Another thing that is great is the fact that, if a guy has a problem of going off too soon, he will be delighted to find that he can screw for hours in warm water, but don’t do like I did. I decided to end it up on the ground, I got sand on it, and it tore the hell out of both of us.
This brings another little story to mind, when a guy is in an outboard motor boat, and decided to take a split tail to the river bank to do it to her. Well, if you have a finger in her, watch when you reach back to shut the motor off. I touched the damn spark plug and she jumped out of the boat, calling me a no good smart alec son of a bitch, and that was the last I ever seen of her.
Well, I could go on telling stories all night, true ones, but I doubt if you are interested, so I will close. However, if you should be interested, feel free to ask me to tell you more—I need the typing practice.
Best wishes,
Lew
I wrote Lew a couple of lines saying to feel free to write more. And he took me at my word.
Dear Jack,
From a man of your importance, I considered your letter of eight or nine lines most sufficient. Please do not ever apologize because I realize that you are a very busy man and that your time is valuable.
I thank you for your letter, but please never acknowledge my letters or encourage me to continue writing just to be polite. In other words, my time is not too important, but I do not want to waste it by merely being a nuisance or a bore.
Just for the heck of it, I will briefly write about certain things. If you should ever be interested in more details relative to any of these miscellaneous inserts, feel free to request more details.
I do not mean to insult your intelligence by telling you things that might be old hat to you.
I enjoy sucking on a woman’s big toe or thumb while she is going down on me. I also enjoy having my big toe or thumb sucked on.
Recently I met a split tail who introduced me to heel nibbling. It’s a nice little extra delight. A few years ago I met a girl who called herself the human vibrator. She would tighten her lips around her tongue after taking a deep breath. When she exhaled, the air blowing out around her tongue caused her tongue to vibrate on the head of my penis. This produced a lot of noise but was very stimulating, especially when she would force the pointed end of her vibrating tongue to enter the opening at the end of my penis, which she would spread open with her fingers.
(Here follows a careful description of the enclosed homemade French tickler, with a near-endless elaboration on its special advantages—JWW)
I have experimented with the art of tongue facial massage. If interested, mention and I will describe.
I invented a device for female masturbation. It consists of merely inserting about ten steel ball bearings of about three-quarters of an inch in diameter into a children’s penny rubber balloon, the long type. It can be used as a dildo, but the most pleasure is obtained by pulling on the last ball, then allowing it to snap free. This causes a chain reaction of jolts that will really ring most women’s bells!
A few months ago I invented a phony club to aid me in the seduction of women for sex. I had some forms printed up that were supposed to be ran through a damn computer. (At least that’s what I told the gals I invited to join for free.) I also made it a point to forget to mention that I was the only male member, or that I was married.
I then sent for several female mailing lists from some real clubs. Then I sent my forms to about sixty females whose addresses I obtained from the mailing lists. These gals must have been pretty excited by the idea of meeting their ideal man, one who had been selected by a computer, because I received about 60% response from select women in this area.
I always wrote back and told all of them that the club’s brilliant sixty-thousand-dollar computer had selected a certain man named Lew as their ideal mate. And I had all the data on each of them, so I had little trouble in being most compatible with each of them.
They never did find out I was running the club, let alone guess that I was its sole male member. M-m-m-m-m, it was a lot of fun, and I got to make it with some delicious split tails, but I made a graceful exit as soon as I had sampled each of them. However, I do still keep a couple of the best ones on the string. That’s enough besides my wife, I’m getting too old to take care of more.
Enclosed is one of the club business cards. Altogether I had about thirty dollars invested in that little scheme. It don’t take very long to waste that much in bar-hopping, or going to cat houses.
. . . By the way, I have a girl friend who I have taught to strengthen her puckering muscles by certain exercises. She can put a grape in her pussy and squeeze the juice out of it. We are going to try to make a little wine—would you care for a sip of it?
. . . By the way, in case you wonder why I go out of my way to try to be of help to you, well, Jack, I do have a small motive. You see it’s like this. I have what I call my bag of tricks. In this bag I have a photo of me sitting in someone’s fancy two-engine flying machine like I own it. (I almost went to jail when this grouchy old bastard thought I was trying to steal that damn old airplane and called the police. I had a hell of a time convincing them that I just wanted to have my picture taken.)
And I had to do some fancy talking to keep from getting the dog poop kicked out of me when another sourpuss caught me on his yacht posing for a few photos, especially when he saw I was wearing his fancy cap and brass-buttoned coat.
I also have a few phony medals and trophies for doing things that I only read about and know how to bullshit about. I have a few phony letters that are supposed to be from certain women thanking me for helping them when they were down and out. I wrote most of them myself. And I have a few phony diplomas, degrees, etc.
Well, if you ever get the time, and think that I deserve it, I wish and hope that you might type me a letter to add to my bag of wonderful tricks.
Below I will give you an example of the sort of letter that I would love to receive. But it would not have to be exactly as I have written it. Just so it’ll look impressive to some of the gals that I happen to meet.
