PART THREE: CARMEL
1977-1980
FACTORY
(The Yellow Kid)
Groggily, I stumbled through the Realtek breakroom to the timeclock. As I punched in, I held onto the clock. Realtek was a plastics factory on the outskirts of Carmel, a small town near Charlevoix. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted a new girl, a thin, young blonde. I shuffled to the back of the factory and began unfolding and assembling cardboard boxes, stacking them in piles off to one side.
At midnight, when the buzzer rang, the overnight shift ambled in to replace the evening shift. The foreman brought the young girl to help me temporarily. She said that her name was The Yellow Kid, her Southern accent prominent. Her hands fluttered anxiously. I showed her how to make boxes for the plastic watering cans.
Once, she stared at me intently. I jumped slightly. Then she looked away. After the foreman yelled for The Yellow Kid, she mumbled goodbye and followed him to a press. I watched her. On the way over, she whirled around and glanced at me, pursing her lips.
Later in the night, at her machine, I caught The Yellow Kid peeking at me and smiling.
Afterward, we lay together in my apartment, at Reilly Apartments, cuddling under a thin blanket and sheet. Down the street, a rooster crowed. The Yellow Kid stirred, her left breast pillowing itself on my chest. I kissed her lightly. Faint sunlight glowed in the room, making her look copper. A few fall leaves drifted by my bedroom window. It was the morning after we had gotten drunk at the Tempest bar and ended up in bed together. She remarked casually that she had to go. Sighing and nodding, I asked her about contraceptives. She snorted and growled that it was none of my fucking business. I said that I just wanted to fuck her.
Nonchalantly, The Yellow Kid showed me the Deena Red high heels she had shoplifted from Kmart.
I draped the rounded copper beads over her up-pointed breasts.
The drunken girl and I sat in the pick-up truck, necking, outside the Town Tap. She pushed me away and hunched over, though. Abruptly, she straightened and raised a finger. Then she spun, leant out the window and threw up.
Dreamily, I crouched on a bench in Oliver’s Woods and scribbled. I had a sheaf of papers, erotic writings I had done about old girlfriends. Crickets around me sawed. As I watched, a crow landed on the branch of a nearby oak. I started writing again.
She bit me.
Her tongue tasted of smoke and wine.
In the sunlight, cheap red pearls lay gathered in a pile, on the shabby green blanket, near her curled brown hand.
In front of the other patrons in the Tempest bar, giggling drunkenly, The Yellow Kid kissed me and goosed me. She stuck her tongue in my right ear, dribbling spit. Everyone guffawed. She howled that I was her sweet thing!
I wet the fleecy hair of The Yellow Kid’s vagina with the lacy semen of my penis.
On top, as I penetrated The Yellow Kid, I held her arms down. I murmured that I was going to make her come.
She stooped down, her blonde hair waving forward like a curtain, and smelled the hollow of my hand.
Her blue jeans were out at the knees. Her yellow panties had edged up above her belt-loops. Her silver zipper showed.
At the Realtek lunch table, The Yellow Kid’s collarbone turned a patchy red. She looked at me funny, a Braves baseball cap pulled low over her forehead.
She held my cock like she was worshiping it.
Since I was so drunk, I could not come with The Yellow Kid. She started snarling and waving her hands.
My penis came loose. Shivering, The Yellow Kid inspected it, then reinserted it. Some ejaculate clung to her fingers.
The Fourth of July fireworks fountained, then exploded over our heads in Sunrise Park. The Yellow Kid huddled against me, between my splayed legs, in my arms, as I leant against an oak.
Her flannel shirt was wrinkled up on her little arched buttocks by static electricity, uncovering the lower third of her left buttock and all of her right buttock.
My lover's words were good.
As I lay on her, supported by my arms, I gazed down at The Yellow Kid. My thick, sheathed penis met her slit. I moved until it shot right up her vagina. She flinched. Immediately, we kissed. She jerked her head away and grabbed my hips. Then she screamed.
She said that she felt she was ugly. She stated that she had crooked teeth. Her Southern accent drew out the consonants. She told me that her Daddy called her The Yellow Kid after a cartoon character.
