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The Fourth Day of Their Lives

December 21, 1955: 9:42 a.m.

Spreading cream cheese on a toasted bagel, “Know what I’d like to do today?”

“Yeah,” she looked at him, “go to the city and show me the sights.”

“No, wise guy! It’s so beautiful out that I feel like going for a long ride, maybe even getting lost someplace.”

Taking a spoonful of Cream of Wheat, speaking in her Yiddish dialect, “Dot drive ve took hon Sunday, it fussant long enough for you, Mister La-pish-ky?”

“Yeah,” laughing, “but that was three days ago. Tell you what, Marcie, how’d you like to see Long Island?”

“Sure. Vitch’hever vey ve go, hit’s hokay vit me.” Dropping the dialect, “My period’s over.”

The smile leaving his face, “Huh?”

“Yeah. You heard me. I’m not bleeding anymore.”

“God, that’s great!” Taking both her hands in his, “But I don’t understand. You said it would take six days.”

“It started Friday night, and sometimes this happens; it’ll start when it shouldn’t and end early.”

Standing, “Marcie,” going to her, dropping on his knees before her, “let’s do it now, honey! I’ve waited all my life to make love to you. Please, let’s do it now!”

“Mitchie,” holding his face within her hands, “I’ve been waiting all my life, too, and you know I’m just as anxious as you, but I’ve been thinking about it, and because this is the first time for both of us, I think it’s real important that we do it right, and in a way that we’ll both remember all our lives.”

“Believe me, Marcie,” said with passionate enthusiasm, “I’ll remember, no matter how we do it!”

“I know, baby,” speaking seriously, “and so will I. But making love, really making love, for the first time, I don’t think should be done at,” glancing at the clock on the wall, “ten o’clock in the morning on a bright, sunny day.”

“Okay,” purposely missing her point, standing, “I’ll pull the drapes.”

“No, Mitchie!” Holding him back, “We’ve both waited so long, all our lives. Let’s wait just a little longer. Let’s wait till later, when it’s nighttime, and I promise,” smiling seductively, “you won’t be sorry!”

“I’m sure I won’t be sorry no matter when we do it, but…” Looking into her dark eyes, “Okay, honey, if that’s how you want it, we’ll wait till tonight.”

“Thank you.” But knowing his intent might not be as strong as his drive, also knowing that once they were outside he’ll have no choice but to wait till later, standing, carrying her cup and dish to the sink, “Give me a minute to straighten up here, then let’s go get lost someplace.”

                                                                        **** 

They drove east on the Shore Parkway to U.S. 687, went north to U.S. 495, east to U.S. 295, north to 25A, and east through Little Neck to Great Neck, then north to King’s Point.

At King’s Point they had a romantic, leisurely lunch at a restaurant overlooking Long Island Sound.

They drove through King’s Point Park where Mitchell tried to get lost, but now, because he wanted to, for the first time in his life, couldn’t, and somehow the Ford kept finding its way back to the main highway.

They held hands. They hugged. They kissed. They talked.

But the thought of later, and what later held was never far from the minds of either Marsha or Mitchell.

God’s Carrot

Throughout most of the evening, and now, because it was later… and almost time, each felt the monumental stress caused by this long day’s anticipation of the start of the act, which by now was anything but spontaneous, anxiety over the act itself, and tremendous, possibly undue expectation because of the act’s legendary, climatic completion.

For Marsha, sexual intercourse was something she’d thought about with mild curiosity throughout most of the last several years, but in the abstract rather than the personal, both because of her hatred of her mother’s promiscuity, and also because she had never known anyone whom she loved enough to even imagine herself being in any type of truly sexual situation with—untilMitchell.

As for Mitchell, he truly believed that God was against his ever completing the act of intercourse.

The thought of now, and the expectancy of finally completing the act, tonight, was almost more than he could fully comprehend, and Mitchell was positive that somehow, someway, something was bound to happen, and as much as he was looking forward to being with, for the very first time, a fully-nude Marsha, and just looking at her, and touching her, and actually, veritably, entering and becoming a part of her body…

…Mitchell Lipensky could not help but wonder, What’s going to happen now?

Since dinner and through the evening, they’d sat closely together, solicitous of each other’s slightest wish.

Each wanted to get on with it, but both, for some reason, felt shy, and what had been impulsive and instinctive now became… obvious, and both prayed for some motion by the other that would initiate the stimuli for spontaneous action.

                                                                       **** 

Finding the words at nine-thirty, standing, stretching, “Think I’ll hop in the shower.”

“Good idea.” Glad he finally made a move, “I’ll go after you.”

Taking his robe, going into the bathroom, he closed the door.

Within ten minutes the shower went off. Within another five, having showered, shaved, brushed his teeth and hair, coming from the bathroom wearing his closed and belted robe, “Sorry, I got it all steamed up.”

Marsha had opened the sofa and made the bed.

Looking at him, thinking, We’re going to be together! Really together! The knowledge of what she knew was soon to happen, truly happen, soon, registered on her mind, and because Mitchell would, literally, be within her, her heart began to pound. Afraid her voice would betray the thrilled yet fearful emotion she felt, saying nothing, taking the imitation lizard case along with her, going into the bathroom, Marsha closed the door.

Removing the robe, he lay upon the top of the blanket, nude.

Within a few minutes he heard the sound of the shower.

Simultaneously feeling erotic anxiety and nervous apprehension, knowing—having learned a bit about his wife in the last four days—that without a doubt it would take Marsha, at the very least, minimally a half-hour, yet, staring at the door, Mitchell waited for it to open.

The television was on, but his visual concentration was so focused on the bathroom door, and his mental concentration so focused on what he knew was soon to happen, truly happen, God willing, soon, maybe, that he was not aware that the television was on, or of the flickering shadows he saw from his peripheral vision.

We are going to do it! Actually going to do it! I am going to be inside Marsha! Nothing bad is going to happen! Nothing is going to stop it… Nothing! These thoughts did not necessarily come as statements of fact, but more as a confirmation of what he was trying to convince himself as unalterable, iron-clad facts. Marsha and me, we’re really going to make love! Mitchell no longer thought of the word “fuck” in relation to his wife. When he thought of intercourse with Marsha, he thought “it” or “make love.” But when he thought of himself individually, he still thought “fuck.” I am going to get fucked! Closing his eyes, trying to make himself think of this as a categorical fact, I am going to put this—holding his limp penis—inside Marsha! Inside! Marsha! I am going to be inside Marsha! Holding himself, imagining himself in Marsha’s vagina, he manipulated himself until he was no longer limp…

Opening his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Since he was fifteen God had dangled that carrot in front of him and always pulled it away…

But No! Nothing was going to happen to stop it now…

Nothing!

Coming off the bed, he stood before the dresser mirror.

At twenty-one years of age, Mitchell’s face was youthful and handsome. His eyes were clear and his hair shone with a healthy sheen. His chest and arms solid. His stomach and buttocks tight. His calves and thighs muscled, and…