Christmas Eve, December 24, 1955

11:32 p.m.

Except for a thin sliver of light coming from beneath the door, the one-room home of Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky was in complete darkness.

In bed, wanting to, but afraid of starting something that they were sure they would not be able to properly finish, each lay on either side of the mattress. Although the distance that separated them was less than a foot, each felt as though in a black void and miles apart.

“I’ve thought about it,” Mitchell said to the darkness. “God knows I think about it all the time. Maybe that’s part of the reason this is happening to me, and…”

Interrupting him, “You really think this wouldn’t be happening to us now if we did it then, in October?”

Silent a moment, “Marcie, I don’t want to argue with you again, so please don’t get angry, but yes! Damn it, we shouldn’t have listened to them!” Turning, facing her, “When we were at your place, before your mother came out, I was there! All I had to do was move a fraction of an inch and I’d have been inside…” Stopping, “Marcie, I would have been inside you.”

This stated as a simple statement, yet, in absolute awe as though this were the most wondrous thing in the world… and in the mind of each, at that time, truly, it was.

“Maybe that’s part of my problem. Maybe I’ve built it up so much in my mind that somehow I’m afraid to do it because what if it’s not as great as I’ve always thought it would be. Damn! I don’t even know if that’s my problem. Maybe I’m just too tense.” Sighing, “I don’t know. I only know that I love you, and that none of this is because of you, and I’m so sorry that this is happening to you because of me.”

“I know you are.” Turning from her back to her side, putting her hand on his shoulder, that he instantly covered with his. “And you’ve got to know how much I love you, Mitchie.”

He moved to Marsha’s side of the bed.

In the dark room, their lips found each other’s…

Within moments, his penis poking through the fly of his pajamas, he knew, he just knew that this time, now, it was going to work!

What could he do? He couldn’t stop trying!

“Marcie,” a bit hesitant, “you want to try again?”

Hesitating also, “You think you can?”

“Jesus, Marcie! I always think I can!”

Hoping she’ll be able to work up the enthusiasm, “Yes, baby, it’s okay, let’s try again. But if it doesn’t work, let’s promise not to get upset, okay.”

“Yes,” but he knew he would, “of course.”

Marsha removed her pajamas.

Mitchell removed his pajamas.

She held him… And as always the mere touch of Marsha’s hand sent a sensuous, erotic jolt through him, as…

Knowing that her lack of fluid, that her dryness, that the absence of signs of her physical passion might also be affecting him. Not sure where this was going, actually rather thinking that this, as their other attempts, would be going no place, Marsha was far from enthralled, and even were she able to fake enthusiasm, her body did not, so she did not secrete any of the necessary fluid.

Kissing, touching, holding, feeling.

Attempting to caress Marsha’s less-than-moist vagina, knowing—if he lasted that long—they’ll need lubrication, “Hold on, honey. I’ll be right back.”

Stay hard! Crossing the black room, groping for the dresser, Oh, God, silently praying, please don’t let it get soft! Opening the top drawer, reaching inside, fumbling a moment he removed the small, round jar. Unscrewing the cap, leaving the cap on the dresser…

Holding the jar in his left hand, digging the index and forefingers of his right hand into the jar, withdrawing his fingers, his mind telling him one thing, his fingers another, starting back to the bed, rubbing the contents of the jar over his, Oh, yeah, still extended penis. Unsure of the mixed message, putting his fingers back into the jar, just to be on the safe side, re-anointing himself…

Oh, boy. The thought of this beyond instantaneous comprehension. Stopping, standing dead still, “Uh-oh!”

Uh-oh? “Uh-oh, what, Mitchie?”

His fingers and mind still in conflict, “Marcie, today…”

“What’s the matter?”

Oh, boy, “Marsha, today, uh…” Afraid to ask, “This morning, when you were writing, uh…?”

Becoming annoyed, “Yes?”

