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From: Monroe Stahr <lasttycoon@gmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Ripe Leaf, Pale ____ {Monroe Stahr} (Mg, inc)
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Date: Fri, 20 Jan 2006 03:10:12 -0500
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Ripe Leaf, Pale ____
by Monroe Stahr
lasttycoon@gmail.com

Foreword:

The simplest way to explain all this is to reproduce, first of all,
the document (henceforth "the File") I discovered in the bedroom
writing desk of the summer home I purchased for use as a primary (and
sole) residence eighteen months ago.  Old Eckstown thrived as a resort
town for some few decades, attracting tourists with its ski slope
proximity, its horse show and apple dumpling jamboree, its clear blue
lakes and the preternaturally early arrival of its kaleidoscopic fall
foliage stippling the horizon in pointillist dabs of terra cotta,
umber, Chinese sparerib.  But the lake came to pollution, new ski
lodges opened further to the south where falling winter temperatures
had created ideal powder conditions, and the jamboree, alas, was never
the same after the death of Mrs Abraham Hayes, the ex-mayor's wife
whose crabapple butter and home-jacked cider were still the talk of
old-timers around ice-fishing holes.

The house had been barely touched for years, its owners the Shipp
family having less and less time to vacation as the usual family
dramas circled vulture-like, and so when I purchased it it came
furnished but negligently so.  The upholstered chairs had been
mouse-nibbled, and were fumigated and given to Goodwill; the lawn
furniture had long since given way to rust and was discarded; and so
forth.  The writing desk, though, was of a beautiful ancient mahogany
which betrayed its elegance at the slightest caress of dust-repellant,
and it is likely its beauty which initially attracted me.

The necessary preliminaries accomplished -- groceries purchased,
electricity and telephone service restored, mailbox installed on a
wooden peg at the end of the winding bluestone drive with an
extra-large flag the position of which I adjusted until I verified
that I could see it from the kitchen window, the better to know if the
post had arrived -- I investigated this desk, excavating from its
cavities a hardcover edition of Boswell's _Life of Johnson_, sans dust
jacket; a small and garage-smelling Old Norse lexicon bundled by means
of thick elastic bands to a university press's history of the isle of
Gotland; volumes of Keats and Pope; a print of the so-called goblet
illusion; and finally, trifold and tucked into a manila envelope of
unusual dimension, the untitled sheaf of yellow college-ruled pages I
refer to as "the File."

The remainder of my investigation is best recorded as annotation.

#

Untitled
Unattributed [1]

I was never the cool uncle
Too old, too absent, too out of fashion
I was in my thirties
when J was born
Twice the age of "cool"
And seven years past "cool older guy"
I'd said "these kids today" before she was even born
and by the time she had a favorite band
I didn't know what kind of music they played
or why anyone would like it
(or me)

I didn't live nearby
didn't "help raise her"
wasn't "always there"
not like some TV uncle wisecracking
troublechiefing
heart-to-hearting
boyfriend-threatening
pizza-treating
telling-it-like-it-is
et cetera.

My brother, he was the troublemaker, he was the wisecracker
I was the one you would've figured as the family man
4H, varsity basketball, Boy Scout (freshman year)
the FATHER
the DAD
the football and barbecue
the one on one and horse[2]
the do your homework clean your room
et cetera.

I puta piece of ginger[3]
in her
pussy
and watched her burn
a large piece of root -- we joked about it:
"root"
peeled it with the fish-shaped vegetable peeler in the drawer
the one with the corn-on-the-cob holders,
the folding wooden slats for putting hot dishes on,
the corkscrew and wine-stopper[4]
Peeled it until you could smell the ginger in the other room -- fresh, not like
ginger ale
or the pink heaps of labia-folds they serve alongside sushi nowadays
--
but fresh and sharp and hot, like her
I licked my fingers
She licked my fingers
I licked her mouth and lost an hour
I licked her neck and
et cetera.

