Fashion show nipple slip

From the back, Mona looked like Humpty-Dumpty: a large egg-shaped trunk, pale and smooth, planted upon stumpy legs that were varicosed and bristly. Her broad head was squarish, her hair shorn like a boy's, feathering out at the bottom where it came to rest just below her ears. Her neck was thick and flaccid like the rest of her body, but her arms were curiously slender and often hung stiff and useless at her sides. Mona was never concerned with her health, preferring fatty, tasty foods to anything even remotely wholesome. Her arms were all that kept her from being the giantess of my wildest fantasies.

"Mill," she said, examining a stack of books on my window sill. "Utilitarianism, huh?"

Her laugh was a goofy squeal that seemed to come from some little girl within. She fanned herself with the book she had chosen from the middle of the stack, then settled into my rocking chair, over which hung the purple curtain-like dress she had been wearing. She flipped through the book, pausing here and there to examine a passage. Rocking, her naked breasts rippling with the movement, she reached back and pulled the dress around her shoulders like a shawl.

"Was Mill for or against a free-market economy?" she asked.

Mona taught undergraduate political science at Stanford, and she loved to show off, or to try to make me feel inferior, even after our affair had reached the six-month mark. It was confusing to me that she did this, as she didn't seem the type who needed reassurance of her intelligence. Maybe it was that she knew I was turned on by this routine of hers, by these reminders that not only was she a big woman, she was also much older than I was, my mother's age, and had experienced more than I had, and could teach me things.

"For," I said, focusing on her plum-sized nipples.

"You're half right. The answer's not really that simple. Mill argued that a free-market economy has various benefits, but that the problems that arise from private ownership of the means of production could imply that public ownership is the more sensible solution."

I smiled inside.

"I guess you're right."

"I know I am," she said, her heavy checks, like a bulldog's, drooping even as she grinned. She rested the book on her knee and folded her hands together, her fingers settling on scattered liver spots. I concentrated on the thick rolls of her abdomen, then focused my attention on her feet, noticing the way her toes, round as bloated earthworms, straddled the chair's rockers. I looked Mona in the eye, beaming, and she knew what I wanted.

"Again? My God, Nick, I'm fifty-two years old."

I was twenty-seven. And although I felt uncomfortable about sleeping with a woman almost twice my age, not to mention cheating on my girlfriend, Annie, I needed Mona. Before we met I had been spending most of my paychecks trying to pick up drunk fat women at The Tunnel Top, a sleazy bar around the corner from my apartment on Powell and Pine. I had spent countless nights at Les Nuits de Paris, a massage parlor on the edge of the Tenderloin, where I would request "Lilly," a two-hundred-- and-fifty-pound French behemoth who for sixty dollars would allow me to suck and fondle her colossal breasts. I even had a habit of following women for blocks just to get a close-up peek at a set of melons sagging out of a T-shirt, or a couple of softball-- sized ankles bursting from a pair of heels. But Mona satisfied my desire, introducing me to worlds of sexual gratification I never thought attainable.

Allowing her dress to slip from her shoulders, Mona got up from the rocking chair and crawled in bed beside me. She nuzzled her head into my armpit and draped an arm across my chest; a small shock of graying hair tickled my nose, smelling of shampoo and mango-scented hairspray. I cupped a love handle and felt my erection swell beneath the dimpled fat of her inner thigh. I had never told Mona I loved her. She knew I didn't. Instead, I told her how irresistible she was. Massaging the loose flesh of her lower back, watching it spill over her tail bone to join her massive buttocks, I whispered that I wanted her.

"Let's see what we can do about that, Zeno."

