Naked in School Homer
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Going Home Ch. 02 free porn video
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Jerry just wants Virginia to take him home to Boston.
Oddly enough, the only thing that Jerry wanted in return for his friendship was something that Ginny could give him. With him not asking her for sex, he wanted her to take him home to Boston. Actually, with there not a better place he could have asked her to take him, she was looking forward to going to Boston.
With him as her personal, tour guide, he could point out all of the sights and historic attractions she’s longed to see and has only seen in travel magazines and movies shot on location in Boston. It would be unbelievable if she could experience seeing Boston in person. With him the close friend she’s never had, as if a dream trip come true, she couldn’t wait to go to Boston with him.
‘With you being so very kind to me and with me having nothing to give you in return, I give you this,’ he said handing her a portrait that he drew of her face in pencil.
A small 5 x 8 inch portrait drawing of her, she looked at the pencil sketch as if seeing her ghost. An understatement of description, the portrait was haunting. When did he draw this? She’s never seen this one before. He must have drawn it from memory. For him to draw this, she must always be on his mind. For him to draw this, she must haunt him in the way that this sketch now haunts. Her.
As if she was looking at a black and white photograph secretly taken of her, the image looked exactly like her. Only more than the mere image of her, it was the look on her face that captured her interest. She didn’t remember herself ever having that look. Even though the image looked exactly like her and even though the portrait was of her, it was the look on her face that she didn’t recognize and that she never saw when looking at herself in the mirror but, obviously, he did. Obviously this look she had at that moment had inspired Jerry’s inspiration too for him to capture the look of her in his drawing. As if the pencil sketch was alive, there was something so captivating in her look.
‘Wow. This is really good Jerry,’ she said looking from the sketch to look up at him. ‘Maybe you can make a few dollars drawing caricatures of people on the street,’ she said carefully and delicately filing the picture away in her purse.
For him to draw this of her, it was obvious to her that he knows her far better than she knows herself. In the way that most men undress her with their eyes when they look at her, so different from their looks, he looked at her as if she was already naked and he could see all the way into her heart and soul. In the way that the lustful leers of men made her feel so nakedly exposed, he made her feel transparent and emotionally exposed. Yet not feeling uncomfortable or embarrassed that he knew herself so well, she felt more at ease that she had no secrets from him.
If only by the way he captured her on paper, for him to take her expressions on her face and translate them to paper, he made her believe that he knew her well enough, better than anyone knew her. Baring her wide open by his artistic talent, when she looked at the portrait he drew of her, he made her feel that she had no secrets. As if all of the portraits of her made a movie of here when put together and quickly thumbed through, he read her as if reading her story and drawing her story by drawing her face. Viewing the field of portraits that he had of her all over his loft was like looking at an open book of her life. He made her feel so proud. He made her feel so special.
Yet, as special as he made her feel as special as she felt that he drew her so very many times, with just his look, he made her feel so weak and so vulnerable. He made her feel so unworthy of the time he chose to spend with her, a mere waitress at the local diner. With her having not much more than a high school education and two courses in psychology she took at the community college to better understand her customers, she wasn’t on his level. He was her oracle, her sage, and her Guru guide who knew all things.
Such an odd couple, why would he befriend her? Maybe, like her, he has no one else. With her a nothing and a no one, obvious he was someone once, a husband, a father, and a friend. Who knows what else he was to all those he touched in his life in the way he was touching her now? For now he was her most unforgettable character. Just by her looking at his portraits, dozens of them now, as if he was her priest, her psychiatrist, and her confident, he made her feel that she could never lie to him as he would immediately know the truth. Besides, he was her friend. Friends don’t lie to friends.
His loft was a field of her faces with some muted and others ablaze in color. With him gifted in matching his colors to her facial expressions, the colors he chose corresponded to the expression on her face. She only wished she was smarter and educated with an education in art appreciation so that she could see what he saw in his pictures.
No matter where she looked, she saw herself. In the way he seemed fascinated with her face, she wondered if he was in love with her. In the way that most men are fascinated with her body, especially her big tits, he was fascinated with her face. As if never satisfied with what he drew or as if wanting to capture all of her changing facial expressions, he was fascinated with her face enough to paint her portrait over and over and over again.