She lay on the sofa
one foot on the floor
the other against the opposite arm
toes flexing like a baby's grasping hand
an arm flung behind her, so young, so grown-up
the other on her chest
lifting her tank-top up to expose
that long expanse of tanned tanned skin
bare from toe to the waxing crescent of underbreast
I had tasted every inch of her
every inch
her hollow of a bellybutton
the gentle rise of her belly
the thin-furred mound of her sex
and
I put the ginger inside her
slick, bone-yellow
and she just giggled
-- at first.

"Oh God"

Yes

"It's starting to"

I know, dove.

"Oh gosh that's"

Leave it.

"It's really"

Here.

I stroked her thighs as the irritants in the juice of the freshly
peeled root burned her pussy.
Not as bad as chili peppers.
With her --
with J--
I never tried chili peppers.
But you could watch her burn
writhe
grunt
thrash her head back
like being tickled
twitch
run her fingers up her thighs and gasp
and I told her to think about something else
to think about puppies
to think about rainbows
to think about summer school and baseball games and swimming in the lake with
thatboysheliked
and I put my cock in her mouth
told her to suck
she gasped around it
distracted
but there was that special thing she did
that magic
and she loved feeling me
hard
in her
mouth
and when I came
when she gulped it down
I took her clit between my lips
and suckled her until she came
the ginger burning
and I'm sure they heard her across the lake
they must have heard
and she called me
lover
prince
darling
oh
god
jesus
love
et cetera.

J[5]

I remember birthdays and Christmases and some Easters and
et cetera.
but there were three kids, hard to keep track of
this one into toy robots, that one Atari games
kids always want to show you something when you visit
look at this
look at this
hey look at this
an extra person around is more attention for them -- three
grown-ups
three kids
plenty to go around

Was she my favorite from the start?
I don't think so.
I don't think I had a favorite.
I don't think I paid enough attention.
And when I did -- kids were kids.
I mean I LIKED them.
But they were my brother's family.
Not mine.

I'm trying to sort out my first clear memory of her
as J
not as "little girl"
"brother's daughter"
(why do I usually say "brother's daughter," not "niece"?)
I noticed her as a woman:
as mouth, eyes, breasts, the rest
in that order
tender, pursed, full lower lip
brown, shy, teasing
small but perceptible
"dirty blonde," lithe, T-shirt and jeans but no tomboy.
The family resemblance --
my (our) nose
her mother's eyes, I think, or her mother's mother's
God knows where she came by that mouth
God knows where she learned what to do with it

I never put my cock in her pussy
We agreed on that, first silently and then
out
loud
She was a virgin then and stayed one
I had everything else
clinically her maidenhood remained intact:
my penis unpenetrating
her vagina

The first time:
Her skirt pushed up
Her panties pulled down to her knees
On her stomach on the bed
Not the master bedroom bed, mine
Not one of the slim awkward beds in the kids' room, hers
But the guest bedroom, neutral
Covers still on
Quilted bedcover, thin because it was a summer home
blue and white and butterflies
Too-thin pillows, the kind you have to fold in half
Her ass spread
my fingers digging into her cheeks
her fingers clutching the bed
unelasticking the corners of the fitted sheet
her asshole --
not a petal
not a flower
not some weird --
creepy even --
desexual euphemism
-- but her asshole
in my face
hot
tight
my fingers massaging it
to let my tongue in
envisioning my tongue root-deep in her
fucking her with it
but in reality little more than wet poking around the rim
licking
sucking the tender puckered skin and feeling her shiver
fingering it
while she fingered her pussy
which I could smell
it drove me crazy

I didn't fuck her that afternoon
not if that doesn't count

She was twelve

Then thirteen

Then fourteen

It fell off, faded away
no anger
(that I know of)
(except mine, maybe, mixed with sadness nostalgia)
it just became awkward
and then -- boring? believe it or not
I think if we had kept it going --
I think we both knew this
-- I think we would have let ourselves get caught
I think we would have needed that excitement
And by then, she was no longer a virgin
But I still hadn't fucked her

