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Archive name: man602.txt (MF, rom)
Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Story title : Man on Page 602
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This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 2004. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
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The Man on Page 602
by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
***
She writes. She plays an instrument. She sings. She
dances. (If you really must know, her bedtime talents
are more than adequate as well.) So what's left? Finding
a reason. (MF, rom)
***
AUTHOR'S NOTES: History beats fiction. To wit, the 1975
country music line, "Look and see; you'll agree. He's
got personality." If "Sears Catalog, page 602" means
nothing to you, you weren't paying attention back then.
If you weren't born yet, you missed some fun times. Of
course Bobbi's story is fictional (who, me, draw from
autobiography?), but these Author's Notes are dead true.
Page 602 advertised men's underwear with the model's
you-know-what hanging out. The Sept. 21, 1975 Knoxville
News-Sentinel headlined, "602 Sets Off Catalog Rush."
"A look at page 602 of the Sears, Roebuck & Co. Fall
catalog has made some under shorts shoppers think the
huge mail-order operation was striking up a rivalry with
Playgirl magazine. Not so, a spokesman for Sears says.
The picture on page 602 shows a handsome man modeling a
T-shirt and high-waisted boxer shorts. Anyone who thinks
they're seeing more than they should is mistaken, says
Sears. 'The subject in question is actually a flaw which
happened by water, grease or dirt being on the plate. It
didn't pick up ink,' a spokesperson said... She denied
reports that Sears was facing unprecedented demands for
the catalog."
News in Knoxville is music for Nashville. Written by
Dallas Corey and recorded by the Grand Ole Opry's
resonant Jack Barlow, "The Man on Page 602" soared into
Country's Top 30. Rather than risking Barlow's stardom
however, the 45 credits "Zoot Fenster" as the twangy
vocalist. Add banjo and Nashville waitresses for backup
and sing along!
"Look and see; you'll agree. He's got personality.
"Hey, have you heard the latest story that's bringing on
the smiles?
"It has caused some blushing laughter and some anger for
a while.
"For those who shop by mail for all their family
clothes,
"In the Fall and Winter Catalog more than fashion is
exposed.
"In the Fall and Winter Catalog on page six-hundred two,
"I see this advertisement that makes me come unglued.
"The picture's got me out of sorts 'causes I don't
understand,
"Are they advertising boxer shorts or are they trying to
sell them man? (I don't know.)
"You know, when these wish books are delivered, anxious
people start to look.
"And what they find in them there boxer shorts, they
suddenly get shook.
"Some say it's all in error. Some say, all in fun.
"He could be tarred and feathered, or maybe even hung.
"In the Fall and Winter Catalog or the wish book, so
it's called,
"In my mind there's no question of what I'd like most of
all.
"I'd send them all my money if it could make a wish come
true.
"I just wish I was than man on page six-o-two."
Unfortunately for American music, Sears lawyers pulled
the plug on Zoot's recording.
Songster Rick Dees wrote a competing "Page 602" that
didn't get the airplay. But then Dees gave us "Disco
Duck" which sold 4,000,000 and was number one, beating
Paul McCartney and Chicago.
I've posted the graphic evidence on
http://www.geocities.com/jlrennick. There's no question
that he's got personality.
So if history beats fiction, what beats history? People
being together, of course. You've probably heard some
songs about it.
CASTAWAY
"I'd almost given up trying to clasp my scantily-clothed
body to the overturned lifeboat. Only when the swells
lifted me to wave crest did I see the island, green
against the blue of the sea. It was the vision of the
island that kept my free hand holding my cello, the only
other thing floating after the shipwreck. Cast upon the
sand, I was a castaway!"
Bobbi thought that this was a nice beginning. The really
fun part would be how she encounters a Lieutenant from
the HMS Conqueror. They'd be castaways together and make
love under a coconut tree.
To write about finding breadfruit, etc., she'd need to
go to the library to see if it resembled regular bread.
Was it "coconut", or "cocoanut"? She'd given most of her
thought to how the Lieutenant would feel her up. Her
friend Betsy would want steamy allusions, how you said
that he had a big cock without using certain words.
Bobbi was toying with "ready manhood" or "unsatiated
desire".
It was too bad that she had to write about less-engaging
things for English, the plight of Central American
immigrants, for example; her castaway story was so much
more engaging. Bobbi's friends loved her plots when she
read them at sleepovers and usually she'd end up with
ten more ideas. Her girlfriends, for example, thought
that rather than being a shipwreck, it should be more
modern, a plane crash. Be a stewardess on a jet carrying
the Beatles before they broke up and be castaway with
Paul.
Actually, her friends voted, Paul should be in the surf
and she'd drag him to safety. She'd have to tear off his
trousers to bind the wound and use her blouse to make a
bandage. Then they make a baby, get rescued and form a
new band.
The girls left it to Bobbi to titillate the sequence.
Next sleepover, Bobbi would have a spectrum of nouns,
adjectives, verbs and adverbs. Not, for example, "They
stripped naked", but something that spoke of shedding
frayed underthings.
