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Marie (m/f, f/f, cons/nc, ins), Part 11
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
MARIE11
If you read MARIE1 (or MARIE2, etc.) you know what to expect and if
such things offend you for any reason, this is a good time to erase the
file. This is based on interviews with a woman recounting almost a
quarter-century of sexual experiences and she's not an old woman;
you figure it out.
Some names and a few locations have been changed and some
editing has been done for the sake of smoothness. Other than that,
this is what she had to say, based on her recollections and the
extensive and detailed diaries she's been keeping for many years.
CHAPTER 11
I spent most of the rest of the summer getting even with Dana and
Irene and -- most of all -- Dan...in my mind. I fucked everyone I could
and with the figure I had, I could get just about anyone I wanted. And I
wanted a lot. Just before Labor Day, I hitched a ride out to Perrysburg
with three Mexicans. I was so dark and swarthy that they assumed I was
Mexican and were surprised that I didn't understand their Spanish. Only
one of them spoke English and he wasn't very good with it. None of them
was more than eighteen. I was wearing a bandeau under a tee-shirt and a
pair of shorts and this goofy straw hat. It was really hot -- about
ninety degrees and there was no breeze. They were riding in an old
junker of a Rambler that didn't have a good muffler in it.
The one who spoke English asked me how old I was. When I told him I
was fourteen -- lying by two years -- and he translated, there was some
muttering from the others.
"We are unhappy. We believed you to have more years." He seemed
genuinely sad.
Well, I could understand the mistake. I measured 29-19-26 and would
have worn a C cup if there'd been such a thing in a bra that size. I was
taut and smooth and with my hair long and tousled, I could easily pass
for older. So I said that was no reason to be sad and he said, Yes, it
was, because they had thought I might like to have some fun, but I was
too young.
Now, I'd always heard stories and bad jokes -- What's a 10-year-old
Mexican virgin? A girl who can outrun her brothers -- and politely tried
to explain I'd thought 14 was not too young for a girl to have fun, if
she was Mexican.
They were unhappy at that. Every one of them had brothers and
sisters my "age" and younger and they were very proud that their sibs --
[Siblings. Am I going too fast for you?
[Yeah, I know. I'm just feeling kind of bitchy and edgy. Ready?]
Well, they were proud that their little brothers and sisters were
pure and went to church regularly.
I turned and looked at the two in the back and then again at the
one in the front and said, I like to have fun, I have been having fun
for a long time and would they like have some fun with me?
We want to an old maintenance shanty near the rail yards. They'd
adopted it and fixed it up as best they could with no money and had
turned it into a kind of club house. It was clearly bachelor -- covered
with pinups from Playboy -- but it was neat and clean and they were
polite and solicitous.
I didn't get to Perrysburg. I stayed there with them for about five
hours. They were young, they were horny and they were incredibly virile.
I had each of them three or four times. One of them -- the oldest --
wanted to try me in the ass, but as soon as I told him it was hurting,
he stopped, apologized and withdrew. Oddly, though they were fascinated
by nearly hairless pussy, none of them would eat me. Which was okay, as
it turned out, because they had a good-natured contest of seeing who
could make me cum the most often just by fucking.
[I forget. No -- wait: I won.]
They took turns, and they only time anyone was at all rough was
when they touched my tits. Even then, it wasn't that they were mauling
me; all three worked as day laborers and had very rough and calloused
hands.
One of the pinups on the wall was Gwen Wong, this Playmate with
huge tits and long nipples and a very young face. One of the guys said
that if my eyes were slanted, I could look a lot like her. The other two
protested that I was prettier. And we fucked some more.
I was sore for three days, but never regretted it.
Then school started, my freshman year, and it was inevitable that
I'd be invited to try out for cheerleader. I had no interest in that,
though, and my refusal caused some resentment. The only extracurriculars
-- official extracurriculars, that is -- I wanted anything to do with
were gymnastics (which wouldn't have me because my figure was too
pronounced for exhibition in a leotard) and the school paper.
The school paper was a joke. We couldn't print anything the school
didn't like or anything unpleasant. It was more of a pep sheet than
anything else. We did personality profiles on the administration's
favorites, the good examples -- never on the interesting students or
activities. Still, it was fun to have official permission to go up to
strangers and ask nosy questions.
