_______________________________________________________________________
Marsha had been correct. It was dark when they came out of the theatre and, Bumbabababababuming “The Colonel Bogie March,” the theme from The Bridge on the River Kwai, Mitchell anxiously drove to the closest, and first place either he or she could think of where it would be dark and they could be alone: The Montrose Beach parking lot.
On the way there, “Mitchie,” remembering, “unless you’ve got one with you—and if you do, I have no idea what you thought you were going to do with it—I think you’d better stop and buy some.”
“Buy some what?”
“Rubbers, Mitchie.”
________________________________________________________________________
Chicago, Illinois
June 21, 1957
"Yeah!"
It took three tries until he was able to find a drugstore with a male pharmacist, with no women or salesgirls within hearing range. His hand to the side of his mouth, whispering to the man behind the drug counter, “A package of Trojan redi-wets, please.”
****
Although dark, it was still too early for most of the kids that went there for a necking session, and there were only a few scattered cars parked in the very large Montrose Beach parking lot.
Circling twice, Mitchell parked in the furthermost, most secluded spot. Turning the motor and lights off, “Baby,” he asked, “you want to move to the back?”
They quickly transferred from the front to the back seat. Sitting closely, placing his right arm across her shoulders and his left hand flat on her ribs directly beneath Marsha’s right breast, where, radiating through the material of her brassiere and chemise, the soft warmth rested within the bow of his thumb and forefinger.
Beginning tenderly, the kiss quickly became impassioned. As the kiss lengthened the soft warmth filled the palm of his hand. A button was unbuttoned—by Marsha—and, his hand slipping through, “Marcie, I love you!” he clasped the soft, warm, silky bulb.
Before Marsha’s pregnancy had changed the aspect of her breasts, holding a breast as he was, circling the nipple with his thumb he could feel the tightening as the smooth circle of sensitive tissue became excited.
It had been so long since he’d held Marsha in this way, he’d forgotten the change within her nipples, the enlarged, now course circle of flesh excited him in the way the first touch of a new girl always excited him. Although, considering the circumstances, Mitchell Lipensky would have been just as excited with Marsha’s pre pregnancy nipples. However…
Sensing his excitement, Marsha’s heightened too. “Mitchie,” her hand moving from her lap to his lap, “I love you, too!” her fingers instantly finding and tightening about the hard, cylindrical shape.
Both sure they would never again be as this with the other, at this time each touch was as though it were the first touch. The excitement of now as it was then, when each touch truly was the first touch.
Forgetting where they were, all their love—mental and physical—overflowed as though in the privacy of their home…
As always, the mere touch of her hand upon his penis, even above his slacks, sent an unbearably sweet shock of excitement and, pushing another button, and another, the upper portion of the chemise, now fully open, he slipped the cups of the brassiere up and off both breasts. In the scattered cloud, semi shadowed darkness, breathing the words, “God, Marcie!” as the refound dream of his wife’s bare breasts were before his eyes and in his hands… and within his lips.
Feeling the tingling sensation as his lips tightened and his mouth drew, and the sharp, delicious prick of pain as his teeth lightly nipped. Sensing also the flow of the fluid that readied her vagina. “Wait, baby.” Sitting straight, pulling her arms through the sleeves, the dress fell to her waist. Slipping her arms through the straps, removing the bra, dropping it between her feet, glancing into the alternating darkness of this night, Marsha put her arms back into the sleeves and brought the dress to over her shoulders.
It had been almost four months since he’d last made love to Marsha, or even seen his wife nude, and certainly this was the first opportunity to see Marsha bare-chested since her milk had dried up. By the size and weight he was able to judge that her breasts had returned to their moderate, pre-pregnancy size. He did remember that the pregnancy had caused her areolae to flatten and become darker, but, until then, he did not know if they would remain that way, or, as he had hoped, after her milk had dried up, return to their original, dark pink, dome shape.
