Fucking Garage Girls

Fucking Garage Girls

The year was 1968. The Viet Cong launched a major offensive. The yellow guys were out gunning the white and black soldiers that we'd air-dropped across the planet. Some crazy American serviceman shot up the village of My Lai and gave us second thoughts about American troops. At home, Bobby Kennedy was assassinated, as was Martin. Tricky Dick beat the peanut farmer in the national election, proving that a crook could water the gates with a secret plan to end the Vietnamese war. Bad news never seemed to be out of style.

It had been a tumultuous year. When Robert Kennedy was killed, it broke my heart. Twenty years passed before I re-entered a voting booth. With all of that in mind, I almost forgot the two garage girls. I call them that because they lived in a sizable apartment built over a garage attached to a mini-mansion in the suburbs of New York.

I'd passed the large square garage for years on my way to school, never knowing what it was. It was constructed in the 1930s, when servants lived where they worked. An architect provided a comfortable place for a maid and chauffeur to live without disturbing the family in the big house.

I was never inside the home, though one dark Halloween night as a child, I remember climbing the wooden steps to a sizable porch covered with oak flooring, where the plump owner handed out bags of treats to costumed kids.

By now, almost twenty years had passed from that Halloween night. I had finished college with degrees in Art and English and was going abroad. I had won a fellowship to work at the Uffizi Museum, where I was to complete a year's

Residency. That would increase my chances of being hired to teach, maybe at a small Midwestern college while securing my PhD.

It was that time of year in the Northeast, when the green leaves turn to burnished gold and blanket the suburban streets, making it hard to cross the street or park your car. A hot engine can easily start a leaf fire under the car. The city leaf sweepers, humming like hornets, were slow to remove the moldering leaves. Fortunately, the early morning rains kept the fire risk to a minimum.

I was returning from a Sunday visit to the Metropolitan Museum where there was a wonderful exhibit of Monet's giant Water Lily canvases. After viewing the show I'd splurged and taken a taxi from the museum to Grand Central Station. I checked the arrival time on the boards above the entrance to the train and saw I had 30 minutes to kill. There was time enough to check out the new paperback offerings at the bookstore on the lower level. A fresh supply of Grove Press editions, several Henry Millers, "The Story of O", and new offerings by J. D. Salinger, the author of "The Catcher in the Rye", were available. I saw a recent Hemingway that I thought was outdated.

I once dreamed of being an author, and I felt obligated to keep up with the smut that passed for literature back then. Seated and reading one of these scabrous novels, you weren't permitted to jerk off on the commuter train. Riding with a silent hard-on was acceptable.

Footsteps away from the bookstore was the famous Grand Central Oyster Bar, the oldest restaurant in the station, operating since 1913. It was famous for its oysters, and a haven for clam lovers. I stood for a while, wondering where they had hidden the restaurant. I glanced at the vaulted ceilings and eyed a very sophisticated New York lady, probably aged 45, who passed by dressed sharply in a leopard coat, wearing a Hermes mini-skirt- very sexy.

When the door opened for the designated train, I followed the crowds down the sloped walkway to the tracks and entered the first train coach. I sat and began to read "Lady Chatterley's Lover" when two young women sat on the wicker-lined seat across from me.

Of course, I knew Joanne and Bertha from high school. Bertha was a funny name; it sounded like a name for someone resembling the actress playing Tug Boat Anny (Marie Dressler), but Bertha was a lot closer to Monroe or Hedy Lamar than Marie.

The girls were a year or two behind me, but back then, I often wished I was stuck right behind Bertha in the basement phone booth that hadn't worked since Dick Clark graduated from our famous high school.

Joanne was a decent-looking girl, tall, a little gothic, with a cigarette in her puffy lips. In those days, smoking on the train was acceptable (banned in 1988).

Bertha was God's gift to any guy who still had eyesight. What a knock-out! Two bacchi ball tits that pointed upwards, a shapely caboose, a slender hourglass waist, and olive skin direct from Sicily, and there was more. Oh yes, lots of makeup, red lipstick, and a cigarette in her pouty lips. I could have cum just looking at her, and here good fortune had brought them to me, seated across from me.

"Hey girls, how ya doin'. Do you remember me?"

"Who da fuck are you?" growled Joanne.

"Jason Cinton from high school. I remember the two of you eating homemade lasagna brought from home in the school cafeteria. God damn, I wish you'd given me a bite."

"You want a bite," said Joanne, "Come closer, and I'll bite off your nose."

I acted as if I had not heard her and continued.

"I just wanna say you two were the most beautiful, sexiest teenagers in the entire high school."

