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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!”
______________________________________________________________________
Chicago, Illinois
June 21, 1957
Sleeping on his stomach, Michael’s face was turned to the wall.
Standing alongside the crib, Mitchell whispered, “He’s gotten so big!” Feeling the loss of time away from his son, his throat constricted with emotion. “Look at him! When’d he get so much hair?” Not wanting to wake him, Mitchell fought the urge to touch his son’s light brown hair.
“Babies grow very fast when they’re this young, Mitchie, and Mikey seems to change every day.”
“I’d love to see his little face.” Seeing his son for the first time in 34 days, “God, Marcie, I want to hold him!” Overcome with emotion—for the lost days, along with the joy of this day—as Mitchell leaned over the crib trying to see more of his son’s face, tears fell onto the light, summer blanket.
Whereas Mitchell Lipensky was an openly emotive person, his wife was not, usually. But now having her little family together, intact once again, Marsha too felt the tightening within her throat and the pressure behind her eyes.
“Shhh, Mitchie,” she said, putting her arm about his waist, tightening her body against his. “He’s just starting to sleep through the night, but I promise you, honey, you’ll see him bright and early tomorrow.”
The Wand of the Youth God
When Marsha and Mitchell had come into the apartment a few minutes earlier, Rhea and her son-in-law did little more than nod their heads and mutter a cursory hello to each other. Unwilling to be a part of a reunion that she was not too sure should be taking place anyway, returning to the show she’d been watching on television, Rhea left her daughter and son-in-law alone to look at their son.
Their old apartment rented, knowing Marsha, knowing she was not going to want to live in her parents’ home a second longer than absolutely necessary. Knowing also that they would have to live here until they find a place of their own…
Unaware that it was primarily Rhea’s goading—along with his mother’s—that had caused their split, also knowing that it would make Marsha happy, but also because he couldn’t hold a grudge, especially against a woman as beautiful as his mother-in-law, who he did like. Going into the living room, sitting alongside her on the sofa, covering her hand with his, “Rhea,” he said sincerely, “I want to thank you for taking good care of my wife and baby.”
Rhea’s first instinct was to pull her hand away. “Mitchell, you don’t have to thank me!” But the touch of his hand on hers felt strangely nice. “After all, Marsha is my daughter and Michael is my grandson and I do know the right thing to do!”
As always, “Yes, I know you do…” feeling strange calling the mother of his wife by her first name because, for him, the word “Mom” came easily. “But I want to thank you anyway.”
Rhea still did not know why she disliked Mitchell, because actually she had liked him… At least until he’d gotten out of bed that morning when she saw him allbutnaked with a very obvious, very pronounced erection.
When seeing Mitchell then, that way, subconsciously, the beauty of his youth brought about the indisputable fact of her own age when Rhea admitted to herself, Jesus, I’m forty-five years old! And at that time—as though being with a youth would make her a youth—her son-in-law became the personification of this desire and she’d wanted nothing more than to hold this personification… within her vagina.
Wanting the husband of her daughter with such intensity had shocked Rhea and, as the mechanism of guilt for this—as Myra Lipensky cared little for the feelings of her son or daughter-in-law in her pursuit of “Mom”—needing an excuse to not like this young man, having to hide her desire for the husband of her daughter, Rhea Goldman buried this desire behind a façade of abhorrence that she herself did not understand. In her absolute need to do this—as did Myra—Rhea also took little account for the feelings of her daughter, or her daughter’s husband.
On this occasion, though, the façade crumbled and, the touch of his hand and the closeness of his body bringing about a sense of warmth, “That’s okay, Mitchell. You belong with your wife and child. I’m glad you’re back,” she said, trying to convince herself that she meant what she said for the proper reasons. However, feeling what she was feeling, Rhea wished Eli, whom after twelve solid hours of work was asleep in the bedroom, wasn’t. But of course she could wake him, and of course he would happily respond.
But truly it was not her husband that Rhea Goldman desired.
And really it wasn’t really Mitchell that Rhea desired. But Mitchell was the personification of what Rhea truly desired… The wand of the youth god.
June 22, 1957 p.m.
“Ooh say can you see, by the dawn’s early light.”
They’d gotten ready for bed and, as Mitchell didn’t have a toothbrush, Marsha had told him to use hers. They’d opened the sofa bed and Marsha, in her pajamas and Mitchell in a pair of Eli’s had laid in bed waiting for Rhea to…
“…O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.”
…turn the television off and go to bed.
“Thank God!” Marsha whispered.
Snubbing her cigarette out, standing, “Good night, you two.” Turning the television off, Rhea started to the bedroom.
“Mother,” coming off the sofa bed, Marsha followed Rhea into the small hall that led to the bathroom and bedroom, “let’s leave this door closed tonight, okay! Goodnight, Mother.”
Enjoying the feminine feel, sleeping in a nightgown, through all the years of having one of her children sleep in the living room, the door to Rhea’s bedroom had usually been closed while the door to the hallway was usually left open.
Pulling the door shut, Marsha returned to the living room.
