Date: Thu, 22 Apr 2004 12:59:39 +0000
From: Moore
Subject: Bylaws Chapter 1

THERE OUGHT TO BE a law against cruising for young people. Picking
up teenage girls, or teenage boys if you lean that way, for the
purpose of having consensual sex has gotten so easy that it borders
on the ridiculous. Perhaps there is a law. I'm an attorney so if I
had a mind to I suppose I could look it up.

Corporate law is my forte, mergers and acquisitions, finance, tax
strategies and drafting bylaws, the rules governing the affairs of
corporations, to best serve my multi-national clients. Judges and
courtrooms are as foreign to me as they are to most law abiding
citizens. The last time, the only time I've been in a courtroom,
saw a judge, was to pay a traffic ticket.  And that was years ago,
when I returned to New York City after a year at the London School
of Economics.

I believe I am reasonably intelligent. The nice folks at Princeton
and Harvard Law, the aforementioned school in England and several
other institutions of higher learning, foreign and domestic, all of
which have added letters after my name, seem to think so too.
However, the City's rules concerning alternate side of the street
parking, tow-a-way zones, no standing or idling, and so forth, are
more complex, more indecipherable than the multi-billion dollar
transactions that my work involves.

My name is Peter Conte.  Other nice folks, some not so nice to be
sure, willingly fork over huge sums of money to tap into the vast
store of knowledge and experience that resides in my fiftyish year
old head.  Obscene really...the money I mean, not my head. I've got
a nice head.  Dark hair and eyes, all the usual features exactly
where you would expect to find them and everything arranged in a
pleasing enough, mature Rob Lowe so I've been told, fashion.

Inside this well educated head of mine, buried among the millions
of analytical brain cells that have been schooled to understand and
unravel the intricacies of international law and global markets and
all manner of complex financial instruments...except my telephone
bill. Maybe you understand the various rates and fees and taxes, I
gave up trying years ago when the industry was deregulated. Among
all those cells, god gave me a handful of insightful brain cells.
Those babies have served me well over the years when the outcome of
a deal was hanging in the balance.  In my work it's important to get
the deal done.  That's the bottom line. The big money, the obscene
money comes only when the transaction closes.

It's not unlike buying a house, which I'm sure many of you have
done.  Once you've agreed to the price and the terms, the lawyers
draft a contract.  A few small details remain to be negotiated. The
washer and dryer, included or not? The patio furniture, the garden
tools and lawnmower, the area rug in the den; all negotiable.  What
does the buyer want? And the seller, what does he want?  Money is
most often the issue, but, and this is important to remember, not
always. Reach an agreement on the issues in question, the deal goes
to closing and congratulations the house is yours. Dig in your
heels, insist that the seller must leave the living room drapes at
no additional cost, drapes which by the way your wife is going to
hate shortly after you move in, and you will still be house hunting.

I put those insightful brain cells to work...made my first million
too, in the late 70's when the firm I worked for at that time was
negotiating a $200 million dollar leveraged buyout of a frozen food
company.  Chump change by today's standards, but $200 million was
real money back then. Teams of high priced lawyers and accountants
had already worked for nearly a year on the deal when I joined the
firm. The draft agreement, the contract, was as thick as the
Manhattan phone book. Thousands of hours, hundreds of thousands of
dollars had been spent, endless rounds of meetings and it appeared
that the deal was in trouble; the deal was not going to close.

You are not going to believe it when I tell you what was threatening
to blow up a $200 million dollar transaction. And this was a good
deal for all the parties concerned...unlike so many of the junk bond
financed deals that eventually collapsed under a mountain of debt.
No, this was a sound, well financed deal that was not going to close
because of office furniture. Not money... office furniture.

The retiring president, the fellow who had founded the business
thirty years ago, his office furniture to be exact. He wanted the
furniture. The incoming president wanted the furniture too. Neither
of them said a word about the furniture...don't ask me how, but I
saw the conflict. I intuitively saw the power play, the subtle clash
of egos over a few sticks of wood...that no one else seemed able to
see. I resolved it and the deal closed.

Dumb, you say?  Of course it was dumb, but the experience taught me
something that wasn't taught at all the fancy schools I attended. I
learned a valuable lesson which, in addition to a lot of hard work,
helped me get to where I am today.  Never underestimate the power
of ego and always try to recognize, determine the driving force
within a person.

Oh, I suppose you're wondering how I resolved the furniture wars?
I simply called a friend...and had him steal the damn furniture that
was holding up a big payday for me.  My friend took a few computers
too, to sell off the back of his truck, but hey, everyone's got to
eat.

So the question often times boils down to what does he or she really
want. Particularly true when dealing with people, like I do, folks
who have a great deal of money.  Don't misunderstand. I am certainly
not suggesting that rich folks don't want to be even richer, but
once you own everything you care to own, once you have so much money
that you start giving away large chunks of it to charities, money is
no longer the driving force for most people.

Let me give you an example.  Several years after the food company
buyout, I was representing an oil rich Middle East country in their
effort to secure a hundred million dollar loan from a large and well
known American bank.  This bank, after some twenty years and several
mergers, is still in business today. So too, some of the principal
players in this narrative are still alive. Therefore, I trust you
will allow me to use my discretion when prudence and good taste
require anonymity.

My fee in this transaction was a $250,000 retainer and a success
bonus of one million dollars. The stated purpose of the loan: a
desalinization plant to supply water for the citizens of this arid
country.  The real purpose, I knew, was to buy yet another private
jet for the country's leader. An evil fellow he was, a brutal tyrant
who truly could care less if his people died of thirst.  The bank
was represented by its chairman, Mr. R, a middle aged fellow, soft
spoken, yet powerful and confident, and wealthy beyond measure. He
and I had worked together several times before so I was surprised to
see him at the table without one of the good looking, sharp young
men who usually accompanied him on foreign trips.

We were meeting in Bangkok again, a favorite of my Arab clients
because the city provided a variety of activities not available to
them at home in their strict Muslim country. Mr. R was for some
unknown reason being unusually difficult during the negotiations
which were taking far longer than necessary.  He seemed nervous,
uptight, and I couldn't figure out what was troubling him.  Even
the beautiful Thai girls on the hotel's staff didn't lift his
spirits.  My clients didn't mind the delay, not a bit.  They were
having a wonderful time as usual.  Honestly now, would you be in
any hurry to rush back to a country that was nothing but drifting
sand, camels and oppressive heat?  Where the only alcohol was in
your after shave? Where the women were swaddled in yards of black
fabric? 

