Lori’s New Tits

 

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

Lori Finch returned from her yearlong study abroad program in France with a new pair of tits. They weren’t exactly new, but they were definitely not the same ones I played around with in the back of a Chevy Malibu during our sophomore year in high school. As for the year in France, well nobody really believed that story. We all knew that she got pregnant, and was shipped off by her parents to relatives who would keep and raise the baby. That’s just how it was done back then. That night, at the Algonquin, as we drifted through galaxies as yet undiscovered, she was once again the center of attention. And that’s how Lori liked it. She always did.

Two grease balls standing near the pool table kept staring at her despite the fact that they were with two exceptionally attractive women of their own who were so agitated at their dates and Lori’s tits, that they felt compelled to do something about it. Glances were being cast by eyes that darted back and forth across the pub, all focused on Lori’s new tits and protruding nipples. As the two women neared  our table. Lori stood and pulled her tee shirt up, exposing her tits to all who cared to catch a glimpse. The women froze in their tracks, caught between their embarrassment and their desire while the two grease balls, now with their dicks standing at attention tried to get a closer look. “Sorry boys” Lori said, “these are for the ladies.” The two women didn’t move, transfixed and intrigued by Lori’s exposed tits and by what seemed like an invitation, trying to decide if they really could take Lori up on her offer. Once Lori pulled her top back down, they turned and raced out of the bar, leaving the two grease balls to chase after them in the hope that they might provide some relief for the raging hardons they would rather not have to  deal with on their own.

Lori liked to say that she was a hedonist, but the truth was she was just another horny little shit who was more interested in getting her rocks off than anything else, just like the rest of us. She craved any kind of attention really, and often times she would feed into it just so she could feed off of it. It was all very convoluted. I understood I mean, though we never really dated and  spent most of our time getting high and rustling around the back seat of her mother’s yellow, convertible Chevy Malibu, we became close. Sometime during that sophomore year, she confided in me that she was bisexual. I wasn’t surprised. She had more balls than most of the guys I knew, and I was pretty sure that given half a chance, Lori could have turned pro and become a full time lesbian. Back then though, I was pretty fucking happy that she didn’t.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing those again.” our petite server said as she delivered the next round. She had been hovering around our table for most of the night, and we thought that she was interested in Tate. It turned out that she was really only hot for Lori “They’re pretty impressive.” she added. She was right though, they were, at the very least impressive. Someone in France had done a fantastic job.

The Algonquin was generally a peaceful place, but on Friday nights the rednecks would come down from the hills of Oak Ridges, or Victoria Square in their Ford F100s for a night in the big city. They were rowdy, and ignorant, and dumb as fucking door knobs, and they usually be counted on to start at least one good bar room brawl every time they showed up. Three or four of them arrived just as Lori and her new friend had escalated their flirting to a more hands on approach. As the server walked by, Lori would cup her ass. On the return trip, the server would intentionally brush her hand across Lori’s shoulder or boob. It was quickly becoming a lesbian liaison. The rednecks noticed too. It was hard to believe that people so fucking stupid could notice anything, but I suppose they noticed Lori’s tits right away, and everything else was just sort of there, right before their vacuous eyes. There was the customary name calling followed by graphic descriptions of how they needed to fuck the lesbian out of Lori and the server. It began to turn ugly as they moved towards us, so a few of us stood between them and Lori. In seconds, tables were being tossed over and fists were flying. People we didn’t know joined in and quite a beating was laid on the hill people. It ended quickly with them crawling out of the bar, tails between their legs, promising to return to kick our asses. Somewhere in the fracas I managed to crack a couple of ribs, and as I sat on a chair holding my side, Lori sat beside me.

“Thanks for helping.” she said. “But what the hell were you thinking? We both know you’re not a fighter.”

“Somebody needed to shut those fuckers up.” I said. “And its really not that bad. I got in some good licks and I think I enjoyed delivering the pounding.”

“Why does everything you say always sound like you’re talking about sex?” she asked.

“Well” I said, “I guess that’s just what you do to me.”

“You still want me, don’t you?” she asked. “You want my new tits.”

“I wouldn’t say no to spending an afternoon with them.” I said.

She leaned over and kissed me and then stood up, and lifted  her tee shirt to show me her tits in an obvious attempt to tease. There really was no reason for that, I mean, I already wanted her. “”How about tomorrow?” she asked. “We still have the Malibu.”

Lori left that night with the server, while I got checked out at the hospital. Three cracked ribs with instructions to take it easy and rest. It didn’t matter really. The following afternoon I was in the back seat of that yellow, convertible Chevy Malibu with Lori and her new tits.

Advertisements

Feeding The Baby

 

 

My wife was always an exceptional mother. I would watch in amazement as she exercised her maternal prowess. With 5 kids, there was always changings, and feedings, and trips to doctors, and a host of car pool events for the older ones.I helped as much as she would allow, relegated me to the chores and tasks she felt didn’t require a mother’s touch. I changed diapers, and gave kids bottles when they were done nursing. The responsibility for the nursing of the children was entirely hers. Except for that one evening in 1996.

The baby was crying, my wife was exhausted, and it was 2 in the morning. “I’ll go get her and bring her in here.”, I said.

I picked the baby up from her crib, and cradling her in my arms began the walk back to my wife. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain, and looked down to see the baby firmly attached to my nipple. Now I don’t know what the protocols are in a situation like this, but I began tugging, and pulling, and tugging some more, but she just wouldn’t let go. I screamed. Really, I screamed. My wife came running to find me sitting on the floor, trying to pry this monster off my nipple. “You have to break the seal.”, she said, laughingly.

