WARNING: This is a story for adults. If you are under 18,
please stop reading immediately.

This story may be archived on free web sites but is not to be
distributed without the name of the author, changed in any way,
or sold. Please do not re-post without consulting the author.
Copyright 1998 by Jane Urquhart. 

NOTE: This story is part of a series. Later stories sometimes
refer to earlier ones, but each also is meant to stand alone. My
web site is /~Jane_Urquhart.

ANOTHER NOTE: After this, read Sandman's "French Kisses" to get
the male point of view on the events narrated below. His web
site is http://Bitbard.pair.com.



JANEY'S APRIL (FM, FM, FFM cons)		

by Janey



	Well, that's not exactly true, as you'll see in a minute.

	The thing is, I couldn't have written anything this month,
anyhow, especially since I didn't do a thing that you'd be
interested in. My daughter got sick. She's only eight years old,
and all kinds of awful things have been going around in the
Boston suburbs all this winter. We went on holiday, and as soon
as we got back she got something. She had a bad sore throat, and
she was allergic to the antibiotics. She had to go to the
hospital, which scared me worse than the disease, hospitals
being what they are today. So I spent a lot of time at the
hospital in Newton, and I prayed a lot, and I was absolutely
petrified. Bob, my husband, was worse off than I was. You know
how men are when they can't do anything about something; it
drives them nuts. So he was teaching his classes with big black
circles under his eyes and bumping into things and wanting to
kill somebody, only he didn't know who to kill. (I know,
Celeste, that should be "whom," but did you ever hear anybody
say, "I don't know whom to kill?" I haven't, so the hell with
it.) Besides, nobody's to blame--life's a bitch.

	Judy's perfectly fine now. To hear her tell it she just had a
big adventure and she doesn't see why everybody's keeping an
eagle eye on her and wrapping her up like the Michelin man every
time she gets in a draft. Bob's sleeping again--that's actually
his greatest talent, even if he is the best medieval historian
in the whole world and the dearest man I know. Me, I'm still
shaking like an oak leaf in a gale. And let me tell
you--compared to worrying about a sick kid, sex is nowhere.

	Unfortunately, I also suffered what I thought was another,
lesser but still horrible, disaster.  My mother came up from
Texas to help keep things going and look out for my oldest,
Alan, who's ten and swears his sister was shamming, while Bob
and I were running back and forth from the hospital. That wasn't
the disaster--I was really glad she came, because she's an
absolutely wonderful person. She loves my father, and that's
what led to the disaster.

	See, I keep my story files buried in the computer in a folder
called "etymolgy," which is in another folder called "voced" for
"vocational education," and that's in yet another called
"univbus" for "university business." I figured those were places
nobody in her right mind would go to look if  she were just
messing around with the computer. Actually, there's nothing
wrong with my system that wouldn't have worked perfectly well if
I hadn't left a printout of  "Janey's March" lying right next to
the keyboard when the school called and told me Judy was sick.

	Somebody else's mother would have put Alan to bed and watched
Entertainment Tonight or the latest news about Monica Willy
Tripp on the TV. Or read a big coffee table book I bought called
"English Gardens." Or, possibly, picked up a copy of "A Spanish
Lover" that I had just finished--Joanna Trollope is really good.
But that's not MY mother.

	She waltzed right over and sat her cute little derriere down at
my desk, fired up the computer, and started to write a letter to
my father. Then she saw my printout.  She read it--what would
you do? Then she hit the Start button, clicked on "Find," and
typed in the filename, which, unfortunately, was right on the
top of the printout. Whirr, whirr, and up pops
"C:\msworks\univbus\voced. . . ." My mother's no dummy--she
probably knows more about computers than I do. I am undone, and
I don't even know it--I'm five miles away and frantic about poor
Judy.

	When I got home--even mothers of sick kids have to sleep
sometime--she was just awfully sympathetic, forced me to sit
down in one of our big floppy chairs and made me a cup of tea.
Loose tea, in a pot, none of the crappy teabags I use all the
time. She asked me all about Judy, and how was Bob holding up
(he was in bed at the time), and reassured me about Alan, whom,
of course, I was worried about, too. I relaxed for the first
time in about sixteen hours.

	Then she smiled her absolutely most evil smile, and said:

	"I didn't know you were interested in etymology."

	"I'm not, particularly," I said, without a flicker of suspicion.

	"Well, the projects you're working on looked interesting to me."

	I'm often at loss about what to say, but my brain whirls around
like mad all the time. It whirled. Stopped. The cold, hard glare
of reality hit me like a ton of bricks.

	"What projects?" I said weakly.

	"Well, for instance," she said, still smiling, "I thought the
Sandman project was particularly fine. I suspected you'd need
that little spell sooner or later."

	"You did?" I managed what I hoped would pass for a smile
myself. Might as well go with the flow, that's what I usually do.

	"On the other hand," she said, "I thought the fellow who asked
you for Beth's phone number was way out of  line." Oh, no. She
read my fan mail, too. (Well, of course I get fan mail. You can
send some to my mother if you want to. I'll read it before I
give it to her, so she won't be shocked.)

	"You read my stories, you even read my fan mail--that wasn't
nice--and you're still speaking to me?" I was working up to
being thumdersruck. I really like that word, mostly, I guess,
because it happens to me all the time.

	"Look, dear," she said, her smile turning into one of great
superiority, "if you really think about this, you'll realize
that I was sleeping with men before you were born. It's
absolutely necessary in order to produce great hulking wenches
like you."

	"Well, yes, but that was my father," I said, gulping, "and,
anyhow, since I couldn't possibly imagine that, I always assumed
I was a product of immaculate conception."

	"It's a smart girl who knows who her father is," she said. Then
she had the gall to laugh at me when I turned pink.

	"It's all right," she said, "He really is your father, I'm
pretty sure. The other possibility was a fellow Angus called a
'wee, strange little man,' and since I'm not very big, you had
to get your build from Angus."

	Remember, it was eleven o'clock at night, I had been in a stew
for as long as I could remember, couldn't sleep the night
before, and was generally a wreck. She could have waited until
morning to drop this on me. But I was sure as hell awake now.
Have you ever gotten a new mother all of a sudden? It's a
sobering experience.

	"Look, you're going to tell me all about this, aren't you. I'm
dying of curiosity, now."

	"Well," she said, "I had an idea. Tomorrow, after Alan goes to
school and you and Bob go away, I'll clean up this shambles you
call home, and then I won't have anything to do for three or
four hours. It occurred to me that it was most unlikely that
you'd be able to write Janey's April in time. I doubt that
you'll even have the steam to do the research." Another evil
smile. "So I'll just write it for you. Naturally it won't be up
to your usual standard, but I'd hate to see you miss a month.
When you read it you'll know a little more about your origins."

