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…geography, philosophy, history, nothing
social anthropology a lot of nothing…
– Tuli kupferburg
A LOT OF NOTHING
Christmas Eve. I took the ferry over to the French Quarter. I just wanted to experience the Vieux Carré when it’s quiet. Didn’t see how it could be much quieter than Christmas Eve. A stiff wind blowing down Royal Street makes it feel cold, though the temperature is almost 50 and the sun’s out. The ferry was crowded this morning with last minute shoppers headed to Holmes or Maison Blanch or wherever, and 9-to-5-types dragging themselves to their offices, their hearts full of hope the boss will let them out early. They should be glad they don’t have my boss: he’s sending me to Kansas City for Christmas to cover a football game. The regular NFL writers didn’t want to go. Anyway, I hope to get out of sports soon.
The Vieux Carré is quite calm. The drunks from Texas and the Midwest, who come to throw up in the gutters on Bourbon Street are not here. I think they’re waiting for the Sugar Bowl next week.
As I pass the TV station I decide to say Merry and Happy to the news folks. The station is located in a maze of buildings between Charter and Royal. Eighteenth century on one side and 1948 on the other. After checking in with the receptionist – Gestapo type with big tits – I walk across the courtyard to the news offices. Margot smiles as I walk in. “Merry Christmas,” I say. “Can’t wait for it to be over.”
“And a Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Scrooge,” she says. “Don’t be such a cynic.”
Margot, now in her 40s, is the lead producer for just about all the local shows. She jokes about being the first French Quarter hippie: Ken, the station manager, says that one day in the 1950s, she wore jeans to work, and before he could admonish her the station owner walked in and mentioned what a nice ass she had. She has worn jeans every day since, though her nice ass is a bit on the large side these days. Still, she’s one of the nicest people in the world, and highly competent in a medium known for its incompetence.
“I was kind of hoping you’d drop by today. This is my friend from New York, Emily Fischer,” she said, turning in the direction of a blond, academic type sitting on her desk. “You studied anthropology, didn’t you?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m a sportswriter.”
Margot ignored by sarcasm: “Well, Emily and her husband are in the anthropology department at Columbia. She’s the department chairman and he’s the star.”
“Your husband must he Munro Fischer. Mayan stuff, I think. I read one of his books in an archaeology class.”
“Well, I’m not quite as well known,” Emily smiled.
For a few minutes we discussed anthropology. I was graduated only a few weeks ago, and I knew nothing about “the anthropology of women,” her specialty.
Margot and Emily have known each other since graduate school, and they get together whenever Margot goes to New York or Emily comes to New Orleans. Emily was to meet her husband this afternoon for a romantic Christmas in New Orleans, at least that’s what Margot said – Margot does all the talking, all the time.
After saying my goodbyes, I walked over to the sports desk down the hall to say hello to Wayne – he’s going to Minnesota to do the Viking and Cowboys – then to the studios to talk to the camera guys and techs before exiting out to Chartres, and walking over to Napoleon House.
I stand at the bar and ask for a shot of brandy and a cup of coffee and chicory to warm me up. As it arrives I look over by the tall French doors that open onto Rue St-Louis, and there she is sitting alone, Emily Fischer.
“Dr. Fischer, I presume.” OK, it was a bad joke. “May I join you?”
“Certainly, Mr. Strange.” She was either kind enough not to laugh my bad joke or she missed the joke altogether.
“Mr. Strange is my father. I’m Jack.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you. . . Jack.”
And thus began what was to turn out to be a fling – for lack of a better word, – with Dr. Emily Fischer, Ph.D.
I was cold sitting at the French door, but Emily didn’t seem to mind a bit. In fact she seemed to relish it. She was wearing a navy blue sweater, which she filled nicely even if such filler was frowned upon in academic. But the dark blue sweater and the blond hair with its sparkling silver highlights. She has a Mayan necklace around her neck, actually a pendant of sorts worn on a silver chain. She was, of course, wearing jeans, which incidentally fit rather well, almost snug. And boots with high heels, the kind obviously popular in northern climes like New York but seldom seen here except on go-go girls and 14-year-olds trying to look 20.
We picked up the boring conversation we had begun earlier about the anthropology of women. I had no idea what she was talking about. I told her I wanted to study The Intermarriage of Transsexual Mennonites with Upper Class Hopi Indians, 1850-1852. She agreed it was a good topic.
“Can I get you something,” I asked. “How about an espresso and a Calvados?” They drink that in France instead of breakfast, I think.”
