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Show 29 learned the legitimate American erotic dream, woman ubiquitous but untouchable in a photo, and like all men I began to live daily with my lust. Burning but chaste, for I hadn't yet discovered even the oldest, simplest way to quench it. I found a few ways to feed it, the best a magazine called Gay Paree which I stole from Henry. He_ thought Mother had found it and burned it and so said nothing. The stories were all laid in France and in each one a handsome American plucked the beautiful French blossoms with marvelous ease, giving the distinct impression that French girls felt unnatural when not on their backs. Yet the stories broke off at crucial moments, when I could have really learned something, and left me hanging by my thumbs. Then I turned for further knowledge to the center section where there were photographs of ladies, most certainly French because naked. My favorite lay upon her elbow across two pages and I would groan with gratitude for her abundance, then groan with agony for the black lace draped carelessly but so carefully over her loins. Hanging again. Then one morning while drowsily pulling up my Levis I looked out my window just as she walked past hers. No close-ups of feet here, no black lace: all I didn't see was her feet, and her blonde naked body shook me thoroughly. I was awake instantly, wide-eyed, but by that time she was gone. I hung around through three calls to breakfast before I glimpsed her again, dressed. For a few mornings I lurked at my window, didn't see her, and in my criminally negligent way forgot her. Then again I saw somebody, her husband. I craned forward to see what was going on: he was dressed and kneeling just inside the window. Not a prayer myself, still I was encouraged to go to Sunday School and went now and then with my Protestant friends, played ping-pong |