Anxiously, The Yellow Kid asked me what ‘fa-lay-ti-oh’ was.
As I thrust into her dog-style, The Yellow Kid grunted loudly over and over, and her slim back arched. Her skinny buttocks strained. Her tight cunt squeezed my cock hard.
I spoke to Lisa, over in the corner, at the party in my apartment at Reilly Apartments, over on Leah Lane. She was a friend. When the Yellow Kid turned and saw us, she hurried over and put her arms around me, looking hard at Lisa.
I told Mike, a friend of mine, that I just wanted to fuck women. I did not understand them.
We bumped over the grassy fields, parked, then jumped out of my Opel Izusu. Stars shone down on us. In the distance, the Putnam County Fair’s bright lights blazed. The rides' roars filtered out to us, and people's shouts echoed. It was a hot August night.
The Yellow Kid grabbed my hand and dragged me through the wet grass. The other girls and guys followed. We ducked under a few ropes and emerged between two tents. Before us, a small roller coaster rattled past. The Yellow Kid pushed me over to a cotton candy booth, where I bought her a cone. Some of our group disappeared.
The rest of us trailed down the Midway, inspecting the booths. Once, we halted and tried our luck at a baseball toss. We lost, of course. When we paused to take in some farm exhibits, the Yellow Kid stepped behind me and passed her arms around my waist. She rested her chin on my shoulder. Cotton candy scented her breath.
Max, a friend, persuaded us to go on the Ferris Wheel. The Yellow Kid and I bought tickets and climbed in a car. After the ride rose part-way, I convinced her to stop swinging the car. She snickered at me. Eventually, we perched at the top. Spread below us were brilliantly colored lights. She continued to poke me and would not stop. I kept shaking.
When the ride was finished, the Yellow Kid helped me over to a bench. The rest of our group gathered around us. Several young men staggered by, clutching beer cans, bellowing. We wandered down the fairway. Loudspeakers roared “Thunder Road”. The Yellow Kid bought me a helium balloon that bobbed above us as we continued along.
While we looked around the booths with the games, I caught sight of my parents. We trudged over to say hello. I introduced my friends to them. For a time, over the din of the rides, we chatted. They invited us to their house after we left the fair. We promised them that we would stop by.
Then the Yellow Kid and I rested on a bench near the petting zoo. She rubbed my back with one hand, her head on my shoulder. Our friends scurried off to ride the roller coaster. The Yellow Kid jumped up and bought us some peanuts. By the time we finished them, our friends had returned.
As we stopped to watch the bumper cars, the young guys with the beers reappeared. They yelled at the people on the rides. One, though, stumbled around and saw us. He made some remarks. None of us acted like we had heard him. After a minute, he stopped. When we were ready, we left.
Our group stood by the Tilt-a-Whirl for a time. The Yellow Kid chafed my hands between hers when I mentioned the cold. In a small voice, she thanked me for taking her to the fair. We got lost down by the funhouse, then ended up in a field near our car. For a long while, we stared at the twinkling, rainbow-colored lights of the fair. They made me feel dizzy. As everyone watched, I released the balloon. It floated up and got lost in the moonless sky.
I met Jan in the summer. I met Rose in the spring. Thai kissed me at Christmas time. Sarah left me in the late fall. Nicki and I made love at Easter. I gave Valentine a painting in early June. Janie gave me head in my car the day before Halloween.
Janie pulled her little, blue stocking cap down over her blonde hair and just above her brown eyes. She smiled innocently.
My penis dipped far down into her vagina and tapped the tip of her womb, and Janie jumped suddenly.
Janie kidded me about how tight she was.
As we sat eating dinner, Janie slid her foot out of her shoe. She reached up with her foot and stroked my cock. Her face remained impassive. Eventually, I rose and sauntered away, with a big hard-on.
When she drew close, I smelled a slightly off-putting odor on her, like she had not washed recently.
Janie orgasmed in slow motion. Her lips turned purple. Her collarbone darkened. Then she squirted copiously over my face.
When we fucked dog-style, I backed out of her vagina, without meaning to, my stiff penis dropping suddenly and bouncing around.
