Humping with Howdy
“30 Years of Service. Best Wishes Mrs. Thornton.
Detroit Public Schools. Building Brighter Futures.”
My retirement banquet from Farwell Mid School was quite
the affair! Thirty years teaching social studies at one
place generates lots of memories, good ones. Best I can
tell, I’ll be the last one to last three decades. At
almost 55, I hardly feel retirable, but my benefit
package more or less equals my salary. I’m ahead
bailing now and coming back to sub when the fancy
strikes.
We all have our nicknames of which the students presume
we aren’t aware. I’m “Mrs. Social Stories” for my bent
toward tales that convey the subject. They’d always
moan, “Oh, here comes another story,” when I’d start
and sit at rapt attention till the conclusion. Say what
you will; keeping midschoolers focussed takes a good
teacher. Plus, when DPS does “Benchmark Indicators” to
see what students really retain, mine ace the social
studies. They remember stories.
I’m sure to them I seem the type who’d never engage in
illicit activities. Pretty true, I suppose, except for
my “Mrs.” prefix. This exception is the story that
follows.
DPS sends a bigshot to these banquets to make sure we
really leave. The Deputy Superintendent for Information
Technology provided my officiality. “Now I’m led to
believe that Mrs. Thornton made you learn every U.S.
President of the last century. We appreciate that you
didn’t sue for educational abuse.” Administrative
humor, I guess.
Then from the back, “McKinley.” Then somebody joined
in, “Teddy Roosevelt.” Then it was the roomful, “Taft,
Wilson, Harding, Coolidge, Hoover, Franklin Roosevelt,
Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford,
Carter, Reagan, George V. Bush, Clinton.” Everyone
cheered. It was worth all 30 years, right there! Mr.
Deputy Superintendent laughed the loudest.
My retirement banquet drew ex-students from the
duration of my DPS days. My earliest kids had then
seemed a generation below me. (And I undoubtedly seemed
equivalent to their parents.) But 30 years later, we
turn out to be about the same age. I’d even venture
that a few of them would be taken as having been my
teacher if we were put in a lineup. Then there were the
parents and fellow faculty who again end up with me
generationally. Those were the ones to whom I was
speaking.
“Say kids, what time is it?” My lead-in generated total
silence. So I got more specific, “I’m a really nice guy
in a cowboy shirt with fringe on the sleeves.”
A laugh from the back, “It’s Howdy Doody Time,” and I
was on my way!
“Let’s start off with our song, boys and girls,” to
remind them that I was a very old fuddy-duddy. “Just
sing along, especially you, Mr. Deputy Superintendent
for Information Technology.”
It’s Howdy Doody Time.
It’s Howdy Doody Time.
Bob Smith and Howdy, too
Say Howdy-Do to you.
Let’s give a rousing cheer
‘Cause Howdy Doody’s here.
It’s time to start the show,
So kids, LET’S GO!
If nobody had sung, I’d have had to ad lib something
about preparing for the future, boys and girls. But
enough did, even some current students who learned the
anthem I haven’t a clue where.
“So much better than that song where you spell a
mouse’s name,” I added for the benefit of my colleague
Janice.
“Hi there, Peanut Gallery,” I started off. “You’re
looking at a Howdy Doody girl. Most of what I know,
Howdy taught me.” A few laughs. “You average American
kids will spend 10,800 hours in the classroom by the
time you’re 18, so school’s pretty important. Here’s
the scary part, though. You will have seen 20,000 hours
of television. Yeow!”
“I’m actually a year older than Howdy Doody, where it
all started. Maybe there’s still a link between us. I
wasn’t concerned with deeper relationships back then.”
That little bit was for my friend Joan. She’d know the
link.
“TV today (pardon my old-fogeyness, kids) is overrun
with spin-offs of spin-offs of spin-offs. In Howdy’s
time, though, Buffalo Bob used TV to connect our eyes
to our brain. They probably figured that here comes a
diatribe against Cheers. Not my intent, though the
values that series communicates deserve it.
“Before TV, even, Elmer the puppet would greet Buffalo
Bob’s radio studio audience, ‘Well, Howdy Doody boys
and girls, hyuh, hyuh, hyuh.’ They’d yell it back,
‘Howdy Doody.’ The name stuck. Howdy hit the TV
invention in 1947. And now you know how old I am.
“I joined the Peanut Gallery (virtually, in today’s
terms; I never went to New York) when I was maybe five.
The show was at 5:30 so Mom could get dinner on. I
don’t remember that I saw much else. There was plenty
to do outside.
