NUDIST: Part 3 of 5
Elysium Fields
Topanga, California
Saturday, May 10, 1986
3:45 PM
“Sorry, guys...” Looking at Sandy, “Yeah! Yeah! I can tell you’re not a guy,” lightly kissing a breast. “But I’ve got to get going.”
Sitting up, “Think you’ll be coming back?” Ken asked.
“Don’t know. If she’s still not talking to me, I just might be back tomorrow and buy a membership.”
****
As the motto: “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!” “What happens at Elysium stays at Elysium!” So, though spending the day and becoming fast fiends, the three knew their friendship, along with any personal information, at least until they knew each other better, if they ever knew each other better, was to remain private. So no telephone numbers were exchanged and any future meetings, at least for the time being, would be strictly coincidental.
****
Standing, pulling his shorts and shirt on. Dropping down again, socks and shoes. The beach towel went back into the pannier.
“Hey, it was really nice meeting you both,” I said. “Hope we do it again.”
“Yeah, Mitch.” The two shook hands.
“Bye, Sandy.”
Standing, going to him, placing her arms on his shoulders. “ I really enjoyed being with you...”
“Teasing me, you mean.”
“Well, yeah, that, too. But I hope we can get together again.”
“Me, too.... Bye.”
***
Wondering what I would face once I returned home, this beautiful day’s mellow feeling dissipating the closer I became.
***
“Hi.”
Watching television, glancing at Mitchell as he entered the room, wordlessly bringing her attention back to the television and, doing a quick “double-take”, her eyebrows moving upward, her eyes widening, Marsha stared at her husband for a slow three count, then, with a lip curling sign of disgust – that Mitchell so recognized – turned back to the television.
Noting the look on Marsha’s face as she’d stared, fighting an urge to look downward to see if he’d zipped his fly, but, cycling shorts having no fly, wondering why the look, he simply stared back.
Looking at the back of his wife’s head, thinking he’d make one more stab at it, although, truly, actually hoping she wouldn’t, “You want to go out for dinner?” he asked.
Getting the answer he’d expected...
“Don’t want to go anyplace with you! Besides,” looking at him now, a thin smile twitching at her lips, “I made dinner.”
Having an idea what, but, “Yeah, what?” he asked.
“See for yourself!”
Going to the kitchen, on the stove was a congealed pot of “Kraft” macaroni, which he hated. Knowing what he would find, opening the refrigerator, laying on a platter were six salmon patties, which he also hated.
Knowing she knew macaroni and salmon paddies was his absolutely least liked food, also knowing she made it to spite him, “Thanks! I’ll ask you once more,” he called from the kitchen, “you want to go out for dinner?”
No answer...
“Fine.” Truly meaning it. For the first time in the thirty years of their marriage, wanting her to remain angry. Actually hoping she’d remain angry, because tomorrow...
“I’m not eating here!”
“Don’t care what the hell you do, Mitchell.”
“I don’t care what the hell you do either, Marsha.”
“Fine, then. Just leave me alone.”
“My pleasure, Marsha!”
Going into the bathroom, Mitchell Lipensky looked at himself in the mirror:
Extremely good-looking normally, looking years younger than his rapidly approaching fifty-second birthday, tanning easily, his face, arms and legs having a jump on it due to the hours he’d spent on his bicycle, now, after five hours in the sun; the green of his eyes vividly brought out by the rich, deep tan of his face, Mitchell realized the reason for Marsha’s stare.
Removing his shirt and shorts, studying his nude reflection... As he and his wife did share the same bedroom, Think I’d better not get undressed in front of her, he thought, looking at the now melding difference between the areas of his body that had been, somewhat, shielded from the sun. Turning – because, if warm enough, he often rode the bicycle minus his jersey – only his buttocks and the corresponding area in front had a deep red blush that he knew would be giving him a bit of pain later in the evening.
***
Standing spread eagled with his palms held flat onto the shower wall, tepid water cascading over his body, thoughts...
Thoughts of this fantastically beautiful day and the fantastically beautiful place that he’d allowed his life to become a part of... And, of course, thoughts of the people, the beautiful people that he had brought himself to, to become one of filled his mind...
Tepid water cascading over the back of his neck, down his back, through the fissure of his buttocks...
The beautiful people...
The dark haired, fairly attractive woman that, upon meeting, he thought of as a bit on the chubby side, that, the more he saw of, the more attractive she became and, by the time they said “Goodbye,” Mitchell thought of Sandy as beautiful.
As for “chubby?” “Chubby” was always what he’d always thought of as “his type of girl” and later, before marrying an eternally thin woman, “Chubby” had been his type of woman...
