She expects me to act like her daughter, and I can’t—she’s not my mother; I have my own mother.” Hesitating, Marsha wondered how much she should reveal about the relationship between her mother and herself. “Mitchie, I don’t want to talk about it too much now. I’ll tell you why someday, but my mother and I have never gotten along, and now, for the first time in my life she’s treating me like she’s supposed to, like a real mother, and that’s why I agreed with her about you’n’me not doing 'it' until after we’re married in December. Now can you understand why?”
He did, but not wanting to admit that he did, “Marsha, to be honest, about that, no! But about my mother? I think you’re a smart girl and I know you’ll do whatever’s right. And I think once the wedding and all the tension’s over with, you and my mother’ll get to know each other and everything’ll be”—he hoped—“just fine.”
“Yes, Mitchie, I’m sure you’re right.” Unfortunately, though, deep down, Marsha sincerely doubted it.
October 17, 1955: Married
At precisely 10:30 a.m., three cars left the north side of Chicago and drove downtown in caravan.
The lead car, a green 1953 Buick, was driven by Eli Goldman with his wife, Rhea, alongside him.
The second car, a maroon 1954 Buick, was driven by Walter Lipensky with his wife, Myra, as far from him as the seat would allow.
The third car, a gray 1948 DeSoto, was driven by Mitchell Lipensky, with Marsha Goldman, his soon-to-be-wife, practically sitting on his lap.
Stopping in front of an office building on Wabash Avenue, the three cars waited in a No Parking zone as, running into the building, taking the elevator to the doctor’s office on the fifteenth floor, picking up their blood test certifications, Mitchell rushed back to an elevator, down the fifteen flights to the gray DeSoto…
And the caravan continued.
Parking in a lot across the street from city hall, going into the building, asking directions of an elevator operator, riding to the third floor, the two sets of parents and two young people went into an office where, handing their blood test certifications to a wizened clerk along with five dollars, Mitchell was given a form that Marsha filled out, that both signed. Then, sitting on wooden benches, they waited for twenty minutes, until…
…In a short, civil ceremony, presided over by a judge in a black robe, with both sets of parents as witnesses…
In the eyes of the law—if not in the eyes of God…
Mitchell Lipensky and Marsha Goldman were married.
Back on the street, with kisses and handshakes and a stern, kind of “remember, you promised” look from Rhea, Eli and Rhea went to Eli’s Grill on West Madison Street, and Walter and Myra went to Walter Lewis Studio, Inc. on North Clark Street, and…
The newlyweds were alone.
Mitchell drove east on Lake Shore Drive, and south about two miles to the jog of Lake Shore and U.S. 41. Turning left, the DeSoto went along Solidarity Drive to the furthermost, secluded point of the huge, now-vacant parking lot between the Adler Planetarium, which was always closed on Monday, and the loudly crashing water of Lake Michigan.
Blowing through a minutely opened window, cold wind moaned softly.
Unable to separate sky from sea, the leaden sky was darkly overcast.
Breaking on slabs of granite, carrying on the wind, a mist of spray laid upon the windshield.
A surrealistic sensation brought about by the unreality of what they had done, feeling a part of a world different from any world they’d occupied before, sitting apart on opposite sides of the seat, the two stared at the grey panorama before them.
One hand, fingers splayed, now lay on the seat between them.
The other’s hand moved now, to within an inch.
Fingers… As positive and negative magnets are drawn to each other. The tips of their fingers touched… caressed… and entwined.
“I love you!”
“I love you!”
Beginning with a passion that built… and increased… and heightened, the kiss broke only when the two were left breathless…
Opening her eyes, she looked at him.
“Marcie, please… I want to see you, Marcie. I want to kiss you, here,” touching a breast over her coat, “with nothing between.”
He wants to look at me. With none of the shyness she had always thought she would have, And I want him to! “Oh, yes, baby!” Without hesitation, angling her body so she was partially leaning against the door… Also, by sitting in this position she was able to see if there were any cars approaching from the western end of the parking lot.
Kissing her again, he unbuttoned the three buttons of her coat, and, as though to prolong the ecstasy and the once-in-a-lifetime excitement of seeing Marsha’s—his wife’s—bare breasts for the very first time, he moved slowly, teasing himself into a near unbearable state of arousal.
Under the lightweight coat, she wore a cardigan cashmere sweater.
Moving back, Mitchell unbuttoned the six pearlized buttons, from the bottom up… The sixth button, the fifth… The light-toned flesh of Marsha’s stomach was revealed, along with—as he’d never seen her stomach bare, for some reason surprising him—the tiny bubble of her “outtie” navel that he thought was cute, so, bending forward, he kissed it… The fourth button, the third… Jutting forward, Marsha’s ribcage sharply defined her lean, concave stomach. The second button… Stopping, he looked into her eyes.
Watching Mitchell’s face intently, Marsha sensed his mounting passion, and hers, too.
He pushed the first button through, hesitated, then, moved the fully open sides of the sweater to either side of her brassiere.
The brassiere lifted Marsha’s breasts upward and inward, and a soft swelling of white flesh flowed from over the rounded twin tops of the lacy, silken fabric.
Leaning forward, kissing Marsha, his hands went to behind her back, where, feeling the two clasps, squeezing one between thumb and forefinger, feeling the release, squeezing the other he felt the release of pressure as the two sides detached. Moving back, lifting both cups… “Marcie,” his breath catching, “you’re beautiful!” he said softly, blinking his eyes as if testing to be sure that what he saw was real and, as of about forty minutes ago, “his,”—really his—to see, to touch—conditions right, with Marsha’s approval, of course—whenever he wanted. Fantasies of big tits wholly forgotten, “You’re beautiful!” he repeated, because in his eyes, Marsha’s—his wife’s—breasts were the most beautiful he’d ever seen, because, except for a few scattered freckles, the flesh was milk-white in comparison to the retained tan of her chest…