	I went to bed shaking my head.

	Here's what she wrote:

MARY ELIZABETH'S APRIL   (FM, FM  [same F, different M], then
FMF, and  a couple more 	FM's, in each case not only cons  but
positively salivated after by all concerned)

			by Mary Elizabeth O'Brien MacDonald, A.B.

	It was a dark and snowy night. . . . All right, just kidding,
I'll start again.

	Since I don't belong to this jolly group that Jane's all
involved with, I don't have to follow your silly rules about
story codes, do I? I think mine are better. And I do find the
younger generation strange when I read all the posts about
grammar in your discussion group. Everywhere else, all I hear
about is sex, and in your sex-story-author discussions you write
about grammar. And you think we're weird!

	Now I'll tell you my story.

	Being born in Ireland in 1933 was not a very good idea unless
you were born rich. Fortunately for me, at least we weren't
poor. My father was a newspaper editor, and, since he owned part
of the paper, he made a very good living compared to most people
in that poor, benighted land. So I lived in Dublin in a nice
house and only learned how poor most people were when I went to
visit my shoals of aunts and uncles and cousins out in the
villages. Sometimes I spent most of the summer visiting one
relative or another, usually my widowed Aunt Grace, who was a
witch but otherwise perfectly normal, because my father said I
should learn how the other half  lived. I never knew what my
mother said because nobody listened to her.

	Aunt Grace taught me how to dig peat and potatoes, and when I
was old enough, she taught me about sex, which she remembered
very pleasantly. (She also taught me a little sorcery, but she
didn't think I was good enough at it to go through the whole
curriculum.)

	In the winters I went to a nice girls' school in Dublin, where
the nuns taught us Latin and history and English, because they
had some strange notions about women. Nobody had ever heard of
"self-esteem," and girls were certainly not supposed to have it,
but we picked up a lot of it at that school. They taught us that
God loved us and that we had a right to our opinions and that if
we didn't think our parents were right, we weren't necessarily
wrong. We taught each other about sex, mostly not very well,
but, of course, I had got most of it from Aunt Grace. By the
time I graduated from what you call high school here, I knew a
lot, in theory. My father, who was quite enlightened in many
ways, paid for me to go to a good university, from which I
received my degree in 1954, at the age of twenty-one. For a
graduation present, he offered me a trip to Europe, if I could
find someone to go with me.

	I still knew a lot about sex, in theory. Unlike many women of
my cohort, however, I had a theory that sex would be really a
lot of fun--Aunt Grace certainly thought it was. The problem
that faced me was that it was a disaster if any girl had sex
before she was married, and the men didn't get married until
they were around forty.  The women, perforce, also waited until
they were very much older than I was at the time I entertained
this unorthodox theory. A trip to Europe seemed to be just what
I needed. So I set about finding someone to go with me.

	I found Alice, a girl (I think we were still "girls" then) I
had known fairly well in college. She was a bit strange--she was
pretty, but she always looked just slightly angry. Actually, she
wasn't, but she looked that way, and it put the young men off.
She didn't smile much, but she was smart and she was good to
talk to, when I could get her to talk. More to the point, she
talked her parents into paying for a trip to Europe with no
trouble at all. So there we were--two well-educated virgins
ready to see the sights. The sights I wished to see were not the
ones my father had in mind.

	I had a plan. Perhaps not a plan, but at least a nebulous idea
of a plan. I had known for quite a long time how to give myself
orgasms (Aunt Grace had improved my technique quite a lot), but
I  was extremely interested in getting some nice man to do it
for me. I had resolved that this trip was going to be my
opportunity--I'd meet all these delightful men, preferably
French, and one or possibly several of them was or were going to
fuck me to a fare-thee-well. I finally decided I had to share
this agenda with Alice, but she wasn't very enthusiastic. I,
however, was, and she said she wouldn't hold it against me if I
did something she didn't want to do.

	We flew to Paris. It was beautiful, and we went to the Jeu des
Paumes and the Louvre and walked along the Seine and ate
wonderful meals, but we didn't meet any useful men. My French
was only fair, and Alice didn't talk enough to do any good even
though she could speak the language a little. We didn't have a
fixed itinerary, so we decided to go to Venice by way of
Switzerland and Austria because I could speak some German. For
all I knew, Swiss men would be better, whatever the folktales
said.

	We took the train to Zurich, got off, got a hotel, looked
around, and decided it was too stuffy for words. (I later
learned we should have gone to Geneva, but that's another story:
perhaps I'll tell you about my trip to Geneva sometime, if Jane
will let me. She's so strait-laced.) So the next day we got back
on the train and went down the line a bit to Innsbruck. We were
starved when we got there, so we each had a bowl of goulash soup
in the railroad station, then we walked up into town and fell in
love with the place. 

	You could stand in the main street and look up at enormous
mountains. There were "gasthauses"--guest houses--all over the
place, and sausage shops and a theater. Everything was
half-timbered. It looked like pictures I'd seen on the labels of
Black Forest cake cans. And, just as an afterthought, there were
all these dark, good-looking men wandering around. Some of the
older ones were even wearing lederhosen, which are like short
pants only made of leather. Big hairy thighs. I must admit I
liked that.

	So we went and got a double room in the Hotel Central and went
to bed.

	The next morning Alice and I walked all over the place, had
lunch, walked some more, and around three in the afternoon
decided to have a cup of coffee or something and sit down for a
while. We went into a small hotel, looked in at the tiny bar,
and saw several people sitting around drinking and talking. Only
two little tables were free so we went to one of them, shucked
our rucksacks and sat down.

	The other customers obviously knew each other. I was able to
see pretty quickly that there were two Austrian women, two
French and two American. There was one Frenchman and there were
half a dozen American men. One of the American men was with one
of the American women. They were all talking to each other and
laughing about trips they had made or were going to make to
Zell-am-See or Salzburg or Venice, or about ski trips they had
been on last winter or were going on next. They were drinking
everything imaginable--coffee, tea, wine, beer, cognac, pernod,
even water. In all, they looked like a pleasant group. Hence I
was delighted when one of the American men came over and asked
to sit with us.

	He introduced himself as Don something-or-other and started
asking all about our trip and where we were going next. He was
good looking; about five six, only a little taller than I was;
he was tanned, had black hair cut quite short even for those
days, and brown, sort of slitty eyes. I can't imagine what his
ancestry was. He said he was a medical student at the university
there. 

