- 1972 -
Three women sat on the couch facing me. Behind them were cheap prints of big eyed kids probably retrieved from a garage sale, and the fake-wood coffee table in front was littered with weed, papers and empty bottles.
We were all still bleary from last night's party. The last of the guests left at 3 am, and the girls had to shake me awake from my place on the couch. It was almost noon, and they had a decision to make about me.
I had been crashing on my friend Mike's couch for the last week. New in town, I needed a steady place to stay and the subject came up at the party. The girls were renting this house together. Two shared a bedroom and the third had her own. That left an open bedroom that could be used in return for a share of the rent. I asked if they would consider me as a new roommate.
Chelsea, a thin freckled girl with straight blond hair and a chambray shirt, took a long burbling draw from a bong, held the smoke in her lungs for a few seconds and blew a cloud up to the ceiling while Janice and Grace stared at me impassively. Elbows on my knees, I was intent on wiggling my toes through the thick carpet to unearth peanut shells, beer tabs and old cigarette butts.
Janice broke the silence as Chelsea passed the bong to Grace. "Rick, are you working?" she asked. Janice was a black woman with a picked out afro. She wore a makeshift halter top, made from a paisley silk scarf looped through a silver choker at her neck and tied in back.
I paused only slightly at her breasts before answering. "Yes, I am," I said. "Down at the Sunny Field Bakery. I work in the kitchen making bread. It's righteous work."
"Cool, man." squeaked Grace, the chubbier of the three, who had just taken a hit from the bong, her cheeks reddened from holding her breath.
I panned over to Chelsea who added, "Mm mm bread. I love bread," nodding.
Janice glanced at her two roommates before looking back to me. "You have any hangups we should know about?" She asked.
"Nah. Just looking for a place to stay," I replied.
"We've never considered a dude before. You dig?" contributed Chelsea.
Grace chipped in, "But a dude could be handy around here, don't you think?"
They all nodded, and I was in. An hour later, I was moving stuff out of the trunk of my Rambler into the third bedroom.
--
The house was a 20 year old ranch with a cedar-wood privacy fence around the backyard. Most of the grass had been displaced with an aqua blue, in-ground pool and a single hickory tree shaded one end of the yard. It think the girls bucked up for the place because it really was an ideal party house. They had made it clear my house duties included keeping the yard and pool maintained.
So, that's how I found myself on Saturday morning digging hickory leaves off the bottom of the pool with a long handled net.
The girls, well, were naked. Grace and Chelsea were sunning themselves on web strapped aluminum lawn chaises and Janice was casually stroking through the water end to end. I'd pause my pool cleaning as Janice came to deep end, and waited till she turned. Water droplets beaded on her 'fro and sparkled like diamonds in the dappled sunlight.
Janice eventually climbed out on the far end, dried off with a terrycloth towel and covered herself with a tie-dyed, muslin wrap. She sat down at the small table under an umbrella shade and opened a hardback book with a loud red and black paper jacket.
Grace sat up in her chair, pulled up her huge cat-eye sunglasses and looked around. She called to me, "Hey Rick, are my flip flops over there?" She seemed oblivious to her ample boobs laying across her stomach. I wasn't.
"Um," I said as I looked around, "Yes, here they are." I picked them up and walked them over.
"Ooh, you're getting burned," Grace said looking at my reddening shoulders. She hopped off the chaise with a bottle of Coppertone, squirted a handful and eagerly rubbed it on my shoulders and back. I felt a rise in my cutoffs as she danced around me rubbing the liquid into my skin. Chelsea adjusted her towel and rolled over. Janice eyed me over her sunglasses from the shade, inscrutable.
I backed away from Grace with an embarrassed smile saying, "Thanks. Thanks, I think that will work. I appreciate it." A wisp of disappointment crossed her face and she wiped off the residual suntan lotion on her boobs and chest and a little on her hips. I rubbed in some of the white streaks left on my chest and arms and turned to return to my pool duty. I glanced back at Janice and caught her eyes for just a second before she hurriedly pushed her sunglasses back and turned her head down to read.
Back in the hickory shade, I pulled on my New Riders t-shirt and did my best to ignore the women as I finished cleaning the pool. I stowed the pole and on hooks mounted the fence, retrieved my lemonade and headed inside.
I really felt the need for a shower right then and rushed to our shared bathroom. Careful not to disturb the brushes and cans of hairspray on the vanity, I observed myself naked in the mirror. My shoulders were a little red and there were still streaks of white lotion in places I couldn't reach. I pulled the translucent plastic curtain aside, stepped into the tub and twisted the cold knob to full.
