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Retrospective: Chicago, Illinois; July 13, 1959….

Eli left the grill at his usual time, about 5:10 p.m..  Arriving home—unless running into unusual traffic—Eli usually arrived home at approximately 6:05.

Having given up wondering where his wife was years ago, not the least bit surprised at not finding her home, as was his habit, Eli stripped off the clothing he’d worn throughout that hot, humid day, taken a shower, shaved, put on a fresh undershirt and boxer shorts, then went into the kitchen.

Sitting at the table opposite the open window, though never caring for this apartment, on hot days such as this day, Eli always appreciated the cooling closeness of Lake Michigan and the ninth-floor breeze.

Glancing at the clock on the shelf above the stove, wondering where his wife might be—because this was all Eli Goldman would allow himself to conclude—concluding that his wife was where she usually was… Telling himself that Rhea was probably with one or both of her sisters, flapping it open, Eli began to read the evening newspaper.

Bk2#10: Homo Sexual: July 13, 1959….

About an hour and a half earlier:

Not overly concerned because Eli rarely asked where she’d been any longer, but liking to occasionally be home when he got there or at the least wanting to arrive home fairly close to the time he’d arrived home, knowing her husband would not leave the grill for at least an hour and that she was, at the most, a fifteen-minute cab ride from the Sheridan Road bachelor apartment of her latest ‘friend’, the rumored homosexual owner of a small string of beauty shops, Rhea…

Earlier yet, what had begun as a friendly, humorous, noncommittal conversation during a late lunch that consisted of—at least for Irving Glassman—a number of glasses of red wine, the more Rhea spoke to this husky, unusually handsome man, the more she was sure the rumors of his alleged homosexuality were unfounded.

Figuring that his normal, lispless—stereotypically, don’t all ‘homos’ lisp?—conversation that steered away from almost any talk of sex with a woman was but some kind of a subdued new line, so Rhea’s heightened feminine ego told her.

What Rhea did know though, was that Irving Glassman was different from any man she’d ever known, which, in fact he was.

But the outward appearance of his masculinity—and the set of her mind not allowing her to think differently—in a half-joking, half-serious way…

Actually, in less than a half-joking and more than a half-serious way—of course, omitting the fact that she was on the high side of forty-eight—not implying in actual words, kind of going at it half-jokingly and half-seriously, Rhea had attempted to convince Irving that a beautiful, physically well endowed, mature woman such as herself had to… Just had to be more enjoyable to be with then to be with a man that this husky, so masculine man was rumored to allegedly have had sex with. Even though he had dropped subtle hint after subtle hint.

As for Irving Glassman; also having an ego, a colossal ego, flattered by this rich, so he’d thought, old dame’s attention, by that time slightly…

Well, more than just slightly inebriated, Irving had invited Rhea to come up to see his apartment because in his tanked condition he had, by that time, begun to think, Any blow job in a storm!

Besides, on the few occasions throughout his life, in his earlier years, in his ‘Just what in the hell kind of a man am I’? years, when he did go to bed with a female it amused him to see the lengths she went to… and especially the degradation the female would allow him to heap upon her in order to get him to ‘come’. “Hell, Irving Glassman had thought, just to see me get a hard-on.

Thinking she had, at the least, two hours before she ought to be home, as both she and Irving knew she would, Rhea did agree to go to his apartment, to bring about what she thought, and what he knew, was the predetermined conclusion to that afternoon.

Although leaning more towards the degradation part of his sexual deviation, in truth, what Irving Glassman had in mind was something altogether different from what Rhea Goldman had in mind, or could even imagine.

Arriving at Irving’s fastidious, splendidly appointed Lake Shore apartment, after being led to his—having plush white carpeting, deep-blue velvet on gold foil wallpaper, a canopied bed, a gold-leaf hi-boy dresser and nightstands—monarchial, more than just slightly feminine bedroom, Rhea watched as…

Folding it precisely, Irving removed the truly beautiful floral print bedspread, then, without preamble, without a hint of preamble, wanting her to… knowing Rhea was watching his every move…

Emptying his pockets onto the clothing valet tray, slowly removing his summer-weight cashmere sports jacket, Italian linen shirt and imported silk slacks, meticulously hanging all three on the valet, leaving his Italian-made loafers and black silk socks on though, facing Rhea dead on, watching her reaction, Irving Glassman—even more slowly—removed his 'Muscle Man' undershirt and American-made Jockey shorts. Then, mentally preening, tightening the muscles of his stomach, thighs and calves, clenching his fists, flexing his wrists, forearms and pectoral muscles, cocking his elbows, placing his fists onto his hips, his biceps rippling coarsely beneath his shaved flesh, all the noticeable, well tended muscles of Irving’s well tended body swelled to their fullest, posing for a, by then, slack-jawed Rhea.