I signaled ataköy escort to a waiter, who after ten minutes of staring at the hot-dog vendor in the street, came over and took our order.
“So, what are you and your husband planning to do this week? Whoa, that’s a bad question. I mean what are you planning to see and stuff.”
“Well to tell you the truth, we’re not doing anything,” she said. “I didn’t tell Margot, but Munro isn’t coming back for another two weeks.”
“Ouch! That much work still to do?”
“I’d like to think so, but I know better.”
“Sorry. I really don’t know what to say or do.”
“Well you could stay here and talk to me for a while.”
So we talked. At least I talked. This time we avoided anthropology, and concentrated on talking about the French Quarter, New Orleans and Louisiana. We had another round of Calva – skipped the coffee this time – and I talked away. I was sure I was boring the hell out of her with my minutiae, but I just kept on going.
“May I buy you lunch?” she asked. My Southern Gentleman objections were met with, “Well, I’m not a Southern Belle, so I can pay.”
So we went to lunch, followed by my lengthy walking tour of the French Quarter: where Mumford was hanged, where Blaze Starr took it off for Uncle Earl, where the Regal brewery was, where the Lafitte brothers hid out, the Italian gym, and of course Cosimo’s.
At about four-thirty, as the winter sun was sinking Uptown, I decided that my duties as a tour guide were spent: “Well, let me take you back to your hotel. I’m sure you have better things that to hear me ramble on.”
“No. I don’t want to go back to the hotel, at least not yet,” she said. “And I want you to ramble on. I want to listen to you. I don’t want to be alone.
“When I was a child, Christmas was so special. It was a magical time of the year,” Emily said. “The tree, the presents, the big dinner, the aunts and uncles and cousins. Not a nice Christmas present from my husband today – and his latest 22-year-old.”
“Come on, I’ll show you Algiers. That’s where I live.”
The ride across the river was a bit on the chilly side. So, of course, we stood alone on deck, leaving the wiser pedestrians to drink coffee inside and the sage motorists below to keep their heaters running. I put my hands on the railing and looked up river as the fog crept in. Emily was along side of me, the turtle neck of her sweater turned up and her hands in the pockets of her jeans.
Somewhere about mid-stream, she put her hand over mine, and when I turned, she smiled and snuggled, putting her face against my sweater, her arms around my waist. I stretched my jacket around her. It was at this moment, on the Algiers Ferry, that she changed from Dr. Fisher the anthropologist to Emily the woman.
I wanted to kiss her. But I wasn’t really sure how that would be taken. So I waited for her to make the first move, that first gesture. She didn’t. “Just hold me for a minute, Jack,” she said. “I need to be held. Oh, do I need to be held.”
After landing we walked the three blocks to my shotgun double. I made some coffee and left her listening to blues, while I went to the rear-bedroom-turned-office to arrange papers and stuff for the football game, and make family and business phone calls. When I returned to the front room, she was seated in my overstuffed chair, reading Harry Williams’ biography of Huey Long.
“I’m going to cook us some dinner, I have some albums under console and there’s TV,” I said. “I shouldn’t be too long, but if you’re tired, you can go lie down in the bedroom. I’ll take you to your hotel after dinner.”
Only took about half an hour to make dinner, most of that time spent waiting for the rice to be cooked. A couple of cans of gumbo, half a loaf of revived Rising French bread and a bottle of Mouton Cadet, red. I set the table and went to invite Emily to dinner. (OK, it wasn’t much of a dinner, but remember I was only 23 years old.) She was bundled up as before in a wool blanket listening to Buddy Guy and Junior Wells, and reading about Huey Long.
We went through dinner rather quickly, as we did with the Bourdeaux. She had quite an appetite, despite the large sandwich she had had at lunch. I was full quickly and watched her eat. She was fun just to watch: Her hair tied up in a sort of bun behind her head, her blue eyes that blinked to the rhythm of Buddy and Junior, a sharp chin with just a hint of a dimple, lips that would be full had she wore a stronger lipstick, cheeks with very little makeup, a long neck – sometime that afternoon she had removed her Mayan pendant.
“I’d like to stay here tonight, if you don’t mind,” she said.
“I’ve got to get up early to get to the airport,” I said. “I may not be able to take you to the hotel in the morning. You would have to take a cab.”
“I don’t want to be alone tonight. I should be OK in the morning.” And she smiled. (Gawd, what a great smile.)
I walked into the bedroom and returned with pajamas, a towel, a wash cloth and a toothbrush still in its wrapping for her. I also brought along a pillow, blanket alarm bakırköy escort clock and pajamas for me.