Sharon told me that she was surprised to see me out with Emily.
Timidly, she thanked me when she came.
Janie explained that I could only remove her brassiere if I performed it with one hand.
As I was masturbating, Janie walked into the room. She spotted me and threw her arm over her eyes, cackling hysterically.
Because Janie and I had fucked and sucked so much, our genitals were sore.
Janie kneeled in front of me, her wide ass in the air and her narrow shoulders propped on her arms. I rolled a condom onto my cock and pushed my cock deep inside her. She reached back between her legs and began caressing my balls.
Janie held my penis in her mouth and throat, her lips against my belly, her head quivering.
The Yellow Kid snarled at me that I did not understand girls. Shrugging, I said that I did not think about them much. I added that maybe I should.
Behind Realtek, the Yellow Kid, chuckling, dragged me over to my Buick and pushed me into the car. It was late fall, and the rising sun was beginning to bake the parking lot. As she muttered, she deftly unbuckled my belt and jeans, jerked my zipper down and freed my cock. Hastening, she swabbed lotion on her rough palm and fingers, grabbed my penis again and started manipulating me. She dropped my cock, though, by accident. When I came before she was able to pick me up again, she laughed abruptly.
The Yellow Kid and a girl wrestled on the floor of the Green Hill bar in Algonquin. She screamed at the girl and punched her in the mouth. People around them whooped. I did not know what they were fighting about and shook my head.
I curled up in bed in my apartment on Leah Lane. Yawning, I stretched. I began to touch myself, thinking about The Yellow Kid. I wanted to fuck her. After I stopped and called her, however, all I got was her answering machine.
The unbuttoned blue garment was swaying over her chest. Healthy-looking breasts, young, up-right, tear-drop ones, a shadow on the soft underside of the right one, aa brown mole marking the inner curve of the left one. Small slashes indicated pegged nipples. Her pale, exposed ribcage and stomach.
The garment removed, her breasts were separated by a wide cleft, a bit of ribs rippling between them, light hair covering them almost invisibly. Virginal, nut-brown nipples and aureole perching astride them. Another mole on the rise near her left arm, wispy blonde hair curling out beneath the arms, where the folds of her breasts descended.
When I asked her to roll the condom on for me, The Yellow Kid fluttered her eyes and wiped her tongue nervously, stammering that she did not know how. After I showed her, she still could not manage it. She started to yell at me.
As I emerged from the bathroom with no clothes on, she leaped up, whooped and pointed a finger at me.
Experimentally, The Yellow Kid wrestled her hips at mine. Accidentally, my penis fell out of her vagina.
When she tugged her panties on, the cheeks of her behind plopped into them and settled.
The Yellow Kid rubbed her bloody lips all over my tongue.
My penis was soft and brown. It curled over my slack testicles, twitching occasionally.
The Yellow Kid asked me gruffly if she had fucked me okay.
She snatched a thin, cotton t-shirt from the floor and was about to slip it on but, changing her mind, dropped it and sauntered away, her pert breasts bouncing in slow motion against her wide ribs.
When she climaxed, the Yellow Kid’s cunt curled, then tightened around my finger, and she yelped loudly again and again.
She blew a loud raspberry with her thin lips.
As we held onto each other, the bedroom door opened, and someone flipped on the light. For a few seconds, they studied us, then flipped the light off and shut the door. Their footsteps clattered down the hall.
My cock hardened, then softened, all within a minute, when she spoke of my painting.
She had eaten raspberries so that her narrow tongue was stained red.
When we were introduced at the street dance in Carmel Square, one fall night, she stuck out her hand to shake mine. I stared at her hand, at her heavy breasts and then at her hand again. Drunkenly, giggling helplessly, I reached up and shook her big right breast over and over.
After getting out of work at Realtek, in front of the Carmel Library, I ran into Carla, a late teenager. She could not stop giggling and stammered every third word. She horsed around with her girlfriend, falling over her, but kept her eyes on me. The girlfriend bawled out that Carla had crush on me.
The Yellow Kid and I crouched at the bar in the Town Tap, drinking. I asked her why she acted like she did. She asked me what I was talking about. I replied that she fought and stole. After shrugging, she muttered that that was the way she had been raised. She mumbled that I was an asshole.
