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Jeffrey was 19. At 6-2 and 225, he was, well, gawky. That was the kind description–gawky. Athleticism, coordination, strength, confidence, maturity–they had not yet caught up with his physical size. So he was…gawky. Uncomfortable in his skin. Felt like he stood out in a crowd. Like he was always bumping into things. Like he was a freak.
Of course, this was Miami Beach. Lots of freaks, even in 1965. At Miami Beach High School, he had been, to the other boys, the freak. The geek. The circus clown. To the basketball and football coaches, he had been a dream come true. And to the girls, those hormone-laden, curiosity-driven, sexuality-swelling girls, well, he had been a constant source of whispers.
“You don’t think his could be …”
“Look at the size of his hands…you know what they say …”
“I don’t think I could …”
A constant source of amusement, amazement, entertainment.
But at 19, a freshman at the U, he was still oblivious to most of it—and still a virgin. In 1965 it wasn’t unusual for college freshmen to be virgins—many were. But some were not, and in 1965, the sexual revolution had not yet happened—the kids who were not virgins were the “bad kids,” especially the girls. They were “loose.” Like all boys his age, he was aware of his desires. He looked at the girls. A lot. But having grown almost a foot in nine months, he was most aware of his own body, how odd it looked, how strange it felt, how out of place he believed he was.
Then there was his family. The fucking family. These were some of the craziest people on the Beach, he thought. His uncles, Ed, Len, Sid, Merv. His father’s brothers. They drove motorcycles. They smoked weed. They cheated on their wives. They fought with each other. Really fought! Fists. Blood and bruises. Real anger. (Well, maybe not Sid. Sid was a lover. He was more interested in girls. He wouldn’t fight. Might mess up his face.). But for the rest, fighting was a way of life. They’d grown up on the Beach. Went to school on the Beach, before it was “The Beach.” Fucked every girl they could get their hands on. Watched it change. Watched it grow. Grew with it. Watched the influx of New Yorkers and their money change the Beach. Watched the culture morph, right before their eyes, from their little town on the island into the playground of the western world. Fought, every day, for their little piece of the action. Grew up fighters.
Suddenly there was money on the Beach, and with money came glamour. And strangers, and celebrities, and con men, and hookers, and pimps, and dandies, and thugs, and cops, and guns. And excitement. A lifestyle made for these five brothers. Ed, Len, Sid, Merv. And Harv. His father. Sanest one of the bunch, although sanity was a relative term.
But by 1965 the Beach had changed again. The glitz had moved on, to Hollywood, to the Caribbean, to the French Riviera. A lot of ex-pat Americans who had made fortunes in Batista’s Cuba had come back to the Beach after Castro’s revolution in 1958 to find a sad, deteriorating Miami Beach, and they had settled into the work-a-day lifestyles of “The American Dream” and waited for their chance to go back to Havana. Soon. And of course, there were the old people, thousands and thousands of retired New Yorkers and Philadelphians and Chicagoans, who had retired to Miami Beach for the warmth of the sun and the lifestyle of the rich and famous, although most of them had gotten there too late.
This was not the South Beach of Miami Vice, of Crockett and Tubbs, of CSI-Miami and Horatio Cane, of beautiful, wealthy, long-legged Eurotrash and South-American girls in scanty clothes. This was 1961. It was dreary, post-glamour grey. About the best you could say about Miami Beach now was that it was sunny and warm. All the time, sunny and warm. Actually, sunny and hot. All the time sunny and hot. And humid. Damp-shirts-sticking-to-your-body sunny, hot and humid. Always-a-drop-of-sweat-on-the-end-of-your-nose sunny, hot, and humid.
This was the flat, hot, full-of-old-people Miami Beach in which Jeffrey grew up, and still lived in, even though he was in college now. Nineteen and large, he was a mass of contradictions—conscientious student, potential star athlete (the operative word here being “potential”), physical geek, object of the fantasies of high-school girls.
He did love the girls. At least he thought he did. He was too shy to say much to them, but he did love looking at them with their damp shirts sticking to their bodies (Beach High had little air conditioning in 1964, and what it had was mostly ineffective). He thought often about their bodies—what they would look like with no clothes on, how it would feel to touch them, to stroke their breasts, to run his hands up and down their legs.
He was obsessed with their breasts. Mostly small, round, firm, upright breasts, pushing out against tight, damp blouses. Occasionally he could see the small, dark circles in the centers if one of the girls wore a flimsy bra and a white blouse. That really turned him on. He would go home after school, şişli escort lock the bedroom door, fantasize about one girl or another, and stroke his cock until he came into a towel.
