I dried my tool with my shirt and sat on the bed, looking round at the poor room, wondering what dodge was up. She did not return, and thinking over the incidents, came to the conclusion that she was not a gay woman. There was just that difference in manners, in getting on to the bed, in taking her pleasures, and in her whole behaviour about the fucking, which there always is between a woman however loose she may be, but who does not fuck professionally, and the regular trader in her charms. I saw it then, and I see it still clearer writing about it now.
Nevertheless I began to think of leaving, feeling uneasy as she did not return for more than ten minutes. With my hat on, I was just about to run off, after hearing a man’s footsteps pass along the passage, when I heard a voice cry up the stairs, “Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Brown, I’m going out to get a mouthful of fresh air,—if the children cry, will you see to them?” A shrill voice replied, a female step passed my door, into the street. A second afterwards the door slowly opened (I had unlocked it as I heard what I supposed were her footsteps going along the passage). In she came, holding up her finger for silence, then quietly closing and locking the door, she stood smiling at me. “Don’t make a noise, they think I am out,” she said.
I looked fully at her now, my lust satisfied. She was a big woman of say thirty years of age, coarse, common, but clean; she had a dress on which opened in front like that of a woman who suckles, and some sort of cap on her head. I did not know what to make of it, for she stood as if waiting for me to speak. I did not, and taking the candle, she put it down on the floor by the side of the drawers, or something of the sort, and remarked, “They won’t see the light through the crack of the door now.” Again a man’s heavy footstep was heard. “That’s my upstairs lodger,” said she when she noticed my listening.
“You are really not gay?” said I. Then she repeated what she had said before, and sat on the side of the bed by me. “You have big breasts,” I remarked. “Yes I was a fine woman, every one said before I married.” It is impossible to be near a woman without wishing to ascertain her hidden charms. In the hurried embrace with her I had thought of nothing but cunt. At that time of my life, to see a woman, to long for her, to make my bargain, and to fuck her, was often an affair of not much more than ten minutes; it was only after the fuck that I looked well at the female I had pieced.
“Let me feel them,” I said. She hesitated, but I undid the dress, and felt two breasts large and white, and pulled one out. “My nipple is spoilt with suckling,” said she, “I’ve not yet done giving milk.” “Let’s have you again.” “Yes,”—and she got on to the bed. “Let me see your cunt.” “Oh! no,—don’t,—I won’t.” My suspicion came back; with my prick out I still hesitated. “I’ve not washed myself since you did me,” said she. “Well wash your cunt.” She took my basin, and washed herself. Then I had a look at her cunt, and again fucked her. Lord how she enjoyed it, and so did I, that big coarse woman; but she would not let me look long at her belly, perhaps marked through child-birth. She had thickish, lightish brown hair on her quim; it was a cock-squeezer too, and how wet it got in our copulation. I remarked it to her. She said, “I’m wet, and no mistake.”
I lay on her afterwards, my prick dangling against her cunt, and talked. Her husband was an artisan away on a job, she kept the house, and let lodgings; her husband was half his time away. “You’ve seen the girl who was in this room,—I recollect you,—I’ve seen you in the street more than once,—You’ve been with the woman opposite. I didn’t mean anything till you spoke and stopped, but I’d been dying for it, been wishing almost I were gay; the gal opposite had just gone in with a man, and I was wondering what my husband was doing, and just then you stopped and looked, and I thought I’d let you. Do it again,” said she slipping her hand between our bellies, and grasping my ballocks. And I did it again, as soon as I could.
“I’ve never had another man but you and my own man I’ll swear,—ask in the street, they will all say I’m respectable,—but don’t tell on me. I frig myself almost every day, if you must know, but that don’t satisfy me, a woman who’s had three children,—if I’m in the family way now, I’m in a mess, but I’m not so much to blame, am I?—think, three months away from your own man I—but I tell you as you spoke to me I was a dying for it,—the girl who was here in this room used to say, ‘Well Mrs.——— you are a fool to pass your life almost without a you know what.’ Well I was a dying for it, and she and lodgers would always tell me what the men did to them; and yet I never have had but you.” So we lay talking for a time, she answering my questions, and sometimes volunteering remarks; but never leaving go of my prick, and every now and then saying, “Ain’t you a fine man!—you just are a fine young man!”
There were noises at the street-door, men were talking, a smell of tobacco reached us. “It’s the upstairs back,” said she, “he will stop there till he have smoked two pipes, so for God’s sake don’t leave,”—and she sunk her voice lower. “Oh! I must put out the light.” Saying so, off the bed she got, blew it out, and got on to the bed again. There we lay quite another hour, speaking in whispers, feeling each other’s privates, never washing, the spunk drying up as our hands fumbled about each other, I talking bawdy, and telling her what gay women would do, she telling me she knew all about it, for her ground-floor lodgers were always gay. I asking questions about herself, heard that my cock was about the same size as her husband’s. Wondering at the tightness of her cunt, as she had had three children, she said that the size was the same as before she had had a man. If she got in the family way she would be in a mess; she did not think she should, as she had not quite done suckling. She did not know how she managed to keep so firm and plump, for she had meat only twice a week. “What then?” “Potatoes and herrings,”—did not know what she would do, if she did not get another lodger soon to pay the rent,—she often could not pay for a meal.
