SPX Quick Report and The Mamms: First Flashes and Flicks

Monday, September 26, 2005

I had a great fucking time at SPX. The Hoarse & Buggy table did well; we actually made some money which was awesome. The DC Conspiracy table seemed to be doing well, too. I got to talk to some great people and picked up some truly amazing books that I’ll be talking about this week and probably into next week. One guy I met is even going to be the inspiration for my next Here’s the Thing… article, sort of counterpoint to last weeks article, a dude that’s doing it right. I just want to email him first and get his approval.

I’m not going to write much more about SPX today. After the Sox-Orioles game I caught some of the Pats and then slept until eleven. Now I’m kind of beat again and since I decided to change the theme for this week I needed to write up a new story. Last Friday I said I was going to do a week of stories about my mom. But I talked to a lot of people at SPX and directed them to this site and instead of going to the cutesy, feel-good stories I wanted to weed out the weaklings so I don’t “let them down” next time I talk about strippers and dope. So, on that note…

___________________

Whoever said “more than a handful is wasted” has never come face to nip with a nice set of titties. I’m going to dedicate this week to some of the titties I’ve met before, the spectacular ones and the good ones (because titties, like pizza, are never bad), the glimpses and the gawks, the fumbles and the feels of fury.

My first flash of non-film titty came when I was around nine years old. I happened to be looking out of our apartment window while the building across the way from us was sporting a liberally frumpy naked chick rummaging through the refrigerator. I saw just enough to be 100% sure that she was naked but not enough to satisfy my pre-pubescent desire to see any titty, despite the packaging.

Little fact about our apartment. Both the front and back have three windows. One of the back windows is in our tiny, closet-sized bathroom. The bathroom window would be more than half the length of the bathroom wall and about a third of the width and it would be directly in line with the shower. I say “would be” because my father put a wall up over the window. He didn’t take the window off and replace it with a wall, mind you, we were poor folk. He just got this flimsy material at some hardware store and made a false wall that covered the window. It was like plywood with this heinous print on it.

Now, the flimsy false wall got a hole in it at some point. I don’t know how but it basically looked like a peephole, it was about eye-level and gave clean line-of-site access to the apartments across the way. Despite how sketchy that sounds, I don’t think it was ever put there purposely (unless I did it and forgot about it), the people across the way were way too far for quality adult-like peeping and in all my years of using that peephole I never saw anything remotely close to what I saw out the window that one day – and I used that peephole a lot. I think the hole really was an accident because an adult would never waste their time in front of it.

All through my pre-teens and into my early teens I’d look through that peephole every time I was in the bathroom, hoping to grab a glimpse of some titty. All the hours I put into staking out our neighbors' apartments I never saw a thing. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t see another titty until I was thirteen years old, when a curious girl named Melanie and I got a little experimental on the swing set.

I talked about Melanie in the past; she was my first summer fling. We met at this time-sharing thing my parents belonged to in the Poconos and while the adults drank rum and merengued the night away I was sucking face with a girl from Philly who thought I packed heat when I was home in Brooklyn because I was a pathological liar when it came to impressionable girls.

And one time she let them out.

I watched her as she reached around behind her back and unclasped her bathing suit, that wicked smile stretched across her face that teenagers feel is sexy but in reality is a mixture of awkwardness and embarrassment. It’s awkwarrassment. I sat there beaming like an idiot, frothing at the mouth and rubbing my hands together. Here it is, the moment I’ve been waiting for. After seeing a pair for the first time almost four years ago I’m finally about to see them up close. They’ll be mine to play with and I’ve been studying what to do – the licks, nibbles and soppier sucking. I even knew at this point that the folds where erogenous, sometimes more so than the nipple itself. And all the waiting and anticipation and researching were finally going to pay off.

The top comes off.

And the moment was really not what I expected at all. I expected them to glow softly, reflecting the light from the moon and creating a calming sort of sexy mood lighting. I expected angels to come down from heaven playing trumpets and singing hosanna to the titty. I expected the titties to emit a fragrance so seductive and delicious that my olfactory nerves would fucking explode, causing violent nose bleeds and forcing me to level with my doctor and say, “Dr. Sergio, just give me some tissue and stop asking questions. I saw some titties, you know what it’s like.”

“Ah…first titty. Did you know the folds are erogenous as well?”

“Yes, Dr. Sergio. Yes, I do.”

Obviously, it was nothing like that. After getting over the initial shock of the seemingly mediocrity of the titty I’ve learned to respect them for what they are. They’re a reward for good service, a down payment on the coming sexual romp, the first checkpoint on the way down.

Whoever named them “fun-bags” only got it half-right. There’s no such thing as a no-fun titty but to unlock the full fun potential it requires hard work, dedication and the ability to command the titty. And in order to get to that point, it takes a good amount of embarrassing stories, which is what I’ll be doing this week.

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