Looking at Marsha in the subdued light, the white of her flesh was stark against the tan of her chest, and whereas before the areolae would barely be discernible in the available light, now they were still darker and the protruding nipples still larger, and courser. But to Mitchell everything about his wife was beautiful, more than beautiful. Now, as though seeing Marsha for the first time, overwhelmed with passion, once again putting his mouth onto a breast, Mitchell drew hungrily on his wife’s strange nipple, as…
Excited further by his gaze, tightening her hand about the clothed shape of his straining penis, wanting to see him bare, wanting to hold him bare, pulling the tab of his zipper downward, putting her hand into his trousers, Marsha searched for the overlapping fly of his Jockey shorts, and…
“Oh, God, Marsha! The electric touch of her cool hand on his naked, blood engorged flesh inducing a contraction within his rectum, causing his penis to jerk in her hand. “Oh, yeah,” he whispered hoarsely, “hold me, baby,” as his hand moved beneath the hem of the chemise, up her bare calf and high onto the moist… very moist crotch of her panties, then through the elastic band, and…
Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky had no money problems! No parental problems! No thought of whatever the future might hold! For Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky now, all there was, was in the close confines of a 1952 Ford convertible.
“Marcie!” The feel of her silky damp pubic hair sending an additional shock as he probed into the warm, so wet cleft of flesh with the finger of one hand, as, unbuttoning the remaining buttons of the chemise with the other… Pulling his hand from under the elastic, grasping the bands of the half slip along with her panties, as Marsha lifted her buttocks, he pulled both off her hips, down her legs, over her ankles and feet, and…
Now, though she still wore the chemise, it was completely open and Marsha’s slender body was…
“Oh, God, Marsha! You’re so beautiful!”
The deep tan of her sun exposed flesh.
The iridescent whiteness of her sun hidden flesh.
The slope of her white breasts.
The darkness of her aroused nipples…
The black triangle of her pubic hair and, for the first time, the thin, diagonal appendectomy scar, that within the shadows of available light were all fully exposed to his sight. Through his excitement—intensified by his excitement—Mitchell smelled the not unpleasant, Oh, no, tangy, sea like scent of the flow of Marsha’s excitement, and…
The scent of her sex…
The sight of her body… the feel of her hand upon his penis… that in her excitement she began to manipulate… which caused a sharp spasm within his rectum and testicles, that only by grabbing her hand and holding it firmly as, closing his eyes, concentrating and by tightening his sphincter was he able to hold off.
When the near uncontrollable need passed, looking at the all but nude phenomena that was his wife, kicking his shoes off, opening his belt, “My God, Marcie, I want to be in you.” Leaving his socks and unbuttoned shirt on, pulling his slacks off, along with his underpants…
Looking at the all but nude phenomena that was her husband, “Me, too, Mitchie. I want you in me, too.”
When one is young and in the heat of passion, the close confines of the back seat of a 1952 Ford convertible is, somehow, no obstacle and the two were able, somehow, to contort their bodies into positions that under normal conditions would be, for most human beings—for all but the most urgently passionate of human beings—utterly impossible, and…
Positioned between his wife’s legs, Mitchell moved the tips of his fingers along the inside of her silken thighs, then again feeling the mat of—Oh, God—moist hair, he rubbed the palm of his hand over the hard, yet so soft swelling of Marsha’s vulva, and…
Depending on position, it usually took a few seconds until he found the fissure. Now, though, due to Marsha’s open position and willingness, touching, feeling the flow… the overflow of fluid, leaning forward he kissed her lips, her neck and, with lingering tongue, one, then the other tightened nipple, one, then other was drawn into his mouth… Inching back on the seat, his tongue trailed the slight salt taste of Marsha’s chest, down and around her “outie” bellybutton, down, onto and into the hair where he drew one, then the other, so soft, fleshly lips into his mouth… Tasting the taste of Marsha, Mitchell’s tongue pushed deeply, to its root, into his wife’s… into Marsha’s wonderful, so sweet vagina as…
Tightening her eyes, biting her lip, her fingers entwined in his hair, straining her pelvis forward and upward…
“Uh, oh!”
Both suddenly aware of a sharp tapping accompanied by a beam of light playing through the fog shrouded, passion beaded moisture of the right side window.
Oh, yeah! “Uh, oh,” indeed, because…
“Would the two’a’ya step out’a the car, please.” This posed certainly not as a question.