"Thanks," said Bertha.

"So girls, what's happening? Youse working." I switched to New Yorkese, so they wouldn't think I was talking down to them.

"Not today. It's Sunday."

"So what were you doing in New York?"

"There was a professional Cosmology show at the Coliseum."

"We work at the Perfume, Hair and Sundries Store, on Elm Street," said Joanne.

"Yeah, they hired us as soon as we graduated from Cosmology School," said Bertha.

"How long a school program is that?

"Wadda ya mean?"

"I mean, how long does it take to complete Cosmology School?"

"It usually takes two years..."

"But if you know the right guys, you can zip through in a year and still get two years' credits," added Bertha.

I'll bet they wanted to zip with you, I thought.

"That's great, so now you two are working. Wow, I gotta hand it to ya, you certainly got life worked out."

"Yeah, said Bertha, "I was supposed to get married, but my boyfriend got called up, and now he's in Nam."

"Tough luck. You probably never came to the wrestling events in high school, but I was a varsity wrestler: 8 wins, 2 losses."

That comment didn't impress anyone.

"So whatcha doing now? You going pro? You don't look big enough to be a pro wrestler," asked Joanne.

"Oh no, you're right. I'm not big enough."

"Midget wrestler?"

"Nope, I'm too tall."

"I got a cuz, a wrestler, goes by the name Crazy Willie; he's so big he could crush you with one hand."

"I know who you mean. Yes, he could. Joanne, you know there is some family resemblance between you two."

"Don't be a wiseass," answered Joanne.

"I mean, you are tall for a woman."

"So big shot, what are you doing with your life?"

"Well, Jo, I just graduated college. I'm headed to Italy in ten days to start a fellowship at the Uffizi Museum in Florence."

"What's a fellowship? Is that a gay thing?" said Bertha.

"No, no, it means you are going to study and teach for a year."

"Where's Florence?"

"It's a pair of hours north of Rome."

"They pay extra if I bring a wife with me. Any takers, girls."

"Nope."

"How about you, Bertha?"

"Sure, it might be fun."

"We bin to Sicily once, but we don't speak good Italian,"

offered Bertha.

"No problema ragazze, viene con me."

"What the fuck did you just say," said Joanne.

"I said come to Italy witha me and I'a tak'a care of da bot a you."

"Yeah," said Bertha," That I understood."

I had to admit, Bertha had a pair of tits that would outprize a Holstein at the 4H fair. It was hard to take my eyes off of them.

"How are you kittens getting home from the station?"

"Walking, it ain't far."

"No need to walk. I'll drive yas."

"Whatcha driven?" said the inquisitive one.

"A Rolls Royce. My car's in the shop; some jerk knocked off the side-view mirror, so I had to borrow my dad's car."

"It's a real Rolls?" asked Jo.

"Yeah, my Dad fell in love with it; he even cried to get the car salesman to sell it to him. He wanted it that bad."

"That's a nice story," said Bea. Yeah, everyone should get what they wanted all their life."

"I agree," I said, staring at Bea's profile.

"That's good."

"What's good is there is a bottle of Rémy Martin in the boot."

"What's that, vodka?" asked Bea.

"No, sweetheart, it's about the finest cognac that ever dripped out of a French barrel."

"What's cognac?" said Bea.

"It's like brandy, but smoother than the shit we put together in this country."

"Ok, so what's it to us?" said Jo.

"Well, bella mia, I'm thinking we could open that golden bottle and have us a party."

"Sounds good," said Bea.

"You in, Jo?"

"Yeah, whatever the big-tittied guinea says.

The girls didn't have much to say for the rest of the ride, which lasted only 25 minutes. I read my paperback, and when the train came to a screeching stop and jolted us, the three of us jumped up, stretched our stiff legs, headed to the exit, and climbed down the steel steps. I took Bee's hand as she dismounted, then I herded them like lost ducklings to the back of the parking lot.

"Where you taking us?" said Joanne.

"Patientus ladies, it's the silver car over there."

"Oh shit," said Joanne, "It's an old one."

"Nah, it's only about six years old. These English cars are like tanks; they last forever. The new ones are lower and sleeker, nothing grand like this one."

"So let's go."

I used my key to open the door and put the two broads in the front seat with Bertha next to me. They smelled like cheap perfume, or was it the odor of cunt. Hard to tell; whatever it was, was giving me a hard-on and a headache at the same time.

"You girls direct me."

Bertha seemed in a daze, but Joanne piped up,

"Take a left as you exit the parking lot, then take the street up the road, etc. bla bla bla."

