One hot evening, after a long ride up the I-95, we arrived in Watervale, Maine, and made our way to the back of the treeless parking lot of the Redlington Funeral Home. At the appointed hour, the kind folk of Watervale arrived in their cars and picked up the various members of the orchestra, and one by one, took them back to their homes for the night. With everyone safely checked off my list, I was the only one left unclaimed, trying to keep cool in the shade of the bus.
Suddenly, a red convertible came screeching around the corner from Elm Street, raced up Park Road and skidded to a halt by the sidewalk. The door flew open and a leg came out. It was a long, tapered leg that started in a high heel and ended in God’s own country, somewhere under a skirt that was hiked up around the wearer’s waist as she hoisted herself out of the car and moved towards the bus.
The other leg spoke well for itself too, and together they knew how to walk. It was a strut, a swish and a large part wiggle. If only she had parked further away I would have had more time to enjoy the spectacle. I didn’t want to shift my eyes away from those legs, but I knew I had to take in the whole body and even her face before she got too close and my staring would have lacked the courtesy expected in small town, New England.
Unwillingly I dragged my eyes upwards, but I was not disappointed. The woman had an extraordinary figure; an amazingly narrow waist above those swivel hips, and above that a Barbie-proportioned bosom that swung in counterbalance to the movement below.
It was obvious that her chest was not constricted by any unnatural support, and as she bounced forward towards me I could clearly make out the shape of her nipples through a rather tight silky white blouse.
By now, she was so close that I had to look away.
“Are you Derek?”
“Yes! Are you Mrs. Worthy?”
“Ramona. Sorry I’m so late; I fell asleep under the tanning lamp.”
“Oh,” I gulped.
“You see, I trying to get rid of my bikini line. Look, you can hardly see it any more.”
She grabbed one side of her blouse and pulled it away from her shoulder giving me a tantalizing glimpse of a very bronzed bosom. It was true, there was no white line to be seen.
As we walked towards her Mustang, I got a chance to study her face. She was blond, very blond, and extremely pretty. She had wide set eyes and a large mouth. She was overly made up, and her lips were a brilliant red that matched her car. She seemed so out of place here, looking basically like a high priced whore. As we climbed into the car, I became mesmerized by her lips. She had a sort of Marilyn Monroe pout, and I missed most of what she was saying because my mind was on a trip of it’s own, traveling wildly through a day dream that involved what I’d like to see between those lips.
Unwillingly again I snapped back to the present when I heard her ask me a question.
“Would that be all right, Derek?”
“Ah, sorry, I missed that.... what did you say?”
“I said, would it be OK with you if you slept on the couch tonight. You see, we forgot we had invited this other couple over tonight and they’ll be in the guest bedroom.”
“Oh sure! No problem!”
My mind took off on another vast leap into fantasy land, but it returned in a rush when I looked across and saw her lift the front of her skirt off her lap and start flapping it.
“So humid, isn’t it? I can’t stand this weather.”
She dropped her skirt high on her thighs.
“Look, no bikini line,” she said as she lifted it higher on one side.
I didn’t see any bikini line. But then again, I wasn’t looking for bikini lines. I was looking for panties. There weren’t any!
Invited to look, I tried to see if she were a true blond, but no luck, she dropped her skirt again and drove on. I had a hard time deciding where to cast my eyes... at her long blond tresses billowing forwards as we sped up Main Street... at her sensual mouth... her gorgeous legs... or just to keep staring at the outline of her nipples.
My better side finally won out. I decided to play it safe and just watch the road instead. A good guest pays attention to what the host wife is saying.
“That’s the fire station. My husband works there. Now, don’t you pay too much attention to my Jerry. He’s an old chauvinist pig and he’s blunt as hell.”
She was right. As soon as we arrived at their modest house on Ridge Road, I was introduced to him and the first thing he said was true to form.
“You a musician or something?”
“That’s right,” I replied, “I direct a school orchestra.”
“Are you a homosexual like all them others?”
“No sir! I’m a practicing heterosexual.”
“Well, that’s good. Now Ramona, you go cook us some dinner; I got something I want to show Derek here.”
Ramona gave me a secret wink that meant, ‘I told you so,’ and left for the kitchen. Jerry disappeared into his den and reappeared with a fistful of old girlie magazines. He laid them on the coffee table and paged through, pointing out his favorite woman, and I realized my reactions were being monitored. I played the really butch guy, enthusiastically admiring his top choices.
“What do think? Natural or not?”
“I guess natural.”
“Yup, you’re right. I don’t like them fake ones. Now come here.”
Jerry took me into his den. It was completely wallpapered with centerfolds. I stood there, slowly turning and taking it all in, enjoying every ‘come hither’ look on the airbrushed beauties.
I could tell that Jerry was pleased with my reaction because he rewarded me with his big trophy. Behind the door he had a framed, life-sized poster. It showed a gorgeous, naked woman with incredible legs that seemed to go on for ever. There were small triangular patches of white skin that had been left untanned on her tits. Her face was mostly hidden by a mop of blond hair.
I realized at once who it was just as Jerry proudly announced, “That’s my Ramona! Penthouse’s Pet of the Month, August 1987!”
“Wow!” was all I could muster up. Somehow the picture was even sexier than it might have been because I knew the woman herself. She was posed in a luxurious bedroom, legs wide apart, very high heels, hands on her hips, her pouting lips half hidden behind her hair. Her tits were full and round and her nipples and aureolas were much larger than any of the others in the room.
Her genitals were clearly showing and it took me a moment to realize why - she was clean shaven! Back in those days, this was not a common practice. Now I understood why I hadn’t been able to ascertain if she was a natural blond or not. No pubic hair!
