I played jobs three or four nights per week; during the summer vacation before my senior year I got a job playing five nights a week with the relief group at the Jazz House. My love life prospered. For a while I had so much cunt I didn't know what to do with it all. I picked up girls at dances or around the club. Chicks seemed to be all over the place and ranged in age from twenty-one to fifty. They stayed with me overnight, or at the most for a few days, until I tired of them. None of them really had anything in common with me outside of the fact that I wanted their bodies, the experiences, the varieties, and differences of them. My problem was created mostly by Mora. After the first night, because they were used to jack-rabbit husbands and thoughtless lovers, they wanted more, wanted to come back. I got to the point where I would be in bed with one girl and two more would phone to ask if I was free, so I had to keep the receiver off the hook. Then the doorbell started ringing, while my bed partner and I tried to ignore it.

I finally realized that the only thing that works when you want to get rid of a woman is to be callous and abusive. So when I tired of a cunt, which was always in a few days, I would throw her out almost bodily. And even then, some would phone me back, and they would apologize for whatever it was they thought they had done to offend me. I was no sexual -superman. Unlike the heroes of the porno novels, I couldn't come twenty times a night, or ten, or even five. Many evenings I was lucky to make it twice, but I did know how to please, and how to treat a woman as if I appreciated her.

During the summer the guys from our combo, plus some other friends decided to have a smoker. They arranged to have stag movies and two call girls. The fee was twenty-five dollars apiece for eight guys, twenty for the girls and five for the films, with everybody bringing his own booze. I would never have dreamed of paying for a woman, but I agreed to go five for the movies. So they got another guy to make a ninth because the girls needed eighty each.

The smoker was held at the apartment of an alto man, Bud, who didn't play with our group. It was on Sacramento Street, way up on Nob Hill, and, while it was old, it had a lot of rooms.

I arrived late with my five bucks and no bottle, never having been a great (or even a poor) drinker. There were only seven guys there, including myself, and the two girls, to whom I was immediately introduced. Rita was a tall blonde of about twenty-five who looked like she had been pretty well used. I gave her a year before she would be sitting in bars, waiting to pick up Johns. She was just about through as a call girl, and I had seen enough of them to know when they got "the look."

The other girl was Terry. She was short, with smooth, olive skin and black hair. She was a doll, cute and pixyish, with dark, lustrous eyes. The same glance that told me Rita was an old call girl told me that Terry was a new one. Her eyes were fresh, her complexion clear, but most important, she didn't have that hard look about her.

Both girls were wearing lacy bras and panties. Rita had on heels and Terry was barefoot. They smiled and waved as I said hello. There was something about Terry that I liked at once, and when she looked at me I could tell that she liked me, too. Everyone around the room was talking, all trying to monopolize the girls. I stood off to the side, not wishing to compete. But Terry's eyes and mine we're catching, even when she was conversing with somebody else. Bud, our host, was swacked out of his mind already. Lew, who was Bud's friend, was getting antsy about the other two guys showing up. He disappeared for a few minutes to phone but was unable to reach either of them, although he talked to the wife of one.

Meanwhile, Bud had Terry pinned against the wall and was trying to lift her breast out of her bra, slobbering drunkenly all over her chest. A couple of other guys came over and started feeling her legs and crotch. I caught the look on her face, panic; she couldn't cope with it. I walked over and held out my hand over Bud's bobbing head. Terry grabbed it and I gave her a yank, pulling her bodily from the horny group, and yelled that I wanted to talk to her for a minute. We crossed the room. "I just wanted to get you away from all that," I said.

"Thanks," she said, "I didn't want to run away, but I didn't know what else to do."