Hoping, Oh, God! Hoping, “The, uh, ink? You didn’t take the ink out, did you?”

Thinking a moment, “Yes, I filled my pen. Why?”

Uh-oh! Afraid to ask, “Where’d you…” afraid to know, “put the bottle?”

“Where it belongs, back in the top drawer. Why?”

Oh, boy! “Uh…”—the small, round bottle of Carter’s indelible blue/black ink normally kept in the rear of the drawer, the small, round bottle of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly, normally kept in the front of the drawer—“Where in the drawer?” he asked.

“Mitchell,” now truly annoyed, “I don’t remember! Why?”

Struggling to remain calm, “Marcie, honey,” he said in a strangely timid voice, “turn the light on, please.”

“Turn the light on?”

“Yes…” Not sure if he’ll be able to stay calm much longer. “…please.”

Having no idea why, “Okay.” Sitting up, reaching to her left, turning the knob on the lamp…

Marsha blinked her eyes as they became accustomed to the light.

Mitchell blinked his eyes as they became accustomed to the light, then, daring to look, “Oh—my—God!” he looked.

Marsha, looked, too. “My, God!” But not believing what she saw, blinking her eyes a number of times, having no idea what his reaction was going to be, biting her lower lip to keep from laughing, “My, God,” she repeated as…

Gazing downward, “Oh…” he said softly, “my… God.” Because…

The sight of this truly beyond instantaneous comprehension. “God,” looking upward, “you really did it this time!” Mitchell said, “Not even you can think of anything worse than this!” Because…

This, truly beyond all comprehension…

“Why, me, God?” His eyes shifting downward. “Why me?”

Looking at Marsha, “Ten minutes ago we were lying in bed wondering what was causing it… Me, not being able to keep a boner! All my life I’ve had a boner! For no reason I’d get a boner. All my life, no matter what I was doing I’d get a boner! No matter who I was with, I’d get a boner! And I’ve never been able to get laid! Oh, I’ve thought about it, Marsha!” he said seriously. “I’ve sure thought about it and don’t ask me why, but now I know, for sure!” Looking skyward, “It’s God! God doesn’t want me to ever get fucked! And will you look ?” He giggled, “Just look! How come now it don’t go away? And…

Yes, it’s still there! Oh, yeah, and…

Yes, it’s still standing at attention. Oh, yeah…

In all its indelible blue/black magnificence.

Unable to hold back any longer, Marsha began to laugh.

Giggling again, “I just can’t believe it.” The giggle turning to laughter. “I cannot believe it!”

“Mitch,” struggling to catch her breath, “You said you wanted… oh, God, ‘lead in your pencil’! How’s about, oh, God…” Tears running from her eyes, barely able to get the words out, grabbing the pillow from behind her back, “ink in your…” almost choking on the words, “ink in your pen!” Marsha buried her face in the pillow.

Tears running from his eyes, too, slumping to the floor, attempting to minimize the carpet damage, sitting with his legs spread and his knees cocked, Mitchell Lipensky’s lower abdomen, pubic area and penis were splotched with ink. Blue/black streamers of it ran down his thighs and calves, over his feet and between his toes, and if someone were to look, if someone were so inclined, they’d see a dappling of the stuff around the orifice of his rectum.

“Marcie,” scarcely able to get the words out, “you ever hear of blue balls?”

Gasping, moving her face from behind the pillow, “Yeah, I’ve heard guys mention it. But, Mitchie,” breaking up again, “I’d guess that that,” pointing in the direction of his wide-open, fully visible crotch, “ain’t exactly what they were talking about.”

“No, Marcie, I assure you, this ain’t what guys talk about when they talk about blue balls. What this is…” looking for a word, “…is unbelievable!”

Coming off the bed, Marsha sat next to him. The two of them, sitting naked on the floor, laughed together… and the tension of the past four days evaporated.

“Mitchie,” she said when the laughter ebbed, “this couldn’t happen to anyone in the whole world but you, and that,” pointing to his now retracted penis, “is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Yeah, this even beats all those damned pennies.”

