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“Marcie, I hate it when you’re mad at me.” His eyes becoming moist, “I can’t imagine life without you now and I’m so sorry that things…”

“I know, Mitchie.” Always surprised by this visible show of emotion, Marsha always responded. “I’m sorry, too. Don’t worry,” she said sincerely, “whatever your problem is, we’ll work it out.”

Crossing back, they drove to Manhattan, and bought each other a surprise Christmas gift at Macy’s.

They waited in line to see a matinee of the movie “Oklahoma” at Radio City Music Hall.

They had a pizza after the movie.

They got caught up in the Times Square, day-before-Christmas rush.

They went home.

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Seagate, New York 

December 24, 1955

11:32 p.m.

Except for a thin sliver of light coming from beneath the door, the one-room home of Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky was in complete darkness.

In bed, wanting to, but afraid of starting something that they were sure they would not be able to properly finish, each lay on either side of the mattress. Although the distance that separated them was less than a foot, each felt as though in a black void and miles apart.

“I’ve thought about it,” Mitchell said to the darkness. “God knows I think about it all the time. Maybe that’s part of the reason this is happening to me, and…”

Interrupting him, “You really think this wouldn’t be happening to us now if we did it then, in October?”

Silent a moment, “Marcie, I don’t want to argue with you again, so please don’t get angry, but yes! Damn it, we shouldn’t have listened to them!” Turning, facing her, “When we were at your place, before your mother came out, I was there! All I had to do was move a fraction of an inch and I’d have been inside…” Stopping, “Marcie, I would have been inside you.”

This stated as a simple statement, yet, in absolute awe as though this were the most wondrous thing in the world… and in the mind of each, at that time, truly, it was.

“Maybe that’s part of my problem. Maybe I’ve built it up so much in my mind that somehow I’m afraid to do it because what if it’s not as great as I’ve always thought it would be. Damn! I don’t even know if that’s my problem. Maybe I’m just too tense.” Sighing, “I don’t know. I only know that I love you, and that none of this is because of you, and I’m so sorry that this is happening to you because of me.”

“I know you are.” Turning from her back to her side, putting her hand on his shoulder, that he instantly covered with his. “And you’ve got to know how much I love you, Mitchie.”

He moved to Marsha’s side of the bed.

In the dark room, their lips found each other’s…

Within moments, his penis poking through the fly of his pajamas, he knew, he just knew that this time, now, it was going to work!

What could he do? He couldn’t stop trying!

“Marcie,” a bit hesitant, “you want to try again?”

Hesitating also, “You think you can?”

“Jesus, Marcie! I always think I can!”

Hoping she’ll be able to work up the enthusiasm, “Yes, baby, it’s okay, let’s try again. But if it doesn’t work, let’s promise not to get upset, okay.”

“Yes,” but he knew he would, “of course.”

Marsha removed her pajamas.

Mitchell removed his pajamas.

She held him… And as always the mere touch of Marsha’s hand sent a sensuous, erotic jolt through him, as…

Knowing that her lack of fluid, that her dryness, that the absence of signs of her physical passion might also be affecting him. Not sure where this was going, actually rather thinking that this, as their other attempts, would be going no place, Marsha was far from enthralled, and even were she able to fake enthusiasm, her body did not, so she did not secrete any of the necessary fluid.

Kissing, touching, holding, feeling.

Attempting to caress Marsha’s less-than-moist vagina, knowing—if he lasted that long—they’ll need lubrication, “Hold on, honey. I’ll be right back.”

Stay hard! Crossing the black room, groping for the dresser, Oh, God, silently praying, please don’t let it get soft! Opening the top drawer, reaching inside, fumbling a moment he removed the small, round jar. Unscrewing the cap, leaving the cap on the dresser…

Holding the jar in his left hand, digging the index and forefingers of his right hand into the jar, withdrawing his fingers, his mind telling him one thing, his fingers another, starting back to the bed, rubbing the contents of the jar over his, Oh, yeah, still extended penis. Unsure of the mixed message, putting his fingers back into the jar, just to be on the safe side, re-anointing himself…

Oh, boy. The thought of this beyond instantaneous comprehension. Stopping, standing dead still, “Uh-oh!”