He had discovered masturbation a couple of years earlier. He had awoken one night from a wild dream. In the dream it was night, and he was on the beach with two—TWO!!—of his classmates. They were all naked. The girls sat directly in front of him, stroking his cock and his nipples while he played with their breasts, and then all of a sudden he experienced a violent, pulsing orgasm that woke him up. The next day he found himself alone in the house and he tried to recreate that feeling. He undressed, sat on his bed, closed his eyes and tried to re-imagine the dream. Consciously re-creating the fantasy, he imagined much more detail.
Mangoes. In his fantasy he thought of the girls’ breasts as mangoes. Soft, over-ripe, fleshy mangoes, with stems sticking out. He had never actually seen a girl’s breasts except in a magazine he found in his father’s closet. And in the pictures, the breasts were enormous. Not like the breasts of the girls HE knew. The girls he knew had breasts like—mangoes, that is how he imagined them, contained by brassieres, under damp cotton blouses.
He closed his eyes and imagined sitting cross-legged on the beach, two beautiful, suntanned, bikini-clad co-eds sitting, facing him, with their legs spread wide as he moved in closer. He imagined that he was gently squeezing the breasts—in the fantasy the girls had no faces, only breasts—and playing with the nipples, as if they were overripe fruit. They were soft and pliable. He knew what they felt like, like mangoes; mangoes grew everywhere on the Beach. He kneaded them with gentle fingertips, flicking the nipples, trailing his fingers around the dark, round circles of the aureoles, and the girls moaned softly. He imagined them beginning to stroke themselves between their legs. He watched them trace small circles at the tops of their vaginas—he knew there was something there, but he wasn’t sure just what it was—but he watched them play with themselves, occasionally pushing a finger or two between the swollen lips, spreading the lips of their pussies to expose the pink inner flesh, getting their fingers wet and making those small circles again, faster now, and accompanied by moans of pleasure.
With eyes still closed, his hands moved involuntarily to his own now swollen erection as he heard the girls’ moans grow in frequency and intensity. The hands in his mind continued playing with four breasts while the hands at the end of his arms stroked his cock and lifted his balls off the bed and massaged them with insistent fingertips. As one girl, then the other laid back and brought herself to a loud and shaking orgasm, his own cock shook, then tightened, and then exploded in pulses of hot cum, into the white towel he had draped over his lap to catch the mess. He fell back on the bed and felt himself spasm again and again, holding the towel tight against his cock, trying to keep the warm fluid off the bed (he didn’t want his mother to know what he was doing, after all). He cleaned up the best he could, embarrassed that he might get caught, and tried to think of what to say if he did. Never occurred to him that his parents had had the same experiences or knew that he was getting to “that age.”
But a couple of days later, his father said something sly to him, almost as if he knew, but he never raised the issue again.
But by nineteen, he had become a master of masturbation, quick or slow, whatever the circumstance allowed. He could raise an erection in seconds if the opportunity arose. He had also become a collector of porn magazines, which were available in the news stands along Washington Avenue, and which he used to help him conjure up his fantasies. The newsstand guys all knew him, calling him by name to get his attention if they saw him walking down the Avenue, showing him the latest dirty magazine. He ate them up. And he always had money. He was from the fruit-stand family, and everyone on the Beach knew the fruit-stand family. It’s why he hadn’t left town to go to college. He worked at the family fruit stand.
The fucking fruit stand. They called it the fruit stand because that’s how it started more than fifty years earlier. It had become a very successful store on Espanola Way, and then moved to bigger digs up by the Lincoln Road mall. Fresh fruit and vegetables Uncle Len bought every morning at the produce market over in Miami. They sold only the best fruit and vegetables, the biggest, most beautiful pieces. The ugly ones, the small ones, the ones with bruises, got cut up and made into fruit salad or tossed salad or tomato-and-cucumber salad, whatever they had to use up.
Jeffrey worked in the back, every day before school and all day Saturdays, cutting up oranges and grapefruits and melons and bananas, chopping onions and celery and lettuce, making packages of ready-made salads for customers who were too busy, or too lazy, or too old taksim escort to make their own. It was a terrific scam. They could make more money on a bruised orange than on a big beautiful one, by making it into something else. A tomato and a cucumber were a dime each. A tomato-and-cucumber salad with a couple of pieces of onion, some oil and vinegar and oregano, was a buck and a half. And business was great. There was always lots of money.