Though he'd done it spontaneously, without thought, other than as a sign of affection; when he had, “platonically” kissed Sandy’s breast... Could Mitchell Lipensky ever kiss a woman’s breast platonically? When he had kissed Sandy’s breast he knew the moment would return to him, and...
Standing spread eagled with his palms held flat onto the shower wall, tepid water cascading over his body, thoughts of Sandy came to mind, along with the warm touch of her breast to his lips...
Twitching, blood pumping now, millions of spongy cells filling now... Jerking now, standing rigidly forward now.... One hand pressed against the wall, now taking hold of the wet hardness, thoughts of this beautifully erotic day filling his mind. Thoughts of Sandy! Thoughts of Sandy and her soft, warm breast and the darkness at the intersection of her thighs and the slight, pink, furled lips there...
Bursting! The harsh, hard intake of breath drawing driblets of water into his mouth, the erotic beauty, the passion of this erotically beautiful day spasmodically burst from Mitchell Lipensky as the eruption of a minuscule volcano.
Eyes closed, his normal intake of breath coming now, thoughts coming back to now, to here, to the, in his mind, unforgiving, frigid, passionless woman his life was bound to. I won’t let her spoil it! I don’t even care anymore! Let her stay angry! I want her to stay angry! If this goes on long enough, I’ll move to one of the other bedrooms.
***
Purposely accentuating his tanned appearance, dressed in white shorts and shirt, “I’m going now!”
Still – actually pretending to be engrossed in television – forcing herself not to look at or respond to Mitchell, Marsha did not respond.
***
Two “Quarter Pounders” with cheese, “fries” and one thick chocolate shake later, returning home, once again, Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky spent an emotionally cold, wordless night.
Elysium Fields
Topanga, California
Sunday, May 11, 1986
9:48 AM
On this morning, not even making an excuse or saying where he was going, packing his bike onto the car, he simply left.
***
Dressed in a solid purple caftan, looking up as he entered, “ ‘Morning!”
“ ‘Morning, Gwen.”
“You enjoyed your day here yesterday?”
“Yes, very much so. I’m here to, uh, I think I’d like to join.”
“Name was....?”
“Mitch Lipensky.”
Thumbing through four or five one day memberships, “Ah, yeah... Just you?”
Remembering I had signed ‘Married’ under ‘Marital Status.’ “Now, yeah.” I answered, never imagining it would happen, however, “If my wife should decide to come here with me, can I add her to my membership later?” I asked.
“Not a problem, we much prefer couples. Most women will shy away from a place like this. Just keep reminding her that we are 'clothing optional' and that she doesn't have to get undressed unless she wants to."
Thinking It'll never happen. “Yeah, thanks, Gwen, I'll be sure to tell her! What do I owe you now, though?”
“That’ll be a hundred-fifty for you and, if your wife decides to join, it’ll be another seventy-five for her.”
Writing a check, I handed it to Gwen.
So we don’t have people here that shouldn’t be here; each time you come, come to the office first.” Removing the hand stamp and ultra-violet stamp pad from the drawer... “Hand.”
***
Hoping, of course, that Ken and Sandy would show up today, dropping the pannier, removing the beach towel, I planted myself in the same approximate place.
Today actually warmer than yesterday, and also, being Sunday, there were many more people present and, though still on the lookout for Ken and Sandy, still new to me, I spent a good part of the morning just watching people... Amazingly, I sat watching naked people. Primarily, of course, naked woman people.
Yesterday having the support of my missing friends, after a while, yesterday I found it rather natural to be seen nude.
On this day, though, being alone, forcing myself, I walked to the tennis/volley-ball court, then the Jacuzzi, and to the pool where I dove in, swam a few lengths then stood, the backs of my forearms resting on the coping, watching, although attempting to look disinterested, I stood watching as one couple came, swam and left.
After remaining in the water for about twenty minutes, about to head back to my spot on the grass... Oh, God!
***
I must digress once more and go back to the west side of Chicago on...
July 6, 1951
Chicago, Illinios
His cocked elbows on the banister, his chin nestled in the palms of his hands, he watched from his porch as the five Negro kids—three boys and two girls—played softball. He’d seen them playing in the alley before and thought they lived in the recently converted, now multi-flat building across the alley, where not too long ago Sharon Duffy lived with her mother and the Gogulski twins lived with their parents.
“’Ey, Leroy hit dat ball!” The largest of the group was sitting on the broken cement incinerator calling encouragement to the batter.
Closing his eyes, “Oh, God,” his lips moving in a whispered prayer because he believed that unless he prayed out loud God wouldn’t hear him, “please, God, let it be Norman and Phyllis and Big Rosalind and the Gogulski’s, and God, please, God, let things be like before!” Closing his eyes, tighter, One… two, he counted silently,
three…
“’Ey! You, boy!”