Mr. R's polite insistence on a higher rate of interest and a shorter
payback period wasn't the problem; minor details my clients didn't
care much about.  He wanted to see the plans. I'd seen the plans for
the aircraft; quite magnificent with silks and marble and solid gold
fixtures in the bathrooms, but I hadn't anticipated, it was most
unusual, that the bank would actually want to see plans that didn't
exist for a water treatment facility that wasn't going to be built,
financed by a loan they had to make...a loan that everyone knew
wasn't likely to be paid back.

Did you get all that or did I go too fast? Confused?  I guess a
quick lesson in international finance and geopolitical reality is
in order.

In 1986, Mr. R's bank had assets of more than $15,000,000,000,
that's fifteen billion dollars, including loans of about seven
billion.  Assets are a good thing to have. The money they lend
out comes in from deposits, the money you and I keep in our bank
accounts.  Deposits are obligations, liabilities of the bank,
because someday we might want our money back.  The bank has around
four billion of our money, which is insured by the FDIC. You all
with me so far?

Some of the bank's loans, around a billion dollars worth, were for
the kind of loans you have on your house and car.  If you don't pay
the interest and principal each month, the bank simply takes your
property, sells it, and recovers its money. The bank also had two
billion in loans to businesses, loans secured by the assets of the
business.  Things like machinery and buildings or a warehouse full
of designer sneakers. Assets the bank can seize and sell if the
company is unable to pay back the loan. The balance of the bank's
loans, about four billion dollars worth, were loans to developing
countries in South America and Latin America and Asia and Africa
and yes, the Middle East.

Mr. R's bank used lots of deposits, your money remember, and loaned
it to poor countries all around the world. Countries where the vast
majority of the population was ill fed, clothed and housed. Bare
assed countries I call them, countries so impoverished that the
children had little, and more often than not no clothes to cover
their emaciated bodies. Pitiful looking little kids with bloated
stomachs, naked as jays, even girls and boys well into their teens
roam the streets totally naked, like animals in the wild, begging
for a scrap of food and approaching foreigners for the loose change
in their pockets.

"You can buy any one of them for sixpence," a middle aged lawyer

from a London firm told me early in my career...on my first visit
to Calcutta. "I keep several at my flat, very good servants...slaves
really I dare say, with a proper bit of training of course. Loyal
and obedient, like dogs, and bloody entertaining when I'm in the
mood for a dash of outrageous fun.  Living here is such a bloody
bore otherwise."

I'd heard a few things about this fellow, Gerald Maplewood, to
which I had added my own suspicions after a week in his company.
He proceeded to put some truth to what had been only rumored.

"You seem like an open minded chap, Peter," he said, steering me
towards a naked brown skinned boy, cup in hand, begging for coins
at the side of a busy road.

I just nodded and gave him a dollar bill when he asked if I had one
in my pocket.

"He will do it for far less, but let's be generous with the lad,
shall we?"

"Do what?" I asked as he stopped in front of the grime covered boy
who, judging by the presence of a small patch of pubic hair, must
have been about twelve or thirteen years old.

"For a US Dollar, Peter," he chuckled, they'll do anything."

The boy's face lit up when he saw the bill in Gerald's hand and he
followed it eagerly into an alleyway.  "On your knees, boy," Gerald
commanded as he unzipped his trousers and hauled out his penis.
"I'll have my dick in your bloody mouth now, cocksucker. Suck it
well my darling little faggot, play with yourself whilst you suck
my dick, if you want this bloody money."

The boy went to his knees immediately, never once taking his eyes
off the bill in Gerald's hand until the Brit let loose with a stream
of urine right in the boy's face. "Drink up, lad, warm English piss
and a bellyful of English sperm will do you some good."

I politely declined Gerald's offer to, "have a go with the bloody
cocksucker" when he'd finished with the boy.  I am quite open minded
when it comes to sex, but back-alley blow jobs from street urchins
is stretching things a bit.

Because of these loans to poor countries and his other philanthropic
projects around the globe, Mr. R was praised as a man of vision and
integrity.  He dined regularly at the White House and other world
capitals, and was on a first name basis with heads of state. He
travelled the globe promoting his image and prestige, while seeking
profitable business for his bank and its stockholders.

The system works pretty well until one of these poor countries falls
too far behind on its interest payments or, god forbid, threatens to
default on the loan...not pay at all.  The bank can't repossess a
road or a bridge or a hydroelectric dam in some rinky dink country
like they can with your house or car.  And even if the bank could,
or dared to try, the country's ambassador would be calling the
Secretary of State who'd go rushing to the White House to speak to
the President who'd call Mr. R to head off an international crisis.

The bank doesn't want to take a loss, admit to their stockholders
that they made a bad loan. What to do? Why restructure the loan of
course, lend them more money to pay back the original loan and
accrued (unpaid) interest, and, for a while at least, the crisis is
averted.

Allow me give you a hypothetical example of how a restructuring might
affect a bank's balance sheet:

ASSETS:
                      Before         After
Cash                10,000,000      4,000,000
Loans                5,000,000     12,000,000 
Accrued Interest     1,000,000              0
Total               16,000,000     16,000,000

LIABILITIES:

Deposits             5,000,000      9,000,000
Borrowings                   0      2,000,000
Equity              11,000,000      5,000,000
Total               16,000,000     16,000,000

See how nicely accounting mumbo jumbo makes it all work out in the
simplified example above. Before the restructuring, our hypothetical
bank had total assets of sixteen million and after...they still had
sixteen million.  And the one million of accrued interest, which the
bank had recorded as income, got paid.

How terrific.  Of course they had to use six million of cash, real
money, to pay themselves back, and they had to convince the public
to deposit more money in the bank, and borrow a few million bucks
from the Federal Reserve Bank, and the equity, the value of the bank,
was reduced...but so what.  It will hopefully all work out in the
end.  Won't it?

Three days in Bangkok and I still couldn't figure out what was
troubling Mr. R.  True, my clients already owed his bank around
five hundred million. It was also true that they were a just a
little behind on their interest payments, like two years and thirty
million. Nevertheless, Mr. R had to make the hundred million dollar
loan because my Arab clients had something called leverage.  That's
leverage spelled O-I-L. Oceans of the stuff. They had it and Mr. R's
friend, the President of the United States of America needed it.