“Mayor Phineas T. Bluster pulled dirty tricks against
Howdy when Howdy would run for President. Sound
familiar? You got your ballot with a loaf of Wonder
Bread. It tasted better then and built strong bodies
twelve ways. No chad in those elections.” Smiles from
the Democrats. “Howdy received over a million votes,
but Truman and Eisenhower won anyway. He’d beat the one
we’ve got these days, though.” This was, after all, my
adieu speech.
I’ll spare you the rest of my oratory, but pursue my
thesis — growing up with Howdy Doody made me what I
am. What’s written from here on wasn’t in my banquet
speech, you can be sure.
Ready?
INITIATE, NOVEMBER 1956
An aspect of me of which you may not be aware is that I
masturbate quite well. (Want to hear what Women’s Lib
suggests? “Mistressbating.” Come on, females!)
Whoa, you say! How’d we get here? She’s really old, a
teacher even. She was geezin’ about some old TV show,
not about stroking the kitten. Well they say that sex
is like playing bridge – you need either a good partner
or a good hand. So here’s the story of humping with
Howdy.
Most girls, of course, do masturbate. Sophisticated
girls have vibrators and dildos and, so I’ve heard,
even machines. However we do it, we do do it. Well I
know that I was humping by age 10 because that’s when
Captain Kangaroo and Mickey Mouse relegated Howdy to
Saturday mornings. And it wasn’t Mickey’s magic kingdom
I was visiting before dinner.
Perhaps Howdy’s sidekick Clarabell was squirting people
with seltzer or horn honking that Mr. Bluster was up
too no good. That part I don’t exactly remember. I do
remember that I was climbing over the sofa armrest with
one leg above and the other around. The pressure
tickled my crotch.
Primal instinct is my explanation for wiggling. I
rocked harder and it felt like a fun tickle, even. I
was glad that I was behind my brother Samuel, then
about 8, but I didn’t sense I was doing anything
improper. Just wiggling.
Next afternoon, I tried it again. I rolled my thighs to
better situate myself and used my hands to steady my
balance, rhythmically pressing forward and backwards.
Ten-year-olds know what’s fun.
Howdy, whom I’d been ignoring, was probably commenting
something like, “Never take food from anyone else’s
plate, especially the cat’s.” He was always giving
advice that made sense to kids. I doubt he said,
“Tickle your bottom against the sofa arm, not your nose
against the birdcage,” but it would have been a Howdy
way to say it.
I liked tickling myself that way, so much indeed that
I’d do it nearly every show. Howdy would say, “We can
all make the world a happier place by doing nice
things,” and we believed it. This was doing a nice
thing.
I was anticipating nothing more than my Howdy tickle
when I had my first delight. It wasn’t an adult orgasm,
of course, but its suddenness surprised me. I knew some
incorrect things about adult sex, but didn’t make the
connection. This was just a special way to shiver
myself. Though of course Howdy had nothing to do with
the physicality of my adventure, I associated the
freckled fellow with my success. I’d watch him watch
me.
My technique improved. I figured out how to perch with
legs raised and ankles crossed, something of a flying
posture. In one TV episode, Mr. Bluster was stealing
the TV signals in the Rockies so the kids in California
couldn’t watch. I imagined that I was flying over the
mountains while I rubbed.
It worked best in my pink pedal pushers. When I’d get
near the shivering part, I’d shift my weight forward
until the cotton slid against me just the right way.
If I’d heard the term “masturbation”, I’d have
associated it with something more adult, not hips
against the sofa before supper. I’d climax in my little
way about a minute, more like having to pee and then
not having to and feeling tingly afterwards. It didn’t
occur to me to prolong things. It didn’t occur to me
that my hand might be gentler. It did seem right,
however, to be doing to Howdy’s googly grin. Samuel,
not old enough to know anything, would sit vigilant to
Doodyville.
It didn’t occur to me that my exertions might compete
for by brother’s attention. Samuel caught me in climax
while the Peanut Gallery spoke their opinions on
Howdy’s “Mommy wants me to go to bed early, but I want
to stay up” dilemma. I didn’t know that he’d turned
around, but it was inevitable that sooner or later he
would have. In any case, being so close I couldn’t
exactly stop.
“Can I do that?” he asked, seemingly impressed by my
flushed complexion. My brother’s question was
deceptively straightforward.
“I guess, but you can’t blab,” feeling my heartbeat.
“Why not?”
“Just can’t”
“OK,” as he climbed onto the sofa’s other arm. “So how
do I?”
“Just move around.”
Samuel moved around. “So what’s the thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you do it then?”
“Because I’m bigger,” sufficient for a younger brother.
He returned to watching the TV. I was rather proud of
my sibling superiority.
Howdy went off weekday TV that year. If I was at home
Saturday mornings, I might catch him, but usually I
didn’t. It didn’t matter too much, because Howdy and I
were soon to be sleeping together.
