“Sure you can! Anything you want!”

 “Morton Humphry?” The serious expression turning to laughter, “Mitchell and Lawrence, okay… but Morton Humphry? That poor kid. How’d that happen?”

Laughing also, “I don’t know if it’s true , but my mother says Mortie’s named after two of her cousins that lived in a small village in England during the war.”

“You’ve got relatives in England?”

“Beats me. I’d always thought all of her family came from Russia, then a few years ago they had some friends over and after they’d had a few drinks someone asked that same question, and that was the first time I heard anything about England. Anyway, according to my mother, these two cousins really loved each other…”

“Boy cousins or girl cousins?”

“Boy cousins. Anyway, these two cousins loved each other a real lot, and they each lived on the other side of a small river, and there was a bridge running across it…”

“Uh, this is a true story?”

“I guess.” Shrugging his shoulders. “Do mothers lie?”

“Yeah,” Marsha said, brushing back a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, “sometimes.”

“Anyway,” touching his fingers to her cheek, “there was an air raid one day and the cousins ran out of their houses on either side of the river and began to run across the bridge…”

“Why?”

“Beats me. Anyway, the cousins began to run across the bridge calling each other’s names… Oh, by the way, did I tell you what their names were?”

“No, but I can guess.”

“Yeah, that’s it! Their names were Morton and Humphry.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. And as they ran across the bridge they called, ‘Morton!’ ‘Humphry!’ ‘Morton!’ ‘Humphry!’ Then a bomb fell on the bridge and killed ’em both.”

“No kidding,” she said in mock seriousness.

“Yeah,” he said in mock sadness.

Lifting her head, “Oh, what a sad story.” she kissed his forehead.

“Yeah, and that’s how Morton Humphry got his name.”

“According to your mother.”

“Yeah.”

“You believe everything your mother tells you, do you?”

“Sure, and my dad, too.” Laughing, “When she was pregnant with Larry he told me that she’d swallowed a watermelon seed.”

“And you believed him?”

“Well, yeah. Why not? What did I know about it then?” Laughing again, kissing her, tasting the salt of perspiration on her upper lip, “Hell, I don’t even know that much about it now.”

Thinking his self-depreciating way rather a nice change from most of the know-it-all kind of guys she knew, closing her eyes, crossing her hands behind her head, “What are you planning on doing after you get out of the Coast Guard?”

Thinking the way Marsha abruptly changed the subject kind of cute, lying closely together, their thighs touching, the sensation of bare, warm flesh upon bare, warm flesh transmitting charges of sexual electricity, “I really haven’t made up my mind.” he said. Laying on her back with her hands behind her head, the V of her bathing suit having spread across her chest, Mitchell saw the ridges of her ribs and the slight swell of her breasts and, Oh, God! how he wanted look at Marsha’s breasts and taste the taste of Marsha’s nipples. Oh, God! He actually ached to do this and had to fight the urge to do this. “I’ll have the G.I. Bill and know it would probably be best to go back to college,” he said as he tried to visualize what Marsha’s breasts might look like: their size; the size, texture and color of her nipples. “But I’m not even sure if I want to go back to college, and…” Closing his eyes, he could almost feel them in his mouth: the softness of Marsha’s nipples; the sweetness of Marsha’s flesh; the salt taste of her perspiration. “I’ll probably get married and…”

Feeling her heart skip, Ask me! She thought. Ask me now and, Oh, God, I’ll say yes!

“…go to work at the studio as a salesman.” And those legs! Oh, God, those long, tan, slender legs! Envisioning his waist held captive between those long, tan, slender legs… The flood of erotic emotion overwhelming him, “Marsha,” he said hoarsely.

Oh, God! He is going to ask me!

“I love you!” Kissing her, “Marcie, I love you!” Pressing his body tightly against her body, kissing her deeply, imagining his tongue as his penis he moved it in and out, slowly, rhythmically, in and out… deeply into, and partially out of, Marsha’s… vagina.

Feeling him pressing hard onto her thigh, aware of, and joining into the sensual movement of his tongue, putting her arms about his neck she tightened her chest against his chest and drawing deeply, Marsha, too, imagined, and as his elongated, hardened tongue went forward and back, constricting her vaginal muscle, and loosening her vaginal muscle in rhythm with Mitchell’s… penis, Marsha sensed the warm, wet flow of her passion and soon… very soon, the tug and, Oh, God! warm release within the well of her vagina, and, “Oh, God!” Coming from this special kiss breathless, “I love you!” Marsha felt the rapid beating of her heart and—as she realized what had, amazingly, happened—the sweet, warm glow of orgasm.

