8th month
March , 1957
The Pregnancy
Carrying low and being a thin person, the added weight of the baby and its outward push on the flesh of Marsha’s once tight, concave abdomen caused a constantly uncomfortable feeling. She often had cramps in both legs and near continual heartburn that gave rise to the “bubbea-meisseh” (old wives tale) that heartburn in a pregnant woman meant the baby will be born with an overabundance of hair. And, indeed, to quote her cousin, Marsha sometimes did feel like, “some kind’a ugly, grotesque, misformed string-bean”
On the other hand, though, other than the general discomfort of being pregnant, her clear complexion clearer than ever, her lustrous hair more lustrous than ever, always an attractive girl, in the mid and later months of pregnancy, Marsha Lipensky had become radiantly beautiful and, other than the discomfort, she loved being pregnant and loved showing she was pregnant.
Mitchell rationalized the looks he received from other men – notably those of older men – as jealousy because it was he that had the good fortune to be intimate with this young woman. It was his penis and his semen that had impregnated this beautiful, young woman and he walked a bit taller and a bit prouder whenever he and Marsha were out together.
Regarding sex: Between times of anger or, “Mitchie, not tonight, I’m so tired!” Or, not that he always believed her, “I have terrible heartburn!” Or: “Stomachache!” Or: ”Backache!” Or: “Headache!” Sex became possibly, maybe, a once a week event and actually most days ended with Marsha – because she needed it – and Mitchell – because he liked it – each, drinking a quarter-glass of water with, “plop-plop, fizz-fizz,” two ‘Alka-Seltzers’, “Urrrppp!” belching, turning their backs to each other..
“’nite, baby.”
“Good night, Mitchell.”
...the two fell asleep.
Since the age of nine, Mitchell had, in his opinion, an above average interest in sex, and though he thought he understood why, he considered this possibly, once a week, maybe, thing to be a deprivation.
During the long days and nights between intercourse, he built up a mental and physical ‘head of steam’ and when they did do ‘it’, because her breasts hurt and her stomach was distended, intercourse became not much more than inserting himself, pumping a number of times and ejaculating within seconds. Knowing he was not satisfying his wife – or, beyond his physical relief, himself – aggravated Mitchell and put him on the defensive and this, of course, added to the tension.
Very... Most often, Marsha really did not feel well or was up to having intercourse. But on the rare occasion that she felt well enough and was in the mood, she did feel the need for sexual gratification, but because of her husband’s premature ejaculation problem – due to the rarity of intercourse – she became frustrated with their lovemaking and, often unwilling to work herself into a state of unfulfilled desire, she would find an excuse to delay intercourse even longer – exacerbating Mitchell’s problem – forming patterns that added to both Marsha and Mitchell’s frustration, which caused more tension
Also, beyond a growing financial problem, there was always Rhea and Myra and “Mom.”
March 2, 1957
Into the end of her eighth month of pregnancy, even though it was only 8:15, because Marsha was more comfortable lying in bed, both in pajamas on the open sofa-bed, watching that Saturday night’s edition of ‘The Jackie Gleason Show’.
“Ouch!” Holding her stomach. “That kid doesn’t stop kicking!” Lifting the top to beneath her breasts and the bottom to under her protruded stomach, “Give my your hand, Mitchie.”
Turning to his side, he watched as Marsha placed his hand, palm down, onto her bare stomach.
“There! Feel it?”
Feeling the rolling, jabbing motion of his unborn child’s elbows and knees in the confines of his wife’s uterus, “Yeah! Sure I do! The kid must be jitterbugging in there.” Actually able to see the poking movement under the taunt flesh of her stomach, sliding downward on the mattress, positioning himself between Marsha’s thighs, propping his head in both hands, he watched until the gyrations stopped.
Always affected by the realization that it was his baby there, swallowing to keep his emotions from surfacing, “Marcie,” he said hoarsely, “I love you!” Also aroused by the heat and close proximity of Marsha’s crotch to his face, his passion rising, rubbing his lips and tongue lightly over her distended stomach, kissing her bulging, rounded navel...
This spat of passion transmitting to Marsha, the sensual touch of his mouth and tongue on her stomach warming her, she knew where this was leading and, having taken a bath earlier in the evening, and now for the first time in weeks ‘in the mood’, knowing this was the one way she would orgasm....
Expecting to be stopped at any moment, unbuttoning the top of her pajamas, letting the sides fall open, looking over the hill of her stomach, Mitchell gazed at her sloping breasts.
Through the eight months of pregnancy. Marsha’s breasts had grown from a size 34C to a 36D cup. The areola of her nipples, as though bursting through their rounded, dusky pink domes, had enlarged and flattened.
Lifting himself, holding his weight above her stomach, Mitchell kissed Marsha’s eyes, her mouth, her neck, the flat hardness of her chest and, slowly, sensually drew the tip of his tongue over and around the soft flesh of Marsha’s right breast, then closed his lips over her, by then, turgid nipple.
Stopping him, Mitchie...” holding his head,
Positive she was going to stop him, Marcie...”
“My nipples are very sensitive, not to hard, please.”
Getting permission, “Yeah, baby.” he lowered her pajamas to beneath her ankles and over her feet. Although knowing this was strictly for Marsha, knowing this was not a night for intercourse, having the need to be nude with his wife, Mitchell removed his pajamas, too.
On this night, at this time, his lips mere inches from his unborn child, on this night, at this time, this, to Mitchell Lipensky was beyond sex... this, now, was spiritual. However...
As always, the taste of his wife was as honey upon his lips.