“Here, go sleep in my bed,” I said handing her the pajamas and stuff.
“Is this your Southern Gentleman thing?” she asked.
“Well, as I said, I’m not a Southern Belle, and I will take the couch. And don’t even try to talk me out of it. And leave me the pillow.”
So, I brushed my teeth, put on pajamas (for the first time in years), and lay down in my bed. I didn’t expect to do much sleeping: beautiful older woman in my living room; fear of over sleeping and missing my six o’clock flight.
I did fall asleep but not for very long. I was wide awake at one o’clock, my reading lamp on and Speer’s Inside the Third Reich in my hands. I was unable to concentrate and thus unable to read.
“Are you OK?” came the voice from the doorway.
“Yea, just can’t sleep.”
“Me neither.” She was standing in the doorway wearing only the top part of my pajamas. I liked the way this was going.
I put all my chips on 00, and took a spin: “We can go into the kitchen and play cribbage or checkers or chess. Or we can stay right here and just play.”
I waited a few seconds for an expected slap in the face, kick in the groin or crash of a lamp on my head.
“I like the last option,” she said. Before I could react, she pulled down the covers and climbed in the bed with me. I have always enjoyed older, married women, but Emily was something else.
She snuggled up to me and ran her hands over my naked chest and back before we shared a long, wet kiss. I massaged her tits, unbuttoning the pajama shirt along the way. I pulled her naked body close so as to enjoy the contact and to let her know of my growing excitement. She grabbed me through my pajamas and stroked me with its silk, while I let my hand wander down to her pussy. I lightly rubbed her clit which grew at the touch, before sticking my finger inside her to search for her G-spot. That G-spot may or may not exist, but upon touching her upper wall, Emily twitched and gasped.
I moved down to drink in her fluids, but she grabbed my arm. “Later,” she said. I wasn’t sure I understood what later meant. Was she having second thoughts? My heart and my body rapidly sank, and my mind began thinking of being aggressive.
“Just take me now. Now.”
So I did. And it was wonderful.
She had been so wet for so long that I slipped in easily. Her legs grabbed me around my waste. When I moved to pull out so as to thrust back inside her, her pelvic muscles seemed to grab my cock briefly to keep it from leaving. She was warm and tight and the slight extra effort to enter her really increased the pleasure. And once in, she would flex those muscles to keep me inside.
Then she turned me on my back.
“Just relax and let me do the work,” she said.
She moved down until my cock was completely inside her. Then, without any other movement she began flexing those pelvic muscles over and over again. I grew even harder if that were possible. It was like I was being sucked inside her. In fact I was hoping to be sucked inside her.
(A number of years later, My sister-in-law, Luce, explained that the art, called Pompoir or Singapore Kiss, is thousands of years old and requires a good of practice, Even then it may not work out. Luce said it didn’t work for her.)
I was in paradise. Emily seemed to be on the same cloud. She moved only occasionally, just sitting atop me and squeezing and relaxing. Then she used me as a phallus or a live dildo, to bring herself to orgasm and bring me to a climax without my doing any work. Or, as Mr. MacBeth would say, “Without I stir.”
We went off together, an ending she had orchestrated. She moved off my cock as it flagged and fell over me. She wrapped her arms around me and we kissed – or rather, she kissed me. Like before, I just went along.
Being spent, I took a calmer position on this fantastic way to fuck. The pleasure is out of this world, and I liked that. But my role was completely passive, and I wasn’t too sure I like that.
Anyway Emily moved to my side, her head on my shoulder and her leg across mine, while she massaged my chest.
“Thank you so much,” she said.
“Hell, you did all the work.”
“No, you don’t understand. I needed a fuck just like that. I’ll explain when you get back from your football.
“Sounds good to me.”
“Now you get to sleep. You’ve got that early plane to catch.”
Going to sleep was not quite as easy as it may sound. For the next hour or so I lay staring at the ceiling, with the beautiful wife of an anthropology superstar fast asleep on my chase and facing four or five hours in planes and airports.
At six o’clock, just as I was falling asleep, the alarm rang. Emily wasn’t in bed. I figured maybe she had gone back to the couch because of my snoring or something.
I took a quick shower, shaved and dressed – people dressed up to fly in those days – by six-twenty. I had just enough time to take Emily back to the Fairmont before driving to the airport.
“Hurry up,” came the voice from the kitchen. “You have just enough time to eat breakfast and go.”