On a Sunday, in the fall, we woke early, at first light, rolling out of bed. I hurried off to the shower. The Yellow Kid finished the last of her preparations, then followed me in the shower. I packed the last of the food in the knapsacks. She emerged from the bedroom, pulling on a t-shirt. We lumbered down the stairs, carrying our bikes. While I checked the bikes, she returned inside and got our knapsacks.
Then we set off, spinning down Leah Lane toward the center of town. Mist still floated about in patches. We stopped at Route 47, a busy highway, waiting for the traffic to pass. The Yellow Kid was silent. Around Carmel Square, past the Opera House, we walked our bikes, stopping every so often to look at things in the store windows. We climbed up into the white bandstand and sat on the steps for a while. It was late summer. The sun was starting to burn off the mist.
By 8 AM, we had crossed Route 14 and pedaled far out into the country, pumping up hills, coasting down the other side. We halted near the Sycamore River and lugged our bikes back into the woods. For the first time that day, the Yellow Kid talked at length. We chained the bikes to trees and trudged back to a small bridge made out of railroad ties, knapsacks on our backs. As we walked out to the middle of it, the river below us, sunlight fell in patches on us. She fell silent again.
We dug out our food and began munching on it. When I spat into the river, the Yellow Kid poked me in the ribs. She gave me a plump strawberry to eat. A flicker sang at length, and overhead a plane growled by. I pulled out a copy of The Narrow Road to the Deep North and began to read it aloud to her. She rolled her eyes and grimaced.
After a while, The Yellow Kid yawned. Finally, she threw her sandwich down, snatched my book and tossed it up on the bank. She started giving me a backrub until I became drowsy. After I stretched out on the warm wooden boards, she joined me. I complained to her about my frustration with painting. But I added that I was glad that I was painting again. She nodded and shrugged.
In the late afternoon, we left the woods. On the way back, we halted at a farm for a drink of water, slurping at a hose, wiping the sweat from our bodies with towels. The farmer joked with us. When we rode off again, he waved to us. Near Route 14, The Yellow Kid sang out “Lost in the Supermarket”. By now, we were tired. Once, we rested on the top of a hill overlooking Carmel.
As it was getting dark, we reached my apartment. We stowed our bikes in a back room and collapsed on the couch. Both of us smelled sweaty. Yawning, the Yellow Kid crawled closer and rested against my chest. I slid my arm over her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.
When I entered the Tempest, I saw The Yellow Kid sitting at the bar, sipping a Heineken, looking extremely drunk. I went over to her and said hello. She spun around. Suddenly raging, shaking, she wanted to know where I had been. She yelled that I was supposed to meet her two hours ago. Flushing, I mumbled that I was sorry.
The Yellow Kid dug into her shoulderbag and displayed a nickel-plated .32 Colt pistol. My eyes got big. She smirked. When I asked her what it was for, she shrugged. Suddenly nervous, I turned away.
The Yellow Kid strode toward the living room couch in my apartment, crashed down and poked me sharply. She snorted at me. It was dark; the apartment buildings across Leah Lane blocked the sun. Winter wind rattled a nearby window. “Alison” crooned on the radio. We kissed, then she lifted her loose, white t-shirt up over her head. She yanked her blonde hair back into a long ponytail. After my arms looped around her tiny waist, her arms linked around my neck. She spoke to me, slurring her words, her brown eyes slitted.
The Yellow Kid clicked open the catch of her jeans and wrestled them off. Clumsily, she tugged a thin tampon out. She shoved her jeans to the floor, grabbed a towel from the nightstand and stuffed it under her hips. Quickly, she wrapped her arms around my neck and swung my lips to hers again. One of her legs flew over both of mine and weighed them down. She put her hand on my hip, then grabbed my ass.
