by Frank Harris
«Pluck?» She wrinkled her forehead and pursed her large mouth.
«Courage, I mean,» I said. «Oh, I have courage,» she rejoined.
«Did you ever come upstairs to Mrs. Mayhew's bedroom,» I asked,
«when I had gone up for a book?» The black eyes danced and she laughed knowingly. «Mrs. Mayhew said that she had taken you upstairs to bathe your poor head after dancing,» she retorted disdainfully, «but I don't care: it's nothing to do with me what you do!» «It has too,» I went on, carrying the war into her country. «How?» she asked.
«Why the first day you went away and left me, though I was really ill,» I said, «so I naturally believed that you disliked me, though I thought you lovely!» «I'm not lovely,» she said. «My mouth's too big and I'm too slight.» «Don't malign yourself,» I replied earnestly,
«that's just why you are seductive and excite a man.» «Really?» she cried, and so the talk went on, while I cudgelled my brains for an opportunity but found none, and all the while was in fear lest her father and mother should return. At length, angry with myself, I got up to go on some pretext and she accompanied me to the stoop. I said good-bye on the top step and then jumped down by the side with a prayer in my heart that she'd come a step or two down, and she did.
There she stood, her hips on a level with my mouth; in a moment my hands went up her dress, the right to her sex, the left to her bottom behind to hold her. The thrill as I touched her half-fledged sex was almost painful in intensity. Her first movement brought her sitting down on the step above me and at once my finger was busy in her slit.
«How dare you!» she cried, but not angrily. «Take your hand away!» «Oh, how lovely your sex is!» I exclaimed, as if astounded. «Oh, I must see it and have you, you miracle of beauty,» and my left hand drew down her head for a long kiss while my middle finger still continued its caress. Of a sudden her lips grew hot and at once I whispered, «Won't you love me, dear? I want you so: I'm burning and itching with desire. (I knew she was!) Please; I won't hurt you and I'll take care. Please, love, no one will know,» and the end of it was that right there on the porch I drew her to me and put my sex against hers and began the rubbing of her tickler and front part of her sex that I knew would excite her. In a moment she came and her love-dew wet my sex and excited me terribly; but I kept on frigging her with my man-root while restraining myself from coming by thinking of other things, till she kissed me of her own accord and suddenly moving forward pushed my prick right into her pussy. To my astonishment, there was no obstacle, no maidenhead to break through, though her sex itself was astonishingly small and tight. I didn't scruple then to let my seed come, only withdrawing to the lips and rubbing her clitoris the while, and, as soon as my spurting ceased, my root glided again into her and continued the slow in-and-out movement till she panted with her head on my shoulder and asked me to stop. I did as she wished, for I knew I had won another wonderful mistress. We went into the house again, for she insisted I should meet her father and mother, and, while we were waiting, she showed me her lovely tiny breasts, scarcely larger than small apples, and I became aware of something childish in her mind which matched the childish outlines of her lovely, half-formed hips and pussy. «I thought that you were in love with Mrs. Mayhew,» she confessed, «and I couldn't make out why she made such funny noises. But now I know,» she added, «you naughty dear, for I felt my heart fluttering just now and I was nearly choking.» I don't know why, but that ravishing of Lily made her dear to me. I resolved to see her naked and to make her thrill to ecstasy as soon as possible, and then and there we made a meeting place on the far side of the church, whence I knew I could bring her to my room at the Gregorys in a minute; and then I went home, for it was late and I didn't particularly want to meet her folks. The next night I met Lily by the church and took her to my room. She laughed aloud with delight as we entered, for indeed she was almost like a boy of bold, adventurous spirit. She confessed to me that my challenge of her pluck had pleased her intimately. «I never took a 'dare'!» she cried in her American slang, tossing her head. «I'll give you two,» I whispered, «right now: the first is, I dare you to strip naked as I'm going to do, and I'll tell you the other when we're in bed. Again she tossed her little blue-black head. «Pooh,» she cried, «I'll be undressed first,» and she was. Her beauty made my pulses hammer and parched my mouth. No one could help admiring her: she was very slight, with tiny breasts, as I have said, flat belly and straight flanks and hips: her triangle was only brushed in, so to speak, with fluffy soft hairs, and, as I held her naked body against mine, the look and feel of her exasperated my desire. I still admired Kate's riper, richer, more luscious outlines: her figure was nearer my boyish ideal; but Lily represented a type of adolescence destined to grow on me mightily. In fact, as my youthful virility decreased, my love of opulent feminine charms diminished and grew more and more to love slender, youthful outlines with the signs of sex rather indicated than pronounced. What an all-devouring appetite Rubens confesses with the great, hanging breasts and uncouth fat pink bottoms of his Venuses!