About two o’clock in the morning there were lumping boots going upstairs. The lodger had gone to bed. We lighted the candle, I washed (there was still no towel), and no sooner had I washed than she laid hold of, and kissed my prick, stooping to do so,—and then we fucked again.
We parted, she took my money. “I will keep this,” she said, “it will help me.” I said it was for her. She let me quietly out, begging me never to mention what had taken place between us to any gal in the street. “Though they won’t believe you if you do, for I have a good character. I’ve seed you often go in with them.” I had fancied no one ever saw me in that low street, and wondered if any other person had recognized me there.
I never had her again. Once or twice I saw her at the street-door, but so soon as she saw me she rushed in-doors, and I had too many fresh and younger women at hand to care about her. Here was a case of a woman who could not restrain herself, owing to the long absence of her legitimate doodle, and gave way to her uncontrollable passions for that night. That was the only conclusion I could come to.
Then soon afterwards I had the clap. Mary cried, and declared she had not given it me, and I am sure she had not. Then almost for the first time I began to use condoms, or French letters, as they are called. I did not like them, but had suffered so much from gonorrhea, that I carried them in my purse in readiness.
My experience with this poor class of women was soon considerable. Satiated, sick of them, yet I continued to frequent them for the simple carnal pleasure of coition. There was no sentiment about it, no liking for the women, for though their manners sometimes amused me, they more frequently shocked me, and the poverty of some distressed me; but I had no money for choicer entertainment. My vigor was great, my pleasure in copulation almost maddening, a cunt was a cunt, and I got my pleasure and relief up it, whatever its owner might have been. A sensuous imagination aided me. When once my prick was up a woman she was for the time more or less invested with charms, and her imperfections forgotten. I used to shut my eyes, and fancy I was stroking a houri with the finest limbs and ivory flesh, an
d could fancy all this up to the moment of ejaculation, I fancied thighs and cunt which were not those of the woman who was at that moment doing her best to please me.
There were occasions when the women when naked revolted me, my prick refused to stand, and I departed without copulating, but those occasions with this class of women are not worth noting. I have been subject to this sudden revolt and prostration, sometimes even when the woman was most beautiful. Nervousness, fear, some sudden dislike, and even most ridiculous reasons have caused it.
I should have mentioned that gradually it had taken hold of my mind that my prick was a very small one. How this notion first arose I cannot quite trace, I certainly had it in a degree when a youth, and it became stronger owing to the remarks of some French women. The men I saw fucking at Camille’s had very large pricks, and no doubt they were selected on that account for exhibition; but I did not know that then, and used mentally to compare mine with theirs, and also with those of some of my former schoolfellows, and to my disadvantage.
With many harlots of both high and low class I had talked about size; each told me of men who had big pricks, rarely of those who had small ones. Experience has since taught me that harlots like talking about big pricks, for size affects their imagination agreeably. Of ridiculously small ones they make mention for a laugh, the average sizes pass without their notice. I used to ask them how mine compared with the big ones they spoke of, and got at last into my head the erroneous opinion about my own machine. At times I would produce it with an apologetic remark. “My prick’s not a very big one, is it?”—and was much pleased when the woman’s reply was complimentary. I know now from the inspection of many men’s, that mine compares very favorably with the average, and is larger than most; but for many years I was of a very different opinion, and at times was almost ashamed of my prick, so much so that when a woman said it was as large as most, and many said that. I did not believe them, still less did I believe them when they said it was a handsome prick; then I thought they were hum-bugging me.
Now as I add these few words written years after the foregoing, and after having seen some dozens of pricks, both languid and erect, I know what they said was true, and I know that there is a size, a form, a curve, and a colour in pricks which makes some handsomer than others, just as undoubtedly there are ugly and handsome cunts.
Chapter XVII
One hot night in summer I slouched along one of the streets, and stopped in front of a woman who stood lolling against the door-post. I recollect her and my first sensations perfectly well, her white face, and dark hair hanging behind her in a net, her low dress, low in front,—showing a luscious neck and bust as white as her face. Her dress was of a very light colour, so her neck and face must have been white indeed to look so white by contrast. The street-door was close to a street-lamp, which shed a strong light on her face as it was turned upwards, and with her hand and arms folded behind her she lolled, her back against the doorpost. She was a full-sized woman, but young, and exactly what pleased me then; black and white, young and full of flesh. I stopped, and gazed at her. She fixed her eyes vacantly on me, but neither moved nor spoke to me.
