written by Steven Meece and published by The Maundy Thursday Society
This is the html version of the zine, released 13-VIII-96. It was implemented for Netscape 1.1N for the Macintosh, and has been checked for Lynx too. Those who want the real version are invited to contact the author by email or by paper mail to:
Cropdvster
315 Woodsworth Rd.
North York Ontario
M2L 2T7
Cropduster has been stagnant for the past couple of years; the last word were issues three and four which were released on a limited scale as electronic text in the autumn of 1994, and as an extremely small print run (total number of copies: four) in the following year. And even this was recycled material, the former being snippets from various authors over an adolescence of the ages 12 through 21, the latter being an edited version of the private correspondence between the editors in the academic year of 1993-4. Two interesting developments of the past while are the placing of Cropduster in the National Library of Canada, and also a review (in unknown detail) in the Phoenix Herald of Arizona USA on 15-IX-94. There have also been a couple of other reviews in a less formal environment. I contributed a review of Jeff Koyen's Crank, from Philadelphia USA to a central depot. It was negative in tone, because I found it and him to be an all-too-common Henry Rollins romper stomper. Several days later, he 'coincidentally' ended up reviewing Cropduster, and, in short, said that both it and the author was pussified. I criticised him for being too hard, and he did the same to me for being too soft. Oh well. Tom Joad of Answer Me (total number of copies each month: 13000) also feels the same way.
Perhaps some of our many detractors will be satisfied when if/when they see that the zine has changed. This is not a concession to our critics, but a necessary adjustment because the lifestyles and social positions of the authors can no longer generate content for a teenzine. This began as a novelty exercise to kill boredom during a summer away from highschool and employment, and then later grew into a vanity publication for fading friends and ex-friends. But it is neither of that now, because neither of us currently reflect that world. The friends who were fading in 1993 have since completely disappeared, resulting in no coherent known or intended audience. This edition is by necessity a revival and is being done as a humble offering to a God or Gods unknown. It no longer has a niche, and may, in fact, interest no-one. I suspect that today no more than three or four readers of this text know me as a person, and the rest are anonymous people who come across it by chance via the Internet.
Astute readers will have noticed that this is the first issue that has only one voice, that of Stevenmeece. What of cw, the co-editor, co-author, co-everything? He has gone off on his own in the past year or so, and I do not have nearly as much contact with him as I would like. When he graduated from university he took a full-time position with an up-and-coming computer company. He works five days per week, and his days begin at 6:00am when he rises and starts his commute to the opposite end of Toronto; he arrives home exhausted and carrying his briefcase thirteen hours later. For all of this he earns about $40,000 per year, which is quite the sum. He owns stocks, mutual funds, and T-bills. As can be expected, he is no longer interested in writing literary bits for an online zine. As was expected by everyone but me, he has become an adult. He is helping his girlfriend publish Electric Grass, which is a journal of Internet reflection and computer opinion that has been slow to reach fruition. However, it may (or may not) exist by the time you read this, so investigate to see what is there.
What of Stevenmeece? He is wringing his adolescence a little further, and vacillates between being unemployed and being underemployed at various bookstores in Ottawa. He is entering into graduate seminary school, with dreams of becoming an Anglican clergyman. He spends most of his days reading theological books in the bath or at various libraries about town.
The teenage trilogy is finished now. Issue #2 was whipping a dead horse, issue #3 was whipping a skeletal horse, and if I was to whip it again, all it would produce is a stirring-up of dust and ash. But what living horse has taken its place? My interests now are mainly religious, and I don't kid myself to suggest that theological treatises are crowd pleasing.
Illustrations for this issue are taken from How to live with your teen-ager, by Dorothy Baruch, published by Macmillan in 1953, and Crossroads: The Pioneer Girls' Handbook, 1974 edition. Those who order the printed paper version of this issue will also receive a coupon for a sizable discount at a random Ottawa-Hull area dining establishment. Those of you who can help Susan Mia on her quest are encouraged to contact me. Joe Thomas wishes to inform you that the items have already been sold.
