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From: taria29c@aol.com (Taria29c)
Subject: Taria: Correspondence #2/2
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(continued from #1/2)
----------------------------------------

October 1988

Dear Kath,

So here I am, senior year, ready as anything to get the hell out of this
Joint.  I am sure that you feel the same way out in Cow Country.  Same
boring people, same boring classes, nothing new to do, see, or even
contemplate.  Sometimes I almost wish I took Mark up on his semi-serious
proposal to move in together and leave the dorm, but I'm not sure I'm
ready for that.  I still like my independence too much to take that step. 
And I'd miss MM a lot I think, which actually surprises me.

Yes, MM is still the Virgin Mary, despite three-plus years in the Old Sex
Pit and the best effort of her roommate to hook her up.  As a last-ditch
effort we're taking a class together this sem., witchcraft, Alchemy, and
Mysticism. You would just LOVE the guy who teaches this one, I swear.  His
name is Dante Munoz, from Cuba, and he's Gorgeous.  I think he's in his
late 40s or 50s, he's thin and athletic-looking, not too tall, very
distinguished silver hair (full head, no bald spots, I think he's really
proud of that) and thin gold glasses.  He dresses all in black, all the
time--turtlenecks and black jeans usually, a hand-tooled black leather
belt, and boots made from "Corinthian leather," I'm certain.  Remember
Ricardo Mantalban from Fantasy Island?  That's how he sounds when he
speaks, all soft voice and sort of laid-back but looking at you intensely.
 Really intensely.  Like soul-baring intensely.

The first time he comes into class he starts off with no introduction,
just reading this passage about "tha Wee-tchess frrrrom Medieval
Eurrrrope."  He insists right away that we shall call him Dante, that the
Mees-tee-cal is a dip and pheelosopheecal expee-ree-ance, and that we
shall all come away from thees semestair with a greater appreciation for
the spee-ree-tchwal world.  I noticed immediately that MM next to me was
just staring at him, with her mouth slightly open.  After looking around I
realized that almost all my classmates are female, and that at least half
of them looked exactly like MM. Spellbound.  Magnetized.  Completely
lustbound.  I don't think there was a dry pair of panties in the entire
front row of seats.  I get the feeling that this guy could seduce every
girl in the class if he wanted to.  Me included, frankly. But I don't
entirely trust him.  He seems just a little too smooth, a little TOO
seductive.  I think he has practiced this a lot, and I think he has also
seduced his share of undergraduates already.  But MM is way under his
spell, and he's all she talks about lately.  Dante this and Dante that. 
She says she'll be doing an independent study paper with him too, and that
he's really impressed with her ideas.  I'm betting that's not all he's
impressed with.

Mark says hi and sends regards to you & Paul.  I told him not to bet on
having to say hi to Paul, but that I'd tell you anyway.  So how bout it? 
Is Ol' Paulie "The One"?  The smart money says no chance.

Write back, slutburger.

Love,

T.

*****************************

November 1988

Dear Kath,

I am writing you this letter during the "Witchcraft" class, which I am
cutting because I'm not sure I could handle being next to the VM (Mary
Margaret) for an entire class without cracking up, blushing, staring at
her the whole time, or having some other totally inappropriate reaction. 
Ditto for Dante la Grande, who is beginning to give me the creepy
crawlies.  I'm also writing now because the one thing I can definitely
count on is that MM won't be coming back here all of a sudden and surprise
me.  To do that, she would have to cut short her time with Dante the
Magnificent, and after last night I am pretty sure that ain't gonna happen
in this lifetime.  I have also had three wine coolers to loosen me up
enough to actually write this down.  Since you know about my (totally
non-existent) tolerance for alcohol, you will understand that I am thus a
bit swizzled.  You may already have noticed how this has affected my
handwritingggggg.

So last night I got in really early.  No particular reason.  There were no
parties, I have no real studying to do right now, and Mark's been too busy
the past two weeks to pay much attention to me.  Instead of staying up to
watch Johnny Carson and Letterman again I decided to hit the sack early,
maybe be really good the next morning and get up early to run or exercise
or something.  So around eight-thirty I jumped into an oversize T and
sacked out.

