Cantata (The Organist)Cantata (The Organist)


C. 1971

Ken pulled out of Carol an inch or so, baring the base of his cock forward of his dark pubic hair. He pulled back even further, affording me the room to lower my lips to his glossy shaft. He had a thick one, flat as a blade across the curving upper surface but with a beautiful aqua vein running down its length. I could feel this vein, this narrow, softer, compliant part against my lower lip as I kissed and kissed his perfect cock.

When he pulled out altogether, whether accidentally or on purpose I don’t know, and his penis sprang up like a Jack-in-the-box, Carol said “Hey! That’s for me!” They both laughed as I began sucking the wondrous, arced thing. My mouth’s recoiling time with the whole, or nearly the whole, of Ken’s cock was brief, however. After telling me “That’s enough” he bent his rod back down and pushed it all the way back into Carol in one thrust, eliciting from her a gasp, and another joke.

“Welcome back,” she said.

Ken’s re-entry was my cue to shift my naked body up the bed to my right. I, too, was hard, but compared to Ken’s monster my penis, though long and curved like his, was insignificant. Years later I would sometimes be told, flattered, by lovers male and female, that I had a beautiful penis. And I would think to myself, thanks, but you should have seen Carol’s lover Ken’s back in the day.

Carol’s smallish, but firm and perfectly formed tits were the kind that turned out to the sides. Now, as Ken began, in earnest, his motion, my lips, which so recently had slid down and then up Ken’s cock, circled Carol’s rosy-brown left nipple. As Ken fucked her Carol suckled me, the combination of sensations drawing from her, invariably:

“Oh you two…You drive me crazy. Christ!”

When Carol orgasmed, each time, her body shuddered involuntarily with such force it pulled her tit from her mouth, and I had to seek it out again, chase it as it were, like some kind of bobbing-for-apples contest at a church picnic. Carol was the church organist, Ken, several years her junior, a newly elected deacon. When not attending to church business, or not at home with his wife and two young children, or not with Carol, or Carol and me, Ken practiced law. In fact he’d just started up his own firm with an old law school buddy of his, who also attended our church, though irregularly. Their speciality was a new field: auto accidents.

After Ken finally came, and pulled out, Carol kept her shapely, muscular legs high in the air, holding them behind the knees. This was my cue, now, to awkwardly roll into the 69 position with her. Bolstering her pretty head with another pillow, she would take my relatively slender cock in her mouth while I plied, with my lips and tongue, her just-inseminated vagina.

“Gentle,” Carol would always remind me. In fact, one of my duties, later in the day, was always to run Carol a warm bath, with Epsom salts. “I get these little tears down there, you know?”

“Because Silivri Escort he’s so rough?”

“He’s not rough, he’s always gentle. A sweetheart.”

“What then?” At 19 I was still a virgin, and women’s bodies, their workings, were still something of a mystery to me. Sex something illicit and titillating—the kind of thrill I got sneaking a pack of Lucky Strikes down the front of my pants while behind my mother in the check-out line at the grocery store. The evil daring of it: delicious! And then smoking them, the sheer pleasure of it, late at night behind our house!

“His size, honey. The size of his penis.”

“Oh.” Adding, “I knew that.”

There is a fantasy, a fallacy I’ve since discovered, that husbands, wannabe cuckolds engage in when thinking about their wives with other men. Eating one’s wife in the immediate aftermath is called a creampie, the connotation implying that cum, freshly deposited in a pussy, a vagina, will be as thick and sweet and fragrant as a slice of just-baked pie at a roadside diner. Yum. But as I learned early on, with Carol and Ken and even the lovers she took before him (they did not last long), this is wishful thinking, a misconception.

A newly inseminated vagina, though it may be creamy (runny is more like, as if the slice of pie had melted on a window sill, in the southern heat) does not taste sweet. The opposite is more true. It tastes, smells of the funk of sex: the friction of flesh, a woman’s juices, cooked meat (or sometimes raw), even stale urine in some cases. Any sweetness attached to the occasion comes not from a man’s sperm, lost hopelessly in the mix, the stew of sex, but from the residue of lubricant used to facilitate smooth and painless copulation. This is a fact. I knew. I know.

Still, eating a woman after she’s had sex has its own rewards. It’s an acquired taste, like transitioning from sweet wines to bone-dry reds. Or learning to love caviar. Or…biting into a caper-ladened forkful of bright-red, ground sirloin. It’s an adult thing, for many.

Honestly, had my cock not been in Carol’s overly eager mouth, I could have eaten her indefinitely. For hours. But I came down her throat, gravity being what it is, invariably, minutes after we began. At which point the room, my whole world, spun, and it was as if the mask of a beautiful face had been ripped away, revealing something ugly, hideous. I wanted out of there, instantly. I wanted to be out of the bedroom!

Cum and all the collateral covered the entire bottom half of my face. It was up my nostrils. I would hastily pass Ken coming back from the bathroom after wiping his genitals clean. His time with us was short. It was Saturday afternoon (sometimes he banged Carol on a weekday, when time allowed, just the two of them) and Ken had to get back to the wife and kids. He had to be…presentable. Clean.