	After a while Don said, "Come on over with me and meet the rest
of the gang--nearly everybody here hangs out together all the
time." 

	So we got up and walked over to another table. Don introduced
us to the people sitting there, and soon the rest of his friends
got up, came over and started shaking hands like Frenchmen,
telling us their names.  The American couple were free-lance
photographers, a little older than the rest. The older of the
Austrian women, Olga, was a countess! There was an army officer
on leave,  a couple more graduate students and a newspaper
reporter who for the moment was just travelling around looking
at Europe. One of the men turned out to be a Canadian who was
working for some large company there. Every time he opened his
mouth somebody kidded him about his accent, but he just sort of
shook it off and kept on being very serious about everything
that came up. None of them were married except the
photographers, but I could tell the Canadian had his eye on one
of the American women.

	We sat there drinking with them for the rest of the afternoon,
occasionally looking out the windows at the huge mountains. I
finally switched to red wine, but Alice stuck to tea. Once in a
while somebody left, and a couple of new people, two Frenchmen
and a Swedish woman, a gorgeous blonde as tall as Jane is now,
came in and joined the crowd. The bartender, Fritz, an older man
who managed to look like an aristocrat in an apron, joined in
the conversation from his position behind the bar. People moved
around, talking to one and another, but Don stayed close to us.
He had one hurried private conversation with the reporter, Jack,
but came back to sit at our table. Having known few Americans, I
was amazed at the general friendliness. 

	Don was a little more than friendly. After a while he took my
hand and put it on my leg under the table, then kept his hand
there and gently stroked my leg with his thumb. I liked it. I
especially liked it when he let his fingers slip off to the
inside of my thigh. Of course all the time we were still talking
to everybody, and I didn't even notice this. Of course not.

	Around six someone suggested dinner, so we all trooped off
together to a big restaurant down the block from the Kreid. By
that time I'd had three glasses of wine and felt rather jolly.
When I feel that way my language deteriorates until I begin to
sound like one of the sure-and-begorrah farmers I knew when I
visited Aunt Grace. Everybody else except Alice and the
Canadian's girl got a little boisterous, too. Don sat next to me
and gradually worked his hand almost all the way up to his
obvious destination. It must have been hard for him to eat with
one hand, but I suppose he got a lot of practice. Once I smiled
and offered to cut his wiener schnitzel for him. He blushed
right through his tan and moved his hand away. But soon it was
right back where it had been.

	Supper finally came to an end and people started leaving. Don
and Jack and some others suggested we go back to the Kreid,
where we had been drinking earlier. Alice told me she was going
back to our hotel; I told her I'd be back in a little while. I'd
had a little more wine with supper and couldn't see why I
shouldn't have just one or two more glasses.

	Back at the bar there were only five of us left, Don, Jack, an
Austrian woman named Lena and a big fellow named Jean-Claude.
And me. Lena kept nuzzling Jack and he kept shifting away.
Jean-Claude smiled a lot, never opened his mouth, and looked
like an innocent little boy. Don talked--he talked a great
deal--and pretty soon they were telling stories, some of them
fairly raw for a sheltered girl like me. I don't remember any of
the stories, although they were side-splitting at the time, and
I don't think I said much. I regret to say I think I just sat
there with a bemused grin on my face. I think I was grinning
because Don had finally got his hand right down on my bullseye
and was rubbing it gently. I sort of rubbed back against his
hand. I began to see why some women preferred skirts to the
slacks I was wearing.

	After a while Don got up and said to the others, "Mary and I
have to go. See you guys tomorrow." 

	So I smiled brightly and got up, too. I was maybe a little
tipsy, even a lot tipsy, but I wasn't so drunk I couldn't figure
out what Don had in mind. I was happy as a lark. I was scared to
death. I was like a happy, scared lark.

	Don took my hand and we sauntered out of the hotel.

	"Where are we going?" I said brightly.

	"Well," said Don, "I know this guy that has a hotel room and
some really good schnapps. Me."

	"I've never tried schnapps," I said. I let go of his hand and
danced lightly ahead. Looking back at him, I trilled, "Lots of
things I've never tried." I really did "trill." I'm mortified to
tell you, but that's the way it was. You tend to trill if you're
tipsy, happy and scared out of your wits. Or at least I do. It
never happens any more. Pity.

	"You'll like schnapps," he promised. "I'm glad to see you like
to try new things."

	I stopped until he caught up and he took my hand. I didn't know
anything to say so I just walked along smiling a foolish smile.
Don smiled, too, but I think he wasn't as tipsy as I was, so he
smiled more normally.

	His hotel was less than a block from the Kreid. It was about
10:30. He got a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door to
his hotel, leading me into a dimly-lit lobby. 

	"No bar here," he said, "and they lock up at ten."

	We tiptoed across the floor to a tiny elevator and got in.
While the accordion grill was still closing Don put his arms
around me and kissed me. He poked his tongue up against my lips
and opened mine. He pulled me close to him and explored the
inside of my mouth. I found this very exciting, especially when
I started using my tongue to examine his teeth. The enormous
bulge in his trousers tended to make me excited, too. Electric
shocks just like the ones I got from that big static wheel in
physics class started going up and down my body, only there were
lots of them and they just kept zipping through me. I could feel
lubrication pouring into my private parts. Bear in mind: the
kisses, the hand up my leg, all this was absolutely new to me.
It did, however, match my theory. All this went on between the
lobby and the second floor, where the gate ground open and I
jumped. My teeth bumped his and it hurt quite a lot. So when he
led me out of the elevator I still had one hand over my mouth.

	"Hey," he asked, "are you o.k.?"

	I unhanded my mouth, wiggled my lips, and said, "Yes, I am
now." I smiled tremulously. He led me down the hall a couple of
doors to Room 607, unlocked it and led me inside. I was still so
afraid I thought my teeth would chatter, but I also thought that
would hurt so I kept my mouth tight shut. But not for long.

	No sooner had he shut the door than Don turned, took me in his
arms, kissed me, hard, and began tearing at the buttons on my
shirt. I was not prepared. My theories on sex got a little hazy
at his point. I pushed him away as hard as I could, stood still
a minute, and got my breath. He was looking at me, puzzled.

	"I'm sorry," I said. "You took me by surprise."

	"Didn't you come here to get fucked.?"

	I blushed. "Well, yes," I said, "I suppose I did, actually."

	Don smiled and said, "Well, sweetie, why don't we get started.?"

