Seagate, New York

June 20, 1956 

His unexpected entry into the bathroom, coinciding with what she had been thinking; thinking that, Maybe I can make “it” happen now. Surprising him by drawing the curtain open, “Sure,” she said, becoming somewhat aroused herself, “come on in.”

 Mitchell’s chest was hard and covered with fine, dark ­brown hair. Though not noticeably muscled, his arms were solid, his stomach flat, his buttocks firm, his calves and thighs nicely taut. And, jutting from within the tangle of pubic hair, his penis stood rigidly forward.

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Before meeting Mitchell again—because they had met six years earlier—keeping all boys’ hands away from where she knew they shouldn’t be, Marsha Goldman had held herself in tight rein on so many occasions when she had been in passionate situations with young men whom she’d liked, and one whom she thought she loved, when she had wanted, on so many occasions, to let the boy touch her breasts and her crotch and for her to touch the boy, too. To feel it, and yes, to see it, too… But she hadn’t, and even now, after almost six months of marriage and the intimacy of marriage—though she kept it well hidden—Marsha Lipensky still felt a sense of excitement when she saw her aroused husband nude.

When not aroused, leaving less than three inches exposed, Mitchell’s penis all but disappeared within his pubic hair. When in a state of erection, though, it swelled to about six and a half inches, and Marsha constantly enjoyed watching as, magically, the small nub came out of hiding, jerked to life and engorged. And she was always, always, thrilled to know that—sometimes by doing nothing more than merely looking at him, watching it—she was the reason for this erotic metamorphosis.

                                                       * * **

Putting his leg over the rim, stepping into the tub, looking at his wife’s wet, nude body, becoming even more impassioned…

From the rear, Marsha could easily pass for a slight boy: her torso was thin, bordering on skinny. She had broad shoulders, no hips, a straight waist and small, very tight buttocks. From the front, though, there was no mistaking Marsha Lipensky for anything but a woman. The size of her breasts fell toward the smaller end of medium, but because she had a wide rib cage, appearing larger then they actually were, her breasts would tend to fill out at the sides, giving Marsha attractive, wide cleavage. About the size of half­ dollars, her areolae were domed and dark pink in color. Marsha’s stomach was solid and concave. Her legs were long and slender with well defined calves. Her pubic hair was pitch black and silky fine.

Mitchell’s idea of the perfect girl had always been the Coca ­Cola ad “girl next door” face on a big busted, slightly meaty body with solid thighs and buttocks with, maybe, a “cute little tummy.”

Generally what he liked were sunny ­faced girls with a little “meat on their bones.”

When he thought back—or when he was angry at Marsha, usually because she was angry at him—he wondered how and why he ever fell in love with a slightly Semitic looking, to say the least, moderate ­busted, all ­but­ skinny girl. And yet he truly did love Marsha, and did think of her as beautiful.

As much as Mitchell enjoyed looking at her dressed, he—big surprise—especially loved looking at her nude. And most of all he loved looking at—big surprise again—Marsha’s breasts. And because he’d never imagined—and, Oh, yeah, Mitchell had spent a lot of time imagining—that any breasts could ever be quite as lovely as Marsha’s, what he absolutely loved to look at above all else were her beautiful, dusky ­pink areolae and nipples.

Mitchell was not a sound sleeper, whereas his wife was, and when occasionally she would sleep without pajama tops, usually awaking before her, he would lay waiting until a streamer of light from the part in the drapes—that he would usually part a wee bit wider—would lay across the bed. Then, if Marsha were laying in the right direction, he would carefully lower the blanket from over her shoulder and, with his head propped in the palm of his hand, just look at her, and…

In these quiet times his heart would swell with love—and restrained passion—and he would wonder how he would ever be able to live without this gift given him by God…

Marsha... Marsha.

                                       * * * *

Hot water streaming onto him, onto her, their bodies tightly encircled by arms, with hands clasped onto the other’s buttocks.

“Marcie,” feeling the soft push of soap ­slicked breasts onto his chest, “God, how I love you!”

“Mitchie,” holding him, sensing the heat within her hand, “I love you, too!”

Mouths tightening, tongues entwining.

Exploring the soapy ­slick valley beneath his left hand, gliding over the twin mounds of Marsha’s small, hard buttocks. His right hand, rubbing over her vulva… probing… parting the petals, his finger, sliding into the so warm, so lubricious channel.

Straining into the probe of his finger, slowly moving one hand forward and back along the warm, hard shaft, the nails of the other hand tightening into the flesh of his buttock, urging Mitchell even closer.

Breaking the kiss, lowering his head, holding a breast from beneath, bringing it to his lips, along with the streaming water he drew Marsha’s excited, now elongated, tightly constricted nipple deeply into his mouth.

When with a girl, the revered moment for Mitchell had always been the first time he’d been allowed to taste her. To put his tongue onto, and run it over and around her areola. To draw the nipple into his mouth. To taste the sweet, salt tang of her flesh. And every girl he knew—at least the ones that would allow this—had tasted differently. Or maybe, really, the girls had all tasted the same, but being different girls, what he had really tasted was the excitement of their newness.

                                       * * * *

Pulling from her hand, bending at the knees, crouched before her, running his mouth and tongue over Marsha’s streaming flesh… to over and around the tiny projection of her “outie” navel… and down. And because the mat of her pubic hair was wet and lay flat, her vulva was fully visible through the thinly wet hair and the projection of her mound was seemingly more pronounced… And he drew the hard, soft mound fully into his mouth, and bit softly, but not too softly, onto the hairy flesh.