When looking at his portraits of her, recognizing every thought she had behind every portrait he painted, her portraits were literally her field of dreams, thoughts, whims, fantasies, and desires. How could he do that? How could he capture the essence of her in a moment of time with just a few pencil strokes and colors on a canvas? More than flattered, this was amazing. She felt so special, so very special to be the subject and the main focus of his art.
Just as these portraits were extraordinary, as an artist and as the man he had morphed to become he was extraordinary too. It’s as if she was royalty living back in the 17th century and had a portrait artist following her around to capture the right moment before painting her picture. These portraits were snapshots of her life captured at the exact moment that the thought she was having changed her facial expression enough for him to want to paint her. She felt great pride that she could inspire a man to paint her face without having to show him her body too. Whether she was laughing, crying, sad, happy, angry, depressed, mad, reserved, thoughtful, bored, hopeful, embarrassed, envious, in love, shamed, hostile, or frustrated, he had a portrait of her to capture what she was feeling.
‘I don’t draw faceless people,’ he said with a tone to his voice and with a disinterested and dismissive wave of his hand that suddenly awakened her from staring at the likenesses of herself. ‘I only draw people who interest me and for the last forty years, there’s only been two people who have interested me enough for me to want to draw them over and over again,’ he said pausing to look at her face.
In the way he looked at her face was the way a doctor looks at a patient, a scientist looks his experiment, God looks at his creation, or an artist looks at his subject. In return of our continued friendship, I only ask you for one thing,’ he said.
She did a double take when he said that. He wants something. What does he want? She could only imagine what he wanted and what he wanted may be something that she couldn’t freely give without feeling guilt, remorse, and feeling bad about herself. Being that he was a man and she was a woman, she had a feeling what he wanted. She suspected he wanted sex.
Oh, oh, here it comes. With her waiting for the other shoe to fall she figured that he wants her to masturbate him. She figured that he wants her to fall to her knees and suck his cock. She figured that he wants her to give him the permission to feel her big breasts
through her clothes while kissing her, French kissing her. No doubt and obviously, he wants her to show him her tits. No doubt and obviously, he wants to feel her big tits and suck her bit tits, while she masturbates him and before she sucks his cock.
What a world? What a world? Is there no end to the debauchery that men have in their blackened hearts? Oh my God, how dare he do that to her now that they’re such good friends and now that she implicitly trusts him? Why would he want to ruin a good thing with sex?
From her experience, nothing good ever comes from sex. From her experience, sex only causes misery. From her experience, he’s willing to ruin their friendship for the chance of seeing and feeling her tits while she strokes him and blows him. Yet, her own fault, how could she be so stupid to think that he was any different from all the other men who tried to force her to do things she didn’t want to do? Yet, giving him the benefit of the doubt, she innocently asked her question.
‘And what is that one thing you’re asking me to do for you?’
She looked at him with attitude while expecting him to ask her for sex. Definitely, in the way he was looking at her, he wants a blowjob perhaps and definitely for her give him permission to feel her tits before him asking her to show him her tits. Maybe like all of the other men in her life, he just wants to see her big tits and have a private moment with her D cup breasts. Maybe with all that he’s done for her in making her feel better about herself, she owes him at least that much to remove her blouse and bra and allow him to have his wicked, sexual way with her naked breasts.
Yet, in total opposition to his past gentlemanly behavior and confounding her, in the way she displayed her long line of sexy cleavage to men for tips, he never stared at her cleavage. In the way that all men do, he never stared at the two big, bulbous impressions her breasts made in her tight, low cut shirt. He was a gentleman and not a lecher in the way so very many of her customers were. With her giving them a down blouse view of the tops of her breasts, her cleavage, and her bra, her male customers felt that was their invitation for them to ogle her and sometimes even cop a cheap feel of her enormous breasts. With her giving him plenty of accidental and deliberate down blouse views of her breasts, he never looked or if he looked, never obvious about sneaking a peek, she never noticed him looking.