“Yeah, it does. And I thought nothing could ever beat that.”

“Marcie, get me a towel, will you?”

“Sure.” Standing, going to the kitchen, taking the towel from the bar behind the cabinet, soaking it and squeezing some liquid kitchen soap onto it, going back, squatting before him…

Even if he weren’t purposely looking, he couldn’t help but notice the fully open view of his wife’s body. Actually, now seeing more of the female anatomy than he’d ever seen, even as Marsha, futilely, attempted to wipe the ink from his feet and legs, Mitchell, once again, oh, yeah, achieved a full erection.

Seeing it… Watching his penis rise two feet from her face, aware of the sudden flow of her fluid, thinking, Wonder if the ink’ll come off? If Marsha were not afraid of the ink coming off within her vagina, she’d gladly impale herself upon it. But, that aside, at first she had thought it might be too embarrassing to have Mitchell look at her fully nude, fully open body, but, surprising herself—always thrilled at the reaction she usually received from him whenever he viewed any part of her nude body—Marsha now discovered that she actually enjoyed having him look at her naked.

“Here,” handing him the towel, “you try getting it off, there.”

Wondering how she was going to—no pun intended—handle it there—taking the towel, rubbing it onto his pubic area, leaving the hair soapy, coming away with nothing but a light-blue film on the cotton towel, “Think it’ll come off, ever?”

“Don’t know, Mitch. Good thing you’re not on duty tomorrow, huh?”

“Jesus, I don’t even want to think about what would happen if any of the guys in the shower saw me like this. “Looking at the stains in the lavender carpet, “What’ll we do about the carpet?”

Thinking a moment, no doubt hearing it from the same source that she’d heard pepper will keep a man from maintaining an erection, “Milk!” she said. “I’ve heard someplace that milk will take stains out.”

Going to the refrigerator, Marsha returned with what was left of a one-quart container and another towel.

Pouring some of the milk on one of the smaller stains, she scrubbed, and some—but not much—of the ink rubbed onto the towel.

“Not enough milk here, Mitchie. Why don’t you go next door and see if Lou and Grace can spare any.”

Next door, the Weiner’s had a one-bedroom apartment.

“Mitchell, what in the hell do you want?” Angry at being woken, “You know it’s…” squinting at his watch, “after twelve!”

Standing in the hall wearing only his robe, “Yeah, Lou, I’m sorry to wake you.” Mitchell said, holding a large glass forward, “But we need a glass of milk.”

“A glass of milk? You woke us for one glass of milk?”

“Yeah. Believe me, Lou, I’m sorry, but we need it.”

“You need it? At twelve-ten, the two of you need one glass of milk?” Seeing that Mitchell was wearing a robe, assuming by his bare legs, with nothing beneath—strange Lou didn’t notice his blue/black splotched feet and toes—knowing they’re newlyweds, smiling slyly, “You guys,” he asked, “got some kind of a… you know, trick you need milk for?”

Debating with himself whether or not to show him, “No, Lou. No trick we need milk for.”

“Then what in the hell you need a glass of milk for?”

Oh, well. “This, Lou.” Opening the robe, “We had a, uh, little accident.”

Looking at him in disbelief, “How in the hell…?”

“Don’t keep ink next to your Vaseline.”

Marsha and Mitchell could hear Lou and Grace laughing through the wall for the next ten minutes.

The milk not working on the carpet, they decided it would be best to tell Mrs. Tennenbaum, and offer to pay for a new carpet.

Marsha suggested makeup remover.

Using cotton ball after cotton ball, fortunately the nail polish remover removed some of the ink from his legs, and, “Holy shit, that burns like hell!” most of it from his penis.

In the shower, taking a long shower, ink came from places he couldn’t even imagine.

In bed, wearing only pajama tops, she had tried waiting up for him.