“Get this thing off of me.”, I shouted, as the baby began sucking harder and harder. My wife inserted one of her fingers into the side of the baby’s mouth and I don’t know what happened, but the baby fell off. I was free. I passed the baby to my wife, and went into the bathroom to examine the damage. It was sore, and red, and I think I saw my life flash before me. “I think its swollen.”, I told my wife. “Do you think I should see the doctor?”

“You’ll be fine.”, she said.

“What the hell is wrong with that kid?”, I asked, still massaging my swollen, painful nipple.

“There’s nothing wrong with her.”, I was informed. “She was just hungry.”

It took a few days, but things got back to normal, as the swelling went down, and the pain subsided. Following that fateful night, I have never picked up a baby without wearing a shirt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had always gone out of my wife to help my wife take care of the kids when they were younger. I clothed them, fed them, changed them, took them for walks, took them to the park, took them everywhere really, and just always tried to be involved. So when my youngest was a baby, and in her crib crying, I decided that I would go get her and bring her down to my wife. I lifted her out of her crib, and cuddled her against my chest, and began the treacherous walk down two flights of stairs to where my wife was waiting.

 

 

sima latching o to y nipple…

Pot, Poetry, Philosophy, and Nipples….

Theredownload are many, many stories that came out of a camp in Northern Ontario, nestled on the shores of Skeleton Lake. There were tales of pregnancy, missing campers, a camp director who bordered on sociopathology, and his wife, whose fear of onions was legendary within the Ontario camp circuit. No story however, evoked as much interest as the tale of the kitchen boy and the young camper.

It was 1973, or possibly 1974, and while the events have been bastardized, altered by time and fading memories, I will do my best to reveal the events of that fateful summer as best as I can remember it.

Thedownload-1 kitchen boys, often thought of as the lowest  form of camp staff, lived in a staff only dorm on the main road of the camp. Surrounded by all of the camp’s amenities, it became a hub of fun and games. Music was always playing, usually Yes, or Pink Floyd, or the Beatles. Drugs were rampant, and the aroma of marijuana permeated the surrounding area regularly. One day, a camper, a young female camper, arrived at the cabin window. Now, to be fair, fraternization between campers and staff was strictly forbidden, but neither the young camper, nor the head kitchen boy cared. They began talking, and over time, would sneak off and walk through the fish hatchery that bordered the camp grounds. There they discussed Gibrhan and Kerouac, Satre and Camus, and Ginsberg and Dylan. They spent hour after hour talking about life. When the kitchen boy looked at her, he was amazed at her beauty. She was a free spirit, a rebel, with a zest for learning.  She walked barefoot, wore cutoff shorts, and a halter top that fit like a second skin, without a bra. She was rather well endowed, with breasts that gently bounced and floated as she moved, and had nipples the kitchen boy could not look away from. On one occasion, when they were down at the waterfront, she went into the water, and coming out, her pale white t shirt, was completely see through. And while it seemed that she never noticed the effect this was having on the poor kitchen boy, the sexual tension between them was evident to both of them, and everyone else who saw them together.

All5c8a21d67f505f6ecf6ba842428a0128 summer, they were inseparable. They seemed to enjoy each other’s company more than the camp experience itself. Often times, it appeared as though they were the only 2 people there. The camp officials were convinced that the kitchen boy was engaging in sexual activities with this young camper. He was questioned, or rather interrogated on several occasions, with bright lights shone in his eyes, deprived of food and water for hours at a time, and many threats and ultimatums were given.  Kitchen boy vehemently denied any wrong doing, and with his new found spiritual freedom, told them all to fuck off. Unrelenting, the young camper and the kitchen boy continued their relationship amid the turbulence and fear it was causing the camp administraton. On any given day, they could be found sitting under a tree, discussing poetry, or the rise of neosocialism. But never was a word spoken about her amazing tits and nipples. He wanted her, and he hoped she wanted him, but it had transcended the physical plain, or so they convinced themselves. Everytime he beautiful_girl_in_spa_892115looked at her, he envisioned her naked. Others who were there that summer, had said that kitchen boy informed them that every conversation they had, she was completely undressed. In his mind. But the meeting of mind and spirit, the melding of souls had become more than enough for them.

At the end of the summer, the young camper returned to her home somewhere in Michigan, and the kitchen boy was informed by the camp director that he would never be allowed to return to the camp again, in any capacity.

Time passed, and there were a few reunions; a trip down to Michigan to visit her at College, a family trip with her family that allowed them to meet in Toronto,  and a final visit to Toronto many years later. And every time they met, it was as if time had stood still. Each encounter, no matter how brief, felt like that wonderful summer. The sense of oneness, the meeting of spirits and souls, had not waned. It was just another day at camp in 1973, or ’74.

images-1There are reminders of that summer, of that dalliance between 2 souls still left up there. Their names carved into a wall, initials carved into a tree, and the story of the relationship between the young camper and the kitchen boy is still being told, although most of the facts have been mutated over time. Some of us had wondered what became of these 2. Did they ever engage in sex? We decided it was best not to know. The depth of their friendship could only be compromised by a physical aspect. The sanctity of their relationship was best remembered as it was. I can only suspect that after all of these years, they have somehow stayed connected, still bonded by their spirits and their souls, and should they meet again, still sitting somewhere quiet, discussing poetry, and philosophy, amid an abundance of sexual tension, as the kitchen boy, listning intently, has his eyes fixed on the young camper’s nipples. Or maybe that’s just the  hopeless romantic in me.