	So I took off my clothes and put them on a chair. My hands were
shaking. I could barely force myself to look as he disrobed.
Only a tiny bulb lighted the room, but I could see his body. He
was muscular, just as I'd thought my first man must be. He
wasn't smiling. I went over and sat on the bed a few feet from
where he was standing, I was very excited; I wondered what would
happen next.

	Out of his clothes, he pushed me back and fell on top of me,
our legs still hanging off the side of the bed. With his knees
he pushed my legs apart.

	"Aren't you going to put it in?" he said. "That's what nice
girls do."

	"All right," I said. Something didn't feel right, but my
theories simply hadn't covered this part of the endeavour. I
took his penis in my hand. Never having felt such a thing
before, I marvelled at its texture--very smooth, warm, and very
hard. But I marvelled a second too long. 

	"Put it in!" he said. "I'm so hot I could burn."

	"But . . . aren't you supposed to wear something?"  I had heard
about rubbers. You may not be aware that the pill was yet a long
time off.

	"Nah," he said, "we don't do that here." 

	As I've heard Jane say so many times, what did I know?

	So I bravely began forcing his weapon into my vagina. It didn't
go easily. The lubrication had stopped. And I was still shaking.

	He began pumping furiously. I just lay there, wondering what on
earth I had got myself into. I didn't have long to
wonder--almost immediately, he came, shaking, moaning, and
squeezing me so tightly I couldn't breathe. Then he relaxed.
After a moment he pulled his flaccid penis out of me and stood
up. I had had a moment or two of odd feelings I couldn't quite
describe, plus the not altogether unpleasant feeling of my
vagina having been stretched to what felt like its limits.

	"Want some schnapps?" he said, smiling broadly.

	"I don't  think so," I said. I had been tiddly from the wine,
but at this point I was more sober than I had ever been in my
life. "I think I'd better go."

	He smiled and jerked his head. "Well, if that's what you want."

	I put on my clothes while he stood there nude. I moved toward
the door. He grasped my arm and pulled me around, then he kissed
me, fairly gently. That was nice, I thought. Then he opened the
door and let me out. I walked down the hall to the elevator, got
on and descended. I walked on, down the main street to our
hotel. I rang the bell, was admitted, and went up to our room.
Alice was asleep. I quietly took a washcloth and some water from
the pitcher by the bed and washed myself--his fluids had dripped
down my thighs. I hurt a little, but not much. I fell into bed
and went to sleep almost immediately, still wondering what was
wrong. Something was.

	Alice got up early the next morning and brought us
semmels--they're an Austrian roll--and tea from the cafe
downstairs. When I finally waked up, she asked me how the
evening went.

	"OK," I said. "We just had a few more drinks."

	I put the night before out of my mind. We took a side trip to
Salzburg for a couple of days, visiting Mozart's house and the
water garden, then returned to Innsbruck.

	The next day Alice decided we ought to walk around in the
foothills just outside of town. We did. Alice never talked much,
and that morning I was quiet. I finally began thinking about my
night with Don. My theories about sex obviously were lacking in
some way. I could simply decide that I'd been misled about the
glories of romping in bed, or I could assume that somewhere
there was a better harvest to be reaped. I worried a little
about being pregnant, but thought it unlikely, given the time of
the month. I was quite certain about that element of my
theories--Aunt Grace had made the cycle very clear. Still,
watching the cycle was not a perfect way of birth control.
There'd have been a lot fewer Irishmen if it had been. I decided
it was up to God, and since I had done nothing to him lately,
perhaps he would do nothing to me. I decided to persevere. How,
I had no idea.

	The big fellow from three days before, Jean-Claude, did. That
afternoon Alice wanted to wander around the shops again. I
begged off and went back to the Kreid bar. It was early; nobody
was there except Fritz, standing behind the bar polishing
glasses, and Jean-Claude, to whom I had hardly spoken. Fritz
smiled, waved, and said, "Gruess Gott, Mam'selle!"  I smiled
back--who could resist such polyglot gallantry?

	Jean-Claude, sitting in a banquette with a newspaper and a
glass of that horrible Alsace beer in front of him, said
nothing. He merely smiled and indicated the seat beside him. I
sat. A gentleman, he stood while I took my seat. He still looked
like an innocent little boy, this time wearing a uniform, but
when I saw that he was reading Le Monde, I decided that he must
at least be an intelligent little boy. Fritz brought me a cup of
tea--he'd even remembered what I ordered. 

	To my utter amazement, Jean-Claude spoke careful, accurate
English made more delightful by his French accent. I can't
possibly write his words so that they sound the way he made them
sound, so you'll just have to imagine it for yourself.

	"You should not have gone with Don that night," he said. "Don
is an idiot."

	That was a shot across the bow if I ever heard one. I decided
to return his fire.

	"Then why didn't you push him away and take his place next to
me?" I said.

	"I am shy. I am young and I am careful. Today I have no one to
push out of the way, so I asked you to sit with me." Obviously,
a cease fire was in order.

	"Well," I said, "I am young, too, and perhaps not as careful as
I should be."

	"I am younger than Don," he said, "but I am not an idiot.
Please stay with me this afternoon. I will buy your wine and
make you happy to be with me."

	I was young, but I was certainly old enough to know a good
offer when I heard one.

	Jean-Claude told me he was part of the army occupying the
French Zone of Austria. By that time the occupation was largely
a formality, and the French troops had virtually nothing to do,
but a French force was still in place, as were British, U.S. and
Russian troops in their respective zones. We were all expecting
the Russians to invade Europe at any moment--whenever the city
fire siren went off  in Innsbruck we expected an air raid. Alice
and I had  seen a few soldiers around, but had given them no
thought at all. Soldiers were a common sight everywhere in
Europe.

	He did indeed pay that afternoon for my two glasses of wine,
which I drank while I listened to him describe his life at home.
He was merely serving his time in the army, he explained, as
every young Frenchman had to do; he would be back in Lyons in
three months, free to begin working in his father's wholesale
paper business. He had three older sisters. He was only nineteen.

	As I finished my second glass, he said that he would like to go
walk in the park for a while, and asked very formally if I would
join him. As we walked, he was mostly silent, stopping now and
then to look at a flower bed or one of the small statues that
decorated the park. We watched a bunch of boys playing
football--what we call soccer here--for a few minutes. I noticed
how incredibly calm he seemed, especially after Don, who
chattered away every minute and seemed a bit nervous all the
time. I fell into Jean-Claude's rhythm, moseying along, drinking
in the atmosphere, taking a lazy walk. After a while we walked
out of the park, along the street, and he stopped us at the door
of a small restaurant. He asked if I wanted to eat and we looked
at the handwritten menu set in a glass frame by the door. We
went in and sat down. It was pleasant--darkish, overdecorated
like most Innsbruck restaurants, not crowded.

