A Letter From America

A Letter from America

1

                                            

The are moments when I read now, that something deep inside of me, something deep, fiery, white and blissful is opened by the connection with the words. Just as a safe has a precise code to open a door to locked treasure: so have words. They can open me to that fiery joy and though the writer is dead, we are both living in acute unity and agreement in that moment of reading: call it a key, a certainty, a whispering of love in both of our ears despite the 1000 year divide.

It had been my father’s greatest wish to have an educated daughter and he placed me in the Ivory Towers of London University.  But it was pornography I have to thank for my literacy. Shakespeare was incomprehensible and the chasms of my clitoris, the thirsts of my vulva, the calling of my breasts, and the suction of my vaginal passage taught me to read and decipher those texts.

I remember that place I found myself in, that abyss, where love, sensitivity had gone, and it was just pure fuck.  I was in a pigsty of fucking.  We fucked maybe three times a day.  I forgot all my problems, the salivating cunt, the dangers of his sperm, the filth and obsession of him thrusting his erection in my hole.  We were just fucking like animals, consumed by it, feverous and forgetting everything.  It was a drug and an escape.  He squeezed my breasts and we watched the people on the video fucking too.  We all fucked together and when I came out of it, out of the trance of it, I felt scared and empty.  I heard the silence; the stillness and I wanted him to fuck me again, even though I was sore.

I don’t know how I got out of that pigsty, but it came, like a miracle, from a pornography magazine, my road to redemption.  Giles brought home the pornography magazine one evening.

2

He looked at me for my reaction, in both caution and interest.

“What do you think of this porn?” he asked.  It was a glossy magazine with a red title called “Sexy Pics” There were naked people waltzing over the cover and in the pages. They smirked showing off their large inflated body parts: global bums and coconut shaped breasts and a huge gearstick sized penis. He acted as if the purchase was for our mutual titillation.

I had not reacted at first.  I was not sure what to feel.  I did not feel sure of it, and wondered if I should be worried or hurt or afraid?  I had once seen a magazine like this in my parents’ drawer.  The women had hair around their groin and very circular brown nipples the men, all bearded, had very large penis, throbbing and purple, the size of French sticks of bread.  I had been very surprised that they had a magazine like that and felt a burning fascination, as I turned the pages and shared in the, what seemed like a Dionysius frenzy, of sexual enthusiasm.

Giles watched me patiently, as I turned a few pages.  Silently I looked at the images. In this magazine, people were engrossed, in knots, with humans in a trance like distraction; as if nothing else interested them but the stiffened mounds they saw on others.  I wanted to appear cool, and glad that he could share his fantasy with me. I did not want to be an unwelcome and inhospitable foyer for his sexual adventure, should he go elsewhere, thus abandoning me into the cold.

It felt surprising that some people were having sex, as if they were engaged in something unknown and not right.  The pages were secret vaults, and the photos from unspoken places. The stiffened parts of the body looked unusual, “Celia called out as he thrust his hard member into the crease of her wet cunt,” I read. 

Giles smiled when I’d read it.  As if relieved, he lay down beside me.  He unzipped his trousers and took my hand and placed it on his erection, which was hard and stiff.  At once I felt, as when food makes my mouth salivate, my vagina go all weeping and wet.  It was if the idea of what the people did in the magazine had crowded my mind.  I wanted to fuck. Giles pinned his black eyes on me, as I passively had my knickers pulled down, my thighs parted and felt the lips of my vagina receive his flopping large erection.

Then, with no reflection, he urged his penis to enter me, and there was no other thought but having it in there.  There was no thought of sperm; the tingling ground seemed to will fertilisation.  I just wanted to lose all memory.  Fucking was my only thought, no consequences beyond that moment.  He thrust it in my anus and we copied the pictures, united with the other couples, delirious and he gripped me tightly while rubbing his cock up and down my vulva, while my thighs clamped him tightly and we bounced upon each other like that for a long time, our sexual drives the driving force of everything, our genitalia hot and tingling and hard and swollen.

Then there was that moment where I felt the creamy sperm fountain deep into me, again and again, and something burning and swollen seemed joyous and excited to feel it spilling into me.  Then, after, we lay in a state of sweat.  We went still.  As the sweat felt cool, we gathered our thoughts.  We breathed like athletes.  There was a moment of anticlimax, and a realisation again of the risk I had once again taken, and a surge of worry.  He zipped up his trousers. He went to the kitchen to prepare a curried vermicelli, and I lay wondering if what we’d just done was worth the hours of worrying about being pregnant.

But as I lay, my eyes fell upon the magazine again.  On one of the pages, I saw a little notice.  It had italic writing and was small.  “Contributors welcome” it read.  I read more closely and realised the magazine was asking for pornographic stories. Reading further, I found that money, plentiful money was being offered for the writing of sex stories. Money! 

Was there a way out of working in the dark office underground?    The idea of writing a porn story for money filled my mind with pleasure. I looked at the images of orifices and mounds reflectively. My heart tipple tailing in pleasure, as I considered ways I could write the sexy stories.

So on Monday morning, as soon as I was at the office, I went to work as usual and did my chores very quickly.  When they were done, I began to write down some sexy ideas in that dingy office.

“I crouched, my legs ajar, and he stuffed his hard cock into my meat shaft” While Susan blabbered on, I was writing about fucking.

