They Call Me Barbi

See also "Barbi made to bend over" which describes the events that made me tell this tale.

Some men stare at my breasts but men do not have to carry them day in day out. These men make me feel ashamed of my body and my breasts make me feel tired, especially at night simply because they have become so heavy.

I always wanted to be like other girls but my mother told me that 'other girls' are all special in their own ways and it was high time I was taught to walk properly. She said she should have enrolled me at ballet classes when I was a toddler but now I would make up. This was just after she bought me my first bra. Nobody else wore a real one at that stage. I kept looking round and feeling out of place.

However, the ballet teacher said she was pleased to meet me and asked if I liked music. I could see she wanted me to like music so I expect I said I did. Provided she did not ask me to describe it by classification I should be fine. It was unlikely she could understand the difference between garage and grunge, far less likely than between blues and country. She didn't ask me about my favorite group, which told me she wasn't interested in me. So much for this teacher!

Then she played a piece of music and said she wanted to watch how I breathed. I knew there was something familiar about it, but I was impatient and something was making me angry. So angry I started stamping one of my feet before I realised it was picking up the beat of the music.

"Walk with me," she told me and set off down the corridor. Every second time I put down my right foot I was stomping on it.

Yet she seemed happy enough and even explained that the music had been adjusted to play fast so I suppose it was coming off a media player. The tune was familiar to me because it was "The Impossible Dream" in an instrumental version only. She had speeded it up to suit a child's faster breaths and shorter legs, she said. Then she got to the meat.

"You moved to the music you heard. You are going to learn to move very well to many types of music. You will leave this school moving to the music you can make in your own head."

So much was OK. Then she jumped in, both feet, "You came here an ugly duckling and you will leave gracefully like a swan."

I left right there and then. I stood as high as I could on my toes, reached high up into the air just as the dancers did on television shows, turned round and walked out the door. Then I ran down the stairs screaming at being insulted and didn't stop until I got to my mother where she was waiting in the coffee bar.

I probably told her that I would never go back. Never ever! I certainly remember raging at my mistreatment while my mother held me in her arms.

Somehow or other she talked me round into going back. She changed and it was for the best really, maybe. I also got an introduction to classical music through her class and discovered it was not only about dead white men from Europe.

There is this tune which I thought was supposed to be some woman unravelling a wool cardigan. But it sounded much like "The Impossible Dream" all over again and perhaps that was why I remembered it so well when I met Brad later on. You might have worked out by now what it is but I will come to that later.

That was much later so I will concentrate on the present, when I actually was learning to walk more gracefully and more importantly I would always say, to let people know that I would go where I said I was going to go.

That certainty helped me when I was helping Mom by getting my two little brothers to behave better.

The watchwords here are Confidence, Communication, Self Determination and Achievement. Self Determination does not go first because you must first of all let everyone else know you are in charge. Certainly not that you plan to be. It worked from Senior School onwards and as my breasts grew and I felt out of shape I continued to hold my head high. You can follow!

This does not mean that I often feel a freak and I know the boys started calling me Barbi but I refuse to believe that my feelings and their callings are related. They can believe it if they want. The problem lies in their heads and not in mine. End of story!

My mother was my best friend. She is wonderfully practical and just keeps on moving, working, usually while she is talking and I have realised now that she actually is listening while you are talking.

Now I am a married woman myself I have worked out that she probably gets it from my dad just when ever she wants it.

Now my dad is a lovely big man, sexy too in his own way. When AOL started giving out e-mail addresses he managed to get one for my mother, mygreatyoni.

A big brute of a man to be a comms worker, but there you are. One evening we were sitting on our soft chairs watching a basketball game on TV but this evening he smelled of beer and strawberries from the freezer. By and by he was paying less attention to the game and looking more at me.

There even seemed to be a curvature in his spine leaning towards me. I started wondering if he was thinking the same thing as me: had my breasts finally stopped growing because I wasn't growing much taller any longer.

