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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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My Mission
By Anonymous (address withheld)
***
This was the mission: Anatole was going to make love
the ugliest woman in the world. And Ted, Marsha,
Douglas, Jubie, and Red -- the whole crew -- were going
to come along and film it. (MF, exh, voy)
***
Now, Anatole did not make pornographic movies. Far from
it. Anatole was a man of considerable means and
experience, a man living out the consequences of
knowing that a life was only lived once as few do.
This adventure was to be one more of his embraces of
Life (a word he always said a little loudly) in all its
complexity and at its most ambiguous aesthetic and
moral edges. Of these exploits he sometimes made films.
This one was to be a documentary, like his others, but
more personal, to say the least. It could and would not
be sold to PBS or the BBC, of course, who typically
made him edit away much of what he found interesting
anyway. ("But Life is neither clean nor simple," he
would growl. "We can't show a Mondo Cane," they would
reply.) Luckily, Anatole never needed the money. In
fact his films lost money. From the moment he thought
of this one, "The Mission," early one Monday morning,
he knew it had to be done.
The whole issue of beauty's relationship to sexuality
simply had to be dealt with freshly. Besides, since he
was very young he had found himself fascinated with
older women--women over 30, even 40--and their fuller,
character bodies and their folds and quivers. He looked
for clues to their carnal experience in the way they
moved, overall and in parts, and for what he imagined
to be the knowing pain in their eyes, desiring someone,
someone.
Was he the only man with this fascination? He guessed
not. He guessed that most men ended up simply followed
the safest norm, professing desire for the averaged-
out, slightly masculine, sporting female, the pert,
unthreatening buddy woman of childhood, while secretly
lusting for the adult and excessive: breasts, thighs,
lips, the depths, the roiling... Where else could
fleshly oblivion be found? Where else submergence in
Life?
***
Anatole and his confidant, Ted--Theodore--sat inside
but at the wide open sliding doors to Anatole's
terrace. It was a cool April afternoon. Jubie was
making hot tea for all three of them. She looked over.
Most people found Anatole and Theodore an odd couple.
Anatole, outgoing, muscular, hirsute, and always well
dressed, was a dreamer with an iron will and smiling
eyes.
Women adored him, and he adored them. Ted was a tall,
loose limbed, younger man, always serious, extremely
clean. He was a Ph.D. in anthropology, which not many
people knew, and he was enormously well hung, which
everyone seemed to know. The idea developed as they
sipped.
If this were to be a film that others would enjoy--
indeed learn from (for Anatole was nothing if not a
constant proselytizer and educator) -- "ugly" would
have to be defined. "Old" was out. Old was unfair, and
too easy. Besides, who wanted to make love to a hag,
and who wanted to witness it?
And what if she were once beautiful and the sport of it
all broke her heart? No, old was out; and so the woman
had to be young: not a girl, but a woman, say under
fifty and over twenty five years old.
Deformed was out. No dwarfs, cripples, or accident
victims. But very skinny was OK (Anatole's heart sank)
as were to be: really fat, bad skin, dirty, hairy,
disproportionate...they went through the list.
After a while, Anatole said: "You know, 'ugly' really
isn't the right word," and stood up. He seemed
discouraged by the pictures of the women the list had
summoned up.
"Yeah," said Ted, "you're right. Besides, your 'ugly'
and my 'ugly' are different. I mean, ugly--the kind of
ugly we mean--is more like facing the repulsive and
erotically fascinating at the same time. Like, for me,
that would be fondling my high school science teacher,
"Rosebud," whose thighs met just above her knees, you
know, and her taut stockings ending only an inch
further up, with her thigh flesh bursting out of the
tops with little blue veins. For a girl, might be
letting that disgusting kid in the dirty T-shirt in
biology put his head up her skirt and slurp on her."
Jubie looked aside. "Ugly isn't always," he paused,
"bad, it's just too much, too particular, too real. Did
you know that the Yohingi have no concept of sexual
beauty that matches ours. Their men prize roundness,
particularly at the waist, and scars..." He went on;
and then they were quiet for a while. Some birds flew
by.
"Theodore," Anatole said finally, "we have to go where
the action is." Then he sat down again. "The ugliest
women in the world are Russian, are they not?" No
reply. "So I think we are going to have to go to Russia
and see." "Russia?" said Jubie. She had said nothing
all along. Now her mind filled with images of onion
domes and samovars. Would all the men be Boris?