SWEET DREAMS, NOVEMBER 1957
Howdy got me started on the sofa, then helped me expand
my horizons. This wasn’t the two-dimensional show-time
Howdy; this was “Mr. Howdy”, as I called my three-
dimensional doll to distinguish him from his televised
representation.
Mr. Howdy was confined neither to the living room nor
to the before-dinner time slot. He could go to bed with
me. (Today that sounds erotic, but to an eleven-year-
old, it was just where you slept.) Why I started
sleeping with this doll, I don’t know, other than the
association.
By subconscious design or accident, it doesn’t matter;
Howdy found his way between my legs. He’d be in the
dark under my covers and I’d pretend like he was
exploring. I’d always arrange his neckerchief first.
I’d lie on my stomach, put him underneath my crotch and
squeeze his vinyl head. It didn’t achieve even what the
sofa afforded, but why should it? I liked him there. It
wasn’t until I rocked did I recognize the fuller magic.
Up and down felt nice, but side to side worked best. It
only took a little riding my little buddy to exceed the
sofa effect. Part of the pleasure was working Mr. Howdy
back on center when he’d meander, my inner thighs
commanding.
My chest, breast buds barely emergent, I’d hold up with
my elbows. My knees I’d spread apart. My toes I’d wedge
into the mattress enough to slide my body. I’d tense
the muscles in my tummy and thighs to match my
exertions. In climax, I’d squeeze him still.
By this time, my orgasms were more exciting, demanding
better management. But it’s all relevant, isn’t it?
Forty years later, my orgasms are more sustained, more
subsuming, more vibrant, more varied. But are they more
fun? Do you enjoy gourmet sorbet today more than
Safeway chocolate in a cone when you were eleven?
I’m pretty sure Mom knew what I was doing because once
she came in and pretended not to notice how I was
humped up. After that she’d always knock. Back then we
didn’t talk much about sex and I now suppose she’d
enjoyed a similar phase in her youth. I know that she
told Dad to always knock first because I was the age
where my body was changing.
In today’s light, would I be said to have succumbed to
some sort of oral sexual gratification? After all, Mr.
Howdy was mostly grin. But all I was doing was playing
with my doll.
The year we started sleeping together is etched in my
mind for another Doodyville reason: Princess Summerfall
Winterspring died for real in a car wreck on her
honeymoon. She (I didn’t know it then) was Judy Tyler,
22. Just her Indian Princess age was about my own.
The real Judy Tyler was what the show wasn’t supposed
to be about. At 15 she’d been a dancer at the
Copacabana. By 17 she’d married her pianist. TV was a
way to get to Broadway. When a pretty girl was needed
for Howdy Doody, Judy’s “Over the Rainbow” and “I Got
Rhythm” audition got her the feather headband. She was
teasing the NBC directors too, poor little Dorothy in
Oz and then a shoulder-rolling lounge act. She’d have
known about the casting couch. They didn’t sign her
because she had a cute dog Todo.
The Princess puppet was transformed into a stunningly
shapely maiden who softened some of the relentless
commercialization. I wanted those Hostess Cupcakes that
they were always pitching. Buffalo Bob didn’t ask, he
told you to go out and get some. I wonder if they sold
more Cupcakes to grown men after Judy joined the show?
Unknown to us kids was Judy’s dancing on tables in
nightclubs. Off-camera she’d wear tight sweaters and
offend Buffalo Bob with her sexual innuendoes. At 19
(how’d she get into those nightclubs, anyway?) she left
Howdy to pursue her career, to “rejoin her people,” Bob
told us.
Buffalo Bob would narrate old time movies on the show,
silent-era comedies or the little Rascals. Judy
progressed from B-grade “Bop Girl Goes Calypso” to
Elvis Presley’s babe in “Jailhouse Rock”. That girl
knew how to audition! There’s a promo photo of her
leaning back into duck-tailed Elvis with his arm right
around her chest. Pretty risqu‚ for 1957. The Princess
should have stayed with Howdy like I did. Even Elvis
later said that those movies were detrimental to his
career.
So why am I reminiscing about Princess Summerfall
Winterspring? Maybe like her, Howdy too had an erotic
offstage presence. Under my sheets he did, anyway.
FINGER DANCING, FEBRUARY 1958
One time poor Buffalo Bob used Howdy’s Shrinking
Machine to lose a few pounds, but due to Phineas T.
Bluster’s trickery, got shrunk teeny-tiny. It took
Howdy and gang a lot of effort to restore him. Why I
remember that episode is because it taught me to use my
fingers. Buffalo Bob being Tom Thumb size, I was
thinking digitally. Or maybe I’d just discovered how to
use my fingers, so the plot stuck.