However, due to numerous coats of paint over the years and because the door was slightly warped, it no longer fit snugly within its frame; although closed, the door was not completely closed.
Checking on her son one last time, Marsha turned the remaining lamp off. Standing in the dark, she pulled the pajama tops over her head and wiggled out of the bottoms. In the seconds it took for her to ensconce herself next to her husband she found—big surprise—Mitchell had removed his too, and by the prodding against her thigh knew that he’d been waiting for her and was—most definitely—ready.
Her naked breasts held tightly against his chest, his rigid penis pushed through the trisection of her thighs and crotch, as…
On the other side of the “closed” door, coming from the bathroom, Rhea turned the light off, took the four steps to her bedroom, and was about to step inside and close the door, when…
“I love you!”
Scarcely hearing her son-in-law’s whispered words, hesitating…
Voyeurism and masturbation had never been among Rhea’s shortcomings because there had always been men—at times too many men. Even now, at 1:08 a.m., though sound asleep, Rhea knew were she to initiate sex her husband’s response would be immediate, but even so…
“Mmmm.”
The low moan coming from the far side of the door excited her in a way that, at that moment she knew no man—especially her so familiar husband—could. Unaware she was doing it, the index finger of her left hand circled the now hardened nipple of her low hanging right breast.
“I love you too, Mitchie!”
Whereas most men like to experience their vicarious sex in graphic detail, women usually prefer using their imagination, so now, imagining herself in her daughter’s position, hearing her daughter’s words, the mother’s right hand dropping, a finger probed her labia, as…
Marsha closed her eyes to the sweet sensation of being naked and being held again in her husband’s arms and the feel of his naked body within her arms, and the softness of his lips on hers and the touch of his tongue on hers and, Oh, God, the sweet, warm friction “there” and, wanting him there, all the way there, “Mitchie,” she whispered, “put a rubber on.”
“Marcie…” He wanted to, oh yes, he did want to. However, he knew once he did, it would only be minutes until it would over for him, and as badly as he wanted to be there, inside Marsha, he desperately wanted her to orgasm, too. “You really want me to? So soon?”
“Yes, baby…” Due to their passion, the words they thought they whispered were not quite whispered. “I want to feel you in me!”
Rhea heard the soft spoken words, then the rustle of bedding. Waiting, holding her breath, both fingers stopped all motion.
It took a moment to find the foil Pac he’d put beneath the pillow, another to tear it open, then, on his knees between his wife’s open thighs, another second or two as he unrolled the pre-moistened (hardly needed, this time) prophylactic.
“Okay, baby.”
Rhea heard the rustle of bedding, and the whispered words that sifted through the barely parted door, as…
Taking hold of Mitchell, enjoying the feel of him within her hand, knowing, too, by the sharp intake of his breath that he, too, enjoyed—more than she could imagine—the sensation of the touch of her hand. Opening herself, Marsha arched upward as he moved inward and… there!
Home! He was home.
Hearing her daughter, being her daughter, Rhea once again moved the tip of her finger against the now erect protuberance of her clitoris as, slowly, then…
Faster, the sounds of movement came faster, and…
Biting her lip, the soft, slow… now harder, faster motion of her finger going with the sounds from the other side of the door, and Rhea’s imagination, as…
Lifting her legs, opening her thighs to their utmost, her calves laying on Mitchell’s shoulders, opening herself even further, allowing him to go even closer, allowing him to go even deeper, Marsha moved outward, Mitchell moved inward.
“Oh, God!”
Faster… harder…
Sensing the start!
Though reached quickly, feeling his triggered hers and… “Oh, God!”
Pulsating! Sharp! Delicious!”
The only one of the three that did not orgasm was Rhea, as suddenly all motion and sound from the other side of the door stopped and—though, to their ears their breathing was harsh and loud—all Rhea now heard was the sound of her own ragged breathing so she, too, had to stop before her daughter and Mitchell heard her or came into the hall to use the bathroom. Abandoning her position, closing the door silently behind her, Rhea went into the bedroom, but still sensing the flood of her fluid, still sensing the heat of her voyeuristic coupling, still wanting…needing release, in bed, lying alongside Eli, Rhea did something she hadn’t done in years, at least not with her husband: initiate sex.
****
Eli Goldman usually left for the grill before six a.m. and returned home—depending on traffic—at approximately six thirty p.m. Once home, Eli would take a shower, put on clean boxer shorts and undershirt and, if alone—as he was most often—or if only he and his wife, Eli would eat dinner in his underwear, read the newspaper, watch television for an hour then, exhausted, go to bed.
****
In bed, lying alongside Eli—who was sleeping on his back—feeling for the fly of his shorts, putting her finger through, Rhea traced the stub of his flaccid flesh, and yet…
The only sound in the room was that of Eli’s deep, even breathing and the occasional buzz of a light snore, as…
Popping the snap, opening the fly, wondering how long it would be until he awoke, closing her hand around the soft, pliable flesh, Rhea slowly began to manipulate her husband’s sleeping penis.