Had it been my mother I would probably have asked her if that was what she was thinking. But my dad, lovely man that he is, well maybe it's only because he is a man, I did not feel it was quite right.

Nevertheless I blurted out something to him. In half a minute mom had put down her ironing in the room next to the kitchen and walked through. My dad was gradually straightening up when she walked up right between our seats from behind us.

With one hand she gave me a folded scrap of paper and put her other hand on the back of my dad's neck. That didn't stop her movements. She just kept on going, slid her arm down his back, swung her legs off the floor and lowered herself onto his lap.

Over her shoulder she called out to me, "Tough about the game but Aunt Betty wants you to get the things on that list as fast as possible. You can see the end of the game there if you hurry."

I unfolded the paper and looked at the list. There were only two things on this urgent list. 'OUT NOW' scribbled with a pencil which had broken when she started writing.

Even before I left the room I could hear the horrible sound of my mother, my best friend, purring against my father's chest. Aunt Betty let me sleep over.

It was OK I thought then that she and a man might make love together, she was an aunt, even if she was well over thirty and definitely middle aged.. But my own parents! Ugh, Ugh.

School never had prepared me for this.

By the time to chose where I should major my interests were dance, literature and debate. You don't need to guess how well I write but if you talk to me, just remember this:

I know how you think. Say it again to yourself and remember it.

That is the only reason I can give to explain to you why I am able to demolish my opponent, even if she, or he, is right. It also helps when the boys try to get too fresh, but then so does the dance training.

Debate is intricately connected with Democracy and so after two years at college I took a summer off in Athens, Greece. That is where our ideas of democracy began thousands of years ago, as did theater.

My plan was to research and turn in a project on Political Theater for my next year. Learning the feeling of the modern language was easy but the Ancients are all dead and all we have is their markings.

It was another of their dry summers.

I had a day off because the air-con had gone down again. Concrete buildings are fine but most of them here are designed to rely on it. It is cooler down at the sea so I made to spend a time there under some rocks in the shade. So did many of the office workers, but I know how to move men.

My body never really got off on sleeping midday, not like the locals, so the taverna just along a bit was pretty empty when I went in. I wanted squid, fish, potato, that sort of thing with a beer. Of course the workers only want to leer at me, not to give service. I got them off their butts but they still only wanted to leer at me.

Then I said to no-one in particular, "Is that your mother going out the door over there?"

Two of them reacted and I guessed they were brothers.

"Never seen you trying to make out with a woman before, has she? Except herself?"

Two angry faces which the third one took as his personal advantage and knocked one of their hands away from my bottom. Scarface was about to move in and now it was his turn to be destroyed.

"Second best, I see," I used a finger to imitate his scar. "Which of them was it?"

"Neither!" I saw some blood was flowing now. The other two had got more active.

"Which of you wants to be my personal servant?"

That put them off balance. One, they all wanted to be first. Two, none of them wanted to be serving a woman. Leastwise, not in public. By this stage I could probably chose, so I thought, but when I tried I discovered that I hadn't grounded them enough.

"Would you like a drink?" I asked one of the brothers. He was going to have to take it to my table but his brother shouldered him out of the way. Maybe it was going to be a bit tight. Scarface got himself in front of me, his face flushed. The brothers were too busy with each other right then.

We went into shadow. All of us looked at the door because that had been the main source of light.

It was filled with the shape of a man. He grew bigger as he walked forwards.

"Bring me a beer, and a white wine for my wife." A German, one of those languages which can make "Nice day," sound like words of command which had better be obeyed. He sat down with plenty room beside him. The waiters ignored me and somewhat sullenly went to the beer cooler.

I sat down beside him, thinking how little German I spoke, but I made sure to brush my hair over his shoulder as I sat beside him. He was including me in his personal space so I did not feel threatened, even although I was in awe of the size and obvious strength of this stranger. Perhaps it was because I was in awe of him, surely it was not just gratitude, that I suddenly realised that this man could do anything with me, anything that he wanted and I would agree. I felt that familiar twitch at my pussy and knew it was getting moist.

