____________________________________________________________________

“She’s very pretty,”—being an ex-fat girl, throughout the evening Elizabeth had looked at Marsha through the eyes of, in her mind, a perpetually fat girl and, truly envious— “and so thin!” Elizabeth said, adding, “your wife… Marsha, does she have to work very hard at staying thin?”

Thinking, How the hell am I going to go back to the table with a boner? Looking over Elizabeth’s shoulder, looking anyplace but at her face. Concentrating, Go away! Go away! Trying to will his erection away—which had never worked in the past—he wanted to close his eyes so he’d be able to concentrate all the harder, but thought if he did close his eyes it would appear that he was enjoying this dance more than he wanted it to appear that he was enjoying this dance, which actually, Mitchell wasn’t. No, he was not! Not at all!

“Mitch!”

Book 2#4:To Peoria

Never being this close, outside of their kiss behind the cartons, and then his eyes were closed,  “Huh?” looking at her, looking closely into Elizabeth’s eyes, which did not help his situation… not one bit. “What?”

Finding it hard to say the words, ‘your wife’ again, hesitating, “Marsha… Does she have to work at staying that thin?”

Prone to easy weight gain—having gained back a good part of what he’d lost working as a ‘shlepper’—Mitchell had often thought of the unfairness of it. “No, she eats whatever she wants whenever she wants and always stays that way.” Adding, “Except when she was pregnant.”

Imperceptibly tightening her hold on Mitchell, meaning it, in Marsha’s case, for more than one reason really meaning it. “Don’t you just hate people like that?”

Looking into those beautiful eyes. Smelling the floral scent of Elizabeth’s dark blonde, honey-colored streaked hair. Feeling the heat of her sweet breath on his face. Sensing the silky sway of her hips beneath his hand and, Oh, God, the soft brush of Elizabeth’s wondrous breasts onto his chest and the feel, Oh, God, of the—purposeful?—brushing of her pelvis onto his now-raging boner, Mitchell did not answer because, Uh-oh, the music stopped and it sure as hell hadn’t gone away, but, poking from beneath the elastic band of his Jockey Shorts, he felt it… Actually felt his penis pulsing between his thigh and the material of his slacks.

Going back to the table, attempting to hide it, walking slightly behind and to the side of Elizabeth—the side away from Marsha—hunching forward, he tried to pull the front of his jacket lower… To no avail, though, because seeing Marsha look at him—look at all of him—he knew she knew and, smiling a weak smile, shrugging his shoulders, holding both hands forward as though to say, “This was your idea! It ain’t my fault,” and—screw being a gentleman—letting Elizabeth seat herself, rounding the table, Mitchell quickly dropped onto his chair.

                                                                         ****

In bed that night, sensing more than his average passion, not unexpectedly finding the husband and wife in the right ‘numerical position’… Possibly because Marsha knew there was a beautiful, sexy—though big-assed—young woman that liked her husband, that liked her husband a whole lot. Nonetheless, sensing far less than her average lack of passion, deciding then… Carefully wiping away the droplet of semen, finding it not quite as repulsive as she’d imagined, surprisingly sensing her own passion intensifying, Marsha actually did something for the very first time in the three years of their marriage…

Imagining: His head between the soft thighs of Elizabeth.

Tasting: Loving the fluid of Elizabeth’s vagina, it took a few precious seconds for him to realize that…Oh, God!

Although the sweet, unbelievably erotic sensation of his penis in the mouth of his wife lasted no more than twenty or thirty seconds, and—of course, though he would never allow it to happen—those twenty or thirtyseconds, even for Mitchell Lipensky, was far too short a time for ejaculation.

Back with Marsha now! Only with Marsha!

But in her mouth for those twenty or thirty seconds… Oh, God!

Meanwhile, in the Rolodex of Marsha Lipensky’s mind there would remain the inkling of a thought that there was a beautiful woman that possibly loved her husband and, since meeting Elizabeth Hurzon, Marsha was glad that they would be relocating to Peoria.

 January 5 through Spring, 1959 Peoria, Illinois

“Hang down your head Tom Do-oley, hang down your head and cry.

“Hang down your head, Tom Do-oley, poor boy you’re bound to die.”

“For those of you driving downtown this morning, you’ll find the streets dry. The sky is clear and the temperature stands,” reported Howard Miller, the morning announcer for WGN Radio, “at a steady zero minus five with a wind chill factor of fifteen below.”