I wasn't seeing George anymore, of course, as he'd told me about
meeting his distant cousin and they were mad for each other and that was
that. We remained friends. But I didn't have a steady and satisfying
boyfriend, not like George, and I was still trying to work the summer's
non-events with Dan out of my head. So I was trolling.
The problem was that in such a strictly supervised environment, I
had to be very careful with my schoolmates. Since the town was already
starting to split over the Vietnam War protests, the cops were enforcing
the old curfew laws on kids under sixteen, so I couldn't just go and
hang out much, either.
Then the campaigns started for class presidents. I did a couple of
interviews and heard the usual crap from all the candidates. Even the
one who was being drafted. He didn't really want the job or the nonsense
that went with it, but time and again he'd been the one to come up with
innovative ideas for persistent problems and twice he'd successfully
mediated disputes -- once, over an antiwar protest and once over race.
But after the interview was over, he said something that really got
my interest.
"One thing I'd suggest would be giving class credit for volunteer
work."
I took out my notebook but he stopped me. His name was Tyrell
Hamilton, he was six feet tall and handsome and well-spoken and about
the shade of Mom's coffee after she added a tablespoon of milk.
"Don't bother," he said. "They'll never let you print it. And
they'll never go along with it when I suggest it."
I kept the notebook out. I was taking Gregg Shorthand and doing
real well with it.
[Yes. And I brought it. See? And these are verbatim notes.]
"Why do you think it's important?"
He laughed softly. "Because -- Look around you. Eight hundred
students. About three dozen aren't white. Maybe a hundred don't come
from middle- or upper-class homes. All Catholic. We are so much alike
here that we have no idea how the rest of Toledo lives."
"You think we need more integration, is that it?" I was a little
suspicious.
"Not racial integration," he said. "Social integration. The only
reason there aren't more Afro-Americans here is there aren't more Afro-
Americans who have the money and the academic qualifications. The nuns
and the other students here generally don't give a damn about that."
"There're exceptions."
"There're always exceptions." We were walking slowly down the first
floor corridor toward the parking lot. The place was almost empty. From
far, far away I could hear the echoes of cheerleading practice and
someone was dribbling a basketball. "But even there, we're too much
alike. The real world has poor people and rich people. It has
Protestants and Jews and atheists. It has Birchers and antiwar
activists. It has bigots. It has thieves and muggers and bums and
saints."
"We'll meet them soon enough."
He held the door for me. "That's my point. We get out of school
here and about half go to college and some go into the army and some
move away, but we all meet the real world -- and we don't have the
faintest idea how to deal with it. We meet people who are fundamentally
different and it scares us and we get uptight and we don't react well.
And they don't react well to us."
"So it feeds on itself."
We were in the middle of the nearly empty parking lot. He spun, his
eyes bright and his face animated. "Yes! And the hatred and suspicion
and fear takes charge -- and all because we're inexperienced: We have no
education in people!"
"And you think encouraging supervised volunteer work would help us
get some experience with different people in different situations."
"Within the context of a goal-oriented guidance system and with the
benefit -- "
" -- of more experienced leaders who can teach us how to evaluate
and respond -- "
" -- to unfamiliar and sometimes frightening circumstances! Yes!"
"And then, when we go into the real world, we understand a little
more, because we've already tested ourselves in strange waters -- "
" -- and found that we can swim, because we learned to do it -- "
" -- in a school?"
I groaned at the pun.
"Sounds fishy?" he asked innocently.
"Holy mackerel."
"No, it's 'Holy mackerel dere, Kingfish.'"
"I guess I just don't have any soul."
"But you're still one smart filly."
I frowned.
"Filly of soul?" he suggested.
I groaned again.
We both started laughing. Tyrell offered to drive me home. I didn't
think twice. We talked more on the way. We really hit it off, instant
chemistry, and it had started from the neck up, for a change.
He let me out in front of my house and I waved good-bye. Inside,
Jeanne was home, and Mom. Jeanne immediately pulled me into our room.
"Marie, did you -- you know?"
I stared at her. "What?"
"Who was that?"
I told her and she said, "Well, does he really have a big one? They
say all of them have huge -- " The look on my face stunned her.
"Jeanne, I interviewed him for the paper and he gave me a ride
home."
"You didn't do it with him?"