In parts of this country very high levels of unemployment have been a seemingly unavoidable facet of the contemporary situation. Places like this can never expect to regain the prosperity that was once theirs, and the unfortunate inhabitants of such areas are resigned to accepting poverty as their fate. One of the many failures of capitalism is that it will never result in full employment, since unemployment is a necessary tool of the bourgeois triumphancy. In order for the bosses to stay bossing, there needs to be a large group of people who are completely at their mercy. It helps to keep the wages and other benefits low. Capitalists need the unemployed as their security, because they are the catalyst for increasing capital gain by decreasing the level of support that the bourgeosie must dole out to the working class.
So you see that unemployment will never be allowed to drop to 0% in a capitalist system; that would undermine the structure. 'The poor you always have with you...'
As has been pointed out previously by Marxist critics, modified capitalism (that is to say, easy socialism and/or social democracy) is really just a meaty bone thrown to the underclass to keep them from running wild in the streets and slaughtering the cow by themselves. Socialist ideals came to the United States in the form of the New Deal of Roosevelt, who had to smooth-over and stunt capitalism in order to save it. It has been theorised that if FDR had not addressed the worst effects of the Depression with his economic reforms, and Hitler had not provided millions of jobs for down-at-heel American boys, we would have had the Red Revolution here.
This kind of modified capitalism means that proletarian-class individuals are no longer forced to work in order to survive. Even under the Harris regime, a person can survive (albeit not very luxuriously) on social benefits alone, which are free for the taking for the period of a few years. Unemployed poor guy. Being alive. Not working. Welfare actually serves the interest of the capitalists, as it supports the mass of the unemployed. Without welfare, we would have only the gentry class, the working class, and the dead.
Recently I had an on-line discussion with someone who was incensed at his witnessing of a woman that he assumed was on relief. He wrote to the newsgroup that he did not find it 'fair' that he was working all day, while she stayed at home and watched television, or similar activities. He wanted her to break rocks or pick dandelions, or some other menial labourious task. It wasn't the money that upset him so much as the idleness. Someone replied that he really had no reason to complain, because regardless of work, he was living so much better than she was. The average relief cheque is $500/month, which results in the annual income of $6000. His reply was the following:
How do you define living better? What is the value placed on the time spent getting up early every day, fighting traffic etc. versus someone that can sleep in until noon, go play tennis, work on a tan etc.?
'Value placed on the time' means that there are some activities that have a value that seemingly can be expressed in money. I suspect that he considered sleeping until noon, playing tennis, developing a suntan and $6000/year to be a better deal than sleeping until 5:30am, fighting traffic, etc, working at Newbridge Networks (his return address) and earning about $35000/year. If he felt that he was living a much better life than the welfare people, he would at the very least feel sorry or empathetic for them. It can only be his secret suspicion that he is getting ripped off that would provoke him to such anger. "They're living better than I am!" is really just an anguished cry of someone who wants to sack their job. As we have seen in the realm of religion and politics, if you have no complaints about your own life, you are not wont to start complaining about the lives of others. If you are happy with what happens in your own backyard, you don't bother casting your eyes over the fence and into the backyards of your neighbours. What that mandates is not something as simple as a review of the size of welfare cheques, but rather a serious self-evaluation on the part of the bemoaner.
Why does the belief that welfare people sleep all day bother him so much?
For an answer to this question, we turn to Civilisation & Its Malcontents, published in 1937 by Sigmund Freud. He sees people as having two personae: Public and private. The public persona is dedicated to building up society and succeeding in the public forum. The private persona is dedicated to, for lack of a better term, self-indulgence. He argues that the libido (that is to say, the engine that makes people go) is a function of the private persona. Almost all people have private motivations; not all have public motivations. Of course, in order for civilisation (and by this we mean the literal definition of city-living, of living in a shared environment with your neighbours) to function, individuals must also have public motivations. The only way for the public persona to have a motor is to have some energy transferred to it, which is to say sublimated from, the private persona. The public persona develops civilisation, the private persona develops individuality. Dr Freud argues that by working all day you are using your life to build up civilisation, sometimes at the expense of the individual. Someone who sleeps all day, plays tennis, and gets suntanned only builds up their individuality, at the expense of the civilisation. Welfare gives to people that lifestyle that was formerly only available to the Baron of Squatshire and his company: Not having to be bound by the chains of work, and unlimited bountiful amounts of balmy sleep.