His uncles were always talking about girls. And sex. They occasionally teased him about still being a virgin. Every time a good-looking woman came in the store, Uncle Sid asked him if he would fuck her. Would he? Could he? Would he know how? And they were always telling him how sex was like fruit. Breasts were compared to fruits: cantaloupes or casabas or cranshaws, peaches or plums, grapefruits or (God forbid) cranberries. Women had cunts like ripe strawberries, nipples like raspberries, asses like honeydews. Cocks were cucumbers. Testicles were walnuts (or coconuts if one of them hadn’t gotten any in a while). That’s why Jeffrey thought of breasts as mangoes. Uncle Sid once told Jeffrey that fucking a girl felt like sticking his cock into an extremely overripe banana (think soft, soft flesh that resisted a little, then gave way, inside a tough banana skin). He once cut the end off a soft, old, dark-brown banana and asked him if he wanted to fuck the banana. Nice!
And that’s how it came to be that Jeffrey was finally to lose his cherry (that was what Uncle Sid called it). One Saturday morning, around eleven, Uncle Len came into the back room and said,” Jeffrey, I need your help. I left my glasses home, and I need them. Could you go get them for me?”
Jeffrey looked up from his workbench and said, “Sure. Just let me wash up.” He didn’t notice the other four brothers standing huddled together and grinning just beyond the door into the front of the store. Uncle Len and Uncle Sid, both currently divorced, shared an apartment a few blocks from the store. An easy walk on a hot South-Florida morning.
“Take the elevator,” Uncle Len said. “The cleaning lady is probably there. Just go right into my bedroom; I think I left my stuff on the bed.” Wink. Jeffrey didn’t notice.
“Sure,” he replied. “I’ll be back in a half hour.”
“Take your time.” Wink.
Three blocks over to West Avenue and up to the corner at Eleventh, Jeffrey rode the private elevator up to the bachelor pad that took up the whole top floor of the building. The elevator opened into a small entry foyer, which gave way to a large leather-and-glass-decorated living room. The kitchen was to the right, and the bedrooms were at opposite ends of a hallway through an entry way and past the living room. Uncle Len’s room was to the left.
Jeffrey went down the hall and into the bedroom, and there she was. The cleaning lady. But this was no cleaning lady. She was sitting up in bed, sheets draped over her legs, naked from the waist up.
“Hi. You must be Jeffrey. Come on over here. I’m Crystal. I’m a present from Uncle Len and Uncle Sid.”
She didn’t look much like Jeffrey had imagined his first fuck would look like. She wasn’t a tight, young high-school girl, she didn’t look much like the girls he saw at the beach. She didn’t look much like the women in the magazines. She must have been about forty, looked like she must have been attractive once. Now she just looked old. Her hair was brown and cut very short. Her face was pretty, but not beautiful. Worn-looking. Her breasts didn’t look like any fruit he had ever seen. Not cantaloupes. Not grapefruits. Certainly not mangoes. They looked sort of like half-deflated balloons. The nipples were large, soft, flat, and pointed down. He couldn’t see her legs, but her belly was soft and round. She looked like she’d been around a bit.
“Uh…hi?”
“Well. You’re a big one, aren’t you? Like your father.”
“You know my father?”
“Harvey? Like, who on the Beach doesn’t know Harvey? He’s the good-looking one.”
His father got around.
“Jeffrey, why don’t you come over here? I’m paid for for two hours.”
He needed to hear that.
On the other hand, he was about to get laid, and he wouldn’t have to beg for it. Or stumble through the uncomfortable parts—like the preening, the petting, the inevitable social dance kids go through as they grope their way through sex when they are young. He figured that he was in the hands of a professional now, and at least he would get it right the first time.
“Okay. Let me get undressed.”
“Leave your shorts on. “I’ll take them off for you.”
He kicked off his shoes, dropped his pants to the floor, and unbuttoned his shirt. It was damp with sweat. Of course.
She drew the sheets back, exposing her fleshy thighs. He walked slowly over to the bed and started to sit down.
“Wait,” she said. “Stand there.”
She scooted over so that she was sitting on the edge of the bed facing him. She reached out and began to slide his shorts down over his legs. çapa escort His erection caused her to pause a moment and admire. Even though she was a pro, and had seen more cocks than she could remember, she had to admire his size. Not bad, she thought. This might actually be interesting.
