In June 1975 I briefly – for a single afternoon – was with a woman I still think of as “the hippie girl.” And no, it was not a conventional one-day stand.
She didn’t refer to herself by that term. I doubt there had ever been a large number of young people who truly were “hippies” or in the New Left as a dedicated way of life. What there had been was a wide dissemination of those ideas to people who dropped in and out or who just flirted with the concepts. There was an even larger group who just picked up certain styles and attitudes as needed.
I and most of my fellow students were “late-Boomers;” we were already developing nostalgia for a very recently departed era. It was a period that had been hyped out of all proportion since before Walter Cronkite said he wished he had covered Woodstock.
At one time, I wished I had been there too, but I was only fourteen in 1969. I knew no one else who was going, and my parents wouldn’t have given me permission to hitchhike. That was probably the only plausible method for me to get to the site.
I knew little about the bands that performed there. After the event was over, I saw various photographs that appeared in the press. Thus, I had fantasies of frolicking with skinny-dipping chicks in some pond. Even later I figured out how little of that had actually occurred. I assumed that the vast majority of guys who were there went with existing girlfriends or had to depend on masturbation to cure their blue-balls.
I was already beating off imagining every plausible female I knew, so what would the point of it all have been?
*****
The Salient was one of five newspapers the student activity fee supported at the City College of New York. Its name was created by returning veterans at its founding in 1947.
Over the next two decades, it become a conventional competitor to the semi-official The Campus, which had existed since the early 20th Century. During the 1960’s The Salient mutated into the school’s “hippie/counter-cultural” paper. By 1975, as the churn of students in and out was always a fact of university life, it was struggling to become something else yet again. Yet no one there could define what that would be.
By that June I had been there nearly two years and had collected one girlfriend and one ex-girlfriend on the staff, both of whom had been invited there by me.
The ex was my first lover ever. It was quite exciting in September 1974 when I surprised everybody on the paper. That’s when I had her come in for the first staff meeting of the new semester. They were all amazed that, as a former professional virgin at the place, I had landed that quite good-looking, well-dressed (she put on a suit for the occasion without me requesting it) young woman.
Then a couple of months later, I was shocked when she suddenly dumped me for an older guy with a good job and a Triumph convertible. He picked her up right off Convent Avenue while he was driving by in his car. That felt like a betrayal to me, but I was learning some harsh truths that I could put to good use. A short time later, I found another nice girl just downstairs in the snack bar.
Again I surprised everybody when I brought her in, including my ex who of course was still on the staff. I believe she had some grudging admiration for my initiative and how quickly I had recovered from a setback.
By June I had the confidence that comes with being young and having a very pleasing girlfriend. I wasn’t one of those guys who had to keep scoring with multiple partners. I wasn’t a jock or even particularly tall, so I felt that I was doing quite well for myself.
And I had just turned twenty. My teen years, and whatever had happened in them, were gone for good.
******
One late afternoon I was alone in the newspaper office in Finley Hall, mostly just hanging out and wasting time. It was a warm but overcast day and I sat around near the windows. I was pondering the large number of high-rise buildings that had been built in upper Manhattan recently.
Around five o’clock there was a knock on the door and I went over to answer it. When I asked who it was, a female voice responded. I opened it and saw a young woman standing there.
“Oh hi, how are you doing?” I said. Not, can I help you? I had a lilt in my voice that I wouldn't have had with any unexpected male visitor.
“This is the, ah, Sally-ent, right?” There was a ditzy tone to her voice that I thought might be a put-on.
“Right, it says so right here." I pointed to the name painted on the door. "Although it’s usually pronounced Sail-yent.” A lot of people had trouble with the name and what it even meant.
“Yes, Room 336, I see that too. I'm Clarissa, although my friends usually call me Clary.”
“Glad to meet you, Clary, I’m Paul." I was sure I had never known anybody named Clarissa or Clary.
“So, the reason I'm here is because I’d like to join your paper. Are you the right person to talk to?”
If it had been some guy I would have told him to come back the next day to deal with anybody but me. “Sure, you can talk to me. Come on in.” After she entered, I closed the door and on some impulse, I locked it.
Clary sort of glided in. She glanced around with skepticism at the shabby state of the room. I didn't know what she had expected since the entire campus, except for the new Science Building, was about equally shabby. The building we were in had been constructed in 1889 as part of a now-departed Catholic women’s college.
I placed myself behind a desk at the far end of the room next to the windows and she sat on a table facing me. Of course, I assessed her immediately. She was a very pretty girl – fairly tall with straight brown hair and steel-rimmed glasses.