The possibility of displacing a large amount of libidinal components, whether narcissistic, aggressive or even erotic, onto professional work and onto the human relations connected with it lends it a value by no means second to what it enjoys as something indispensable to the preservation and justification of existence of society. Professional activity is a source of special satisfaction if it is a freely chosen one... [yet] the great majority of people only work under the stress of necessity, and this natural human aversion to work raises most difficult social problems.
Not all work is bad for the individual. Some jobs allow people to express/relieve their libido and therefore give them genuine happiness. But these are few. This is what happens to someone in a unsuitable job:
The replacement of the power of the individual by the power of the community constitutes the decisive step of civilisation. The essence of it lies in the fact that the members of the community restrict themselves in their possibilities of satisfaction, whereas the individual knew no such restriction.
This is the seed of the upset feelings, when a complainer sees an individual who does not need to restrict themself, and can sleep in until 12.00, play tennis, and get a suntan.
The urge for freedom, therefore, is directed against particular forms and demands of civilisation or against civilisation altogether.
Our subject has self-identified these demands as rising at 5.30, fighting traffic, "etc."
What [energy] he employs for civilisation he to a great extent withdraws from women and sexual life. His constant associations with men, and his concern with his relations with them, estrange him from his duties as a husband.
This means that by going to work with computer guys, he compromises his sex life. Someone who doesn't have to spend any energy at building civilisation [ie, working] makes no such compromise, and can get it on whenever they please.
When an instinctual trend undergoes repression, its libidinal elements are turned into symptoms, and its aggressive components into a sense of anxiety.
Harris-types are angry and upset because they have compromised their libido in order to work. This is the frustration they turn out against welfare people.
The only way conservatives will receive happiness in their lives is not to vote for a Tory MPP, but to express and relieve their libidoes. They can do this by finding a better job that allows them to do that in a transformed fashion, or by retiring from the demands of civilisation (fighting traffic, "etc") and concerning themselves with their own freedom and individuality (getting a tan.) The longer they put this off the more upset they are bound to become.
by our guest, Susan Mia
I have always been fascinated at the sight of Madonna in bare feet. Her feet are very nice visually but because we don't get to see them often - she normally wears those famous high-level-lace-up boots as part of her image - I find it such a wonderful thing whenever she is barefoot because it is such a wonderful contrast to her usual self.
I would like to see pictures of her in bare feet. I prefer colour pictures but I'm not too fussed. I understand that she did some barefoot photos on the beach for Rolling Stone magazine a few years ago. I haven't seen those photos and would really like to.
One might find it strange that a woman like myself can find another woman's feet attractive, yet I won't admit myself as a lesbian. I have never been attracted to any other part of Madonna's body even when she has done photographs fully naked. Yet Madonna is the only woman I have such feelings for. Her feet may not be considered perfect but I suppose it's the combination of her being a successful and powerful person, me being a fan of hers, and the contrast to her image whenever she is barefoot that makes me feel that way. I often do dream of kissing her feet and licking her soles possibly as a way of saying a big "thank-you" to her. I admit that I do at times wonder what they might taste like!
I wonder if there are any other women out there that feel that way too, whether lesbian or not. I think Madonna's royal feet do display a hidden beauty of hers that we don't get to see. Perhaps she doesn't realise how nice her feet are. Even on her Bedtime Stories album her foot was blurred out in a photo where she's lying on her front with her leg up - if she realised that her feet are attractive then she would have made sure that her foot was perfectly visible for all to see!
Beatles Rubber soul [EMI 1965]
This is one of the first of the Beatles meaningful records, issued after
they were introduced to smoking weed, and were tiring of singing odes to
14 year old screamers. There are a few singles mined from this record (most
notably Michelle) but as is often the case with the Beatles, it's
the album cuts in which the genius lies.
