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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This
story is the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or
downloaded for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for
anyone to download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as
long as there is no intent to charge money or barter for the
privilege of acquiring this material.

(copyright 2001, Rev. Cotton Mather)

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Remember
By Rev. Cotton C. Mather



Am I remembering?

Or is it something from a lifetime ago?

Before we were we, when you were you and I was me.

It was a crazy time.

The streets were burning, and I was there.

Did I know you then? No, I don't think so. I would remember.

I knew you were near, though. I could feel you. I know that now.

All I knew then was that there was...something...incomplete...about
the way I was living.

And behaving.

My parents would never have understood. Or even recognized me. 
During that time.

Sex. And drugs. And rock and roll. There was fighting in the street.
I was a street-fightin' man. I was living a songwriter's dream.

Marching and getting maced and looking at Hell's Angels dressed up
as "security" and crying for the fallen here at home and cursing the
fallen across the sea in another world and then going back to our
little places to drink and eat and smoke and lose ourselves in sweat
and saliva and secretions.

Am I remembering?

I think so.

Nothing succeeds like excess. And I excelled at excess.

A dozen or so of us in a small 2-bedroom apartment, a few in the
kitchen fixing dinner for all of us, the rest in the main room, no
lights on, candles everywhere. Groups of two or three on the couch,
on the floor, in front of the dark television. On the closet floor.

The music loud, a faint blue-white haze near the ceiling, Jimi and
Janis, Airplane and The Lizard King looking silently on from the
walls. I'm passing the pipe, taking as big a hit as I can. I'm lying
on the couch, with another whose name I cannot recall, the two of us
getting as close together as we can on the narrow cushions, me wedged
into the back, she on top. I hand her the pipe, she takes a toke,
then leans over and passes it to another on the floor below her. She
settles back onto me, her head on my chest. She sings softly along
with the music as she is lying there. I have one arm around her
shoulder, holding her tightly to me, my other hand is under her shirt.

I loved that time. Freedom. Independence. Radicalism. Free
expression. Explorations of life, love, sexuality.

No bras.

I loved that time.

A contented purr comes unbidden from her as I play with her turgid
nipple. She is a rail-thin waif with long brown hair, straight as a
ruler, down to the middle of her back. I could smell her shampoo. 
She is dressed in bell-bottoms and a tie-dyed t-shirt, one bare foot
rubbing up and down my shin, the other pressed tightly against my
foot. Slim-hipped, her breast is small but pliant, and she enjoys the
attentions I am paying to it.

I feel her jerk slightly and shift her weight. She lifts up and
kisses me, hard, her lips insistent, her tongue searching. She gasps
into my mouth, and sucks my tongue into her mouth. She moans, breaks
the kiss, and her head falls back, her eyes closed, her breathing
rapid, her face flushed. I feel her moving, nearly undulating, on the
couch. I look down our entwined bodies and see another's arm, nearly
disembodied in my enhanced state, snaking up from the direction of
the floor. There is no hand attached, the arm seemingly ending just
above the wrist as it disappears under the unbuttoned fly of her
jeans. The arm moves, flexes, moves. Her body writhes in concert with
the movement of the arm.

I struggle up to a sitting position, and the scene evolves into
something more real, more unreal.

One of my roommates, on the floor. It is his arm I see, his hand is
stroking my girl's slit, his finger waging its own tiny war with her
clitoris. His eyes are also closed, as he is concentrating on the
sensations being created by the artist with him on the floor, an
artist in fleshly pleasures. She is nearly the twin of the one on
the couch, with somewhat darker hair and larger breasts. Her shirt
is open, his jeans are undone. His left hand is entwined in her hair,
gripping, expressive in its intensity, as she is sucking hard on his
cock, her cheeks hollowed with her efforts. As I watch, she brings
her lips up to the crown, then plunges down until his pubic hair is
tickling her nose. He groans. I groan in sympathy, in anticipation,
in youthful exuberance, in sympathy again. The net effect is to make
his finger buried deep in the pussy of the girl on the couch to
clench, unclench, and clench again. This causes her to hunch against
his hand, relax, then push up once more against his ministrations. I
squeeze her breast hard, run my thumb back and forth across her
nipple, then lean down and press my lips to her ear, and thrust my
tongue into her ear canal. She whimpers, and whines, and cums hard on
my roomie's hand. She turns her head and kisses me as ferociously as
she can, as her mind whirls with the sensations of the three of us,
the smoke, the smells, the sounds.