Her outfit was a kind of “college girl hot-weather” style. She had a top with spaghetti straps; it had many narrow stripes going across it but the dominant color was pink. Her skirt was a short denim one and her shoes were white sandals. The final touch was the pink cloth band around her head, holding her hair in place. It must have been that item that brought the word hippie to my mind.
I couldn’t help myself; I wanted to be with her. Or be inside her, I should say for accuracy. I didn’t think I was a cad, but I had instantly forgotten about my girlfriend. I wasn’t even sure where she was at that time.
Clary said, “Would you like to smoke a getting-to-know-you joint?”
That sounded great. This chick has brought her own drugs. “A little bit, yeah.”
I got up to share it with her. While taking a few puffs I had the pleasant vibe that comes from being alone with a cute female. When I sat down behind the desk again, I was aware of her legs pressed tightly together. I imagined prying them apart and seeing what kind of underwear she had on, if any.
She started explaining herself, “I’ve spent my freshman year here and – I don't know, I feel like I should do something more, like proactive, I’d call it. Like joining this paper, for example.”
I said, “So you are a freshman now?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Being at the end of my sophomore year, I imagined myself as the experienced older guy.
Then she went into her bag and took out some back issues of The Salient. While she was doing that I tried to fill in some conversational space. “As you might know, I’ve been here a couple of years already. I’ll be features editor next semester.”
“Paul, you said. I've seen that you’re the assistant now, I mean I saw the staff listings.” She tapped the bunch of issues in her hand. The staff names and positions were usually at the top of page two.
She went on. “I think I’ve got most of this semester here. Back in January, I saw that help wanted ad, I guess you'd call it that.” I supposed that she was one of our fans.
She found the correct issue and held it up. The help-wanted ad was on the back cover and it contained a photo of Monty Hall, the host of Let’s Make a Deal. The headline said: Why is This Man Smiling? After that there was some text that we hoped would bring in applicants.
“It’s very clever,” she said. “And I also read the essay you have in here.” It was near the front and she quickly found it. I had written an article about finding an old Lionel model train catalog in my closet and I went on about my childhood memories of owning a train set.
“That was fun to read,” she said.
“Well, it was fun to write.”
I went into interviewer mode. That was a ruse because in recent years the number of students involved with activities, including the five newspapers, had dropped off considerably. That had been attributed to “apathy,” the need for after-school jobs, and various other reasons.
I didn’t want Clary to know how desperate we were for new staff, talented or otherwise. Maybe it was because she believed I was someone with power there. And I figured that would help me get laid with her. As I said, I had completely discounted my girlfriend by then.
“So, anyway, Clary, what would you like to write? I mean, in addition, have you written anything yet I could see now?”
“No, not yet, but writing sure seems cool, and this paper seems cool too. I mean, for example, as I said, I like the stuff you’ve written.”
It was all rather lame, but pretty girls could get away with flattering statements like that. It was clear that she was flirting with me; I was staring at her legs and short skirt again. For a moment I wished that my girlfriend was indeed there just to keep me grounded.
Clary said, “I was hoping you would make sure that my articles get published here.”
“I’ll certainly do my best to see that it happens.”
That was something of a fib. Anybody who could string sentences together got their writings published; rejections were rare. In the two years I had been there I’d seen that happen to only one fledgling applicant and he immediately quit.
But maybe she can’t really write and she knows it. In any case, I was thinking more with my dick than my head as we talked. I qualified my previous promise. “But we won’t have the next issue coming out until September.”
“That’s okay; however, I wanted to see if we could work out something today.” I was getting a glimmering of what she was up to.
Her next statements seemed to confirm that. “I was wondering, Paul; do you happen to have a girlfriend right now? Maybe here on this paper?”
I knew enough to evade the question. “I’m doing all right.”
She smiled at me. Then she went on, “I think there is one. Pardon me for asking, but does she put out enough for you? Just curious, but you know what I mean?”
I certainly did know but I wanted to draw more out of her. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“You know, does she give you enough balling and other things to your satisfaction?"
Then she gave me another look, a look that women have been giving men for millennia and which I instantly recognized. I had a lump in my throat and a bulge in my pants.
She said, “If you could help me, I could help you.”
Now I was sure about her. I was considering just brushing her off, but she said and did something that really got my attention. She pulled her skirt up as she sat on the table and spread her legs. And she wasn’t wearing panties. Her public bush was dark and springy.
“Do you like what you are seeing?”
My response was extremely weak, “You’re not wearing any panties.”
“But I do have a pair in my bag in case I need them.”
I thought, need them for what? In case you have intercourse and the semen is running out of your cunt?
She decided to explain more. “I often don’t wear them in warm weather. I like that bare feeling, the feeling of the warm air coming up off the street and surrounding my crotch.” She giggled, “Of course, in cold weather, I do wear tights.”