“Gets you right there, don’t it!” Jerry commented, grabbing his balls.
It was true. My balls were definitely tingling.
Dinner was an exercise in self control. I forced my eyes to stay at eye level. The conversation revolved around Ramona’s modeling career, how Jerry had discovered her working in a strip joint and had become her manager. Now he was trying to get her into Hollywood movies and her Penthouse spread had attracted a lot of attention.
“How’s your tan coming, Honey?”
“Fine, dear.”
“What about the bikini line?”
“All gone.”
“Even that bit on your ass?”
“Yes, dear.”
“I find that hard to believe. Show me.”
Dutifully Ramona stood up, turned around and lifted her skirt, showing off her ass. It was naked and gloriously tanned.
“Derek, she don’t believe me. What about you; can you see a bikini line there? Honey, step over here. See if Derek can find a bikini line.”
Ramona came around the side of the table and stood next to me. She lifted her skirt and modeled her ass for me. It was utterly smooth but had a peach skin fuzz of blond hair on it. There was clearly still a patch of paler skin where her bikini had been.
“Derek! Show her where it is. She never takes my word on anything. Go on. Put your finger on it.”
I did as I was told and my balls vibrated again as I touched her ass. I had trouble swallowing the rest of my dinner.
“You do the clean up, Honey. I have a couple of things to show Derek.”
Jerry led me away to their living room and we sat in front of a TV set.
“I think you’re the kind of man who might like this,” he told me as he selected a video and started it going. It was a compilation of stills and movies that Jerry had put together himself, starring his wife.
At first she appeared posing awkwardly with her 8 x 10 photo on the billboard outside the Pink Poodle where she was the featured stripper. Then there came shots of her taken at the modeling agency, followed by pictures of her shaking hands with someone just after signing a contract. Jerry had it all documented.
Next there was footage of them getting married at a small wedding chapel somewhere, and more stills and movies of them both at a Holiday Inn pool. I recognized the bikini from its particular triangular design and the angle at which it cut across her backside.
The interesting thing was that Jerry always took pictures - not only of his gorgeous wife - but of the people who were sitting around enjoying her obvious charms. Even now, he was still keenly observing my reactions to every scene and I was getting less and less inhibited about sharing my lustful appreciation.
The honeymoon photos moved on to a private Jacuzzi somewhere in the mountains, and now Ramona didn’t bother with a bathing suit at all, and the effect was stunning. There were several shots of her jumping half way out of the water with her breasts flying upwards and her hair streaming backwards, flinging out a graceful arc of water.
There were shots of her doing somersaults in the water and the only part of her that you could see was her perfect ass with the white bikini marks on it. One shot clearly showed a shock of black hair between her legs which answered my question. OK, the blond came out of a bottle!
“When did she begin to shave?” I ventured to ask.
“The Penthouse deal,” he responded. “That’s what clinched it. They gave us an extra 5,000 bucks to shave it off on camera for their videos.”
The next few pictures showed them both outside the Penthouse offices, and then a brief moment of the actual Penthouse video itself being filmed until a hand appeared and blocked the lens.
“They wouldn’t let me film in there,” Jerry explained as the video ended. “They’re gonna send me a complimentary copy when they done editing.”
We both sat quietly for a few moments, rerunning some of the scenes in our minds. Jerry wasn’t that great with the camera, but his model certainly made up for it.
“You’re pretty handy with that camera, Jerry.”
“Thanks! Did you ever use one of ’em?”
“Yeah. Not as fancy as your’s. That’s a video camera, right? Mine takes little movies. It’s a Super 8.”
We lapsed into silence again, but I could tell that Jerry wanted to say something more.
At last he came out with it.
“You know, we’ve invited this couple over tonight--”
“Yea, I know. Ramona told me. It’s OK. I’m fine on the couch.”
No, it’s not that. It’s John and Karen. She used to be a dancer at the Folies Bergère. I was going to ask John, but he’s about 40 years older than she is and I know he’s useless with equipment.”
Another pause and then he went on, “You know, we’re not swingers.”
I didn’t say anything.
He turned to me and made it even more clear. “We’re definitely not swingers. I guess you could say we’re more like exhibitionists. Last month we went over to their place and he got her to show us her old act. Ooooh! I’m telling you! Tonight’s our turn.”
I was all ears as he went on. “I thought I’d get out my camera, and I was .... ah..... wondering....” He ran out of words.
“You’d like me to film it?” I suggested, trying to help him out, but not wanting to appear too eager.
“Yea!” he replied, grateful that he didn’t have to explain any more. “I’ll owe you big time. Just don’t forget to include John and Karen while they’re watching.”
“I think I could do that. I’ll try to keep out of the way.”
The guests were not due until 8 o’clock, so I had a little time to get used to the controls on his camera. To make it into more of a complete documentary, I thought I’d film some of the backstage action as well as the performance. I also wanted Ramona to get comfy with me filming her, so I went to look for her. She was washing dishes at the kitchen sink. I had the camera rolling as I approached her. She looked up, surprised.
“Oh, do you know how that thing works?”
“Yea, I’m just getting used to it. Mine’s a little different.”
“Oh. Did Jerry ask... um..... ask you if.... um...”
“Yes, he did.”
“Oh good,” she sighed, “I wasn’t sure if we could ask you. You know, we’re terrible show offs. We could probably get arrested as flashers,” she added as she proved her point by lifting her skirt and mooning the camera.
“Did he warn you that it might be a little X rated?”
“Ah, yes, I sort of gathered it might be.”
I was rapidly growing in confidence, knowing that both of them were OK with me doing it.
“Ramona, I’d like to make a little documentary....