I had to get this deal done in the next few days because I had a
boat to catch, a two week cruise in the Greek Islands with the
woman I was married to that I didn't want to miss.  A pleasurable
evening of fine wine and food, and the company of lovely young
women at one of Bangkok's many private clubs might be just the way
to relax Mr. R. A quick call to Mrs. Lee and all was arranged.

Chapter 2

ASIA PALACE HAD BEEN refurbished since my last visit the previous
year.  Mrs. Lee greeted me warmly, lavish tipping works wonders all
over the world, and escorted our party of five on a brief tour of
her establishment before dinner. The public rooms on the main floor;
the library and billiard room, the lounge where lovely after dinner
companions were selected, the spa...were all truly magnificent.
The private suites upstairs, ten of them, each with large sunken
tubs, king size beds, well stocked wet bars and mirrored ceilings,
were fit for royalty. Out of sight, I knew, behind the carved doors
of an ivory armoire in each suite, were creams and oils to enhance
one's pleasure and erotic playthings of silver and gold and jade and
silk and leather, to provide for most every fantasy. The evening was
going to cost me fifteen to twenty thousand dollars, well worth the
expense if Mr. R enjoyed himself.

No finer dinner could be had anywhere in the world. Champagne and
caviar, oysters and sharks fin soup, fillets of beef with truffles
and baby vegetables, and rare wines with every course; served
elegantly by white gloved asian girls and boys. Mr. R seemed to
perk up as the meal progressed and readily agreed to my suggestion
that we retire to the lounge for brandy and cigars.  A signal, dear
and patient reader, that he was ready for sex.

Mrs. Lee swept into the lounge followed closely by two dozen
beautiful creatures.  Mrs. Lee spoke the name and the age; not
one over sixteen, a few as young as ten, as each paused briefly
by the table for our inspection. Dressed alike in silk pajamas,
the sex of each young beauty was not always readily apparent.

"Choose at your leisure, gentlemen," Mrs. Lee said, placing a
playing card sized nude photo of each child face up on the table.
"Your suites are prepared."

Mrs. Lee's system at Asia Palace allowed her clients to select a
companion discretely if they wished.  No one else in the group need
know another's selection. Simply take a photo to Mrs. Lee and your
choice would be delivered to your suite. My Arab clients wasted no
time.  They passed the nude photos back and forth, compared them,
discussed them openly with Mr. R and myself and excused themselves
from the table holding photos of three exquisite asian girls.

Mr. R was more reserved and discrete.  He picked up the remaining
photos, shuffled them like a deck of cards and fanned them out like
a hand of gin rummy.

"They're so pretty...and so young," he mumbled under his breath.
I kept silent, allowing him his privacy as he examined each card.
From past experience, I knew that middle aged men like Mr. R
fantasized about having sex with young girls. Like most fantasies,
though, he wanted to keep it a secret. That was fine with me.  The
whole purpose of the evening was to relax the man so that we could
conclude our business and I could be on my way to catch my ship.

"This one," he said, pocketing a card and placing the deck face down
on the table.

I nodded as he left the table, picked up the remaining cards, and
poured myself another small snifter of cognac. Mrs. Lee joined me
a few moments later while I was deciding between a honey colored
twelve year old with budding breasts and a thirteen year old with
long shiny hair.  They were all so beautiful.

"I hope all has been satisfactory?"  She said settling into a chair.

"Excellent as always Mrs. Lee."  I sipped my cognac before asking
if my Arabs were pleased with their choices?

"Quite pleased I should think.  Very young girls they have chosen
and very well trained in the many ways to pleasure a man."

Mrs. Lee withdrew three photos from her silk purse and set them
down next to the others on the table.  "And my banker? Which lovely
young thing has he selected to share his bed?" I asked out of
curiosity.

Mrs. Lee hesitated briefly before reaching into her purse to
retrieve the last card which she placed face down on the table.
"Ten years old," she said softly, sliding the card across the table
in my direction.  "Newly arrived, just last week from a mountain
village.  Untouched by any man...a virgin...a boy."

"They're all toys," I chuckled, reaching out to flip over the card
to see the ten year old virgin Mr. R had selected.

"You misunderstand, Peter.  I said boy, not toy.  Your Mr. R has
chosen a young boy for his evening's pleasure."

"A BOY!" I gasped, flipping over the card to reveal the photo of a
very young, very beautiful and very naked...boy.  His penis was small,
hairless, but it was definitely a penis, not a vagina.  "There must
be some mistake."

Mrs. Lee sat quietly while I gulped down the last of my drink and
quickly considered the possibilities.  The man was married. I'd met
his wife, a lovely grey haired lady, and his family at a thirtieth
wedding anniversary party at their Bridgehampton place last year.
It had to be a mistake and Mr. R, not known for his sense of humor,
he'd blame me.  This deal, my million dollar fee, future deals...my
whole relationship with Mr. R, his bank, my reputation, career...up
in flames.

Swift corrective action was called for.  "The back hallway Mrs. Lee,
it's still in place?" I asked rising from the table. She nodded.
"Quickly, take me there...and have a young girl ready to replace the
boy."

The back hallway was a service corridor for the bedroom suites as
well as a means to discretely monitor the activities taking place
inside.  Mrs. Lee had shown it to me once, when the rooms were not
occupied of course.  Some of her customers, she had explained, were
not above taking a set of gold anal beads or an antique jade cock
ring as a souvenir.  "Very costly to replace,"  she'd said.  "Much
more so than the little girls and boys I buy from the villages."

I hurried Mrs. Lee along, praying there was still time to make a
switch and avoid an embarrassing incident.  We stopped briefly to
pick up a girl; older than I would have liked, a little shop worn,
but clearly not a male.

"Here, Peter," Mrs. Lee said, sliding back a panel to reveal the
softly lit interior of the well appointed room.

Three pairs of eyes saw the same sight and each of us reacted
according to our culture and experience.  "Oh my," from Mrs. Lee
who'd been in the business for years.  Nervous giggles from the
Asian whore between us.  "Holy shit!" from yours truly, the Italian
kid from Brooklyn.

Mr. R was nude and aroused. The size of his erect organ was as
impressive as the size of his bank.  An inch, I estimated, for
each of the 15 billion dollars on deposit. Kneeling at his feet,
a slightly built angelic creature...naked as the day HE was born
not so many years ago, was darting HIS pink tongue around Mr. R's
low-hanging testicles.


