Copyright © 2006 by Peter May. All Rights Reserved.

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Spring & his Summers

an erotic memoir

by Peter May

The Story of S (an Introspection)

As with I, S is not one woman but a collection of experiences. So many of these Summers were good (some not so good) to be with, that they collectively deserve some mention in this book. In this chapter I will summarize some of the glorious hours they presented to me. I should have mentioned that, by now, I had gone from owning one pair of jeans and one shirt to owning a collection of designer clothing. This came about because one of the hallmarks of the Summer relationship is that the young older woman invariably feels she must dress her younger guy. It's part of the nurturing syndrome. It's not about mothering at all, I'm sure, a type of relationship that would have repelled me. It's about being seen in public. The Summer is, collectively, a giver and a taker, a user or a toy, a player or an instrument. She has a galaxy of reasons to be in a relationship with her slightly younger man (or Spring), but almost invariably she will initially take him to a department store (depending on her finances) and treat herself to having a well-dressed stud muffin.

Thus, by this point in the story, her younger guy is no longer a kind of dazed hippie wandering around in a single torn suite of casual clothing (preppified by wearing a sports coat with elbow patches, like the graduate student that he is in theory). He has become conscious of his appearance and is striving toward the classier look. He is becoming sleeker, less gaunt, and increasingly invisible as a poor mouse to be put in her pocket and taken home for nurture.

Gradually, as I built up credits on my Master's, and started seeing more prestigious work, I became less noticeable to the sort of woman with whom I had been mutually attuned and a magnet. For many Summers, the age difference remained a magnet. Don't think for a moment that women do not make trophies of men. It is a delusion to claim otherwise. I have been the trophy—I know. On the less pleasant side, I was occasionally used as a weapon to instill jealousy. On one occasion I found myself running down a snowy street in my bare feet to thump the head of an ex-husband whom I had been manipulated into hating; luckily for me, and probably him, he got away.

Most of the time, when she is on your arm in a public place, glowing and beaming, pressing herself against you, she is having some much deserved and innocent fun. Maybe she is divorced and full of anger, bitterness, loneliness. Maybe, as in one or two cases, she is a young widow—whose final glimpse of her handsome 30-something husband was as he manages his sailboat in a shallow sea near shore, and another boat clips him, the tall sail moving over him with horrific slowness and grace like a white angel. I have gazed into that abyss with her, lain on her slender ship, tacked through the breakwaters of our mutual passion. Life goes on. We know what lies beneath.

For example, S1 was a bird more gamey than suited me, and I felt an odd foreboding from the first. S1 was a woman in her early 30s who had never been slender, but was still formidably sexy in a robust way. It was as if her baby fat had gone hard. She was as tall as I, had a good figure, strong in a muscular way without being athletic. We met during the hot cocoa and glogg hour after skiing (I don't ski, but I enjoyed hanging out at the lodge, not the same one in Vermont mentioned earlier, but closer to home). She looked like a sturdy Finn, this S1, as she tromped in on her boots, in her black ski pants, and in her white sweater with red reindeer. She was aglow from her exertions, and the cold had made her cheeks and nose red. Her short blonde hair was awry as if someone had ruffled it; she had ski-cap-hair.

Putting her skis aside, she noticed me and beamed this huge smile that was the signal—on first eye contact—that she was interested in me. She was very interested, and within a short time she and I sat by the big fireplace with our drinks. She pressed close to me, and soon had her hand resting on the inside of my thigh. What did we talk about? As is often the case in such encounters, nothing memorable. She was an insurance underwriter, made good money, and lived in a stone house with a three-car garage and a 300 foot driveway full of snow and ice. I can't even remember if I ended up at her place that night or the next. I remember her driving in this white Mercedes whose interior was all white leather and leather cowgirl trim. She was into Country, and I sat amid twanging guitar music and Dixie drawlin' from deep, whiskey-scoured throats the whole way to her Connecticut estate. She took me into this twelve-room marvel, whose den was as big as my single room at the Maison Piano Music.

She poured me a foofy drink (something brandy and chocolate with artificial nut flavoring that lingered on the back of the palate like one of the early, detergent diet drinks). We went into a large marble bathroom, where she undressed me and knelt before me amid the gleaming tiles and warm air, and thoroughly blowjobbed me.