Accustomed as I was to humping Howdy, it came natural
to hump my hand, my fist, actually. Then, as every girl
discovers, you learn how to tickle your fancy, play the
piano, polish the pearl, let your fingers do the
walking, however you want to call it. Now pubescent,
I’d get wet, which helped.
It works better to be on your back with knees flopped
apart. Sometimes I’d cross my ankles. Sometimes I’d
have one leg up and leave the other flat or even bent
over the side. I’d put my palm on my front and let my
middle finger tease my clitoris, though I’d not yet
seen it. (Why am I using past tense? I still do.) Rub
it side-to-side at first, then in circular motion; they
each have their special feel. Some of my girlfriends
used other fingers to do very specific things, but I
liked the simplicity. Again, I knew that some of my
friends would even finger their vagina, but that part
of you should be saved for when you got married, I told
them.
Doing it pretty much every night, Mr. Doody would watch
to make sure I did it right. Howdy always said things
like, “Always do your best at whatever you do.”
SAMUEL, SEPTEMBER 1959
I can date this in relation to having “becoming a
woman”, as Mom phrased it. Samuel and I did something
really fun; we humped each other.
The sofa arm was still a compelling part of my Saturday
mornings. Teenage whets your appetite, even. I’d stay
in my pajamas for it, teasing myself under the
breakfast table. But Samuel was sitting on the sofa
too, not down where he could see the show better.
So it’s hard to say what lead to what, but it’s surely
associated with having already made myself ripe. I
walloped my brother with a pillow, not an infrequent
sibling communication. He of course pushed me back.
Before I could rise to deliver another shot, he was
sitting on the “Moron girl.” It was more-or-less a fair
fracas. I was the taller, but as a boy, he was the
battler. To stay on top, he flattened me into the
cushion, an eleven-year-old leg working its way between
two thirteen-year-old ones.
I was surprised, to say the least, and he must have
been too by what happened in securing his superiority –
– he became erect. I suppose our friction did it, or
maybe it was my futile twists and bucks. Maybe he’d
seen my breasts between my buttons. For sure he’d
bumped me enough, even locking his arms around from
behind, cupping me accidentally (I presumed) in
previous battles. Maybe guys get hard when they win at
anything. Evolutionary, you suppose? I didn’t need to
be a biologist, though, to know where Samuel’s little
erection was pressing. PJ’s don’t hold things apart.
But rather than disengaging, we battled on, his
dominance achieved when he got his other leg with his
first. With my knees pried apart, I lost any leverage
for escape. His penis most definitely poked my mound.
Howdy’s TV oversight at that moment, in any event, held
association. I didn’t mind Samuel being where he was.
Let’s be more honest, I liked my brother’s bump there.
It was a place that a young woman liked to get bumped,
I guess. I must have lifted my hips in a less-escapist
manner. Samuel was moving too, but with me, not against
me, if you get the difference, so he must have liked it
as well. Perhaps he too saw a connection to something
he’d done by himself. Siblings don’t always explain
everything.
I pulled him up a bit to slide his bulge where best it
matched mine, lifting my hips to help. He thrust
against where I led. With unspoken intent, we pressed
together and rubbed Howdy Doody style.
My response may at first have been just my pelvis, but
as we progressed, my butt bounced higher and higher
against his ploughing. On the TV, Howdy would hop with
his arms in front as the strings maneuvered him. The
puppetry wasn’t too sophisticated. If the puppeteers
would have just flopped the Howdy marionette on top of
the sister Heidi Doody one and bounced their butts,
that’s probably about how we looked.
My left foot found the floor and the right hooked over
the sofa back. My eyes were closed. I knew that I would
climax, that this stage was the same as doing it alone.
But it was the first time I sensed that somebody else
could enhance it. It didn’t register to me that he
could have an orgasm too until I felt him gasp. Mine
was more fierce that I’d ever done alone. Samuel just
hung on.
We lay there afterwards in amazement. Not wanting to
embarrass him, I at first said nothing. Howdy always
said, “And always say ‘please’ before and ‘thank you’
afterwards,” but that didn’t seem quite right, so I
said, “That was OK.”
I suppose we sensed we’d done something we oughtn’t,
but it wasn’t having sex. I’d decided to be a virgin
until I got married, of course, so I could wear a white
gown. Turns out that I was and I didn’t, but that’s
later on the story.
But you don’t just hump your sibling accidentally a
second time and it didn’t seem right to do it on
purpose. So we just lay there, sweaty together in our
sleepwear, glad that Mom hadn’t heard. It was a little
embarrassing, him knowing how hard I came, but siblings
have the privilege of leaving a Saturday morning
chapter perhaps to be continued.
UNTIL SOME OTHER DAY, SEPTEMBER 1960
Howdy’s final episode was one hour in full color. On
our black and white, though, the NBC peacock was just
shades of gray. Mom and Dad watched the show with us,
even, as we all knew it was the last one.
