L’Origine du Monde by Gustave Courbet 1866. I began to excel in art and history. Now I begin to understand why!
So dear reader, as I mentioned last post that I would tell you everything, but there’s so much! Where do I begin? I guess at the beginning.
I was the middle of four daughters growing up in Jacksonville, Florida. My hot sisters and their sexual escapades caused trouble for my poor, dear half-Italian Mother. No doubt they were incredibly beautiful budding in their adolescence, as was I.
First Mother had a hard time keeping my highly sexual older sister, Vivian, under wraps. Vivian was gorgeous, but not the prettiest of we sisters, maybe being the oldest. But she was lovely nonetheless, exuding an intense sexual aura like that of an Italian movie star with her shapely curvy body and thin waist topped by perky breasts. Her almond- shaped green eyes were like magnets that pulled any boy in toward her sultry, olive skin topped with flowing, thick brown hair. And she had the desire to please.
I was what you consider an Italian twin, born just nine months after Vivian. Followed two years later by my identical twin sisters, Bettina and Regina. They were beautiful with dark hair, and mysterious brown eyes. And they were blessed with the enormous, bouncy breasts that my mother had. By ninth grade starting high school they flaunted those breasts in push-up bras from beneath their Peter Pan-collared white shirted uniforms we had to wear to class at St Peter’s Catholic School. They left the house innocent enough, but changed into them in the girl’s restroom.
“You’re a whore! Only whores wear such clothes!” my Mother always called after my sisters when they ran off with their friends on weekends. They’d wear the tightest t-shirts and low-cut collars that you couldn’t just help but stare at their tits. They loved the shortest of shorts and shoplifted makeup from the 5 and dime.
But their sexual rapaciousness was even worse than Vivian’s, relating to me nightly their stories of masturbating after school at their best friend Jill’s house or giving all the neighbor boys blow jobs. Word got out and they were expelled for giving blow-jobs in the boys bathrooms. Banished to public 9th grade high school, Vivian promptly helped them dye their hair red.
“You’re whores! Only whores dye their hair red!” my Mother cried, holding a picture of Mother Mary. My Mother sobbed to my Father that she couldn’t control my sisters , who was quiet about everything, rocking in a chair and smoking a cigar when he was home. He wasn’t around much. Always on the road as a pharmaceutical salesman, and as I learned later in life, getting his own jollies. So my mother didn’t have much help reeling my sisters in, as My Father seemed just nod in approval as mother complained about their activities and dress. It’s as if he were secretly proud of his seed and what fine stock it produced for masculine tastes and pleasures.
Naturally being the middle child, I became the good girl. Born on her feast day, July 12, I was named after Saint Veronica, patron of laundry and photography. Also the woman who was moved to compassion for Christ and wiped his face with her veil when he fell with the Cross. I took pity on my Mother, who failing to control my sisters and getting no help from my Father, began to drink margaritas with extra salt every afternoon and resigned to an armchair to listen to her Maria Callas records before cooking her famous Italian dinners.
So I shut down my body and excelled in my head, getting good grades in Latin, Greek, history, art and English, studying when I wasn’t working or at school. I stood by Mother’s side to help mitigate my sisters’ lasciviousness, and repress mine. Or at least try.
Look for me, sacred woman and sacred pleasure, in every flower. You will find me there! Meditate upon flowers until my next post!
Even though I tried to control my sisters I was the prettiest of them all. Really pretty. Piercing brown eyes, luscious long brown hair, wide cheeks that I got from my father’s Czech side of the family.
And I was really hot. Exuding the same sexual charisma as my sisters that drove men wild. Only I kept it tightly controlled. I controlled that inherited Latin fever in my loins, the same fever my sisters succumbed to, that I got thinking about my own sexual fantasies. Fantasies I had since childhood. But dared not confess.
I was always stared at and hit on constantly – a smooth brush of the tit from the hand of Mike Mitchell who sat behind me in math class, a slide of the hand on the butt by patrons of my after-school waitress job at Nicoletti’s Pizza Parlor. I always turned my eyes downward from their stares. I have to admit I did like the big tips but I turned away their advances and ran home to Mother.
Now I know all along that men…and women alike… have been picking up my hot cunt scent subliminally, subconsciously, I was emitting it all along….touch me…touch me… I was desperate to be touched, desperate to be fucked and loved, desperate to rip out of these confiding clothing of Catholics and to indulge in the pleasure and satisfaction of giving into raw pleasure and carnal lust of the body and nature that I was denied.
But I pretended to be shy instead, for Mother’s sake, keeping my full, womanly breasts under wraps, eschewing short skirts to hide my long legs. I was to be good for Mother, to be good for Jesus. As a Catholic, I felt guilty for the sexual feelings I had for Jesus. I wanted to be Mary Magdalene. Jesus hung out with the prostitutes. Why would there be anything wrong with it? I wondered. Plus, not having any women or sex seemed unnatural and out of balance. I mean how can pleasure be wrong? How can my beautiful body, my sister’s luscious, sensuous bodies, be wrong?