It didn't take long to get the lovebirds to their nest. Now, if in some way I could get my cock into one of their bird nests, that would be the prize of a lifetime, especially if it was Bertha. Even if I could get my cock in her mouth, it would be a lot better than a trip to the dentist.

It wasn't a long ride, and there it was, a large house built probably after the Great Depression, just before the 2nd World War. It was a house I recognized from my childhood. To my disappointment, we didn't climb the stairs to enter through the front door, past the wood flooring on the porch. No, instead, I bird-dogged behind the two girls, with a clear eye on Bertha's big round butt as her legs chafed her stockings and produced what, to my nose, would have been a prize-winning perfume.

To my surprise, we wound along the wood-shingled side of the house. I followed them up a wooden staircase alongside the garage to their apartment, which sat right on top of it. The apartment formed a perfect square, but was compartmentalized into a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room/bedroom with a fold-out couch that turned into a bed. It was obvious the two girls slept in the same bed.

"You got the booze?" said Joanne.

"Sure." Thank God I'd grabbed it out of the boot before we left the train station parking lot.

"Pretty bottle," said Hawkeye. I peeled off the yellow cellophane, pulled out my trusty switchblade, and snapped the blade open. I figured that would show the girls I was one of the tough guys.

I saw one thug tease Bertha years back at the swimming pool concession counter, when, with a lit cigarette, he threatened to burn off the solitary button on her skirt and leave her in her underwear. I jimmied the bottle stopper open; it was attached to a dark brown cork.

"Here, Bertha."

I had decided to concentrate my attention on the big stupid one with the goddess tits. I held the cork between my two fingers in front of Bertha's modest Italian nose.

"Smell it, honey."

The gazuba leaned forward and sniffed.

"Yeah, it smells good."

"Where do you keep the glasses. Small ones if possible?"

"Why small? You saven it for someone else, said the witch.

"Oh no, it's just that you drink cognac out of a small glass, but it don't matter, big or small, just enjoy yourselves.

Once the bottle was opened, the stale odor of the old apartment was eclipsed by the warm, round smell of the brandy.

Joannne fished through a built-in kitchen cabinet and came back with three small curved glasses and a bottle of iced mineral water, that old New York standby, Polish Spring Water.

I filled each glass almost to the top and suggested they sip it. Joann sipped for a while, but Berth slugged it down like it was Coca-Cola. I felt the warming buzz go right past my stomach and grab me by the dick. Alcohol sometimes does that to me.

"Let's get some muzak going, said Joanne, as she fiddled with the tuning dial on an old-fashioned square plastic tube radio, past the 24-hour news station and on past the classical station to WNEW102.7, the premier rock station.

Joanne fine-tuned the station and set the volume a little louder than I would have, but I said nothing. By now we had all finished the first glass, so I poured a second round. Bertha finished it immediately, so I poured her another glass full and leaned back and spread my legs that were too tight on the hard-on I had developed looking at Bea.

It came to mind that Bertha was the answer to impotence. If you were married to Bea, you'd be fucking her around the clock, even though I was beginning to realize she was a bit of a birdbrain. Joanne, on the other hand, seemed a lot smarter, but for some reason I didn't trust her.

"Do you dance?" said Joanne when "Do ya wanna Dance" came on the radio. We danced, but Jo couldn't resist trying to lead.

Now, there were three empty glasses. Jo and I danced to two fast numbers, and when we finished and returned to the sofa, I could see Bertha had poured herself another shot.

"Come on, Berth"- let's dance a slow one. The song was Elvis's, "Love Me Tender." By now, she was an agreeable drunk. I put my arm around her; she was easily 5'8" about as tall as I'd imagined, but her tits made her seem taller. Her waist was slender. Her long legs obeyed my lead, and if the apartment was unheated, her mams felt oh so warm.

"I'm going down to the bodegas to get some beers. We are out," said Joanne.

"Here," I said, and handed her $20.

"Thanks, I may stop at the bar to say hello to one of our friends," and off she trotted like a circus pony.

I was so glad to be free of Joanne, who had turned into a cock blocker. With Jo out the door, I danced Bea over to the sofa. I lowered Bertha onto the couch and started to kiss her neck. I slipped my hand between the tight fabric of her tight skirt and caressed her warm ass.

Her ass was remarkable, as firm as a basketball and as soft as the skin on a baby's ass. Which it was. I began to unbutton her many-buttoned red sweater slowly and unhooked her bra with difficulty. It was one of those modern gismos with the hooks up front. When the sweater opened and the bra tension released, her two gravity-defying breasts shook free of their enclosure like a long-eared retriever poodle coming out of the water. Her mammeries were stupendous, with firm, well-defined nips that showed no sign of childbirth, which often destroys God's handy work as much as old age destroyes the starlet's faces.