Something woke me up a little later, about midnight or so I figure, but I
could be wrong--it may have even been later.  It was MM, sneaking in later
than she ever has in three years (usually I'M the one who does that), and
she was SINGING.  I mean, not singing, exactly, but sort of a tuneless
off-key kind of humming that is totally unlike her.  I was going to say
something, maybe something snarky like she's said to me at times over the
years, but I couldn't.  It just seemed like interrupting, and there she
was just floating around the room, casually dropping her purse and her
jacket on the bean-bag chair, kicking off her shoes.  I have no idea what
she was humming--MM is a REALLY bad singer, if last night was any
example--but she was really into it, totally cut off from the world, on
cloud nine.  I recognized the symptoms--I've been in love a few times
myself, and I remember when Mark first did that to me--and I wanted to
just get up and grab her and jump up and down giggling and squealing like
we did after your first date with Joey. But I couldn't.  It just seemed so
private, like she was just so totally wrapped up in the intimacy of her
evening, that interrupting her would spoil it.

I was also more than a little embarrassed.  I was lying on my side, facing
toward her, and any movement at all would tell her I was awake and
watching, and she might be totally mortified.  I was frozen there, afraid
to break her spell, afraid almost even to breathe and ruin the moment.  So
I watched her through mostly-closed eyes, sort of trying to go back to
sleep, but not really.  I figured she'd grab some stuff and hit the
bathroom for a quick shower and pee and I could turn over, get a little
more comfy, and wait for the rustle of her getting back into bed and the
click of her shutting off the little lamp over the bed.  Then maybe we'd
both get to sleep, and she'd tell me all about it in the morning.

But I was wrong.  I watched while she started to undress with her back to
me, shimmying out of her skirt, and slowly unbuttoning her blouse,
deliberately, carefully.  I had never seen Mary in any kind of sensuous
mode before, conscious of her body, her own physicality.  Maybe she's
inhibited in front of other people, or maybe no one else ever unlocked
this side of her.  But as she slowly peeled off her blouse and let it drop
to the floor behind her I sensed that she was different tonight, that she
was exhibiting an inner self that no one, perhaps even herself, had seen
before.  I looked on almost in shock as she unrolled her pantyhose, almost
massaging her way down her legs, her palms only barely touching her thighs
and calves as they rolled the hose down to her ankles and feet.  The she
straightened up and moved toward me--I held my breath and slitted my eyes
in a quick pang of fear that she might notice my wakefulness--and stopped,
not in front of me, but in front of the  full-length mirror on the back of
our door.

Then she did the most amazing thing!  Mary Margaret O'Malley, the Virgin
Mary, Sister Mary Immaculata, straightened her spine, threw her chest out,
and very deliberately ran her hands down the sides of her body as she
stood there in white lacy lingerie.  I had never seen this before--not her
awakened sensuality, not her outfit--goodness knows I barely knew she had
anything lacy or skimpy at all, these must have been brand-new--and not an
unclad Mary, since she'd never in three years hung out in the room
undressed.  I'd been out there in my natural splendor dozens of times--I
have a real exhibitionistic streak.  Not Modest Mary Margaret, mistress of
the big t-shirt and oversized sweats.  But there she was in full glory,
clad in high-cut bikini panties and a white lace demi-bra, a thin gold
chain around her neck that sparkled in the harsh white glare of the bed
lamp.  Mary gazed at her reflection for a moment, standing there in a
tableau of awakened sexuality.  Then, in a slow, almost unconscious
movement, she brought her hands up until they were at her chest.  Still
looking directly into her own eyes in the mirror, she touched the tips of
her fingers to the brasseire clasp that lay in the valley between her
breasts.  With an effortless twist, she released the hook of the bra and
pulled the cups apart, and then let the straps slip off her shoulders and
slide down her arms and to the carpet.

I was mesmerized, my eyes wide open now as I watched her from the side. 
As I have long suspected (but never actually proven before), Mary does
have small breasts, more pointed than the generously rounded ice-cream
scoops that I sport on my chest (and nowhere NEAR those mammoth mammaries
of yours).  I watched in awe as my asexual roommate moved her hands across
her upper chest and then began to massage those small protrubrances
lightly with her palms, running them down the slope of her breasts and
then making small, slow circles at her nipples, which she was barely
grazing.  Mary's head was tilted slightly back, and by inclining my head
just a little to see the mirror, I could see that her eyes were closed. 
Looking closely at her from her right side I could also see that her
nipples--or at least the right one--were standing out, responding to the
gentle attention she was giving them with the flats of her hands. 

