Let me say up front here, before I get on with my recollections of Mrs. Priestly, and before you form an opinion, that I am not particularly proud of the fantasies I held back then, around that same time, about these things which I called Fuck Units. I mention this because it’s all about mental state.
This was the name I gave to the kind of fantasy robot that was built for pleasure and had no other purpose. They stood around in corners waiting to be called upon, verbally programmed according to the kind of sexual pleasure you required at the time, then they cleaned themselves up and put themselves away and you could go get a beer or watch T.V.
Not very original, I know.
Nor am I particularly ashamed of this fantasy. After all, I was only twenty, quite grown up in the various senses that I had a girlfriend of sorts and was endowed with the social right to have my brains blown out playing other people’s war games, and the right to drive a car and get into debt and behave like a bigoted moron and all that other grown up stuff.
Yet somehow I remained mildly stuck with one foot in that post-adolescent sci-fi fantasy world where there was antigravity and time shifting, and woman-shaped robots that took all your sexual quirks at plain face value. You could pull down your pants and masturbate onto the shelf-like breasts of one of these robots, and she would smile at you and next thing she’d wipe off and pull up her bra, then her lights would go out and she’d fall silent simply awaiting further orders.
I was a science fiction nut. Sounds like it, the “nut” part, even to me now.
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I don’t have silly fantasies any more. I just write stories. There’s a difference.
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While I think of it, I want to tell you this, that in all the active years of these kinds of fantasies, and though I could have done absolutely anything I pleased with any one of these so called Fuck Units, I never once considered using violence. I’m not that kind of person. In fact, I always gave them a thank-you. ‘Thank-you. That was wonderful.’ Something like that while they were wiping up my come.
The great thing about these Fuck Units was that despite their ability to have phenomenal orgasms and engage in conversation, they were not biologically active, not in the sense that they could get pregnant for example. They had no taste buds, harbored no pathogens or political views, and did not use a toilet. Anal sex was a breeze and you could have eaten strawberries and cream off your dick right after with no ill effects. Delicious.
But hey, doesn’t this sound like the average character in the average erotic story, like this one? I was way ahead of my time.
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If I was twenty, then this was sometime back in nineteen seventy-five. Summer. This was the summer that I screwed myself silly with my parent’s neighbour Mrs. Priestly, and hence grew out of (was screwed out of) the Fuck Unit fantasy (after discovering that my pornographic robots couldn’t touch a late-forty-something woman-of-the-world for sexual innovation).
This was the summer I discovered by accident that my slightly older sister was selling phone sex from the extension in my parent’s garage.
And this was also the summer that I failed to get a blow job out of my first almost girlfriend. She said, ‘Nice girls don’t do that.’ Huh. On several occasions, Mrs. Priestly had just about sucked my nads out through the hole in the end of my dick, or so it felt like, and I had always thought she was very nice.
I didn’t get it, way back then. I get it now.
= = = = = = = =
I could have done absolutely anything I liked with these Fuck Units. I was their Supreme Ruler. In the real world, now as in times of History, there have always been Supreme Rulers because most people are simply too comfortable or lazy to say ‘no’ to supremely stupid and dangerous ideas.
These real Supreme Rulers habitually use punishments such as roping to poles anyone who dares to offend them, often for just the slightest of reasons such as dissention or heresy. Then they build bonfires under the feet of these hapless roped-up dissenters and as they set them alight tell them that this is for their own good, a good such as Salvation, or that they (the Supreme Rulers) are really only acting under orders themselves anyway, say, from a Supremest of All Rulers such as some kind of god, so really it isn’t their fault.
‘Hey. Don’t blame me as you snap crackle and pop. God made me do it.’
I could not have done anything like that to anybody or any thing, and that includes a fantasy robot. I guess that’s why I’m just a bean counter and not a Supreme Ruler of the World.
But what the heck, if the telegram arrives… You never know.
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Notice how the dividers between sections here are exactly 8 dashes each?
Meticulous.
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The thing with Mrs. Priestly began like this. She said over the front wire fence between our gardens, ‘I know you watch me in the shower.’ Pause. ‘From your window.’ Pause. ‘Try turning out all your lights before pulling a stunt like that.’ Pause. ‘I will say this once, and only once, and if it upsets you or offends you and you run away squealing I will deny to anyone ever having said it and accuse you of being the pervert and the liar which you probably are.’ Pause. ‘Come inside with me right now and you can see the whole package.’ Pause. ‘OK. Bye-bye little boy. I never said it.’
