A “Becoming” Excerpt in Sequence: “A Tea Bag?/Rated "R" for Content
Be Careful!!! A vividly described sexual scene here… Careful!
______________________________________________________
Standing, Chris took a step. Turned back, lifted her glass and handed him his.
Watching each other over the rims, each drained their glass.
Wobbling a bit— holding the triangular shaped bottle of ‘Chevas’ by it neck— Chris led the way as Mitchell, wobbling a whole lot, pulling his tunic and T-shirt over his head, leaving a trail of clothing, was ‘completely’ nude by the time they’d made the short journey from the living room to the bedroom.
The drapes before the picture window in the bedroom were fully open and the city lights, additionally reflecting off an over-sized dresser mirror, cast a flickering kaleidoscope of color and light throughout the room.
___________________________________________________________
June 14, 1954
Manhattan, New York
Chris
Not realizing that he’d undressed. Turning, she looked at him. Chris could not tell if he truly looked as good as she thought he looked, or if it was the effect of about four or more ounces of quickly consumed Scotch because—seeing Mitchell as Sally Brockman and Elsa Schmidt had seen him in approximately the same amount of light.—Darkly tanned except for the area between his navel and crotch, Mitchell’s chest and pubic hair appeared to be pitch black and his turgid penis stark white in the reflected dancing light and…
Sensing a warmth in her abdomen—Could be the Scotch?—and a twitch in her ovaries. Her breath catching, “Mitchie,” she asked. Her words a bit slurred. “How in the hell’d you get undressed that fast?”
As always feeling a heightened—and more so due to the Scotch—sense of eroticism at being fully nude before a girl. Or now, for the first time, an adult woman. “Magic.” Putting his hands upon her waist, moving firmly against her…
“Mitchie!” Feeling his unrestrained penis prodding into her skirt. “Uh...” Momentarily forgetting what she wanted to say. Forcing her nails into the flesh of his buttocks. “Wait!” Pushing both hands against his chest. Separating their bodies her eyes traveled from his face downward… Then quickly back to his face “I’ve got to tell you something!”
“ ‘No’!” His words very slurred. “Don’t tell me you’re ‘not’ eighteen yet and your dad’s a cop!”
“No!” Flattered. Looking years younger than her thirty-two. Knowing that he was—setting a trend for the rest of her life—‘minimally’ ten years younger. “I’m… uh, ‘trust’ me! I’m older’n eighteen. And ‘a cop’? No, my father’s a stockbroker. Why?”
Relieved. “Oh, nothing,” he said, retightening his hold.
“Mitchie,” Now seems like a pretty good time to tell him.
“Chris, get undressed! Please.”
“I will, Mitchie…”
She will!
“… but I’ve got to tell you something!”
“Yeah, baby?” Rubbing his nude pelvis—penis—against her skirted pelvis.
“I’ve my period.”
“Huh?” Light-headed. Not sure he’d heard right “Your, uh, ‘period’?”
“Yeah. It’s my time’a month. Guess I should’a tol’ you before, huh?”
“Your ‘time’a month’?” In his inebriated condition not sure what ‘period’ or ‘time’a month’ meant, “Huh?”
“I’m ‘menstruating’!”
“Oh!” his erection beginning to wilt, “No!”
“Yeah. Sorry, but…”
“I should’a guessed that somethin’...” he said with a drunken giggle, “...was gonna happen.”
“You ‘do’ know what I mean?” Her words becoming even more slurred. “Don’t’j’ya?”
There was not a girl that he’d ever known, including Susan, or maybe ‘especially’ Susan that had been uninhibited enough to discuss with and explain her menstrual cycle to him. But yet he did have some foggy idea—although foggier now than normally.
“Uh, it means I can’t touch your,” pointing downward, “uh…? An’ we can’t, uh…?”
“Yeah. It’s only my second day an’ I bleed like a stuck pig an’ ‘believe’ me, you wouldn’t want to…’Yucky’!”
‘Yucky’? Mitchell didn’t know how to respond to ‘yucky’. “Why’d,” he asked, “you bring me home then, Chris? An’ how’s come we’re in your bedroom? An’,” looking down at his, by that time fully-retracted penis. “How’s come I’m all naked?”
“You’re a nice guy an’… Now don’t let this go to your head, Mitchir, but you’re like, uh, one’a the best lookin’ guys I ever been with. An’ you’re such’a… like a kind’a innocent guy.”
“ ‘Innocent’?” As though he’d been insulted, “I ain’t ‘so’ innocent!”
“Yeah, you are! Come on, Mitchie! Ain’t too many guys I know that get a boner just by dancin’ with me. Specially since...” looking down, cupping what breasts she did have. “...I don’t have any tits for you to feel when we were dancin’. An’ that’s kind’a why I was so surprised when, ‘bam’, I saw you all undressed just now.” Looking at him, fighting the temptation to take hold of his shriveled penis. “An’, to tell the truth, I didn’t think it would go this far— yes she did— the first time we’re together.”
“How’s ‘bout the guys you work with?”
“Huh? What guys? What’d’ya mean?”
“Actors you work with. They’re good lookin’, too, ain’t they?”
“Yeah, some’a them. But most’a ’em’s either married or queer.”
Even though he was drunk, Mitchell began to feel downright foolish standing fully naked with a completely deflated penis just talking to a fully dressed woman. Backing to the bed he sat on the edge and tightened his thighs holding both hands onto his lap hiding as much as he could hide—which, in his present condition, was just about everything.
“So, if we ain’t gonna do anything,” he asked again,” how’s come we’re in your bedroom?”
Her eyes moving from his face to his crotch…
Feeling thoroughly exposed and ‘really’ dumb, Mitchell considered grabbing the pillow from under the comforter to cover himself.