Though some of their classmates might have more personal
tales to whisper, Bobbi's closer friends still found
solace in speculation. Betsy once even announced how a
particular scene got her sliding on the sheets. Bobbi,
always on the lookout for word usage, figured there to
be more phrases for self-satisfaction than for mutual
gratification.
Despite setbacks, Bobbi's heroines persisted until
willing surrender. Her women combined the attributes of
resourcefulness and intelligence. Everybody thought
Bobbi to be resourceful. She saw how to put odd things
together, say chocolate and cherry pie recipes. Quite
tasty. Bobbi's heroines tended to be smart, intellect
being an attribute appreciated by the right sort of
lovers. She used bimbos for literary contrast.
Bobbi liked climax. As her friends were infatuated with
the term's common use, she had to explain that "climax"
in fiction requires bringing events to a crucial point.
Bobbi's heroines achieved climax by both definitions.
Modern maidens, unfortunately, had scant possibility of
being castaway on a desert island with a Beatle. Girls
that didn't read, Bobbi recognized, probably didn't know
how such romance used to happen. So what's a 13-year-old
to do? It's not like she had pimples or was six feet
tall. There just wasn't the 13-year-old guy at her
school that her heroines would go for.
SEARS FALL AND WINTER CATALOG
Bobbi's friends spirited the catalogs to their rooms
before their folks sorted the mail. There it was, right
on page 602, like everybody said -- two men in an
underwear ad. The one on the left, anybody could see
what's hanging out of his boxers! Telephones were busy,
but girls in their early teens talk all the time anyway.
Bobbi didn't actually see the photo for several days.
The catalog was too big to secrete to school and nobody
dared tear out the page. Their folks would notice.
Bobbi's first photo of a real penis was thus at Nancy's.
What Nancy called his "ding dong", Bobbi just saw as
something rounded below the model's boxers.
It was at Karen's sleepover that the girls voted 4-1
that it was the real thing. Sandra had seen one for real
and she was in the 4. She'd not say whose real one
against which she verified the advertisement, so it had
to have been an accident, probably her father, Bobbi
guessed. If Sandra had seen a boy their age, she'd have
said who. If it were in Sandra's family, but not an
accident, she'd have said nothing. So it must have been
in her family, but just an accident. Maybe opening the
bathroom door.
Actually Bobbi had almost seen her own dad's. She'd
never walked in on him peeing, but she'd seen him in his
underpants when he hadn't shut the door. Plus his baggy
bathing trunks draped his front when he'd lie back on a
pool chair.
So there on page 602, there one hung below the cuff.
Pretty fat, unlike the pencils on little boys when they
peed. The troubling thing, Bobbi's girlfriends realized,
was that it wasn't even a boner. Then they stick
straight out. In Health, the girls had learned about
reproduction. Their book, which they had to leave in the
classroom, had a diagram of male genitalia, but to no
particular scale.
That Sears Fall and Winter Catalog raised
consciousnesses, a stamp of that decade. Ninth-graders
who studied page 602 knew that the times they were a-
changin', to quote from a decade of better music. They
might live far from Haight Ashbury where the hippies
were, but things were going to change. Just at more of a
Midwestern pace.
Bobbi figured that love stories might at least help a
reader (well, maybe just the author) figure out
something about the topic. "All you need is love," to
quote the song. At sleepovers, her friends complimented
her that the tales were sexy. But the fact of the matter
was that they'd rather look at a model with his cock
hanging out.
Bobbi studied her competition. "Shirts, Boxers and
Briefs in a luxury blend of 50% Kodel polyester and 50%
combed cotton. Assorted print PERMA-PREST Boxer Shorts:
Full cut. No roll elastic waist... No ironing necessary
if machine washed, warm; tumble dried... No color
choice." The model had the right length of hair over his
ears. His boxers were checkered with little designs but
apparently you had to take the print and color Sears
shipped. The no-ironing bit was pretty good. Bobbi
pondered the "no roll elastic waist". What if you
started to roll them down? That might be something good
for a story if she knew enough not to sound stupid.
GEOFFREY
Of the boys in her class, Geoffrey's feature was that he
fit in so well. Never the best or the worst, he'd just
always be there. In style, just not the first with it.
In the band, just not first chair trumpet. He too liked
English, but didn't have what Bobbi considered her
greatest asset, imagination. Not all writers could have
that, she granted.
Geoffrey's best quality, in Bobbi's eyes, was that he
didn't have a girlfriend. As she didn't have a
boyfriend, they sort of made a pair, she wondered. "Well
you make the move," suggested Nancy, but Bobbi didn't
want to flub it up. It was better to navigate known
terrain: the yearbook staff, drama, the poster for the
school dance.
"Thing is," Geoffrey told Bobbi the next day, "I can
make the poster kinda of psychedelic, but they might
think it's about drugs or something."
"So we just say 'Disco Disco Disco' a bunch of times,"
her suggestion.
"You goin'?"
"I guess." Of course she was going, dummy! But you
couldn't act too excited about a school dance where
nobody asked you and the teachers would be trying to
strike up conversations. "You?"