I tried my best, which wasn’t very good. “Of course, that makes sense.”
Then she said, “All right, I know what young guys are like. Why don’t you come over here and stand in front of me?”
I shouldn’t have done it, but I was young and foolish. I got up and went to stand in front of her as she had requested. She held me around the waist and pulled me forward. “Go ahead, you can fondle me; play with my pussy.”
I had never known a girl to be that abrupt. But I was just mindlessly reacting to her. As she had been me given permission, I put a couple of fingers into her, and I noted that she felt rather dry. It didn’t seem like she was that turned on herself.
She noticed my arousal, however. As she looked down at the bulge in my trousers she said, “My, somebody's packing his pants. The front of them is pushed all the way out.”
“What did you expect?” I wanted that to sound lighthearted but there was also a tone of eagerness, perhaps over-eagerness in my voice. I wanted that girl; I wanted her badly, right now.
Almost immediately she began unzipping and then unbuckling my pants
She said, “Let's get this thing out already.” When my cock sprang out I expected her to praise it or at least comment on it but she was moving at a different, faster pace.
“You’d like a blowjob from me, wouldn’t you?”
I considered some quip like, nah, I really should catch up on some editing, but I didn’t have a Groucho Marx level of sangfroid. Already, I was thinking, a blowjob is an excellent way to get started. Plus, I was already considering a plan to keep my girlfriend and have Clary as my “side girl,” a friend with benefits as it was later called.
Yet I still hesitated, and she put her face close to my cheek. Her voice was low as she said into my ear, “Look, I’ve got a deal for you. I'll blow you but you have to promise me that you'll get my article accepted in the paper.”
Of course, Clary didn’t know the true nature of how things worked at The Salient, If I had been a real gentleman, then perhaps I would have informed her of the details. But maybe there were not many such gentlemen when a lady’s cunt and mouth were so close by. I was about to be blown by her and I didn’t want to jeopardize my chances.
She certainly knew good blowjob techniques, licking and kissing my cock in just the right ways. She pulled my pants lower and stroked my ass. Yet, underneath my lust, I had some doubts. Is this Clary really interested in me, or only what I can do for her?
I briefly looked back at the windows behind me which completely lacked curtains or shades. The nearest apartment buildings were about two blocks away on 130th Street and I doubted anybody with high-powered binoculars was over there.
And even if there was somebody, so what? They’d be laughed at if they called the police and said, I saw through my binoculars that there is a blowjob occurring in City College across the way.
Even with those various downsides I still enjoyed myself, at least in a purely physical way. I ran my fingers through her dark hair and said things like, “Oh Clary, your mouth is so nice on my cock.” Everybody says such things. It did indeed feel good, but there was something – passion? – missing from the act. I got the impression that she was just blowing me as a kind of job or assignment. But I was too young to analyze it further.
When I was about to climax she must have known from my voice alone that it was going to happen. She pulled my cock out of her mouth and stroked me with her hands. Then she pushed my hips to the left just enough so that I spurted most of my cum onto the table. A little bit did land on her blouse.
As I backed off, I wanted to hug and kiss her but I didn't get the sense that she wanted any affection from me. Rather, she flicked at her blouse and said, “Oh, my; do you have a handkerchief I could borrow?”
Her annoyed tone was as if I had dripped some mayonnaise on her clothes. After cleaning up she sat down on a couch by the wall and I followed her there. Normally after a sexual session like that with a girl, I wanted to get into some post-act cuddling and then some chat. Yet I was still aware of her indifference to me and of even having sex with me.
After pulling my clothes together I improvised the next step; I tried to put my arm around her shoulders. She pushed me away and said, “Hey, don’t do that.”
I tried another approach. “Clary, let's go downtown and get something to eat; maybe in the Village. I'll get a cab for us.” I was already considering restaurants for us to go to.
She frowned. “Paul, it's only fair to tell you that I’m not dating you. In fact, I'm not going to give you any more sexual stuff with you until my first article is published.”
“Wait a minute, we just said. . . ”
“We agreed to the acceptance of a story; then there's the matter of actually getting it printed and put out there.”
Wow, this hippie has a ruthless side. Was she going to dole out one sexual favor for each article we published? “What's all this concern about getting published in the first place?”
She was very honest about it. “That’s obvious; I need some clips for when I go out, you know, looking for a job.”
I didn’t tell her that only a handful of people ever got hired because of The Salient. One guy went all the way to a newspaper in Stuttgart, Arkansas to land a position.
I said, “But you don't even know what you’re writing about. And our next issue doesn't come for another two months.”
