Thanks for the Memories

I hope you all enjoyed the Thanksgiving holiday. As usual, the delicious aroma of roasting turkey wafting through the house took me back to the innocent days of my youth and the amazing sex education I received at my uncle’s knee.

Wait a minute, that doesn’t sound quite right. It’s not as if Uncle Bart intentionally provided me with an education a French courtesan might envy, he had no idea that I made a habit of hiding unnoticed under the huge dining room table after Thanksgiving dinner, eavesdropping shamelessly as he regaled the sophisticated, adult family members and assorted worldly guests with tales of his international adventures and misadventures of kinkiest kind. Apparently, being a sailor, then eventually graduating to captain of a freighter that sailed the seven seas, had opened the lust filled doors of golden opportunity for him to explore a wide variety of global sexual mores.

Listening to Uncle Bart’s red-blooded escapades was akin to taking a crash course in sexual sociology. No wonder this educational holiday tradition was carried over for many years. If memory serves me right, the enthralled diners remained rapt throughout the entire dissertation, often encouraging Uncle Bart to exceed the boundaries of good taste by indulging them with his bold narratives that sounded more like erotic fantasy than fact.

Uncle Bart’s overt masculinity, well-favored looks, and his superb ability to tell a story were surly a gift from the gods. Like a sorcerer, he captivated his audience with words and images spun from the most colorful strands of pure erotica that held them fast. Other than witnessing my older cousin, Freddie, stroking the protuberance jutting from the front of his corduroy trousers and Aunt Emily’s constant squirming, from where I sat under the table it was difficult to tell if the stories caused anyone to be disturbed or embarrassed. It didn’t embarrass me because at the time I had no idea what in the world he was talking about.

But, apparently, for some reason that I can’t even begin to explain, his stories of passion, lust and exotic debaucheries were indelibly printed on the cortex that influenced my long-term-memory. Try as I might, I could not erase the sexually graphic images his tales conjured up. According to Uncle Bart, he had done it all and was more than willing to share his extraordinary knowledge of foreign promiscuity and vigorously passionate affairs.

The elocution of Uncle Bart’s prose was so descriptive, to this very day, I can’t hear the word fellatio with out conjuring up the image of full, red lips gliding over an impressive penis that stands at attention like a wooden soldier, illuminated only by the flickering flames from an earthen hearth somewhere near the coast of Somalia.

Perhaps, if you’d like, I’ll share some of Uncle Bart’s darkest secrets and indiscretions, which may be built on a foundation of truth or steeped in unbridled creativity, lies and innuendo. I am, after all, a writer of erotic fiction.