"Maybe I'll see you there," Geoffrey's closest approach
to commitment. "Think I should start the D here?"
The question evoked Nancy's "ding dong" reference. A
dare hit her, but not too much of one. "You know, I've
got an idea, sort of one anyway." Did boys know about
page 602 as well, she wondered? She couldn't ask, but
maybe she could figure it out.
"Like?"
"Like putting something on the poster that might be a
number, but might just be a design." She fidgeted with
her glasses.
Geoffrey was concentrating on his D. "Why a number?"
"To see if we can, like how 'bout," she decided to say
it, "six-o-two."
Geoffrey looked up from his felt pen. She knew that he
caught it.
"You know about it?" Bobbi tried to sound unfazed, a
penis being the subject.
"Who doesn't?" Geoffrey fidgeted.
"We thought maybe the boys didn't." Bobbi admitted.
"Like we're blind?"
"Like you're guys."
"Maybe down here inside the o?" Geoffrey pointed, as if
art were the issue.
"We're fried if they find out," she backed off.
"The curly-cues just came out that way, we say,"
Geoffrey co-conspired.
"Maybe down in this corner," she suggested, bending over
in case he might stare down her sweater, but he didn't.
When Bobbi later looked again at the catalog, she
wondered if Geoffrey was looking too. It was just an
advertisement, she knew, but it almost felt like they
were looking together.
When she resurrected her castaway story, maybe Paul
would be wearing something like those boxers when she
pulled him to shore. That sort of fabric and cut. She'd
know the size of his cock (better word to be found), but
never reveal this as she nursed him back to health,
maybe brushing it accidentally sometimes. She wouldn't
let it hang out like a ding-dong, though. To help Paul
sit up, he'd lean against her front.
DISCO DUCK
The strobe flashed off the mirror ball as the crowd
discoed. Well not exactly, observed Bobbi, but a few
couples were on the floor, the ones that learned the
steps from American Bandstand. Bobbi was in her black
mini that necessitated leotards.
Bobbi's girlfriends were clustered by the DJ. Most of
the boys were standing hands-in-pockets. Geoffrey was in
a polyester shirt with a wide collar, a Christmas
present from a mom who knew that at the rate he was
growing, it made sense to buy Sears specials.
She'd studied the posters taped to the wall and grinned
back when the artist waved her a smile.
"You think there are maybe six teachers here?" asked
Geoffrey, an odd question, especially how he emphasized
the number.
Surprising herself, she caught it. "Oh! I just saw two,"
she coded. The two laughed, but brought it within the
bounds of disco blare. If they admitted their coup to
anyone, everyone would know before the 45 was done.
The DJ succumbed to the girls' clamor. "OK, OK, Disco
Duck!" The tune blasted through the sound system.
"Went to a party the other night.
"All the ladies were treating me right.
"Moving my feet to the disco beat.
"How in the world could I keep my seat?"
"Come on Geoffrey, I know how," led Bobbi. She didn't
actually know all the Quack Quack, Flap Flap, Waddle
Down, Waddle Up moves, but who cared? She put her hands
under her armpits.
"The thing is..." countered Geoffrey, but she was
flapping elbows with the beat.
"All of a sudden I began to change.
"I was on the dance floor acting strange.
"Flapping my arms I began to cluck.
"Look at me. I'm the disco duck..."
Bobbi sang along with the last line, something she'd not
have done solo, but by now the floor was filling. Some
of her friends seemed to have given up on the boys and
were dancing together. The music pounded.
Backup Singers: "Disco disco duck."
Donald Duck voice: "Ah get down mama, oh mama shake
your tail feather, ha ha ha ha ha..."
"You have to yell, 'Quack, quack'," ordered Bobbi,
opening and closing her hands like a mouth.
"Like this? Quack! Quack!" Geoffrey successfully
maneuvered himself in a circle.
"Plus this," throwing her thumb out, trying to catch a
ride.
Backup Singers: "Disco."
Elvis voice: "Thank you duck."
Backup Singers: "Disco."
Elvis voice: "For gettin' down...."
Backup Singers: "Try your luck, don't be a cluck,
disco, disco, disco..."
"Wow," offered Geoffrey when they'd exited the quacking
mob. "That was so weird it was really fun!"
Bobbi beamed.
Geoffrey clarified, "I mean I don't really know how to
dance or anything, but you just have to act like Donald
Duck!"
"You're Donald and I'm Daffy," agreed Bobbi, but he
missed the hint.
She had to do the asking for the slow dance, her quicker
feet dodging his when she tried to let him lead. By no
means did they dance close, but his hand on her back was
pretty nice. Her hand perched on his shoulder, not
cradled around, as were the more adventuresome girls,
the skinny ones, high breasts dimpling their boyfriends'
sports shirts, thighs exploring, explored. Though not
nearly so engaged, Bobbi too hoped that the song
wouldn't end.
But songs do end and kids go home when parents pick them
up on the front steps.
Later that evening, Bobbi composed a story in which
Donna Summer sang "Love to Love You Baby" and the
heroine succumbed to passion beneath the twirling ball.
Or maybe it should be to Abba's "Fernando".
