Monday, March 16, 2009

Oral Learning With the Pakamac Heiress

Fellatio first happened for me in 1967. 
Frederika, (aka Freddie) was reading Anaís Nin, 
listening to the Doors. Rich girl.
Hale Barns girl. Resplendent
in the cotton puffery of gingham smock mini-dresses,
thick wool tights, blocky black shoes spit-shined 
by Berengeria,  the Portuguese au paire.  Freddie, 
sweet, not because it was her nature, au contraire,
but because she sprayed Paco Rabanne in her shoes 
and in her knickers, in the hair down there.

In retrospect, I can sincerely say, Anais
was not a good teacher, Freddie wasn’t very good,
she just nibbled away, her tiny mouth 
opening and closing,  her beautiful rich girl’s teeth 
sharp and definitely in the way.
I called my dick Field Marshall Von Runstedt in those days.
Why I cannot say. But, applaudably curious,
She would talk to the opening, dig a nail into a vein,
squeeze it every which way. Put on a fraulein accent,
ask what der Field Marshall had to say.

We had talked about it for weeks.
I had religiously consumed
glucose lollipops, honeyed yogurt and
a pint of pineapple juice per day.
To make my sperm taste sweet,
doing it in Anais' Parisian way.
The truth was that she didn’t see me as person, just a
good-looking, non-complaining utilitarian piece of meat 
in frighteningly tight jeans, pretty, pouty and poor.
 A hard-on with a foot-high Isro, ready to play.

So my parents went to see Manchester City.
My dad winked when he drove away.
And Freddie undressed me, giggling, giggling, giggling
cuffing my penis in a boxer speed-bag sort of way.
Laughing, nibbling, unwilling to spit.
When I came, she said, “I-eeeew!”
And I cleaned it from her eyelid with my thumb.
She said my spunk smelled like high-tide at Blackpool,
Tasted like Finnan Haddie*. I felt insulted,
and I never let her give me head again.

—Ivor Irwin

* Finnan Haddie: Smoked herring from Scotland


Tom Weiss said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Elsie Vázquez-Irwin said...

Yes, I took lots of ribbing at work today. Let's remember not to get the narrator of the poem confused with the writer.

I still prefer the poem Ivor wrote for me.

swoozie said...

Speaking for all the Irish in the crowd...I’m a little intimidated. Yours always, Swoozie