We kissed again, our tongues flicking, still lying on our sides. The Yellow Kid flipped over and fit her broad ass against my belly, like spoons. Her left shoulder blade was adorned with a yellow cow tattoo. I rolled a condom on. She grasped my cock and jammed it between her legs and into herself. I grabbed one of her pert breasts. She grunted noisily. As she turned her head, we kissed again. I began rippling in and out. She shouted out an obscenity. The couch springs squeaked. She moaned and brushed a strand of her hair out of her face. Hoarsely, she cursed again.
I dispatched my semen inside of The Yellow Kid, bit by bit. She rocked her hips fast, then slow, and seized my hand, suddenly inhaling. The Yellow Kid grunted several times and swore loudly.
Her back was sweaty. After her legs lifted, she rolled away. The condom was streaked with blood. Gazing at me with narrowed eyes, she rose and pulled her t-shirt and jeans on. She curled up on the window seat. Snow drifted down outside the window.
Suddenly, The Yellow Kid sneered that she did not think she wanted to fuck me again.
I strayed by the room accidentally. It was at a party in Charlevoix. A young, red-headed woman sprawled on a bed. Lazily, she touched herself inside her panties, stabbing one of his fingers. She glanced up, her quiet eyes meeting mine, and grinned. Then she withdrew her hand and held it in her mouth. Slowly, she inserted her hand and began to finger herself again.
Thai’s boyish ass. Her long, straight, black hair. Gently rounded belly. Dimpled navel. Simple slit. Red-painted nails. Her shyness. The Wayfarer sunglasses she sometimes wore. Hazel eyes. Slurred accent. The tight t-shirt and jeans she wore. Dancer’s legs. Quiet.
As Thai danced, she seemed to forget herself. Normally, she was pretty withdrawn.
When I raised the green blanket, she blinked up at me, her long hair almost covering her face, her eyes fearful, her mouth half-open. Her golden shoulders poked through the black web of her hair.
Around my condomed penis, Thai bobbed up and down. Her juicy vulva curved open gradually and then closed tight slowly.
Her vagina wilted little by little, its lips losing color and softening. The moisture dried somewhat. Left was its heavy, pungent odor.
Except for her skinny breasts and flared hips, Thai looked like a young boy. She appeared a bit androgynous.
Thai licked my cock timidly as if afraid it would soil her. Her tongue tapped against my balls. She only sucked the head. And when I came, she would not swallow my semen in her mouth. Instead, she caught it in her hand. But then she bit me.
Shyly, in my car before work, she dabbed at my cock with a handiwipe from her purse. Then she pecked me on the cheek.
Thai pressed up against me in the bed. She murmured that she loved to nap with me.
Reverently, she took my pencil portrait of Valentine and examined it.
On the bridge constructed of railroad ties, over the Sycamore River, I sat dangling my feet. The wood underneath me was warm. I had brought along some watercolors and a pad. It was mid-spring, sunny and hot, with a breeze. I thought about what I could do in life. I thought I could paint. Picking up the paint and paper, I stared at them. I began sketching a portrait of Ross.
I knocked on the Yellow Kid’s door. When her roommate came to the door, she informed me that she was out with a guy named Nick.
The Yellow Kid growled that she had just started her period, and we did not need birth control. My cock throbbed. So, I shoved it into her.
At Realtek, the Yellow Kid checked out my rack, out of the corner of her eye, her face tilted up. Then she opened her mouth and stared intently at my groin. Her head dropped, and her eyes flicked up to mine. They flicked back between my legs. She turned to the plastic injection machine that she was operating, smirking.
She crouched in front of a big mirror set on the floor, putting on her make-up, naked. Her eyes narrowed. She half-smiled, coldly. Her thin ass rested on her ankles.
The Yellow Kid made a face before her lips touched my penis. After a few perfunctory sucks, she slumped back on her heels and twisted her head away. She passed the back of her hand over her lips once. Rain clicked against the windows of my apartment softly. It was dark in my living room. When she took my penis back in her mouth, her eyes closed, and her nostrils flared. Suddenly, I shot my semen in her mouth. She swallowed involuntarily, gulping several times. She fell back on her rear, then looked at me, her eyes wide. She screamed at me and jumped up.
The side of my hand folded into The Yellow Kid’s rubbery breast by mistake. She slapped my face on purpose. She barked at me to watch it.