Bobbi was the story's dancer. Together supine on the
disco floor, the man on page 602 would be within her.
She'd describe the throbs of fulfillment. She liked that
phrase, but need to decide whose fulfillment. Imagining
the hardwood made her think that maybe the two of them
should go some place softer, more secluded, and her
story lost its focus. Sort of like her evening, she
decided.
CATALOG POKER
Bobbi's friend Karen invented the game, an idea to
giggle about. A boy would take the Sears Catalog and
have to match an underwear picture to what he thought a
girl was wearing. Then the girl would do the same for
him. You'd have to show enough to prove the guess wrong.
If the guess were correct, you'd have to strip to it.
There'd be some sort of accuracy allowance, "Say if your
bra is a little padded and he points to one that isn't,
it's still OK," explained the inventor. The girls saw
difficulties. If he pointed to a style that pushed up,
but yours didn't, but the cups were more or less the
same, how would you call it? It wouldn't be fair because
you can't really hide your bra style anyway. How about
panties? There weren't that many styles, but there were
tons of colors. Would saying colored ones be enough? For
a guy, what about boxers that had designs?
The girls decided that as long as everybody ended up in
underwear, it would be fairest. Presumably after you
played, you'd get dressed again. Nancy said it was like
strip poker where you didn't strip all the way. Thus,
"Catalog Poker".
Discussion turned to hippies who get naked at concerts.
It was even on the news, but pretty far away. Sandra had
a picture of a guy body painted, but the magazine had
cropped it. She said that the way they do it was for a
guy to paint a girl then have sex to get the paint on
him too.
Bobbi composed a scenario. She and the man on page 602
had played Catalog Poker. She had on her best bra, the
one that helped her side view. She looked at him in his
boxers. Oh no, did he realize? Others were coming!
They'd hide behind a wall and then make out. He'd unhook
her bra, but she'd keep it on. Then he'd lay her back,
always kissing her.
SEARS RULES
Bobbi and Geoffrey were doing algebra at her kitchen
table when the subject of record players arose. Music
was more fun than fence length around fields of given
shape. She got the catalog. Geoffrey, who knew about Hi
Fi's, showed her about woofers and tweeters. The ones
that could drop an LP from the spindle were nice, how
you could put on a stack of records and forget it.
Glad for the excuse to stop doing homework (they were
almost done anyway), the two thumbed through the toy
section, remembering what had been fun and when.
Bobbi was just goofing around, actually, when she wrote
"602" on the top of her homework sheet where Geoffrey
might see it.
His eyes followed her pencil. She'd thought that
blushing was more of a girl's thing. Had she looked away
more quickly, perhaps his response might have passed.
Had he looked away more quickly, he might not have
giggled back.
"Don't make me look," whispered Bobbi, "or I'll sing the
song."
"You can't," Geoffrey replied. "It's a guy song." The
two laughed at their daringness.
"You know what?" queried Bobbi. "Karen invented this
game, just pretend." She hadn't intended to reveal the
silliness, but when Geoffrey asked, she told him the
essentials. Everybody ends up in just underwear! They
laughed at the sight.
After they put away their math books and promised each
other that they'd ace next week's quiz, Geoffrey
grinned, "Wanna play?" Bobbi was still gulping as he
pushed open the door, not waiting for dismissal.
No, of course she didn't want to be in her underwear
where Geoffrey could see. She didn't want to see him in
his, either. No way! Her nipples were hard, exactly the
reason she wouldn't want to play such a game.
The story Bobbi made up that night involved Geoffrey as
a Sears model and herself on the page facing. She
remembered the story for little kids about teddy bears
coming alive after lights-out. What if the Sears
pictures came alive when the catalog was closed?
She played Catalog Poker with imaginary Geoffrey. She
found her bra on page 423, the "baseball" for its seam
up from the center front. If your breasts were round
enough (which Bobbi's weren't) the correspondence was
close. Imaginary Geoffrey's guessing was a giveaway
because she had on her sheer blouse.
The model's panties were cut like Bobbi's, but hers were
"misty lavender". A guess of "colored" would be close
enough. The girl on page 432 seemed to be getting ready
to go some place important in her underwear.
So she'd have to strip to those two things.
The boy on page 597 had on plain white briefs. Bobbi
knew what to guess from when the back Geoffrey's shirt
pulled up when he was bent over drawing. Unlike the man
on page 602, this younger model revealed nothing. In
fact, as best Bobbi could fathom, there was no
suggestion of content.
She and Geoffrey would be in their underwear together!
She let the shower massage her neck, rivulets streaming
over her breasts. She wished she were tall and thin, but
it didn't matter. She sudsed her belly and let the foam
flow between her legs. Her fingers glided with the
bubbles. Emerging, she played the towel against her
blush. Talcum mist enveloped her as she dashed back to
her room, latching the door behind.
She drew back her blanket to leave a single sheet and
pulled the linen taut between toes and nipples, then let
the cool fabric settle over her belly. The cotton rose
and fell with each breath until she felt her rhythm.