As the cast packed up to leave Doodyville, Clarabell
honked for attention. Teary-eyed, he looked directly at
us, “Goodbye, kids.” The cast sang one last time,
It’s time to say goodbye,
Goodbye until some other day
When we may be with you again.
I was past being a major fan, but I was really sad. So
was Samuel. Maybe crying made us closer; I don’t know.
At bedtime, I halfheartedly tried to hump my Mr. Howdy.
With the red by now rubbed off much of his hair, he
seemed sort of sad himself. Maybe this was the end of
that too, I wondered.
Bored, I wandered back down the stairs. Samuel was
ascending. It was on the stairs that I knew what I
wanted, albeit vaguely.
“Hey, let’s do something,” I suggested.
He looked at me blankly.
“Go get in your PJ’s too,” I directed. “The folks
already went to bed.” Perhaps the last TV episode had
sparked something similar in him. He met me back
downstairs. When I steered him toward the sofa, he
didn’t ask why.
I pulled him onto me. It didn’t occur to me to undo my
top or anything. When I cocked my knees outward, he
settled against me, not yet erect. We wiggled and
giggled until we could feel it within his flannel; I
knew he wanted me to know he’d grown. I was already
wet. At 14, girls can get really wet. Whispering too
loudly about being quiet, we drove our hips together as
if our Saturday morning encounter were but yesterday.
The couch creaked with our percussion.
Having humped Howdy so many times, masturbation already
had a sense of mutuality. I knew how to place my
brother on my crack to do what before had taken my
deliberate fingertips. I pushed and pulled him against
my pelvic bone, teasing my secret through pajamad
modesty. Samuel stroked the rhythm; I controlled the
pressure.
Neither of us was knowledgeable enough about foreplay
to significantly forestall our climaxes, which we
announced with untimely whimpers. We lay still for but
a few minutes and begin again. Truth be told, I don’t
think the revival achieved much physiologically, but
what mattered was in our heads. We pounded our PJ
bottoms against each other until we felt better.
Had it been in this new millennium, we’d probably have
stripped for real sex. Fourteen-year-olds do that to
their brothers these days, you know. Our PJ’s just had
elastic waistbands, so it would have been easy. But
keep in mind that Eisenhower was still Chief Executive.
Having intercourse wasn’t what American Christian youth
(our kind, anyway) did. The prohibition was against
making love in general, not us being sister and
brother. If you’re not driving to Milwaukee, you don’t
think about specific road closures.
These were the days of great makeouts, not great
screws. My girlfriends were letting their dates touch
their bra. Maybe a steady could even feel inside. But
the guy didn’t expect much more. Petting to orgasm?
Maybe on a college hayride if you’re a cheerleader and
he’s on the football team. Samuel and I just fouled up
the sequence. It would be years before I’d let him
deliberately touch my nipples.
THOSE REVOLUTIONARY ’60’S
In the 1960’s, Buffalo Bob bought a liquor store and
radio stations and played golf. He abandoned the Peanut
Gallery, just like that. The ’60’s disillusionment was
about more than LBJ’s war.
Fear not, however. What follows isn’t another evocative
personal-discovery saga framed in that definitive
decade. Setting forth to change the world! All I want
to cover is how I’d rustle my knicks without Howdy. I
picked up that quaint term years later when I took an
NEA professional tour (translate “tax deductible”)
about teaching British history.
What the Revolution taught me was that you can
masturbate in about any position. Here are a couple of
techniques that worked for a not profoundly-
countercultural flower child.
Hunch on the balls of your feet with a pillow on your
heels and sit on your fist with a knuckle against your
clit. Basically you’re fucking yourself. It sounds a
little brutal, I guess, but maybe you had extra
frustrations that day. Bunching your fingertips to make
little circles is gentler. Cover your vagina with your
other hand, but keep the lips closed so it’s just
pressure, not penetration. I can sense contractions
even from the outside. This way’s about female self-
awareness, the theme of the next decade, actually.
Or try leaning against a wall with a foot up on
something. This is a way to find your G-spot (an
anatomical feature amazingly unknown to science until
the 70’s, it seems). Finger yourself until you start to
come and then excite your clitoris. Standing makes my
orgasm sharper. There’s something satisfying about
remaining balanced. There’s something unsatisfying,
though, about pumping your finger. At least it’s not
artificial.
So I spent the ’60’s, hands in my panties? Of course
not. I got my degree in Secondary Ed. I wore tie-die
shirts without a bra, but not to class like some girls
did. “Professor Seaton. Can I stop by your office to
talk about my grade? I’ll lean over to watch while you
mark things. It’s really cool how these days we’re
beyond where age makes any difference between people,
isn’t it? See, if we mess up your hair a little, you
sort of look like Bob Dylan! He’s really popular.” I
smoked some pot, but nothing stupid. The Free Love
thing sort of missed me, but I guess that was OK. I
would have if I’d had the chance.
