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Friday, 28 November 2008

The Sexual History of Adam Feingold – Part 1: The Breast

By Marvin Waldman

Touching a naked breast for the first time is a wonderful thing. Adam Feingold touched his first one when he was 15. Actually he was 16. Well, to be perfectly honest, he was two weeks shy of his 17th birthday, but he preferred telling people he was 15 when it first happened, as if a later touch would cast doubt on his manhood.

But that’s a whole other story involving a Dr. Louis Lostfogel and certain injections and to some extent his mother and I’m not sure Adam would have approved me of going into all of that, but if it interests you at all, I’ll give it some thought and decide later.

Returning to breasts, and Adam called them breasts back then - certainly not tits or boobs or knockers, the latter did not sound reverential enough to his nearly pubescent ears. In fact, he thought all the words he knew referring to the prize that waited juicily beneath blouses were too short or flat. Something polysyllabic and ripe with sound would have been far more appropriate. For a time he thought of calling them florasettas marvellosium but since he had no idea how to spell florasettas marvellosium, he settled for breasts.

So, as admitted earlier, Adam was almost 17 before his first hands-on skin experience. It is important to distinguish here between: Number One, touching over the sweater or shirt; Number Two, touching under the sweater or shirt but over the bra; and Number Three, touching under the bra.

Obviously number three, the flesh-on-flesh encounter, was the ultimate goal even though Adam was yet to experience numbers one or two. Inexperienced, that is, if you don’t count the many somewhat unintentional brushes with girls passing in the hallways at school.

You certainly wouldn’t count the entirely unintentional handful of older sister breast that he came up with in a game of Twister at her sweet 16 party nor would you ever, ever consider breast feeding, although when he thought of himself at his mother’s breast, he sometimes felt a pang in his groin, so he did his best to shut that image out of his mind, especially when it popped up during his near habitual fantasizing of more socially acceptable breasts.

Once Adam heard Woody Allen on a comedy album claiming he was breast-fed through falsies. He immediately decided it could have been true in his own case which allowed him to continue his reveries without an Oedipal wrench getting in the way.

It’s not that Adam did not have his chances, either. There was always Arlene Applebaum. Arlene had been in all of Adam’s classes since the third grade. In the sixth grade she let Michael Venetulli unbutton her blouse and take a look, even though there was not much there to see at the time. But since then, Arlene had grown admirably both in her size and her desire to let boys participate in that growth. All Adam had to do was ask and the answer would have been, go to it. But Adam didn’t ask.

And it wasn’t that she was stupid or ugly. She was very smart and rather attractive. It’s just that the Applebaums and the Feingolds were long-time family friends and their parents were all on the temple board and if that weren’t enough, Adam’s mother and Arlene’s father actually used to date in college. The Oedipal wrench, again. So Adam remained a breast virgin.

But, starting around his 15th birthday, Adam’s obsession with breasts – naked ones - and the fact that he still hadn’t fondled, licked, kissed, rubbed his penis up against one or two or, to be honest, even seen one live, became all encompassing. So much so, his thoughts were fixated strictly above a woman’s waist, anything below that was totally beyond his reach.

But he was not all that unhappy being stuck at chest level. Night after night he would lay awake stroking himself as he dreamed of tits (it was okay to use “tits” when he was in bed). Big ones, small ones, round ones, floppy ones, upturned ones, brown ones, white ones, big nipples, little nipples; each classified and stored in different pockets of gray matter.

These tits were never attached to anyone he knew, just nameless faces on the pack of dirty playing cards that he found years before under the never-used wet/dry vacuum cleaner in his father’s spider-webbed workshop. He used to need to go back down to the workshop and refer to these cards now and then, but thanks to an emerging photographic memory, which had not as of yet become operative in scholastic areas, he no longer had to risk getting bitten by a black widow.

Bedtime was, for the first time in his life, something Adam eagerly awaited. His mother voiced concern that he was going to bed earlier and earlier, but Adam forced away the thought that she knew the reason he was hitting the sack so early. And since he never left any telltale evidence – he wasn’t able to, but we’ll touch upon that later – he was not paranoid about getting found out.

He’d climb the stairs, do a 15-second tooth brush, throw on his pjs and slither under the covers. Before his cerebral projector would start playing previews, however, Adam would recite the Shma. The Shma is a Jewish prayer - the only one he knew – and is the cornerstone of the religion: “Listen oh Israel, the Lord is one and only one.