These deliberate movements were not only meant to bestir her sleeping husband, but due to the years of their marriage and her familiarity with Eli—also because of numerous “friendships” with far more dynamic men, Rhea considered her husband a plodder—and one of the least exciting men she knew. So now, going beyond merely arousing Eli, she attempted to tease herself back into her previous state of arousal so that, going beyond just her imagination, she would, hopefully, actually want Eli to make love to her.
The sounds of Eli sleeping were the same: his even breathing and light snoring. But within the palm of Rhea’s hand life began, and as blood pumped in and began to fill its chambers, the few inches of pliable flesh stretched and hardened, and its circumference widened, and…
Because Eli Goldman loved Rhea more than anything in the world, the thought of sex with a woman other than his wife was unthinkable and, as the times of intercourse with Rhea had become very few and very far between, Eli’s conscious mind had placed sex on any sort of a regular basis on a far back burner… But his subconscious mind? Eli’s subconscious mind was a different matter!
As Eli occasionally had, he then dreamt the dream of being held, of being caressed—of being loved—and as he never imagined himself within the arms of, or in the hand of—or being loved by—a woman other than his wife. “Mmmm!” Moaning, he moved his legs outward, allowing his phantom wife further and easier access to his now fully upstanding penis, but… But for the sound of the moan, his sleeping breathing remained as before and there was nothing to indicate that Eli was awake.
Having been involved with any number of men, Rhea considered herself fairly knowledgeable regarding male sexuality.
What was happening then, though, not only surprised Rhea, but excited her far beyond just being with Eli had in years. Knowing he was physically there and mentally elsewhere—possibly in the arms and the hand of a different woman, the woman of her husband’s dreams and… Surprised by her husband’s subconscious reaction to her touch and excited by the thought that, subconsciously, Eli was with someone else, with a different woman, this made their routine, tedious sex excitedly different.
Remaining on her left side, holding the side of her face within the palm of her left hand and her husband’s penis within the palm of her right hand, until, angling her body, draping her right thigh over his right calf, moving closer, pressing against Eli as, slowly, moving her hand, up and down, along the shaft, as simultaneously rubbing her crotch against his knee, moving higher, straddling his waist, opening herself, placing the head of her husband’s penis there, lowering her body…
Dreaming… Dreaming? The phantom form of his wife and the live Rhea began to intermix… to solidify.
Leaning forward, supported by both straightened arms locked to either side of his head, Rhea allowed her long hair to tickle Eli’s face, and her thick nipples to brush his mouth.
Feeling the brush of hair, “Rhe?” he smelled the scent of perfume and felt the kiss of her nipples on his lips… and the so warm dream of his penis within his wife’s so wet, so sweet vagina.
Occasionally, even the dreams of an Eli Goldman came true .
Eli knew this was not a dream. But yet, outside of a few… the far too few times his wife had surprised him in this manner soon after they were married, so long ago; way, way back then! Then maybe this was, “Rhe?” and he was still dreaming. “Is it you, Rhe?” he asked. “Is it really you?”
“Yes! Sure it’s me! Who’d you expect, Jane Russell?”
“No, Rhe! You, Rhe! Only you, baby! Always you!”
Swept into the passion of this unexpected rendezvous, having been told that, besides his daughter, his son-in-law would be sleeping here, too, in the heat of his passion Eli forgot, or didn’t realize, or simply did not care that there were two people sleeping—or possibly hearing—on the other side of the wall. Also…
…Impassioned by her vicarious visit to the bed of her daughter and son-in-law, and impaled—if not with the wand of the youth god then surely with the staff of the one person in the world that truly loved her—Rhea allowed her prurient, sensualistic nature to overflow.
In the years of living in this apartment, Marsha had always slept in the dining room, away from the love sounds, if any, of her parents. But Roger, who had always slept in the living room, could hardly help but hear the sounds, if any. But if there were sounds and Roger had heard, he’d never said anything—at least not to his sister.
Lying side by side, awake, holding hands, sated with their own lovemaking, the love sounds of her parents embarrassed Marsha, but in all actuality thrilled her more so because, for as long as she could remember, and for as long as she had been cognizant of sex, she had been sure her father lived an austere, loveless existence and, even then, as hard as it was for any child to visualize their parents making love—having sex… Although she still could not imagine them having sex, Marsha felt happiness for her father because he was making love… having sex.
As for Mitchell, remembering how Rhea had looked when they’d arrived from New York: her robe with nothing beneath, the zipper pulled low enough for him to see, and appreciate, the flow of her breasts and the embossed outline of her nipples upon the clingy material… And the thrill the next day as he’d—actually having no less obvious way to do it—left the bed and walked across the room knowing she was watching him, seeing him.
Imagining his beautiful, sexy mother-in-law naked, being fucked by his father-in-law, even if she was an “old lady” and the mother of his wife, his penis twitching to life, “Baby,” cuddling closer, letting it poke onto the side of Marsha’s thigh, “how’s ’bout we do it again?” Although he was disappointed, he was not too surprised when she said…
“No, Mitchie; let’s not.”