Only then did a hand release the corner of the cover and
slip along her powder. One finger ascended to trace the
frontier of hardening areola and a second finger joined
to capture the nipple, waiting and tender. The two
digits tantalized their captive brusque enough to cause
flinch, but lightly enough to provoke its texture.
The palm sculpted Bobbi, and then passed to her stomach,
resting there until she drew it in. Then it slid into
her down, new hair sparse and resilient, where
fingertips parted the flaxen wisps.
A fingerprint found the dip above her crease and pressed
to the succulence until Bobbi's knees acquiesced to open
the clef, already moist to the front. The finger teased
Bobbi's emerging pea-sized hardness and drew into her
increasingly wet fold. Onward it slid.
When the digit at last arrived, it turned to penetrate,
not pausing at the constricting muscles, though she
tried to squeeze. Nor did it tarry to reciprocate
against Bobbi's slipperiness, though she tried to drive
herself against its inevitability. The finger came to
rest at its fullest extension, its conquest complete.
Bobbi, fucked and ready, waited with thighs again
together, trapping the invader.
When she could refrain not a second more, she opened her
legs. The finger retracted and came to rest against her
own erection, coaxed from its remaining protection. As
before with her nipple, a second fingertip encircled to
counterbalance the stroke of the first. The pair brushed
the sides of her nubbin, swelling and firming.
Bobbi drummed her hips. The fingers played her flesh,
finding the key. Bobbi pushed up the timbre. The
mattress swished in tempo. Touch spread her melody.
Her forehead glistened. The hand yet holding the sheet
faltered, letting her cover slip aside. Her nipples,
pinkend, rose and fell erratically. The hand that had
fucked her so deliberately now writhed between her legs,
the odor of woman on her palm. The bed frame slapped
with intent.
Bobbi's orgasm was hard and protracted, a young woman's
discovery, though from her perspective, nothing so
describable. It was music, the way that notes together
make something bigger under a ball of flashing lights.
PART II
The lanky, late-20's, hairline boding bald-by-40,
Assistant Manager of Sears Home Furnishings, Mapletree
Center, Lincoln, Nebraska always carried a second
business card, "Geoffrey Paulson, Guitar, The Bellicose
Buzzards, Bluegrass without Saxophones." It wasn't as
much to snag a paying gig as it was to evoke a reaction
from people who knew him in his Sears shirts. The
Buzzards were more fun than retail, he'd freely admit.
He never met a manager that imagined differently.
Geoffrey had happily given up trumpet after high school
and only later discovered his passion for rhythm. As
good as he flat-picked, he earned his keep by his steady
beat under a fiddle that sometimes dragged and a banjo
that preferred acceleration. The Buzzards weren't
destined for Nashville, of course, but Lincoln liked
their enthusiasm. Country music has room for Sears
managers. Country has room for saxophones too, of
course, but not as bluegrass.
Not that Geoffrey paid that much attention to the
broader field, but having the American Folk Music
Association's 1990 Convention in Lincoln was a chance
for the locals. Pickers in bands like the Buzzards could
rub shoulders with players who'd actually quit their day
jobs. Three strangers pass in the hotel hallway, eye one
another's cases, and wha-la, an impromptu "Old Home
Place". Geoffrey would be there every possible minute.
And then there was the Potluck Extravaganza. Sign up,
indicate your instruments, pay $5 and the organizer
randomly defines the bands. Forty-five minutes to
introduce yourself and figure out two tunes. Then on
stage. Winning band gets all the entry fees. Country
simple.
The list put Geoffrey in Band 8. None of the other names
looked familiar, but this was where an unknown 14-year-
old banjo player could steal the show. 5:45, Warm-Up
Room C. Geoffrey was tuned up.
The bass player was from Texas; the fiddler Geoffrey
recognized from a band from out West, the very-thin
banjo was from Florida and the mandolin was late. "Ya'll
know Blackberry Blossom?" suggested the bass, shooting
for a sure start. It was a good one for warm up, to feel
the others' style.
They were starting to jell when their mandolin player
walked in the door, already chording. Geoffrey looked
up, a woman, then looked up again: tending toward
roundish, mid height, brown hair to the shoulders, round
glasses, eyes that he knew. Could it be? Was it Bobbi
from school, all those years ago?
She squinted at him, tipped her head, and mouthed,
"Geoffrey?"
When the guitar falters, so does the band. Blackberry
bottomed. "Bobbi!" "R. Jackson" on the Band 8 list
hadn't meant anything. How could it? Bobbi had played
clarinet.
The two hugged, instruments almost colliding. It took a
few of the band's precious 45 minutes to explain that
they'd known each other in high school and had no idea
that the other was still a musician. "Things like this
happen all the time in bluegrass," commented the banjo,
retuning as they're prone to do.
Time to catch up later. They had music to make.
Something from the Bluegrass Cardinals? Nah, too
predictable. None of them were good enough to propel a
standard beyond its settled form. Something interesting,
somebody?
The mandolin chorded, "Look and see, you'll agree, he's
got personality." Thirteen chords like a tenor banjo
might have at it.