Chapter 3

HERBERT LOWENSTEIN HAD THE biggest penis in high school. I also
discovered in high school that my 9" erection was considerably
larger than the average dick. How, you ask?  Stella Kowalski, I
reply.  She measured every guy she had sex with, recording his
vital statistics in a three ring binder which contained over three
hundred names by the time she graduated.  Herb the nerd; pocket
protector, slide rule, thick black-framed glasses...the whole nine
yards, topped the charts at 11 1/2".  No one else came close to
Herb, with the vast majority of the guys in Stella's notebook
ranging from 6" to 7", a few at 8" and one lucky fellow at 10".

I lost my virginity in Stella's bed early in my junior year of high
school. She was a fine teacher and, as I have described earlier in
this narrative, I was a fine student.  Stella taught me that sex,
great sex; wild, wet, imaginative, unbridled, gut wrenching, mind
blowing sex, made use of all five senses and every part of your
body. Every part of everybody's body is how she put it. Anything
less she laughingly described as fucking.

"Animals fuck," she told me the first time she invited me to her
house.  "Most people fuck like dumb animals.  The boys at school
fuck me all the time, Peter, but I have a feeling that you're
different from most boys.  Do you want to fuck me too, Peter?  You
can if you want to.  Fuck me, Peter, or let me teach you about great
sex?"

Not to be unkind, we are still great friends, but back in high
school Stella was what the uninformed masses would have called a
slut. Medically speaking, a nymphomaniac. All the names in her book
provided ample evidence of that. She would fuck anyone, anywhere and
at anytime; not the kind of girl you dated or brought home to meet
the family after church on Sunday.  Years later and I still have a
vivid memory of sitting on her bed, staring at her bare breasts when
she posed that question.  Did I want to fuck her?  Why not ask me if
I wanted to continue breathing?

"Teach me," I said, making use of those insightful brain cells that
have served me so well over the years.  In retrospect, the two most
significant words I had ever said in my 16 years on earth.

And teach me she did.

Stella was as good a teacher as any I have encountered at all the
prestigious schools I've attended and better prepared than most.
Every lesson seemed meticulously planned, like she was following a
step by step, how-to manual. A certain best seller, though Stella's
descriptive language might have to be toned down some.  And a movie
based on such a book could never be shown on main street.  We began
my sex education that very afternoon with Stella assuming, quite
correctly I will confess, that I knew little about my body and
absolutely nothing about hers.

"Eyes only, Peter," she said removing the rest of her clothes and
instructing me to do the same.  "Don't be embarrassed," she teased
when I was down to my jockey shorts.  "I'll measure your prick
later, but from the looks of that bulge you have nothing to be
embarrassed about."

Embarrassed?  Me?  The streetwise, know-it-all, big-talking hotshot,
erection in his jockeys teenager from Brooklyn? Did I mention I was
a virgin?  Embarrassed to get balls naked in front of a naked girl?
Naaah, not me.  How about mortified?

"Look at me, Peter," Stella said when the dastardly deed had been
done.  "Look at my body, my whole body, not just my tits and cunt.
Forget about your big hard cock...fuck me with your eyes."

I did and she did, every square inch from top to bottom, front to
back, inside and out.  Up close and very, very personal. We took a
break after an exhausting, yet exhilarating hour of intense and
primarily visual exploration of her body. My penis, erect and
swollen, was confused. As Shakespeare would have said were he alive
today, "To cum, or not to cum, that is the question." Stella, alone,
had the answer.

"Not yet, Peter," she said, pulling down on my testicles or doing
some other torturous thing to my body each of the many times I was
close to orgasm, crying out for release. "Great sex or fucking,
Peter, you have to choose one."

Stella did not make it easy to decide.  "We can continue the lesson,
Peter, or not.  If not, then stick your dick in my mouth and I'll
blow you.  I'll suck your cock, you can cum in my mouth...and we'll
be done."

Stick my dick in her mouth! A blow job! Suck my cock!  Cum in her
mouth!  Good lord, words to warm the cockles of a celibate's heart.
A teenage boy's wet dream fantasy come true...I've masturbated to
less.  A lot less. Had I opted for the blow job, this story, your
interest in it anyway, would be over. I suggest you read on because,
as you will discover, I chose wisely.

Stella had absolutely no inhibitions; none, nada, zilch, or parents
for that matter. None that I ever saw.  I had both, parents and
inhibitions, which made it impossible to stroll around the house
with nothing on. Nudity at my home was reserved for the bathroom
and maybe the bedroom if I was feeling particularly horny and the
bathroom was occupied.  No lock on my bedroom door made it risky to
take certain matters in hand...if you get my drift.  Not so at
Stella's.  We took our break, had a coke in the kitchen.  We even
went out back to look at her garden...stark naked.

"Isn't this great?" Stella said, running a fingernail along the
underside of my erection to get my attention. "We're just like Adam
and Eve."

My excitement was readily apparent, tempered only by the fear of
being discovered out here naked as a newborn baby.  The grass
beneath my feet, the sun and sky above, the gentle breeze, Stella's
hand on my boner, mine on her breast...a brave new world.

"It was all Adam's fault you know."

"What was?"

"Getting tossed out of the Garden of Eden.  The guys who wrote the
bible, the business about the snake and the apple, bullshit for the
masses.  The snake had a part in it, but the way I see it, what
makes more sense if you read the bible...all that screwing around,
it was all about pussy."

Stella was dead serious. "Pussy," she said again as she stretched
out on the grass under a tree.  She spread her legs slightly and
motioned me to sit beside her, the pussyside seat, if you will, and
continued her course on great sex.

"Adam Fucked," she began simply. Descriptive, precise, profound, up
there with other bible biggies like Jesus Wept.  "For forty days and
forty nights Adam screwed Eve all over Eden. Fucked her brains out,
Peter, like an animal.  And when he wasn't fucking her...blow jobs.
Adam forced his big dick into her mouth told Eve to suck. Suck his
big dick until came and filled her mouth with his cum. Adam's own
invention, I'm sure of it Peter. The blow job, cocksucking, was not
part of god's original plan for her human creations."

Language aside, which I cautioned you about, unassailably logical
when you think about it. A man and a woman, naked, not much else to
do and no one around to stop them. It's happened to me several times
on privately owned Greek islands and uninhabited atolls in the South
Pacific. It could have happened with Adam and Eve in the Garden of
Eden.  By the way, you did note Stella's reference to god as a
female?