She jerked her hips convulsively, poking her fingers at her straw-colored genitals. After a moment, she produced two shiny metal balls. She rolled them wet and clicking in her palm, then flipped them across the room to me, one at a time.
She whispered that she kind of liked to see me climb up the stairs to her apartment with a stargazer lily and a hard-on.
Since she lay hidden beneath the sheets, I could not tell which end was which.
The Yellow Kid bent over to pick up an oil portrait of mine and straightened. She wedged her thumbs under her tight, pink panties to pull them down over the half-moons of her ass, her narrow hips swinging up one at a time.
At Realtek, Victoria, a married woman, called me over to the plastics press at which she was working. She said that her press had seized up. I picked up an iron bar, climbed up on the machine, inserted the bar and worked the snag loose. Victoria smiled brightly, held my eyes and touched my arm. She wiggled her breasts. I stalked away, grimacing.
The Yellow Kid held her hand over the telephone speaker as, laughing, she tried to set up a blind date for me.
The Yellow Kid finished using the toilet. I entered the bathroom too early, though, and caught her pungent scent.
Curled up on the couch, I watched a public television show on the Metropolitan Museum in New York City. The Yellow Kid leant against me. I kept pointing out paintings that I loved. She kept shrugging. I said that sometimes I got so bored in Carmel.
She snatched at my small, soft buttocks constantly.
On a late summer afternoon, I hurried over the Madison Street bridge. I was on my way to the Union Station to catch the train back to Carmel after spending the day at the Art Institute. When a wolf whistle sounded, I kept going. The wolf whistle repeated, more insistently. I glanced around. No one was in sight. At last, a girl yelled at me that I should look up here, honey! I peered up to see two girls sitting in a window of the Civic Opera House, their legs dangling out over the Chicago River. They waved at me. Grinning, I waved back.
he lay sprawled across the bed, so I brought her a cone of red and yellow irises. Smiling, I scattered them across her rounded shoulders and breasts, which were the color of just fallen snow.
As he lay limply in the lawn chair, the back of his head indenting her taut belly, The Yellow Kid gave another guy a backrub. It was during the brass band concert in Carmel Square. I did not know who he was. Then I heard her call him Nick.
The party had ended. It was 3 AM. I lay half-asleep on my bed in my apartment at Reilly Apartments. Two women camped out on the couch in the living room. They had said that they were too drunk to drive home. Outside, it was a gorgeous fall night, and crickets clicked over and over.
One of the girls complained to the other that the couch was uncomfortable, then she giggled. I called out that they could sleep in my room. Silence followed. Then I heard whispers. One of them laughed and yelled to the other that they could just suck my cock.
A couch squeaked, and then one of the girls appeared at my bedroom door. She was blonde and thin, and her eyes were merry. She wore a blouse and shorts. After the girl dove into my bed, I slipped my arm around her shoulders. She dug her face into my chest. She whispered that her name was Megan. When I pulled the blanket between us loose, she burrowed underneath. She hugged me tightly. I was naked.
The other girl came to the door. She padded over slowly and stood peering down at us. She was brunette and curvy, and all she wore was a long t-shirt. After she perched on the edge of the bed, Megan peeked up at her. The girl slid down beside me, staring. I asked her what her name was. She said that it was Anya. I told them my name.
As Megan cupped her hand over my cock and began twitching it, my hips moved. I dug my hand under her blouse. Her breasts were small, and her nipples were stiff. I kissed her. Her breath smelled beery.
I looked over at Anya. She gazed at Megan. When I looped my arm around Anya’s shoulders, she stared at me somberly. She and I kissed. Megan continued to caress my penis. My legs stretched. After I stuck my tongue in Anya’s mouth, she drew back, grimacing.
I turned and kissed Megan. She dug her tongue in my mouth, her hand tightening on my cock. She straightened up suddenly and tugged off her blouse and then her shorts. She left her panties on. Then she flopped back down and began masturbating me. Her breasts quivered.
Anya leant over and kissed me on the lips, her eyes half-closed. She smelled like beer, too. I stroked her cheek. Megan caressed my balls, murmuring softly. After she asked Anya to take her t-shirt off, Anya removed it. She had full breasts. I folded my fingers around one of them. She shivered, then settled against me. I lifted the blanket and tucked it over her.