Normal, being a college town, was a good enough place.
I, in fact, stayed right there for my first real job,
two years teaching history at Normal High School, right
where I’d student taught. Most NHS girls didn’t wear
bras either and their dads were the professors. “Dad.
Can we go to your study to talk about my allowance?
I’ll lean over to watch while you mark papers.”
I might even be at NHS now (“32 Years of Service. Best
Wishes Mrs. Thornton. Normal Public School District.
Learning for Tomorrow”), but for my brother. He
graduated from college too, industrial arts. The NHS
banner wouldn’t have said “Mrs. Thornton” like the one
in Detroit.
REUNION, MARCH 1971
Samuel and I always were good friends; some siblings
aren’t. You can tell if one answers a query about the
other with information from a Christmas letter. However
far apart Samuel and I might have strayed, we’d have
stayed in touch. “Touch” is a term with latitude, isn’t
it? Siblings are in touch if they occasionally write. A
brother gently touches his sister’s breast when she
rests her head on his lap. Same word.
My job and Samuel’s senior year, plus me in my
apartment and him in his dorm meant that we didn’t see
each other much. But we enjoyed it when we did, perhaps
a beer at my place after tennis. I’d grab a quick
shower and maybe be in my bra while we downed a couple
of cold ones. He was my little brother, for goodness
sake. I didn’t mind if his ears would get a little red
at first. They were just cotton bras, back then, not
the sheer ones they sell now.
A Howdy standard was backward spelling. At the
Doodyville Book Club, the magic words, “Skoob Era Nuf,”
transported us into the volumes. Backwards, “Books Are
Fun”. Once Buffalo Bob rescued Peppy Mint (the real
girl after Princess Summerfall Winterspring) from a
magic mirror trap with, “Nepo Rorrim”. That’s, “Open
Mirror!”
Samuel and I perpetuated the cipher. “Sinnet No
Yadsendew” was “Tennis On Wednesday.” He’d usually win.
“De Cysp Weiver” meant “Ed Psyc Review.” A girl needs
her support for tennis, but not for pedagogic theory,
at least if she’s still in her 20’s. I didn’t mind that
Samuel noticed the difference. A sister can read her
brother pretty well.
In the ’70’s, innocence was supplanted by bitter
realities even closer to home. Kent State, a place
about as normal as Normal.
When Howdy Doody came to town, though, older sister’s
orders were absolute, “Ew Tog A Etad.” It was only
fitting for Howdy, Buffalo Bob, wife Buffalo Mil and
Clarabell to reappear on college campuses, Normal being
one of 500 reunions. Even draft card burners needed a
break from their lighters. Buffalo Bob didn’t say “Baby
Boomers”; we were his “alumni”. Draft cards didn’t
exist in the Peanut Gallery. We were back at home with
Howdy Doody for a couple of hours.
A big date, even, because it was Howdy! I made Samuel
dress up. I did too. It was part of the strangeness of
when Nixon was President. Wear your girdle on Friday
and jiggle on Saturday. Samuel bought me a corsage
without me even asking. He’s always been sweet. Walking
to the auditorium, I took my brother’s arm, prom
princess style.
Cheering Howdy made old times come alive. I remembered
how we’d laughed at Flub-a-dub (eight animals in one:
duck bill, cat whiskers, spaniel ears, giraffe neck,
dachshund body, seal flippers, pig tail and an
elephant’s memory), how we’d hounded Mom to buy Welch’s
Grape Jelly so we’d get the juice glasses.
And I remembered how we’d humped each other back when
we were kids, once accidentally, the other at my
invitation. Did he? I didn’t know, but something about
seeing Howdy again with Samuel on my arm made me
happier than Buffalo Bob’s jokes merited, to wit,
Howdy:
Hey, Buffalo Bob, what’s black and white and red all
over?
Bob:
I don’t know Howdy. What is black and white and red
all over?
Howdy (and everybody at the show):
A newspaper!
Bob didn’t appreciate the Cheech and Chong big bong
humor we thought we’d grown into,
Cheech:
Knock knock.
Chong:
Who’s there?
Cheech:
Howdy Doody.
Chong:
Howdy Doody who?
Cheech:
I don’no man. Like wow! I forget.
Basically the auditorium-full realized that we’d
forgotten how to be kids. Cheech and Chong were funny,
sure, but we needed the old way too. I nuzzled Samuel.
I nuzzled more insistently. He grinned and nuzzled me
back. He remembered when we were kids on the sofa too.