I waited till the waiters moved away and stretched up to his ear.

"I'm sorry but I cannot speak your language well."

"No, it is better if you are born there."

I thought that was stereotypical Germanic arrogance but then put one of his arms round my shoulders to lift me up off the seat and whispered,

"Not a German. The people here used to ruled by Germans so they obey. Was soldiers. Then tourists. Now it is bankers. Squeeze them by their life. Are you Yankee?"

He put me down and I nodded.

"Your face is become red," he said, this time in English.

I saw the opportunity to re-establish myself as the one in charge by picking apart the use of verb tense and the unnecessary use of other words and yet I could not bring the words to my mouth. Instead I just blushed outright. At the same time I felt my inner thighs twitch and my lower abdomen muscles began to tremble. I was in trouble. We had to get up and get walking.

Yet I was not in trouble. My head was more at ease with this big man than any other except my lovely big father, my mother's hunk. I could easily see how my own life as an independent woman could be ended as her's had been maybe a quarter of a century ago.

I stole another glance at his body and asked in English what his name was. When I heard it, even although my eyes had been following his lips, I knew it was unrepeatable by me. My tongue swelled up inside my mouth at the thought of speaking it aloud. Hoping to find a way round it I asked,

"What do your friends call you?"

That was what his friends called him back home. He smiled and told me that especially because it was me, I could call him, "Brad." Pronounced with a "th." That afternoon I got a lot more of his story.

He comes from Croatia, he is a Roman Catholic, that a section of the population there do not like what he and his people stand for: mostly I gathered that his grandparents and all of their friends had been in league with the Nazis so they could take their opportunity to get even with what the other lot had been doing beforehand.

The name had come from one of his uncles when he had been adopted as an interpreter by English soldiers who had a tank they christened 'Leeds.' 'Bradford' was what they called his uncle. It is a castle near Leeds and the soldiers could pronounce the name.

After his school became too dangerous to attend he left the area and he had been very busy carving tombstones but otherwise tried to learn from books, the radio and displaced schoolteachers and the like when he encountered them.

I think I missed some of the details but they were as nothing compared to simply being in his presence that afternoon. It had happened to me before but never so strongly that I could not tell that time was passing. I only found that out later, after we had parted.

He never told me if there had been any trouble in his parents' time, when his country had been forced into a tight coalition of other communists. It could have been a situation where they were peaceful but which Tacitus might have described as, 'They enslaved themselves thinking it was civilisation.'

I can assure you, my Brad was never a slave. When I was a child my parents were able to control me in one way or another. I can look back now at the ways I have learned to understand people thanks to my college training and I can see this now even if it was not obvious at the time. But my Brad just melts me. I love him and would trust him in anything he asks.

It is patently obvious he thinks the same about me.

When we parted late that afternoon we told each other where we were staying and I was not surprised to hear him say that he was in the back lot of a stonemason's yard. He was still plying his trade as a sculptor of monuments for wealthy Greeks who left quantities of money behind them. Tomorrow he would take me to see some examples of the work which was funding his studies.

For this evening we had made arrangements to meet inside a church and then have a slow meal in a simple restaurant. It was a tremendously highly charged meal on his part as much as mine I am sure. I did not and still do not care what the waiting staff thought of us for paying so little attention to their food. We wanted to enjoy each other.

Anyway I had no stomach for food even if I had been able to taste it. By this time the feeling from my moist little place had spread down to the tops of my thighs and up into my lower stomach. It was vibrating. Then I had some rest.

Someone had started up some music and it distracted me. Naturally they played a tame version of Zorba's dance - it could certainly not be wild enough for the dance described in the book! Shortly I was driven to abandon, not just by the sight and sound of this lovely man sitting across from me, rubbing my knees with his.

