Deviant 3
Lakeside, Michigan
June 16, 1958
Having past experience, he knew the best way to make an exit was by being nonchalant. Ignoring the looks of whomever might be looking in his direction, still seeing, still savoring the look of disgust on the young woman’s face, his hand hiding the cylinder of hardened flesh that showed from beneath his trunks, turning to the water, Gordon Nathanson sat in the sand for the two minutes it took for the blood that engorged the cells and chambers of his penis to reverse. Then, going to his blanket, gathering his belonging, hurrying to the next access, he left the beach.
****
Wanting to be someplace away from Detroit for his spring vacations, Gordon and Harriet Nathanson had first come to Union Pier, Michigan, in 1955.
Hesitant to use a beach near the Emerald Isle Hotel, where they always stayed, afraid he might do something he hadn’t the power to stop and later be recognized, Gordon told his wife it was too crowded at nearby beaches and that he’d found a much quieter beach a few miles away, in neighboring Lakeside.
With the help of more slaps and punches then she cared to remember, Harriet Nathanson had long since learned to give in to the whims of her perverted husband and, knowing why, she’d dejectedly agreed to go to whatever beach Gordon wanted.
Her husband’s perversion had driven the boy from their home by the time he was seventeen, and Marjorie when she was fifteen. They did hear from Harold every now and then, but the girl, never. Seemingly Marjorie had disappeared from the face of the earth.
Harriet Nathanson had three fears: One, that one day she would learn of the death of her daughter; two, that one day the police would discover and arrest her husband; and three, that they would not.
Prospective: Detroit, Michigan
April 29, 1959
On this day, wearing the universally accepted uniform of an exhibitionist—a topcoat—Gordon Nathanson followed what appeared to be a middle aged, meek housewife dressed in a plain floral print house dress, holding, by its fabric string handle, a paper shopping bag containing one pound of hamburger meat, one sectioned raw chicken, one can each of Campbell’s tomato and mushroom soups, a loaf of Jewish rye bread in a white deli bag, a half dozen each of delicious apples and navel oranges, and one dozen, extra large, grade AA eggs.
Walking behind on the scantily occupied sidewalk, Gordon waited until he saw a bisecting alley, then speeding up he passed the woman, cut into the alley, and as she came abreast stepped out and…
****
Unknown to Gordon Nathanson, the lady was Janice Kemblowski, who was not a lady, but a fifty year old prostitute on her way to her monthly rendezvous with seventy-four year old Arthur Katzman, whose milquetoast wife, Beverly, had died seven years earlier, and now Arthur could only get it up when his Beverly/Janice wife came through the door wearing a cheap house dress—as she always had—carrying a shopping bag full of groceries—as she usually did. Dragging her to the floor, Arthur would ravage her—as only a seventy-four year old man can ravage a woman—then Janice, now naked, facing his feet, straddling Arthur with her hind quarters in open view, gave him a blow job… then helped lift him off the floor, and Arthur, for the wife act, blow job, and his once a month, sometimes, orgasm paid Janice’s fee of fifteen dollars, plus for the bag of groceries.
****
“Hey, lady!”
“Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ!” In deep thought, startled, Janice Kemblowski threw both arms into the air, spilling the contents of the shopping bag where one dozen, extra large, grade AA eggs splattered over her dowdy housewife shoes, and the one can each of Campbell’s tomato and mushroom soups, along with six delicious apples and six navel oranges rolled down the steeply pitched street.
As always, buoyed by the startled look on the person’s face and her shocked reaction, Gordon’s reedy penis instantly inflated… but didn’t stay that way very long because…
Doing the last thing Gordon Nathanson, or any exhibitionist, or, for that matter, any man expects…
Janice Kemblowski plowed into him, smashing Gordon against a brick wall and, not being too bashful, her forearm pressed to his throat, grabbing hold of his now instantly deflated penis; hanging onto the long, dangly appendage as though it were a lifeline, “Cop!” For the first time in her life Janice yelled for a “Cop! Goddamnit! Gi’me a god’damned cop!”
Patrick McGarry, a rookie walking his beat, rushed to the sound of shouting.
But as soon as McGarry arrived and cuffed Gordon, wanting nothing to do with the police, figuring this had to be his first day on the beat because, surprisingly, Patrick McGarry must be the only cop in Detroit that did not know her, Janice Kemblowski disappeared, naturally without giving her name.
Although they’re not too happy about a rookie cop, indeed, on the first day of his beat apprehending him, after seventeen years the Detroit Police Department did, finally, have the “snake man” in the Michigan State looney bin.
Janice Kemblowski was happy she’d had Gordon Nathanson arrested because, as she told a fellow whore later, “Creeps like him give sex a bad name.”
Harriet Nathanson no longer had to worry about problems two and three.
As for Marsha Lipensky, unfortunately she never knew what became of “Nate.”
©July 7, 2013 / Mark M. Lichterman