Dear Lewis,
I made a special trip to your town to see you when I was in the area last week, and I felt bad because I did not get to meet you.
I am thinking about writing another book, and wanted to discuss it with you, as I consider your suggestions and comments very important.
I also thought that I would try once more to encourage you to write a book. It’s a shame that all of your talent is being wasted. And you should want to share your great knowledge and wisdom with the world. Besides I feel almost certain that your books would be big sellers. The next time I am near your home I will try to visit you again. I feel that I must talk to you before I go any farther with my new ideas relative to the book that I am considering writing. I will even make a special trip if necessary.
Best wishes.
Of course, Jack, you would know how to really make such a letter sound even better, and less phony. Especially if you typed it on your stationery with your letterhead.
Best wishes,
Lew
You may be surprised to learn that I did send Lew a somewhat restrained version of the letter he requested. Audacity of such dimension should not go wholly unrewarded, certainly. Then too, there is something appealing in the thought of someone getting laid on the strength of a letter from me. To round out this little collection of correspondence, here is a pair of letters from Richard. His swinging, as we’ll see, is very much a function of his preference for oral sex.
Dear Jack:
I just finished two of your books. I like your style. To me the material is very interesting.
It strikes me that I read something in the last book that gave me the impression that you and I are about the same age. I’m a Scorpio, if it makes any difference. They say it does. Anyway, I’m not mean, vindictive, or a jealous person as we Scorpians are supposed to be. Just horny. Always have been. Whenever work isn’t on my mind, sex is. I think i
t, breathe it, dream it, and eat it.
Now that last is one of the reasons I decided to write to you . . .
Basically, I guess you would say I’m a cunnilinguist. When I read that Havelock Ellis preferred cunnilingus, it made me feel better. He wrote, “It was only by intimate contact that one might know or divine the scent and the taste of the mysterious salts and essences that distilled from the guarded places of her form.”
I agree with him 100%. I found out when I was a kid that I could get more response out of the girls this way. Better than jumping on and banging hell out of them. Things were over too fast that way and I liked (and still do) to draw out my lovemaking. Of course, I would end up in the usual fashion a good many times. Maybe one-third of the time I wouldn’t. It suited me okay because I’ve always been one to enjoy pleasing my female friends. Not to brag, but I’ve had many.
I’ve never yet known a girl or woman that didn’t enjoy it. If it was new to them, after they found out about it they wanted more. Straight intercourse has never been a problem to me. I’ve got the equipment. I suppose there are people who would say I should see a shrink. I say, “What for?” I like the way I am and so do a lot of my friends . . . If you think I’m nuts, tell me. Maybe I am . . .
Sincerely,
Richard
In my reply, I assured Richard that he didn’t sound sick to me, that not a few men have worked out a code of ethics to the effect that, if they didn’t like a woman enough to eat her, they did not want to ball her at all. And I quoted the words of the immortal Vince Planko: “Show me a guy who won’t eat his girl and I’ll show you a broad I can steal.”
That elicited this reply:
Dear Jack:
The Code of Ethics you mentioned really hit me. It sounds so much like the statement I have made many times which has shocked a number of people. I’ve always said, “If a girl don’t look good enough to eat, I’m not interested.” Fact is, I think there is no stronger way to show a woman that you really like her. No more intimate way to show her that you care.
On my first date with my present wife, I took her home with me, and as soon as I could I went down on her, and that was all I did on that first date. She didn’t tell me then, but later she let me know that she was pissed off. She later told me that when I took her back to where she left her car she didn’t care if she ever saw me again. She felt I didn’t think she was nice enough to lay. Well, since then I’ve got her thinking straightened out and we’ve got an excellent relationship.
We are not swingers in the true sense of the word but we each have friends of the opposite sex. She let me know that she didn’t care who I balled, but she didn’t ever want to hear of me eating any box but hers. I guess you know that I’ve got to be careful because I’d rather eat it than ball it.
I should apologize for not writing sooner but I have been busy as hell. My boss took his vacation and I had to take his place for two weeks. With my other activities, I’ve been as busy as the famous one-armed paper hanger.
I have a second job where I do maintenance work in one of our local figure salons. I’ve had this job for a little over two years. The women that go there are not all pigs trying to get skinny. Some are trying to develop certain areas of their bodies and some are just trying to keep in shape. One thing is for sure they are all there because they want to look sexy and to be wanted as women.
I guess it’s a good thing I am what I am—a Cunt Eater. If I had to ball all these women, all of them eager to prove they are desirable to the opposite sex, I’d be a living dishrag—if I was living at all. Instead I’ve made a lot of women happy and enjoyed myself in the process.
It’s funny how many married women feel it’s okay for some guy to go down on them, but that they are only to be fucked by their husbands. Some feel that sixty-nine is the only way to go but they don’t do it at home. Of course, this makes me happy, so I’m not complaining too much. Usually, when I’m eating pussy, I don’t want anyone eating me—it distracts me.