Verging on hysteria, Marsha very quickly fastened the seven buttons of her chemise—putting the first button into the second buttonhole, meaning the sixth button was in the seventh buttonhole, as…
In near panic, trying to think of a reason, any reason for having his head where he’d had his head, Mitchell put his left leg through the right legs of his entwined underpants and slacks, as…
Impatiently tapping on the window with his flashlight, well aware of his inflicted panic, doing his best to inflict more panic, “I want the two’a’ya out’a there, now!”
After a number of very long seconds, as Marsha was mis-buttoning her sixth button and Mitchell was trying to untangle his pants and get his legs into the proper legs—finally—then, having to tilt the front seat forward in order to open the door and—very ungracefully—back out, Marsha and Mitchell hesitantly stepped out of the car, as…
Shining the light in his face, “What’ch’ya been doin’ down there,” the cop asked Mitchell, “lookin’ for somethin’?”
“Lookin’ for somethin’?” The humor of the situation—for the time being and foreseeable future—completely lost on Mitchell, “Uh, no, sir, I was, uh…” Having to untangle his pants and underpants, not having time enough to put his shoes on, standing on the fringe of the Montrose Beach parking lot in his stockinged feet with his shirt fully unbuttoned—with the taste of Marsha still in his mouth—Mitchell Lipensky wondered, Christ, what do I say to this guy?
“Officer!” The beam of light shifted from Mitchell’s face to hers. The unaccustomed brilliance stinging her eyes, Marsha looked down… and realized that not only had she mis-buttoned her dress, but in her haste to get dressed she’d also put the left shoe onto her right foot. “We’re married, you see,” she said trying to sound as convincing as possible. “and he, uh, he is my husband and…”
“You’re married, huh? So says you!”
The beam of light leaving her face, slowly traveled down her body to her cross toed shoes, then back up where it hesitated on her chest, where, because Marsha hadn’t the time, nor the inclination to lower her dress to put her brassiere on in plain sight of this man—cop or not—the top button was inches lower then its mismatched buttonhole, leaving the top of the chemise gaping open with the upper rise of her breasts somewhat visible.
Noting Marsha was a woman, not one of the usual kids he and his partner, weather permitting, hassled almost every night in this parking lot, Officer John Mahoney’s tongue nervously flicked across his lips. “You think bein’ married—if you’re married—gives the two’a you the right to be doin’ the kind’a stuff…” jerking his thumb towards the car, “the two’a you was doin’, in a public parkin’ lot, yet?”
“No, Officer! You are absolutely right!”
I’m a man, Mitchell reasoned to himself. And he’s a man, even if he is a cop, and maybe I can, kind of, appeal to him kind of man to man. “I know we…” the light shifting to his face, “shouldn’t be here doing, uh,”—thinking it best to leave just what it was he was doing unsaid—“that kind of stuff. But we’ve been separated for a while now and my wife and me, we just got together a few hours ago and didn’t have anyplace to go to, uh,”—hoping the cop would sympathize—“get back together.”
“And you thought here would be a good place to do it, did you?”
“Well, yeah. I mean no! Look, I’m sorry, Officer, but we don’t have enough money for a hotel and didn’t have anyplace else to go. But we are married!”
“You think I ain’t heard this bullshit before?”
“But we are married!” The light shifted back to Marsha. “We’ve even got a baby. As a matter of fact…” pointing to the west, above the line of trees, to where the brightly lit top two stories of the Louis A. Weiss Memorial Hospital could be seen, “he was born there, at Weiss, last March, on the twenty-third.”
Not caring, not caring at all! Actually thinking, If it is true , then she’s a seasoned broad without that much to lose, and maybe… “Lady,” Chicago police officer John Mahoney said, “you’re sayin’ so don’t make it so, an’ tellin’ me the two’a’ya got a kid together don’t make that so neither.” But having to try, just in case, “You,” pointing the flashlight at Mitchell, “go stand there!” aiming the light to the front of the car. “Okay, lady,” Mahoney said once Mitchell was out of earshot, “when were the two’a’ya married?”
Uh, oh! Marsha knew Mitchell did not have a great memory when it came to dates, but even so, He will remember the date of our wedding, she thought. But, U, oh, again, because they had two weddings: the legal and the in the eyes of God wedding. Which one will he say?
