Harlow Flick: A Sex Machine in III Acts
03/03/2005 12:46 a.m.
Warning: This is going to get pretty darn steamy, and since I am now well into my declining years; it may give you, beloved reader, the willies. For this, I make no apologies. I am 48 years old, and I hope I feel the same at 68. As crazy as it all sounds, it’s part of what we do here.

Harlow Flick: A Sex Machine in III Acts

Act I

Father Flick, who lives in heaven now, used to tell the tale of my first sexual encounter. It actually occurred so early in my life, that it now lives shrouded in fog. How I wish I had stored a clearer vision of the lovely and tender six-year-old temptress, Debbie.

It happened near the turn of a decade, sometime in 1961, in the steel mill worker, industrial revolution, town of Levittown, Pennsylvania. These were Beaver Cleaver, black and white, cold war, pre-Sergeant Pepper days. There I was, five years old, about the size of a ventriloquist’s dummy, my hair buzzed and slickered in a crew cut, dressed in corny Bermuda shorts, unable to distinguish my own ass from a hole in the ground.

One summer evening, at the side of our shot gun shack rancher, my best friend Tommy, an Alfred E. Newman faced, taxi door eared chap, and I poked and prodded the naked neighbor girl, Debbie, like curious little mad scientists with our busy little fingers. Tommy focused on the upper half while I focused on the lower regions.

Suddenly, Father Flick appeared around the corner of our house.

“Oh no, what have we got here? Debbie, put on your clothes and head on home. You head on home too, Tommy. Come on Harlow, time for dinner,” he calmly said.

He asked what we were up to, and a few other questions. One of my replies became a part of family lore. I would be quoted before guests and relatives many times at many gatherings in the coming years. As I got older, I began to find it embarrassing, but I now find I rather like it, and stand by what I said.

What is that quote?

This is what I said:

“Tommy likes the top, and I likes the bottoms!”


Act II

In the 6th grade, I enjoyed what was probably the most potent social position that I would ever occupy. Of course, that really isn’t saying much. I even had a freckle faced, bun haired girlfriend named Kathy. The aluminum foil ring she wore from a chain round her neck symbolized our relationship. I purchased this lavish sparkler for $1 at the local apothecary, along with a 45-rpm recording of “Last Train to Clarksville” by those beloved rascals, The Monkees.

It was my testosterone-fueled desire to consummate our relationship with a kiss, but alas, Kathy wasn‘t ready for a physical relationship, so I broke it off. I demanded the return of my ring.

Being a passionate romantic in a fit of irrational emotion, I crushed the ring beneath a chair leg, folded it inside a Dots Candy box, and flushed it down the toilet.

There were other fish in the sea and I knew where to net one. Susan Schaefer was a girl with a reputation, and it was well known in our little social world that she had a “thing” for me.

I can remember it as though it happened this morning: the sweaty palms, the dry mouth, and the terrible awkwardness.

I sat on the sofa with Susan as the Beatles “Day Tripper” played in the background on the radio. Earlier in the day, I had warmed up by practicing on my wrist, so I knew what I was doing. If I do say so myself, though it was a bit dry, I gave her a relatively long, definite, polished, full-lipped kiss.

With my confidence on the rise, I was moving in for kiss number two, when suddenly the silence was broken by a sarcasm-laced voice, “Well, aren’t we comfy.”

Holly Shit! It was her mother! I didn’t know anyone else was home!

Even though it was two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, in near panic, I fumbled out a few words, “It’s dinner time, I gotta go!” I was out of there, stumbling down the steps, pedaling my Sting Ray like a madman down the street, looking back over my shoulder for the mother who just might give chase! I was of such weak character in those days, I never returned.

As the years went past, both Susan and I all but disappeared into social irrelevance. On the other hand, Kathy became a cheerleader who dated the starting quarterback on the high school football team. Based on rumors, she apparently loosened up quite a bit. This quarterback fellow often boasted to us in gym class that Kathy was performing fellatio for him on a regular basis.

If this was true, in retrospect, I think maybe I should have hung in there a bit longer with Kathy.

Intermission

Sodomy
Fellatio
Cunnilingus
Pederasty

Father, why do these words sound so nasty?

Masturbation
Can be fun
Join the holy orgy
Kama Sutra
Everyone!

- From the Rock Opera, “Hair”


Act III

With a Swisher Sweet Little Cigar dangling from my lips, I unzipped my Levis, and urinated behind a bush. The powerful black bull lay beside the barb wired fence, surrounded by flies and cow flops. I looked closely, ascertaining that his testicles really do look like apples in a loose skin sack, as I claim in a recent poem I penned. My conclusion? Close enough.

I spent New Year’s Day fly-fishing for hatchery trout on the Mitchell River, trying to conjure some hope for the upcoming year. “To be or not to be,” is sometimes the question.

“Pretty impressive, hey Ferdinand?

Ferdinand displayed only indifference, never pausing in his side-to-side chewing.

I thought about Harry, a desperate and painfully horny lad who actually had sexual intercourse with a cow, which I describe in an earlier journal entry.

A couple of cows stared at me.

“I have been admiring your form, Miss Bessie, and I feel a stirring in my loins.”

I didn’t really. The cows and I were sharing a joke. I don’t believe either of us had any real desire to fornicate outside of our species, and I don’t compare favorably to old Ferdinand. But the bizarre behavior of my fellow humans does fascinate me. Don’t ask me why. My brain just keeps going back to it, like a tongue that keeps probing a mouth sore.

They stared and stared. What could they have been thinking? Perhaps they mistook me for the hay man. In modesty, I turned away, pointing my little pecker toward the river.

On New Year’s Day of 2004, I exposed myself to cattle. What a nice memory to carry in my remaining years.

And I still must say this; I likes the bottoms, those curious folds and puckers. Yes, yes. How strange and curious, these human desires…

As for this evening, I believe Billy (Idol) said it best. Take me home, Billy:

Oh dancing with myself
Oh dancing with myself
Well there's nothing to lose
And there's nothing to prove
I'll be dancing with myself …


I am listening to Tiny Tim