Every year for quite a few years now, I've gone to the Swinging Sixties party at the Oldio-Goodio Restaurant and Dance Hall. They have other annual parties, like the Roaring Twenties and Flying Fifties, and of course, the Valentine's Day Ball, which I sometimes go to--but I never miss the Swinging Sixties.

I don't have what it takes to imitate a hipster or any such thing. Last year I went as President Kennedy–a good costume for getting ladies to fling themselves at me as they did at JFK. I had stunning sex with a lady impersonating Merrilee Rush. (Remember her and her famous Sixties song "Angel of the Morning," about just wanting her cheek touched before the guy who had fucked her in the evening dumped her in the morning? It was just like that, except the impersonator didn't wait until morning for me to dump her.)

This year, I did something a bit less challenging: I went as Hubert Humphrey. I hadn't actually been born when Humphrey ran for president in 1968, but after I learned a bit about American history I admired him. I thought things might well have turned out better for the US, and maybe the world, if Humphrey had won the election instead of Dick Nixon.

The costume was incredibly easy: a suit like Humphrey wore. I actually look quite a bit like Humphrey, so I could confidently introduce myself as him. I don't believe that Humphrey had a reputation as a womanizer, as Kennedy did, but I was on the lookout for lovely ladies as soon as I entered Oldio-Goodio.

I saw many ladies I had seen before, including a few I had had sex with–but soon a lovely young lady I had never seen before caught my eye and held it. She wore a sky-blue hippie headband atop her waves of fluffy golden-red hair; she had bright blue eyes, with big round wire-rimmed glasses, and a softly smiling mouth. Her long flower-printed skirt drew attention to her plump, pretty rump, and between her face and her skirt was a sight of truly breathtaking beauty: small, perfectly formed breasts, plainly visible beneath a white see-through blouse.

I've got to meet her! I thought. She was obviously much younger than I–I guessed in her mid-20s–but that didn't matter to me; I hoped it wouldn't matter to her either.. The worst she could do was to reject me. I didn't fear rejection; I'd been through it before–but the very thought of rejection brought back the vivid memory of the worst rejection of my life.

It was the worst, I knew, because it was all my fault. Priscilla and I were sweethearts when we were at the U, and she was quite willing to kiss me–but I wanted more. Her breasts were very small, and I knew she was embarrassed at how small they were–but to me they were fascinating, and I just had to bare them and feel them.

One evening, while we were kissing on a lonely park bench, I tried to seize my opportunity. "Priscilla, I've got to feel your bare breasts," I demanded. "They're beautiful. I can't wait any longer."

"Oh, yes, you can," Priscilla said, "and you will! If you try anything like that, I'll slap your face and scream--and that will be the end for us!"

Idiotically, I disregarded her demand. "No, Priscilla, please!" I said. "I've got to! You'll love it, I know you will!" I quickly pulled her top out of her skirt's waistband and began to slip my hands underneath her top.

"No! What on earth do you think you're doing?" Priscilla cried. She did slap me in the face, really hard. I still remember how it hurt.

"You stop that right now or I'll scream!" Priscilla commanded me.

I figured I'd better forestall the screaming, so I stopped. Visions of Priscilla moaning in delight as I caressed her bare breasts echoed in my mind, but they were never to be fulfilled.

"All right, then," Priscilla then said. "You've shown me what kind of a man you are–a man who refuses to accept no for an answer. That is not a kind of man I can ever accept. This is the end. We're through."

"What?!" I blurted out, unable to believe this was happening. "No! Priscilla, wait! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"It's too late for that," Priscilla said. "A man who would try to undo my bra without my consent is not the man for me–and never will be."

She meant it. That was the end. Priscilla ended up marrying someone else. I was invited to the wedding, but I didn't attend. Me, I never got married; I only fucked and dumped a long series of women.

I had to shake off the memory of those long-ago evil events and focus on the here and now, in which I was quickly approaching the angelic-looking beauty. I don't mean she resembled one of the angels portrayed in the Bible, which I recalled too well from Sunday school–tough, fearsome characters who always had to tell people not to be terrified of them. No, this young lady's angelic beauty was of an entirely non-Biblical sort.

"Hello," I said. "I couldn't help wondering who you're supposed to be--a generic hippie girl, or some actual person or character."

The young lady gave me a sweet, friendly smile that almost took my breath away. "I'm Goldberry, the river-daughter," she said. "From The Lord of the Rings. Tom Bombadil'a wife."

"I see," I said. "And–um–are you really anyone's wife?"

Goldberry laughed. "Oh, no!" she said. "And what about you? Who are you supposed to be?"

"I am Hubert Horatio Humphrey," I said with pompous dignity, evoking another laugh.

"He did have a wife, didn't he?"

"Yes he did–but I don't in reality."

"Did you ever?"

"No. The only lady I ever wanted to marry rejected me." I figured I'd better not say why.

"Oh, that's sad," said Goldberry. "Would you like me to comfort you?"

I almost gasped. "Uh–wow!" I stammered. "Uh–yes, I would, now that you mention it."

"I'd love to," Goldberry said. "It's one of the things I'm here on earth for–to give people comfort and joy." Her blue eyes were shining, as if she really was an angel come down to earth--and not a tough, masculine Biblical angel either, far from it!

The band was beginning to play a song–you guessed it, "Angel of the Morning." "Would you like to dance?" I asked her. "I'm pretty sure dancing with you would give me comfort and joy."

"I'd love to," Goldberry said.