"Russia?" said Ted. He got up and stretched. He tried
to act bored. "Russia's too big, Anatole," he said, and
looking out at the hills. "How about Bulgaria?"
***
So here they were, mid-October, in their fifth day of
touring and Anatole was still looking. They didn't even
consider any other country after Ted had first said
"Bulgaria." The name said all, promised all. They were
in two cars; Anatole, Ted and Jubie in the first, a
Passat, and Marsha, Douglas, Red, and the equipment in
the second, a VW bus of uncertain vintage.
Through towns and villages they drove -- such sad, grey
places -- looking out of the windows for a 'perfect'
place and for Anatole's 'perfect' woman. Red (who was
black, and who had received constant stares since they
landed in Plovdiv) and Doug and Marsha each had Cokes.
These they nursed for hours as the potholes knocked the
gas out of them. Doug had already shot sixteen rolls of
stills, in case they needed to "refer back." Marsha was
doubtful about the morality of it all. It was too much
like abduction, too calculated. But her role was
lighting and she tried to concentrate on the artistic
problems she would encounter lighting a large woman, in
inelegant positions, to best advantage.
For it was clear to his band that Anatole was looking
for a fat woman-- someone enormous, profoundly
enormous, with big fat feet and big fat hands and a
mustache. Or something. Of course, that was not the way
Anatole described Her. He was both cruder and more
poetic. "A woman made of earth and horse and cow, a
woman of solid grace, a woman in whose folds three men
could hide..." and so on, and on. This was supposed to
make their eyes keener.
The grey landscape of ploughed fields and dark, wet
farmhouses rocked by endlessly. Ordinary, ordinary
people watched them go by, some stopping their bicycles
until they were far gone.
There was one woman who had come close, one evening
back in Plovdiv, on their second day. They had all gone
down to the--Pinnin, was it?--bar and cabaret in the
semi-basement of a nondescript building three streets
back from the main square. The bar was as warm, dry,
and light as the streets were cold, dark, and wet.
It made them feel that the deprivation and scarcity
they had steadily witnessed on the streets of Plovdiv
was intended, intended precisely in order to cram
everything convivial, loud, and plentiful down here, or
at least in places like it. Smoke hung in the air so
thickly that after a minute Ted said he wanted to
leave, and did, taking Jubie with him. Jubie always did
what Ted did or suggested. She loved him. Or his thing.
The rest of them found a Formica table near the stage.
Before they could make themselves comfortable the
lights went on and out into the light stepped what had
to be Anatole's woman! She wasn't all that large: large
enough to hide two men, maybe. Her large feet dove into
a pair of very small high heels of red sequins,
pitching her body forward, a motion she constantly
resisted by pulling her shoulders back and kicking her
enormous bottom out in the process. She wore blue
stockings and a rather simple black negligee with far
too many tassels, tassels she must have sewn on
herself. Catcalls filled the room.
"Zsa, Zsa! Zsa, Zsa!" The satin surely suited her
handsomely, thought Anatole, gliding over her bulges
with great serenity. It gave to each of her surfacing,
multitudinous curves a sheeny line, and to those curves
it missed a bevy of gratuitous folds, like a skin.
Tassels hung under her belly; tassels swung at her hem.
Her waist was rather small, comparatively speaking.
In short, she was beautiful; and Anatole felt somehow
both innervated and discouraged: He could not see her
as anything other than quite beautiful, and had he not
resolved to transgress into the zone of repulsion? Was
he that far gone? Doug's camera whined and chirruped a
few times. Professionally.
Music was provided by a two-piece band, Anatole only
now noticed: a guitarist and a drummer. Both were boys-
-Adam's apples well behind their buttoned collars--and
both had goatees. Maybe they were brothers. They looked
into the audience like mournful twins as Zsa Zsa minced
quite shyly up to the microphone. Her black hair was
already tousled with her warmth and dampness. Her
eyelashes cast great shadows on her full, rouged
cheeks. He lips were painted, pointed as a heart.