	"This is a good place to eat," he said. "Most Austrian food is
not good, but the cook here has been to a better school than
most. If you let me, I will order for you. Will you drink beer?"

	"Certainly," I said. I could read the menu, but it seemed to
please him to be in charge, so why should I complain? I had a
distinct impression that he was trying out new skills.

	When he had ordered he seemed a bit short of conversation. I
couldn't help teasing him a little.

	"How did you learn to please women so well?" I asked. For he
was certainly pleasing me, in his quiet way.

	He smiled his little boy smile and blushed. Bear in mind that
this young man was at least six feet tall and probably weighed
two hundred pounds. I was only five-four and weighed half of
that, but I thought of him as two hundred pounds of blushing
infant and was moved almost to tears.

	"Perhaps you overestimate me," he said. "I only want to please
you."

	"I like being with you because you are quiet and calm," I said.

	"I am not quite so calm on the inside," he replied. "You
disturb me. You are a very nice girl, yet you went with Don that
night so easily, as if you spend every night with a different
man."

	"Oh, no," I said. Then I blurted out the whole story--my
theories of sex, my utter lack of experience, the fiasco of
three nights before. I had thought of him as an infant. Now I
thought of myself as one.

	"That is a very sad story," he said. Just then the waiter came,
bearing our dinners on plain white china plates. We sat quietly
until he had served us and gone away. Jean-Claude continued. "I
now wish that I had pushed Don away that night. After we eat our
dinner, perhaps I will not be so shy." He smiled again and began
to eat. 

	That was when I first realized that French people have a very
different idea of food and how to treat it from that of the
Irish. They don't just eat, they think about what they are
eating. We talked intermittently about the things we liked in
Innsbruck as we ate our Zwiebelfleisch, a simple steak with
onions, and our boiled potatoes. I thought the beer was far
better than what he had been drinking at the hotel, but he
disagreed, politely. I think he was a thoroughgoing patriot,
rather than a connoisseur of beer. I was pretty confident that
the day the occupation ended there would not be a single bottle
of Alsatian beer anywhere in Austria, and a good thing, too.

	It was dark and beginning to rain, just a light mist, as we
left the restaurant.

	Jean-Claude turned to me and said, "When you talk to your very
good friends years from now, I would prefer that you not mention
that night. Instead, I will be your first man, and you will
forget that night." He looked at me questioningly. "Will you
come with me?"

	That night was so very different. No hand up my leg. No
assumptions. No smirks. Of course I would go with him.

	Jean-Claude had an apartment. He told me he worked whenever he
wanted; his officers didn't care as long as his work, some kind
of supply accounting, got done. And he didn't have to live in
the barracks with the infantry. (I don't think I would have gone
to the barracks.) This was a typical, rather stark
Austrian-style apartment, but there were bright, modern prints
on the walls, comfortable chairs, lamps that looked like
antiques, and even curtains at the windows. He said one of his
sisters had come to visit and was horrified. She insisted he was
living like an Austrian, which could not be tolerated, and spent
a week decorating the apartment. She may have been a bigot, but
she knew what she was doing.

	As he closed the door, Jean-Claude reached out, took my bag,
and hung it on a hook by the door. Then he offered me a chair
and went into his tiny kitchen. He came back with two cognac
snifters and a plate of little French cookies on a tray.

	"This will make you feel daring," he said as he poured the
brandy into our glasses. "It will also make ME feel daring." So
we sat opposite each other and sipped warm cognac. What it did
was make me feel not daring, but relaxed. After all, what I had
done a few nights before hadn't made me feel any more confident
in my theories--it had only made me more determined to test them
further. For all I knew, I was in for another quick wrestling
match with no gain to be had.  But sitting there, sipping very
good brandy, made me feel as if Jean-Claude, young as he was,
might know things Don had never dreamt of.

	Finally, Jean-Claude swallowed what was left of his brandy in a
single gulp--a most un-French thing to do. He stood, reached
out, and took my hand.

	"I have been wanting to kiss you ever since I first saw you,"
he said. He gently pulled me to him and looked me straight in
the eye, then kissed me. That kiss was a revelation. It didn't
begin on my lips. First, he kissed the back of my hand--really,
not an air kiss like those you can still get from old men in
France. Then he kissed the inside of my elbow. That made me
shiver. Then he pulled me close, put his arms around me, and
kissed my eyes, which were shut by then, one at a time. Then he
began what was to be the best kiss I ever got, before or since,
by simply brushing my lips. Gradually his tongue came out and he
just touched my mouth. But my mouth opened as if he had used a
key. He moved slowly, increasingly moving his tongue deeper,
flicking my teeth, touching the inside of my upper lip, pressing
my lips harder, going deeper into my mouth. By that time I was
clutching him as if for dear life. When he finally pulled back,
I opened my eyes. He was smiling. Then he simply kissed me
again, this time without the very gradual approach. I felt as if
I were going to lose consciousness. I was actually dizzy.
Inside, I felt like a bottle of carbonated water. He broke the
kiss again; I could have stayed there indefinitely.

	"Come," He said. "I want to see you. Now you must take off your
clothes."

	He spoke so matter-of-factly that I started unbuttoning my
shirt as if  I got such instructions every day. He took off his
necktie and the hard wool shirt he was wearing, then his shoes
and trousers, while I stripped. He took our clothes and put them
on a chair, then led me into his bedroom. Like the living room,
it was warmly decorated, not feminine, but carefully planned.
The bed was typical Austrian nondescript. He stripped the sheets
back and turned to me, again taking my hand. Then he pulled
back, looking at me.

	"You are much more beautiful without those clothes," he said.
"I should like to see you in a beautiful gown, but now I think
this way is better." Once again he smiled a gentle smile. His
penis was obviously as hard as a rock, but he seemed totally
unconcerned about it, just looking at my naked body, examining
me as if I were a picture on the wall. It was very flattering.
He himself was a big man, of course, well muscled, brown from
the sun. His blue eyes contrasted with the darkness of the rest
of his body. Like most soldiers, he had had his hair cut quite
short. It was a nice, ordinary brown. He was a handsome man,
with, still, somehow, the look of  an innocent.