Carol, who always spit my cum, any man’s cum, out into a wad of tissues (she did not like Silivri Escort Bayan to swallow), had taught me early on in our threesomes: Don’t only wash your face; gargle afterwards. You have funk on your breath. I had two choices in our bathroom: Listerine, which I hated. It tasted disgusting and reminded me of illness, colds, sore throats. And something new, sweet and blue-green in color, sort of like the subterranean vein running through the top of Ken’s hard cock, only brighter, and transparent in glass. I always opted for the latter, though the smell, the funk I’d tried, futilely, to wash, to scrub away with soap…would linger well into the next day, as I traversed the open hallways and grass spaces of my community college, hoping to meet a willing girl.

Ken never kissed Carol goodbye on the mouth as far as I ever saw. Undoubtably, he was as disgusted at that point by the thought of my cum in her mouth as I was, now, tasting the sting of mouthwash, by the thought of his sperm residue in her vagina. She did pull a robe on, tightly, over her naked, petite body and follow his haste to the front door, the vestibule. I imagined him pecking her cheek and saying “I’ll call, darling. Love you!”

After our third or fourth time together, our odd threesome, my mom popped the question: “What do you think of Ken?”

I remember shrugging. “I like him.”

“So do I!” my mom said, as if it needed saying, her blue eyes wide and sparkling. I was still in the bedroom, and she’d returned, avoiding what little wetspot there was, but sitting up against the headboard, smiling, her short robe still on but opening at the front, the tie coming loose, revealing, not that I hadn’t seen it before, the golden triangle of her bush, her flat belly with the scar up its center to her navel, her wide cleavage…

I should add that I only called mom “Carol” when one of her lovers was around, Ken, of course, being the latest and the greatest. Since most of the guys, in my experience, who fucked her were church men…calling my mother by her name depersonalized things. “Just call me Carol, OK?” she said to me that first time, that first guy, our first threesome, the youth pastor, before opening the door. That way it made it seem like I was just another partner in that afternoon’s mix of fun and sex. I asked about Ken:

“Are you going to marry him, mom?”

Carol laughed. “Of course not! He has a beautiful wife and two kids! I’m not a home-wrecker. I’m not like your father.” Mom, realizing her silk robe had come undone, tugged it to, toward body’s centerline. “Have you heard from him?”

“Dad? No. Not in a while.”



Another laugh. This one tossing her head back. Mom had a golden bush. And golden-brown hair, thick and brushed back from her forehead. She had a petite body, a gymnast’s build though her metier had always been music. Music. Bach. Though an organist she always, outside Escort Silivri church, used to make me listen to his cantatas. Which he wrote, in preparation for each Sunday, with the ease with which most of us toss off an insignificant letter. It would be decades later, when I was older and mom was old, OLD, though still beautiful, before, revisiting them, I came to realize, to understand and appreciate, their often ethereal, incomparable beauty. Bach’s cantatas.

“Your father doesn’t communicate with me. Are you kidding? What do you want for dinner?”

“Do you want me to run you a warm bath?”

Mom smiled. “That’s so sweet of you. Yes—but after dinner.”

One time, decades later, I was driving along a twisting, two-lane road in Northern California, wine country. I had the radio on, a San Francisco station. Sunday morning. They were playing a Bach cantata. Translated: “One foot in the grave…” Or something. I was so…transported by it, I had to pull off, into gravel, abruptly, on the side of the road. Tears flooded my eyes as I listened. I thought of mom.

The day we talked, elusively, about dad, Carol and me, and about our joint but uniquely separate sexual affections for Ken, the young deacon with the beautiful, transcendent cock, mom, an excellent cook, made dinner for the two of us: center-cut pork chops in a sour-cream and white wine sauce with capers, crispy-fried sweet potato chips, and a tartly sweet salad of greens with walnuts and whole cranberries. She was way ahead of her time. I was underage—barely 19-but mom let me have a glass of Alsatian Riesling with our meal. Or was it a Gewurtztraminer?

One glass.

After the delicious meal mom—Carol—instructed me to go run her a warm bath. She was sore inside. Tomorrow was Sunday—two church services, and then again Sunday night, it was endless—and she needed to be at her best, at the organ. Plus she’d been hired to do a funeral on Monday. Bach organ preludes. Or was it Tuesday?

I watched my beautiful, naked, petite mother lower herself into the salted bath, with a pleasurable sigh. I was about to leave, and go do the dishes when Carol said:

“If you’re ever going to please a woman, a wife…you’re gonna have to learn not to cum so soon. Understand?”

“Do I?”

Mom, up to her outturned little breasts in clearish water, larger than life, like a fish being reeled in to a boat, nodded. Dad had taken me fishing once. Once. A long time ago. He caught the fucking trout but he let me reel it in.

“Yes, darling. We can work on it together. There are ways.”

“Are there?”

“Yes, but when Ken isn’t around.” Mom was stirring the water above her naked body. Stirring it like sauce in a sauté pan. She’d offered to teach me—her cooking secrets. She said I could be her protégé. And that there was nothing effeminate about being a good cook. Yes, I could continue wearing her panties (a size too small) but…I would have to watch out for the burning spill of hot oil, or butter. Someday I might be a world-famous chef, who knows?


“Yes, my darling.”

“I love Ken.”

Carol, sitting up in bed, robe once again coming open, perhaps intentionally, smiled. “So do I.”

“I wish he was my father.”

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