She noticed the American group immediately and said,
ignoring Marsha, "Gentlemen, gentlemen, welcome to my
Plovdiv," and raised her negligee to show off a large,
blue, inner thigh. Before she dropped it, laughing, she
flashed some creamy thigh-top--it seemed--only to
Anatole. Marsha was ordering drinks. Red was beginning
to tap his match box on the table and nod, as he always
did when he started having fun. His lips were mouthing
"big ole Mama" or something like it as the band began
their rendition of Cabaret "Guten avend mein damen und
heren..."
Zsa Zsa sang the number rather well, in German, then
French, Croatian, English, and Bulgarian. She kneeled
and twisted and bent over. She hoisted her negligee.
She licked her fingers. Her waist was remarkably
flexible as she swiveled and sauntered back and forth.
Deaf to the calls of drunken Bulgarians, she wondered:
who was this group? Movie makers?
The thought of this made Zsa Zsa unsteady a few times,
and she staggered. This made her seem vulnerable, which
she was, indeed. She identified the older, richer-
looking one, staring at her so intensely and
possessively. Certainly the producer! For him she would
make a special effort. Pyotr would have to wait
tonight.
By eleven o'clock no one was left in the Pinnin that
wasn't American but Zsa Zsa, the bartender, and the
waiter. These people work hard, thought Anatole. Or
perhaps there was a curfew. Zsa Zsa had taken two
breaks, sung and sashayed for three sets, and drunk
about five glasses of wine: three while she was
singing, and two at their table, and now a third.
Her earlier directness had gone. She seemed tired, and
quite innocently, she let her head fall against
Anatole's shoulder. Red and Marsha took what they took
to be a hint from Anatole and left. Douglas retreated
into the darkness at the back of the room.
"Zsa Zsa, beautiful Zsa Zsa," crooned Anatole, "poor,
tired Zsa Zsa. You danced so beautifully." "You are
beautiful, my Anatole," she said blurredly, patting his
head without looking up.
"You know," he continued after a long pause, "you could
be in the movies."
At this Zsa Zsa stiffened. "Oh no! I am so..."
"Beautiful...big and beautiful."
Tears welled up in her eyes. This was a wonderful man,
and from America! He could see her true shape; he could
feel the exquisite body inside her. Pyotr treated he
like a sack of flour, like a loaf of dough. But would
Anatole just abuse her, like Denis did in Paris,
mesmerized by her folds, putting things into them like
spoons and buttons and pens, and poking her intimate
openings with vile plastic penises while his own was so
small he couldn't even get the tip of it past her flesh
to her true, inner lips? At least Pyotr knew what to
do, crude and stupid as he was.
For his part, Anatole didn't quite know how to proceed.
He had started something he now half wanted to stop.
Zsa Zsa was too real. She affected him. His penis was
stirring and, doubled up in his underwear, it was
becoming uncomfortable. He had drunk too much. He heard
Doug's camera go off a few times. Now she was slumping
over, tearful still, and smiling. The bartender, a
short man in black and white, looked over at them
darkly.
Pyotr would get wind of this.
"Zsa Zsa, let me take you home. Where do you live?"
Anatole said quietly, and waved Doug to take off. Doug
wanted to record it all but Anatole shook his head
firmly.
"15 Prjensta," she said, "on the fifth floor." Her eyes
were green and glistening. Her eyelashes were her own,
he noted: on stage they looked false. He would take her
home. Maybe give her a kiss.
***
Outside, the night air was damp, not yet truly cold.
The street was deserted and the "fifth floor" seemed
far away. A handful of streetlights shone through the
mist, shining, he thought, no less sweetly than they
did in Paris or Sofia. (Jeanine? gone; Odett? gone.
Their faces faded.) Anatole and Zsa Zsa had just
started to walk, arm in arm, away from the square when
a carriage clopped up, as if out of nowhere, and
stopped, horses snorting. The bartender must have
called it! Without a word or a look at him, Zsa Zsa
stepped in to the cab.
She moved with extraordinary grace, he thought,
momentarily showing him her rounded, churning bottom.
An essay in darkness! He watched her high heels, first
her left, then her right, stamp firmly onto the
carriage steps, each with a slight tremor of the ankle.
This tremor thrilled him unaccountably.
He followed her in with his heart racing.