	"I want to touch your breasts," he said, "but I will wait until
we are in bed." Then he gestured as if he were holding a door
for me. I climbed into his bed as gracefully as I could, given
that I was shaking just as I had on the night with Don, but for
a very different reason. I was consumed with lust in a way I had
never been before. Then I looked up at him standing there, and I
was the one who smiled. I held out my arms for him.

	He joined me, holding me again very gently, kissing my brow, my
eyes, my neck, then my mouth. Still holding this wonderful kiss,
he ran one hand up and down my back, over my buttocks, back to
my shoulders. Then he moved down a little and began to kiss my
breasts, all over. Finally he put his mouth on a nipple. I found
myself pushing my body forward, my hand on the back of his head,
urging him to taste more of me. He did. He kissed his way down
my stomach, and my legs opened, again with no instruction from
me.

	On to my vagina he went, exploring with his tongue, now using
his hands, reaching up to stroke my breast. When his tongue
entered my vagina I came instantly, without any preparation at
all. I found, as I came back to earth, that I was pushing his
head so hard it must have made him feel crushed. I relaxed, but
he kept his tongue moving, and I almost immediately began to
writhe and feel the onslaught coming again. Then he stopped. and
looked up at me.

	"I think I will find you ready for me," he said, smiling.

	Ready? I'd have killed him if he hadn't quickly moved up
between my legs. I put my hand on his penis and moved it into my
vagina, now so wet he slipped in quickly, and we were joined
together as closely as we could be. He kissed me; he licked my
closed eyes; he leaned on his elbows and moved in and out once
and I was gone again, writhing, moaning, demanding more of him.
But he was giving his best, and it was wonderful. He himself
took only a few strokes more and gasped, moaned, and fell on me,
holding me so tightly I couldn't breathe. Then he eased his
grip, looked up and smiled again. We lay there a few moments,
and then he rolled off, keeping one arm under my neck, holding
me close.

	He was obviously very proud of himself, and I certainly
couldn't object. 

	"You are lovely," he said. "I am not a poet, but I wish that I
could write a poem about your breasts. They are fine, and firm,
and soft and oh, so wonderful! And you taste like nectar. And I
love to look into your eyes."

	I moved my finger down his cheek.

	"You are a wonderful man," I said. "My first." I smiled as he
was smiling, rather widely, sort of impishly. "I will be your
slave."

	"Good," he said. "That is the way you are supposed to feel."

	"And, once again, I ask, how did you learn to please women so
well?"

	"I think most important," he said, "is that I want to please
you. I love my sisters, and I know from them a little about not
being pleased. I have held my oldest sister, who is years older
than I am, while she cried." Then his smile became very
superior. "Also, my father's mistress is a very nice woman."

	"Your father's mistress!" I said, astonished. "You know your
father's mistress?"

	"Of course," he said. "She is very nice to me. Does your father
not have a mistress?"

	"Not as far as I know," I said, beginning to wonder. "No, of
course not. Not my father!"

	"I suppose things are different in France," he said. "We lost a
generation of men in the first war, and more in the second. It
would be--I think you say, ungallant--for my father not to have
a mistress. It is also very fortunate for me." He laughed.
Somehow I got the idea that his father's mistress had given him
considerable practical instruction, though he never quite said
so. I was already very grateful to her.

	"I suppose so," I said, not sure how that would go down in
Ireland. Not at all, I decided.

	"Now I have a job for you if you are really my slave," he said.

	I looked at him inquiringly.

	"I do not think we are finished here," he said, caressing a
breast. As his hand moved over my nipple I conceded that he
might be correct.

	He then gave me a concise but complete lesson in fellatio. I
don't suppose it's necessary for me to describe it in detail,
given the way things have changed, but I do want to say that
Jean-Claude was very patient, for I was a bit wary of the idea.
On the other hand, it seemed to me that I was a victim of the
Golden Rule; I really should be prepared to do unto him as he
had done unto me. Besides, I thought, as the idea became more
familiar, I might like it. I did, actually.

	He asked me nicely if I would take him in hand and just give
him a lick or two, implying that it would be great favor. I did.
That brought his hand to my head, and he guided the rest of the
journey, being very careful not to choke me, and indicating that
he was quite satisfied with my amateur efforts. Indeed, it took
only a two three licks and good taste of that purple head and I
was quite ready for anything he had in mind. But he stopped me
before I got too enthusiastic, pulling me up beside him so that
he could mount me once more. By then I was more than ready, and
we enjoyed a much longer, more deliberate session. He would push
and pull a bit lazily; I would, of course, push back with great
enthusiasm, then he would pull himself up, look at me and laugh.
He made me laugh, too. Once he pulled back and supported himself
on his hands a long time, just looking at me.

	"I must tell you," he said. "You are even more beautiful when I
am inside you. It does something to your face. It makes you look
innocent, which is peculiar. But very nice. I think you should
make an effort to see that I am inside you quite often." 

	He smiled beautifully. I couldn't have agreed more. Then he
came down so that my breasts were pressed against his chest and
began moving rapidly in and out. I matched his ardor, and soon
we both were groaning and clutching and coming to each other
just as we had the first time. That there even could be a second
time filled me with astonishment and joy. I was quite sure that
not another nineteen-year-old on the planet was either nicer or
more accomplished than Jean-Claude. I was pathetically grateful.
My theories about sex were right after all--you just have to
have the right partner.

				------------------

	My sanity returned--at least partially--the next morning. But I
was still pathetically grateful to Jean-Claude, and, whereas I
was interested in sex before, I was suddenly more than
interested, I was hooked, wildly enthusiastic.

	For three days I just deserted poor Alice, though she insisted
she was having a good time. Doing what, I didn't bother to ask.
It was shameful. I spent the next two nights--all night--at
Jean-Claude's apartment. He worked at the base in the mornings,
and in the afternoons, when he habitually ignored his work, we 
talked. In the park, in restaurants, walking along the street,
climbing little hills, everywhere. We stayed away from the
Kreid--too many prying eyes. I loved the talk, I loved the sex.

	But, as you surely know, familiarity breeds, if not contempt,
at least increasing amounts of sanity. My Aunt Grace had taught
me long ago to back off  now and then and take a hard look at
whatever I was doing. She believed in taking care of herself,
and she drilled that into me. As we talked, I found out that
Jean-Claude was a sports nut. He was just killing time, waiting
for the first snow. It seemed that he already had a reputation
as a skiier, and he wanted to get better yet. He dreamed of the
Olympics. He wanted me to come to Grenoble in the winter, when
he could teach me to ski as well as he did. Now I was the exact
opposite. Whenever the urge for exercise comes over me, I try to
lie down until it goes away. For some reason, I don't get fat,
and the walking I do seems to keep me in fair shape. When Jane
started going out for the track team and becoming a really good
swimmer, I always wondered where that came from--her father's
not much of an athlete, either. But then, she had been fat, and
she seems to worry about getting that way again.