"Eve was human too, Peter, she liked sex.  The bible says she came
from one of Adam's ribs...uh,uh, his third testicle.  God decided
that two big balls were enough for man so she used the third one to
create a woman. That's why a woman's body is so round and so sexy."

No argument from the kid with a hardon.

"Eve liked sex.  Adam's hard dick, the head spreading the lips of
her wet cunt, the fat shaft penetrating deep, splitting her in two,
thrusting in and out of her pussy; Adam's roar as his huge balls
exploded in orgasm, spurting huge quantities of hot cum into her
body.  She sucked when Adam wanted his cock sucked and swallowed
when Adam emptied his nuts in her mouth. Eve's feelings were hurt
when Adam, an insensitive oaf, looked down at her kneeling before
him, wiped his wet prick across her face, and after giving it some
thought he called her a cocksucker.

But she continued to suck Adam's cock because it gave her pussy a
chance to recover from the constant pounding of Adam's dick and it
kept him out of her ass."

Stella's vivid verbal picture had my mind working overtime.  She was
holding them against her breasts or my hands would have been hard at
work too. And she kept the pressure on, on my mind and on my boner
with questions like, "When I suck your cock later, are you going to
cum in mouth, Peter? Cum in my mouth, maybe on my face and tits, and
then Peter, then are you going to call me a cocksucker?"

When, Stella, when are you going to suck my cock? I wanted to shout.
"Oh no, Stella, I'd never do that," I said instead, eager to hear
more.

"Guys were hung a lot bigger in biblical times.  Small brains and
bull sized dicks, big balls too that produced enormous quantities of
the sperm needed to populate the earth.  Evolution changed all that
you know.  As man's brain got bigger, his dick and balls shrunk in
size.  Big brain, small cock. Small brain, big cock. You ever shower
with the football team, Peter, check out the player's cocks?"

Stella had silky pubic hair.  The woman I was married to for several
years had the same kind of luxurious growth; jet black and straight,
with strands of silver mixed in.  Quite a departure from the usual
coarse hair that can irritate sensitive skin.  I was concentrating
on one silver hair, trying not to think about sex, when Stella, my
teacher, posed her question.

"No," I said automatically, promulgating one of life's little lies.

I only watch public television was a popular lie when I was growing
up.  I never cheat on my taxes was big until it fell out of favor in
the 90's when everybody cheated on their taxes, or lied about it to
avoid being labeled an ass.  We all know the classic guy lies, the
ones revolving around sex. I'll respect you in the morning, I won't
cum in your mouth, I never masturbate and, to get back on point, IÔ)
0*0*0*°°
don't check out other guys.  The last may be true if your blind or
live alone on a mountain in Nepal.

"I'll take you with me the next time I pay them a visit," Stella
said. "Dumb bunch of jocks for the most part, big cocks though.
You'll see what I mean about brain size and dick size."

We did go eventually, one of several enlightening field trips I
took with Stella.  Never having showered with the football team
before, you might say that technically speaking I hadn't lied to
Stella.

A further note on brain size and dick size.  As an attorney, I have
represented a number of NFL stars in their mega million dollar
contract negotiations, been in their locker rooms.  I can honestly
report that by and large, football players have not gotten any
smarter or their dicks any smaller.

"Adam was having a grand time in the Garden of Eden.  Balling Eve,
using her mouth, her tits, her ass...getting his rocks off whenever
he felt like it.  Eve was frustrated, Peter, she felt there was
something missing in her sex life."

Stella pulled me up on to her body. "Do you know what was missing,
Peter?"

Not a thing would have been my immediate and incorrect selfish male
response. Yours too I suspect when you were a 16 year old boy,
unless, dear reader, you had already discovered that girls did not
turn you on...discovered that you were a homosexual. Were it not for
the aforementioned insightful brain cells I would have fallen for
Stella's trick question. Stop and think. Why was I here?  What was
she teaching me?

"Great sex?" I said with my head resting on her breast. A question
as much as an answer.

"Good boy, Peter," she said, stroking my ass. "Eve was being fucked,
fucked over by Adam. The snake, Peter, the snake made her see that
she was being screwed."

Stella's subtlety was lost on me.  Not the softness of her breasts
though, or her hands on my ass, or the heat being generated where my
erection rubbed against her leg.

"The snake, attracted by the smell of sex, came upon Eve one day
stretched out on her back under the Tree of Knowledge. Adam had just
finished with her and had gone off to sleep.  Eve was a sight, Peter.
Semen all over her face and tits, oozing from the corners of her
mouth, seeping from her cunt."

Stella pushed me down her body as she spoke; my chin and mouth
sliding through her silky pubic hair, stopping when my lips and
hers, the pinkish lips of her vagina, were but a breath apart. The
smell was intriguing...a simple earthiness, yet complex, with subtle
undertones beyond my descriptive abilities as a writer. If I had to
choose one word and only one to describe my first experience with
the scent and, since we'll be getting there shortly, the taste of a
woman, that word would have to be intoxicating.

The scent of a woman is quite different from that of a man.  In my
opinion, personal not legal, all females smell the same. Males, I
discovered under Stella's tutelage, depending on their age; well,
young boys smell different from men. And since we're being honest,
I will admit to finding all three immensely erotic.

I felt light headed yet focused as Stella continued with her version
of the story of Adam and Eve.

"The snake coiled himself between Eve's legs, Peter, his bulbous,
cock shaped head poised to strike when Eve, feeling his warm breath,
raised her hips and cried out when the snake's tongue entered her.
Not so fast, Peter," Stella said, when, on her instructions, I
attempted to emulate the snake.

"Slowly, Peter. Move your tongue around my pussy. Inside now, baby,
find the clit, Peter, lick it, suck it. Make it happen. Faster now,
faster.  Almost there, almost....aaahhhh."

Remember your first orgasm and discovering that there were other
very enjoyable things to do with your penis besides urinating?
Discovering that your friends did it too cleared the air and opened
the door to a variety of hotly debated issues.  For my friends and
I, purloined copies of Playboy magazine provided the visual answer
to a number of questions concerning the female breast. Penthouse did
the same, quite graphically, for the previously unseen folds of a
woman's vagina. Neither publication adequately addressed the burning
school yard question that made the rounds in 7th grade.  Do girls
jerk off?  Do they masturbate and cum like guys?  And if they do,
how?  And what happens?
 