Kicking the loafers off, but leaving the black silk stockings on, Irving laid on the bed with his long, thick, although flaccid, penis draped over his left thigh.

Other than her son, until he became too old for her to bath, Rhea had never seen a man—not even old Ben Hammish—who didn’t have at least some pubic hair.

Although, she’d supposed, some people do like that sort of thing; approaching the bed, standing above it, looking at the, in her opinion, disgusting sight of Irving’s fully shaved, overly muscled body with his repugnantly shaved crotch.

Incredulous! Yet, for a reason she could not fathom, as a part of her had been repulsed by Irving’s pompous display of his obscenely pumped-up body, as though a gauntlet had been flung into the face of Rhea Goldman’s mentally exaggerated sexuality, another part of her was excited… More than merely excited, Rhea had been challenged by this, so she had then thought, arrogant… and so she had then known, homo.

Pleased… Silently overjoyed by the signs of her…? Discomposure, “So,” Irving said, “you going to just stand there and gawk at my cock?”

Throughout the years of her promiscuity, with the exception of Matthew Gustafson—and she’d always thought of that episode as more or less an experiment—there had always been a kiss, a touch, or some sort of affectionate prologue to lovemaking, or even just sex. But…

“ ‘You going to just stand there and gawk at my cock’?”

Momentarily at a loss as to how to proceed, “No,” she hesitantly replied. But still stood awkwardly alongside the bed, until…

“Rhea, take your damn clothes off!”

Deciding. Accepting her subconscious dare, walking to the clothes valet, showing him she could play games, too… Also stalling, removing her blouse, Rhea hung it carefully over Irving’s shirt. Taking the time to lay them out precisely, off came her skirt, then the slip. Knowing what ‘turned men on’, at least what turned most men on, returning, standing scant inches from the supine figure on the bed, wanting to see if she caused a stir, indeed, ‘gawking at his cock’, stepping out of her high-heeled shoes Rhea dropped in height by two inches and the only part of her body that she was not proud of—her calves—that up until taking her heels off had at least some shape now became reedy.

Usually enjoying men watch her undress, feeling Irving’s eyes on her, becoming uncharacteristically modest, but not wanting to give up the challenge. “You know,” she said, attempting to make an excuse for the way he, with his ultra muscular body might look at her with her anything-but-muscular body, “I’ve two kids, you know and I’m… uh, just a little older than you.”

Smirking, “Yeah,” Irving said facetiously, “ ‘just a little’!”

Thinking herself an eternally beautiful woman and doing everything cosmetology would allow to remain that way, stung by the snide remark, Rhea hesitated. Then, unhooking the garter belt, she rolled her nylon stockings down and off, pulled her panties off, hesitated another moment and, watching the penis of Irving Glassman, reaching behind her back, Rhea unhooked her bra and let it drop to the floor.

Not a twitch.

Still a beautiful woman, however, nearing age forty-eight Rhea’s waist had thickened, her buttocks had begun to drop, the flesh of her stomach, even accounting for the birth of two children, had lost some of its elasticity and her breasts, due to their sheer weight, had always sagged and with each passing year sagged a bit further. Though the men, the older men, the heterosexual men that had occasion to see Rhea Goldman nude might, and in most cases did think of her as beautiful, however…

Looking at Rhea’s, in his eyes, makeup-coated face, her flabby stomach and pale, double flow of hanging breast flesh with their translucent blue veins and coarse, dark-brown nipples, Irving Glassman who—outside of the money that women, older women in particular, poured into his string of beauty shops—truly did not have much fondness for women and thought of Rhea Goldman as a sow. But still, Any blow job in a storm!

