| Deviant Series (For Better or Worse)
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Deviant 1
Lakeside, Michigan
June 16, 1958
Leaving the buggy on the side of the road beneath a tree, slipping the strap of the diaper bag over her shoulder, with Michael in one arm, the blanket and towels under the other—long since giving up on the steep, narrow, weed choked path she’d used as a child—she walked down the incline of the Public Beach access.
Coming off the well beaten path, angling towards the water, Marsha nodded to the one other person out this early: an older man she’d seen with a woman there a few times before. Going about forty yards across the sand, to the place Marsha had designated as 'her spot' when she was nine years old…
Letting the diaper bag slip from her shoulder, dropping a towel onto the sand, sitting Michael on the towel, she spread and smoothed the blanket.
Muttering, “Oh, yes!” The man had been waiting for her. Watching for her. Expecting the young woman because it was at this same approximate time that she came each day.
The man had seen the lone woman and baby a number of times over the past week, but had been with his wife each time so there wasn’t a right time to approach her.
The man watched as she walked to where she went each day: to within six or seven yards of the water’s edge, where she lowered her baby onto a towel, spread the blanket, then put the baby in its middle.
“There we go, Mikey.” Unzipping the bag, Marsha removed her book and a lightweight summer blanket meant more for keeping the sun off her baby than for warmth; even though the sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky, a slight, cool breeze came off the lake. Remaining in the bag were a fresh diaper, a light pullover shirt for Michael, a jar of cereal with bananas for him, a pack of Twinkies for her, an empty nippled bottle and a Thermos of apple juice for them both. Also in the bag, at the bottom, was Marsha’s wallet, the key to the cottage and a Kodak camera.
“Come here, you!” Familiar with the onshore breeze, well aware it pushed warmer, surface water inward, Marsha removed Michael’s diaper. “Okay,” and lifted him to his feet. “Let’s go!” Holding his hands, helping the naked baby toddle across the soft, warm sand. At water’s edge, holding both hands stretched above his head, swinging the giggling baby over the calm water, she allowed his feet to touch. Sucking in his breath, he tried lifting his feet, but within moments, his flesh becoming accustomed to the tepid water, held safe in his mother’s hands, laughing his baby’s laugh, kicking, Michael splashed water as, “Ollie,” lifting him so only his feet touched, “ollie,” dipping his feet, “ooops!” Marsha put him in the few inches of water. Michael again held his breath, then, laughing, he splashed with both hands until, lifting him, cradling him in both arms, Marsha walked to where the water reached her navel. “Ollie,” stooping, “ollie, ooops!” she wet her baby to his neck and herself to her shoulders and, “Ollie, ollie, ooops!” again, and again.
Carrying Michael so sand wouldn’t cling to his feet, the mother and baby went back to their blanket.
Unaware he’d been holding his breath, Gordon Nathanson watched as the streaming young woman came from the water, laid her baby onto the blanket, knelt over him, rubbed him dry with a towel and rediapered him.
Sitting as he was sitting—about forty feet to the right of her blanket—he had a sharp view of the woman’s small, tightly encased buttocks. “Ummm!”—unaware he had moaned aloud—Gordon Nathanson was aware, though, that he did have an erection… and an all but uncontrollable urge to do 'it' now!
Sitting between her thighs, “Okay, Mikey,” the mother and son looked outward, to the west, to Chicago.
Each lost within their own thoughts, By her own — she now realized — illogical reason, seperatedfrom her husband for about a month and a half, Marsha wondered of Mitchell: Where’s he now? What’s he doing now? Is he thinking of me now? While the fifteen month old baby, actually unaware of any thoughts, wondered at the warm, blue stuff up there and the wet, green stuff down here.
Forcing his eyes from the young woman, looking to the water also, concentrating, he waited for his erection to subside… When it did, before standing, looking about to see if any of the now, three other people on the two blankets were looking in his direction. But too far away in any case, probing with his finger, lifting the sewn in bathing suit supporter, the man adjusted his now flaccid penis.
Softly said, “Hello.”
Public school in session for another four days, it was too early in the season for old familiar faces, and other than a few curt nods from a couple of women that had seen Marsha here, weather permitting, day after day, no one had spoken to her and she was not too sure that anyone was speaking to her now.
The sun at her back, the shadow was cast across the blanket.
“Hi, there!” Gordon tried again, going to the other side of the blanket.