There were gay women standing at doors not far off, common men also at some stood smoking. They understood the habits of the neighbourhood, and never took any notice when a strange man and woman talked together at a door. I did not like to speak to a woman if others, or men were near, and would at times walk about till the coast was clearer. But this girl struck me with strong lust suddenly. “I’ll give you a shilling to feel,” said I. No answer, but she kept staring at me. “Half a crown then,” thinking my offer too small, and stepping inside the passage to get out of sight. “Come in,” I said. She made no reply, never took her back quite from the wall; but turning herself round, continued looking at me, her head slightly moving about as if she did not understand.
Staggered at this behaviour I was coming out again to leave, but her lovely look fixed me. “I’ll give you five shillings,” said I, “to have you.” “Have me,” said she, “have me what?” Her voice was thick and broken. She turned into the passage. “Will you let me have you?” “Come and fuck,” said the husky, thick voice. She passed me, stepped heavily into the room, staggered to the bed, and then I saw she was drunk. I had not noticed it before, being absorbed in her fleshy beauty, and the desire to see her cunt, and all of her, and join my body to hers.
There was a single candle in the room, fluttering, and needing snuffing, but no snuffers. I snuffed it with my fingers. The room was in disorder, the pot full, water in the basin, the bed unmade, the whole place the picture of disorderly, drunken, harlotry. A nightgown was, lying on the floor, clean linen on a little table. It looked so miserable, that I thought I would go away at once, so took out five shillings, and laid it down. “There is the money,” I said, “I shan’t stop.” “Come and fuck,” said she in reply, rolling on to the bed, and pulling up her clothes. She had but a gown on, nothing else. Thighs and legs as white and fat as her neck came into sight, and a thicket of hair at the bottom of her belly as dark as the hair on her head. The sight altered my intention, I walked to the bed, and placed my hand on her cunt. “Fuck me,” she blurted out in her drunken voice again. I felt wild with voluptuous delight, as my eyes gloated on the big breasts and thighs to where her garters and stockings hid the flesh from view. All was dazzling white except a nearly crispy-haired cunt in the middle of it. The contrast was exquisite, was absolutely dazzling.
A strange train of ideas (how oddly they spring up at such times) came into my head. “You’ve just had a man,” I said, “your cunt’s wet,—you’ve just been fucked.” “He ain’t fucked me for three days,—we have been a drinking gin, we have,—he paid, he hain’t fucked me,—you fuck me,” said she making a grab at my prick which was buttoned up yet,—“fuck me,—you shall fuck me.” All this was said in a hoarse, drunken, incoherent manner, but the “fuck me” with a sudden violent energy, as if she suddenly felt a stinging desire to have her cunt stretched. “Fuck,—I’m bloody randy,—where’s your prick?”
I took the light, pulled open her thighs, almost put the candle in her cunt. She let me do just as I liked repeating, “Fuck me.” She was beautiful, her white firm flesh, her big round thighs, the lovely globes of her arse would have excited the dead. “Pull off your gown.” “I shan’t.” “You shall.” I helped her up into a sitting posture, and pulled it off in an instant. Then she fell back naked, showing peeps of black-haired armpits. The next instant I was up her, and injected her. How beautiful she seemed as I moved my prick up and down in that cunt, spite of the drunken manner, and the miserable surroundings.
A most violent letch for her took hold of me. The women in the streets I have described had fine women among them, but for the most part they were plain in face, indifferent in form somewhere, and hideously coarse in manner; but the beauty of this woman was so great, I forgot all her coarseness. When I came to myself after my pleasures, she was fast asleep. She had perhaps spent, that and the liquor called gin overpowered her, and she forgot her business. Then the biting of fleas worried me for half-an-hour, I spent my time in hunting for them, and scratching myself, snuffing with my fingers the only tallow candle, and now and then holding it over her to look at her beautiful face, naked body, and unwashed cunt. The heat was intolerable. To be cool I gradually took off all clothing but my shirt, at last took off that, and then sat at the edge of the bed naked. I pulled open her legs, each lay just as I placed them, wide apart. I held the candle between her thighs, and opened her cunt-lips. Masses of thick sperm lay over her cunt, and hid the entrance of the prick-hole. I played with it as my bawdy fancy dictated, frigged her, dipping my finger in the spunk below, and then rubbing it on to her clitoris till it was dry, twisted down her cunt-hair till it was wetter, and played every trick which a lascivious fancy dictated. Gradually I stiffened under this exciting amusement, and throwing my naked body on to hers, fucked her again. God only kn
ows if she knew I was fucking her, or not,—I don’t. She awakened after I had spent, turned on her side, and when I tried to get her on her back again, she swore.
Whether the slight dozing had relieved her brain, or whether the fumes of the liquor had evaporated, I don’t know, but she soon became more conscious, and though stupid, yet more awake. Her voice had still the thick utterance, her answers still those of a person only partially understanding what was said to her. I expect I had excited her passions by my fingers, and not by what I said, for after awaking she again blurted out, “Fuck me,—I want a fuck.” A grab at my prick showed that she knew where to find the means of giving herself pleasure, and I gave it her. Then I dozed.
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