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“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…
Deviant 2
Lakeside, Michigan
June 16, 1958
Restraining himself publicly, for the first thirty-three years of his life, Gordon Nathanson—from the time Marjorie was eleven and Harold five—exhibited himself only to his children, until seventeen years ago when he went “public,” showing his thin, albeit—in Gordon’s opinion, magnificently—long penis to unsuspecting women and, in particular, to young girls throughout the city of Detroit where he’d been dubbed “the snake man” by the Detroit Police Department, who had been on the lookout for him for almost sixteen years.
While on his yearly vacation with his plump wife, Harriet; while at the beach, in order to effectively cover himself, or his reason to show himself, Gordon wore a size large athletic supporter in addition to the sewn in support of his, purposely, loose legged bathing trunks.
Sitting with Harriet at this beach over the past six days, seeing Marsha, watching Marsha, he fought the urge to treat this young woman to the sight of himself But on this day, now being just hours before checkout time at the Emerald and returning home—to the wealthy Detroit suburb where he and Harriet lived—hoping Marsha would come to the beach, Gordon had purposely instigated an argument with his wife so she would not come with him, so he could take the chance to show her, and…
****
Marsha’s eyes were, once again, drawn downward, where a moment ago it was only the glans and an inch or two of his penis that Marsha had seen. Now, about six inches of extended, obscenely pink flesh was exposed and, “Oh, my God!” Marsha said aloud as—spasmodically jerking upward, attempting to free itself from the restraint of the seam of his trunks—before her eyes it grew more till it lay extended near midway to Nate’s knee.
****
Other than her son, if he had to urinate, and those little boys of so long ago, who did not have erections, Marsha had seen only her husband’s penis in an extended state. But the size of her husband’s was—so he had told her and so it was—average, and in comparison to this man’s penis Mitchell’s was…?
She and Mitchell had occasionally joked about the size of it. She saying, jokingly, “It’s a teensy weensy weenie.”
He, of course, knowing his was the only adult penis Marsha had ever seen, especially in a state of arousal, had, jokingly, told her, “No, baby, I am definitely a man of gigantic proportions!”
Once, driving on Touhy Avenue on the north side of Chicago, they’d passed a Steinway Piano store where a banner was on display in the window announcing “A piano and organ exchange,” Marsha had jokingly suggested Mitchell go inside and have his organ exchanged.
****
Knowing Marsha was openly staring, “Your husband…” Gordon said, glancing about once again to be sure none of the now nine people on the beach were looking in their direction. But only yards from the water, there was no one behind and, sitting directly in front of Marsha, unintentionally she was hiding what he was displaying. “…what’s he sell?” Continuing the conversation as though nothing was happening, inching the leg of his trunks back, until… “Everything is so expensive nowadays,” …his entire penis and scrotum were fully exposed and, “it’s got to be pretty hard to support a wife and baby nowadays,” the man said in an—to Marsha—infuriatingly matter-of-fact voice.
Shaking her head, closing and opening her eyes to be sure this was really happening: A man—who was old enough to be her father, who in a small way even resembled her father—was sitting directly in front of her, smiling, making everyday conversation, asking everyday questions about herself and her family as all the while he was so nonchalantly exposing himself.
The unbelievable, surrealistic scene before her eyes suddenly becoming real, the lump of anger in her throat having the taste of vomit, making no pretence of her abhorrence of him and repugnance at what he was doing… And in some hypnotic way forcing her to see, she compelled her eyes to shift from the man’s loathsome penis to his bland appearing face. The expression on Marsha’s face changing from incredulous shock to utter abomination…
Which, of course, was the same look Gordon Nathanson had seen on the faces of the hundreds of other women and girls he’d molested in somewhat this same manner. Which, of course, was exactly what Gordon Nathanson wanted, because Marsha’s look of revulsion, far from abrading, further stimulating him, lifting it, holding it from beneath, pointing it at Marsha, “You want to touch my cock, don’t you, Marsha!”
“Touch it?” she said incredulously. “No! God, no! You’re disgusting!” Standing, scooping her baby from the blanket. “We’re getting out of here!” having no way of knowing how many women, girls and Detroit Police officers agreed with her, “you sick, perverted, nauseating, bastard!” Marsha snarled. “They ought to lock you up!” Her voice rising. “They ought to put you in a goddamned Looney bin and throw away the goddamned key!” As he was only sitting on part of the blanket, using her adrenaline pumped strength, Marsha was able to yank it from beneath him. Shoving her arm through the strap of the diaper bag, spitting out, “You perverted son-of-a-bitch!” Not bothering to fold the blanket or towels, bunching them under her arm, her son in her other arm, Marsha Lipensky stormed off the beach.
The few people sitting about had heard the young woman’s rising voice, however, all wanting privacy on this sparsely populated beach had spaced their blankets far from their closest neighbor. And between the babble of some of their children, the lapping of water and the rustling of wind in the tall grass of the embankment, unable to make out the words or understand what she was saying, those on the closest blankets sat up and watched as Marsha jumped to her feet, gathered her belongings and baby and rushed from the beach.
Shifting their gaze to the elderly man that sat cross legged on the sand, those looking watched for a moment, then went back to their reading, dozing or keeping an eye on their children.
Still unbelieving, “My God!” Marsha muttered as she trudged through sand and up the incline of the beach access. “Oh, my God!”
Catching her breath only after placing Michael in his buggy, Marsha realized—as old world explorers eventually brought plague to the natives of virgin lands—that Nate—Gordon Nathanson—had become the despoiler of Marsha Goldman’s paradise, and Marsha Lipensky knew that the paradise of her youth now existed only in mind and memory. Be it the loss of her utopia, or the encounter with Gordon Nathanson in her utopia, the realization caused more than merely anger… The realization caused an insurmountable sadness, and Marsha Goldman Lipensky cried.
To be continued
©July 1, 2013 / Mark M. Lichterman