She jerked me off
while we watched Johnny Carson
under the blanket even though it was 80, 90 degrees
both of us sweating
both of us pretending it wasn't happening
even though we were the only ones in the house
(It wasn't my idea
to take her there)
(It was all
supposed to be
innocent)
Her hand was so --
young
-- she barely knew what to do with it
sometimes gripping too hard
sometimes pulling
awkward
but that time, that first time
it made it so much hotter
so much more wrong
and I loved
oh GOD how I LOVED
that it was HER hand on
MY
COCK
I wasn't forcing her
I wasn't tricking her
She was jerking me off
self-conscious
guilty
but doing it
because she wanted to
And right then
before I came, even
but after too
she transformed from something I wanted --
someone I wanted, an object I looked at --
to a sexual thing, a creature, a being.
collaborator
conspirator

I will always hear
her little swallowed
yelp
of "Ohh!"
when I came on her fingers.

Glistening.

And sometimes when I think about it that first time went further.
She took me in her mouth
she moaned for me
she articulated:
told me how much she wanted it
my cock
the sex
all of it.

Did we talk about it? Eventually.
It went for almost three years,
we had to talk about it.
But I don't remember the first time.
What we said.
Except telling her that she didn't have to
and she couldn't tell
but she didn't have to
but I wanted her to
but she couldn't tell.
Sometimes I wanted to threaten her
thinking about what could happen to me --
what people would say
my BROTHER
his WIFE
Christ, our parents
Cousins! neighbors! Mother's bridge club!
prison? do the parents have to press charges?
would they(have)?
-- sometimes it made me so angry
so pissed off
no pussy worth this
no prize this great
how dare she
how could she not see what I risked
how dare she act
like SHE
had risked
ANYthing
it was all on me.

Other times
that was all undone by
bewilderment and guilt
when she asked me eyes downcast small voice looking at her fingernails
and picking at them
foot crooked under her besatupon
if other girls liked anal sex so much
and if it made her weird
if she was a pervert.
Like she was going to cry if I said yes.

We never -- I never
and I don't think she ever
-- had any desire to "date."
No going out to movies (except once:
Last Tango In Paris
at the old rundown theater with the balcony and everything
and the old-fashioned popcorn popper somehow majestic and snooty even
she jerked me off through almost the whole movie
and butterymouthed swallowed my cock down her throat and happily gulped me off
the best
blowjob
of
my
life)
No tableclothed dinners
no parks or picnics or tip-a-canoes
She had two boyfriends
at least?
during the time we
whatevered
fucked
made love
carried on
et cetera.

There is something amazing
divine
I'm not religious -- not beyond Christmas
-- but divine, I truly think that
about being with a girl in those years
seeing her develop
not from afar, but
right there
in your bed
in your arms
under you
her thighs spread
as she learns what pleasure her body can give her
and you
As her breasts grow
in your mouth
under your hands
even their shape changing
It's nothing you can recapture with another woman another age
Maybe it's not better
But it's its own thing unshared
with any other.

I don't think I'm attracted to
"girls"
to that age specifically
but after her --
especially after the first year,
when there was nothing except
That One Thing
that we hadn't done yet
-- I did find myself looking at young teenagers
differently.
Watching the way they moved.
Their legs.
Their breasts.
Looking at their mouths.
Creating in my mind's eye -- for the benefit of my mind's
cock
-- personalized techniques by which each of them
the neighbor girl
that girl in the grocery store
that Girl Scout
that girl with the Daisy Dukes at the gas station, the sun shining
through her hair in this utter Farrah Fawcett moment she was four
years too young for with no one around to appreciate but me
sucking my cock.
Wondering which of them were sluts waiting to be brought out.
Which of them would always be timid.
Which would need to be coaxed.
Which fingered themselves every opportunity they got
as J confessed to me she did
something I wondered if I had caused
or merely foreseen.
And which I wanted credit for.

I've never been with anyone --
no one
-- not even in relationships that lasted years
and years and years
and
years
intermittently or continuous
-- whose sexual activity described such a clear arc
across the years.