"Come, lie down."

She was leaning on the armrest of the sofa. Wait a sec, I'll pull out the bed. I gently pinched her ass, pulled out the bed, and helped her to recline on the mattress.

"Did anyone in Italy pinch your ass when you were in there?"

"Oh God, I was only ten, but I garnered more pinches than Santa Claus has beard hairs."

"Bertha, I've wanted to fuck you from the first time I saw you."

"That's what everyone says. I'm too drunk to say no; enjoy yourself. Do you want a blowjob?

I took off my shirt and unbuckled my pants. I eased myself over her nude body.

"Maybe a quickie before I make love to you."

I stood over her and leaned forward. She opened her luscious lips, and I put my dick inside. She sucked me until I was afraid I was going to cum.

"Oh baby, God, you are good. We gotta stop before I fill your mouth up." I pulled out just in time.

"I can taste your seed from your pee hole," said Bea.

"Let me return the favor?"

I spread her strong legs and slid her g-string out of the way to give her sex a thorough licking. Her pussy tasted better than a cannoli.

When her clit was covered with saliva, and she had begun to moan, I moved up higher on her. When I felt her big gazongas tight against my chest, I paused to suck the right nipple. It was the most natural thing for my erection to ease itself inside her wet spot.

She lay silent for a while as I humped her, and then it was as if the bride of Frankenstein was given an electric shock. She began to move under me like a galloping mare.

It was all I could do to keep from cuming inside her. Then I finally threw caution to the wind and laid down my ultimate compliment to her vibrant sexuality; I increased my speed of insertion, and with a final deep entry it was done; I could feel the dick contractions, more than thirteen times, as her vaginal pocket was filled with my sperm. We lay with our arms around each other.

"We better stop. If Jojo comes back and sees us, she'll be mad."

"Fuck her. Who cares?"

"Well. I do. We are like a couple."

"You mean you are lesbos?"

"I guess, but don't tell her I said that. I prefer cock to cunt. It's so nice to have a stiffy in your pussy. It's so nice to suck on cock, and when you suck it good, it squirts. That's its way of saying thank you."

"You got that right, Bertha."

"What I don't get, said Bea, why do guys want to put their big cocks in my culo. Damn that stuff hurts."

"I don't know what to say. Maybe it's a form of dominance."

As I started to withdraw my prick, I raised my body above her. She closed her big eyes and slipped into a joyous sleep. My ass was high above her, my legs spread wide, my wet cock now out of hallowed ground, dripping cum on her belly when, out of nowhere, a missile hit me in the ass hole.

My knees buckled. I fell to the side. I glanced back, and there was the wicked witch behind me. Joanne was pulling a large black dildo out of my ass.

I had just gotten ready to attempt to do her doggy style, when her roommate arrived so quietly that I didn't know she was there until she jammed a well-lubed dildo between my ass cheeks.

"What are you doing to her, you fuck? Bertha is mine; I own her. I fuck her every night with this dildo. You want a second taste."

She raised the large, stiff black dildo to shoulder height, threatening to use it as a billy club.

I shook my head. No. I didn't speak, not wanting to wake the angel who lay beside me.

It had dawned on me. They were both lesbians. That fact had somehow eluded me until now.

I dressed quietly and headed to the door, leaving the almost empty bottle of Rémy Martin behind. Joanne followed me. As I paused in front of the wooden staircase to say I was sorry, before I could turn around, she kicked me hard in the ass. I felt her toes as they hit under my balls.

"Don't come back. You fuck."

I scurried down the steps, got into the Bentley, which fortunately started right up. I was gone.

Was the dildoing and the kick in the ass/balls worth it?

Next to the grand prize of fucking Bertha? You know it was.

About five years later, after I returned to the US and started teaching at the City College, I went back to my hometown to visit my parents. I saw a dark-haired, tall, big-breasted woman with a small child in the supermarket. She looked like Bertha. The child had brown curly hair and looked happy.

I approached Bertha cautiously.

"Hi. Do you remember me? We went to school together?"

"No, I'm sorry. Those years are all a blur."

"So you are married now?"

"No, I'm a single mother. This is my little boy, Hercules."

"He's a beautiful baby. I wish you all the luck in the world."

"You know," said Bertha, I think I do remember you. We're you a wrestler or something?"

"Yes, a long time ago, but I wasn't big enough to go pro."

I said goodbye and left. As I passed the liquor section, I spotted a gilt cellophane-wrapped bottle of Rémy Martin. I didn't reach for it. I had already won the prize.