	At any rate, it soon became clear to me that although I loved
spending time in his bed, I was not the least in love with
Jean-Claude. We had very little in common. He confessed, after
some prodding, that he felt the same way.

	Meanwhile, Alice, despite her claim that she was doing fine,
began to pester me to tell her what I was doing that took up so
much time. Naturally, I finally told her. She was fascinated,
and she demanded detailed descriptions. I reminded her that when
we came on this trip she had said that she wasn't at all
interested in sex. After I had told her more than I should have,
she made it clear that she had developed an interest that hadn't
been there before. Then she began moping around. She was
jealous, she admitted. I understood perfectly. Had our positions
been switched, I'd have been green with envy, positively
chartreuse. When she came up with an idea on furthering her
education, I wasn't surprised. But I was shocked silly when she
told me her scheme.

	We were sitting at a table in a little outdoor cafe having
breakfast when she broke the news. I had just met her there,
coming from Jean-Claude's.

	"I want to watch," she said. "I just want to watch. I don't
believe it can be what you say it is."

	I believed her. Alice was the literal-minded type; if she said
she wanted to watch, that's what she wanted. Still, I tried to
get her to see reason. We didn't want her to watch, I explained;
it would spoil the whole thing, and, if we let her watch, what
she saw wouldn't be what she was looking for anyhow--the fact
that she was there would change it. Actually, that's
Heisenberg's principle, but he and I discovered it
independently. I suggested we go back to Paris, where I'd go
with her to someplace in Montmartre and we'd both watch. I
thought I could find her a willing man at the Kreid, maybe that
reporter. No. She wanted to watch the real thing, but she was
not about to do it herself. It had become a research project.
This was one stubborn young woman.

	All right," I finally said, "I'll tell Jean-Claude, and he'll
think I'm crazy."

	"Good," she said. "That's what I want, to watch you and
Jean-Claude."

	I immediately asked myself why I'd agreed to such nonsense. Was
she queer (that's what we called it then)? Was she hatching some
scheme to develop some kind of thing with me? But the idea grew
on me. I wasn't an actress yet, had no idea of becoming one, but
I suppose I was already at least a show-off. After breakfast,
Alice left to go to some museum, and as I thought about it, the
idea began to appeal to me. Oh, Lord, I thought, am I the one
that's queer? I thought over my past history, and decided that
wasn't it. I just wanted to show off. Besides, I rationalized,
an escapade like the one she had in mind would keep her mouth
shut when we went home. I was ashamed of myself. But I was
smiling just a little. Why not? I could take care of myself.

	So that afternoon I told Jean-Paul all about it.

	He smirked.

	I was expecting a lecture on morality or some other such boyish
idealism. I got a smirk.

	"You wouldn't have told me," he said, "unless you were
willing." He smirked again. "It might be fun."

	Several years later, when I saw Jean-Claude on television
fighting off his admirers after he'd won first place in the
Olympic downhill, I saw that very same smirk. He was as much an
exhibitionist as I was. We had something in common after all. I
think he also had some idea that this might be a way to uphold
the reputation of Frenchmen--he was a bit sensitive about
France's part in the war--but he couldn't make quite clear to me
what this sort of thing had to do with national honor, so I just
accepted it. He was also nineteen. He was not only willing, he
was eager. 

	So I dug Alice out of her museum, and told her we were willing
after all.

	Alice smiled.

	We met for dinner at the restaurant Jean-Claude and I had been
going to ever since our first evening. He was transformed. In
public he had always seemed very serious and cautious to me. In
the bedroom he was different, much more playful, but this wasn't
a bedroom. While we ordered, while we ate, while we drank cognac
after dinner, he was a bon-vivant, bright, sweet, charming poor
Alice out of her socks. She had a cognac, too, and soon she was
all excited, chatting away with Jean-Claude and smiling as if
she were talking to a long lost friend. At this point, I was
beginning to get jealous. Why was he so chatty all of a sudden?
Maybe he was just reacting to the fact that now he had not one,
but two, women to share his bed with. 

	So we meandered off to the apartment, Jean-Claude waving his
cigarette and talking ninety to the dozen. Up the elevator we
went, and into the living room, me trailing a little behind.

	"I think," said Jean-Claude, "that we must show Alice the ways
these things begin, as well as the mere mechanical aspects." He
took my hand, and spoke to her. "Now that Mary Elizabeth and I
have become friends, we always start with a nice big kiss."
Which he then demonstrated with enthusiasm. As usual, his
expertise was faultless, and within a minute I was as
enthusiastic as he was. Alice was standing there, looking
fascinated.

	In no time at all we were in the bedroom. Jean-Claude disrobed,
jumped into bed and beckoned to me. Alice sat on a small chair
against the wall, saying nothing, continuing to look fascinated.
I took off my clothes and joined Jean-Claude. He and I both
sneaked looks at her as we went through what had become the
usual routine--but what a delightful routine! Then, as I was
recovering from a positively outstanding orgasm, I glanced at
Alice again. She was coming out of her clothes at an amazing
speed. I gaped. Within seconds she was in the bed with us, lying
next to me. Jean-Claude sat up and smirked (again) at her.

	"My turn!" she said. "Do me, too."

	"Now, wait a minute!" I said, "You were here to watch!"

	"Not any more," she said. "I did watch. Now I want Jean-Claude
to do me. You don't mind, do you?"

	"Me, I don't mind," said Jean-Claude. "But you haven't seen the
entire show. Are you sure you want to do this?"

	"I'm sure," Alice said. "What next?"

	"Well, I'm the one who's not sure!" I said, looking angrily
back and forth at them. But that was really for show. I couldn't
just be casual. A little outrage seemed to me absolutely de
rigueur. Actually, I was beginning to think the whole thing was
funny. Dear little shy Alice, jumping into bed and demanding
action! I thought I just might allow it, after demurring enough
to assert my rights. I did have rights, didn't I? Maybe not, I
thought.

	"Please," said Alice. "You can't keep this all to yourself!"

	"You might even help," said Jean-Claude helpfully. "Let her get
between us."

	So I did. Alice slithered over me instantly, squashing me on
the way, put an arm around Jean-Claude's neck and kissed him. I
couldn't actually see this process--I was looking at the back of
her neck--but I could imagine what was going on, especially when
it went on for quite a long time. Then Jean-Claude broke away.