I fluttered my eyes.
By the time the show was over and Buffalo Bob was
signing photographs and memorabilia (I should have
brought Mr. Howdy), Samuel had traversed my blouse in
every direction. I wished I wasn’t so bustled. When we
got back to my place, I ditched my bra in the bathroom.
“That was really cool, seeing Howdy just like we used
to,” I offered, popping a Hamms, feeling the silk on my
nipples.
“Just like old times,” Samuel agreed, looking at my
bumps.
We sat on my sofa without further reminiscing and then
I walloped him with a pillow.
“Moron girl,” he responded, gulping his cooler before
counterattack. Now he really was the bigger, so it was
hardly close. Accepting defeat might have signaled the
end of it, but I wiggled my knees wide so he’d know
we’d been remembering together. My giggle was my final
offer. I could see his erection in his slacks.
I didn’t mind when he unbuttoned his Moron girl’s
blouse. He was the first guy I ever watched see my
tits, excluding the creeps at the swimming pool who
would gawk when my top hung loose. I so much liked how
gently he touched me that I quit pretending to struggle
and worked my leg up against his hardness. He must have
liked it too, because he wasn’t escaping either.
But still how we were brought up, our hands didn’t
venture southward. I parted my knees and let him rub
his penis against me until we found our rhythm. We
hooked one another’s shoulders and drove our bodies as
one. Restrained as I was in my latex foundation still
(damn what dressing up meant back then), it’s a wonder
that it worked for me, but fondness on a sofa counts
for a lot.
So many years after our youthful trysts, this orgasm
was that of real lovers, not procreativity coupled, of
course, but releasing every sort of chemical and
emotion that full penetration affords. What some
deprecate as “dry fucking” can be really, really wet.
We were happy, not just for the sexual proximity, but
for real union.
INVITATIONS, APRIL 1971
That would be my last springtime in Normal. I needed
something more urban, a place where things would be
new. Too many people knew me, where I came from, what
I’d done in Campfire Girls, everything. Being out of
college made me an old person to those still in. And
Detroit came calling.
In those days, Northern industrial centers still saw a
world always craving for bigger and bigger. Detroit
Public Schools had the bucks to raid places like Normal
to build Detroit’s brighter future. The DPS recruiter
did everything but produce my contract when he noted
that I actually had teaching experience. What did I
want, junior or senior high? Junior, please. They’d fly
me there for a recruitment visit, even, pretty
impressive to a girl who’d never been in a plane.
I had no idea that Samuel had talked to the DPS fellow
until he told me. Industrial Arts made sense in
Detroit, a place with industry. If teaching didn’t pan
out, he could make better money on an assembly line,
was his thought. He’d given DPS my apartment address
since dorm mail dumped on the lobby table sometimes got
lost. This was too important.
We opened our letters together. We hugged and kissed
and danced around, we were so excited. Basically they
were the same form letter saying to book a ticket
during the next two weeks. They’d reimburse the fare
and take care of the rest. It seemed silly not to go
together, so that’s how we set it up. We hugged and
kissed some more.
INTERVIEW EVE, MAY 1971
Not that he hadn’t brushed against my tits a million
times before, but it was so nice on the plane how I
could doze with his arm against me. I felt like what I
imagined a wife feels traveling to a new home with her
husband. When we touched down, I kissed Samuel like a
spouse might, not passionately, just excited. At the
baggage claim where nobody watches anything but the
conveyer, his elbow kept finding me. I grinned back.
You know how little assumptions sometimes become big
things? Well the little assumption here was that of
some DPS secretary who probably noticed the coincidence
of two Thorntons at the same address. We must be
married, so book one room. That’s how the guy at the
hotel desk had been instructed, anyway. It didn’t seem
that big of deal to us. We’d lived together before,
obviously.
The fact that the room had just a queen-sized bed gave
us a start, but again, who were we to quibble about a
free trip to Detroit. The room had a little fridge, but
we knew they’d sock us for anything we drank. I’d
brought snacks. I wrote earlier that “going to bed
with” doesn’t have the connotation for a kid that it
has for an adult. Well the connotation wasn’t so
obvious to us either. The bathroom had a door. The bed
was plenty big enough. I had my nightgown.
I got into my nightgown in the bathroom and he stripped
to his underwear after the lights were out. We lay
there, not yet sleepy, but knowing that we should be.
We again shared our slight knowledge and expansive
opinions about Detroit fueled by the Greater Detroit
brochures we’d harvested in the lobby. We practiced a
few interview lines. “We want them to want to learn it
before they even see it,” that sort of banality.