"No -- though now that you mention it, it's not such a bad idea, I
mean, he is awful good-looking and ..."
"Marie! He's a nigger!"
I was the one who was stunned this time. How had we grown up
together and been so close -- so very close -- without me knowing this
about her? Because we never encountered anyone who was really different.
"Jeanne, he's a man who's a little darker than me. A smart, polite,
good-looking man. I think he and I might get to be friends. And don't you
ever use that word in front of me again."
She seemed a little shocked by that and I suppose I was, too.
Socially conscious Marie -- as of about forty minutes before. But it was
true. Something had happened to me during the time after the interview
with Tyrell Hamilton. Something burned inside him and the flames had
caught me, too. My main concerns had been getting laid, passing my
class, getting laid, wondering when they were going to have a sale at
Penney's, getting laid and getting even with Dana and Irene. Suddenly, I
was thinking about things that were in the far distant future, beyond
the great dividing line of Graduation, beyond 1971, which was a date
lost in tomorrow. Suddenly, I was thinking about things like
responsibility and understanding and harmony.
And I was spending a lot of time thinking about Tyrell. Well, was
it true what they say?
[Yes, I saw Blazing Saddles. Okay?]
I started spending more and more time with the juniors and seniors
than I already was -- which was a lot, since I found most of the kids
who were my age were kind of backward. I started hanging out with the
crowd Tyrell spent time with. And pretty soon, I was fairly regularly
sitting next to him at our basketball games -- and thus having him drive
me home.
After the fifth game -- against Penta; we lost -- I got impatient.
"Ty, aren't you ever going to ask me out?"
We were at a grade-crossing, waiting for an endless freight to
pass, down by East Broadway. He waiting about a three-count and turned
his face toward me. "You have to be kidding."
"Why?"
"You're white and I'm not and you're not even 13 yet!"
"So?"
"Are you nuts? I'm almost eighteen!"
"So? I want you, Ty."
"So? That's statutory rape and considering that I'm not white, the
police will probably fire five or six warning shots -- into the back of
my little burr head!"
"Ty! You know me! We're friends, for crying out loud."
"And that's fine -- but that's it, girl." He watched me. "What the
hell are you doing?"
What I was doing, for the benefit of those who weren't there, was
pulling my sweater off and unbuttoning my blouse.
"Guess."
"Marie!"
The blouse was off and I was reaching back and under for the hooks
on my ill-fitting bra. A moment later and it was gone, too, and not only
did it feel good to have the constriction of my tits, it made me feel
somehow wild and free to be sitting there with my boobs bare in his car
so anyone could look in -- even in the dark -- and see me.
"Tyrell Leroy Hamilton, you will not be my first and you probably
won't be my last and if you don't promise to make love with me I am
going to jump out of this car and yell, `Help! This nigger's trying to
rape me!'"
"Marie, I want you."
His words, so calm and easy and serious, froze me.
"But you're trying to take charge of me and I won't have that. Be
my friend and we may become lovers, some day -- but I won't have an
owner for a friend or a lover."
I hadn't thought of it that way. I started pulling my blouse back
on. The caboose of the endless freight rumbled slowly by. Behind us, car
engines were starting. I felt like a shit.
"I'm sorry."
He was shaking his head as the crossing gates came up and we
started across the tracks.
We drove across the tracks in silence. We drove down to East
Broadway in silence. As we pulled up onto the road that would take us
back to my house, I finally said, "Dammit, Ty, say something?"
"You have truly amazing breasts. I didn't know they were so big or
lovely."
"I'd really like you to get more acquainted with them. And more."
"Doesn't sound all bad. By the way ..."
"Yes?"
"Do you know where we were parked when you threatened to get out
and yell for help?"
I thought about it -- and then it hit me.
"Uh-huh," he said. "Niggerville. Jigaboo Town. You could have
precipitated a race riot back there."
I was glad for the night, so he wouldn't see me blushing in
embarrassment. Then I noticed he'd driven right past the street where I
lived. "Where?"
"I want to show you something."
I started to get my hopes up, but then I remembered what he was
like and calmed down, fast. And with cause.
Ty drove us down past the Anderson grain elevators and parked. It
was dark there. He got out and a moment later I did, too. We were
looking across the Maumee River and had a really lovely view of the
water and downtown Toledo.
"It's awfully pretty," I said.
