1951 #12: Soufflés’n’sex
September 22, 1951
Except for the cold rain on Wednesday, that week had been an extension of summer. Daytime temperatures had been in the low eighties and the nights in the mid-seventies. Saturday night was positively balmy.
Wearing well-worn Levi’s and a yellow cotton shirt, when Mitchell knocked on the door it took no longer than ten seconds until the door was pulled open.
Wearing light blue pedal pushers and a floral blouse opened two buttons down that showed her tan and, oh, yeah, the rise of her cleavage. Sally’s honey-colored, shoulder-length hair was brushed to the side of her face giving her a Veronica Lake look.
Still in the doorway, “Sal,” Mitchell said, “you look beautiful!”
Taking his hand, “Thanks, Mitchie,” leading him into the house. “I want to you to meet my mom and dad.”
Its silvery tail dipping into the calm water of Lake Michigan, the bright moon seemed to follow the Buick as Mitchell drove north along the winding stretch of Sheridan Road.
“Hey,” glancing over his shoulder, “now I know why you’re the way you are.”
“Yeah, how’s that?”
“Nice. Your mom’n’dad, they’re real nice people.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, they’re kind of different than the way I thought they’d be.”
“How? How’d you think they’d be?”
“I never met farmers before, and I kind’a thought your paw’d be smoking a corn cob pipe and your maw’d be chawin’ on a plug’a tobbacy.”
“Mitchell, you’re terrible!” Moving closer, putting her arm around his neck, she kissed him on the cheek.
“If’in I be’s so terrible, how’s come y’all be a kissin’ me?”
Kissing him again, “Guess, I’m just plumb loco.”
Kissing her on the lips, he quickly brought his attention back to his driving.
Mitchell had never felt prouder. Standing in line waiting to be seated, he knew they were the best-looking couple in this popular, crowded restaurant and felt that all eyes were upon them.
Sharing one of Walker’s huge apple soufflés, Sally had a side order of bacon, Mitchell, pork sausage, and each washed it down with cold milk.
“I thought Jewish people weren’t supposed to eat pork.”
“Yeah, that’s true , and this is a double whammy ’cause we’re not supposed to drink milk with meat, either.”
Taking another drink of milk, “Oh, well, when that bolt of lightning gets you, remind me not to stand too close.” When she put the glass down she had a milk mustache.
“You know,” wiping her mouth with his napkin, “you’re not only beautiful, you’re cute, too.”
“Here it is.” Pulling a dinghy containing a set of oars out of a rack on the rear deck of the Columbia Yacht Club, Sally held the stern and he the bow, while between them they carried it to the side of the closest finger pier and dropped it into the water. Stepping in first, sitting mid-ship, holding onto the dock, Mitchell held the dinghy steady as Sally stepped in.
“All set?” Pushing off, fitting the oars into the oarlocks, “Anchors away!” He rowed from the slip, into the channel, and around the stern of the long-retired, converted automotive ferryboat that became the Columbia Yacht Club.
“A yacht club and a boat! If I’d have thought you were this rich, Mitch…” She chuckled, “Rich, Mitch. I’m a poet and didn’t know it… I’d’a gone all the way and make you marry me.”
“Don’t know about getting married, Sal, but, sorry to say, going all the way still sounds pretty good to me. And sorry to tell you, but we sure ain’t rich and my dad’s boat isn’t exactly what you’d call a yacht.”
Glancing over his shoulder, back-oaring with the port oar, compensating for too much port drift, “There she is.”
Straining forward, looking over his shoulder, “Where?”
“Look over my starboard shoulder.”
“Sure, Mitchie. Your what?”
“Sorry, my right shoulder. When you’re on a sea-going vessel such as this you gotta speak nautical-like. Facing forward, right’s starboard and left’s port. Got it? See it?”
“Got it? Where?”
“There!” He stopped rowing and, turning around, pointed. “That’s it. That huge monster there.”
“That’s your father’s boat?” She laughed. “It’s cute.”
“Oh, yeah! My dad would have a fit if he heard you call his boat cute.”
Although always asked, Mitchell would often find an excuse to avoid going sailing with his father and Lawrence because once on the boat Walter became, in Mitchell’s opinion, “Captain Bligh,” and he could never do anything fast enough or well enough.
Bumping lightly, they pulled alongside. Holding the gunwale, Mitchell steadied the dinghy while Sally climbed onto the larger boat. Following, he tied the dinghy onto the stern cleat.
Sixteen feet long from stem to stern, the boat was five feet across at its widest point. A one-foot wide, canvas-on-wood deck ran along either side of the cockpit to become solid decking forward of the mast. Needing someplace to lay, taking the three long flotation cushions from inside the open cockpit, Mitchell laid them on the solid decking forward the mast….
Having removed his shirt, lying face to face, kissing, as they kissed her fingers twined the hair of his chest. Touching a nipple, feeling him shudder, Sally continued to make light circles around one, then the other.
One arm beneath her head, the other laid over her waist, rubbing lightly, squeezing lightly, holding, Oh, God, one of Sally’s well-defined buttocks, the extremely pleasant sensation of her finger circling his now-hardened nipple causing him to shudder again, “How’d you like it if I did that to you?”
“Emmm,” moving her mouth to his ear, “don’t threaten me.” Her tongue flicking his ear, “Why don’t you try it and find out.”
Feeling the warmth of her sultry voice, shuddering again from the sensuousness of her tongue on his ear, “Funny you should say that, ’cause that’s kind’a what I had in mind.”
(A “Becoming” Excerpt)