No sooner had he closed the thin door behind them than
he was smitten by her perfume, her presence, and her
warmth filling the cabin. She smelled not like a woman
who had worked hard all night, but like talcum, myrrh,
rose, toast, wool, wine. The seat was of tufted
leather, worn soft. He could not sit back, but instead
gazed over at her smiling mass. She reclined
comfortably, as though finally at home, looking out of
the window, playing with her lapel, her hair wispy at
her neck.
The carriage's jerk as it started off perturbed her not
at all. As the little cabin began rocking, he took off
his coat. He reached for her wrap and gently pulled it
away. Time began to slow. Parallelograms of light
drifted over her satin clad body, gently rolling and
rocking, rolling and rocking...and as his head
descended as if of its own accord towards the
intersection of her thighs, it occurred to him that he
never saw a carriage driver.
"Anat..." Zsa Zsa murmured, lifting and parting her
heavy legs. Her breath was heavy now, as was his, close
about his head. As he sank, the heat and fragrance of
her innerness was almost more than he could bear.
He could not push on through that darkness! It was an
approaching maelstrom, a place in the from which he
could not return unchanged. The Origin. And yet he was
also acutely aware, intellectually, that this was where
he wanted to be, precisely, in the midst of throbbing
Life and at the edges of dulling convention, no place,
every place. It could not be filmed.
He pulled up and gained some control of himself.
"Anatole, cheri," she cried, with mild rebuke or
disappointment (he couldn't tell which) and stretched
her arms towards him.
Now he would drink her totality up with his eyes, yes!
He wanted to see her naked, to make of her an object,
an impossible object, an impossible, improbable and yet
familiar creature/object/woman, large and cool and
naked, bearing within it/her belly the dark, fragrant
furnace of life, naked and soft, a cradle cradled
against the rocking leather of this impossible carriage
in this improbable city, city of hooves and sad walls,
far from everyone he knew.
She seemed to know what he was thinking, for seemingly
within moments, and without a trace of awkwardness, Zsa
Zsa was naked, wearing only her red, high-heeled shoes.
Her skin was alabaster and unmarked. Her flesh was
banded by the shadows moving across it like a fast
moving cloud, and between these liquid moments it
glowed dully in misty overflow of light.
Her tender flesh shook and trembled and rocked with the
horses' rhythms and the carriage's springs. Her breasts
were large and lay low together. Her stomach was in
dolphin rolls. No Michelangelo could follow the
subtlety of curvature of her mounds, the way they
turned into each other and wrung each other out; no
designer could discern the thousand radii that blended
her creamy vortexes into their dance with gravity.
Then, slowly, with her long red nails (had he seen
those before?) she reached down between her legs and
began parting the way to her pussy. His eyes flew
between her fingertips and the sullen, trembling thighs
that towered to either side of them. Her labia had
labia. Her lips had lips. They smacked and plipped as
she parted them and stirred them until she reached the
great dark, the inner curtains, the tassels... This
called for a penis the size of a horse's head and as
hard, as red as a beaten pig and as voracious!
Anatole felt his own dick reaching these proportions,
and knew that if he looked down, surely, he would bring
forth from his trousers an instrument, an animal, that
would beggar the drawings of the Chinese masters in
ugliness. "Anatole," Zsa Zsa crooned, heaving her hips
upward, "make love to me! Soon we are home." She still
did not look at him, but now, through half lidded eyes,
she sought his crotch, hidden in the moving dark. Her
mouth seemed dry.
Yes, he would make love to her! But this occurred to
him: he wanted to stay dressed. He wanted her to feel
his clothes all over the expanse of her cool body, here
rough, here smooth, here his belt, here his lapel. Her
nakedness would be doubled. Also, he wanted his penis,
by itself, to equal her body in fleshly power, in
lonesome magnitude, he: the puppeteer in black -- the
mind, the eyes that saw all -- she: the moonlit barge,
receiving, carrying, transporting. He would sink his
dick--his dick! -- deep into this large, voluptuous,
woman and make her fuller still. Again and again,
helping after helping. His dick would be the food she
so craved and that she made herself fat for with
substitutes.
Ha, no substitutes now, lucky Zsa Zsa. The horses must
have broken into a trot, because the carriage shook and
rocked faster, more roughly. City scenery had
disappeared on one side, replaced by darkness and an
occasional passing tree. Perhaps they were going around
and around a park, or along the ocean.