"Until you get there," he said. "Until you get down on Washington
and Jefferson. Go by the Valentine or the Blade or to one of the Purple
Cows. Then it's just as ugly."
We were standing close. I pulled his arm around me. It felt good.
"People can be like that, too. Beautiful and impressive till you
get up close and then you see them for what they are and see all the
ugly things in them."
I moved till I stood in front of him and pulled his other arm
around me. I covered his hands with mine and held them across my
breasts.
"I've been close to you, Ty. I am close to you. I don't see ugly."
"I -- I've done bad things."
I kept my mouth shut.
"I hurt someone. Hurt bad. Someone who shouldn't have been hurt."
I held his hands tight over my tits. And listened. It had happened
when he was fourteen and hanging out with other kids his age. All of
them were black, kids he knew in Niggerville. One of them knew this girl
who was just asking for it. She was lithe and lean and tight and had a
great ass and the way she talked and acted, they knew she was just
asking for it and they knew that if someone gave her some wine, she'd do
them all.
So someone gave her some wine. And she did them all. Many times.
Long past the end of the wine. Long past her willingness.
"I'd never been with anyone before and even when she was crying and
asking us to stop, we kept doing it."
Except him. He'd persuaded the others to stop and let her go.
"That sounds like good to me, not bad," I said.
"It was -- but it wasn't the end."
A few months later, she came by his house when he was home alone.
She'd been drinking wine. She'd gone into that phase when a girl just
suddenly blossoms. She wasn't a skinny kid with a great ass, not any
more. She was a young siren, blooming. And she wanted to thank him.
"I should've made her go away."
But he hadn't. They'd spent the entire afternoon, before his
parents or siblings came home, fucking wildly. He figured he must have
cum in her four or five times. Whenever he got limp, she did things --
"With her mouth."
-- to make him ready again...and at fourteen-almost-fifteen he
could get ready a lot.
"That's not hurting someone," I told him.
"Yes it was. I wanted to do it more with her and when she wanted
more wine, I let her have it from Momma's closet so I could do it more."
The problem came a couple of months later.
"One of the guys said she was dead."
I went cold all over when he said that. "Dead?"
She'd gotten pregnant and gone to the only abortionist a poor
thirteen-year-old girl -- black or white -- in Toledo could find in
those moral, enlightened days. That night, she'd begun hemmorhaging. She
was DOA at St.Charles.
"I killed her."
I turned to him. His arms dropped away as soon as I released his
hands. "That's not true."
He was nodding, tear-stained cheeks glimmering in the night. "Me. I
got her pregnant and -- and -- "
"And you were the only guy she ever fucked?"
He blinked.
"Yeah -- fucked." I said it hard.
"Well, no, of course not, but -- "
"You figure you're the only guy who fucked her that month?"
He tried to turn away. I grabbed him, my arms around his waist.
"Well?"
"I -- I -- "
"You know you weren't. Hell, she was probably fucking another guy
that day -- the same one who gave her the wine before she got to your
house."
"But what I did was wrong -- "
"She wanted it, didn't she? She went out of her way to ask for it?
She wanted to keep doing it? And you figure it's your fault?"
"She was just a kid!"
"So were you."
"So are you."
"I'm young, but I haven't been a kid since ... " I almost told him,
but couldn't. "Well, I'm no kid." I pulled his arms around me. "Hold
me."
And that's what he did -- just held me, close and strong and scared
and sobbing and trying to fight it all back, trying to be the tough
young buck, figuring this so-called white girl --
[Cause it's true. Put my hand down on a piece of paper -- here.
See? Do I look "white" now? Right. You do it -- see? Kind of off-beige.
What gets called "black" isn't really black. When was the last time you
saw someone dark enough to even try to qualify for "black"?
[Yeah, I thought so. So you think about this: Those aren't colors
or races or hues, they're just the fucking labels we use so we can
generalize or categorize and excuse ourself from thinking any farther
than the label.
[Okay?
[Your goddam right I'm hot about it! Want to find out why? Listen.]
-- this so-called white girl wouldn't figure him out, but I did,
because when you're that close, there's no color, no race, just holding
and being held, and I have a news flash for all the racial purity folks:
We're all the same. The reason I know is that holding Ty, I could see
through him just like anyone else. He was just looking to stop hurting,
same as me and you and anyone else. Hurting doesn't have a race, unless
the race is Human.