There was something very secret and exciting and defiant about it. Nobody imagined that I might be doing such a thing. Susan looked at me, as if I were an amusing stage performer rather than a fellow worker.  I smiled at her, but she was the last person I would entrust my secret to.

“What’s cheered her up?” Susan asked Patricia bewildered, when they noticed me being happy.  They couldn’t understand my bout of happiness.  “What’s cheered you up?” Susan had asked me, rolling her eyes at me.  I was cautious of Susan’s glances, steeped in a potential for lynching and mobbing and bitching with other office members, so I didn’t dare give away the truth about the porn.

“Pardon?” I replied.

“Well one minute you are crying and depressed, and another minute you are cheerful.  Talk about manic.  Eh Patricia?  Manic is when you swing from a low to a high isn’t it?”

“Yes, I think they call it bipolar” said Patricia

“Yes, but recently you’ve cheered up.  What did it?” asked Susan.

I worked and worked on the story, between envelope licking.  People passed my desk, never dreaming what was going on in my mind, although I worried that someone might see the erotic writing in my notebook.

After it was written up, I typed up the writing, then, when I printed it, I went to get the text from the shared printer.  As soon as I pressed ‘print’ I was in a hurry to get there and catch the pages as they were spurting out, before anyone else would see.  Satisfied by the day’s work, I began to feel excited getting out of bed and going to work.

I got all my mundane tasks done in a couple of hours and spent the rest of the day editing my pornography story. Suddenly, going to work was fun.  The company was paying me to write about fucking.

Soon the story was ready to send off.  I slipped it into and envelopes and sent off to some magazine. “Playboy” “Hot Stuff” 

I noticed other story submissions in other normal magazines and tried writing stories for them too.  The process of writing opened a part of me. I knew that the humdrum day of my job was going to be more industrious and creative.

After a couple of weeks, the replies from the magazines were encouraging. 

“Saucy story.  Send some more!” they wrote. ‘Hot stuff, do some more’ and ‘Got any more where that came from?’ The replies were warm and encouraged me into wondering if I might write some stories for other audiences?

3

A year ago, Giles had stridden into the students’ kitchen on Sunday morning, where I was studying literature at University.  His heels clicking, wearing creamy slacks and a creaking brown leather jacket.  He had peered at the three of us: Katie, Jess and I scientifically, as if we were simply an interesting specimen of reptiles. 

Only I had given him a curious smile and he had clocked in the smile quickly within his cold, green-mint eyes, before pacing off in his shiny black brogues, leaving a breeze of sandalwood aftershave.

“That must be the ugliest man I’ve ever seen” Jess had whispered about him, “and apparently he’s ‘a bastard to women’” 

“Yes,” Katie had agreed, “and a smoker.  I could never go out with a smoker with my asthma”

“But he’s very rich” Jess added, “and has a flat in Baker Street, with an amazing job in the magazines and he’s looking for a girlfriend.  He went to Oxford University”

“Rich?” I asked with interest. 

“Rich but he’s awful looking,” said Katie dismissively.

“Yeh, and creepy” added Jess
“Look at his eyes” warned Katie, “look at them... like Satan’s eyes. And he smokes like a chimney... Yuk!  His voice sounds like a goat!” 

He had returned to us with Gordon at his side.  Like two emperors, they walked towards us as if with a mission.

“Giles, this is Katie and this is Jess and this is Rose”

“Nice to meet you” the man said, clunking his heals like a military. 

“A group of us are going to wander up to Greenwich Park this afternoon, would you like to join us?” Gordon asked us.  Katie and Jess were so surprised they just nodded uncertainly.

He ignored me all through the picnic at Greenwich Park, as if I wasn’t there.   The deer park had a few shy doe, which we watched, before spreading out a blanket. The sun began to fall like custard upon us through the trees and the breeze counteracted by a hiss of cool air.  I looked at his cigarettes wondrously, for it was two months cigarette money.   He seemed masterly and far too superior to any other human being: rich, successful and then he produced champagne into flute glasses and produced plovers eggs, caviar and pate de foie gras.

“Students shouldn’t be able to chain smoke, drink champagne and eat smoked salmon,” declared Gordon, his laugh like a hunting bugle, enjoying the wealth of money.

There was such a proud air to him, dominating the conversation, making the younger students appear ignorant.

“The Prussians left French territory in 1870 - Napoleon was defeated by Bismarck leaving them shrivelled like vanquished knights. Have cigarettes, do,” he said, lighting his next from the last.

When finally he spoke to me, I was surprised.  We had packed up the picnic and set off rather drunkenly to go back to the hall, when the man, who was called Giles, cornered me with a surprising question. I was surprised that he even knew my name. I felt very uneasy suddenly. He had a vulture’s eyes and crenulated yellow teeth.

“Dear Rose - not too cold I hope?”
“No fine” I said cautiously.

“I was wondering,” he had said, as we looked both ways for a break in the traffic, “if,” he added, hesitantly,  “if you’d like to be taken out to a posh restaurant and have dinner?”

 “Dinner?” I cried. Afraid he might see my lack of confidence and change his mind; I spoke quickly “Next week you say?”

“That’s right,” he answered. “I know a restaurant in Covent Garden,” he continued blithely.  “They do a cheese platter and the best borsch soup...my treat of course.  So are you up for it?” he had asked.

https://www.amazon.com/Letter-America-Keziah-Shepherd-ebook/dp/B00E32SF7Q/ref=sr_1_8?ie=UTF8&qid=1500551309&sr=8-8&keywords=Keziah+Shepherd