She cupped my nuts, held them on her hands as if she had a tray of sacred objects, while her mouth cranked on me like a torque wrench. She was very skilled, and I must have squirted a bit, because she looked up at me, beaming, with semen on her lips, and then went at it all the stronger. When she rose, we stood kissing for a short while, and I touched her long, flat breasts and explored in the drizzle of her rainforest.

I remember encountering a good-sized 'little girl' down there peeking out from its hood. She had me get into a warm, bubbling Jacuzzi, Frenched me for another minute, and told me, with this strange air of excitement that tightened her voice box and made her feel trembly to my touch: "I'm going to get ready. I'll call you, and you come in."

"Okay." It was more of an okay with foreboding.

Ten minutes elapsed, while I lay with my eyes closed and enjoyed the water. My pecker, who is usually dumber than I but this time may have known something I didn't, was utterly limp.

When he call came ("Peter, darling, come in now!") I dried myself off, wrapped a huge towel around myself that covered me like a Masai cloak, and stepped into the vastness of her bedroom. It was dark in there, and I heard movement. "Come in, darling," she said.

I saw something moving on the bed there in the dark, and hesitated.

The room was comfortably warm as a heater hissed soothingly nearby. A faint light fell in from the moon in a barren tree outside, and I saw S1 on the bed with her legs up. A young man in white jockey shorts and a wool ski cap was on her knees banging her away. I saw the chub and muscle on the guy's buttocks and back, and the weight-trained sausages of his biceps and triceps.

"Come on, Peter," she said, "let me take you in my mouth." At the same time, a door opened to my right. From one of the plethora of bathrooms in her house came another young athlete, and he winked at me while raising his hands to pinch his nipples at me.

I didn't scream. I just started running. I don't know if anyone ran after me. It was the fastest I have ever run in my life. I scooped up my clothes and somehow jumped into them while running—down the stairs, through her living room, and into the front hallway.

On the cold slate floor, I realized I had taken my shoes off. Screw the socks. I grabbed my shoes, which sat in a collection of hers and I don't know how many men's pairs, and ran out the door without tying them. Laces flapping, I ran out into the freezing driveway. My hair was wet and instantly snapped into ice atop my head. I knew I was at least a mile from the nearest house and would die out there. I felt the icy cold squeeze me like a giant fist.

This was life and death. I turned, ran into the vestibule, found her car keys, and raced outside. I thought of locking the door and breaking the key off in the lock to slow my pursuers, but was shaking so badly that the keys rattled and I couldn't manage—it would have required my eyes focusing, which at the moment they couldn't. I stole her car. It was that simple. I knew her studs must own some of the other cars in the driveway, so it's not like I left them marooned.

I flew out of there backwards, slid on the ice, almost went into a ditch on the country road below, and hauled ass toward the edge of town. As I drove along, in that white leather interior full of cowgirl fringe and effects, the music loudly cut in. Whiskey voices in chorus, slide guitars, bemoaned the tragic loss of an unfaithful lover who 'tried on a pair o' boots too many' and 'left me a broken and down like an old pair o' leathers on that long, lonely bayou road.' Fuck! This was no bayou. It was ten below, and this was New England. That broad had no business... oh well. All's well that ends well. I parked her car at a restaurant, turned in the keys as lost at the hostess desk, and got on the last bus into the city.

Not all encounters were even funny. There was S2 (let's call her) who seemed slightly dotty from the start, though she was slender and dark-haired (with a lot of white streaks that I weren't sure came from age or the hair dresser). She was a kissing fury when I met her in the park, as she was walking her dog and I was out jogging on a mild spring afternoon under the great university's neo-Gothic spires. With carillon bells tinkling in the air, she and I and the frisky Irish Setter romped happily. She took me to dinner in a little steak and ale pub. We went to a movie, and off to her apartment downtown. I smelled the dog poop even as we went up the stairs. She wasn't a good dog owner, but that wasn't the worst of it. The scariest part was soon after we had gotten into bed, and I was just starting to enjoy the spread of her legs and the tilt of her purplish cunt, when she called the dog in and it ran right toward that cunt from long experience...well, I was on my way down the stairs with my shirt in one hand and my shoes in the other, while pulling my pants up.