“Come on, girlie, the date!”
Which one? October? December? Because October is so close to my birthday—remembering they’d talked about it—“December 17, 1955, Officer.”
The light flicking to Mitchell, “Hey, you! Over here!” Waiting till he was standing alongside Marsha. “When’s your wedding date?”
Uh oh! Which one did she say? But, “December 17, 1955.”
Releasing her till then held breath, Thank God! Marsha thought.
Considering a moment. Opening the car door, taking the keys from the ignition, “You wait here!”
Mahoney motioned to Marsha to get back inside. “You! Lover boy!” Motioning for him to follow. “Come with me!”
Stepping carefully because he wore only socks, walking alongside Mahoney as he cut across the western end of the large parking lot, “I really don’t like leaving my wife alone back there!”
“Don’t worry ’bout her; she’ll be just fine!”
A few minutes ago he’d been concerned about being caught necking—well, maybe more than just necking—but now…? Mitchell thought he was being led away to be… What? Beat up? Killed? And what about Marsha? “You don’t have the right to do this! Where the hell are you taking me?”
“I got the right to do whatever the fuck I wanna! An’ I told’j’ya’, don’t worry ’bout it!”
Coming to the end of the asphalt, going about twenty paces on the sandy, hard packed soil, Mitchell was able to discern the silhouette of car parked beneath a large tree. Approaching, he saw it was a City of Chicago police car, and through the open window the glowing red dot of a deeply inhaled cigarette.
Talking through the open window, “Stan, take care’a this guy for a couple’a minutes, will ya!” Opening the rear door, Mahoney pointed at Mitchell, “You!” then towards the dark interior of the squad car, “in there!”
Hesitating, “Look, Officer,” not wanting to go in there, “please, you can’t do this!”
“Oh, yeah?” Jabbing him in the chest, “You’re a fuckin’ deviant!”
“Deviant? Me?”
“Yeah, you! An’ like I tol’j’ya; I can do whatever the fuck I want!” His hand going to the nightstick at his side, “an’ like I said, get your fuckin’ ass in there, now!”
Glaring at him, having no choice, stepping into the car, the door was slammed shut.
Opening the front door, leaning in, Mahoney whispered something to Stan, who laughed, then, looking over his shoulder, looked at the young man in the back seat. “Take your time, John. This fucker ain’t goin’ no where’s.”
“Thanks.” Pointing his thumb and forefinger, as though a gun, at Mitchell, slamming the door, Mahoney started off in the direction they’d come from.
Frightened before, now all his concern was for Marsha. “Where’s he going? Why am I…” Reaching for the door, he found there was no handle. “Why am I locked in here?”
Turning, looking at him, “He’s goin’ to talk to your girlfriend a minute…” Stan said, “to see if she, uh, really wants us to haul ya in an’ toss ya in the clink.”
“My wife!” Understanding the implication of what Stan said. “She’s my wife! And we know people, and if that son of a bitch so much as touches her, we’ll…”
“Yeah? What’ch’ya gonna do ’bout it?” the City of Chicago police officer said childishly.
****
Sitting behind the steering wheel, Marsha looked nervously into the darkness, in the direction her husband had disappeared. After what seemed an hour, but in reality was no more than twelve minutes, seeing an approaching shadow, thinking it was Mitchell, about to open the door and go to him, Marsha realized the figure was shorter and wider.
“Hi!” Going to the passenger side, opening the door, sitting, Mahoney pulled the door shut. “I thought maybe you’n’me could, uh… What’s your name, girlie?”
“What did you do with my husband? Where’s Mitchell?”
“With my partner. He’ll be just fine, What’s your name, I asked.”
“Marsha, okay? My name’s Marsha, and you…”
“I’m John, an’ I thought that you’n’me could, uh, kind’a talk to each other. Maybe kind’a get to, uh, know each other.”
“Get to know you? I don’t want to know you!” Her stomach lurching, “I want my husband!”