Feeling the delicious pain of the bite, placing one hand on his head, the other hand tightening till her knuckles became white around the steel shower curtain rod, as, biting her lower lip, Marsha waited for what she knew, for what she expected, what she wanted to come next, as…

Parting the fleshy folds with his tongue, turning his face to the side so the water would channel over his lips rather than into his mouth, touching his tongue to the upper cleft of her vagina, Mitchell licked the budding tip as…

Arching her pelvis forward, widening her thighs, holding the back of his head, pressing his mouth onto, and his tongue into her vagina, savouring the dual erotic sensations of a caress and the in­ and­ out motion of his tongue, closing her eyes…

                                         * * * *

Rather than merely ejaculating into a prophylactic, Mitchell truly loved doing “this” to Marsha. To taste Marsha… to really taste Marsha. To literally take the sweet fluid of her sex, of her body into his and thus, so he did believe, the two became more a part of one…

Besides, rapidly excited, once actual intercourse began he was prone to quick ejaculation.

Also, always quiet during foreplay and intercourse, at times such as this Marsha would usually show some sort of response and, at least at these times, Mitchell felt he was able to give her, he sincerely hoped, as much pleasure as she always gave him.

And, oh, yes! He’d love to have Marsha do “the same” for and to him, but, as she’d told him… “Do not expect me to do that to you, Mitchell! Nice Jewish girls don’t go ’round giving their husbands ‘blow jobs.’”

“How,” he had asked, “do you know?”

“Well, I’m sure your mother doesn’t do ‘that’ to your father.”

Yes, he thought, that’s true ! Because, as most progeny, he could not imagine his mother and father having even simple intercourse, let alone his mother giving his father a blow job.

“And,” Marsha had continued, “I’m sure my mother has never done ‘it’ to my father.” Yes, of that Marsha was rather sure. But to other men? That, she was not too sure of.

                                       * * * *

Her feet braced against the sides of the tub, her back pressed against the tiled wall, straining her pelvis even further, opening her thighs even wider, holding Mitchell’s head, moving it in a tight circle… Sensing the approach of orgasm, the volume of air being drawn into her lungs and rapidly exhaled increasing… feeling the sharp sweetness begin, twisting her fingers in his hair, forcing his mouth even harder onto, and his tongue even deeper into… “Mmmm!”

He’d truly love to have been aware of it, but unfortunately the distance from Marsha’s mouth along with running water having covered the sound of her moan, but going with the urging of her hands…

Knowing herself, from the times he’d done this before, knowing she was capable of a second orgasm within minutes—or seconds—after the first. But truly loving the feel of Mitchell within her body, wanting him… Oh, yes! Wanting him there, “Stand up, baby!” Prompting him upward, taking hold of him, standing on tiptoes, guiding him into her vagina… When she was sure he was as deeply implanted as the length of his penis and the upright angle of their bodies would allow…

Oh, God! Not knowing whether he’d thought or said the words.

“Oh, God!” Feeling the lubricious, wonderfully warm tightness surround him.

Feeling the lubricious, wonderfully warm tightness that encompassed not just the length and breadth of his penis, but all of Mitchell, as though his entire physical and mental being was fully engulfed within the marvellous, sweet sheath of Marsha.

…Bringing her hands onto his buttocks again, again prodding her nails into the soft flesh, again forcing their bodies close… closer. Urging his pelvis to move in a tight circle in rhythm with hers, “Mitchie,” the sweetness beginning again, “I love you!”

Moving within the rhythm of Marsha’s rotation, holding her buttocks as she held his, their closely held genitalia swaying in concert within the tight circle…

“Mmmm!”

Once again… Or possibly the sweet pain had never ended and now was but one continuous orgasm, “Mitchie,” breathing her warm breath in his ear, “Oh, Mitchie!”

“Marcie!” Brought to an even higher plane of excitement, not only because of where they were, but also due to Marsha’s uncharacteristic show of passion.

Pushing deeper, his motion changing…

Grinding their bodies even closer…

Now, changing her circular rhythm to his pumping rhythm.

Moving his pelvis only...

Nearing!

Nearing… his motion changing… faster, harder.

Now…!

Standing perfectly still, actually feeling the penile contractions within her vagina… within her body.

Her heart lurching, knowing where his semen now flowed.

“I love you!” their words mixing with running water, “I love you!” Their mouths coming tightly together, each breathing their hard, ragged breath into the mouth of the other, till…

The fingers of their four hands relaxed, the twenty indentions in their two sets of buttocks turning from white to normal…

Their lips loosening, their heads moved back, their eyes opening, each looked into the half ­opened eyes of the other, till…

Their breathing slowed… Marsha’s breasts moved from Mitchell’s chest… Mitchell’s retracted penis slipped from Marsha’s vagina, and… The two stood, without words, but yet together.

Outwardly, the look on Marsha’s face appearing serious, “Mitchie,” out of sight, inwardly smiling, her heart pounding, “we didn’t use a rubber.”

“Yeah, I know.” Standing back, looking at his wife, placing both hands onto her shoulders, “But you know sometimes people try for years without having a baby, and this is the first time we’ve ever done it without a rubber, so don’t worry about it; nothing’ll happen.”

Marsha was not worried; she was not worried at all.

And this was not the first time they had “done it without a rubber.”

The very first time they had intercourse, at 3:56 a.m. on December 25, 1955, Christmas morning, seven days after their second marriage—their “in the eyes of God,” not yet consummated marriage—when after waiting for Marsha’s early, excitement ­induced period to end, when after three days of trying and failing due to Mitchell’s mind induced failure to maintain an erection long enough for insertion, when finally, with the help of a bottle of “Carter’s Indelible Blue/ Black Ink,” they were able, finally, to consummate their marriage, when they had intercourse… in their sleep.

And they didn’t use a rubber then, and nothing happened…

Then…