	"Alice," he said, "I told you you missed part of the show. See
this?" He pointed at his somewhat shrunken tool. "It must be
inflated."

	By this time I was sitting up on the side of the bed so that I
could see Alice's face. She looked puzzled.

	Jean-Claude took her arm and pulled her down closer to me, then
explained.

	"It is essential that you help me by using your tongue to make
it come back."

	Then Alice looked at me. I nodded.

	"Just sort of suck on it a little," I told her. "You won't
mind."

	"If you say so," she said doubtfully. Then she simply took it
in her hand, opened her mouth and took it in. Shy little Alice!

	From my lofty position as an expert I thought she was
remarkably able. Perhaps she was just a natural. I sat beside
them and watched, she worked away enthusiastically, and
Jean-Claude stroked her back. Her treatment worked.

	Jean-Claude stopped her and flipped her over on her back
between us and sat up, facing me.

	Then he spoke to me. "I think we must caress her breasts, don't
you?"

	"You definitely must," I said.

	"No, no," he said in a very serious tone. "I have not done this
before, but I think we should both do this."

	I gave this a whole lot of thought in about ten seconds. What I
finally came up with was, "Why not?"

	So Jean Claude began to caress her right breast, and I touched
her left one. With a gesture, he urged me on. She did have nice
breasts, and her skin felt good to me, although the light
caresses I gave her did nothing sexual for me, at least. Alice
began making little  mewing sounds. It did something for her.

	Then Jean-Claude leaned over and began to kiss her nipple. He
stopped and looked up at me with a quizzical look. So I took a
nipple in my mouth and flicked my tongue over it. Alice began
writhing so it was hard to keep contact. Jean-Claude sat up and
smiled, saying, "I think now I had better do this alone."

	Fine with me, I thought, watching as he slid between her legs.
I took her hand and placed it firmly on his penis. "Put it in,"
I said. "It's not doing you any good waving around that way!"
She did. 

  	I'm not sure the show was as good as the ones in Montmartre,
since I never got there, but it was not bad. Having already
performed once a few minutes earlier, Jean-Claude was able to
draw out the proceedings. He worked slowly. Alice began moving
rapidly, then gasped and moaned long and loud. After a moment
she looked at me and smiled. Then Jean-Claude began moving
again, in and out, and she closed her eyes and gave as good as
she was getting. In a minute or so both of them were gasping,
moaning, and obviously in the throes of ecstasy. Then
Jean-Claude rolled off. He winked at me. I winked back. What
else could I do?

	I had just learned that I myself was interested in sex with
men--only. What Alice had learned she told me at some length
during the next couple of days, with gestures. She talked more
about that half hour than she had talked about her entire life
up until that moment. The next day I sent her off to Jean-Claude
by herself. I am a magnanimous person.

			------------------

	I intended to tell you a lot more stories, but my Jane says
this is long enough--if I want to post more stories I should get
my own Hotmail pseudonym and not tell her what it is. So
sensitive! I will, nonetheless, summarize the rest so I can live
up to the story code I put on this little memoir.

	Our trip continued with no further experiments of this sort.
Alice was loathe to leave Innsbruck, but I persuaded her that
she really had to go to Venice in order to justify the trip to
her parents. Jean-Claude saw us off with kisses and hugs and
invitations to visit. Alice sulked through the short train ride
into Italy, but soon she was back to normal, except for a
tendency to smile at unlikely times that she had not had before.
Back home, I happened to get a job doing publicity for a theater
company and drifted into acting. During the three years I worked
in Dublin I had the usual short-term affairs and one-night
stands that go with the theater, but nothing serious. Then I was
swept off my feet by a gorgeous, six-foot Scotsman. My Angus had
been a war correspondent in Korea and had worked in several
capitals when he was sent to Dublin. We married, and almost
immediately he spirited me off to the States; he was sick of
Europe, he said, and wanted to work in a medium-sized town in
the U.S. We wound up in Dallas. 

	I had two lovely children right away. (By the way, Jane, I
think it would be unwise to tell James or Grace about this
little story--it might upset them.) About five years later Angus
and I decided we wanted a third, so we began working at it. (As
I used to sing sometimes in those days, "Nice Work If  You Can
Get It!")  

	In November, 1963, we attended the opening night of some Mozart
opera--I can't remember which one. The Italian tenor was
exquisite; short, a bit pudgy the way tenors often are, but
lovely to look at and a marvel to hear. Because I was still
marginally involved in the theater, we were invited to the party
after the show, and I met Fulvio. He certainly looked different.
Instead  of a doublet and hose, he was wearing a beautiful
three-piece pinstripe suit, tiny pointed Italian shoes, and very
thick eyeglasses. I was totally smitten.

	The next morning Angus left for Washington; he was on some
government committee. That afternoon Fulvio called: could he
take me to dinner? He could. He did. We spent most of the next
two weeks in bed. (Fortunately, there were baby sitters in those
days, too.) If  I get my pseudonym, probably something like
"Janey's Mum," I'll tell you all about our delirious fortnight.
At any rate, Fulvio's company finished its stay in Dallas and he
left. Angus came home. By then I was certain I was
pregnant--some women don't need a test to know. Two weeks later
it was confirmed.

	I was certain I was going to have a cute little boy who would
grow up to be a short, chubby, weak-eyed man who would sing like
a bird. And I was delighted. But Angus had been there first.
Instead of a tenor, I got a darling little girl who grew up to
be as tall as a giraffe and as strong as a bear, who swims like
a dolphin and is a pillar of the community. (Well, that's what
she told me.) I fell in love with her immediately, and now I'm
just so-o-o proud of her!

		--------End of  Mary Elizabeth's Story, for now------

	

NOTE FROM JANEY:  I think you ought to know that my mother is
famous for telling stories that have no foundation whatsoever in
the truth. She's an actress, you know--still is, though she
didn't mention that--and sometimes she gets so involved with
make-believe she doesn't know what's true and what isn't. You
should have heard the fairy tales she told me when I was a kid;
they'd scare a grizzly bear.

	Besides, everybody knows that all our mothers were virgins when
they married and only had sex to produce children--that'd be
three times, in my mother's case--and, even then, they didn't
enjoy it. I hope you liked her story, but I thought I ought to
warn you; it's pure fiction.	

				------END------- 

NOTE: Don't forget--go find Sandman's "French Kisses" to get a
male point of view on the events described above, and find out
more about how Jean-Claude learned to "please women so well."
You'll like it!



Please write to me at janey98@hotmail.com