Anya reached under the blanket and touched my penis. When she felt Anya’s hand, Megan chuckled. They both trickled their fingers around. I kissed Anya on the cheek. She shook her head, her warm breath pulsing against my chest.
Anya wriggled around, ducked her head under the blanket and kissed my cock lightly. Megan massaged my penis. Anya began licking my cock I groaned. The windows to my room were open, and a breeze wafted in. In the distance, a car alarm began to ring.
Megan twisted around, flipped the blanket up and started lapping at my balls. I grasped Anya’s right breast and Megan’s left breast, stroking and then fiddling with their nipples. The car alarm fell silent.
Moaning, I shuddered. Megan laughed. After Anya swallowed my hard cock halfway down, her head began bobbing. I stroked her silky ass, then ran my hand up and down her back, her hair whisked against my hand.
Anya sat up and studied me, smiling. Megan sucked my cock in her mouth. Anya dove down and thrust her tongue in my mouth, gripping my head. Megan popped her head up and down on my penis. My hips matched her mouth.
Anya leant back, grinned, then bent down and licked my balls. As she and Megan swerved their tongues over and over on the tip of my cock, my thighs stiffened. Then I mumbled that I wanted to fuck them both. Megan glanced up, panting, and whispered that they were not ready for that. Anya did not say anything. She continued licking. Megan rejoined her.
All of a sudden, I came plentifully, squirting semen onto their lips and then their faces. Anya jerked back. Megan tilted her head away. Anya wiped her face with her hand, grimacing. Megan licked my cock a bit more. I lay there, dazed.
When Megan asked me if I was satisfied, I nodded. Anya stretched out against me. I kissed her. After Megan struggled back up against me, I kissed her, too. Their lips were sticky. Morning light had appeared outside, and birds started to chirp softly.
The Yellow Kid turned to me and dug in her pocket. She produced a piece of aluminum foil and unwrapped it. A wad of yellow-gray resin was stuck to the foil. Smiling, she said that it was PCP and asked me if I wanted to buy some. Quickly, I shook my head no and muttered that she was crazy. She replied that I should fuck off. She explained that she was selling PCP to a lot of people. Grabbing her by the shoulder, I yelled at her that she should not be selling drugs.
Her virginal mouth. No make-up. Her lips curved, flaring at their edges. Slight wrinkles etched on either side, straight up and down. A long indentation above, surrounded by the rise of her upper lip. A line of down across it.
Lips tugged down. Parted. Cheeks dimpled. Square white teeth cut into lower lip. A gap between her two front teeth. The light pink of her gums. Her wet, grainy and rose-pink tongue. Elongated flat and wide. Curled.
The Yellow Kid and I crouched on a bench in Carmel Square. She rubbed her right hand up and down her left arm repeatedly. It was late fall. Locusts buzzed. An evening breeze had risen that cooled the air slightly.
The Yellow Kid scowled. She stood up, then plopped back down. She flicked her blonde hair out of her face, sighing loudly. After I asked her what was wrong, she shook her head. Then she snapped that she thought she was pregnant. She rolled her eyes and hit me hard in the arm.
I mumbled that I had warned her that we needed to use birth control. She called me a fucker. She leaped up and stalked away.
I trailed after her. The Yellow Kid halted. I took her hand and led her back to the bench. When she asked what we were going to do, I replied that I did not know. Two little girls skipped past us. We watched them head over to the big, white bandstand and climb up its stairs. They pranced around.
I asked The Yellow Kid if she wanted to have the baby. She looked at me but did not say anything. When I asked if she wanted to have an abortion, she hung her head. Finally, she muttered that it was none of my business. She jumped up and raced away toward the Opera House.
Two days later, The Yellow Kid called me. She informed me that she had gotten her period. Then she hung up. Though I phoned her, she did not answer.
