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PEGGIE
During
my twenties and thirties, it was my goal to have
sex, at least once, with every physical type of
woman on the planet.
I'd prefer not to hear any shit about this.
Proceeding from the theory that by sleeping with
a representative of every kind of female body,
and every category of appearance, I would come,
in effect, to know all women, I believed that
such an accomplishment would be good for my
writing.
Okay?
Of course, even to gather only samples from
what, you realize when you get into it, is a
vast assortment of sizes, shapes and
physiognomies, would have meant putting up
numbers comparable to Wilt Chamberlain's. And
being all of five-foot-six, more skinny than
slim--and with a nose you would think must
obstruct my vision--I'd obviously set my bar too
high. But spurred by the promise of the literary
rewards that even limited success would yield, I
determinedly pursued my objective, and had it
not been for a prostate gland the Harvard School
of Medicine will surely make a bid for upon my
demise, I'd probably have been at it much
longer.
Middle-aged now and long out of the hunt, I'm
forced to concede that my writing would have
been better served by writing more and
researching less. Still, the time spent on my
project wasn't entirely wasted. Collateral
though it may be, I did reap one unanticipated
and very practical benefit. If my collection of
memories isn't as comprehensive as I'd have
wished (if variations on the theme of plainness
are more than adequately represented but girls
who look like Nicole Kidman and Jennifer
Connelly are glaringly missing), mental
snapshots of the women I WAS able to cop are, in
their quantity and variety, more than sufficient
to save me the price of a subscription to
"Jugs."
And, indeed, I HAVE been left with a story or
two to tell.
Not least for the adventure it amounted to, a
hookup I think of a lot was with a
twenty-something woman named Peggie who'd just
days before--and for the first time--come to New
York from the Midwest on a month-long vacation.
Standing at a bar I heard the sound, right
behind me, of a sharp quick fart--like a wooden
match striking. When I turned I confronted a
sight only the word "humongous" could
accurately depict--a female at least a foot
taller than I was and approximately the width of
the Great Wall of China.
She was smiling flirtatiously at me and, though
taken aback by her appearance (not to mention
her method of getting my attention) and
reflexively recoiling, I quickly recovered when
I realized the opportunity she was presenting me
with. Here was my chance to cross gross obesity
from the list of body types I hadn't yet scored.
In a brief conversation--during which it
occurred to me that she'd be almost
agreeable-looking if she just lost 300 pounds--Peggie
told me she was a cashier at a Kalamazoo,
Michigan supermarket (a career chosen, she
readily admitted, for the substantial food
discount it offered); that she had once played a
Packard convertible in a high school production
of "Grease," and that her parents had
tragically expired in a suicide pact just weeks
after her birth.
Then she invited me to her hotel room.
(As we were leaving, I saw the bartender, who
could not, of course, have understood my agenda,
shaking his head in disbelief.
"That's it," he nudged the customer
slouched in front of him. "Right
there--that dude. That's the definition of
drunk.")
At her hotel, to which we necessarily took
separate cabs, the first thing Peggie did was
crack open, and inhale, the complete contents of
a package of Mallomars. Then, from a
utility-kitchen refrigerator, she retrieved and
devoured (in exactly what order I don't recall)
a container of chicken wings, a combo plate of
tacos and an economy-size tub of
Velveeta.
Finally she put a Barry Manilow tape into her
boom box.
Now it's not that I mind Barry Manilow all THAT
much, but the more appropriate musical
accompaniment to the night's activities would
have been the theme from "Raiders of the
Lost Ark." The thing was--and my insistence
that we leave on no more than the bathroom light
was definitely a contributing factor--I could
not for the life of me find Peggie's vulva. I'd
heard that this was a common occurrence with
very fat women, and especially with very fat
women in poor lighting, but it still took a lot
longer than I would have expected. What was
compounding the problem? Simply put, Peggie's
body could have served as a Special Forces
training ground for the field of hazards and
challenges it presented. I'm speaking of the
twisting climbs and sudden valleys, the crags,
the craters and the amazing plenitude of
gullies, ravines and bogs that I was, and on my
hands and knees, obliged to negotiate and
traverse in my search. A dismaying project to
begin with, my progress was further impeded by
an extraordinary number of ambiguous fissures
and crevices that, not quickly identifiable,
required time-consuming investigation and study.
You wouldn't believe how many deceptive nooks
and seductive crannies I came across. In fact,
at one point, when I thought for sure that I'd
located and entered the secret cave, I
discovered, to my chagrin, that I'd inserted
myself inside of what was only a fold of
fiercely perspiring epidermis. What's more, I
realized, when I looked up, that I was seriously
lost in some apparently outlying district of
Peggie's anatomy.
You're thinking that I had only myself to blame,
that not to stop and ask for directions is
typical of a man. Well, I swear, I was just
about to when I heard, in the distance, what
sounded like the swift currents of a babbling
brook. Groping my way toward the sound it
increased in volume until it was a deafening
roar and I knew I was directly above its source.
Reasonably confident that I'd located Peggie's
stomach, I paused to collect myself and survey
my surroundings. In the absence of a compass I
was looking for some sort of marker with which
to establish my coordinates. When I noticed that
the horizon ahead of me was blocked by an
especially pronounced elevation in the terrain,
I reasoned that I was likely facing north. With
a cautious optimism I began, then, to crawl
slowly backwards. You can imagine the rush I got
when before too long my toes were caressed by a
soft and lush foliage, and then bathed in the
gentle bubbling of a warm spring.
I was at last at the pleasure grove.
Feeling like a world-beater, I was glowing with
a sense of accomplishment and I have to confess
that I indulged myself in a moment of pride.
Relying on my instincts and wit, persevering in
the face of exceptional difficulties, I had
achieved an elusive goal other men would
certainly have given up on. The moment was
short-lived, however. After effecting
penetration my mettle was tested some more.
Twice I was jettisoned (and put in jeopardy of
becoming a ceiling fixture) by the astonishing
power of Peggie's pelvic motion. It was really
disappointing. Each time I was forced to go back
to square one and I had to reach deep inside
myself for a sticktoitiveness that I wasn't at
all sure I possessed. But I hung tough and on my
third expedition, with my eyes now accustomed to
the dark, I was recognizing landmarks and
proceeding with dispatch. At the treasure chest
within minutes, I managed, this time, to more or
less stay put and, let me tell you, like
clinging to the back of a grea!
t whale in a high sea, those final seconds were
every bit as exhilarating as the Splash Mountain
ride at Disney World.
In the morning, Peggie, cheery and humming to
herself (doubtless never before the object of
such committed attention), seemed unaware of my
odyssey. After eating a cake, and washing it
down with a quart of chocolate milk, she asked
me if she could take a time-delay Polaroid of
the two of us naked in bed. (Should you ever
come across this picture, I AM in it. That's the
top of my head, not a puppy, just behind her
left ankle.) Then she announced that she was
cutting her trip short and returning home. There
was no reason, she said, to remain in New York
now, because no big-city experience that she
might imagine could possibly surpass her night
with me.
Having completed my mission and worried she'd
suggest that we get together again, I was
enormously relieved by and supportive of her
decision.
As I departed though, I did sense, from her
expression, that she was maybe a little
ambivalent about changing her plans; that she
was thinking of something she might later regret
missing. Not wishing to prolong the moment I
chose not to ask any questions, so I'll never
know just what the thing was. Yes, it could have
been the Transit Museum or the Edgar Allan Poe
Cottage. But I suspect that more likely on her
mind was foregoing the chance to discover a new
food group. |