Moving aside, grasping her wrist, “Come here!” Roughly pulling Rhea onto the bed, he placed her hand onto his penis.

Unaccustomed to roughness, forced into a sitting position, “Irving, that hurts!”

Actually more frightened than hurt, but yet, tightening her fingers around the pliable tube of flesh, the sense of danger had, oddly, caused a flow of fluid to her vagina.

“You do want to hold my cock! Don’t you?”

Not sure how to respond, but, “Yes.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“What’s beautiful?”

“My cock! I’ve a beautiful cock! Don’t you think?”

Surprised because she’d never been asked this question by anyone before…

His repeated use of the word ‘cock’ offending her sensibilities, holding it from beneath, the shiny, smooth glans and about three inches of soft flesh overhanging the web of her thumb, “Yeah, it’s bee-utiful!” Rhea said sarcastically. “But how come it’s not going anyplace?”

“It’s not me, sweetie!” Irving said petulantly. “Maybe because you can’t get it to, ‘go anyplace’!”

A few minutes ago he’d been just a challenge. But now, breaking through the homosexuality of Irving Glassman became an obsessive challenge to Rhea’s femininity. “Why don’t you let go of me ‘Sweetie,’” she retorted. “Then we’ll see what I can do!”

“Yeah?” He released her wrist. “Okay, Rhea, see if you can do it!” Still speaking in a petulant, child-like tone. “Go on! Give me a boner!”

Sitting next to him, feeling the cool flesh of his hip on the outside of her thigh, “‘Give me a boner’,” she mimicked. “You can make book on it!”

“Yeah?” Folding his hands behind his head. “Go on, Rhea!” Closing his eyes, “Believe me; I’d love to see you do it.”

Rubbing her hand over its length, wondering, How in the world did he remove all the hair, kneading Irving’s hairless scrotum, even from there? Moving onto her knees, straddling one of his legs, leaning her upper torso over his face, moving her shoulders from side to side, lightly brushing her nipples across his closed lips, but…

Usually… Always the brushing of Rhea’s thick nipples over a man’s lips would cause the man to lick, to kiss, to suck, and if the man did not have an erection before, he would most certainly did by then, but…

All that became engorged were the nipples of Rhea Goldman, as…

Squatting above him, knowing that even if it were partially flaccid, or—striking Rhea as funny that old Ben Hammish had become the criterion for this situation, as was almost always the case with Ben Hammish—or if his penis were partially erected, as large as Irving was, there would probably be enough rigidity for insertion. Thinking, If I can get it in, it’ll get hard. But because she hadn’t as of yet had a hysterectomy and still, even at nearing age forty-eight, was fearful of pregnancy, never allowing penile penetration with anyone—with the exception of old Ben Hammish who could not get hard enough to roll a prophylactic onto himself, or if he took the time to try he would surely lose whatever he had, who more often than not did not ejaculate anyway and even if and when he did, the man was near eighty, for God’s sake—“You have a rubber?”

“What for?”

“What for?”

Not too fearful of an unwanted pregnancy. Not too much in need of a prophylactic for use with the men he’d had, “No…” Thinking, I don’t want my dick in there! The very thought of allowing himself into the vagina of this sow actually repugnant to Irving Glassman. “I do not!” he answered.

“Okay.” Abandoning the, ‘it’ll get hard if I get it in’ theory, scooting a few feet down the length of his body, holding it upright, Rhea enveloped Irving’s penis between the soft flesh of her breasts as, watching his face—which by this time tiring of this pumped-up, pompous man, she began to wonder why she ever thought of him as handsome—Rhea attempted to coax the slightly more than flaccid, but far from erected penis into a purposeful upright position, but…

A few minutes later, tiring, actually perspiring, when she stopped her manipulations and straightened her aching back, the penis of Irving Glassman was no longer a flesh-colored pink but rather red from the futile, and what was becoming to him irritating friction caused by the rubbing motion of her breasts, and…

The smirk never leaving his face, part of Irving’s game—observing the concentrated effort and the intense look on the sow’s face as she, ineffectively, attempted to give him a hard-on—when Rhea stopped, the penis of Irving Glassman limply flopped onto his thigh.