To tell the truth, I was starting to respond a bit myself.  If I am an
exhibitionist I think I am also a little of a voyeur, because this was
turning me on so much that I was getting really uncomfortable.  I mean,
there are reasons--Mark has been ignoring me for weeks and to be honest
our sex life has been in a kind of dull rut the last two months anyway. 
You know that point where it gets kind of ho-hum even though you're still
semi-passionate about the guy?  Well, if not passionate then at least
deeply connected to him emotionally?  Well, we're there and until last
night that was OK, even nicely low-pressure.  But now I was lying there in
my bed, squinting out between my lids at a girl I thought I knew very well
as she stood there, lost in her own thoughts, her own physical sensations.
 The silent, tiny room was thick with her arousal--I could sense it, I
could see it, I could practically touch it.  I have been turned on before,
even desperately horny, wild with heat and passion.  But last night I was
swept up in another woman's desire, my own body and mind entirely focused
on her rhythms, her motions, the stirrings within her that she was
allowing to escape.  It was amazing and also only possible as long as she
did not know I knew, as long as she did not sense my eyes upon her.

Soon Mary began to graze her breasts with her fingertips, trailing their
edges down the curve and swell and then tickling her nipples.  I watched
as she continued her downward journey, her fingers stroking along the
undersides of her breasts, softly pinching at the extended nipples again,
and then down her ribs to her belly.  All my senses straining, I felt
rather than heard the vibration as a tiny, almost imperceptible moan came
out of her throat, a sigh of desire, of arousal, perhaps of long-repressed
feelings that were being freed.  And then she turned, glanced at me--I
held my breath again--and then reached over and clicked off the light over
her bed.

The sudden darkness was shocking, almost painful as I strained to see her
in the black room.  I was frozen stiff, locked in my fear that she KNEW. 
She had heard me or seen me or felt me watching her, and she would never
speak to me again and she would want a new roommate and I had betrayed her
just when she finally FINALLY was going to let loose and find her
sexuality.  My brain was running a mile a minute and my eyes were seeing
nothing in the blackness when my ears caught the rustle of fabric against
flesh.  I heard something land on the floor with an almost inaudible
sound, and then her bed creaked twice as she sat down and then stretched
herself out upon it.  She hadn't heard me.  She had just shut the light to
take off her panties and get in bed.  Before the thoughts even registered
in my mind my body was acting, and with careful, silent movements I turned
slowly slowly slowly onto my back, raised my t-shirt up and exposed my
panties and my naked breasts to my roaming hands.  In the darkness I was
free to do what the light had forbidden me, and as I saw the image of Mary
Margaret touching herself before my eyes I manipulated my own breasts,
pulled at my own nipples, caressed my own body.

As my arousal leaped at my touch, I tried to keep silent, straining to
hear Mary in the darkness, across the room.  I closed my eyes and let my
hands have their way with me, ravishing my breasts, rubbing my belly,
finally sneaking down into the elastic waistband of my panties and
touching my bush, which was already moist and warm.  As I thought I heard
a sound I froze, two fingers still at my wet opening, my whole being
focused on the faint noises I could barely hear.  At first all I heard was
Mary's breathing, so quiet and even that I thought she was asleep.  But
then I heard her breath catch, and then she was breathing a little faster,
and panting.  I heard her moan once, softly, and then she was breathing a
little louder, and all of a sudden I was conscious of a vaguely wet noise,
the sound of a smacking kiss, the unmistakable echo (the fingers at my
crotch began to flex and move of their own accord) of Mary's fingers
pleasuring herself, moving up and down, up and down, in and out of her,
yes, in and out of her pussy.  And I thought of her there, separated from
me by only a few feet, as I tried to match her rhythm, tried to feel her
pleasure in time with my own.  I thought I could even catch a whiff of her
scent as she began to lose herself in her rising passion, but perhaps that
was my own deep flavor that I inhaled as my deep breathing grew ragged, my
hands moving faster as my pleasure built.

Mary's moans were coming more regularly now, still soft but more insistent
and frantic.  I heard her speak clearly just once--"Oh, yes, Dante," she
groaned--and then I could hear only mewing sounds, rising in volume as she
began to lose control, her bed creaking loudly as her entire body began to
thrash about.  I may have moaned out loud as well, I can't remember, but I
do remember the incredible intensity of the sensations as I rubbed and
rubbed, thrust in and out, faster and faster.  My whole body was attuned
to the sounds of Mary's approaching climax, every nerve ending on fire as
I flew toward my own orgasm even as I knew I could not come until I heard
her reach her release.  The two of us lay there in the darkness, each of
us coaxing ourselves past the point of no return, masturbating in concert
and drowning in our sexual pleasure.  Finally she gasped loudly and
uttered a sharp cry, and disregarding all my earlier caution I threw
myself into my orgasm, and I may have  screamed as everything exploded and
I was thinking Mary Mary and maybe I really said Mary Mary as I came in
great waves that finally subsided and then faded away altogether.

