During my twenties and thirties it was my goal to have sex with every physical type of woman on planet.
I’d prefer not to hear any stuff about this. I was proceeding from belief that by sleeping with a representative of every kind of female body, and every category of appearance I would, in effect, come to know all women and that such an accomplishment would be good for my writing.
Of course, even to gather only samples from what, you realize when you get into it, is a vast assortment of sizes, shapes and physiognomies, would have meant putting up numbers comparable to Wilt Chamberlain’s. And being all of five-foot-six, more skinny than slim—and with a nose you would think must obstruct my vision—I’d obviously set my bar too high. But spurred by promise of literary rewards that even limited success would yield, I determinedly pursued my objective, and had it not been for a prostate gland Harvard School of Medicine will surely make a bid for upon my demise, I’d probably have been at it much longer.
Middle-aged now and long out of hunt, I’m forced to concede that my writing would have been better served by writing more and researching less. Still, time spent on my project wasn’t entirely wasted. Collateral though it may be, I did reap one unanticipated and very practical benefit. While my collection of memories isn’t as comprehensive as I’d have wished (variations on theme of plainness are more than adequately represented but girls who look like Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Connelly are glaringly missing), mental snapshots I've kept of women I WAS able to cop have been more than sufficient in their quantity and variety to save me price of a subscription to “Jugs.”
And, indeed, I have been left with a story or two to tell.
Not least for adventure it amounted to, a hookup I think of a lot was with a twenty-something woman named Peggie who’d just days before—and for first time—come to New York from Midwest on a month-long vacation.
We met in a bar. I was standing alone, casing action, when I heard, right behind me, sound of a sharp quick fart—like a wooden match striking. Turning to look I confronted a sight only word “humongous” could accurately depict—a female at least a foot taller than I was and approximately width of Great Wall of China.
She was smiling flirtatiously at me and, though taken aback by her appearance (not to mention her method of getting my attention) and reflexively recoiling, I quickly recovered when I realized opportunity she was presenting me with. Here was my chance to cross gross obesity from list of body types I hadn’t yet scored.
In a brief conversation—during which it occurred to me that she’d be almost agreeable-looking if she just lost 300 pounds—Peggie told me she was a cashier at a Kalamazoo, Michigan supermarket (a career chosen, she readily admitted, for substantial food discount it offered); that she had once played a Packard convertible in a high school production of “Grease,” and that her parents had tragically expired in a suicide pact just weeks after her birth.
Then she invited me to her hotel room.
(As we were leaving, I saw bartender, who could not, of course, have understood my agenda, shaking his head in disbelief.
“That’s it,” he nudged customer slouched in front of him. “Right there—that dude. That’s definition of drunk.”)
At her hotel, to which we necessarily took separate cabs, first thing Peggie did was crack open, and inhale, complete contents of a package of Mallomars. Then, from a utility-kitchen refrigerator, she retrieved and devoured (in exactly what order I don’t recall) a container of chicken wings, a combo plate of tacos and an economy-size tub of Velveeta.
Finally she put a Barry Manilow tape into her boom box.
Now it’s not that I mind Barry Manilow all that much, but more appropriate musical accompaniment to night’s activities would have been theme from “Raiders of Lost Ark.” The thing was—and my insistence that we leave on no more than bathroom light was definitely a contributing factor—I could not for life of me find Peggie’s vulva. I’d heard that this was a common occurrence with very fat women, and especially with very fat women in poor lighting, but it still took a lot longer than I would have expected. What was compounding problem? Simply put, Peggie’s body could have served as a Special Forces training ground for field of hazards and challenges it presented. I’m speaking of twisting climbs and sudden valleys, crags, craters and amazing plenitude of gullies, ravines and bogs that I was, and on my hands and knees, obliged to negotiate and traverse in my search. A dismaying project to begin with, my progress was further impeded by an extraordinary number of ambiguous fissures and crevices that, not quickly identifiable, required time-consuming investigation and study. You wouldn’t believe how many deceptive nooks and seductive crannies I came across. In fact, at one point, when I thought for sure that I’d located and entered secret cave, I discovered, to my chagrin, that I’d inserted myself inside of what was only a fold of fiercely perspiring epidermis. What’s more, I realized, when I looked up, that I was seriously lost in some apparently outlying district of Peggie’s anatomy.