"The Sears catalog one?" wondered the banjo from
Florida, three-finger picking the same. "We could burn
'em."
The Texan started to chuckle.
The fiddler took charge, the fiddle's prerogative
according to fiddlers. He, Bobbi and Geoffrey could
start, "Look and see" a cappella. Banjo had the resonant
voice for the verses and there was plenty of room for
instrumentals not on the 45. Five minutes and they had
the basics, a fiddle's leadership once more proven.
A bass player's job is to speak rarely and sing never.
Thus his words merit consideration. "Back home, anyway,
that one was right when they disco danced," the "they"
establishing distance. "So what if we discofied a middle
part?" He looked around, "After all, we never have to
play together again."
"Like Disco Duck?" seconded Bobbi.
Band 8 took center stage with "Fox on the Run", the
mandolin doing 1-5-1 for the first 16 and the base
bowing the melody. Most bluegrass bases don't even own a
bow that's not fiberglass. Most bluegrass bases aren't
also in the Houston Symphony. Good start.
And really absurd ideas can turn out brilliant,
especially a bass and fiddle duo evoking a disco beat.
Guitar, mandolin and banjo stepped forward, hand under
armpit, to do the Quack Quack, Flap Flap, Waddle Down,
Waddle Up and then the hitchhiking thumb. Then they
hurried back to country's roots. It didn't hurt that a
judge was standing when they concluded a cappella,
"Staying alive," Bee Gee perfect.
"Good thing we're not a real band," drawled the bass as
they divided the loot, "or we'd get signed. And damn,"
to Bobbi, "that was one heavy-duty mandolin."
Bobbi looked at her hands. "PMS."
The Texan nodded, "This chick band from Ft. Worth were
all PMS and kicked our butts at Lone Star. Won belt
buckles. Said they all get the same when the play a lot
together."
Afterwards, the ex-classmates had ten years to catch up.
Threading themselves through knots of music in the
lobby, the found a restaurant by a booth selling picks.
"Always lose 'em," confessed Geoffrey, giving a good one
to Bobbi. "You probably break them."
He'd never taken Bobbi on what might be defined as a
date, but they'd done some of the youth group things at
church and they'd sometimes end up together on a field
trip or at a game. The fun parts of those years floated
back.
The two had discovered stringed instruments in college,
too late for the folk music era, and ended up playing
bluegrass for the sociability. Bobbi had moved to Des
Moines, was still single, and, "Believe it or not,
Features Writer for the Register. I get paid to be here!
Well, not overtime or anything, but at least my
expenses." She played in "The Mercurial Mommas", with
gigs at events held by feminists who didn't really care
what the music was. "Too many butch haircuts,"
complained Bobbi. Niche smart, thought Geoffrey.
When Geoffrey admitted that the he worked for Sears,
Bobbi noted, "Sears guys singing about the catalog can
only be bluegrass. You're not fat, though, with slicked
hair. Actually, Sears is still where I still buy my
underwear."
She did admit that she might not have thought of the
tune, had he not been there. "After all, at 13 or
whatever, my buddy Geoffrey and the catalog were my
social life," laughing at the memories. "Remember our
poster?"
"I never danced much until you showed me the duck one,"
admitted Geoffrey. "Actually, I haven't danced much
between the duck ones."
His life was stable. He had a decent job, got to play
guitar, jogged pretty regularly, read a lot. His sister
Janice, whom Bobbi remembered as a fashionable flower
child with her own car, always invited him for holidays.
"She's got two kids. Sometimes old Uncle Geoffrey takes
them to Chuck E. Cheese or maybe to a movie. If I'm over
there at bedtime, I always read their story to them."
"That's special," agreed Bobbi. "I don't have much of a
family, I guess. Folks split up, gone. Holidays aren't
big things. It helps to work a lot, keeping busy, you
know. The Mommas is sort of my break from reading and
writing, writing and reading. It's OK."
"I'll bet you're the ace reporter," offered Geoffrey.
"You write a kids' book and I'll buy it."
"You want to know something?" she brightened, not
waiting his answer. "I used to write stories for my
girlfriends. Remember Betsy and Lisa? Anyway, once I
started one about that Sears page, but I didn't finish."
"Too bad. We could have put in the paper." He'd been as
good a writer, but when it came to interviewing people,
hers were the better questions. Like finding out that
Mr. McDowell, the science club advisor, had been a pilot
in Viet Nam and joined the protesters after he came
back.
"You were in my story, as much as I though it out,
anyway. You or a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy or Paul
McCartney." So what if she told? It was way back when.
"Me?"
"In your underwear. But I never read it to my friends or
anything," she reflected. "I was in mine too. Both of
us. Silly, no?"
Geoffrey was startled.
"Those were pretty good times, right?" she continued.
"Imagining stuff."
"Was I a little out of it, maybe?" admitted Geoffrey.
Years give license.
"Guys usually are, that age anyway."
"Sorry."
"Don't be. We turned up here." Bobbi grinned ear to ear.
Then so did Geoffrey.
PART III
Geoffrey's transfer to Des Moines was what Sears
encouraged, an advancing manager willing to relocate.