I looked around. Quite a few couples were in each other's arms, doing slow dances to the song. Goldberry and I joined them. She wasn't shy about dancing with her breasts very close to me, although I noticed that she did hold her hips well away from me. Before the end of the song, I dared to raise my hand to her breast and caress it through the see-through blouse. Goldberry's petite nipple was erect, and she, unlike Priscilla so long ago, did not protest or drawback–much less ask me to fasten her nonexistent bra!

"Would you like me to give you some sexual comfort and joy?" she asked me when the song ended. "I feel it's part of my mission on earth to be helpful to men of good will in that way, and I can see that you're basically a man of good will."

I.was speechless. Could this really be happening? Never before had I met such a forthright young lady as this!

"I'd be incredibly grateful to you if you would," I said. "Uh–would you like to get a room?"

"Yes, please," said Goldberry.

Oldio-Goodio, though most certainly not a sex club, does offer private rooms suited for sex. We quickly obtained one and entered it. Each of us used the adjacent restroom; then we sat on the bed and put our arms around each other.

"I'm so thankful to our creator for giving me strong sexual desires," Goldberry said, surprising me greatly. "Aren't you?"

"Uh, well, I never thought of it," I admitted. "My parents made me go to Sunday school, until I quit when I was 16, but nobody ever suggested giving thanks to God for sexual desires." I laughed. "I'm sure they didn't want the teens to get even sexier than they already were!"

"That's so sad," Goldberry said. "I started having strong sexual desires, and giving myself orgasms, quite a few years ago, and it just seemed obvious to me that I should thank the creator of orgasms for giving them to me. I mean, I certainly didn't invent orgasms myself; I was quite surprised, but very pleased, the first time I found myself having one! Somebody must have invented them, I thought, and invented me–and I felt extremely grateful to whoever had such a lovely idea."

"Uh--wow!" I said. "That's beautiful!" I wasn't sure it was true as well as beautiful, but I had to wonder. Goldberry was certainly an incredible work of art--and could such a work of art exist without being created by a supremely skilled artist?

"Yes, it is beautiful," Goldberry said, "and I'm sure it's true, too."

"I hope it is true," I said, and I meant it. "May I kiss you?"

"Yes, please do," she said.

Our lips met. She slipped her tongue into my mouth. Almost at once my hand was on her breast again. She pressed my hand against her breast with her own hand. Her breasts were almost as small as Priscilla's and she didn't have big nipples as Priscilla did, but her nipples were even harder than Priscilla's had been.

"Please take my blouse off and kiss my breasts," Goldberry requested. "It's so exciting for me!"

It was mighty exciting for me, too. Quickly I stripped her blouse off; long and lingeringly I kissed each of her breasts in turn. Then, too excited to wait any longer, I slipped my hand under the waistband of her skirt and reached down to stroke her clitoris and her vulva, as I had done with many other ladies.

My hand slipped between Goldberry's thighs, seeking a hard little clitoris and a hot, moist vulva. I did not find them. Instead, I found something I could never have imagined that a lovely, totally feminine lady like Goldberry would have.

I found a thick, round rod, hidden between Goldberry's legs. I was totally shocked, but I felt the rod all the way down to the swollen bulb on its end; there could be no doubt what it was.

"Uh–what's the meaning of this?" I blurted out, sounding silly to myself even as I said it.

"I think you know what the meaning is," Goldberry said. She turned over on her back, pushed her skirt up to reveal the bulb beneath her butt (she wore no panties), and looked up and around at me.

"This bulb is my clitoris," she said, "and my vagina is between my rod and my thigh. Please stroke my clitoris, and then come into my vagina from behind."

I complied, too excited to refuse. Goldberry's clitoris was moist with pre-ejaculation fluid, and her hips moved rhythmically up and down as I stroked it.

"Now come into me! Please!" Goldberry begged. I slipped my hand between her backward-turned rod and her thigh to make an entryway; then I followed my hand up with my long, thin, totally hard manhood. With her thighs clasped together to retain her rod between them, Goldberry pumped her hips as I pressed my manhood in along the entire length of her rod and began to thrust.

"Oh, Hubert!" she moaned. "Please plunge me harder! Please make me come!"

I earnestly tried to comply. Goldberry's hips were moving fast. I reached up beneath her and clasped her breasts, making her moan with delight.

"Hubert, are you ready?" Goldberry asked me. "Are you coming?"

"Yes!" I said. "Are you?"

"Yes! Oh, yes! Plunge me, Hubert! Plunge me to the highest! I'm coming! THANK YOU!!"

I felt Goldberry's semen gushing out of her clitoris. Going wild in response, I plunged har without restraint, ejaculating deep into her vagina between her rod and her thigh.

"Oh, Hubert!" Goldberry sighed deeply when our climax was done. "Could anyone less than a supreme artist have created something so wonderful?"

I laughed. "Is this how you evangelize me to believe in God?" I asked her.

"Well, yes," she said. "I admit it."

"Well." I said remembering my Sunday school days again with distaste, "I guess it's got a lot more in its favor than some other methods of evangelization!"

I laughed. A thought occurred to me, a variation on a Bible expression I had heard long ago in Sunday school. I was sure the Sunday school teacher wouldn't approve of the variation, but I didn't care.

*Your rod and your thigh, they give me comfort," I said. "And your bulb, too--I mean, your clitoris!"

"Comfort and joy?" Goldberry asked.

"Yes!" I agreed. "Good tidings of great comfort and joy!"