Ah, she would ripple with his pounding like a sail in a
strong wind or a blanket being shaken out, he thought
as he pulled her weight down onto the full length of
the upholstered seat. She barely fit and so turned a
fraction to place her back deeper into the corner.
Still wearing her heels, she raised her heavy, fat-
pleated right leg high into the air, resting it
slightly against the seat back, and pulled her equally
heavy, fat-pleated left leg up until she could press
her feet against the front of the cab.
Her constant shaking seemed to vanish as she did this,
and he watched: neutralized, the quivering and jostling
had become part of the original nature of her body and
only the heavy, fluid motions of her legs and churning
of her hips remained. Her head was turned away as she
bit her curled second finger, waiting. With her long
eyelashes he looked like a baby. Then, with her right
hand she parted her outer, fatty labia again.
Anatole rose up looking down. The roof of the cab was
twenty feet high, so large did he feel, so expansive,
like a god/genie/ogre out of a bottle looking down at
the good earth with the smell of rutting animals and
approaching storms. He reached into his pants and
wrestled out a penis he hardly recognized. Still turgid
and fairly soft, it was nonetheless as large as his
normal erection. It smelled like goat. What would it
turn into yet?
He began to twist and turn it, sending waves of
pleasure up his spine. Soon, he thought, soon. He
looked at her gaping deep pussy now fairly rotating
with desire, her large buttocks beneath it raising it
into the air, far from the leather hills. Then, like a
fighter plane shot out of control he dove his head down
until his mouth and lips crashed into her fleshy pit!
It filled his mouth, it rose up to the bridge of his
nose and back to the point of his chin. It lapped at
his cheeks. Her legs came together around his head
softly, heavily, as he extended his tongue indefinitely
into her, spiraling, sniffing, like dog in a tunnel. He
reach around her thighs with both arms. Their girth and
substance, now a matter of touch and resistance,
thrilled him to the souls of his feet, making them
hurt. Her fat flesh was so resilient and firm that she
seemed made of four women and put into the body of two.
Running out of breath, he lifted his face from her now
wet and broken-open pussy. He could not see her stomach
or breasts or face behind the mountain of oscillating
flesh immediately above and around: only her sundered,
asymmetrical pussy-lips and the hint of immense
darkness pearled within them. Rooms within rooms. Her
perfume now was strong and clung to his face. With
every breath of it he grew dizzier: cut grass, fig
conserves, cardamom, oak, oysters, lemon, cognac. Her
breathing was loud now, filling the cabin. She had been
repeating, "Ana, ana, ana..." seemingly forever. The
driver, could he hear?
Now he licked her with full, flat, muscular tongue,
probing and twirling, sucking and biting and twisting
the infinite lips of Zsa Zsa's meaty Bulgarian pussy.
His beard and her pubic hair mingled, and between her
squirming and pumping air and his mumbling slurps, it
became uncertain as to which side of the heaving union
was mouth and which pussy. Beneath the variations, a
deep and syncopated rhythm was being set that could not
be stopped.
With his left and right hands, Anatole spread her lips
apart wider and looked. Her enlarged vagina careened in
like a whirlpool of redness, a trumpet of vacuum,
swathed, curtained, velvet, sweat-walled, thundering.
He rolled his tongue in, and then a finger which he
arced upward to trace the inner upper wall of her
vagina, this as he massaged the outside of that same
spot with his lips and tongue--her clitoris, rubbery
and elongated. She began to wail.
Now, gently but firmly, he parted her legs fully and
placed them back where they were. His penis was in full
swell. Her wails subsided to whimpers.
Once again Anatole rose up and looked down. But this
time it was by his own instrument that he was
mesmerized. Was it someone else's? Ted's, but darker,
veinier, more twitchy and alive? For truly, it twitched
incessantly as though straining at some bit. And it was
ugly. Zsa Zsa pulled her head forward, anticipating the
next action. She let out a quaver of alarm at the sight
of Anatole's dick and began both to massage her ample
breasts in both hands and rhythmically to piston her
wide soft hips and spread-eagled legs in the empty air,
as though riding a horse lying down. If she could have
urged the real horses faster this way she would have,
but she had to let the carriage's rocking simply
amplify hers.