As I lay there in the aftermath I felt the pulsations of my sex in my
drenched right hand, I heard the wracking heaves of my breathing return to
normal, and I smelled the strong tang of womanhood that suffused our tiny
dorm room.  Although I can hardly believe it I think I fell asleep within
moments, and so I may never know if Mary heard me and knew what I was
doing, or not.

By this morning, the whole episode seemed like a dream.  Mary Margaret was
already up and gone by the time I woke up, and I haven't seen her since
then.  I don't know what to say to her when I DO see her, either.  This
has all been pretty wild, and I never imagined anything like this ever
happening to me.  I can imagine telling you all this even less.  So here
is what I am going to do.  I am NOT going to reread what I just wrote when
I got carried away by the memories and the wine coolers.  I am going to
ask you NOT to read this letter ever again, and to burn it as soon as you
finish it.  I AM going to stick it in an envelope and bring it right over
to the Post Office and mail it RIGHT NOW, before I lose my nerve and burn
it myself.

We have done some crazy things before, Dear, but this surpasses almost
everything, I think.

Love,

T.

*****************************

December 1988

Dear Kath,

I am glad to hear that you liked my letter.  That you really REALLY liked
my letter.  That my letter is a huge hit in Dychman House, where the girls
get all moony when they listen to you reading it.  Now would you burn it,
PLEASE, like I asked you to?

It is nice to know that you think I have enough talent to write
pornographic literature.  Excuse me, EROTICA.  But do you REALLY think
that this is why my parents sent me to college to get an education?  I
think they expected term papers on Chaucer and Henry James, not steamy
descriptions of coeds playing with themselves. 

As for your publication suggestions, I have never heard of "Yellow Silk,"
but what kind of honorable magazine would ever even THINK of printing this
kind of stuff?  As for "On Our Backs," that I HAVE heard of.  But if I
remember correctly from the copy I saw in Gaia's room upstairs, that's
some kind of sick bondage/leather/lesbian/dildo magazine.  Is THAT the
kind of thing you really think I need on my resume?  "PUBLICATIONS: Smut
for butch lesbians, Fall, 1988."  Do you REALLY see me in some kind of
butch lesbian dildo getup?  I think not.  And as for editing letters for
Penthouse Forum, I may need a job but I don't need one THAT badly.  I am
beginning to suspect that you are laughing at me, so I will go before I
begin to get pissed off.

PLEASE don't tell anyone else about this, Kathy.  I'm begging, OK? 
PLEASE?!?

Love, 

Tari
(who you have known and loved forever and would never embarrass any
further)

PS. Maybe I actually just cooked the whole thing up in my head after
reading too much Nancy Friday or something.  MM has never mentioned
anything about it, and "Sexpot Mary" has made absolutely no reappearance
since that fateful night.  Sometimes I think I have a really overactive
imagination.

************************************

July 1989

Dearest Kath,

So I DID IT!!!  I graduated (with Honors, thank you thank you), and I may
have landed a JOB, and Mark & I have decided to become "engaged to be
engaged" and everything is just WONDERFUL and it's just too cool to even
describe.

I have NO time today--big Graduation beach bar-b-Q in a little while--but
I wanted to write and ask Is it True?  Are you really coming back home to
the City from Buttfuck, Ohio soon?  HOORAY!!!!!  I haven't seen you in
SUCH a long time and I miss you SOOO much.  I can't wait--call me or have
your Mom call me and I'll see you when you get here.

Bye, Sweetie!

Love (oooxxx Luv 4ever),

Tari

PS.  I'd better not forget to tell you this or you'll murder me.  So guess
what attractive foreign professor has left his wife of 25 years who helped
put him through Grad School?  And guess why?  Rumor has it that he has
taken up with a certain just-graduated coed with whom he has been having
intimate private "conferences" in his office for months.  The story goes
that they have moved in together in an apartment near campus and are
living in domestic bliss, and she is going to be his protege and stay on
as a graduate student and write her PHD on witches in Medieval Germany.  I
guess some people really do get exactly what they wanted for a graduation
present.

PPS.  See you real soon, SLUTBURGER!!!


_______________________________________

My thanks to everyone who has written me and been so supportive of my
writing in the past, and also to those of you who have been patiently
awaiting something new from me for a while.  I hope you like it.

E-mail me with any reactions to this piece, if you like, at:
Taria29c@aol.com.

Otherwise, you can find other pieces by me at Slowhand Luke's Page, with
the exception of a very short one titled "Cain and Abel":

http://dspace.dial.pipex.com/town/avenue/xgs37.

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