Hugh Kissasse - A Little Night Nookie

But Uncle George wasn't risking that; it was something else. Old George had a very close friendship with Miss Lula Grover, a young and curvy spade chick who lived in Gomera Junction, nine miles down the main highway-about ten minutes drive if you leaned on it, and Uncle George leaned on it whenever he got word that Miss Lula Grover's boy friend, Mr. Aldridge Sutter, was off on business elsewhere.

As I saw it, Mr. Sutter's function was physical and spiritual stimulation, which I rather thought Miss Lula needed a whole lot of; and my Uncle George, besides getting something stimulated himself, supplied one of the other ingredients a girl needs to stay young and beautiful-namely bread, loot, or cash, to be crude about it.

I was pretty well in on the whole thing, for one reason or another, as I earnestly hoped Mr. Aldridge Sutter wasn't Mr. Aldridge Sutter was a large, wide, gorgeous hunk of shiny black muscle, who had been a railroad worker before he entered new fields. He was now, believe it or not, a playwright and poet, and something in demand; he often went about organizing riots, protesting, turning up on TV, and lecturing to white folks who wanted to have their consciences shaken up.

Speaking of the great race thing, we are way ahead of the ignorant South up here in Connecticut, and while blacks still get paid less, work harder, and can't go around getting too uppity in some places, there are some things where equality goes, baby. I mean for instance, if Uncle George happened to get caught while clutching Lula's elegant coffee-colored body in his arms, he would undoubtedly get the finest thumping Mr. Aldridge Sutter could hand out, and there would be no lyching afterward either; just a good many laughs-on Uncle George.

As for my knowing about it, well… that's a long story, and mostly, it comes from my close friendship with Lula's younger sister Jill, who confides things. Also, from my fascination with Mr. Aldridge Sutter, who is such a luscious lump of pure, vibrating male that I am damn sure any well-brought-up Southern girl would have dropped her pantalettes and begged to be defiled after one look at him. He was a living bilThoard in favor of miscegenation, and I itched to be miscegenated, should the chance arrive.

So, knowing that Lula was going to be her seductive self, nine miles away, I figured out the chances on Uncle George. Three fifteen, arrive; two rounds, a rest, some discussion of Lula's finances, and arrival at a figure, followed by one more round, and a longer rest. Three was about usual according to Jill, and at Uncle George's age, it was phenomenal. But then, there were all those vitamins, free after all.

So, when Uncle George, baldheaded, pink, and respectable, came in the front door, I was just descending, also pink and respectable, to carol a girlish greeting, and pop off to check Mrs. Achover, our housekeeper and cook. The image of a nice girl, that's me.

But I was laying my plans now. Harold's performance was so impressive that I had to plan really wild sequels. And, if he got Dottie… well, I'd be doing her a favor, I could see that. A favor deserves a favor, doesnt' it?

Some day, if I ever can figure out how, I'm going to find out something that puzzles me. It's this: Here we are in South Sodom, Connecticut, which looks just like everywhere else in the whole country, as far as I can see-same kind of people, same everything, right? I don't think we're any different here, so maybe the question I have is the same all over. The older people all do the same things, and pretend they don't, and you know what things, as well as I do. But most of them seem to really believe kids axe different from themselves. They really think we know nothing at all. And, they get awfully surprised and shocked when one of us gets caught doing something they do every day, as if it were something really unique.

So, my question is very simple, really. Are kids like my generation something new, or are all these grown people lying about that, too? Did people act so differently, back in the dark ages, before I came along?

I had a habit of thinking deep thoughts, that way, all the time. And that little incident with Harold certainly gave me plenty to think about, except that every time I thought about it I got all hot in the crotch and slightly woozy. At least once in the next couple of days I thought about it so hard I nearly wet myself. On the other hand, Harold was obviously doing his best not to recall any such events, and careful not to get into a spot where it might happen again.

That's something else I thought about. I mean, I always understood women were less sexy than men, or at least that they were more moral about it, or something. But I was beginning to think it was another story about the same as the one about storks.

But if there was one thing that was pretty clear, it was that it wasn't going to be easy to get that stud Harold in the saddle again. And now that I'd actually tried it, I could hardly wait for more of it. But as I've already said, most of the males around who could even be thought of as suitable were cagey cats, and you could tell that the thought of that statutory rape stuff was right up front in their heads.

For a while, I seriously considered old Bo, my movie swain, but there were reasons why not. For instance, I could possibly get him alone, but the chances were it would take place in that old Buick of his, and it didn't look comfortable. A second reason was that I was sure, from reading, that Be was probably pretty second rate in the screwing department; young eager types like him just get the thing in an inch or two, give two or three sliding motions, and go off, leaving the female half of the combination in a steamingly unsatisfied state. And third, and most important, Be was a great talker, and before you knew it, my reputation would be pretty much all over town.

One thing about Harold you could count on; he'd never talk about it. If he ever got caught, it wouldn't do a bit of good to go on about the ancient Egyptians, and how brother and sister used to ball as a regular thing. They wouldn't care about any old ancient Egyptians. Nope.

So, that left the idea of getting him into the sack with Dottie, and, since I most certainly wasn't going to get left out, me too.

I knew one thing about Dottie, and I was pretty sure Harold didn't know-that she wasn't a virgin. Of course, her sex life had been pretty microscopic, consisting of one fun filled hour or less in the back of that same Buick belonging to Bo. It had been Bo's friend Sam who had done the deflowering. (By the way, there's a funny word. I used to think there was some sort of daisy stuck in there, when I was around nine, and I looked for it once or twice but never could find it.)

According to Dottie, Sam had been really slick about getting her pants off and her dress up around her neck, and getting her so hot with all sorts of finger-fucking and the like that she couldn't say word one, let alone No. And there she was, with the springs under her going throom, and her ankles out on the window in the back seat, all spread out; so Sam came down like the well-known lion, but after a half hour of getting it in there and twitching, he left like a lamb. With apologies yet-which, from Dottie's account, were richly required.

Dottie had told me all about it, including her present conviction that sex was something of a bust, and probably wasn't worth the trouble. Sam had definitely caused a poor image, all right. As l saw it, it was up to me to reverse the image if possible.

My campaign began fast; I was at Dottie's house after school, and we were mutually be-wailing problems, such as the school grade situation, me with my trouble with math, and Dottie having problems in English. There was nobody else at home, which made it a good time for bright ideas.