And so, head bobbing and weaving, Zsa Zsa watched
Anatole's throbbing penis swiftly advance. Anatole
buried it into her inch by inch. And at every inch Zsa
Zsa convulsed. She had stopped thinking about home,
about the club, about Pyotr, but not, she realized
about Pyotr's dick which now doubled itself onto
Anatole's as it burst through curtain after curtain of
her secret tunnel. Anatole felt that he would explode
immediately, so hot, so rippling, so overwhelmingly
coordinated was everything that filled his eyes and
ears and nose and skin. Saliva and vaginal juice still
wet his beard.
But he held on. He would not fuck like this--he would
not fuck a woman like this--ever again. He had to hold
on, he had to think of her; and with a resolve that
came from somewhere else, he pulled himself together
again, lowered his pants for more room, and began a
simple long stroking rhythm of his penis in and out of
her. He increased his speed.
Things had become classical, simple now. They were in
the open. Rhythm was king. His stomach against the
underside of her belly made loud slapping sounds. Her
pussy was fully engulfing. She began to yelp and yelp,
her face contorted. She held on to the sides of the
cabin now for stability. He was thundering into her,
Thor, Odin, every blow sending a wave up to her head to
meet a wave coming back down, her breast swinging
wildly and independently as though roped and screaming
for help.
For her the world was crumbling apart from the
battering, for him it was gathering itself up with
every stroke... When her orgasm finally arrived she
curled up with the strength of two men and grabbed him
down, mashing his face into her chest and neck, sobbing
uncontrollably into his left ear and right as she
showered him with kisses, and he, in turn, hugged her
huge, quaking frame as though it were a bed stuffed
with flowers. Then quiet descended. The carriage was
still. Anatole sat up. He had not come. His penis was
still engorged, ready for more, pulsing. He sat and
watched it, unable to move. She lay quietly too, with
her wrap now over her breasts.
Then, from nowhere, in compete silence, as from a
superheated flask in his groin that had found a leak,
his sperm rushed up the length of his shaft, scraping
and dragging everything inside him up with it, and
began to bubble from the top, overflowing and running
down the sides of his purple shaft. Wave after wave, it
came. He let it go and it started rocking back and
forth, jerking as though shot, slinging sperm all over,
not subsiding but building in intensity, running amok.
Impossibly, Zsa Zsa appeared before him, facing away,
and taking the wild beast into her hand, lowered her
enormous bottom onto it. It was so tight, and so hot,
and she descended so slowly, that he knew she had taken
it in her ass. Still pulsing he spread her heavy ass
cheeks roughly so that he could see his stiff dark
penis between her liquid globes and so that it would
sink in further... In two, massively slow strokes up
and then down again, he was finished, body limp, close
to dead.
She never allowed her full weight to bear on him, to
the end. When she finally lifted up from him--her
buttock skin pulling across his, his penis dragging
itself backward and out as though it were taking off a
tight sweater -- and as she felt relief from his
pressure, the pain melting, her thigh muscles aching,
shaking, Zsa Zsa sat down heavily next to him and
whispered, "Cheri, I am home. But I don't know whether
I can climb the stairs now," and she began to laugh,
and laugh, like a little girl. "Do you really think I
can be in the movies?" He would help her up to the
fifth floor. He would carry her up, step by step! He
would adore every pound of her!
Or rather, kilo.
***
"It can't be filmed," Ted said as they drove into the
square of yet another and nameless Bulgarian village.
Jubie was at the wheel, Anatole in the rear seat. "It
reads well but it can't be filmed."
He put down the papers. The word was always stronger
than the photographed image; they all knew that, and
certainly Anatole here had created a tour de force of
repulsive erotic delirium. Anatole's right eye was
still swollen from where Pyotr had hit him at the
Pinnin, just as he stepped out.
"I mean, my friend, she's not going to do this like you
wrote it, in fact I don't think she's going to do this
at all. That man of hers will kill her first. And then
you."
"OK, OK. We are moving on, are we not?" replied
Anatole. He knew Theodore would say all this. "On to
Varna. The Black Sea, the resorts, the bars, the
stars... Here Jubie, what do you think?" and he handed
Jubie the manuscript. Ted swiftly took it away from
her.
"Lets have lunch here" Ted said. It was hard to see
where: the place seemed deserted.
"We gonna have lunch now, or what?" Ted repeated.
Anatole was watching a woman on a distant roof. She was
putting up washing, and seemed to be singing.
END
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 37