Well, one thing led to another and before long I was doing more
than holding. His was the first uncircumcized cock I'd ever held or
sucked or fucked, and when he came, he groaned and he cried, and I
understood that. He was crying cause there was nothing left in him that
he hadn't shared, so I held him till the sun came up and we never talked
about that -- but something had been established, a bond, you know? We
never did anything sexual again.
I sneaked into the house and -- Miracle of miracles -- no one
caught me. I took that as a Sign.
I lay awake for a long time, thinking that this was amazing --
knowing even then we weren't going to be lovers again -- that this afro
senior and me were that close that we'd used fucking and sucking and
loving to seal our bond, and it felt right. Damn, but if felt good and
close and tight.
But no way that was going to be left alone. No way. The weeks
passed and about ten days before the class elections, I went over to
room 128, which was the room Ty's backers had drawn from the pool as a
campaign headquarters. I went over there pretty much every day and it
was more and more crowded, which was a good sign.
When I walked in, the place went quiet. Everyone was looking at me.
I said Hello to a few people and looked around, but Ty wasn't in sight
and when I asked Chuck -- who had sort of fallen into managing the
campaign -- where Ty was, he just shrugged and said he had to go. The
same thing happened with the next four people I asked.
Pretty soon, I was alone in that room. It felt like a mortuary.
I called his house and they told me he wasn't home yet, so I left
my name and number. When he hadn't called back, I called again at nine-
thirty and they told me he'd gone to bed early because he wasn't feeling
well.
I didn't see him around school the next day, a Thursday, but I did
notice that some of his mimeographed campaign posters were missing. I
knew he worked after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I knew where,
so I hitched a ride out to the shopping center to discount store where
he was a stock clerk. When I saw his battered old junker in the parking
lot, I felt better -- whatever was going on, Ty was not too sick or hurt
to go to work.
I found him in the back of the store, unloading boxes of toasters
from the back of a truck pulled right up to the loading dock. There were
two other guys working with him. One of them noticed me and said
something and the other turned and muttered something to Ty. The two
other guys were staring at my tits -- I was wearing a tank top, but they
were still too big to hide. Ty saw me, took a deep breath and told the
other guys he was going to take a short break.
I followed him off the loading dock and we went back to stand near
the trees that lined the truck road behind the store.
"What's going on, Ty? I went to 128 to find you and -- "
"I'm withdrawing from the election."
"What? Why?"
"And we can't be together any more."
"What the hell -- "
"That's all there is to it." He started to walk away but I grabbed
his arm and jerked him back toward me.
"Like hell it is. You tell me what's going on and you tell me now!"
"It doesn't matter -- "
"It does to me!"
So then he took an envelope from his pocket and from the envelope
he took the photographs and held them out to me. I recognized the top
two; they'd been missing from George's basement workshop. I didn't
recognize the others, because I'd never seen them. But I knew when they
were taken. There I was laying on my back, sucking a huge cock with a
dripping, open pussy right over my face.
I was stunned, but managed to say, "I don't get it."
"If I run in the election, I'll win. If I win, these photos -- and
some films, I was told -- start making the rounds. You'll be ruined.
Your family will be ruined."
"Who -- "
"I don't know. There was a letter with the pictures. No return
address, no signature. It just said quote that if a nigger won the
school election, his white cunt was going to be the famous underaged
piece of ass in the state of Ohio unquote."
"They're bluffing."
He snorted. "I don't think so. And I don't know how they found out
what we did unless someone -- like you -- told them."
"I didn't tell a soul! And who told all the people in 128 it was my
fault?"
He handed me the envelope. It was addressed to Chuck.
I felt my guts go icy and I thought for a minute I was going to be
sick. Ty was right. They weren't bluffing. And I knew who they were,
too. And he was right about us not being together again.
"I'm so sorry, Ty. I'm so -- " I couldn't say anything else, so I
just shook my head and ran away from him, crying.
I walked all the way home, about six miles, and didn't get there
till past dark. Mom was pissed off, but by the time I got home, she
wasn't nearly as pissed off as I was and when I told her that this
wasn't the time to start with me, she got the message and turned into
superMom, wanting to know if I wanted to talk about it. I told her I had
to work it out for myself.
