Story of Harold

All this talk about fisting sends me to my bookshelves.

The Story of Harold is the fictional diary of a bisexual pervert and author of children’s books, recounting his life in New York in 1968. Originally published in 1974, the book is usually out of print. (My Depraved Librarian confirms this is currently the case.)

It was written by Terry Andrews, the pseudonym of George Selden, author of the classic children’s book, The Cricket in Times Square. Like the best sex fiction, it is drawn from the author's life.

A Manhattan writer using a pseudonym to relate a double life, divided between children on the one hand, bisexuality and sadism on the other. Are such things possible?

The narrator’s most adored lover is a married surgeon named Jim. In this passage, Terry fists Jim for the first time.

After endless love-making—drinking, whipping, popping poppers, fucking, not coming—I had been turned into a kind of phallic Frankenstein. (The monster, I mean, not the doctor.) Pure cock from head to toe, with somewhere inside my head a tiny little inventive mind that was thinking and thinking up things.

Now for instance—rimming! I does it, says I, very modestly—but not very often—the last was that hooker last fall—and not with much pleasure. But last night what Jim was sitting on seemed like the sweetmeat of the world. I had flogged it enough to satisfy pride, so I decided—oh neophyte, why not worship a while? The altar: flat on his belly—the priest: on my knees—the host: somewhere between his cheeks. I hadn’t done it before, like that, with Jim, with his voice, disbelieved. But with his ass, that levitated into my tongue, in a while he had no doubts at all.

Perhaps we had a recall of the hash. Without his visciousness. But we got to that planet—Jupiter—if sopranos sing on Jupiter, they sound like Flagstad—where every gesture is ten times larger.

“Don’t come!”—me.

Jim—“I won’t.”

And that curious angel prompted me. I was slavering like some rabid dog, licking my spit and the sweat of his ass off my lips. I smacked his tail, hard.

“Hey!” (He has a threatening baritone that he uses when one goes a little too far: the kind of a sound—“Hey!”—that I’m sure he believes that a sergeant might growl to pull up a recruit.)

“You think you’re an adventurer!” But I too had my own challenges. “You’re a tame cocksucker—a Riverdale fuck—that’s what you are.”

“You want to strap my ass again?” His curiosity—un-Jimlike—would have made me laugh, if I hadn’t known what I meant to propose.

“No.” And my nonchalance was about as ordinary as Elizabeth Taylor’s latest diamond. “You’re pretty proud of that ass of yours, aren’t you?”

“It’s made a lot of people happy.”

“How about we please your tail, for a while?” (The lure of words is pornography.)

“You want to fuck?”

“Not with my prick.”

“Got a dildo?”

“Yes. And it’s growing at the end of my arm.”

“Come on!” In disbelief. But the lower half of his body strengthened. In fear? In excitement? (In words—?)

I challenged, “Big swinger! Big quester after sexual adventures! You’re a Riverdale fuck!”

“It can’t be done—“

“Doctor—I’m certain you know that it can.”

“When I was an intern, a guy came into the hospital with a flashlight stuck up his ass. He almost bled to death.”

“One does well to stay away from amateurs and fetishists.” True, true. My increasingly nervous voyeurs—or is that jitteriness something else?—when you read in the paper that a handsome bachelor has died of “internal hemorrhages,” it may only mean that he had the wrong fist, flashlight—or crowbar for that matter—shoved up his ass.

“And you’re not an amateur, I suppose?”

“No complaints yet, Or deaths,” I met him reportorially. “It depends on the person. If he has the guts for it. And I’m speaking literally.” Was he near the idea emotionally?—intellectually?—an insane speculation? Quietness was requisite. “Surely, doctor, you’ve performed more than one sigmoidoscopy yourself.”

“In my office. With the right equipment.”

“This bed is an office,” I truthfully said. “And the equipment’s in the bathroom. And right here.” I spread out five fingers on the top of his back, and began to caress his spine, up and down his vertebrae, like silent notes.

He lifted his hands, palms flat on the mattress, aligned beside his head. He was shivering—the nerves’ giddiness before the unknown—like a colt. “Will you hurt me?” The instant of commitment.

