The Loves of Virginia Lane

Everyone needs a porn name.  The question seems to come up at least once a year among so-called mature and settled adults, doesn't it?  Virginia Lane is mine.  Thick, green carpet, deep as the earth.  I used to walk barefoot on it all day, from dirt to swimming pool to tennis court to grass to indoor, shag green carpet.  Our first home was like a recreation center, a wilderness retreat, an animal kingdom and greenhouse with an open sky, all in one.  Outside the dining room and to its adjoining side the kitchen, which looked down on a sunken family room and my play room, second fireplace and dark, wood paneling that denoted upstate NY in the 70's and 80's, was the new addition, which my father had built on, around my 7th or 8th year.  So, he was already 50 or 51, but to me he never seemed old, or young for that matter.  He was invincible, youth like and free, always free.  And he could build anything.  Construct anything and wire it electrically, as was his original trade, from brain waves to blueprint (though he never studied architecture he was genius at house imagining, and building) to foundation to sheetrock and all the rest.  The new addition was a long, tan colored nook and TV room, the nook connecting to the kitchen via a bar and set of stools, and the TV room connecting to the dining room via the same sliding glass door that originally went to the backyard.  French doors throughout, but not French.  Clear, also tan framed.  Clean.  Very European, like he was.

The view was like a step pyramid in action, on Virginia Lane, which was the quietest street in the area, and one of the longest too.  In the immediate back yard was the patio, including many cemented flower and tree boxes, bushes and such, all colors and seasons represented.  The place we barbecued, the collective of usual suspects as far as relatives from queens went, yelling their way into and out of the place every summer, mostly to use the pool he had built as well.  It was long, and I was a little scared of the deep end and the diving board, until I taught myself how to swim and tried every physical concoction I could off of that board.  Not diving so much, that gave me the bloody noses I was akin to at that age.  No matter if we were out back smoking meat, or had a life size lamb on the spit for the cavalcade of usual and even stranger Croatians who visited our house regularly, we stayed out there all day and all night.  I might go swimming, play a whole regulation tennis match with my older brother, pretending I was centre court at Wimbledon, my fixations on the British and their surrounding isles taking root quite early in life.  Wolfie, one of the two German shepherds running into the woods to retrieve the dirty, puddle soaked tennis balls, take a change of clothes inside and often, even with 4.5 bathrooms (built of course by my father), I would squat near the miniature rose bushes on the front lawn (we were so high up the hill from the street and covered by trees no one down there could see me if they tried....that is the number one feeling of being back there which stays now....the feeling of privacy, internal freedom, and protection from all sides...).  My father, by choice, perhaps to remind himself of the homeland would walk up into the wilder nearby back woods and come back down about 20 minutes later, satisfied by his self fertilizing of his dominion.  We worked the acreage of #57 like no one who ever had a place, a home to explore and live out every patch of ground with.

When the times came to come inside, and the earth was replaced by the deep green carpet, something changed in me.  I remember being 3 years old, probably one of the first memories there is, and sitting with legs wrapped around the golden and green velvety pillows in the proper living room, the first one.  Alone, and rubbing myself around them, because, as I recalled, it felt really good to me.  I remember having a best friend called Jarrod Jacket (what kind of Anglo dream name is that) whose woodsy house I visited often too.  People called us boyfriend and girlfriend when he or I would go and collect a bus pass to visit each other's houses.  We never did more than kiss in the woods, but once, when we were almost 8, he laid down over me, fully clothed of course, in the woods and started pressing himself against me, not really making any sense of it, but again, I didn't know much, but I knew I didn't mind this so much, and why weren't the other girls having boy friends to dry hump them in the woods behind their above ground pool? I don't even remember saying goodbye to him before we moved away to Florida, or drifting apart or how it happened, but it just did.

Alone in my bedroom, I started dressing up more.  I had always loved to put on my mother's fancy dresses, nightgowns and occasional things I shouldn't have found (a dark pink babydoll see through nightie which let me know that they were like Jarrod and I had been, so that was a good thing.  It's good to have a best friend who you can rub up against in the woods or in the master bedroom.  I still prefer the former to this day, but the where isn't really so important.).  Inside my bedroom, in this labyrinth of unused bathrooms, hamster wheel spinning, soaps untouched in the guest bathroom, and acres of entertaining at our fingertips, I used to dress up like I knew was somehow bad or not looked well upon, and having once seen my mother watching a nighttime variety show that included a burlesque dancer naked mostly but artfully moving her feathered boa wings around her curvy hips and slightly secretive breasts, I did the same.  I always wanted to be a stripper, or a performer who took her clothes off, or a burlesque dancer, though at the time I probably didn't know that word or what it entailed or the socio-political connections, I just loved the idea of enticing men and just how this all worked in the world.  I had seen enough soap operas to know of the fantasy and role play scenarios, AM style of course, but something in me always knew some secrets that I shouldn't have.  I would say I was molested, but I honestly don't think there are any sordid activities of that kind in my childhood, or Catholicism for that matter.  The boys probably had more to worry about than I ever might.

I would strip down and caress myself all around, like there was a room full of watchers present.  I would pretend I was a secretary bending over an office desk with a really short skirt on, revealing that I didn't have any underwear on beneath (here is where I suspect being one of the first houses and neighborhoods to have cable TV and HBO etc. probably informed me in ways I didn't realize weren't quite proper for a girl of my age to have seen or known about...that's what you get when you have that many TV rooms), and I would french kiss my stuffed animals, poor fellas got spit all over themselves, and move them gracefully to the bed, where I would, rather robotically since I didn't know then about what hands can do in the realms of cocks and cunt, outside and in, mouth and asses and tits, none of those motions were born in me yet, just the words and the feeling of pressing up against the stuffed suitors.  Hell, I had an orgy in there some nights, since all the stuffed animals found home on my bed.  I would ride them until I couldn't take it anymore.  It didn't feel complete, if you get my meaning, and I knew there was some big bang if you will that I was missing.  Still, seems like I was wired for pleasure from my earliest days, in that tree lined freedom and multi-floor house, in those quiet woods with boys who make much better best friends than girls, with the eventual blooming of my body and the discovery of the blackest eye liner, and no wonder Cleopatra had any man she wanted.  A 24 hour adult news marathon was my pre-teen pastime, and throughout it all, I threw everything I had into it.  Boas, motions, lips, hips, heart and all.  There just didn't seem like there was any other choice but to live it up, even then.  Sex is creation and I guess I felt the angels and the Lord talking to me from a very early age - at highest pitch in my ear, through the might of summer fireflies and crickets feeding off of the hot midnight air, enjoying my show all the while.


M. Lucia