Bracket 4-wheel vibe [Caroline 1995]
Purchased on the strength of Trailer park, this album is hit and
miss. Hits include the aforementioned cut, as well as John Wilkes' Isolation
Booth, 2 hot dogs for 99c, and Circus act. Misses include
Cool aide, and Fresh air. Warren's song pt 4 begins with an electric
guitar rendition of "George Washington Bridge." This is worth
purchasing if you don't worry so much about money.
Buddy Cole at the Pipe Organ Organ moods in hi-fi [Columbia 1954]
This record is a waste of time.
Doris Day Mr Tap toe b/w Your mother and mine [Sparton 1948]
This is a 78 rpm record and it sounds like a time capsule. It is full of
post-war optimism and cheerfulness and is a very quick-moving song. Doris
Day sings like a little bird dancing from branch to branch. Shuffling
down the street got the rhythm in your feet who you going to dance with
Mr Tap Toe tell me who you going to dance with Mr Tap Toe? It is difficult
to listen to this without indeed tapping your toe or other body part. Surely,
we'll never hear this kind of music again.
Dream Syndicate Ghost stories [Enigma 1988]
Straight ahead rock, very much recommended. They also slow it down sometimes
to increase the meaning. This is one of my favourite (no longer existing)
bands. Not to be confused with the Dream Academy. These streets are
paved with stories of faded hopes and glories. No sleepless nights no worries,
hey babies what's your hurry? I'd like to get to know you, I've got some
things to show you, let's take a walk through my old haunts. These dreams
are best forgotten, passed on from ripe to rotten, bewildered and besotten,
soaked up in balls of cotton... Their blistering cover of Blind Lemon
Jefferson's See that my grave is kept clean is worth the price of
the whole record. See if you can find a copy.
Bob Dylan Another side of... [Columbia 1964]
Worthless... just a lot of shouting. Illustrates none of his talent. Avoid.
Blind Willie Johnson The Complete Blind Willie Johnson [Columbia
1927-30, 93]
This artist seems to suffer from the affliction that holds a lot of the
old blues players in that there is very little variety in his oeuvre. Each
one of the cuts is acoustic folk gospel blues with guitar in the same time
signature. Because his entire repetoire consists of standards, he can't
help but be compared with others. In my mind Son House owns John the
Revelator with his 1965 recording, Let it shine on me is of
course Leadbelly's, and Bye and bye I'm going to see the king is
the possession of Washington Phillips. When someone else does it, it just
doesn't sound right. Johnson is known for his rendition of Lord I just
can't keep from crine and his sandpaper gruff voice. Dark was the
night cold was the ground on which our Lord was laid can cause shivers
with his otherworldly moaning and humming. But it's hard to justify purchasing
a double CD for just three or four cuts...
Mantovani Manhattan [EMI 1959]
I think that one of Mr Mantovani's most devoted fans recently passed away
in Ottawa, for between January and May of this year, I found and purchased
12 of his records in various thrift shop and low-grade used record stores
all around town, for less than 75" each. Either this was the case,
or it was entirely coincidental, or he was fantastically popular only to
be completely forgotten. He plays light easy listening orchestral music,
difficult to actively pay attention to without your mind drifting.
? Psychedellic Guitars [Cardinal Record Corp 1966]
The cover features a kalideoscope view of a face and three swirls. And
dig the titles of the cuts: Let's ride again, Take a trip, Flowers,
Love-in, Way out, Psychedellic ripple. They can't spell it, they also
can't play it. This record was a cheap attempt to cash in on the popularity
of LSD rock in the mid-60s. Someone must have been dropping placebos because
the actual music part of this record has nothing to do with psychedelia
- it is Hawaiian-style slide guitar instrumentals. The unnamed band were
probably sessionists recording in a Holiday Inn lounge. The only way that
this record could have sold was to unsuspecting suckers like myself who
were mislead by the erronous title. That's 49c down the toilet!
Stanard Ridgeway Partyball [Geffen 1991]
For my money, he is one of the most creative lyricists around today, and
also very unappreciated. He was the frontman for Wall of Voodoo in the
early 1980s, and he wrote the lead song for the film Rumble Fish.