S3 represents a formation of women who took me home in order to bridge the gap between their previous bitter marriage and the next bitter marriage. I caught on early—when the woman has a cutting tongue, and is full of anger, and obviously hates men, I back away as quickly as my heel propel me. I was naïve the first time, enjoying a pleasant first visit, just getting ready to woo this woman, when she started arguing with me.

I had no idea why she was picking on me, and tried to reason with her, but in fifteen minutes she had reached the point of screaming at me.

That was when I realized she called me Scott, and I already knew Scott was her ex. I reached for my clothes, and she hit me across the face so that my cheek bled where it had cut my tooth. Then she started sobbing and sat down in a chair and begged me to forgive her. She was loudly crying when I left. I went from confused to angry to sick to my stomach and let myself out.

I was half a block away when I heard her wailing and heard her feet on the sidewalk. She was actually running after me. "I'm sorry, Peter. Please forgive me." Yeah. Sorry too. I hid in a bush until she was past, then stood by a wooden fence and vomited my dinner out. Finally, I ran two or three city blocks and caught a bus home.

S4, therefore, came as one of the nicer surprises. She was the girl next door. Never mind that it was during a chilly time of year—she warmed me. Here was this straight-forward girl who could have been 18 or 20 but was 32. She wore a ski parka and a wool cap over her straight, thin ash-blonde hair. She had light blue eyes in an almost gamine, squarish soft face with those incipient wrinkles in her laugh lines, just faintly there. The crows' feet around her eyes could just as well have been the smile lines or laugh lines of a much younger woman. She was uncomplicated, thank God. Just a sweet, pleasant companion who asked little and sought to please.

Art galleries and museums she enjoyed, especially when I explained everything to her. She was a high school grad with a year of college, working as a secretary for the university and thinking of going to school to become a dental assistant. S3 had a little apartment within the sound of the university carillon, in a street of rambling, multi-story Victorian houses hidden behind great tree crowns.

She could have been a great erotic chapter in this erotic memoir, but she had absolutely no imagination. She liked to fuck, but just once at sort of the peak of a date. There was almost this schedule: meet, eat, movie, apartment. The latter subdivided into: drink a beer while watching a funny program, start petting and end up hot and bothered, move to the bedroom and pet a little more, then fuck in the missionary position, and finally wind down.

It wasn't all that cut and dried. Some evenings she was hornier than others. Sometimes we went several rounds. She'd let me bang her from behind, or she would blow me, or I would eat her out. There were no quickies, no night fucks, no morning fucks. Everything was pastel and vanilla and pleasant and sweet.

She was beautiful to be with. Men turned to look. I felt she was a trophy, yes. I moved on to someone else, and I saw her a week later arm in arm with a short man with a big head of frizzy brown hair. He wore a suit and white shirt and bowtie, and was obviously a professor she had bagged. He looked proud, she was a trophy, and she pretended not to recognize me. I was happy for both of them.

I should mention S5, who also tripped some hidden alarm bells. Everything seemed kosher on the surface, and I didn't listen to the faint voice of unease. S5 seemed a bit too facile for what she was—a straight-laced Puritan housewife divorced from a wealthy minister of some fundamentalist church. They were very wealthy, and appeared at all the right sorts of fund raisers, Christmas choirs, and what have you. In my naïveté, I never questioned that they were seen together in public as husband and wife, and that he later ran for mayor and nearly won, and for years has exerted huge behind the scenes financial and political influence at the state house.

What attracted me about S4 were her own contradictions: she felt she had to be so pseudo-religious, so chaste and controlled and self-righteous, yet the more that demon poked her with pitchforks, the more Faunus and Bacchus and Eros laughed inside of her and nudged her with their horns.

She was a robust mare, a jock's dream, a Viking of a woman with coppery red hair that fell over her pale shoulders, and a full body with big ripe melon breasts and nipples on them like little red apples. She had the face of a cheerleader who has grown thick in the cheeks, but was still pretty with a small nose and pink cheeks. Her ex, whom I had seen on local news on TV, was an older, white-haired man with glasses and a reedy voice that suggested low testosterone levels. She wore bright, flashy dresses, while he always wore his trademark dark rumpled suit and spoke in a light, sanctimonious tone the way people who write shitty poetry read it aloud in a high, singsong voice. There was no way I pass up the opportunity to bite those apples, and to wrestle with that big woman in bed, and suck on the might of her genital florage.