She got his shorts down around his ankles, managing to brush her lips against his strong, youthful erection as she did. As she sat back up, she did it again. His knees buckled slightly.
And he came. Standing up. Shot hot cum all over her face, in her hair.
“Fuck,” she muttered.
He stood there, mortified, unable to move from where he stood, his feet rooted to the floor. He looked down at his still-throbbing cock as it squeezed out a few more shots of cum onto the rug. His cock began to deflate and point back down toward the floor.
“I guess that’s it then?” he asked. “I guess I’ll go back to work.”
“Not on your life, sweetheart. I got you for two hours. Sit down. I want to wash up.”
She stepped off the bed and brushed past him toward the bathroom. He heard the water running, then the toilet flush, then the water again. She padded back to the bed, talking quietly to herself.
“Okay, then. We’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s get to work. I’ve got two hours to get that thing back up to size and teach you a few things. You ready?” A pro.
She pushed him down onto the bed. And smiled.
He was on his back, his legs bent at the knees over the edge of the bed. Crystal sat down next to him, and he started to sit up.
“No,” she said. “Just lay back. We’re going to go slow now, and you are just going to lay there and do what you’re told. This’ll be worth it, I promise.”
“I …”
“Shhh!. Talk later. I’ll tell you when.”
She rose to her knees, swung her left leg over him, and straddled his waist, facing him and resting on her knees. She began by tracing small circles around his nipples. Slowly. Maddeningly slowly. While she did so, she talked to him. In a low, guttural voice.
“This is what you want girls to do to you,” she said. “Tell them how much you love it.”
Every so often she pinched one of his nipples. Hard.
“Ouch!” he cried.
“Shhhhh!. That doesn’t hurt. It tingles. It feels good. Doesn’t it feel good?”
“No! It hurts.”
“It won’t always hurt. It’ll feel good.
She pinched again, a little softer this time. “Better?”
Then she leaned forward and kissed his right nipple. Then bit it, but gently. And suddenly, his nipples didn’t hurt any more. In fact, they tingled. Just like she said. Tingled. He could feel it up and down his spine. She kissed the left one. And bit it gently. Then licked it, flicked it with her tongue, licked it again, then bit it again, a little harder.
He groaned. “Ooooooooohhhhhh…”
“Yeah, I though so.”
She went back to work on the right nipple. Lick. Flick. Bite. Flick. Lick. Then the left. Right. Left. Right. Left.
“Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhh…”
This went on for a while, and although he hadn’t gotten another erection yet, his head was spinning deliriously. Every pleasure center in his body was buzzing. He found himself absent-mindedly reaching for and stroking his soft dick, hoping, trying to get it to rise again. He felt tingling, but so far no motion.
She rolled over onto her back. “Now, you do it to me.”
He straddled her like she had straddled him. He reached down to her breasts, which laid soft, flat, and wide on her chest, nipples large, bigger than silver dollars. The tips, too, were large and soft, but when he touched them, they seemed to firm up and rise. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do, so what he did was mimic what she’d done to him. His fingers traced circles around her nipples, and he flicked the tips like he might flick a fly off the table.
“No,” she said, “not like that. Lick your fingers. Get them real wet. That’s it. Now, take one, the right one—no, no, the other right one, yeah, that’s it–between the thumb and forefinger of your right hand, and roll it around, but gently, like it’ll break if you squeeze it too hard. Keep your fingers wet. Lick them again. Now, take the whole breast, from the underside, and hold it in your left hand. Hold it up. Press your hands together a little bit—that’s it, give it a little pressure from both sides…aaahhhhhh, yes, that’s it. That’s good. Keep doing that…good. Now, while you’re doing that, lean down and kiss the nipple. Kiss it, lick it—keep rolling it between your fingers, keep it wet. Yeah, that’s it. A little harder. Aahhhh, good. Ouch. Wait. That hurt.
“Okay. Listen, but don’t stop. Do it more gently. Little circles, gentle pinches. Gentle. That’s it. If you’re going to be a good fuck, you have to understand a few rules. Here’s rule number one: When a girl says ‘Harder,’ she means just a tiny bit harder. Just a tiny bit. You want to add pressure only in tiny little amounts. If she wants you to hurt her, she’ll say, ‘Hurt me.’ Then, don’t quite hurt her. Make her say ‘Hurt me’ again. Make sure. If she really wants you to hurt her, she’ll let you know. But be careful. Some girls are into pain, but not that many. You may find that you like it too, but that is for another time. Pain is something that two people ought to explore together. And very carefully.
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