Leaving the apartment at 8:30 a.m., catching US 55 in LaGrange on the far west side of Chicago, the Ford convertible followed it through the south-central part of the state for approximately 122 miles. Picking up Interstate 116 in Pontiac, Mitchell headed west for about 45 miles.

Crossing the Illinois River on the McClugage bridge, entering the city of Peoria, following the directions given him by Gene Tarnowski, driving slowly, Mitchell Lipensky got his first sight of the business area of the Caterpillar Tractor-dominated city that would be his family’s home for…? Possibly forever.

                                                                            ****

“Hi, baby.”  Calling from the phone in the lobby. “ I’m here.”

“Mitchie! Really? You’re there, already?”

“Yeah! It’s a snap once you get out of Chicago… It’s a pretty boring drive, but it’s a snap.”

“So, you’re at the ‘Y’?”

“Yeah. I called soon as I got my stuff up to the room and soon as we’re off the phone I’m going to drive around to see if I can figure out where the hell I’m at.”

“You get a paper yet?”

Knowing what she meant, “They have ’em in the lobby here,” he said. “I miss you’n’Mikey already, so believe me, I’m going to do that, too!”

                                                                              ****

“Honey!”

“Hi, Mitchie! So, you have dinner yet?”

“Yeah. Found a place not too far from here, on Main Street.”

“ ‘Main Street’? There’s actually a street named ‘Main Street’?”

“Yeah. If this is the second largest city in the state, I can hardly wait to see the third.”

Used to the downtown business areas of New York City and Chicago, where a trip by car from one side of downtown to the other, in moderate traffic, could easily take about a half hour, Mitchell found that the downtown business area in Peoria—consisting of four square blocks of older, one and two-story store-front structures intermixed with newer, ten-to fifteen-story office buildings—could be traversed from one end to the other in less than three minutes.

“This place is so small!” Mitchell said. “But guess what?” Not waiting for a response, “I had my lead and customer files with me so while I was driving around and, ‘Adams Street’, the name looked familiar,  so I looked through my files and found four customers on  ‘Adams’, so I stopped into all four to introduce myself and guess what?”

“What, Mitchie?”

“One of the guys was out, but the other three were around and guess what? I got orders from two of ’em!”

“Really?”

Remembering how long he’d gone before receiving his first order while working at the studio. “Yeah,” he said excitedly. “I think I’m going to like it here.”

“That’s great, Mitchie!” Anxious to pull their lives together, “But did you have a chance to look for a place?”

“I didn’t see ’em, but found a few ads that look interesting and have an appointment with a real estate lady to look at them tomorrow.”

January 6, 1959

“Morning, baby!”

“Good morning to you, too… So?”

“I looked at three houses.  And…”

Catching the ‘and’…“Really! Already?”

“Yeah. Like we thought, things are much cheaper here than…”

Cutting him off. “And you were looking at houses?”

“Well, yeah, but two of ’em were really dumpy and the third was in a shitty neighborhood, but I did see a… She, the real estate lady called it a ‘townhouse’, and…”

“A ‘townhouse’?”

“Yeah. A townhouse has, uh, she called ’em common walls. In other words, once you’re inside it seems just like a house, except that it’s attached to another townhouse.”

“Seems like a fancy word for an apartment.”

“Really! Once you’re inside it does seem like a house. Matter of fact, it’s got a second floor with…”

“Really?” Becoming excited. “ ‘Two floors’! How many bedrooms?”

“Two. There’s two nice sized bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs and—get this—another toilet downstairs, and a kitchen big enough for us to eat in, and a living room with a dining area. The one I looked; the one that’s for rent is on the end, so we’re only attached on one side so we’ve got a yard for Mikey…”

“A yard! Is it fenced?”

“No, but there’s plenty of room for a swing set and there’s swing sets and sandboxes all over the place, so there’s got to be lots of kids around, and it’s…”

“How much is it?”

“You’ll never believe it!”

“Yeah,” Marsha asked excitedly, “so how much is it?”

“Seventy-five a month.”

Friday, January 9, 1959

“Hi!”

“Jesus, Mitchie!” Usually a deep sleeper, sensing when… Startled when the door was unexpectedly opened. “You scared the hell out of me!”

“Sorry, honey.”

Glancing at the clock, rubbing her eyes, “I didn’t expect you till later.”

“Yeah, I know, but we’ve so much to do, thought it would be a good idea to come in this morning to get started.”

“Yeah, but it’s not even, uh…” glancing at the clock, “eight-thirty. When’d you leave?”

“ ‘Bout five-thirty… Mikey’s still at my mom’s, huh?”