= = = = = = = =
Mandy was just leaving my house after having denied me a blow job, the first I’d ever asked for, so logically it was the first blow job I’d never had. We’d been having sex in my room, and I pulled on some jeans and a tee and dashed out to catch her before she drove away. She was glad I did, not that I was going to get a blow job just for being good about not getting a blow job, not that that had crossed my mind. I kissed her goodbye and we were thinking about becoming boyfriend and girlfriend.
Mrs. Priestly was in her garden raking with her head down and didn’t seem to have noticed me and Mandy out on the street. As I was coming back in, without warning she straightened up, screwed the handle of the rake in her rubber-gloved hands, and gave me that little speech from under the daisy hat she was wearing despite it being deep dusk. Then she said, ‘OK. Bye-bye little boy. I never said it,’ and threw away the rake and dashed off toward her house. Hell, she didn’t give me any time to react.
An icy, metallic chill went through me. A voice in my head said, ‘Fuck Unit.’
I got an erection. This took around six seconds despite the sex I was just having with Mandy. Back then I could get an erection in less time than that if required, from simply watching a lettuce get peeled if that was the best thing around. Fantasies about Fuck Units could keep me hard for hours.
= = = = = = = =
Our parent’s garage was detached from the house. I should mention that our career-nut parents were out a lot. Separately. Passing the garage one night I heard someone talking in loud, strident tones. It was Terri, my sister. She was growling at someone about things like not having mown the lawn or having neglected to put the garbage out, and whoever was on the other end of the line was a lazy shit and a pathetic peice of shit and a snivelling shit. I had my ear on the outside wall, fascinated to the point of nearly guffawing out loud, then she told the caller, ‘Get your cock out. Get it out now…’
She said the word “cock” over and over, like tormenting some vile animal with the worst of its own vileness. ‘Khhaaark’
I nearly vomited.
= = = = = = = =
‘Wait!’
= = = = = = = =
What Mrs. Priestly said was true about me spying on her, true in the sense that for years I had watched her undressing in her bathroom. I could not actually see the whole shower cubicle from my angle, just the occasional ass poking out, or elbow, or head bobbing down as, I guess, she washed her toes.
If I stood on my study desk, I could see out my window and over the top of the dividing fence, and in through the clear pane at the very top of her bathroom window down below. I didn’t often get to see her drying off afterward because by halfway through her shower the window would be fogged. I had to make do with watching her undress. That was enough. Occasionally she bathed. I could see the whole bathtub. She bathed more frequently when Eunice was with her.
= = = = = = = =
My mother said that ‘Priestly’ was not her real name. We had some of her mail delivered to our box by mistake, and some of the letters were addressed to a Ms. somebody, not a Priestly. I don’t recall who. The neighbours said she was married for a short time and that her husband had cleared off and deserted her and left her pregnant. She miscarried. She kept the Mrs. for some reason.
Neighbors know everything.
= = = = = = = =
My sister is seven minutes and ten light years older than me. This was true in nineteen seventy-five when my sister was selling verbal sex while I was still imagining Fuck Units and behaving like a chronic masturbator. It remains true to this day, despite the Mrs. Priestly thing, several girlfriends, and two marriages. I am a chronic masturbator again. It’s the Circle of Sex Life.
= = = = = = = =
Mrs. Priestly’s sister Eunice came and stayed for a year, all the way from Gibraltar. Rumor had it she had left a husband behind. One day Eunice was gone, back to Gibraltar according to my mother who knew these things probably by the same divining and x-ray vision means that the rest of the neighbors used.
Around this time, within days of this news, I saw Mrs. Priestly in her bathroom undressing for a shower. She got as far as opening her robe. She put her two hands on the washbasin and leaned heavily on straightened arms and appeared to be coughing. The whole time her screwed up gaze was fixed on where I assumed the mirror to be. She railed at herself with a screwed up mouth and her face was wet and she made no attempt to brush away to goo running down everywhere from under her nostrils. She hated somebody, and I think, right then, that somebody was herself. Then she was angry. She threw something at the mirror and I heard the smash and tinkle. She slid down out of sight.