It was the soft insistent rhythm beginning the first piece of 'Classical' music I had enjoyed. The one I had originally mistaken for "The Impossible Dream" but which was actually Ravel's "Bolero" and I was back in Dance Class. Before the violins cut in I was on my feet, head back, looking down on my partner, swaying towards him then stepping back. He got up and there was wonder and excitement in his eyes.

His height made me stretch, trying to go up on point wearing sandals. As he again turned to face me I knew I would do it. My head and trunk curled slightly down and my legs bent.

Then right on the beat I exploded! He was still smiling, welcoming me as if I had been lost when my legs slid over his right shoulder. Almost perfectly I had my left hand behind his neck, my legs straight out behind him and was sliding my right hand down his broad chest to his waistband - and my fingertips went beyond.

This is where you want to kiss your partner but dare not else you lose balance, unless you are extremely skilled. But it is also a position which means, "I am yours to take wherever you want."

Automatically he had his hand up to press me against his neck and the other on the shoulder of my rigid body. Then he began to dance with me. Rather clumsily I thought and kept my body like a steel spring against an elastic band, but at least he knew his limitations. He swept me down to the floor and up again in an arc so I finished on my feet with his body pressed to mine.

"How you know? You are not enough age?" he said. Astonished. Then, "six six, six six," and burst out laughing.

I made no reply and he asked this time, "How do you know? Sarajevo nineteen eighty four. Perfect sixes. Torvil and Dean, their Bolero."

But I could not speak. The Bolero was rising again, ramping up in its insistency but I was doing something I never did in class. I could not stop myself; I clung to him and he was hard against my stomach. I just wanted him on the spot, well the spot where he stood and the spot which I kept private. So I climbed up onto him and began to grind myself in.

Do you know Ravel's Bolero? Almost certainly. By the age I am now most people must have orgasmed on the floor with their partner to its rhythm. Of course I orgasmed against his body!

I have felt the shaft of many hard cocks inside their owner's clothes, mostly bursting to get out at me. If I were willing then they would have got out but I kept them where they were. Where they belong. But now I hung on my partner, clutching at his face and trying to kiss him.

He was gentle with me, but like a rock. It was while I was up on him that I heard the clapping that made me bury my face below his chin. Whatever I had done, he would fix.

And he did. I felt him carrying me forward and turning from side to side. He pulled my head back and kissed my eyelids till I opened them. He looked down on me with a very serious look on his face that made me afraid. I knew I had done something that I had never done before, made my self cum on a man and I had done it without his permission.

"Be kind to me," I pleaded.

Behind me everything was normal. The music player was doing one of it's tunes, nobody seemed to be looking at us, the tables were still there.

He hooked my arms around his neck, put an arm underneath to sit on and he chose one of my breasts to squeeze. It was strangely calming and somewhat oddly it made me wonder how my mother had felt nursing me. Would he be my baby?

I must have decided then that I wanted to keep him. I was hooked on him in more ways than one.

He took me down on to my chair once again and sat on it beside me. I was exhausted so he fed me with the remainder of my meal while he wolfed down his own. Every few mouthfuls he made me take a few sips of sweet wine and then I was allowed to rest against his body.

Outside I walked by his side. Wherever he was going, I was going. He took me to the side entrance of the sculptor's where he worked and let me through the small gate, locking it behind us. Then to the back yard where he was sleeping that summer and locked us in beside huge bandsaws and heavy A-shaped steel frames. I was overawed by these huge shapes but not so much that I did not realise he had me where I wanted him to have me. There was just one problem I had not resolved.

"We are Roman Catholics and we are not married yet," I said. "I want to be a virgin when I marry you." But I never said I would actually marry him.

"I am able to make sure you are a Greek virgin, even in tomorrow morning." And so assuring me he laid me on his greatcoat. His body's scent was there and it did not so much smell as create a feeling in my lungs which opened me up. He lay down beside me and gave me an arm for my pillow. I sensed he would soon give me his body for bedclothes and began to undress him. He took my clothes off as fast as I took off his and we started laughing at each other. Then we rubbed our naked skin against each other and became more serious. But we could not keep that up.