In a way that her mother was a whore for drinks and flashed men her tits for alcohol, she was a whore for tips by showing men all that they wanted to see of her tits. Only what harm was there in showing men the tops of her meaty, jiggling breasts, her sexy cleavage, and parts of her white, low cut bra? It isn’t as if she’s showing them the entire shape of her naked breasts. It isn’t as if she’s showing them her areolas and nipples. It wasn’t as if she was inviting men to touch her tits, feel her tits, and suck her tits before she sucked their cocks in the way her mother did for drinks to make her forget all that she needed to forget.
With her different from her mother, using what God gave her, she’s just teasing men while hoping to inspire them to give her a bigger tip. Yet, asking for trouble, she’s surprised no one has sexually assaulted her and/or raped her while waiting to take the bus home. With men spotting her tits before seeing her, she’s surprised all over her teasing men for tips didn’t get her more than what she hoped to receive. As if her breasts were a walking billboard advertising sex, with her so freely walking about her bad neighborhood with confidence as if she owned the sidewalk, she was a victim waiting for a crime to happen.
If anything she was just carrying on the sexy tradition of a bar wench in a tavern wearing a peasant blouse in the 16th century while working as a waitress in a diner in the 21st century. Just as men will never change in looking, women will never change in showing. Men loved seeing women’s tits even if only seeing their cleavage while imagining the rest. Being that she had big tits, why not use her breast to her advantage to make a little extra income, money that she so desperately needed now that she no longer had her mother’s Social Security check.
Only, Jerry wasn’t interested in her breasts. He never so much as looked at her tits. Maybe he’s gay. Maybe other than their faces, after losing the woman he so loved, he’s not interested in women at all.
Being that he wasn’t interested in ogling her breasts, oddly enough, she wanted to show him her breasts. She wondered if he’d stare or if he’d look away. She wondered if he’d want to touch them, feel them, fondle them, and suck them. Yet, just a sexual fantasy on her part, her one last bastion of believing that not all men are pigs, she’d never show him her tits. She’d never ruin the friendship they had by introducing sex into it.
‘I want you to take me home to Boston,’ he said.
What? He wants her to take him home to Boston? Is that it? No way! Surely there must be more than that to his request.
She imagined him booking a room with only one bed and apologizing profusely that this was the only room left. She imagined him promising not to worry and that she’d be safe with him. She imagined him promising her that he’d sleep in the chair, on the floor, or on his side facing away from her and that he wouldn’t touch her. Only, somehow during the night, she imagined her breasts out of her nightgown and his horny hands all over her big tits while he drew pictures of her naked breasts. Then, the next morning, on the pretense that he had to pee, she imagined him coming into the bathroom while she was showering and much like what happened to Janet Leigh in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, pulling open her shower curtain to see her big tits.
‘Oh,’ she said surprised he didn’t want to see her tits when every man she’s ever known has wanted to not only see her big breasts but also to feel and fondle her big breasts.
She wished she had a dollar for every man who stared at her breasts. She wished she had a dollar for every man who made an inappropriate comment about her big tits. She wished she had a dollar for every man who tried to kiss her while feeling her breast and putting her hand on their cock as if she was a whore like her mother was. She wished she had a dollar for every man who wanted her breasts but who didn’t want the rest of her.
She’s never had a date where a good night’s kiss meant that the man could feel her breasts through her shirt. She never had a good night’s kiss that didn’t turn into a wrestling match with the man trying to stick a horny hand beneath her shirt and inside of her bra. She never had a date that didn’t culminate in the man wanting to feel and see her tits. All the dates she had were never about her but about men wanting to feel her tits while she sucked their cock.
She’s not a whore but she takes after her mother in the fact that she has her mother’s big tits. Her mother had big tits too. Only her mother had no problem in flashing her tits to men for a drink. Her mother had no problem with men feeling her tits and sucking her tits, as long as they plied her with alcohol. She’d even take them in the back, dark alley for a quickie or a blowjob in exchange of a few dollars. Only, Ginny was nothing like her mother. She wasn’t a drunken whore.