I walked into the kitchen to find the table set, coffee made and Emily standing by the stove with sausages and eggs in the cast-iron skillet, and bread in the toaster. Is this all part of the anthropology of women, too?
She dropped the spatula when I walked in, I was pleasantly surprised by the breakfast. and more so that Emily Fischer was making it. She turned and walked to the doorway and we kissed, and more, a groping session that nearly cost me my eggs.
“We’ve got to leave soon if I am to take you to the Fairmont and get to Moisant in time for my flight,” I said.
“I’m not going to the Fairmont,” she replied. “I’m staying here. The hotel agreed to have a bellman pack my luggage and have it ready for me at the entrance. That way I won’t have to go inside”
“You have been awfully busy this morning,” I said as she poured me a cup of coffee. “I take it you’ve already arranged for a taxi to fetch it.”
“Oh no, I’m going to use your car. You do have a car?”
“And how am I supposed to get to the airport if you have my car?”
“I’m going to drive you.”
“You may change your mind once you see it: An antediluvian Triumph. Four speed manual. Ragged top. Disintegrating side curtains.
“Munro used to have an MGA, so you can’t scare me with that.”
Thus I found myself driving down the Pontchartrain Expressway in the dark with the top down – it would fly off at speeds over 45 mph – in 40 degree weather and a beautiful woman in the passenger seat, who had opened my fly and was trying to get me excited enough to cum on the steering wheel and dashboard. She achieved her goal as we drove down Williams Boulevard. The dash, the steering wheel, my suit, my shirt, my tie. Since the large steering when prevented a blow, Emily rubbed her hands and fingers in the cum and licked her palms and fingers. She offered me some.
At the airport we shared a we’re-gonna-be-doing-a-lot-more-of-this-when-I-get-back kiss. Then she kissed my neck to intentionally leave a mark to put me on the defensive for two and a half days in the macho world of sportswriters – as if the cum all over me wasn’t enough.
After forty-five hours of airplanes, airports, football, bad coffee and a Holiday Inn, I returned to New Orleans, my stories in hand for the Monday paper. And during each of those forty-five hours, all I could think of was Emily Fischer and the Singapore Kiss.
# # #
As I walked down the steps from the plane, I looked up to see Emily standing by the window waving. A minute or two later she wrapped me up in her arms and kissed me as if I had been away for a couple of months. I suspected that this was the welcome Munro Fischer would have gotten had he arrived two days earlier. He also missed making love to this beautiful woman and her Singapore Kiss.
Emily had put up the top and the side curtains, and opted for the heater over dashboard lights. (Brit sports cars of the era provided one or the other, but not both for very long, so I kept a supply of fuses in the glove box.) I put my brief case and typewriter in the back and away we went. She drove, at 45 mph, down the Interstate. Sealed inside the cockpit we were almost able to talk on the way in from the airport. I had plenty of confidence in Emily, but not so much in my car. Both Emily and the TR3 were in single pieces that Sunday night. I was in one piece, too, but barely.
# # #
“You didn’t like our Friday night?” she asked after we had finished all the “miss-yous” and “how-was-the-trips”
“Oh no, it was fantastic. I’ve never experienced anything like it before. The apex of carnal pleasure.”
“But you didn’t like it. You felt helpless.” She seemed to have hit the nail on the head. “I learned it while doing field work for my Ph.D. The woman becomes fully in charge, and it intensifies the experience for her and her partner, too. Men want to be in charge of everything all the time.” I guess the anthropology of women has its positive side.
We drove first to the paper, where I dropped my stories on the sports editor’s desk, and stopped off at the Royal Castle for a bunch of small burgers before taking the bridge to the West Bank. At each stop we spent more than a few minutes kissing and petting. Back on the road, we discussed sex.
At my shotgun double in Algiers, we sat in the kitchen table and devoured the burgers, washed down with Jax. At least I devoured the burgers and the beer. Emily nursed her single burger and sipped the beer, which was still almost full when I got around to cleaning up. Then we got down to business.
We got up from the table and went to the front room, where I turned on Ella and Frank and a little Tony Bennett. I opened the wooden box on the coffee table and took out a joint.
In few minutes we were on the couch, both naked from the waist ip. I was on top, kissing, caressing and more or less dry fucking. We took our time, something we missed Friday night, I put my hands on the sofa cushions and lifted myself so as not to crush Emily. The sensation of her bare tits against my bare chest was almost too exciting to give up. Her soft breath blew into my ear, as her tongue traced its curves and contours.
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