That’s all I saw. I went and got a peanut butter sandwich.
= = = = = = = =
‘Wait! Please wait…’
= = = = = = = =
When you look at all the places sperm ends up between a sexy couple, in mouths, on faces, on breasts and arm pits and the palms of hands, on bottoms, in bottoms, and very often absolutely nowhere near a vagina, I remain as convinced as ever that sex has nothing to do with babies. I think babies are just a side effect.
This is why it really doesn’t matter if you’re gay. Feel free to fuck yourself stupid, no matter who or what you are, I say.
Just don’t hurt anybody.
= = = = = = = =
Her front door had closed to a sliver of yellow interior light before it seemed she responded to my second plea, ‘Wait…’ The sliver hovered a while, opened slowly to reveal the silhouette of Mrs. Priestly, daisy hat and all. She pushed the door wide open and disappeared inside.
I went there, and even from within my perpetual twenty year-old, post adolescent sci-fi-nut brain-fog, I knew the door was symbolic, and to close that door behind me was to open another which could never be closed.
And yes, I knew what a metaphor was.
I found her in her bedroom. Mrs. Priestly was naked, a soft light burning, and she was standing at the dresser mirror, hands on hips. ‘This is it,’ she said, spinning around. ‘This is what you get. There’s still time. You can leave, you know. I would understand.’
= = = = = = = =
When I get an erection now, I’m lucky if it reaches three PM. By that, I mean that if you looked at me from the side, my cock would be standing up around horizontal as a maximum. Sometimes it reaches only about four PM, especially if I’m not all that interested in whatever it is that’s supposed to be arousing me.
Writing here about my Mrs. Priestly, I have so far achieved several three PMs, and the occasional two-thirty.
= = = = = = = =
You know what? On her bed was an untidy pile made of the clothes she had been wearing a few moments ago, the daisy hat to one side, a bra strewn across the rest. I picked up the bra and my cock re-pressurised. I felt Mrs. Priestly’s warmth on that bra, then against my cheek, and like the sophisticated lover I smelled her perfume and was fully hard.
Mrs. Priestly was on her knees releasing my belt and jeans and finally my cock which was standing up at about one-fifteen PM. She pulled it down to three PM and put her mouth over it all the way to the balls.
The room was furnished with a massive double bed and pink frilly canopy and counterpane and pink frilly cushions on the floral cover. On the bed table was a framed photo of Eunice, and there were little candles, unlit, one either side completing a shrine. Around the walls were hung prints of water scenes by the French impressionists, and some others more exotic like prostitutes bathing and sleeping naked together and so on by Lautrec. One painting in particular shocked me at first, an oil of a stylised woman with her petticoats up and pussy spread by two fingers, painted by Egon Schiele around the turn of the twentieth century.
He got arrested.
The woman in that painting was, and remains, my Mrs. Priestly.
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And yes, I’m using metaphors again. There are lots of them here. Watch out.
= = = = = = = =
The blank stare of Eunice’s framed portrait watched Mrs. Priestly suck me until I came. She would not release me even though I could see her frowning with the effort of the self control required not to pull away. I came in her mouth. She continued to frown until she was sure the explosions were over. Backing away she said, ‘There. That cannot be undone.’
Like I was saying about sperm and sex, it’s not a simple equation.
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A question. When exactly, in human evolutionary terms, did humankind truly separate from the primates?
My answer: The first time in history a guy went down on his girlfriend.
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Mandy refused me again on the blow job issue, but relented to my insistence about getting my face between her legs. Things were going well. After a while her thighs relaxed enough to allow my head in closer, but anyway I was still getting tongue strain trying to reach the goodies. Eventually I hit the right spot and her legs melted away. I dared kissing up and down her inner thigh just so I could sneak a look at her pussy.
This was seventy-five, remember, long before the era of General Epilation. The hair sprouted pretty much as nature intended and effectively drew an opaque veil over Mandy’s details, except for a wet something-or-another that my tongue had teased out.
As I said, things were going well. I was laying on my front with a fierce erection squashed between me and the mattress. Mandy had her fingers running through my hair and was clutching my head and making me go fast and slow and up and down and she was starting to make a lot of sexy noise. Thus encouraged, and presented with the opportunity, I plunged the tip of my tongue into her ass.