About a year ago, the girl that runs the salon, who is living with a local advertising man, came to me when I was making my usual check of the torture machines—my name for the equipment. She said, “Richard, will you do me?” I asked her what she meant and she didn’t hesitate a second. She said, “I’ve heard about you, and the guy I’m living with won’t eat me, and I’m so hot to be eaten, I’m about crazy.”
I tipped my head toward her office and we went in. I asked her if she was sure she wanted me to do it and not the guy she’s living with. She assured me that she wanted to try. She told me her guy would only fuck her and she had learned that there was more to sex than screwing.
We went over to their apartment. He was at work. Up to two weeks ago we’ve made it twice a week ever since. She’s absolutely delicious. She’s not one of those sixty-nine girls but who cares. I know she is using me to fill in what she can’t get from the other guy. He’s missing the best part of the woman he’s living with. He’s getting old fucking her while I’m getting young sucking up those delicious juices.
I might be fifty-five, but I’ll go up against any thirty-five-year-old and I attribute it all to the juices of my women. John D. Rockefeller drank mother’s milk. I drink cunt milk. It’s the fountain of youth.
I guess I sound like I’ll eat anything, but I won’t. The woman has to be clean and attractive and send out good vibes to me or it’s no go. I also might say that it’s the better-educated and higher-class women who are interested in cunnilingus. Some I’m sure have lesbian tendencies, but when they can have a man do to them what another woman would, they feel better about it. Suits me fine. I get a real kick out of being able to bring them to repeated orgasm. I’m sure you know what I mean, Jack. Of course, the books all say if you suck ’em you should fuck ’em, but I don’t feel that way any more than you do. Or do you?
Of course, some women just have to feel the meat inside them, and I’m always happy to oblige, but most of them have had it when I’ve brought them off several times. Some are apologetic about being exhausted and not taking care of me. Some say next time they will fix me. Some say thanks and put on their clothes and go home.
I just wait until I get home and fuck hell out of my wife. Or she goes down on me—she is quite expert at it. With my wife we can go sixty-nine perfectly.
Well, Jack, I guess this is enough for now, if I’m ever going to get it in the mail and go to work. The salon manager and I had our little party this morning and I am running a little short of time.
Hope I haven’t bored you with all of this, but I’ve enjoyed writing and will do more if you want. I’d sure like to hear more from you.
Until next time,
Sincerely,
Richard
Erica
Erica is an attractive woman of twenty-nine, slender, with bleached blond hair. The original color, she has explained, is that of a field mouse. She has light brown eyes, which she frequently conceals behind dark wrap-around sunglasses. At the present time she lives alone on the West Side of Manhattan. At the time of writing, that is; it’s not unlikely that she’ll be living with someone by the time you read this.
I saw Erica around the neighborhood any number of times before we met. We would nod to each other when our paths crossed. Often I saw her sitting alone, reading a book or newspaper at a local coffeehouse. Several times I’d see her having a drink or a bite to eat with a man about her age, and then for a period of time I saw her walking hand in hand with a woman a few years older than herself. Once I saw the two of them emerging from a bar which has a clientele that is almost exclusively lesbian. I assumed that Erica was a lesbian, and found nothing particularly astonishing in the idea, lesbians are by no means uncommon around these parts.
Eventually we got past the nodding stage to the chatting stage. I was strongly attracted to Erica, but did not even consider acting upon this attraction, both because of my assumption of her homosexuality and because I was involved at the time at what looked to be a potential
ly meaningful relationship. The relationship turned out to be not so meaningful after all, and Erica turned out to be not homosexual but bisexual. Even so, Erica and I have never managed to get it together, as the kiddies say. We have, however; become rather good friends over the past several months, and she has told me quite a bit about her life.
The material which follows represents a distillation of any number of conversations over an extended period of time. Because of the nature of our relationship, I never interviewed Erica per se. But the following is essentially in her own voice, arranged rather more chronologically than I originally learned it.
• • •
I think that the best result of the sexual revolution might be the recognition of bisexuality. Of course, people already recognize that some people are bisexual, that it’s possible to love persons of either sex, but there’s knowing this and really knowing it. I have the feeling that kids are growing up nowadays with a deeper awareness of this, certainly a deeper awareness than I grew up with, and maybe a deeper understanding of it than I have even now.
What I mean is this—I know that I’m bisexual, I’ve had a lot of relationships with men and a lot of relationships with women, and I live alone now and pick my lovers for themselves and not for their sexual identity, but even so I’m not that secure in my identity as a bisexual woman. It’s difficult to put this insecurity into words. As an example, say I’ve been having a relationship with a woman, and it ends, and then I get involved in a relationship with a man. Well, at the onset of that relationship, there’s a voice inside me which says: Well, Erica baby, you’re over that unnatural phase now and you’re fulfilling your normal, healthy, heterosexual self. And then later on, when that relationship ends, and I’m getting it on with a woman, the same voice pipes up and says: Well, Erica baby, you made another of your desperate guilt-ridden stabs at being like everybody else, and as usual it didn’t work, and now you’re being true to your basic nature as a lesbian.
Sex Without Strings: A Handbook for Consenting Adults (John Warren Wells on Sexual Behavior) Page 10