“No.” But I wondered whether love or hatred would manipulate my puppet’s hand. One thing I knew: I would have no part of it. “I won’t hurt you,” I quietly promised, and lied again.

“Okay.” His head swung from side to side: abandoned—an animal in heat. “I’ve got to take an enema.”

“I dislike that word. Say ‘douche.’ There’s a bag in the medicine chest in the bathroom. Go do your duty.”

He was too far out now in willingness. “You wouldn’t like to do that too—”

I sensed a huge advantage in this area of untapped sensuality. “We’ll save some experiments for another time—shall we?”

“Yes, sir.”

He was in the john for quite some long time. I got the couch ready: a pillow for him to lie prone on—four towels—a jar of cold cream, by far the best lubricant—

My witnesses, cool off now—do!
This is going to happen to Jim, not you.

—and three inhalers loaded with fresh amyl nitrite.

He came back sheepish, with reservations. “This isn’t going to work.”

“Lie down.”

“Will you stop if it hurts?”

“No. I’ll press right on till you feel my fist in your throat.”

“Look, Terry—”

“Don’t worry. I won’t get pleasure unless you do.”

And Please, God, I added—“Lie down”—let that be true.

“On your knees now, Doctor. Right shoulder down.”

“I can’t—hey!”

“Shut up”—affectionately. “Put your right shoulder down on the mattress. That’s right. You’ll see stars, love bug!”

“No, Terry—“ he tried to harden his voice into fact. “—I can’t—”

“You already have. The last problem we had were my knuckles. Relax.”

“Are you there—?”

“No. But there’s no more problems. This is where you begin to enjoy it.” My hand, with the hot wet pressure of flesh around it, seemed to seed itself with brain cells. “Now say it, Jimmy—” I called him “Jimmy”—an affectionate verbal gesture—

A lovely touch, gentle feelers, that.
When I had my fist—
Yes, up to the wrist—
Into Dr. Andrews, you know what!

“—you like it. Out loud, Jimmy. Say it!”

“I like it. Yes sir.”

“My boy—you are a natural!”

I will not try to write his groans. “Oh!”—“Ah!”—seem very inadequate, when describing pain or ecstasy. He did make sounds, though, that are far beyond words.

“Kneel up. Kneel up!”

“I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” I gently propelled him toward the wall. And finger by finger, he inched his way up. And achieved another world: unbelievable verticality.

“Oh Christ—I’m going to pass out—”

“No you’re not. You fell that corner there—?”

“Terry, don’t—”

“I will pass out—”

“No you won’t. You’ll come. Throw your shoulders back.”

He is six feet two, remember—“I can’t!”—and has a back that proves the primates were right.

“I said!—throw your shoulders back! Be a king on your knees!” And then—

“You could kill him,” someone whispered to me.
(Unwritten moans.)
“Do you feel that pulse, that artery—?”
(Unwritten groans.)

“Just pluck it. Pluck it hard. And wait.
He’ll bleed to death around your hand:
Warm love, wet love, red love, yes, and
Commensurate with all your hate.”

His pulse went quick; his delirium fluttered at the tips of my fingers and affirmed itself, tightened around my wrist. I gauged the time—a disbelieved affinity for him—by the length and depth of his breathing. Then said, in a different voice, “Now easily, easily down now again.”

“You’re still inside me—“

“That’s all right. You have to help me. Help me now—”

“You’ll kill me—!”

Ah! . . . But: “No. It’s okay. I’m out.”

“Is there blood?”

“No.” There wasn’t. If there had been, a couple of drops or two, I’d have lied. (Of course, if his life had gushed out, these pages would have ended here—you’d all be free—and [my housekeeper] would have found us both.)

“Did that happen? My God—” He sprawled before me, prone, still floating in an unreal space. Like someone safe, already on the ground, I had to guide this blind pilot down. “—I’m a doctor.”

I gathered him in, a male harvest in my arms. And I felt him drifting, sinking back, out of madness and into the practical world. It was time to make him laugh. “As far as that goes, I thin that for an unregistered nurse my technique has been proved to be quite adequate too.”

An arm circled my waist, he chuckled, and landed, upright in reality. Alive, alas. “My guts are readjusting themselves.”

“Nature’s way, baby.” Any banality—words—to make it all seem possible.

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The Story of Harold
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