We honestly didn't know. The whole matter was a complete mystery
and there was no one to ask, no way to find out. Today, pre-teen
girls are having sex and openly discussing the quality of their
orgasms, the size of their boyfriend's penis. I grew up in simpler
times; no personal computers, no internet or cable television or
sexually explicit movies at your local cineplex.  Dwight Eisenhower
was President, Ozzie and Harriet, a popular TV show about a normal
American family, didn't even sleep in the same bed.

"The snake did it, Peter, made Eve cum just like you made me cum.
Her very first orgasm. What Adam couldn't or wouldn't do with his
big fat useless cock, the snake did with his tongue.  He got Eve
off big time, lapped up her flowing pussy juice then slithered up
between her sopping wet cunt lips to work on her tits."

Stella's reaction to my admittedly clumsy efforts, her raised hips
and the tension in her legs, the viscous fluid from deep inside her
body that made my tongue dance and penis pulse, her rapid breaths
and satisfied sigh of release; I had done it, settled the question;
girls have orgasms just like boys.

"Do my tits now, Peter," Stella said. "Lick your way up my body,
slowly, take your time."

I hardly noticed that her skin was moist, salty tasting, as I made
my way to her breasts.  I think she had another small orgasm when,
instinctively, I took a nipple into my mouth and sucked.  Human
beings, all animals, are born with the instinct to suck.  That's
how we survive as infants, sucking at our mother's breast.  Nothing
sexual or erotic about sucking unless you're a 16 year old boy,
lying naked with a girl, her hands roaming all over your body, her
nipple stiff in your mouth, your penis stiff between her legs, then
sucking takes on a whole new meaning.
 
We had covered a lot of ground, employed all five senses on the road
to great sex. Stella's skill was all that stood between me and what
surely would have been the most intense orgasm of my life. Left to
my own devices, under my own quick hand, sperm and testicle would
have parted company a long time ago...several times.  Climax delayed
produced the unexpected benefit of a surprising amount of precum.
Not the usual drop or two, but a slow faucet like drip which Stella,
my penis in hand, smeared on her nipples.

I hesitated briefly when she told me to taste it.  Real men don't
eat quiche or their own body fluids, do they?  They do if they want
to continue in Stella's classroom.  I did want to continue so I did
taste my precum from her nipple, and yes, I did taste my semen too.
Quite a lot of it, as a matter of fact, from her breast, her mouth
and from between her legs. Sucked my sperm out of Stella's vagina
I did.  Disgusting, gross, embarrassing?  Fuhgedaboudit, as we used
to say in Brooklyn. Those words didn't exist in Stella's classroom.

Stella kept up a running commentary, instructing and guiding me,
demonstrating; encouraging me when I faltered and berating me when
I hesitated or failed to execute a task to her satisfaction.  Great
sex, I would have you know, is hard work.  We fucked and sucked the
afternoon away.  At what I mistakenly thought was lesson's end I was
drained; sticky and smelly with sweat, sperm, saliva and the flowing
results of Stella's frequent orgasms. My tongue, thick and coated,
was in shock.  After four humongous mind blowing orgasms my no
longer virgin penis, thanks to Stella's oral skills, was yet again
rising to the occasion.

"Adam was horny when he woke up and saw Eve and the snake going at
it," Stella said over the top of my penis.  "Still groggy from
sleep, Adam saw what appeared to be a thick cock sliding into Eve's
pussy and a big cock head at her mouth.  In reality, it was both
ends of the snake. Eve cried out, 'Fuck me, please fuck me. Oh my
god, more dick, fuck me deep, fuck me hard,' which pissed off Adam.
Eve's cries even caught god's attention who was busy working on her
commandments.  God put down her chisel and heavy stone tablets to
watch the snake penetrate Eve's cunt with his stiff body and tease
her mouth with his cock-like head."

Don't go rushing off for the copy of the Gideon bible you stole,
excuse me, borrowed from the Hilton Hotel. You won't find the
passage with Eve saying please fuck me, Stella took great liberties
when telling her bible stories.  Her version of Noah's ark, what
went on between Noah and the animals, is not for the faint of heart.
Adam and Eve started the practice, according to Stella, Noah went
overboard which forced god to change the rules.

"Adam had a little lamb," Stella said, multi-tasking between my blow
job and her story.  "Fucked her from time to time, the other animals
too, when he felt like a change of pace or needed to escape from
Eve's bickering.  The lamb was a good fuck.  All the animals in the
Garden of Eden were good fucks and Adam used them all for his own
pleasure.  Not one of them could suck dick though, sharp teeth and
rough tongues did a painful number on Adam's cock. Eve, the world's
first cocksucker, had the blow job market cornered. Adam and the
snake knew it.  God knew it too...and she was appalled at this
unexpected turn of events.  For a time, god considered replacing one
of the ten commandments with Thou Shalt Not Suck Cock."

Whether or not you believe Stella's version of Adam and Eve, or can
provide an alternative explanation, under oath you would have to
testify that oral sex has gotten a bad rap. Cock sucking and the
cock sucker have been vilified in Judo-Christian society. It's a
shame because a well done blow job is truly a thing of beauty.
The human mouth; as originally designed by god if you believe in
the story of creation, or as it evolved if you buy Darwin's theory,
is perfectly suited to performing oral magic on the male organ.
 
"Adam and Eve argued constantly," Stella continued after I had a
humongous orgasm and ejaculated forcefully into her mouth.  "Eve
had discovered great sex with the snake, a bit of knowledge that
god wanted to keep hidden from the mass of humanity that was to
populate her earth.  Adam just wanted to fuck and get sucked off.
But aside from an occasional charity fuck Eve cut him off from her
mouth and pussy.  She'd had it, fed up with Adam and his selfish
ways.  God had had it too and she tossed them both out of the
Garden of Eden, naked as the day they were created.  The snake,
Peter...the snake god kept for herself."

We showered together, Stella and I, one more extraordinary
experience in a day filled with extraordinary experiences. Warm
water, soap, two slick naked bodies...heaven.  Then she got on her
knees and kissed my wet balls, put them in her mouth for a moment.
A needless gesture I assure you to insure that I was completely
erect, and took my measurements, recording the results in a book
labeled COCKS, one of the three notebooks she kept on a shelf above
her desk.  The other two notebooks?  You're curious? BLOW JOBS and
GREAT SEX. Happy?

"Nine inches," she announced, holding up the tape measure.  "Just
the size I need for my collection of cocks.  You're not the biggest,
Peter, another boy's got you beat by a couple of inches. You got
big balls though, so I'm giving you an A+ in overall package size."