“More time to think about it then." I could see her pondering something. “Maybe you’ll get another article by me in there next fall and I’ll let you spank me.” She giggled. “I know I’ve been a very bad girl.”
Whacking her round little ass did interest me, but I didn’t want to tell her that and confirm it. “What makes you think I’d do something like that to you?”
“Come on, I know men. You’re all sadists, even so-called nice guys like you.”
That was hardly a compliment. There was a tone of contempt in her voice. Besides, I was more concerned about what was happening now, not next semester.
I said, “So, anyway, all of this – the blowjob I mean – was just sort of a down payment then?” I noted that she had received no pleasure for herself during our sexual acts together.
She replied, “You do have a way with words. Yes, you could call it a down payment. Anyway, I hope you really do have a girlfriend; otherwise, you are going to be masturbating all summer, like maybe you did last summer too.”
That was gratuitously nasty, and it triggered me. In addition, I was angry at myself for my own foolishness. My normal instinct to placate people disappeared.
“Clarissa, in my opinion, you are a complete, straight-up little whore."
Now I had triggered her, “I beg your pardon?” She glared at me. “What did you just call me?”
“You heard me; I called you a whore. I think that is accurate. Everything with you is pay-to-play. I don’t think I need to explain it any further.”
She jumped up and grabbed her bag so quickly that she surprised me. When I saw how fast she was leaving, I got even nastier. “Where are you going? To turn some tricks in Riverside Park?”
She seemed exasperated and she lashed out at me, “You jerk, I wish I could take that blowjob back, but I can’t.”
“It’s right there.” I pointed to the semen on the table. “Lick it up if you want it back.”
“You’re a complete asshole, do you know that?”
I tried to remain calm but I failed, “And you're a total strumpet as I said.” I thought I was clever by coming up with a synonym for whore. “Get out of here and peddle your ass over at The Campus. You can prostitute yourself to the gang in there and see how far you get.” Our rival publication had its office two doors down from ours.
She strode over to the door, unlocked it, and opened it. Before leaving she lifted her skirt and mooned me with her bare ass. “Don't expect to ever see this again.”
“No great loss.”
She had to have the last words. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.” I had heard that insult before and I assumed it intensified her angry feelings. “And fuck your stupid electric trains too, you little prick.”
Then she was gone. I didn’t even know her last name.
****
After closing the door, I went back to the desk. That had not been a calm or entertaining day. I felt jangled from the sudden bout of oral sex followed by the equally sudden argument and the insults we had traded with each other. I decided to stay in the office for a while longer. I sat by the windows for a while considering the just concluded events.
That little morality play had revealed how crass I could be. I had lied to her and catered to her misconceptions because I believed I could get some sex out of her. Also, I had cheated on my girlfriend, who had been very kind to me. And oral sex did count, as Bill Clinton would find out years later.
I hoped not to run into Clary on campus during the next semester. Actually, it could be worse than that; perhaps she would come back and try again with somebody else. Maybe she would get on the paper for the fall semester and then she would find out that I had misled her.
I had the paranoid notion that she would hold a grudge and would start blabbing to other people, including my girlfriend, about what had happened. I couldn’t stop Clary from joining the paper and I couldn’t control what she would do there. It seemed shockingly easy to make an enemy.
The idea of being on the staff with Clarissa made me feel queasy. I had jeopardized my existing relationship in the hope of getting into her sleazy snatch. For a moment I considered trying to contact my girlfriend. She was more ambitious than I was, and she earned enough at her jobs to afford an apartment in Queens. I decided to put that on hold because I was feeling so much guilt.
Perhaps I calmed myself a bit by trying to think logically. It seemed likely that Clary already had a real boyfriend somewhere out there, maybe at our school. Also, I assumed that she would figure out that The Campus, with its more conventional content, was a better place for job opportunities. The New York Times stringer for City College was on their staff.
To distract myself, I noted the buildings I could see in the distance. There was the State Office Building on 125th Street, the former Theresa Hotel, the Schomburg Plaza apartments on 110th Street, and beyond that, Mount Sinai Hospital. The upper part of the borough was developing quite a skyline.
I wondered what kind of dramas were being played out in those places. As for Finley Hall, I was feeling anxious and more than a little sorry for myself. I understood the little drama that had just played out in there.
There was nothing to be done about it by then.
*****
The events depicted here are entirely fictitious but the settings existed at the time.
The Salient is based on an actual student newspaper of that era although it had a different name. The Monty Hall ad and the Lionel train essay were items published in January 1975.
There also really was a guy who went to Stuttgart, AR, for a job.
A stringer is someone, either paid or unpaid, who is informally assigned by a newspaper to cover a beat, usually their own neighborhood, workplace, or school.
#####