“Well, ya know, Marsha, what the two’a you was doin’ before, what’j’ya was lettin’ him, uh, your ‘husband,’ do to ya’s what we call deviant behavior, an…” angled on the seat, facing Marsha, who was facing stiffly forward, Mahoney began to run the tip of his finger back and forth, along the outside of her thigh. “…an’, uh, if I wanted, I could haul the two’a’ya into precinct an’ book the two’a’ya as sexual deviants an’ then whenever there’s a crime of a, uh, sexual nature, your husband… What’ch’ya say his name is?” Slipping his hand through the seam of the chemise, he rubbed it lightly on her bare thigh.
The feel of his hand sending a surge of repugnance through her, inwardly panicking, taking a deep breath, Marsha clamped her thighs together, tightly.
“Oh, yeah, Mitchell!” the police officer said. “We’ll haul ol’ Mitchie in for a lineup, an’ who knows, people make mistakes all the time, an’ who knows…”
When a specific thing caused Marsha to become extremely nervous, quite often her very first subconscious impulse was to laugh, but then, out of fear, out of monumental fear, her only impulse was to…
“…maybe someone’ll eyeball him an’ maybe ol’ Mitchie’ll spend a couple’a nights in jail, or maybe even go to trial…”
“Ullpp!”
‘Huh? What’s’a matter with’j’ya?” Opening the door, the dome light going on, Mahoney was able to see Marsha’s green tinged face, and…
“Ulllppp!”
…her cheeks were puffing in and out as though trying to hold it back, and, “Jesus Christ!” Attempting to get out of the way, Mahoney quickly backed out of the car, but in a simultaneous move—not wanting to do it all over the darkblue leather of her 1952 Ford convertible—Marsha Lipensky leaned across the seat, and…
From the very moment she’d awoken, to this very moment, this day, to say the least, had been a very nervous day for Marsha… No! This day had been a downright, goddamned nervous day for Marsha, so…
“Gaacchh!” Not minding too much, though, if she puked all over the dark blue gabardine material of the City of Chicago uniform of police officer John Mahoney, “Gaacchh!”
The propulsion of vomit carried through the car door, plastering Mahoney’s not—so clean—especially now—dark blue uniform, and further splattered onto his not so well polished—especially now—shoes, and…
Feeling hot vomit soak through his shirt, pants, underwear and, onto what up until three seconds ago had been a raging boner, in stunned shock, “Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ, lady!” Officer John Mahoney said, “Why the hell’d you have’ta go an’ do that?”
****
“God damn it! God damn it! God damn it!”
Hearing the voice of his partner moments before seeing him, “Hey, John!” Getting out of the squad car, going to him, “ya sure finished quick! That broad must’a…” Stopping short. “Wha’ the fuck,” Stan said. “Ya smell like puke!”
Ignoring him, yanking the door open, tossing the keys to the Ford onto Mitchell’s lap, “Get the fuck out’a here! An’ if I ever see the two’a ya around here again…”
Mitchell did not hear what the cop would do to them if ever did see them around there again, because…
It was a well known fact that Mitchell Lipensky was not, nor had ever been an athletic kind of person. Matter of fact, a paraplegic in a square wheeled wheelchair going uphill, with the brake on yet, would probably beat him in a race, but…
Sprinting over the sandy, hard packed soil, across the west end of the asphalt covered parking lot… “Hi!” Pulling the door open, “Scoot over!” Throwing himself onto the seat, Mitchell jammed the key into the ignition, turned the motor on and, peeling rubber, drove out of the Montrose Beach parking lot.
Three minutes later, pulling to the curb, turning the motor off, taking a deep breath, looking at his wife he took hold of her hand. “Marcie, baby, I’m so sorry about that! You okay? Did he do anything to you?”
“Nah! He tried, and I’m kind’a shook up, but I’m okay.”
“Oh, God! Thank you, God!”
“When that bastard came back,” Marsha giggled, “he tried to screw me.” The nervous giggle changing to nervous laughter. “But I sure taught him!” Now raucous laughter…
“Yeah!”
…Which was joined by her husband’s also raucous laughter that continued, until, “Remind me,” he said, catching his breath, “to never try screwing you if you don’t wann’a be screwed!”
Trying to stop laughing, “Yeah,” Marsha said, making a stab at sounding serious, “or I’ll puke all over you, too!”