She bit on the plump grape. Her tongue trailed around her lips, wiping off the clear juice. Sucking, she cupped one in her mouth. Her back rested against the elm beneath which we sat in Sunrise Park. I flipped open a drawing pad. My boombox played “Got to Give It Up”. It was late fall and a bit chilly. After she spat out the seeds, she stuffed another grape in her mouth. Hurriedly, I began to sketch her. She yawned and muttered that she was bored.
The Yellow Kid bent over at the factory office’s window seat to peer out at the new snow. She stuck out her little rump and wiggled it around unconsciously.
At a window in The Yellow Kid’s apartment, in an old house over on McSorley Avenue, I sat reading The Grass Harp. She slouched in front of the TV. I called her to come and listen to a paragraph. She ambled over and listened, then asked me what the big fucking deal was.
At the bathroom sink, I doused my genitals with the Malathion.
My buttocks rose and fell between The Yellow Kid’s legs, and in reaction her knees swayed up and down.
At breakfast, The Yellow Kid’s twin insisted on sitting on my lap. She was visiting from Tennessee. The Yellow Kid smiled at me placidly.
It took Remi a long time to give me that blowjob.
The Yellow Kid wore two mismatched earrings in her right ear.
Caroline asked me to urinate on her. She said she would sit in my bathtub. Frowning, shaking my head, I muttered that I did not think so.
The Yellow Kid promised me that she would stop wearing panties. She said that I had finally convinced her.
At the Tempest bar, we pressed elbows over The Jumping Frog electronic game. The Yellow Kid eyed me coolly. She snaked her hand onto my ass and squeezed it hard. She leant over and jammed her tongue in my mouth, making me jump. Her breath was warm and beery.
On break, in the middle of the night at the Realtek factory, I hunched on top of a pile of unopened boxes. I read from my Mentor Book of Major American Poets, the one with the cream cover. The Yellow Kid stole up behind me and studied it over my shoulder. I closed the book and set it down. Frowning, I said to her that I wanted to leave Carmel. I explained that there was nothing for me here. I added that a friend of mine in South Carolina said that he would put me up and that I could paint there. She looked at me, expressionless.
Intently, I sketched the iris on the table. It was early winter, though no snow had fallen yet. Bright sunlight filled my apartment. Sipping tea, I studied the flower. After a time, I went to take a nap.
About 5 PM, the phone rang. It was The Yellow Kid. She asked if she could come over. I said that she could.
A few hours later, The Yellow Kid tapped softly on my door. She slunk in and headed straight for my bedroom. I followed her. She laid down on my bed and beckoned me over. As we laid together, The Yellow Kid lounged in the crook of my arm. She said that she wanted to ask me something. I nodded.
The Yellow Kid whispered that she had a way of getting into the Chevrolet plant in Belvidere. She explained that we could load up a van with auto parts. Smirking, she said that she knew someone who would buy them at a good price. We could make a lot of money for a little work, she added.
I grimaced and shook my head. At last, I responded that I did not think so.
The Yellow Kid gazed at me stonily.
Later that night, I was dreaming about Paris. A burst of knocking on my door woke me. When I answered it, The Yellow Kid rushed in and flopped down in a chair. I flipped on the overhead light.
Hurriedly, The Yellow Kid told me that she was in trouble. She said that she and her girlfriend and some male friends of theirs had burgled the Chevy plant. One of them was her friend Nick. They got away with a lot of parts, but the FBI had staked out the farmhouse where they had hidden them. The male friends would not inform on the girls. So, she had only been questioned, not arrested.
The Yellow Kid was shaking. She started pacing up and down my living room.
The next day, I woke up late. I had overslept. I dressed hurriedly and drove over to Carmel Square. It was a cloudy day, and snow began to tumble down.
I entered the Family Restaurant, across from the square, waving to the Yellow Kid. Perched in a booth, she called to me. After I joined her, she kept sliding her hands up and down her thighs. Angrily, she asked me where I had been. I did not say anything. Then I told her that I could not see her anymore. The Yellow Kid froze. I said that there was too much shit. Guns and drugs. Anyway, I muttered that I was moving to Columbia. I mumbled that my friend said that he would let me stay on his couch.
The Yellow Kid jumped up and punched me in the mouth hard. Shouting, she stormed out of the restaurant.