He is one of the few artists around that tells stories or makes an actual
point with his writings. I prefer this title to the predecessor (1989's
Mosquitoes) because the music is further developed. He has a new
record out as well. In a bitter irony, one of the chicks he hired as a
no-name backup vocalist for the 1989 record was Tori Amos.
by our guest, Joe Thomas
For sale, a breast lover's paradise! I'm tying the knot soon, and it'll be all but impossible to keep (and conceal) my beloved collection, which took much time and $ to build.
Hustler Busty: 10/88, 9/89, 1/90, 11/90, 12/90, 3/91, 4/91, 6/91, 10/92. Best of Busty: Vol 1. Huge Bras: Vol 1 (Candy Samples). D-Cup Presents: 200 Biggest Breasts, and a few other breast mags. Full length VHS pornos starring Wendy Whoppers: Much More than a Mouthful III, Double Load, Hometown Honies V, Lisa Lipps and Wendy Whoppers: American Dream Girls, Top Heavy.
All can be yours for $150 or best offer, or trade for Sega CD with at least two games.
by our guest, Gisle Hannemyr
The tone of this article will be familiar to anyone with experience in holocaust deniers. The reason that the deniers of the holocaust have met with so much success is that no history can be proven, because documents can be modified or destroyed, and people can be brainwashed. Bertrand Russell pointed out that there is no way to prove that the universe was not created ex nihilo five minutes ago -- created with people who have artifical memories, manufactured fossils in the ground, history books written, etc. This article was fleshed out by me. Please note the usage of Oxf. and Harverd Universities. Frank magazine (a truly awful publication) often misspells proper names to avoid libel charges, and they recently outed a national politican as a "homosexualist."
Why do 'they' believe that Adolf Hitler was a Nazi? Mainline historians are under considerable pressure from revisionist scholarship and to address this blatant example of fraud and falsehood.
This great 20th century artist was never a member of any German party. Hitler was an Austrian for Pete's sake. He couldn't even legally vote in Germany, so how could he have been a politician, much less the leader of Germany!?!? Not a single shred of 'hard' evidence as been brought forward to support this theory. No membership card, not anything!!! There was a feeble attempt to link Hitler to war activities through the Hitler 'diaries' -- but they were exposed as the fraud they where through the efforts of the revisionist David Irving, perhaps the most widely read historian writing in English.
Says Dr Ronald F Jackson, chair of the history department at Oxf. University, 'There is no verifiable evidence that shows that the Nazi party ever existed, or that Adolf Hitler ever lead it.' This statement is also supported by Dr William Turner, the head of the Department of Germanic Studies at Harverd University: 'I've never seen any legitimate proof that someone named 'Hitler' ever governed Germany.'
In a recent interview, the self proclaimed 'expert' on war criminals, Simon Weisenthal, was asked if he could provide any real scientific evidence that Adolf Hitler was a war criminal or that the Nazi party ever existed. His response was: 'I am at a loss.' So we know now that everything that Wiesenthal has said and written in his entire life are lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, and lies.
Adolf Hitler was the stage name for the performance artist Adolf Shickelgruber. He adopted Hitler as a stage name because the high point of his performance was when everybody in the audience shouted 'Heil Shickelgruber.' Because the name was so silly, the shouting often ended with the audience convulsed with laughter, which wasn't the intended artistic effect. After a brief stint with Harry and Herman, he ended up with Hitler.
The fact is that Adolf was not into politics. He spent most of the war touring Germany with his act. He was a great admirer of the Jew Charlie Chaplin, and had tremendous success all over Germany with live performances based on scenes, clothing, and a moustache inspired by Chaplin's movie The Great Dictator. Several unscrupulous journalists and mongrel historians have stolen photographs and advertising posters of Hitler's plays in the attempt to pass them off as 'proof' of the existance of the 'Nazi' party, that Hitler was a politician, and that he participated in the war.