Women obsess about the size of their breasts, men about the size of
their penis.  Women, all women regardless of age, social status or
sexual preference talk about breast size.  Not only with their
friends, hairdresser and manicurist, but disclose the size of their
breasts to total strangers as well. Sales persons, male or female,
in the finest dress and lingerie shops along Madison Avenue are
privy to the size of a woman's breasts.  The pimply faced clerk at
Walmart knows the size of her breasts too as he rings up the $2.89
bra with the size clearly marked on the package.  A 34-D on the
label reveals just about all you need to know about the size of a
woman's breasts.

Men on the other hand, straight, gay or bi-sexual, have no need to
disclose the size of their sexual organs. Trousers are sold by waist
and length.  Underwear, bathing suits and athletic supporters are
sold by waist size alone with little, if any consideration given to
the length and girth of a man's penis or the size of his testicles.
The erroneous assumption that one size fits all works fine for the
average man, but does a disservice to those of us, men like myself,
who have been more generously endowed by their creator.

Stella's course on great sex continued throughout the fall and
winter. Not every day, unfortunately, but often enough so that I
no longer needed or wanted to masturbate. Which was just as well
because Stella was vehemently opposed to solo masturbation which
she deemed to be the antithesis of great sex. Masturbation, she
made quite clear, was cause for immediate expulsion from her class.
She had a number of rules, like the bylaws of the corporation, Great
Sex Ltd, I would organize for her and her husband shortly after I
graduated from law school; which, by the way had nothing to do with
sex.

Great Sex Ltd, or GS Ltd. as I strongly suggested it be called, held
technology patents which generated a revenue stream of approximately
six million dollars a year in royalty payments. Stella had wisely
followed my advice when I pointed out that respectable companies
would find it difficult to enter into agreements with or cut checks
made payable to Great Sex Ltd.

Between classes she encouraged me to branch out, seek other partners
to practice what I was learning. I naturally assumed she meant other
girls, which was absurd considering the morality of the mid-sixties
when nice girls didn't do that sort of thing. Never assume is a
lesson well learned early in life.

In addition to the physical, five sense aspect of sex, Stella also
taught the psychology of sex and the societal driven influences
weighing heavily on the collective mind of western civilization that
worked against it.  Today we call it thinking out of the box, back
then her ideas were revolutionary.  Stella mocked the stereotypical
dominant male theory by revealing the femininity lurking within
every male. To prove her point she had me wear a skirt and blouse
one afternoon in late December and dressed like a girl we went on a
field trip. We didn't buy anything, just walked along the street in
and out of the stores thronged with Christmas shoppers.  The blow
job she gave me in the try-on room at Janklow's department store was
my reward for being a good sport.

My inhibitions and preconceived ideas about human sexuality melted
away under Stella's tutelage and by early spring, following a
Saturday field trip to an adult book store and arcade in Times
Square, Stella said I was ready for her advanced placement class.
I wanted to start class on Monday, but Monday was the first of the
month and Stella used that day to catch up on her blow jobs.  Guys
who didn't have what it takes to make it into Stella's GREAT SEX
book had to settle for a listing in BLOW JOBS.

Stella had dropped subtle hints about the curriculum and truth be
told I was a little nervous on Tuesday as she let me into her house
on the first day of advanced placement classes.

"Let me see how it looks, Peter," she said, shedding her blouse and
stepping out of her skirt.

It referred not to my penis, which she knew as well as I did, but to
the black posing strap she had purchased for me on our expedition to
Times Square.  Stella wore a matching g-string and nothing else as
she circled once around my all but naked body.  The skimpy garment,
aside from being sexy as hell, was actually more comfortable than
the customary white cotton Y-fronts I've worn since I was out of
diapers. The strap cradled my testicles and unlike jockey shorts or
a jock strap, stretched to accommodate my full blown hardon.

"I have a surprise for you upstairs," she said, offering one of her
bare breasts to my mouth.  "But I'm overdressed and my pussy needs
some TLT."

TLT?  Tender Loving Tongue to the uninitiated and the strictly
homosexual reader who wouldn't think of using his tongue on anyone
but another male.  Cunnilingus is god's gift to women and to the
men, in my case a teenage boy, who enjoy the smell, feel and taste
of a sexually aroused female.  Stella's g-string yielded to my
teeth, the wet lips of her vagina to the probing thrusts of my well
schooled tongue. She climaxed quickly, releasing a gusher of warm
musky juice that filled my mouth and over stressed the capacity of
my posing strap.  One of the strings that held it place had failed
under the pressure of my throbbing erection.

"Can it be fixed?" I asked, crestfallen, as Stella examined the
broken strap.

"They break all the time," she said, smelling it and tossing it
aside.  "Big dick like yours shouldn't be covered up anyway. Did
you remember to bring the cock ring?"

Another souvenir from our visit to Times Square.  The shop had a
large inventory of predominantly metal and leather cock rings of
various designs on display. A smattering of carved jade and ivory,
a few advertised as antiques, were quite beautiful and costly. Mine
was like a watchband, it came in a set with a matching collar. A
cheap promotional give away with the bookstore's name and logo
stamped on the imitation leather.  Stella, after explaining its
use, insisted that I take one.

The cock ring is a fascinating device, decorative and in certain
circumstances, quite functional. I own a dozen or more, acquired
during my travels around the world. Three exotic hand made rings
from Bangkok are part of a grouping of male erotica that grace one
wall in my Greenwich Village apartment. That wall never fails to
stimulate the conversation, move it and my frequent young guest
in the right direction; towards the bedroom. Stella set the band
in place around the base of my genitals, a snug fit, and sat back
to admire the results.

"In a few years, Peter, boys'll be wearing cock rings all the time.
You mark my words, they'll be selling cock rings at Macy's."

I still remind Stella, when I visit her place in Oregon, of those
words she spoke almost forty years ago.  She was wrong. The cock
ring, regrettably, has not been embraced by mainstream western
society. You can buy a ring at one of the few remaining adult shops
in Manhattan or purchase one on the net.  But because of what it
symbolizes, you cannot buy a cock ring at Macy's.

The evidence is mounting, however, that Stella's prophetic statement
wasn't wrong...only premature.  Society has changed over the last
forty years. The sexual revolution with all its permutations and
combinations began slowly in the 1970's, gained momentum in the
1980's and wide diversity in 1990's.  Women lead the change in style
and fashion, tossing away their bras, wearing ever more revealing
and provocative attire as a sign of their sexual liberation and
equality.  Men have followed, adorning themselves, celebrating their
bodies in a manner not seen in a thousand years.