Her competence
at cocksucking
progressed from the thrillingly naive
through erotic enthusiasm--
this, perhaps, my favorite, as her yet childlike mouth
gobbled my cock with ineffable glee
slobbering
slurping
things that could never
never never
be done by a woman in her twenties
it'd seem forced by then -- cliche -- artificial -- pornstar echo
but oh the way she slurped on my shaft
the way her lips slid along my head
the way her spit trickled down me only to be sucked back up
by her greedy
greedy
whoremouth
--to intimacy finally, a knowing ability to deduce
what I liked, to know
where to touch, to infer
when to what.

She used to write to me
not "to" me exactly
"about" me maybe
Little vignettes
girlish descriptions
attempts at high dramatics, deep meaning, purple prose
about our exploits -- sexploits
-- her sex became "a cunning flower,"
her mouth "my wistful slave,"
and only by the most complicated gestures did she refer to her ass or
my operations upon it.
To skim such vignettes you would believe I had penetrated her cunt.
I still don't know if that's what she wanted
if -- as it seemed sometimes -- she took our avoidance of vaginal sex
as rejection
or if she was only ashamed of how much time I spent in her asshole
pushing
thrusting
sometimes coming inside her
sometimes on her mouth and breasts
once on her feet
usually on her back.

She loved me;
I her;
not more than uncle and niece
only differently.
We had invented our own relation.

I didn't have anal sex
with anyone else
while J and I were whatever we were.
Is that an odd sort of loyalty?
Of fidelity?
Other pussies made up for the lack of hers
but her ass was the only ass I needed.
I don't remember even being conscious of it at the time.

Her ass
didn't even feel like
an ass.
I don't know what
that's supposed to mean.
I've never felt anything
like I felt
when I bent her over
and pounded.
Nothing so tight
so hot
Sometimes I couldn't come inside her
because she was just too tight
clenched down on me too much
Even towards the end
it still hurt her sometimes
but God
she never came so hard
as when I was in her ass
her fingers working her clit
My hands --
so many things
I could do
to her
with my hands.
Pulling her hair
wrapping it around and around my fingers
it was so long when she was twelve
(that still shocks me
twelve
I fucked
a twelve year old
a twelve year old)
why do young girls have longer hair?
Aren't they the ones --
tree-climbing and lower-maintenance
-- who should have short easy hair?
I'd spank her sometimes.
Only two years after my brother stopped spanking her
for being bad.
I started spanking her
for being worse.
I don't think she ever liked it
but she liked that I did.
And she liked how my cock felt inside her
when I just held it there
and smacked the side of her ass.[6]

Along so many axes
she is the girl
against which all others will be measured.
The kaleidoscopic spectrum
of her voice in orgasm.
The taste of her pussy
fresh from a dip in the lake.
The feel of her sleepy lips[7]
anywhere on me.
The kiss of her
in the dark.
The swell of her breasts
and their distinct sizes across time.

[1] A comparison of this hand-written document to the other written
materials in the house makes it clear -- incontrovertible in my mind
-- that its author is Charles Shipp, the elder brother of Trevor
Shipp, the pater whose familias owned the house.  Charles Shipp did
not live with Trevor's family, but as indicated by the File, may have
been given access to the summer home.  Charles's wife died in
childbirth two years into their marriage; he has not, to date,
remarried.

[2] Basketball variants for two players (sometimes three in the case
of horse), needing only one basket.  Often played on playgrounds, in
driveways, and other locales that don't meet the standards for a
regulation two-team game.

[3] It seems possible this passage -- which begins on a fresh sheet of
paper -- is meant to be placed later in the piece.

[4] The drawer furthest from the sink in the kitchen; all items
accounted for except the wine-stopper.

[5] This is written large enough to take up four lines and a portion
of the fifth.  The initial "J" is unrevealing even given that -- if we
accept the File as Charles Shipp's autograph -- we know she is a
daughter of Trevor Shipp.  Trevor had three children: Jasper, Julia,
and Jessica (his wife's name, for the record, was Jennifer).  Jasper
is the eldest by two years; Julia the middle daughter, and Jessica is
four years younger still.