She slides the hand out of her jeans, and turns to me. She takes my
hand, the one under her shirt, and pushes it down her belly until I
feel the silken fabric of her panties. I rub her under her jeans,
back and forth, hip to hip, on each swing of my pendulum reaching
slightly lower. I can feel that her underwear is soaked through, and
the sensation causes my heart rate to accelerate and hot blood to
flow to my crotch, creating an almost delicious rigidity that aches
for relief. She slips one leg underneath mine, while the other drops
to the floor, creating more room for my hand and arm.

She, in turn, loosens my belt and tugs at the buttons holding my
jeans together. She feels the dampness coating my underwear, then I
feel her fingernails lightly scratch along the elastic, then snake
underneath, and glancingly rub across the head of my cock. 
Constricted, still it throbs at the touch. Her fingers blindly,
lightly explore, then move down, and hold on. She squeezes, then rubs
up and down, then squeezes again. I hear a groan, and with surprise
realize it's me that is groaning. In retaliation, I push her jeans
down off her hips. She lifts up, allows me to reach behind her to
remove them, then kicks them off her legs impatiently. She again
positions herself to easily spread her legs, making herself available
to my touch.

I lift myself up and begin to tug off my own jeans, now that they
have been loosened. She helps, and they slip off like water, followed
immediately by my underwear. She kisses me again, a hungry and
demanding joining, our lips pressed almost painfully against each
other's, our tongues battling for dominance like Indian finger-
fighters. The pleasure of our mouths is matched by the pleasures of
our hands. Hers abandon their gripping excercises to brush lightly
downward, caressing my balls, exchanging the energy of their previous
activity for gentle explorations. My fingers find again the soft down
on her stomach, brushing once again back and forth across her waist,
pausing at each passing of her navel to scratch lightly at the
depression. I can feel her muscles shiver at each light search of her
belly button, but my attention is still elsewhere, as she continues
her own explorations of my balls. She rubs her fingertips underneath
the sac, down toward my asshole, then slowly brushes them back up
again, all the way to the base of my cock. Her actions cause my own
stomach muscles to quiver, both of us lost in a feast of the senses.

I run my fingertips down, down between her spread legs. As they rub
between her engorged lips, I press her panties into her slit as I
continue down and between. She thrusts her tongue deep into my mouth,
encouraging me, anticipating the frenzied conclusion we are building
toward. All other sounds, sights, external stimuli have paled beside
the experience of the moment between the two of us. We are alone
among the crowd, the inexhorable sense of time suspended, just she
and I standing outside the realm of the real.

I feel, more than hear, her moan into my mouth. Her panties are
soaked, and warm. I pull aside the legband and my fingers are
immediately drenched with her juices. Her slit has flowered open, and
I run my fingertips along her, up to her clit. As soon as I touch it,
she breaks our kiss with a gasp, and her hips begin their rocking
once more. I rub her clit again, then slowly rub down through her
open slit once more, and push my fingertip into her opening, and
stop. Her vagina clenches my finger, trying to suck it up further in,
and her hips continue to rock up and down. She is gasping, rolling
her head back and forth, her hair in her eyes, her mouth open, her
eyes wide and unseeing as she concentrates on the sensations
emanating from her center. The movement of her hand on my cock has
stopped, and she is gripping it like a lifeline. This works for me,
removing the sensations she had been causing that were driving me
closer and closer to my own little death.