Early civilizations, the Greeks and Romans among others, celebrated
the male form.  The phallus was a symbol of strength and virility.
Displayed proudly and feted, not hidden and ignored as the custom
has been in our Judo-Christian society.  Hope springs eternal
though...the cock is making a comeback. The Chinese custom of naming
each year for a different animal, 2004 is the year of the rat I
think, should consider naming 2005 the year of the cock.

Consider the condom, for example. A simple birth control device,
been around for a thousand years and used by millions of people.
Designed to be rolled onto an erect penis prior to intercourse and
to collect ejaculated sperm, the existence of the simple condom
acknowledges the existence of the penis and several other facts of
life, i.e. sexual intercourse, which cause great distress in the
church and in polite society.

In the 60's, when I was growing up, condoms were sold discretely
in drugstores and you had to ask for them. Trojans and Sheiks being
the popular brands.  Stella saved me from it, but for most teenage
boys the embarrassing ordeal of buying that first condom, a woman
behind the counter meant you waited for another day or went to
another store, was long remembered.  Buying a condom was admitting
to an adult that you not only had a penis and testicles, but you
also got erections and ejaculated, and you were hoping to get laid.
Heady stuff for teenage boys who went to church on Sundays and had
to make confession.

The condom stayed in your wallet of course, the telltale ring a
badge of honor among your friends, until the great day arrived.
Today the condom is everywhere in a dizzying assortment of styles
and colors. And flavors too for the sophisticated palates of those
who practice safe oral sex.  Schools hand them out freely to teenage
boys and girls in an attempt to prevent pregnancy and STD.

Not long ago I was sitting behind two black girls on the Fifth
Avenue bus. Yes, multi-millionaires take the bus...when the limo is
in the shop, it's raining so a cab is out of the question and the
subway is blocks away.  The two girls, maybe 15 or 16 years old,
were talking about boys, what else, and sex. Topics of interest to
yours truly, so I eavesdropped behind my Wall Street Journal.

"Hand jobs is out, Chantelle, kid stuff.  You wanna make it in
school, be popular, then you gotta be willin' to fuck.  Boys in
high school expect it an' the school be expectin' it too.  Why
else you think they be handin' out rubbers?"

City garbage trucks are the noisiest in the world so I missed
Chantelle's reply.

"...what you're sayin', but if you ain't ready to fuck then you
gotta be willin' to suck."

"Suck a boy's cock? I dunno."

"Suckin' a boy's cock, lettin' him cum in your mouth, it ain't no
big deal, Chantelle. Fags be doin' it all the time. Remember that
skinny white boy from last year?  Real smart."

"Jared Finkelstein?"

"Yeah, that's the one.  Did you know that boy was a fag?  Sucked
off like the whole football team most days after practice.  Made
suckin' dick look easy and fun."

"You saw him doin' it?"

"Coupla times me and a few other girls got invited to watch and
maybe learn somethin' at the same time.  Lookin' at all them naked
boys just standin' around waitin' a turn with the fag was somethin'
I'll never forget.  You gotta agree, Chantelle, ain't nothin' so
pretty as a hard cock."

I almost missed my stop waiting to hear Chantelle's views on the
subject.

Underwear is another example of how far we've come in forty years.
Utilitarian boxers and white only jockey shorts in sealed packages
have given way to a rainbow display of designer bikinis, thongs,
strings and jock socks. Bathing suits have gotten smaller, designed
to accentuate the "BULGE" and show whatever else you care to show
the girls and with increasing frequency, the boys on the beach.
Macy's has it all on display in the men's and boy's departments.
Jock straps too, I should add. Not the old mesh variety and they are
not called jock straps. But jocks they are just the same only in
silk and velour. Loungewear for the athlete and couch potato with
a sense of style.  And thongs? Not so very long ago, who else but a
gay male would be caught dead wearing a thong?

I was in Macy's last August, I saw it for myself. Mothers in the
boys department were buying back to school designer underwear,
thongs and the like for their fashion conscious sons.  Wives in the
cruisewear aisle selecting string bikinis for their husbands. Girls
and their boyfriends choosing matching silk bikinis.  One young
salesman, quite good looking and very gay, was assisting an elderly
woman with a brightly colored jock sock in her hand.

"Do you think this will fit my grandson?" I heard her say.  "He's
fourteen and, oh, wait, he wrote it down for me.  Now where did I
put that piece of paper?"

In the middle of Macy's, shoppers all around her, this grey haired
grandma held up the jock sock and after reading from the paper she
dug out of her purse, calmly announced to a gay salesman, "My
grandson is six inches hard."

I thought of Stella and made my way to men's jewelry.

No cock rings, I must honestly report, but a large selection of
earrings, the biggest thing in men's jewelry since the gold chain.
Macy's had a showcase full of them and a long line of adolescent
boys waiting to get their ears pierced.  Studs, the earrings people,
not the boys...though several boys on the line had very distinct
possibilities, studs were popular with the white boys.  The blacks
and Hispanics opted for something larger and flashier.

Macy's won't pierce any other body parts, but they do sell a
surprising variety of objects once found only in the shops around
Times Square and Greenwich Village.  Two well dressed young men,
neither of whom would make it through the metal detector at the
airport, were at the crowded showcase looking at long thin gold
chains with a ring at one end.

"It's your cock, but I think you're crazy to do it," one said to
the other.  This from a fellow with a silver rod through his nose.
"She's already got you by the balls."

"We're in love," his friend replied, "and I want to surprise her
for her birthday. She pierced her tits and pussy for me."

"Then do your nipples."

"I already did, see."

We all saw when he opened his shirt. We saw the small rings in his
nipples and the metal stud in his belly button.

"Shaved my pubes too. Jen says it makes my cock look bigger."

"You are in love. Go for it, buy the chain. I know a place nearby
that'll attach it for you."

Curious, I followed them out of Macy's to a busy store on bustling
38th Street, Tattoos and Piercings, Ltd. The store to the left was a
OTB parlor, to the right an Irish bar. I didn't go inside, a sign in
the window of Tattoos and Piercings, Ltd. told me that the Macy
shoppers had come to the right place. Centered among the various
items of body piercing paraphanalia was a hand-lettered sign that
said, WE DO DICKS.