Читать книгу Hollywood to Vienna - Donald Ellis Rothenberg - Страница 13

Little Jessie, I remember when I was called that, a preteen, and “spin the bottle” and “seven minutes in heaven” were in vogue. If we were really lucky, we could “pet” or “neck,” and maybe even caress each other all over.

In late teens, much later, I rubbed it between Gina’s legs. We didn’t make love, but we rubbed each other and she masturbated me till I came. I also rubbed her clitoris till she had an orgasm, usually. Sometimes we had it at the same time. She had red hair and red pubic hair and freckles on her face. She had cute little freckles on her lovely breasts, also. She was slim with these around 34 to 36 sized breasts and she was pretty. We couldn’t get enough. One night I was playing with her breasts and sucking the almost purple nipples. Anyway, we zipped each others’ zippers down, and I finger fucked her, and she expertly got me off in no time.

Once we were there at night, overlooking the lights of the city below. Was this the date where Betty Katz, with the big boobs, would let me feel her up, touch and fondle her breasts, and I would get hard? Would I really get a good feel, and flick and twirl her nipples and even maybe get to suck on them? I couldn’t believe it when she let me, with no apparent opposition. She was eager and melted with my touch, while rubbing herself gently between her legs under her plaid skirt.

Another woman I got fixed-up with was “doing it,”I heard. So there I was with this woman who never got enough, in the back of my first Volkswagen beetle, with the back seat down and us curled up, stuffed and squeezed in there . . . She most willingly gave me a good blow job, the first one I ever had.

Now Jesse is recalling these sexploits, and the young lovers of yesteryear. What era are we talking about? These were not rapes or gang bangs or cocaine madness or being fossilized by plaster-caster groupies running after me shrieking with glee, thinking I was Eliott Gould or Albert Einstein, asking for my autograph in Westwood where I grew up. There were only the Fox and Bruin theatres, and no cinema movie house city as there is now, with at least thirty movie houses. It became a hangout, got the wanton city crowd looking for kicks on Sunset Blvd., Ventura Blvd., Whittier Blvd., Manhattan Beach, the Lighthouse, or Shelly’s Mann Hole in Hollywood – the first jazz sounds, Beat poetry and jazz in Venice Beach, the Troubadour, the Ashgrove on Melrose, which now has been reopened to trendy cityscape: the place to browse for deco, or fifties belts, or whatever.