Contrary to popular opinion, cold showers do NOT lessen a hard-on. Mine was standing straight and I had visions of three naked women swimming around in my head. Not wanting to waste a good thing, I soaped up and began stroking. A moment later, the bathroom door opened, someone came in and flipped up the toilet seat with a sharp wooden thunk. One of the women sat down, and I could hear pee tinkling in the toilet bowl.
"Hey, Rick, what are you doing in there?" It was Chelsea.
"Um, just taking a shower," I replied.
I heard rustling paper, and saw some movement through the curtain as she twisted around to drop the lid and flush. A moment later, the curtain was wrenched aside and Chelsea was smiling at me with crossed arms.
She nodded to the soapy hand wrapped around my cock, and said, "I thought so!" She giggled as I vainly tried to cover myself.
She snagged the bar of Dial from its tray and let the water cascade over her hands as she adopted a more serious look. "Here, let me help you with that," she said.
She leaned forward, pushed away my hand and began expertly stroking my cock with both hands. Water was splashing off my shoulders and rolling down my chest.
As she worked she said, "You know, dick is really not my thing, but yours is pretty nice, and I'm always willing to help a friend."
I noodled through her logic while I watched her tits sway back and forth. A short time later, I spurted semen across the sea foam green tile and Chelsea tittered with delight. She picked up my beach towel from the floor to wipe cum from her hands and leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek.
"I hope that makes it better," she said in a motherly fashion.
She dropped the towel and left the bathroom with the door hanging open. I hadn't really needed her help, but I was beginning to appreciate the nature of my house.
--
My old car rattled horribly as I rolled to a stop in front of the house. I pressed the N on the dash, set the brake and killed the engine. It dieseled for about 20 seconds and finally quit leaving the whole car in a cloud of bluish smoke. I cranked the window back up and leaned into the heavy door to open it.
I had some leftover french bread from the bakery, a head of lettuce and a bottle of Boone's Farm in my arms when I entered the house. Tonight was my night to make dinner.
None of the girls were home yet when I started heating up water for the pasta and a can of Chef Boyardee sauce. I poured a generous amount of dry herbs I found in the cabinet into the sauce and dropped a package of dry spaghetti into the boiling water.
I was breaking up the head of iceberg when Janice came home. She breezed through the kitchen headed to her room, and paused to smell my the sauce bubbling on the stove.
"Mm mm, smells great!" she said as a greeting.
I grinned in response and continued peeling and slicing vegetables for the salad.
Chelsea and Grace, came home together about then and made a beeline to their room, dropping bags and clothes as the went. They came out together a few moments later dressed in pajama bottoms and fluffy slippers. They were bra-less with thin t-shirts- their usual after-work attire.
Grace passed me in the kitchen to retrieve something from the cabinet over the stove, pausing a for a few seconds to watch me. She made an 'mmmmm' sound and went out to the living room where Chelsea had dropped a Doors album on the changer. Shortly after that, I peeked at them through the counter pass-through and they were diligently rolling a joint for the evening.
The kitchen timer dinged, and I drained the pasta, dumped it into a bowl, covered it with sauce and sprinkled dry Parmesan over the top. All the girls joined me at the chipped Formica kitchen table as I set out the food. I screwed off the top of the wine bottle and poured out equal amounts into mismatched water cups for all.
"Oh man, I am famished," said Grace.
"This looks great, Rick," said Chelsea.
"Thank you, Rick," said Janice who sat back in her chair sipping her wine as the others dished out heaps of pasta and salad on plates. She had changed into a thin strapped white tank top that glowed against her dark skin.
For the next 10 minutes we just ate like it was the best meal we'd ever had. Soon, the pasta and salad were gone. Grace wiped out the last bit of sauce with the last bit of crusty bread.
Chelsea burped and giggled. We all looked at her and started laughing-Not really sure why.
Janice had a big stripe of red sauce on her white top, but instead of freaking out, she was eyeing it curiously.
I thought she looked funny, pulling her shirt out like she had bullet tits. I laughed. They all laughed. Pointing at her, pointing at each other, pointing at me.
Everything seemed so odd to me, but yet sparkling clear. I looked around to see what I had missed, and I spied the big box marked 'Oregano' sitting next to the girls' rolling papers on the coffee table. Oh, no!
That's when the babbling started. We talked about astrology and biology. Religion and history. We shared far ranging theories about politics and sex.
It was Chelsea who raised the topic of oral sex.
"In my opinion," she said earnestly, "Men really don't know how to go down on a woman, so chicks always do it better." She nodded, emphasizing a statement I am sure she thought was profound.
"I don't think that's fair," I said.
"Wouldn't you say that is true, Janice?" asked Chelsea.
Janice had moved to the couch and her head was tilted to the side. Apparently drunk AND stoned, she mumbled, "Brothers don't lick pussy."
"Right on, girl!"