It meant little to Adam, nevertheless he would chant it to himself a few times, actually more like a few dozen times, and maybe, more often than not, several hundred times until he thought he did it “right.” Only then would the show begin. And what a show it was.

Some nights it began with the three of spades and moved on slowly and methodically to the queen of hearts. Other nights it would stay content with the three, yet others would begin with the queen and meander slowly down to the deuce. All the while he was rubbing away.

He was always amazed at how responsive his penis was to his own hand, how quickly it got hard and how big it got. He was sure that one time the skin would just split open, unable to stretch that far. Scary as that was, it didn’t seem to slow him down, at all.

Anyway, his mind, whirring away, his face getting hotter and hotter, and his stomach, his whole body feeling like it was about to be ejected out of bed and thrust into orbit. But just when that thing that was supposed to happen – the thing that Adam was well versed in thanks to the library and several unreliable friends, the thing that was supposed to make living worthwhile, the thing that was behind his going to bed at 7:30 - something else happened in its place.

The projector would start playing pictures of his dead dog, Wagsy, or he would think about the Cuban missile crisis or suddenly remember the time he had diarrhea on the back of the bus on a school trip to the Museum of Natural History. And lo and behold, his man’s penis once again became a boy’s penis, the tightening loosened up and the five of diamonds returned to the deck.

And worst of all, his balls would start killing him. It was awhile before he found out they were called blue balls and they were to be expected under those conditions, but until then, he was sure he had testicular cancer.

Strangely, though, the failure to complete, the dick-deflating thoughts, the pain, the hypochondria, never stopped Adam from giving it a go the next night or the one after that or the one after that. Never before or after, did Adam work so hard for so long without any reinforcement. But dogged as he was, the thing never happened until the aforementioned Arlene Applebaum drove into his life.

He was walking home from school that day, alone and worrying if Mary Groffman, who was only 14, knew that he purposely pushed into her ample ass on the school lunch line. It’s not only that he pushed up on her, but he stayed locked on to her butt as they moved in tandem like weird Siamese twins passing the spaghetti with meat sauce, the franks and beans and the macaroni salad.

If she knew, it didn’t seem to bother her, but what if she was sexually traumatized? What if she went home crying, waiting to tell her father? What if her father, in turn, races over to the Feingold home, bursts in and accuses Adam of being a child molester? What if he begins beating his father over the head with a baseball bat that he brought along for the occasion? What if his father lay bleeding on the rug?

But it was just then when Arlene Applebaum pulled over to the curb and slammed on the brakes, thankfully bringing the end to the story moments before his father died.

“Hey big boy,” she said. She really said that. Hey, big boy…

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 02:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post

Comments

Marvin - Good grief! This sure dragged out a bunch of my past forgotten memories!

I am curious. Did your father ever . . . Woops! . . . Did Adam's father ever miss his deck of cards? Or did you always . . . Sorry! . . . Or did Adam always return the cards after usage?

In my puberscence I often kept a 'Playboy' magazine on my closet shelf under a lot of clutter. How my father (I'm sure it was my father) ever found them I'll never know. I always assumed he angrily destroyed them. It never occurred to me to look under the seldom-used wet-dry shop vac in the rear of our garage.

I found my son's secreted 'Penthouse' magazines under the bath towels in the bathroom linen closet. After perusing these, I always carefully put them back, hoping they would be there the next time I felt the urge to review them!

He's 40 now. I think i will show him your piece and my response, and see how he reacts. After all, his son (my grandson) is now 5, and it's never too soon to plan for his life transition!

My real-life opposite sex discovery process consisted of a lot of embarrassing and awkward groping and fumbling. In order to make it readable, I would have to edit it so heavily, it would transition from memoir to fictive babble!

Looking forward to Part 2!

Great writing. Can't wait for part II.

This is well written, but it only confirms my belief that sex is a lot better when one is old -- and I mean really old.

I vacillated between old memories and laughter while reading this. Equal parts of each and very good!

Very funny, Marvin! Droll and quite authentic.

Have you ever read PORTNOY'S COMPLAINT? <----Rhetorical
I think you'd enjoy it.
jjhjr

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