Wrong.
‘Honestly. Where the hell do you get all these filthy ideas!’
Mrs. Priestly.
= = = = = = = =
Considering the era, I think Mrs. Priestly was something of a trendsetter in matters hair. She was shaved from below the clitoris line or thereabouts, so when standing she seemed normally endowed and fluffy. But below that it was skin, skin, skin, all the way down and around.
I got to see a lot of her. She liked to be sitting, partially dressed and in black stockings and stuff, with her legs open for my arrival. The surprise would always be where I might find her this time. She liked to hide in the house and have me discover her. Once I found her in the laundry hamper. Once it was simply on the dining table and there was a plate of cookies and a glass of milk right between her thighs. While I snacked, she showed me how her vibrator worked. I’d never seen one before, except for the pictures in my dog-eared Swedish porn. We retired to the bedroom and I got to use it with her. She wanted to use it on me too. I didn’t mind.
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Mandy threw the vibrator at me. Not the one Mrs. Priestly had used, but a brand new one out of the box. She missed. It hit the wall and the bullet head broke off and the counter-weighted motor fell out. A real mess.
She said, getting dressed, ‘I am really, really not sure about you any more. I’d hate to think where you had to go to get that… that thing.’
I don’t think she would have been pleased about Mrs. Priestly, in general, at all.
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I will bet you one Patagonian Yak that by now Mandy has owned about twenty vibrators, and that she currently has at least two in her underwear drawer.
And a second Patagonian Yak that that’s how she gets most of her orgasms these days, wherever she is in the world.
= = = = = = = =
Just recently I went to Mrs. Priestly’s funeral. I cried.
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Looking back, I got a lot of bad advice from Mrs. Priestly regarding Mandy, advice that seemed like good advice at the time. The vibrator thing for example. Ass licking.
I sometimes wonder.
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We quickly reached a stage in our relationship, Mrs. Priestly and me, where we were openly calling oral sex ‘going down.’ She might enquire of me on the telephone, ‘Like to come over Sweetheart and go down on me?’ Or we’d sit up in her bed and we’d talk about our lovemaking that afternoon or whatever, and we’d say things like, ‘Hm, that was nice the way you went down on me today, Honey.’ Our relationship was so evolved that I could hold my cock and say, ‘Go down on me?’ and without a word she’d wriggle over the bed and just get on with it.
And that’s another thing. She used to say that sex was all about getting comfortable. She would take great pains to make sure we were both relaxed and comfortable. Whenever she went down on me, it was important to her, and to me apparently, that I be flat on my back and in a very relaxed state before we begin, except for my dick, which as usual when around Mrs. Priestly, would be up waving like a flagpole in a gale.
Mrs. Priestly would say, ‘Why not just let me do the rest Honey?’ And she would. Believe me, she would. Then when it was my turn to go down on her, the positions would be reversed with the minor refinement that she had a stool by the bed for me to sit on and a soft cushion to go under my bottom (because this may take a while), and laying right at the edge of the bed she would lift her legs up and back. I learned an awful lot of female anatomy this way, all at my comfortable leisure.
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Making love to Mandy required all the delicate care of setting a bear trap.
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I saw a woman I recognised as Eunice at the funeral. She didn’t recognise me, not that I had hung around Mrs. Priestly’s house much once Eunice was back there for good.
Eunice was on the arm of a man around my age or a bit older, whom, I later learned, was her son. He’d come out from Gibraltar. After the ceremony he helped her down the chapel steps to the carpark where a wheelchair waited, her walking stick swinging off the opposite wrist. She had to rest along the way. Seems like only yesterday that she was horizontal dancing in a candle lit bathtub with Mrs. Priestly.
Time flies.
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Mrs. P loved to know exactly what I wanted from her.
In fact there were many times when she insisted that there was something I really wanted to try with her, but, for reasons known only to myself, I was refusing to say. I would tell her, ‘I’m fine, thank-you,’ but she’d tickle and tease and cajole me and say, ‘Come on Honey. I know men. They want things… They all want things… You can tell me.’
And sometimes she wouldn’t let up, so I’d start inventing ideas or using ones I’d seen in my Swedish porn or heard other guys talking about. I must admit, I was really interested to know what a snapping pussy was, but that’s the one thing I’d never got to ask about. We’d had lot’s of other discussions about what orgasm really felt like, or how far my finger should go in her pussy and what it should do there to feel just right, and lots of other intimate things like that, so I can’t complain.