Four… five… Slowing, giving God more time, six… seven…
“You! Da white boy on the third floor!”
“Eight…” Knowing his concentration had been broken, knowing his prayer wouldn’t be answered, opening his eyes, he looked at the boy.
Standing in the yard, “’Ey,” the boy called again. “Wh’ch’ya doin’?”
Thinking, Praying for you to disappear. “Uh, nothing,” he said.
“Don’t’j’ya be doin’ that!” The boy said in a loud, friendly tone.
“Doing what?”
“Standin’ way up there doin’ nothin’! Come on down, boy. We’s only five an’ needs us another player.”
“Me?” Poking his chest with his thumb, “You want me?”
“Lordy! Yeah, you!” The boy threw the ball. Surprised at the accuracy, Mitchell instinctively caught it. “We won’t eat’ch’ya! Come on down!”
Actually, Yeah, I do, wanna play ball with them, he thought. But actually, having no reason to be, he was afraid of them. But if I don’t go down and play with them, they’ll think I’m prejudiced or something, and I sure don’t need a bunch of shvartzer kids, especially that big one, thinking I’m prejudiced.
“So, ya comin’?”
Throwing the ball back, “Yeah, why not?”
Opening the screen door, “Mom,” he yelled, “I’m going downstairs to play ball!”
Letting the door slam shut, he clumped down the stairs.
“Hi!” Feeling intimidated, holding his hand forward, “I’m Mitch Lipensky.”
“’Ey, Mitch.” Big, six-foot-three, with thick, muscular arms, “I’m Junior Johnson.”
Grasping Mitchell’s hand, shaking it in a strong grip, “An’ this here’s my sister, Katie.”
“Junior? I’d sure hate to see senior.” Smiling, turning, looking at the tall, angular girl, “Hi, Katie.”
Nodding her head, “Mitch,” the girl said shyly.
“An’ this here’s my baby brother, Baby Joe.”
Warming to the group, smiling again, “Do I call you Baby Joe?”
Smiling back, showing two missing front teeth, “Not lessin’ you wants’a be missin’ your teef, too.” A smaller, younger duplicate of his big brother, “You jus’ call me Joe,” the boy said.
“An’ this here’s Leroy. Leroy lives over there,” pointing in the direction of the old Duffy apartment.
“Leroy,” holding his hand out, “hi.”
Leroy hesitated a moment, then, a smile coming to his thick lips, accepting the handshake, “Yeah, hi.”
“An’ this is…” Junior said proudly, “my girlfriend, Lousy.”
“Louise?” Mitchell looked at the girl. “Did he say your name’s Louise?”
“Yeah. Dat’s what I said,” Junior repeated. “Lousy.”
The ebony-colored girl was small, about five-three, and maybe fifteen years old. She had a thin, Caucasian nose with wide, flaring nostrils, sensuous—though not overly, by Mitchell’s standards—full lips and, for a girl her size, unusually large breasts. Her almond-shaped black eyes looking up from under long, thick lashes. “Hi.” she said.
He had watched her from three stories up, especially when she ran the bases, and thought she was pretty then but, close up, God, she’s beautiful! His eyes flicking from her face to her chest, Mitchell saw that Louise was not wearing a brassiere, and could actually see the clearly defined, circular projections of her nipples under the tightly stretched, white cotton T-shirt. Swallowing, forcing himself to keep from licking his lips, sensing a tightening in his crotch as his thumping heart pumped blood downward, the dual thoughts of the dark intensity of her nipples and, if her pubic hair matched the tight nap of the hair on her head, simultaneously flitted through his mind and, Oh, God! I’d love to see her naked!
Topanga, California
5/11/86
After remaining in the water for about twenty minutes, about to head back to my spot on the grass... Oh, God!
About five–three, the lady had a thin, caucasian nose with wide, flaring nostrils, sensuous—though not overly, by Mitchell’s standards—full lips and moderately large breasts.
Glancing at Mitchell, nodding her head, the woman walked down the three steps, dunked herself in the semi-cool water, stood, and, water streaming in silver rivulets against her black skin, diving beneath, she swam the length of the pool. Reaching the far end, kicking off the wall, she swam at an angle mid-way across to the side wall where she could stand in water to her chest.
Only this dream from out the past and myself in the pool, my heart thumping, considering everyone I’d met so far at Elysium very friendly, hoping she'd be, too, “Hi,” I said, “ I’m Mitch.”
“Hi, Mitch,” Smiling, “I’m Lita.”