I lifted Lily on the bed and separated her legs to study her pussy. She made a face at me; but, as I rubbed my hot sex against her little button that I could hardly see, she smiled and lay back contentedly. In a minute or two, her love-juice came and I got into bed on her and slipped my root into her small cunt; even when the lips were wide open, it was closed to the eye and this and her slim nakedness excited me uncontrollably. I continued the slow movements for a few minutes; but once she moved her sex quickly down on mine as I drew out to the lips, and gave me an intense thrill. I felt my seed coming and I let myself go in short, quick thrusts that soon brought on my spasm of pleasure and I lifted her little body against mine and crushed my lips on hers: she was strangely tantalizing, exciting like strong drink. I took her out of bed and used the syringe in her, explaining its purpose, and then went to bed again and gave her the time of her life! Lying between her legs but side by side an hour later, I dared her to tell me how she had lost her maidenhead. I had to tell her first what it was. She maintained stoutly that «no feller» had ever touched her except me and I believed her, for she admitted having caressed herself ever since she was ten; at first she could not even get her forefinger into her pussy she told me. «What are you now?» I asked. «I shall be sixteen next April,» was her reply.
About eleven o'clock she dressed and went home, after making another appointment with me. The haste of this narrative has many unforeseen drawbacks: it makes it appear as if I had had conquest after conquest and little or no difficulty in my efforts to win love.
In reality, my half-dozen victories were spread out over nearly as many years, and time and again I met rebuffs and refusals quite sufficient to keep even my conceit in decent bounds. But I want to emphasize the fact that success in love, like success in every department of life, falls usually to the tough man unwearied in pursuit. Chaucer was right when he makes his Old Wyfe of Bath confess, And by a close attendance and attention Are we caught, more or less the truth to mention. It is not the handsomest man or the most virile who has the most success with women, though both qualities smooth the way, but that man who pursues the most assiduously, flatters them most constantly, and always insists on taking the girl's «no» for consent, her reproofs for endearments, and even a little crossness for a new charm. Above all, it is necessary to push forward after every refusal, for as soon as a girl refuses, she is apt to regret and may grant then what she expressly denied the moment before. Yet I could give dozens of instances where assiduity and flattery, love-books and words were all ineffective, so much so that I should never say with Shakespeare, «He's not a man who cannot win a woman.» I have generally found, too, that the easiest to win were the best worth winning for me, for women have finer senses for suitability in love than any man. Now for an example of one of my many failures, which took place when I was still a student and had a fair opportunity to succeed. It was a custom in the university for every professor to lecture for forty-
five minutes, thus leaving each student fifteen minutes at least free to go back to his private classroom to prepare for the next lecture. All the students took turns to use these classrooms for their private pleasure. For example, from eleven forty-five to noon each day I was supposed to be working in the junior classroom, and no student would interfere with me or molest me in any way. One day, a girl Fresher, Grace Weldon by name, the daughter of the owner of the biggest department store in Lawrence, came to Smith when Miss Stephens and I were with him, about the translation of a phrase or two in Xenophon. «Explain it to Miss Weldon, Frank!» said Smith, and in a few moments I had made the passage clear to her. She thanked me prettily, and I said, «If you ever want anything I can do, I'll be happy to make it clear to you, Miss Weldon; I'm in the junior classroom from eleven forty-five to noon, always.» She thanked me and a day or two later came to me in the classroom with another puzzle, and so our acquaintance ripened.