Bobbi didn't mind their subsequent move to Abilene, the
smaller city being a good place to raise kids. Young
adult literature is a tough market, but not for an ex-
Mercurial Momma Des Moines Register staffer.
The pair is in the same band now, one that wears black
cowboy hats and white scarves; Texan they are. The
band's shirts are Sears, Abilene Sears, that is, figures
Bobbi, as no Midwestern Sears would carry cherry red
with white piping. When they saw the Huston bass player
at Lone Star, he said he knew they'd get together;
things work out in bluegrass.
Geoffrey books the Abilene/Lincoln tickets early.
Thanksgiving is where you do things the same way. Bobbi
says the X-ray machine makes her hand-carry pumpkin pie
Lo-Cal. Her sister-in-law knows to pick up a half-pint
of whipped cream to blob on top. None of this pressure-
can substance.
They'd just been classmate friends a bunch of years
before -- been in the school band, worked on the school
paper; that was about it. Fantasizing about boys who
weren't your boyfriend was what girls did back then,
what you laughed about at slumber parties. It wasn't as
if she'd spent her life thinking about some catalog, she
told herself. It wasn't as if she'd not dated other
guys. Geoffrey had just been parked in her mind
somewhere, a little tune that stayed remembered. Maybe
the real song helped, the way an adult can sing "The
Itsy Bitsy Spider" decades after second grade. She bet
that she could work Itsy Bitsy into Orange Blossom
Special, right after the rundown.
That night at the hotel, she'd no idea. She was lonely,
another castaway in a world made of islands. He'd had no
idea about her, other than she didn't smoke. They both
admitted later that the other lighting up would have
ended it. Their intersection was that precarious.
They'd had dinner, remembering things easier than page
602 or faded fondness as they perused the menu. There
was so much else to compare. Sears manager-trainees
start out on the floor selling goods like lawnmowers.
Des Moines Register new-hires copy edit for a week. By
the time they'd finished the lasagna, he'd admitted he
probably hadn't put into his marriage what it took to
keep it healthy. She'd lived with a guy with no
intention of anything, as seen in hindsight. It takes
work, they'd both discovered, to stay together.
She'd given him the peck on stage when they'd received
the prize. That was just about winning. A girl's nipples
always come out a little at times like that, so that
wasn't anything either. He'd probably not seen anyway,
she'd decided.
At the table, his touching her hand made her heart
flutter, just the brevity of it. It wasn't a come-on
he'd pulled; he'd just wanted to know she was there,
maybe. Later she'd reached back and left her hand on
his. She knew she was reacting sexually, but what she
felt was as if she were again innocent. Anybody could
seduce somebody at a convention, she supposed. She
surely needed the sex, but there was more here.
"Just tonight," she'd volunteered without prelude as
they ate apple pie. She knew that her loneliness again
showed, that she'd probably come across like some sort
of music groupie, a babe that came places to get laid.
After all, she'd told him about thinking of undressing.
Maybe she was still high about winning the prize, she
later wondered. He hadn't even hinted about sex.
He'd nodded as if to say he was lonely too. Outside her
door, "No big deal. We're big," she'd justified, feeling
not big.
"We're probably still just us, still," recognized
Geoffrey. "I liked you back then, but maybe didn't
tell."
"Like let's see your underwear?" as she turned the
latch. She knew she should act like this was for laughs,
going to bed with a not-ever boyfriend.
He was still serious. "I'd never had sex when I knew you
then."
"Me neither," then looked at him. "Just imaginary by
myself." For some reason, she didn't want there to be
secrets, things you'd feign for a one-nighter, if that's
all it was.
He'd hesitated. "I don't have a... You on the pill or
anything?"
She'd smiled, "Not been much reason," adding, "If I'm
PMS, no problem. You play rhythm guitar, right?"
He didn't get it, but then her word-play was sometimes a
bit wry, she admitted to herself. "I'm fine," she
clarified.
Bobbi had turned shy about undressing, switching off the
lights. If she'd known, she'd have chosen something
sheer, something designed for a date to unbutton. Her
lacey briefs were, as always, in her second drawer. Her
skirt was the type you had to rotate to get at the
fastener, hardly a come on for sex.
But when she'd pulled off her sweater, she'd turned her
back to him and flicked on the bedside lamp. "Look at
the tag." She'd wanted him to know that she was still
just Bobbi in a Sears one. She left the light on when
she swiveled to face him, even if her tummy wasn't all
that firm, even if her thighs looked pallid. She was who
she was.
What if when you closed the catalog, the models came to
life inside? Geoffrey still wore briefs, not page 602
boxers. White. She wasn't at all surprised. Guys
probably don't change. Except for gaining weight, girls
don't much either, except for dress-up.
Unlike the well-hung male on page 602, Geoffrey was
obliquely erect, angling under the cotton. His squirm,
Bobbi could tell by the way he hunched, was to minimize
it. His earlier "We're probably just us, still" rang
true.