“Oh, God!” Feeling the rapid beating of his heart—along with the tightness of his bathing suit that constricted his pulsing erection—their mouths but an inch apart, Mitchell felt the ragged breath of Marsha upon his lips and, no longer able to control his hands, feeling the ridges of her ribs beneath the hot flesh, he placed his hand flat upon her chest, between the spread of Marsha’s breasts.

Feeling Mitchell’s ragged breath upon her lips, sensing their mutual love, and lust, still, unwitting flinching as she felt his hand upon her chest, rather than moving it, though, covering his hand with her hand, holding it captive, “Mitchie,” glancing about, “there’s so many people around.”

“Oh, God!” Taking a deep breath, shaking his head, “Every bone I have,” popping his jaw twice, “and a few I didn’t know I have till a couple’a seconds ago, are jumping all over the place.”

Trustingly taking her hand off his, putting her arms about his neck, pulling him closer again, their lips met again… less urgently—at least less urgently for Marsha Goldman.

For Mitchell Lipensky, though, his hand held flat between their pressing chests, by stretching his fingers he was able to feel the softness on either side of Marsha’s chest… But feeling he was doing something wrong… Feeling this was a betrayal of Marsha’s trust, Mitchell withdrew his hand.

                                                       **** 

Several times throughout this day people that knew Marsha, both male and female, came to her. They stood or stooped in front of the blanket, or knelt on it. After a few minutes of small talk, catching the subliminal hint that said, “we want to be alone,” the people left… And in the midst of the crowd, they were alone.

                                                       **** 

“God, Marcie…” Thinking, She’s so cute, in her blue sailor suit. Happy to be with her, proud to be seen with her. “…how come you always look so beautiful?” he asked as, taking her elbow, they stepped from the sidewalk to the slightly moving, railed gangplank that went from shore to the permanently berthed, completely refurbished, long-retired automotive ferry ship that was known as “The Columbia Yacht Club.” Inside, he led her past a glass trophy case containing dozens of sailing trophies, then into the dining room.

Seeing them, an attractive, blonde, middle-aged hostess, “Hi, Mitchie,” leaving her stool at the near end of the bar, “How’s it going?”

“Fine, Mandy, just fine…. Mandy, I’d like you to meet Marsha.”

“Hi, Marsha. This the first time you’re aboard?”

“Yes. Actually this is the first time I’ve ever been on a boat, uh,” remembering, turning to Mitchell, smiling, “ship.”

“Come on,” Mandy said. “I’m holding a table for you.”

Before becoming The Columbia Yacht Club, the dining room was the ship’s bridge and captain’s quarters. Now, three sides of the room were glass and there was a panoramic view of Navy Pier and Lakeshore Drive to the north, the beautiful Chicago skyline to the west, and the prestigious Chicago Yacht Club and Lakeshore Drive to the south.

Even though it was only six-thirty, it was Sunday, and the dining room was jammed with people dressed in all type of clothing: dirty, or somewhat dirty denims or shorts for the working sailors and those who’d been rag bagging or stink potting; and somewhat cleaner, less disheveled clothing for their guests and other people, such as Marsha and Mitchell, who were informally dressed for dinner.

As Mandy led them into the dining room, “Hey, Mitch!” they stopped at a table where a young man in denim slacks and jacket was sitting alone, eating a hamburger.

“Karl!” Obviously glad to see each other, “Jesus, It’s good to see you!” Heartily shaking hands, “How the hell’ve you been?”

“Good, Mitch! When’d you get in?”

“Thursday… Karl Metzenberg”—his mind flitted to the night of the “Friedman inquisition,” but, passing it off just as quickly—“I’d like you to meet Marsha Goldman.”

Standing, “Marsha, hi!” Impressed, Karl looked at her a moment, then sitting, back to Mitchell. “We’re going out in about an hour or so.” Looking at Marsha again, “How’d you like to go for a nice, calm, moonlit sail?”

“Yeah! You bet!” Looking at her, “Sorry, Marcie. That’s only if you want to.”

“Yes,” thrilled at the prospect, “I’d love to! But what about clothes? Am I dressed okay?”

“Sure you are,” Karl said, “except for those high heels. Take ’em off and you’ll be just fine… Tell you what; you two take your time eating and whenever you’re done just come aboard; we’ll wait for you.”

“Thanks, Karl, that’s really nice of you.”

“Don’t mention it, pal. For the Coast Guard I’d do just about anything.” Smiling at Marsha, “See you later. Enjoy your meal.”

Their table faced south, towards the prestigious Chicago Yacht Club where everyone in the dining room was properly dressed for dinner.

“My, God, Mitchell, it’s so beautiful!”

Tickled that she was enjoying this as much as he, “Yeah, you sure are.”

He ordered prime rib, and Marsha, the fried shrimp dinner.

When, “Shrimp?” he questioned, “Seafood, I eat,” she responded, “but fish? No!”

(A "Becoming" Excerpt)