I stop being gentle. I thrust my middle finger into her hole, until
my palm is resting on her mound. I move my finger out, then in again,
twice, three times. On the next thrust, I add my index finger. She
cries out, and her whole body contracts as she tries to gain even
more penetration. Again I move out, and in, and again, and again,
pistoning, my timing adjusting to the movement of her hips and the
whistling of her breath. I rub her clit once more, roughly, with my
thumb, and am rewarded by a wheezing cry, rising in pitch as the
sensation of her climax overcomes her. Her pussy exudes during her
climax, coating all my fingers, the palm of my hand, and her thighs
as she pulses them together and apart, trying to prolong the ecstasy
she is feeling.

I grab her by the hips, and roll over onto my back, bringing her
with me. She sits up, lifts herself up onto her knees. With one hand
she pulls the leg of her panties to one side, with the other she
grabs my cock and places the head against her cunt. My hands on her
hips guide her down, and she twists and sinks, oh so slowly,
agonizingly, upon my length. When she feels me fully in her, she
collapses down to lie on me, hardly moving. I can feel her vagina
pulse and clench against my buried cock, the heat and the pressure
and the moisture combining to rob me of any rational thought. My
hands stroke her from her shoulders, down her back,reveling in the
soft feel of her hair, down to her silken covered ass, slipping under
the elastic of her waistband, then resuming the travel back to her
shoulders.

After a moment, she lifts up, and begins moving against me, up and
down. My hands of their own volition move to her swollen breasts, and
my palms remain still as her movement rubs her red tips back and
forth across them. She watches me, I watch her. I see, deep within
her eyes, the moment. You know which moment, don't you? The moment
when she begins the inevitable climb up, the moment when she knows
she will be able to go to completion. The look in her eyes triggers a
quickening in my brain, transfers the information through my
bloodstream directly to the pulsing cock buried within her. The
renewed expansion and contraction in turn creates a sympathetic tidal
motion within her, and the rhythmic pulsing causes the natural
tightness of her cunt to apply even more friction, until we are
experiencing something akin to velvet encasing steel, anticipating
the unbearable, preparing for the coming explosion. I lift up my head
and capture one swollen nipple between my lips, and gently use my
teeth to rasp across its bumpy surface. She throws her head back and
arches her back, pushing her breast against my mouth, and cums.

She opens her mouth to scream, but no sound escapes. Her entire
lower body, from calf to pelvis, contracts against me. The resulting
increase in pressure triggers my explosion, and I feel my cock expand
and jerk as the semen pumps deep into her well. Six, seven, eight
times the pump jets its supply against her walls as she endures her
own silent climax.

At last, she trembles with her exertions, and collapses down into my
arms. We are slick with sweat. I can feel the dampness underneath her
hair at the back of her neck, and in the crack of her ass, as I
continue to run my fingers along her back and buttocks.

As if waking from a dream, she sits up and looks around. The room is
empty, but sounds of festivity are coming from the area of the
kitchen. She climbs off me, sits on the edge of the couch, and
dresses. In languor, I am reluctant to move, until she tells me she's
hungry and stands. I find my clothes rumpled on the floor, and put
them back on.

We are done for the moment.

Was it you? No.

Was it me? I think so. I'm no longer sure.

It was an incident repeated, with infinite variations and many
different partners, often during the Summer of Love. Of course, the
Summer was followed by the Fall, and by the Winter, and the Spring,
with another Summer to follow. It was a complicated time, it was a
simpler world. The love we were so willing to share did not become
deadly for several more years. We were lucky.



But you. You were near. I knew it. It colored all the times I was so
hedonistic. So self-destructive. So...willing to live for the moment?
Waiting for True Love? Waiting for Godot?

I don't know. All I know is that, eventually, it was you.

And it was me.

And still is.

Us.

Thank you for saving me from myself.

Thank you.