They kissed in their Sears underwear and she let him
remove her bra. He didn't seem to notice that her
breasts turned too far outward as he touched the side of
one, then the other, but not yet her nipples. She
switched off the light and they removed the remainder of
their clothing. The dispersed light from the curtains
illuminated her ivory waist and ebony curls.
Geoffrey found her left breast, his palm pushing it
inward. His finger ascended the softer flesh and circled
the firmer areola. A second finger at last claimed her
nipple. His hand dropped to Bobbi's waist, resting there
until she sucked it in as if to allow passage under a
belt buckle. He slid into her bushy tangle, unruly and
coarse, yet soft and permissive. He combed a path
through the triangle, fibers springing back as he
trailed downward. From the dip above her crease, he
ventured inward, pausing until Bobbi's knees parted. His
finger followed her wetness to where she trapped his
hand.
Bobbi traced her knuckles from his hip until she met the
side of his erection, likewise moist. She stoked, the
two of them watching it thrust and retract in
reciprocity. She wanted to kiss beside it, to feel it
brush her cheek, to feel his chin against her groin. But
no, more she wanted to just make love, to be filled with
his climax. This might be their only time, not to be
squandered on some triumph remembered for the physical.
When she felt him quiver (or was it she?), she brought
him to where his tip brushed within the folds of her own
need. As much as she wanted not to hurry, the time was
now.
They kissed as he penetrated and came to rest fully
within. Conquest. Taken, she closed her thighs to
prolong his presence, the kiss yet unbroken, surrender
as pure as if they'd made love after the school dance.
Geoffrey waited until her knees again parted. This time
however, she rose to match him stroke for stroke. She
squeezed against him, then relaxed to pull him further.
What had entered so deliberately now resounded forward
and back, forward and back.
Bobbi's hips thumped the meter. Hardness pressed into
yielding flesh found the melody, a duet resonating ever-
resolving chords. The bed clapped in chorus. The lovers
surged into crescendo. The harmony lingered.
Sex seeped into the sheets.
Afterwards, she'd reflected, "You know, looking up when
we came, there was this mirror ball going around with
all sort of lights."
Geoffrey grinned in satisfaction, "Like when we danced
that time."
"Like when I used to pretend about that Sears ad. But
what I saw now wasn't about lights. It's because you're
better than the guy on page 602."
"No way."
"I didn't say longer; I said better," she said
seriously. "But that's not the point, I guess. I'm
really glad I came to this thing, that I ran into you,
that I didn't act stupid."
"Me too," he agreed. "I almost didn't last, though,"
frowning.
"I'd have hurried, then," she assured, "to make us the
same." The two held each other, their heartbeats
syncopating. "It's good to be together."
"This isn't quite real," she'd later reflected.
"It might be," he'd offered. "Do you feel anybody
squishing you?"
"Don't move. Just squish them like pancakes." They
looked at her flattened bosoms. "Shoot, this could make
a story," not wanting him to see her proximate tears. Or
maybe she did want him to see; she didn't know.
Geoffrey pondered the possibility. "A nice story, right?
About two people." He paused. "How 'bout you write two.
That one about two people and another one, sort of
silly, for kids. You come to Janice's and we'll read it
to her two for Thanksgiving. She'd love to set the extra
place."
"I guess I could." She didn't care about the water in
the corners of her eyes.
Another pause and Geoffrey added, "You could stay at my
place, if you want."
"I'd like that, to sleep at your place."
"Don't forget to write the kids a story."
"How 'bout a kids' song for a country duet?"
"Probably better. No future in disco."
A LITTLE SONG
Here's the song that Bobbi wrote. It goes to "Fox on the
Run", but if you don't know that tune, "Itsy Bitsy
Spider" works for the verses. The hand motions are
obvious.
"Two little crabbies, Swimming in the sea.
"Pinchie was a her, And Pinchum was a he.
"Little crabs (little crabs, little crabs). In the sea.
"They played kickball with pearls, And floated in the
water.
"Ate seaweed for lunch, And pinched Mr. Otter.
"Little crabs (little crabs, little crabs). In the
water.
"Along came a wave, And cast them on the beach.
"Pinchie headed west, And Pinchum headed east.
"Little crabs (little crabs, little crabs). On the
beach.
"In a little coconut, They made their little nest.
"Being together, Is what they like the best.
"Little crabs (little crabs, little crabs). In their
nest."
Afterwards as the women Tupperwared leftovers, Janice
asked, "You bake as well as you write lyrics?"
"Cookies and bad rhymes. Why?"
"It was so sweet... We'll need another pie next year,"
placing her hand on Bobbi's wrist. "The kids really
liked your song too, but you know what I mean."
Bobbi was silent, then asked, "You think maybe...?"
"Known him longer than you," little doubt from an elder
sister. "You got a recipe for a pumpkin one?"
"You bet!" Bobbi turned her hand to squeeze back.
THE END
Holly on the Web
Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to
the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way to
update the various servers. As literary errors (or just
poor word usages) are made known to me, I'll repair that
which is salvageable on
http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not
much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native
language.
You can contact me via the site's message form, that
HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.
I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you
didn't like it before, that much will remain the same.
But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more
cleanly.
Holly
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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 27