Plus, the Hindus get to have their Lord Krishna having sex with a thousand Gopi girls and he could have sex with his consort Radha. Why couldn’t Jesus have sex with Mary Magdalene as the ultimate religion? Why not the pleasure of Mary Magdalene’s body merged in bliss instead of the torturous pain of the cross? I wondered this in agony each Sunday as my tongue felt the communion host melt on my tongue. But I shut all that down for Mother.
Look for me, sacred woman and sacred pleasure, in every oval, every work of art. Meditate upon this shape until my next post!
One evening, when Father was gone for a week, just as we were about to sit down to eat, Mother with tears in her eyes stared at her eggplant parmesania and stromboli and wondered where the Twins were.
Vivian crossed her long legs, threw her head back and just laughed, “ As if you should ask Mama!”
“Vivian! Shhhhh!” I scolded, as my mother’s right hand made the sign of the cross across her plump, round body, then reached to open a bottle of red wine.
“I know where they are, Mama. You just sit tight. I’ll get them here for you.” I grabbed the car keys to the Ford and headed straight for Jill’s House.
Jill’s house was a big red-brick mansion out in the woods. Jill’s parents were both doctors, but they must not have been home, because I rang and rang the doorbell, but there was no answer. I could hear the laughter and smell the marijuana, which led me around back down the path to the screened-in pool house.
There I spotted Bettina, Regina and Jill with three guys from church in the jacuzzi! I stood there stunned, watching Regina moaning and masturbating up against the jacuzzi jet stream, one man relaxed sitting next to her watching her and fondling her balloon-like breasts with one hand. Surely he had already come, and nympho Regina just couldn’t get enough and wanted more. No wonder Americans don’t have bidets! I marveled.
Bettina was on top of another guy who was sitting, fucking him and making waves in the tub, while he sucked her tits. Jill was getting fucked in the same position, but smoking a joint and then passing it to the third guy.
I was mesmerized by what I saw. I felt the passion rise in my loins and I began to sweat as I stared at this orgiastic ecstasy of the flesh I witnessed. My hands reached for my own now hardened nipples, then to my neck as my feet continue to be cemented in my tracks. But an owl hooted, and my head took over my senses again as I charged ahead to complete my task.
“Regina! Bettina!” I screamed through the screened pool house. Crickets buzzed as every head turned, and the fucking stopped. I was so flustered as what to say next. So I just stood there. They went back to their fucking! And Regina even climaxed and I stood there and listened to her moan.
“Regina! Bettina!” Come home this instant! Mother wants you home!” Regina exhausted said, “Oh, Mother. Such a nag.”
“It’s dinner time!” I said to no avail.
“We’re not hungry… at least not for food… but for something else,” Bettina laughed, as she took in her fingers the joint from Jill, took a drag and then blew the smoke into her guy’s mouth. They resumed fucking again.
Flabbergast, I sputtered out, “But, but she made stromboli!!!”
Regina and Bettina stopped!
“Mother made stromboli?” They both chimed together, wide-eyed, thick-lipped mouths open in giant O’s. “Really?”
“Yes!!! She made stromboli! Now come home, for Jesus’ sake!” And Mother’s I thought, and mine, as I watched the Twins leap out of the jacuzzi, grab a towel as the guys cried, “Hey!”
They grabbed their public school clothes of T-shirts and short shorts and school bags.
“Don’t worry, guys,” Jill said. “I’ll let you know the next time my parents are out of town for a conference.”
The Twins grabbed their shoes, waved a quick, “Bye!” to Jill and the guys, then streaked across the Kentucky bluegrass lawn, the moonlight illuminating their four bouncing breasts. They ducked into back seat of the Ford and squirmed into their clothes as I drove them home in the dark, my eyes set on the road in front of me.
Nothing was said at dinner, of course. Except the Twin’s orgasmic sounds of pleasure to feast on their favorite dish of Mother’s. Mother seemed content, likely because the girls loved her food, but also because she was drunk.
In bed that night after dinner, I could not get the images of what I saw out of my mind best I tried, tossing and turning until I fell asleep. In the morning I had dreams. Dreams of nothing I could be remember except a misty haze in which my body eventually convulsed in orgasm after orgasm after orgasm. I didn’t deny them, I could not in my sleepy state, and I indulged in squeezing my thighs together as the orgasms rippled through my body. I allowed them to, until the light of dawn awoke me to get ready for school.
So there, dear reader. I will stop. I have said enough for now. There is so much more to tell. We are only getting started! Tune in next time! Be sure to follow this blog to get the latest in your email box!
In the meantime, don’t forget to check out my erotic poetry! Haiku and Tanka. And leave a comment! More of The Memoir of my Sacred Pleasure coming! Pun intended! xoxoxoxo
© Copyright 2017 Veronica Love. All Rights Reserved.
Here’s a book that taught me to write my sexy words by the queen of erotica, Anais Nin. Henry and June, it’s a classic and must read! xoxoxox