Communist collaborators across the world have also tampered with old newspapers and microfilms, placing these photographs inside old newspapers, in order to create more phony 'evidence' of collusion between Hitler and war crimes. They have also brainwashed many into believing these lies about Hitler. However, strict cross-examination by the world's most respected prize-winning psychologists has proven these beliefs to be part of the False Memory Syndrome. Psychologists around the world have testified to the existence of such 'false memories.'
Very near the end of the war, Adolf and his Jewish girlfriend, Ms. Eva Braun, had an engagement at the Fuhrer's Bunker -- the Caesar's Palace of Berlin. In the middle of performing his act, the nightclub was attacked by communist bandits and everybody's bratwurst and brau was stolen. Adolf and Ms Braun first starved to death and they were then murdered by Stalin's communists who had recently invaded Germany in their attempt to take it over. Because Stalin needed a fall guy for his own hideous crimes during the war he picked Hitler since he also wore a moustache. They invented a party called the Nazis, made Hitler the boogeyman, and attempted to blame the entire war on him. Our poor Mr Shickelgruber, being dead, could not defend himself. That's how this whole myth started!
A selection from the author's longstanding diary. 'Penney' was Jennifer Carlile, my first real girlfriend, in grade eight. The spelling and style has been left as they were written when I was 13. Today it's nothing but humour, but at the time it was incredibly deathly serious. 'Mr. Bald' was her father, who was (and I guess still is) bald. Ms Carlile, where-ever you are today, I apologise.
Oh fuck. I'm still trying to recover from it. I've got her scent all over my trembling body. I now type with the right hand that felt up Penney. And, as expected, it was marvelous.
I have been hyper all day because of my first date. Yesterday we were on the horn for 4, that's right 4 hours from 8:30 until quarter to one. Mom drove me to her house at 6. I was walking up the drive way when she came out of the house. Wendy was there, and she said out loud, "Have a good time- and I know you will, heh heh." So the ride there was a snooze.
When we left the car, we went directly to get the tickets. I said two youthes for number 2, Some kind of wonderful. That came out to 11 bucks. I told my mom we only needed ten. Good thing she gave me 15. So we left and I followed her. I guess she was following me because we ended up facing the doors of the Hudson's Bay Company. I said, "what do you want to do?" and she said "whatever you want to do." I didn't know how true that would end up to be. We were the last people to get N.Y. fries before it closed at 6. I ordered the regular special card stamping get 'em while their hot door crasher package of fries and Coke in a neat transportable plastic cup and flimsy paper package. We started to suck em back. I went up and get a couppla wood forks. It was like a tug of war thing to finish them. I'd take a fry and sip of coke and she'd push them to me and vice versa.
After that went over we went back to the theatre. We sat out at the benches for a little while. After a few minutes of silence I said, "what's new?" and she goes nothing. So I go, "What did you do today?" and she goes "vegitate." So then she asks me what I did and I go, "I got up at twelve" little laughs "and I watched a couple of movies one about a truck convoy and then Iceman." So nothing happens and then I go we better go in.
When we got there, I go "Have you ever been up there?" meaning all the old stuff they have on the top level and she goes "no." So we take a look at all the shit. The next thing we know the two stairs are blocked with bodies. So were trapped. After a few minutes, I kick my way through the bods and go down. The we go in.
I had a Tribute movie book and then I give it to her and she starts to read. After a few mins., I go out to get a pop. Movie theatres are so expensive the pop costed a buck and a quarter. It was the smallest they had. I came back with the pop, took a drag and handed it to her. She swigged it. Shortly after the movie started.
I got all wierd when they kissed, because they kissed the way we do. I kept thinking, ok, just go out and grab her hand, do it now. Ok. I'll count to ten and then do it. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10... 11, 12, 13, 14... I finally decided to do it when the scene changes. The scene that was on was when his sister is telling him it's all a joke in his room. That scene ended, and I couldn't get up the balls to do it. The next scene. The next scene I'll do it. Next scene comes, and I do it. I reach out and grab her hand. I held it for the rest of the movie.