At this point in our reading, then, there is a four year window of J's
possible age, though we know it is at least thirty-one years younger
than Charles.

I mention this because the identity of J -- once I had sorted to my
satisfaction the identity of the author -- became a fascination to me,
particularly when I found that although Trevor and Jennifer now
convalesce in a retirement community, Julia and Jessica are alive and
well.  (Charles "moved west," as they say, some years ago --
California according to some, Oregon others.)

The more I read the File, the more I became intrigued by the figure of
J -- in truth, the more I wanted her.

I contacted Julia and Jessica individually and explained the simple
facts: that I had purchased their old summer home, that I had found a
manuscript there, that I wished to discuss with them the issue of its
authorship.  I allowed them to think there was a possibility of
publication if the author could be found, and that my interest was
impersonal.  Jessica continued to believe this even after reading it
-- and showed no sign at all of realizing the document was more than a
fiction.

This seemed too practiced to me, too stoic.  Surely even if she had no
knowledge of the events in the File, she could see that it had to be
about her family: and hence, about her or her sister, and their uncle.
 But she betrayed no such gleaning, and I became sure that if she were
not J, she had been privy to the events of those three years.

When I want to be -- when I need to be -- I can be very charming.  I'm
reasonably attractive, and more important -- as far as women are
concerned -- I'm clean and know how to dress, without being prissy
about it or looking as though I pay more attention to my appearance
than to theirs.  I have never devoted my full resources to bedding a
woman and failed -- which disclaimer, I realize, may sting the mouth
like sour grapes.

But I bedded Jessica, and found her an enthusiastic cocksucker --
skilled, yes, but more importantly she seemed engrossed by the act,
consumed by it to the point that there was no sign of putting on a
show for me, indeed no indication that the act was performed for my
benefit.  She only loved to have a cock in her mouth, to dote on and
suckle.

Her ass, however, although she would permit me access, seemed no
special aspect to her sexuality.  Ass play was something she tolerated
-- on a good day, one of many options on the plate, something to be
enjoyed but to no unusual extent.  I believe when I tongued her ass,
she grew bored, and kept raising her hips to push my mouth closer to
her pussy.

[6] Jessica enjoyed this considerably.

Julia was another matter.

When she read the File, she covered her mouth -- eyes bright,
laughing.  Scandalized?  Shocked?  I don't know.  She asked _me_
questions.  She asked _me_ who I thought wrote it, why I thought so,
why I was so interested -- you could never publish it, she said,
there's no actual sex!

That took me aback, and after some necessary digressions down other
paths, this led to a detailed and rough conversation over dinner at
the Lakeside Patio -- outdoors, away from neighboring ears -- about
the primacy of penis-vagina sex, and how a sex story without it would
be as unsatisfying -- as unsexy, as "rotten" in her verbiage -- as
porn without orgasm.  It's the whole point, she said.

I didn't have sex with her that night.  In the months since, I have
succeeded only in manual and oral sex -- neither vaginal nor anal. 
She is a more intimate cocksucker than her sister -- objective skill
is difficult to measure against the two, but Julia's mouth on my cock
feels so personal, so precious, that it has brought both of us nearly
to tears.  She enjoys it when I play with her ass while eating her,
provided only that I do not shift emphasis: that is, the cunt must
come first, and the ass remains in soft focus in the background.

She has accused me of inventing the File to seduce her, an accusation
which could be read so many ways.  It is not in of itself a denial of
the File's _contents_, and so if she truly believes the File is an
invention, that could be read as a confirmation -- indeed, one so
offhand that she believes I have independent confirmation of her
relationship with her uncle.  Other times, though, her knowledge of
the File is so detailed, so off the cuff -- we speak of it often,
though she never answers what questions I do ask, and I never ask the
most direct and pertinent ones ("are you J?" "did it happen?") -- that
I wonder if she could be its true author, writing -- or even merely
fantasizing -- from her uncle's perspective.

Sometimes I imagine she is calling me Charles.

More research is called for.

Et cetera.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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