Anyhow, one time so as not to disappoint her, I said out of the blue, ‘I’d like to see two girls getting off, you know…’
Mrs Priestly’s eyes seemed to sparkle big and round. Then beaming like a really Spoiling Mom who has just thought of something Extra Special for Spoiling, she brought me out a box of Polaroids. Nearly all of them were of Eunice or Mrs. Priestly singly and variously naked in domestic poses around the house. Surprise! – Flash. The rest were of the two of them having sex, either mutually masturbating or in the sixty-nine position.
Cosmopolitan, the magazine for sex tourists, had just featured a sealed article section on the sixty-nine and how good it felt, along with strict rules from a panel of sexologists about who should be on top and all that, so the position was becoming generally popular. (As a footnote, the sixty-nine was at the same time upsetting a lot of religious nuts who still believed the Sperm and Vagina myth.)
Meanwhile, the genuinely creative and sexually out-there crowd were having to find new positions away from all the bright lights and sex tourists.
Regarding the Polaroids, Mrs Priestly said, ‘So what do you think of that?’
My brain said, ‘I know already.’ And my cock said, ‘Wow.’
She said, ‘She’s not my sister, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Well really, Mrs. P.
= = = = = = = =
I was out somewhere one weekend when I felt a hand on the shoulder from an older pal. He took me aside and asked me what I’d been up to lately, and I said ‘Oh, this and that.’ He mentioned Mrs. Priestly by and by, and in that regard gave me some advice: Smart birds don’t shit in their own nest.
I got the point.
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‘Tis the better thing, not so much to be clever, but to know when not to be stupid.’
C.B. – 1975.
= = = = = = = =
Within an hour I got a phone call at home from Mrs. Priestly. Someone had poked an anonymous letter into her letterbox. The message it contained went along similar lines to the verbal one I had got from my pal, and it was from someone who claimed to be discreet and a friend. No more would be said about it.
Mrs. Priestly flew into a panic. She had destroyed me, she said. She was full of paranoia about snickering and sidelong glances and gossiping and silences at the library etc. She was convinced that ‘this whole thing’ was about to explode into something very nasty. For both of us. She was sorry about it all, for me especially, and she cried on the phone, her sobbing interrupted by the occasional shuddering gasp of terror. It was all her fault, apparently, and she was so desperately sorry for every horrible disgusting perverted thing she’d put me through… as if I hadn’t gone through them all willingly.
Huh.
Actually, I got an erection.
= = = = = = = =
If ‘the whole thing’ had ever been about to escalate into something nasty, then we were saved by my slightly older sister. Remember her? Her name’s Terri.
She got busted in our garage In flagrante Delicto, phone in one hand and panties (thank God I didn’t see) around her ankles (I would have vomited.)
Three squad cars arrived. Three, I guess, in case the alleged criminal needed subduing. There was a hearing and the setting of bail, and my mother was very upset because she’d had to cancel several appointments to attend court as a character witness for her daughter.
My dad wasn’t there. I checked his diary for Terri’s sentencing day, and he had it marked for that morning, “11am, going USA.” This would look cryptic yet innocuous to the casual observer. Not to me. I knew it was code for Up Secretary’s Ass. To judge by the number of diary entries thus, I am the son of an anal sex nut. This may explain a lot.
Anyhow, the whole town buzzed about Terri for so long that if there’d ever been any ‘Mrs. Priestly and Me’ rumours, they were lost forever in that gossip blizzard.
= = = = = = = =
Terri went away for a while. She had you-know-what in her own nest.
= = = = = = = =
Soon after the bust, and by the time Terri had been sentenced to good behaviour with no conviction recorded, Eunice arrived back at Mrs. Priestly’s. That same day some light and lacy pale yellow privacy curtains went up in the clear top window pane of Mrs. Priestly’s bathroom.
Show over.
© 2006 Cherry Black. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Bio:“Now, where’s that light switch… Here we go, and… Ah-ha! I’m in the head of that horny old witch Cherry Black again. My god, just look at all this porn lying around, books, magazines, praxinoscopes. Research she calls it. Pfft! For her l-i-t-e-rary erotica. Yeah right.”