For the first time she felt safe with a man. For the first time being Jerry’s friend didn’t matter that she had big tits. His admiration of her was more about her face than her tits. He thought she was pretty. He thought she had a beautiful face. He loved her face in the way that all the men she knew loved her tits.
‘When the time comes, I just want to go home,’ he said raising his chin with dignity while looking at her with finality.
Suddenly he looked sad and she could tell that he missed Boston.
‘Why are you so far from home Jerry?’ She looked at him with confused curiosity. ‘I mean, why are you her
e when you could have stayed there?’
Ginny looked at him puzzled. With Boston her dream city, if she was as blessed to live there instead of here, she’d never leave Boston for Detroit.
‘I came here too late looking for someone, a love lost of a woman I haven’t seen in thirty years after she already died. I should have looked here before but I didn’t know where she was. With her not having a credit card, a car, a driver’s license, or a cell phone, she was impossible to track down. I didn’t know she was hiding out here in Detroit. Why Detroit of all places? No doubt somewhere I’d never think to look, I didn’t.
With my life suddenly spinning around me so fast, too fast, I was on the fast track to nowhere. With my life spiraling out of control, I gave up all that I had for something that I thought I wanted. Only once I got what I thought I wanted, I didn’t want it at all,’ he said. ‘After it was already gone, I realized too late that I already had all that I wanted.’
The first time he opened up to her, she was finally seeing the man behind the tussled hair, the messy beard, and the paint splattered clothes. By far, he was the most interesting man she’s ever met. With her finding it sexy that he always wanted to draw her plain face, if only he was younger, she’d allow him to draw her tits. If only he wasn’t so old and was closer to her age, she’d allow him to draw her topless, maybe even naked. If only he was younger, she’d give him sex. Suddenly, perhaps just like her mother, whoredom is in her genes. Suddenly she felt like a whore for even having such salacious thoughts of getting topless and/or naked for Jerry to draw her while thinking about giving him sex.
‘At least you’ve had a chance at life,’ she said with sadness. ‘What chance have I had living here in this abandoned, burnt down, Hell hole of a city? Every day there’s a dozen fires. Every day there’s a dozen shootings. Every day someone dies and no one cares,’ she said with sadness as if she was saying some words at the death of a friend or relative. ‘With all of us desensitized to crime, devastation, poverty, and destruction, after working all day for not enough pay, we’re all too tired to think about anything else but for our little lives while eating our supper and staring at the TV.’
Whether good memories or bad memories, she’d give anything to have some memories of loving a man and a man loving her. She’d do anything to have a child. She’d do anything to have a family, to live in a nice, safe neighborhood, and to have friends.
‘Not realizing what I had in her, I ruined my chance,’ he said. ‘The last I remember, I was on a merry-go-round that continued going faster and faster and would never stop. I wanted to get off but I couldn’t. I wanted the amusement ride to end but, once it started, as if the carousel ride had a life of its own, it wouldn’t stop. It’s just continued spinning and spinning around with me standing in the middle of a whirlwind of money, alcohol, sex, and drugs,’ he said. ‘I’ve wasted my life,’ he said. ‘I’ve ruined my life and the lives of others. I missed my chance at happiness.’
She looked at him with sadness and he looked at her with sorrow.
‘I can feel your pain,’ she said touching his hand and quickly withdrawing her hand when he didn’t respond to her touch. ‘I’ve wasted my life too.’
An odd moment of two people coming together from two very different generations, backgrounds, and lives, the only thing she had to give him to make him feel better, was her sexuality. She suddenly had the urge to remove her blouse and bra but controlling herself, she didn’t.
‘Deadened from alcohol, dizzy from drugs, and delirious from sex, the last I remember was I was holding her hand until I couldn’t hold her hand anymore and poof, she was gone. Her fingers slipped from my hand as if they had turned into liquid before evaporating. There was nothing left of her, not even a note,’ he said not sad, angry, or resentful just matter of fact. ‘The last I remember was that she was in bed with me and when I turned to her, I was in bed with someone else, a woman I didn’t even know or want. I was so messed up back then when I wasn’t painting. When I was painting, I was fine. When I stopped painting, there was disco, bright lights, and women, so very many women.’
Dottie
- 27.09.2021
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