I’d never shared a bed with a guy before, albeit my
brother. It did feel a little awkward. What if I’d roll
over? He’d felt so right being close on the plane,
though, I didn’t think I’d mind, even if he wrapped his
arm around me. I knew I’d liked how he’d brushed my
bosom with his elbow. I shifted a little toward the
middle, not obviously, though.
Wanting his presence, his excitement about tomorrow, I
scooted my foot a bit in his direction. Nothing there.
I scooted a little further — an ankle. “Are you
asleep,” sure that he wasn’t.
The ankle pushed back. “Don’t tell them you drive a
VW,” he advised, scooting my way.
“Be sure to tape back your Howdy ears,” I replied as I
pulled off my gown. I wasn’t even planning to! I just
sat up, did it, and dove back under the covers before
he could see much. (Actually it was too dark to see,
but I still wanted to be covered up.)
For a moment we just embraced, still a little unsure
about being in bed together, much less me having
discarded my gown. After the Howdy reunion show earlier
that spring, we humped on my sofa maybe once a week, me
topless, him squirting big spots on his pants, not
really on me. He might have sometimes see my panties if
my dress rode up (no more girdle, if you please), but
I’d not take off my skirt. We’d stayed off my bed; we
weren’t doing that.
We’d never been together just in underpants. We’d never
been together in bed.
But you can be unsure and willing. We knew our
positions — heads side by side. He clutched my
shoulders while I worked my thigh inward and upward
until his boxers firmly wedged my briefs. In only
underwear, humping assumes precisely explicit
characteristics. His penis strained forward, probing
the yield of my own cotton. I arched to help, swapping
friction for pressure.
But for the two undergarments, we’d have already mated.
Had Samuel unencumbered the constraint, I would have
joyfully acquiesced. We’d have become one. But didn’t
tell him, strip me and love’s about respect, too.
In that big bed, silently we rotated together until I
felt his ejaculation seep into my panties. Then I let
myself go too. I wanted him to feel the power of my
climax. I slept with the warmth of our two wetnesses
matting my pubic hair. We slept together in the right
way for that night.
Sometime during the night he shifted his weight from
me, but I turned enough sidewise for his knee to linger
between mine. I was ready to climax again, but I didn’t
want to wake him, so I used a finger, hardly anything.
Holding yourself so still makes it more pastel, knowing
that he’s feeling your tremor in his sleep. When I
came, his knee drew up to press against. As I drifted
off, I felt a tiny kiss, or at least thought I did.
CELEBRATION
DPS Headquarters is a big enough place that once we
arrived the next morning, we didn’t see the other until
dinner. I’d talked social studies with mid school
people and he’d talked shop at the vocational level.
I’d been taken for lunch to a prawn place and he’d gone
to a sizzler.
When we met at day’s end, our grins announced our
offers. Big money, even! Of course we kissed. Of course
we hugged. Of course I helped Samuel out of his sports
coat. Of course I got a run in my stockings when he
dumped me fully dressed on our bed and humped me. Who
cares about nylons? We were really good to each other.
We prepared for bed as we did the evening before, me in
the bathroom, Samuel after turning out the light. We
both had jobs in Detroit! This time Samuel pulled my
gown off before I flopped onto the middle. He didn’t
pull the cover back over us, even.
Again we held each other, fabric yielding but not
parting. We both had jobs in a real city! This was that
city! I ground against him with every skill I’d
mastered on my Howdy. I didn’t let up.
“I can’t hold it,” he finally begged as I lifted. “I
can’t.”
I knew the pace of his ascension — maybe six strokes
remaining. I’d arrive right with him. Did this mean to
let him pull away, precluding his seed from trickling
into me, what might have even happened last night? I
wasn’t sure. I worked him ever harder. With probably
three left, there was no option for slowing.
No, I was sure. I hadn’t thought we would, but I was
sure! I wanted him to take my virginity. I wanted to
take his.
“It’s OK,” the same I’d said when we were little.
Soaked with invitation and focusing on our final
moment, I pushed down my panties and freed his penis.
“Come on. You can!” His final stroke had nowhere to go
but forward.
Sibling first-time sex must seem flustered to those who
achieve the same end through the downward progression
of normal petting. This was the first I’d touched a
penis. I was only vaguely aware of what I’d briefly
guided before it was half buried. Within me!
He was big, exploding on arrival. I was ready
physiologically, but still surprised. Holding my
brother, I knew that I wanted it to be real, just not
that real, so fast. It stretched me, a rougher event
that one self-achieved, but I didn’t mind about that.
Like his, my orgasm began before his first pull. Was it
better than that with which I was familiar? I didn’t
know then and I don’t know now. It was loud, but not of
multiple dimensions. (A woman might understand the
dimensional aspect. I’m not sure about a guy.) It was
our first. They’re just different. A woman needs both.
We’d proved ourselves to one another! Virgins no
longer! Lovers!