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What If: Vol 3-3

Alone

January 5, 1952

“Bye, kids.”

The front door closing,

the foyer and outer doors next,

then, within seconds,

there was one,

then the second

thunk of the driver’s door

of the Friedman’s 1951 Cadillac.

Three days short of a month since we’d met

baby-sitting for Butchie,

this night was our first night alone,

in a home,

with a sofa.

We’d “schnoogled,”

oh, yeah,

usually for a short time in the stairwell

between the lobby and first-floor

of Susan’s building

and on two occasions

when it wasn’t too cold

in the front seat of the Buick.

Though he hadn’t attempted to touch Susan’s breasts,

or anything else,

their long,

no-longer-chaste kisses had caused him

to have erections that became,

in his opinion,

casebook examples of “blue balls,”

and Susan a flood of fluid that,

by the time they’d say goodnight,

left the crotch of her panties drenched.

Having made no such vow to God,

Susan occasionally

—after each such session—

“relieved” herself.

As difficult as it was,

although he was,

oh, so sorely tempted to do so,

true to his vow to God

—outside of one nocturnal emission

that he rationalized as something

he had no control over

so didn’t feel guilty over,

and truly enjoyed,

and,

you bet,

hoped for again—

true to his vow to God,

he never did.

On this night,

reclining on the sofa,

 on her left side,

facing him,

lying across his chest,

her upper torso cradled in his left arm,

as his right hand,

twining her hair between his fingers,

supported her head.

Enjoying the feel,

taste and thrill of the other’s mouth and tongue,

unaware of time,

breathing the air of the other;

replacing his usual “Old Spice”,

she smelled the fragrance of the after shave

lotion her mother and father

had given him for Christmas

while he smelled her own unique scents.

To be continued

©February 6, 2012 / Mark M. Lichterman