But by the time he finished his extended shower and came from the bathroom, Marsha had fallen asleep.

Glad to see she was sleeping because by then he felt far from romantic. And, the laughter over, feeling more, much more than just a bit stupid —in the shower he’d reasoned, It’s an understandable mistake… Yeah, sure! Like everyone goes around sticking their dicks in a bottle of ink!

His legs and groin irritated by the scrubbing, to say nothing of the nail polish remover, deciding to sleep nude, Mitchell turned the lights off, got into bed… and soon fell asleep.

Christmas Morning:  3:56 a.m.

 Cold.

The window open a bit, the curtain fluttered inward on the slight, winter breeze.

Dark.

But for the sliver of light from beneath the door, the room was in total darkness.

Still.

In the room there was only the lulling sound of breathing.

Quiet.

Cold. Dark. Still and quiet.

The radiating heat of Marsha’s body drawing him. Turning in his sleep, unknowingly, Mitchell came closer…

And even closer…

…Until, nuzzling against the warmth of Marsha’s naked buttocks, feeling her warmth, sensing absolute, luxurious comfort…

The total of Mitchell’s consciousness once again became deeply suspended.

In the reach of her wondrous dream, sensing Mitchell’s body against her, Marsha moved her hips, arching herself, nestling her buttocks into the warm forming contour of his stomach and thighs.

His left arm beneath the pillow, his right arm under the blanket draped over her waist, where his hand lay upon the bare flesh of Marsha’s stomach…

…Then instinctively moved upward, beneath the loose-fitting pajama top, to the soft warmth of a sleep-creased breast…

…And the feel of Marsha’s breast within his hand caused the gauze-like veil of his subconscious to lift for a moment, then return to the dream of Marsha:

Of lying next to her.

Of feeling the softness of her breast within his hand.

Of feeling the warmth of her back against his chest.

Of feeling the roundness of her buttocks nestled closely against his stomach and thighs, and…

Marsha’s subconscious mind, flitting towards consciousness…

Mitchell’s subconscious mind hovering just beneath consciousness…

Both returned to their dream of lying close and comfortable, warm and safe…

…To the dream they each dream:

That Mitchell is holding her closely.

That Marsha is held in his arms, and…

A part of Mitchell stirred and, moving in his sleep…

Fractionally moving the dream of his turgid penis between the dream of the soft, enveloping fissure of Marsha’s buttocks…

In… out… in… out.

Through the layers of darkness, Marsha felt the erotically stirring, teasing friction…

In… out… in… out…

As the very tip of Mitchell’s penis probed into, and out of the moist, outer folds of her vagina, as…

Dreaming, wanting him there! Oh, God! Wanting him there, Marsha arched even further, as…

Dreaming… Wanting to be there! Oh, God! Wanting to be there, Mitchell drew himself, and herself even closer, and…

The front of his thighs and legs formed tightly against the back of her thighs and legs, and his forward straining pelvis molded tightly, oh, so tightly against her sharply angled backside…

In the ethereal wisps of their dreams…

“Mmm,” moaning in his sleep, Mitchell strained forward.

“Mitchell…” Whispering his name, “Mitchell…”

Suddenly awake…

“Mitchell,” Marsha said softly. “Love me.” As…

Placing a hand behind his head and a hand onto his hip, turning onto her back, bringing his face to her face, and his body onto her body…

His wondrous dream became vaporous… then faded, and…

….Marsha and Mitchell kissed, and as they did, they…

…meld.

“I love you!” Feeling his soul enfolded within the lubricious sheath of Marsha…

…enfolded within her warmth.

…Within the fathomless, mental, physical, all-enveloping warmth.

“I love you.” Coming from the heart of each…

“I love you.”

With each thrust, he whispered her name…

“Marsha…”

With each withdrawal… “I love you.”

Christmas Day….

 HALLELUJAH!  HALLELUJAH and HALLELUJAH!

The Beginning of  "For Better or Worse"