When I fucked her cunt from behind, and she knelt facing away from me on the bed, I had to stand on the wooden sideboard and hang on to an ass the size of a motorcycle. Everything about this woman was abundant, overflowing, rich—even her throaty voice and the copious pussy cider she cranked out. One of her favorite things was to have me stand over her while she turned her face up to suck my balls while she massaged her breasts with one hand and rubbed herself to climax with the other. She took me in every one of her orifices and climaxed with equal sonority. She had me stand before her while she lay back and walked her heels up my body so her heavy calves lay against my shoulders.

With the help of a few tactically placed cushions, she got her cunt high enough for me to fuck her, and fuck I did, whacking my abdomen noisily against her full thighs while she sobbed with passion. I galloped on her. I yelled with my own passion. It was good.

Then her husband coughed behind the one-way mirror.

I got it.

I got it in an instant.

I wasn't going to let anyone take from me the massive orgasm building up at that moment. She faltered, but I whanged on. I was a pile driver, doubling her over backward. She shrieked as I piled on, bounced on her, fucked her in that huge brimming wet vat against whose panoramic vastness even my thick dick was a mere steel toothpick (I exaggerate a bit, but in mid-orgasm my exploding brain saw her as a kind of earth mother, cosmic bang, betrayer, greedy cunt, false cunt, yet passionate she-bear into whose cave I had strayed). When I finished, and we had come together, I rolled her onto her knees and gave her just a few more strokes to let the engine cool down a bit. I stroked her buttocks and said I was going to the bathroom, and I'd be right back. Instead, I grabbed my clothes and ran through their house. I dressed along the way, put my shoes on one hop at a time as I sped away to the nearest bus stop.

Now a wiser man, I occasionally saw her around town with other studs (very discreet; of course I knew) and a few young women who might be church vestals or bacchantes, I had no idea. They came and went at that big white house of purity on, let's call it Cherry Lane, while she and her husband renewed their 20th wedding vows and donated money for creationism and other fringe causes. I still don't know whether to laugh or cry at the human condition. I do know that I got out of there with the benefit of that one last huge orgasm, which is built on the impossible tension between religious zeal and the lure of forbidden fruit, which are like fire and gasoline to one another. Avoid either, and you don't get singed. Avoid both, and you can have a peaceful life. Sorry, banging such a scriptural horse makes a person want to spout aphorisms and conceits.

So you see, gentle reader, whether male or female—no two love stories are ever the same. There may be similarities, but each has its own unique licks and grace notes. I was a drifting leaf, and blew against many a tree. Stay true to a loving partner, and count your blessings that you don't know all that goes on in other bedrooms. Don't be jealous of the sexual adventurer. With all such medieval woodcut advice behind, I can only say once again that (borrowing the words of Thomas Wolfe in reflecting on his own youthful drinking partnerships): "We were young and drunk and twenty/And could never die!"

When I was not coupling with my Summers or chasing younger tail, or working ridiculous jobs or pursuing esoteric researches, I was out carousing and drinking...as in the medieval drinking song Gaudeamus igitur ("Let us therefore rejoice"):

There it is, in the fifth stanza of this thousand-year-old student drinking song, this great universal truth—the reference to Summers—and, by implication, their Springs (there follow yet two more stanzas, but those do not concern us here). This song was howled and growled by drunken Springs and would-be Springs for many centuries. They banged their beer mugs on wooden benches in university taverns across Europe from the age of Crusades until well into the modern era, at Victorian Oxford and Cambridge, and certainly pre-World War II Yale and Harvard, Stanford and Berkeley, to name just a few—as long as Latin was taught and the Classical world remained cherished and rediscovered—for in the distant past and its charms I would eventually find my niche in life and become a portly professor unnoticed by any woman of the age whose women used to ravish and lavish me long ago. That is the reason for this book—celebration, monument, remembrance, closure.