Looking up, “Oh…” By Marsha’s reckoning the man was at least as old as her father and, other than being exceptionally thin, in a small way reminded her of Eli. The man had a kind, gentle face and, as her father, a prominent nose. Unlike her father, the man has dark eyes and black streaked gray hair. His chest and legs were covered with fine, sun bleached, near white hair. His spindly legs, almost comically, poked from his loosely fitting bathing trunks. “…sorry. I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”
“No, no, it’s okay! No need to be sorry.” Close up, he thought her even prettier than from a distance. Standing above as he was, he was able to see the crevice and upper swell of her moderately sized breasts. Which, of course did not matter, but the fact the she was pretty certainly added icing to the cake. “I’ve seen you here, at the beach, and you always seem so lonely that I thought I’d just come on over and say hello.” Before she could respond, he added, “You seem so young. Is this your baby?”
“Oh, yes! This is Mikey… Mikey, say hello to the man.”
Looking up, smiling, Michael gurgled his rendition of “Hello.”
Standing at the fringe of the blanket, smiling at Michael’s smile, “Hi, Mikey! Squatting, Gordon gently squeezed the baby’s chin. “Your baby’s beautiful. I’ve two of my own, you know; grown now.”
“Thank you… Boys?”
“Huh?”
Your children; are they both boys?”
“Oh, no. One of each. Hal, uh, he’s almost twenty-four and Marge is, uh… Oh, God! How time flies! My daughter’s thirty. They’re both on their own now, you know.” A frown replacing his smile, Gordon became reflective. “Hal lives in New York and Marge is… uh, someplace else.”
“We used to live in New York, too, Mister, uh…?”
“Nathan. My Name’s Nathan, but you if like, you can call me Nate.”
“Hi, Nate! I’m Marsha… Here,” patting the blanket, “why don’t you sit down.” Edging sideways, bringing Michael with her, moving to the center of the blanket she made room for the man.
“Thank you, Marsha, don’t mind if I do.” Actually sitting more on sand than blanket, he crossed his legs.
Facing Nate, the sun at her back, “Mitchie and me—he’s my husband—we used to live in New York when we were first married, in a place called Seagate, off Coney Island. You ever been there, uh, New York City, I mean.”
“New York City? Yes, many years ago. Your husband…” Supporting himself with his arms spread outward and backward, leaning back, the man looked downward, “I haven’t seen him on the beach with you and Mikey.”
“No, Mitchell’s… uh,” her eyes following his eyes…
****
When Marsha Goldman was eight or nine years old, occasionally some gawky, gangly legged boy, usually right here at the beach, would inadvertently allow his penis to show through the gap of his wide legged shorts or bathing trunks.
Being young girls and being, to say the least, curious, Marsha and her girlfriends would, of course, look, and rather than embarrass the boy—or stop the show—once away, “J’ya see it? J’ya see Donnie’s whatchamacallit?” The girls would compare notes and laugh, unaware, though, that every now and then, although, truly, not nearly as often as the boys, some gawky, gangly legged girl would inadvertently allow her vulva to show through the gap of her wide legged shorts or bathing suit.
Being young boys—until they’re ninety—and being, to say the least, curious, but unlike the girls, not sure if they were seeing just a crease of flesh or something else, the boys would try not to stare and rather than embarrass the girl—or stop the show—once away the boys would compare notes and as boys take these things much more seriously than girls, “J’ya see ‘it’?” They’d ask in tones of pure wonder. “J’ya see…” As she was always the gawkiest and gangliest, often it was… “Marcie Goldman’s whatchamacallit, I think?”
****
But now…
Quickly moving her eyes upward, It’s by accident, Marsha thought. He doesn’t know it’s out. Because, as when she was a child, Marsha did not want to embarrass the man, also, her inbred respect for elders forbidding her to say anything rude, pretending she does not, did not see it. “My husband and I…” But whether it was or was not by accident, whether Nate did or did not know, her instincts taking over, “he’s a salesman and hasn’t been able to get away till now, and he’ll be here later.” Adding, “Today.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” Intently watching Marsha’s face, Gordon had noticed what he considered to be a lingering look—the downward and rapid up shift of her eyes along with the change in the tone of her voice. She’s seen “me”! he thought excitedly. And the thought that this so young, so beautiful woman had seen it and was so shocked aroused him even further, and he engorged even further. “I’ll bet,” Nate said matter-of-factly, “you can’t wait to see…?” Moving his extended arms further backward, leaning back, the gap in the thighs of his trunks widened. “What did you say your husband’s name is?”
“Uh, Mitchell.” Not sure that what was happening was really happening, and not wanting to look in any case, but wanting, having to prove this was not happening, Marsha’s eyes were, once again, drawn downward, where…
Part i of 5..
To be continued
©June 25, 2013 / Mark M. Lichterman
