_____________________________________________________________________

“Bye, Sandy.”

 Standing, going to him, placing her arms on his shoulders, “I really enjoyed being with you...”

“Teasing me, you mean.”

“Well, yeah, that, too.” Urging him closer. “But I’d love to get together again... soon.”

Sandy’s tone of voice, the inflection telling me our next meeting did not necessarily have to be here, at Elysium. “Yeah…” Now being the first time I’d had a – really confining – ‘hard-on’ in spandex cycling shorts, “…me, too, Sandy,” I said, matching her sultry tone. “Me, too…” Truly hating to leave, but,

“Bye.”

                                                      ****

Wondering what I would face once I returned home, this erotically beautiful day’s mellow, feeling dissipating the closer I came to home. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Elysium Fields Part 5

Woodland Hills, California

Saturday, May 10, 1986

3:45 PM

Attempting to sound cheerful, “Hi.”

Watching television, glancing at Mitchell as he entered the room, wordlessly bringing her attention back to the television and, doing a quick “double-take”,  her eyebrows moving upward, her eyes widening, Marsha stared at her husband for a slow three count, then, with a lip curling sign of disgust – that Mitchell so recognized – turned back to the television.

Noting the look on Marsha’s face as she’d stared, fighting an urge to look downward to see if he’d zipped his fly, but, cycling shorts having no fly, wondering why the look, he’d simply stared back.

Looking at the back of his wife’s head, thinking he’d make one more stab at it, although, truly, actually hoping she wouldn’t, “Marsha, you want to go out for dinner?”

Getting the answer he’d expected...

“Don’t want to go anyplace with you! Besides,” looking at him now, a thin smile twitching at her lips, “I made dinner.”

Having an idea what, but, “Yeah, what?” he asked.

“See for yourself!”

Going to the kitchen, on the stove was a congealed pot of “Kraft” macaroni, which he hated. Knowing what he would find, opening the refrigerator, lying on a platter were six salmon patties, which he also hated.

Knowing she knew macaroni and salmon paddies was his absolutely least liked food, also knowing she made it to spite him, “Thanks! I’ll ask you once more,” he called from the kitchen, “you want to go out for dinner?”

No answer...

“Fine.” Truly meaning it. For the first time in the thirty years of their marriage, wanting her to remain angry. Actually hoping she’d remain angry, because tomorrow...

“I’m not eating here!”

“Don’t care what the hell you do, Mitchell.”

“I don’t care what the hell you do either, Marsha.”

“Fine, then. Just leave me alone.”

“My pleasure, Marsha!”

Going into the bathroom, Mitchell Lipensky looked at himself in the mirror:

Extremely good-looking normally, looking years younger than his rapidly approaching fifty-second birthday, tanning easily, his face, arms and legs having a jump on it due to the hours he’d spent on his bicycle, now, after five hours in the sun; the green of his eyes vividly brought out by the rich, deep tan of his face, Mitchell realized the reason for Marsha’s stare.

Removing his shirt and shorts, studying his nude reflection... As he and his wife did share the same bedroom, Think I’d better not get undressed in front of her, he thought, looking at the now melding difference between the areas of his body that had been, somewhat, shielded from the sun. Turning – because, if warm enough, he often rode the bicycle minus his jersey – only his buttocks and the corresponding area in front had a deep red blush that he knew would be giving him a bit of pain later in the evening.                                                                                        

                                                       ****

Standing spread eagled with his palms held flat onto the shower wall, tepid water cascading over his body, thoughts...

Thoughts of this fantastically beautiful day and the fantastically beautiful place that he’d allowed his life to become a part of... And, of course, thoughts of the people, the nude people – the nude people and Elysium Fields, the beautiful place that he now considers himself to be a part of – filled his mind.

Tepid water cascading over the back of his neck, down his back, through the fissure of his buttocks...

The beautiful people...

The dark haired, fairly attractive woman that, upon meeting, he thought of as a bit on the chubby side, that, the more he saw of Sandy, the more time he spent with her, the more attractive she had become and by the time they said “Goodbye,” Mitchell thought of Sandy as beautiful.

 As for “a bit on the chubby side?” A bit on the chubby side was what he’d always thought of as “his type of girl” and later, before marrying an eternally thin woman, “a bit on the chubby side” had been his type of woman...

Elizabeth Herzon, though truly beautiful, was “a bit on the chubby side”. As a matter of fact, when his wife met Elizabeth at a company Christmas dinner in 1958, Marsha’s first private comment had been, “she’s got a big ass.” But even then, five years before the start of their affair, Oh my, God! Mitchell had thought, how I love that ass!

Though it had been done spontaneously, without thought, other than as a sign of affection; when he had, “platonically” kissed Sandy’s breast... Could Mitchell Lipensky ever kiss a woman’s breast platonically? When he had kissed Sandy’s breast he knew the moment would return to him, and... Closing his eyes at the thought, the remembrance of the feel of Sandy’s hand holding his penis…

Standing spread eagled with his palms held flat onto the shower wall, tepid water cascading over his body, thoughts of Sandy came to mind, along with the warm touch of her breast to his lips and her hand upon his penis...

Twitching, blood pumping now, millions of spongy cells filling now... Jerking upward now, standing rigidly forward now.... One hand pressed against the wall, now taking hold of the wet hardness, thoughts of this beautifully erotic day filling his mind. Thoughts of Sandy! Thoughts of Sandy and her soft, warm breast and the darkness at the intersection of her thighs and the slight, pink, furled lips there and her hand...

Bursting! The harsh, hard intake of breath drawing driblets of water into his mouth, the erotic beauty, the passion of this erotically beautiful day spasmodically burst from Mitchell Lipensky as the eruption of a minuscule volcano.

Eyes closed, his normal intake of breath coming now, thoughts coming back to now, to here, to the, in his mind, unforgiving, frigid, passionless woman his life was bound to.  I won’t let her spoil it! I don’t even care anymore! Let her stay angry! I want her to stay angry! If this goes on long enough, I’ll move to one of the other bedrooms.

                                                    **** 

Purposely accentuating his tanned appearance, dressed in white shorts and shirt, “I’m going now!”

Still – actually pretending to be engrossed in television – forcing herself not to look at or respond to Mitchell, Marsha did not respond.

                                                     ****

Two “Quarter Pounders” with cheese, fries and one thick chocolate shake later, returning home, changing into pajamas in the bathroom, once again, Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky spent a wordless,  emotionally cold evening and night.

©August 8, 2011 / Mark M. Lichterman