Zeno-as in the famous stoic of Citium-was a nickname I had earned one evening when, after watching some television special on mourning, I said that it wouldn't much bother me if one of my close friends died, or even my mother or my father. I was a rock, I said, an existential hero, and when it came right down to it I needed no one. A lie, of course, but I was never honest with Mona. I liked our relationship the way it was: simple, carnal, built upon an unspoken understanding that the real stuff of our lives need not be discussed. If I wanted a heart-to-heart I could have turned to Annie, though I rarely did. I felt deeply connected to her due to the five years we had been together, but I didn't feel comfortable sharing with her anything profoundly emotional. I had a guilty conscience because of the way I treated Annie-because I had been repeatedly unfaithful and was stringing her along-even though I truly believed that my reasons for staying with her were not self serving. We were together because I hadn't the heart to break up with her, because she needed me. Many times I tried convincing myself that dating her was my duty and sacrifice. Over the years, Annie had grown dependent, and leaving her, I knew, would be a dangerous move. Who knew how she might react if suddenly I were gone? By pretending to love her I felt I was providing the stability she needed. But deep down I knew that what I was doing made me a monster, an incubus, a weakling. Most of all, it made me a liar.

"Does that feel good?" Mona asked, caressing my inner thigh. The sensation made me shiver.

"Yes," I said. "That feels good."

"And this?"

She fingered my navel, blew softly on the side of my neck.

"Yes," I said again. My voice was breathy, like a porn star's.

"And this?" Leaning over, Mona put her tongue to my left nipple and diddled it as if it were a Bing cherry. She sat up and placed my hands on her breasts, and I thought, good God, the enormity of them. For any other man this might have been a harrowing experience, but for me it was nothing short of rapture.

I sunk my fingers into her breasts and tried to avoid looking at her arms. Was it possible they could be so thin amid all that fat.> I didn't care. I got to my knees and was about to mount Mona, when she turned and rolled from the bed.

"Where are you going?"

She waltzed across the room, her arms positioned as though she were being led, humming Vivaldi's "Al Santo Sepolcro."

She was at my window again, dragging an index finger up the stack of books. She passed and then returned to a large white volume, a collection of Montaigne's essays. Stepping back, she wound up and karate-chopped it from the stack with a piercing Hi ya ; knocking it and the rest of the books to the floor.

"Montaigne!" she proclaimed.

"I'm taking this as a personal affront," I said.

"Don't do that, Zeno Bambino. I'm just trying to educate you. A little education before nooky never killed anyone."

She could have been a stout Marilyn Monroe the way she smiled at me over her shoulder. She picked up the book and opened it to the first pale.

"'How the soul discharges its passions on false objects when the true are wanting.'

'By diverse means we arrive at the same end.' 'That to philosophize is to learn to die.' 'We taste nothing pure.' 'Of virtue.' 'Of sadness.' 'Of fear.' 'Of liars.' Which one?"

"'Of repentance,"' I answered. "Ask me anything about that one. I had to explicate it in front of a class my senior year in college."

"Were you naked, as you are now?"

"Clothed. I made it a habit to attend class clothed."

Mona cleared her throat with an authoritative ah-hem.

"Sit up, please. Nick Danze, sit up."

"Why don't you come back to bed now. I don't feel like discussing essays."

"Why don't you stop mouthing off and sit up straight so I can begin."

I rolled my eyes and played along, keeping in mind the ecstasy that awaited me. I was sitting up against the headboard, my erection exposed and throbbing. I felt like a character in a Playboy cartoon. Mona lifted the book like a priest exalting the Eucharist.

"'Others form man; I tell of him, and portray a particular one, very ill-formed, whom I should really make very different "'

"'From what he is if I had to fashion him over again. But now it is done."'

"Excuse me, young man, but we don't interrupt when someone else is reading."

Mona's voice was stern and powerful, and her shoulders rose and her great breasts swelled.

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Now then. Where was I? Oh, yes. 'Now the lines of my painting do not go astray, though they change and vary. The world is but a perennial movement. All things in it are in constant motion-the earth, the rocks of the Caucasus, the pyramids of Egyptboth with the common motion and with their own. Stability itself is nothing but a more languid motion."'