Almost at once she let me kiss her, but as soon as I tried to put my hand up her clothes, she stopped me. We were friends for nearly a year, close friends, and I remember trying all I knew one Saturday, when I spent the whole day with her in our classroom till dusk came, and I could not get her to yield. The curious thing was, I could not even soothe the smart to my vanity with the belief that she was physically cold. On the contrary, she was very passionate, but she had simply made up her mind and would not change. That Saturday in the classroom she told me if she yielded she would hate me: I could see no sense in this, even though I was to find out later what a terrible weapon the confessional is as used by Irish Catholic priests.
To commit a sin is easy; to confess it to your priest is for many women an absolute deterrent. A few days later, I think, I got a letter from Smith that determined me to go to Philadelphia as soon as my boardings provided me with sufficient money. I wrote and told him I'd come and cheered him up. I had not long to wait. Early that fall Bradlaugh came to lecture in Liberty Hall on the French Revolution-a giant of a man with a great head, rough-hewn, irregular features and stentorian voice: no better figure of a rebel could be imagined. I knew he had been an English private soldier for a dozen years, but I soon found that, in spite of his passionate revolt against the Christian religion and all its cheap moralistic conventions he was a convinced individualist and saw nothing wrong in the despotism of money which had already established itself in Britain, though condemned by Carlyle at the end of his French Revolution as the vilest of all tyrannies. Bradlaugh's speech taught me that a notorious and popular man, earnest, and gifted, too, and intellectually honest, might be fifty years before his time in one respect and fifty years behind the best opinion of the age in another province of thought. In the great conflict of our day between the «Haves» and the «Have-nots,» Bradlaugh played no part whatever. He wasted his great powers in a vain attack on the rotten branches of the Christian tree, while he should have assimilated the spirit of Jesus and used it to gild his loyalty to truth. About this time, Kate wrote that she would not be back for some weeks: she declared she was feeling another woman. I felt tempted to write, «So am I, stay as long as you please,» but instead I wrote an affectionate, tempting letter, for I had a real affection for her, I discovered. When she returned a few weeks later, I felt as if she were new and unknown and I had to win her again; but as soon as my hand touched her sex, the strangeness disappeared and she gave herself to me with renewed zest.
I teased her to tell me just what she felt and at length she consented. «Begin with the first time,» I begged, «and then tell what you felt in Kansas City.» «It will be very hard,» she said. «I'd rather write it for you.» «That'll do just as well,» I replied, and here is the story she sent me the next day. «I think the first time you had me,» she began, «I felt more curiosity than desire:
I had so often tried to picture it all to myself. When I saw your sex I was astonished, for it looked very big to me and I wondered whether you could really get it into my sex, which I knew was just big enough for my finger to go in. Still I did want to feel your sex pushing into me, and your kisses and the touch of your hand on my sex made me even more eager. When you slipped the head of your sex into mine, it hurt dreadfully; it was almost like a knife cutting into me, but the pain for some reason seemed to excite me and I pushed forward so as to get you further in me; I think that's what broke my maidenhead. At first I was disappointed because I felt no thrill, only the pain; but, when my sex became all wet and open and yours could slip in and out easily, I began to feel real pleasure. I liked the slow movement best; it excited me to feel the head of your sex just touching the lips of mine and, when you pushed in slowly all the way, it gave me a gasp of breathless delight: when you drew your sex out, I wanted to hold it in me. And the longer you kept on, the more pleasure you gave me. For hours afterwards, my sex was sensitive; if I rubbed it ever so gently, it would begin to itch and burn. «But that night in the hotel at Kansas City I really wanted you and the pleasure you gave me then was much keener than the first time. You kissed and caressed me for a few minutes and I soon felt my love-dew coming and the button of my sex began to throb. As you thrust your shaft in and out of me, I felt a strange sort of pleasure: every little nerve on the inside of my thighs and belly seemed to thrill and quiver; it was almost a feeling of pain. At first the sensation was not so intense, but, when you stopped and made me wash, I was shaken by quick, short spasms in my thighs, and my sex was burning and throbbing; I wanted you more than ever. «When you began the slow movement again, I felt the same sensations in my thighs and belly, only more keenly, and, as you kept on, the pleasure became so intense that I could scarcely bear it.