“She wants to spend as much time as possible with him before we go.” Adding, “Also, it gets him out of our hair.”

“Hmmm!” His right eyebrow comically going up, “So we’re alone, huh?”

Knowing the suggestive ‘eyebrow sign’. “Thought you said, ‘we’ve so much to do’?”

“Yeah.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, he kicked his shoes off. “But I’ve always got time for…” Nuzzling her neck, enjoying the warm, soft feel of Marsha’s sleep-warmed flesh. “…this.”

Wanting ‘to’ also, pulling the pajama top over her head—the comparatively cool air tightening her nipples— Marsha wiggled out of the bottoms. “How was the drive in?” Bringing the blanket to beneath her chin, making room, she moved to the side of the mattress.

Pulling his socks, jeans and shirt off, “Okay…” Crawling beneath the blanket, “It was… Mmmm.” His lips closing around a nipple as her hand closed around his penis, “…fine.”

                                                                                  ****

…Looking at him, “That was pretty fast, mister.”

Still poised above, “yeah, sorry,” looking down. “But that’s what happens when I’m away from you for five days.”

“You left Monday and you’re home today.  So actually,” tugging the hair of both his armpits, “you were only away for three days.”

“Hey, that tickles!” Rolling off, Mitchell watched as Marsha’s nipples flattened, and Marsha watched the reversal of Mitchell’s erection, along with the dangling reservoir of latex that held his semen.

The apartment paid through the end of the month, planning on a few U-Haul trips over the next three weeks, this weekend taking what they’ll be needing immediately …

“Okay!” Bounding off the bed, “let’s get packin’!”

Saturday, January 10, 1959  

“Heartaches by the number, trouble by the score,

“Every day you love me less, each day I love you more.”

On the outskirts of Pontiac, Illinois, the Chicago station fading, he switched to Peoria’s, ‘WHIP’. “This is ‘J. Stanley’, the ‘old Jay bird’,” the announcer said. “And for those of you driving the central plain today, better keep an eye out for snow flurries.”

“Yeah, pal,” Mitchell said. “I am!”

The wipers leaving streaky, crescent-shaped wet swatches on the dirty windshield, melting as they landed, heavy flakes of snow blew onto and swirled past the windows.

“Mommy!”

Turning, “Hi, baby.” Taking Michael from the back seat, Marsha held him on her lap. “You hungry?”

Two months short of two, “Snowing!” Almost always willing to eat something, vigorously nodding his head in the affirmative. “Yeah!” Michael said.

Reaching over the seat again, taking a box of ‘Nabisco Vanilla Wafers’ from the bag on the floor, glancing at the straining top and tensing as a gust of wind— transmitting to the Ford convertible— rocked the U-Haul trailer. “How much further, Mitchie?” Opening the box, Marsha gave her son a cookie.

Slowing even further, Mitchell did his best to show indifference to the snow and wind. “We’re coming to ‘Metamora’…” he said, “so, I’d say it’s about another ten, twelve miles.”

The frightening, yawing sensation repeated as the car and trailer were buffeted once again.

“Think maybe we should have waited till tomorrow?”

“It might be worse tomorrow. Besides, I wanted to get in today to give us all day Sunday to kind of settle in, to give us a day to get used to the place, together, before I have to go back to work.” His knuckles turning white, Mitchell squeezed the steering-wheel as another wind gust rocked the U-Haul, which further rocked the Ford.

“Out on the west Texas town of El Paso. I fell in love with a Mexican girl.

“Night time would find me in Rosa’s cantina, music would play and Felina

“would whirl.” The radio played on.

Holding his breath, pumping the break gently, letting his breath out, Thank God!

Making a slow right turn onto the McClugage bridge, the muddy convertible drove over the Illinois River onto East Memorial Drive.

The anticipation of seeing their new home dulled by the last hour’s scary, snowy, windblown drive, off the highway now and into the city, loosening her tight hold on Michael, Marsha’s level of expectancy once again buoyed. “How far now, Mitchie?”

“Actually,” glancing at her, “we’re pretty close.”

Snow was beginning to build on the streets when, within a few minutes, turning left, the Ford steered off East Memorial Drive onto Wisconsin Avenue, then slowly went about a mile.

Stopping, rolling his fog-cast window down, “We’re here!”

Leaning forward, Marsha looked past her husband, to the opposite side of the street.

Covering the entire block were a number of near-identical, U-shaped clusters of two-story, wood-frame structures containing four doorways each. The sign in front read ‘WISCONSIN VILLAS’.

To be continued