When it was over, we left kinda quickly. I don't know what I was thinking, but I only had 12 cents left from the $15. When we got out, I said, "I hope your fond of walking" and showed her the 12 cents in my palm. Luckily, she brought 8 and gave me a two. The bus wait was only a couple of minutes long. I said once we clear the Square one, I grab it. Cleared it, no hand manoever. The bus stopped for a red light. As soon as we clear the intersection, grab it. Clear the intersection, I got it. John-Gale Petrosissi and Martin White were sitting in front of us. They didn't recognize me, though. I held her hand for the rest of the trip.
Now the good stuff starts. My legs were pure rubber walking up to her house. In front af her house this time, not on the driveway. So we start the tounges right away. That goes kind of normal. It only happened for about 15. Then she starts the hug.
I put my head on her right side. That goes on for about 45 secs, just a normal hug. Then I lower my hands to her butt. I don't really squeeze it, but I kind of rest my hands on her tushe. Too much coat for anything. I hug her waist for another minute or two. All this time her head is on my shoulders. Then I say in my head, "What the hell, might as well" and feed my hands in past her jacket to her inside waist.
Her estomach isn't even pudgy. Too bad. I slid both my hands up along her side, brushing the sides of her tits. Then hugging her whole body. You know, there are times when you've just got to say,"What the fuck."
My left hand goes on and cupps her right tit. It feels like a egg, lengthwise. But bigger, warmer and softer. I took it out kind of fast, too fast I think. I rub my middle finger softly along her cheek and ear. By this time, it's hard on mania. I just plain hugged her for a few more minutes.
Next thing I know, the bus comes by! I'm pretty sure that mama runs every 15 minutes. So I shove it in her coat again. With my free left hand, I push up her chin and we start kissing softly and quitly again. My right hand has got a hold on the tit. I move my hand around, carressing it. Kris was right, I thought, it is a handful. Soft but still firm. I looked up, and saw the 1/2 moon and bright stars.
I extend my thumb and first finger so that the thumb is on the bottom of her right, while the first is on her left, my personal favorite. I figure that I might as well give the pleasure of my first breast to my right hand.
In the movie Bachelor Party, the girl with the big tits is wearing a black thing on the bottom of her tits, well she had on something like that. It was kind of like a 'bridge' between them. I spent some time considiring that, then went in for the big fish.
As I was happily landscaping, I stumbled upon a hole. The kind of hole in between two shirt buttons. As you might have guessed, I plunged in. The back of my first and second fingers felt along the skin part. It was so warm and soft. I stumbled upon the bra-strap. Buried treasure was near. The bottom of her tit jutted out at a 90 degree angle. The side of the tit was just so... tittie!! Her hand came to stop my merriment. We held hands, (my right and her left) for about 45. Then I began to caress it, rubbing my tips along her fingers and into her palm.
Just after that, she kind of buried her head in my neck. Her breathing was hard and erratic. I was looking straight up into the sky, while she was breathing into my neck. Even bigger hard on.
I motioned for another kiss, and we did. It was slow passionate and fuckin' great! My forefingers rubbed her earlobes. I took off my grasp. Her eyes here shut. I rubbed my thumb along her moistened lips. I learned that from The testing of Charlie Hammelman. Each forefingertip caressed her shut eye lid. I put my fingers on the bottom sides of her lips and continue to kiss.
Then a long hug. Shit, this has been going on for 35 minutes now. I'm jutting out at a 90 degree angle. I hoped her to feel my dick; she never did. The only thing she did was kind of play with the back of my hair, but I did it 10 times more.
Klink klink. I look over. I see: a bald head. It's Mr. Bald. Luckily he didn't catch me feeling up his first born. "Oh oh, I better go." I say. I pull off, and pull off hard. I look at her right in the eyes. Where is she? Shes not there, I can tell you. I'm looking into the eyes of a horny woman. She's holding both my hands; one in each hand. Down by her waist. I shake them. She looks real pale. Her hair is messed up and her eyes are droopy.
I say "I gotta go!" she sort of snaps out of it. She hugs me quite briefly, then heads out to her house. Since all my weight was on my locked left knee, I limp home.
I hope I don't get dropped over this. I hope she doesn't get in shit. We're not going to do this every day after school; just this once. Let's see... I'M PROUD TO BE ME!!!!