And that's what I did. I figured it out for myself. Ed Sautter had
stolen the photos from George's workshop and he had sent the hate mail
and blackmail threat. It didn't seem likely that he'd done it alone,
either. That kind of racist is a coward and can never do anything alone.
They always have to have a half-dozen or so people helping them, usually
hiding their faces.
I called Roger the next day and told him what had happened. I asked
him if Ed couldn't get in trouble with the law for having that stuff in
his house. He explained about search warrants and said he'd ask a buddy
on the State Police. When he called me back, he said Sautter could make
a stink and drag a lot of stuff out in court, if it got to court. But,
he said, his pal had told him there was someone else who'd be interested
and if I wanted, Roger would take care of it.
He wouldn't tell me anything else. He told me I'd have to trust
him. I finally agreed to let him take care of it. I didn't hear anything
else for about three days, during which time the Ty-less election came
and went.
The Toledo Blade story reported that the coroner had ruled it an
accident. Sautter had apparently been taking drugs and stumbled into the
pool, striking his head on the edge as he fell. His roommate found him
floating, in the morning. He hadn't heard Sautter return from his
business meeting with three men in a black Lincoln. The roommate thought
Sautter had sold much of his photography equipment to the men, because
Sautter and two of the men had pretty well cleaned out his darkroom. The
police said more than thousand in cash had been found in Sautter's
pocket, so they gave the story credence.
The roommate and Sautter's girlfriend were so shaken by the
tragedy, said the newspaper, that they were going to leave the area and
try to start their lives over. Their exact destinations were undecided.
Years later, of course, I figured out who Roger had called and why
they'd been so persuasive. After all, Ed was cutting into their territory
by making porno films. And he was jeopardizing their whole business
because citizens tend to get outraged at all porno films when something
involving minors get into distribution, even willing minors.
At the time, though, the only thing that puzzled me was who had let
on to what Ty and me had done that long, weeping night. I was mooning
around the house, all morose and sad because of how good I'd imagined we
could be together -- a luxury I could indulge because we hadn't been
together long enough for all the normal hassles and irritations to mar
the dream -- and I'd sort of fixated on figuring out who had spilled the
beans. Maybe Ty had told one of his friends and he'd said something?
That didn't seem like Ty. Or had we been seen? Who?
I found out by an accidental, chance remark. Jeanne was a year
behind me and still going to the prison school. Her eighth-grade class
had been treated to a one-day photography workshop run by guess which
guest teacher? You got it. He noticed the similarity in names, asked her
after the class, pumped her for information about me and tried -- and
failed -- to talk her into posing for him.
"When I told him you were always with Ty, he got all red in the
face, but he said he was okay, so I didn't think anything about it."
But he had. And it had led to his death, to Ty's not running in a
school election he would surely have won -- and all the good things that
might have come of that -- and, not incidentally, to breaking my heart.
She hadn't had the least idea the damage she was doing. Hell, I would
have told him as much, myself. But very innocently and openly, she'd
done something that caused me to hurt like I'd only hurt once before.
[I promise. I'll tell you...later.]
I sort of withdrew from everything after that. I quit the school
paper and really buckled down to the books. I didn't have a social life,
except for one weekend I stayed out with Charlene (and actually spent
most of the time naked, with Roger). My grades soared and I discovered
the library and then I discovered Jane Austin and Emily Bronte and,
finally, Colette. I turned into a bookworm. Mom was ecstatic. Jeanne was
puzzled. Dad was...well, he was Dad. Even Alexis the Pure was impressed.
I started writing letters to my phantom step-brother, some of which I
even mailed and he wrote back. Then I joined Pen Pal and started writing
to kids around the world.
It passed the time. The endless Toledo gray winter came and went
and then it was spring and I took to reading in the park, when I could.
I found myself spending most of what little social time I had with
freaks -- so-called, because in those days, you were either a Freak or a
Straight -- who were the only ones (besides nerds) who read books for
pleasure.
In May of '68 I met Terrence Molonari and his twin, older brothers,
while I was hitching to Navarre Park for a -- don't laugh -- poetry
reading.
I never got to the poetry reading.
[more]
[Want more? Post a message on the board where you read this and ask
to see MARIE12.ZIP. No messages, no MARIE12.ZIP; that's not so much
to ask, is it?]
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