Suddenly you rubbed your sex against mine and my button began to throb; I could almost feel it move. Then you began to move your sex quickly in and out of me; in a moment I was breathless with emotion and I felt so faint and exhausted that I suppose I fell asleep for a few minutes, for I knew nothing more till I felt the cold water trickling down my face. When you began again, you made me cry, perhaps because I was all dissolved in feeling and too, too happy. Ah, love is divine: isn't it?» Kate was really of the highest woman-type, mother and mistress in one. She used to come down and spend the night with me oftener than ever and on one of these occasions she found a new word for her passion. She declared she felt her womb move in yearning for me when I talked my best or recited poetry to her in what I had christened her holy week. Kate it was who taught me first that women could be even more moved and excited by words than by deeds.
Once, I remember, when I had talked sentimentally, she embraced me of her own accord and we had each other with wet eyes. Another effect of Smith's absence was important, for it threw me a good deal with Miss Stephens. I soon found that she had inherited the best of her father's brains and much of his strength of character. If she had married Smith, she might have done something noteworthy; as it was, she was very attractive and well-read as a girl and would have made Smith, I am sure, a most excellent wife. Once and once only I tried to hint to her that her sweetness to Smith might do him harm physically; but the suspicion of reproof made her angry and she evidently couldn't or wouldn't understand what I meant without a physical explanation, which she would certainly have resented. I had to leave her to what she would have called her daimon, for she was as prettily pedantic as Tennyson's Princess, or any other mid-Victorian heroine. Her brother, Ned, too, I came to know pretty well. He was a tall, handsome youth with fine grey eyes; a good athlete, but of commonplace mind. The father was the most Interesting of the whole family, were it only for his prodigious conceit. He was of noble appearance: a large, handsome head with silver grey hairs setting off a portly figure well above middle height. In spite of his assumption of superiority, I felt him hide-bound in thought, for he accepted all the familiar American conventions, believing, or rather knowing, that the American people, «the good old New England stock in particular, were the salt of the earth, the best breed to be seen anywhere.»
It showed his brains that he tried to
find a reason for this belief. «English oak is good,» he remarked one day sententiously, «but American hickory is tougher still. Reasonable, too, this belief of mine,» he added, «for the last glacial period skinned all the good soil off of New England and made it bitterly hard to get a living; and the English who came out for conscience sake were the pick of the Old Country; and they were forced for generations to scratch a living out of the poorest kind of soil with the worst climate in the world, and hostile Indians all round to sharpen their combativeness and weed out the weaklings and wastrels.» There was a certain amount of truth In his contention, but this was the nearest to an original thought I ever heard him express; and his intense patriotic fervor moved me to doubt his intelligence. I was delighted to find that Smith rated him just as I did: «A first rate lawyer, I believe,» was his judgment;
«a sensible, kindly man.» «A little above middle height,» I interpreted; and Smith added smiling, «And considerably above average weight: he would never have done anything notable in literature or thought.» As the year wore on, Smith's letters called for me more and more insistently and at length I went to join him in Philadelphia.
Frank Harris
My Life and Loves, v1 Chapter XIII. New Experiences: Emerson, Walt Whitman, Bret Harte SMITH MET ME at the station. He was thinner than ever and the wretched little cough shook him very often in spite of some lozenges that the doctor had given him to suck. I began to be alarmed about him, and I soon came to the belief that the damp climate of the Quaker City was worse for him than the thin, dry Kansas air.
But he believed in his doctors! He boarded with a pleasant Puritan family in whose house he had also got me a room, and at once we resumed the old life. But now I kept constant watch on him and insisted on rigorous self-restraint, tying up his unruly organ every night carefully with thread, which was still more efficient (and painful) than the whipcord. But now he didn't improve quickly: it was a month before I could find any of the old vigor in him; but soon afterwards the cough diminished and he began to be his bright self again. One of our first evenings I described to him the Bradlaugh lecture in much the same terms I have used in this narrative. Smith asked: «Why don't you write it? You ought to: the Press would take it.