Obsessive challenge be damned! Ready to give Irving Glassman… Ready to give this homo up as a lost cause…

“Suck it!”

“Huh?”

“Suck it!” Demanding, “Eat me, you fucking bitch!”

‘Bitch’? Thinking,  He called me a ‘fucking bitch’! Thoroughly offended and by now wanting nothing more than to get out of this place, also, the very thought of putting that naked red thing in her mouth at least as repugnant to her as the thought of putting his penis into Rhea’s vagina was to Irving, “No!” Rhea said,  “I don’t do that!”

“Yeah, you do. Sure you do,” he said softly.

“Irving,” moving to the edge of the bed, “nothing’s happening here, so I’m going home.”

Grabbing her hair, “Oh, no!” reversing positions, forcing her onto her back, pinning Rhea’s arms with his knees, straddling her chest, Irving’s far less than regal upbringing breaking through. “You’re a fuckin’ prick-teasin’ cunt, ain’t’j’ya!”

“ ‘Prick tease’?” Rhea said vehemently. “Outside of the prick that’s sitting on me, I don’t see a prick, Irving! You see a prick anywhere, Irving?”

Punching her left shoulder, “You bitch! You fucking bitch!” The tone of his voice becoming high pitched. “Here’s a prick!” Suddenly no longer flaccid, “Come on you fucking cunt!” Grabbing hold of his now-stiff standing penis, arching his hips backward, rubbing the tip of the glans roughly across Rhea’s tightly pursed lips. “Eat it!”

Turning her face to the side, her body bucking, her face jerking from side to side, frightened  now. “Let me up!” Actually terrified now. “God damnit! You homo son-of –a-bitch, let me up!”

Roughly pinching Rhea’s cheeks, attempting to force her mouth open, “Shut up!” Spurred on by the fear in her eyes and the erotic sensation of the frantic thrashing of her body on the underside of his spread buttocks… along with the feel of his hand as, masturbating, moaning… actually shrilly keening, with each piston of Irving’s hand the length of the cylinder  of rigid flesh whipped onto her forehead, onto her cheeks onto Rhea’s tightly pursed lips, until…

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Hearing the key in the lock, “Re!” Rising from the table, Eli came into the living room. “Hi!”

Uncharacteristically unkempt, Rhea’s makeup, which was always ‘just so’ appeared to have been applied in a rush. Also, her long, black hair, which was always ‘just so’ was badly disheveled.

Not wanting her husband to see her until she’d had an opportunity to repair her makeup and brush her hair, rushing to the bathroom, “Eli,” she said harshly, “leave me alone a minute, will you!”

Following her to the bathroom, “Re, what happened?” Stopping the door from being slammed in his face, “Where’ve you been?”

“If you must know, I had an appointment with Doc Schaffer.” Standing before the mirror, appraising herself, “and the god-damned cab got into an accident on the god-damned Outer Drive.”

“You hurt?”

“No, Eli, I’m not hurt! But…” Rhea could see dried droplets of Irving Glassman’s semen in her hair and eyebrows along with—thinking pancake makeup would cover them—Oh, Christ! she thought, seeing the shadows of bruises across her lips and right brow. “It was too hot to sit in the cab, so I had to stand around and wait…”

Coming to her, standing behind her, looking at the reflection of his wife in the mirror, “On the Outer Drive?” He questioned. “ ‘You had to stand around on the Outer Drive’!”

Becoming more exasperated. “Yes, Eli, that’s what I said! On the Outer Drive! In this heat! During rush hour, and wait for another cab… Until an empty cab came by and stopped.”

Okay, Eli thought, that explains why she’s so messed up, but, “What are those bruises on your face?” he asked.

“Eli, I don’t know!” Pushing him out of the bathroom, “Maybe I got bumped in the accident!” Rhea slammed the door.

Retrospective: Chicago, Illinois; July 14, 1959

“Needs me a cup’a’joe!”

Being a good humored, generous man he had done it on hundreds of occasions and normally would have poured coffee into a take-out cup, handed it through the gate and given it to the bum.

Far from his usual mood on this day however, wondering if it wasn’t past time he took his head out of the sand and saw his wife for what he knew, for what he had known she was, but could not admit to, in an uncharacteristically bad mood, distracted on that day….

To be continued