“I’ll tell you why!” Completely contradicting her earlier statement regarding ‘not thinking it would go this far the first time they were together’. “There’s more ways to skin a snake, uh, cat”— said as a statement of fact —“an’ there’s other things we can do, you know.”
“Yeah.” Remembering Elsa and ‘dry humping’ he knew ‘there were other things they could do’. But, ‘Yucky’, he thought. that way sure ain’t one of ’em! “What?”
“I’ll tell you what. Hold on a second.”
Refilling both glasses. “Here,” handing one to Mitchell. Taking a long drink she put her glass onto the dresser... Hesitated, then pulling it over her head and off, Chris placed her sweater next to the glass. Hooking her thumbs into the waistbands of her skirt and slip, she pushed both off her slight hips, small buttocks, diminutive thighs and stalky calves.
Watching her. Oh, yeah! Watching the woman before him, he took a sip and—most of the ice having melted, finding the taste of room-temperature Scotch repulsive —putting the glass onto the nightstand and sensing a resurrection in the juncture of his crotch, bringing his full attention back to Chris Mitchell raptly watched, as…
Thinking herself an actress playing a part—which in fact she was—and also as a woman in the throes of passion… A ‘very’ drunk woman in the throes of passion—which in fact she most certainly was— Christine took another drink and because she was ashamed of her body and in ‘particular’ her breasts, waiting another moment, taking another drink to ratchet up her courage… Reaching behind her back she unhooked the two clasps. Crossing her arms over her chest— to hide her breasts— taking a deep breath she let the bra drop to the floor then quickly pushed her panties off and stood, actress or not, drunk or not, self-consciously nude.
Thin? Christine Sanbourne’s breasts looked to be little more than slight mounds of protruding flesh. The dark nipples appearing to be as large as the breasts themselves. Her chest narrow. The sharp ridges of her ribs easily seen. Chris’s stomach was deeply concave and due to this unhidden— by the excessive mass of black pubic hair— the mound of her vulva projected sharply from the juncture of her crotch. But…
To Mitchell Lipensky—‘especially’ in his inebriated condition—all breasts were beautiful and, yeah, more than a handful may be nice. But, hey, he thought little tits, after all, are still tits. And to Mitchell Lipensky ‘all’ naked ladies were beautiful and Chris—‘especially’ in his inebriated condition—was no exception. So moving his hands from his lap, his penis snapping to attention, “Chris,” he said as sincerely as he could say in his inebriated condition, “you’re Be-U-ituful!”
Put at ease. Warmed by his words, and about six ounces of quickly consumed Chevas Regal. Coming to the edge of the bed and holding the sides of his face in her hands, Chris moved her chest, rubbing her breasts… really, her by-then turgid nipples across his parted lips as…
Reaching to her rear, holding a small, hard but very smooth very warm buttock in each hand as savoring the taste and texture of her hard nipples and the feel of her smooth buttocks. “Chris?” he asked.
Savoring the touch of his hands and the feel of his lips. “Yes?”
“I ‘don’t’ understand.”
“Huh?” Leaning back so she might see his face. “What don’t you understand, Mitchie?”
“I don’t see any, uh, ‘Kotex’ or anything.” Though passionate. Though drunk. “And if you’re bleeding so hard that you’re, uh, ‘yucky’, how do you keep the, uh, stuff from coming out?”
Mitchell was also inquisitive because, after all, this, too, could be a ‘ learning’ experience. Couldn’t it?
“A plug, Mitchie.”
“A ‘plug’?”
“Yeah.” Taking a step back and reaching between her thighs while arching her pelvis forward so he might better see it in the flickering light. “See?’ Chris lifted the end of a piece of string that had been dangling unseen.
Looking. Squinting, he saw it. And even if he ‘were’ sober— which he sure wasn’t —not understanding though appreciating the invitation to look ‘very’ closely at the hairy crotch of this naked woman. His fuzzy mind drunkenly thinking the little piece of dangling string was somehow a hanging stitch from some kind of female surgery. “Jesus,” he said, “that’s not from a, uh, operation?”
‘Operation’? “No, Mitchie. Not from an operation. It’s a...”
Attempting to hold it back... Giggling loudly.“A ‘tea bag’?”
Unable to contain it. “No, Mitchie...”Even if sober, “...It’s ‘not’ a ‘tea bag’.” Breaking up. Laughing so hard she could hardly get the words out. “It’s a ‘Tampom’.”
“ ‘Tampon’?” His less than agile mind taking a second or two to process the word ‘Tampon’. “Oh,” he said, “a Tampon!”
“Yeah, Mitchie.”
Moving closer. Straddling his thighs. Pushing against his shoulders. “Lay back, Mitchie…”
His feet flat on the floor, obediently— with Chris’s prompting— his back dropped onto the mattress.
Taking hold of ‘him’, parting her labia with one hand while holding him upward with the other, bending her knees as moving up and down on her toes… caressing the underside of the glans and the length of his penis against the silky moist inner lips of her labia… and clitoris… “See,” she whispered, “the are other things we can do.”
With Elsa there was always the material of her underpants that came between them… But this? This, physically, was the closest he had ever come to actually being within a female and feeling the warm, wet friction as she caressed ‘herself’ with him.
“Yeah,” he said through clenched teeth... Lifting his head, grasping her shoulders he urged Chris downward until the dangling bits of flesh that were her breasts and blood-engorged nipples were within reach of his lips and he drew one, then the flesh of the other minuscule breast fully into his mouth as, holding her steady, scooting backwards —his feet leaving the floor— the woman above him now lay fully upon him.
With this ‘change of position,’ rather than being held vertically within the furrow, with Chris’ body flat against his body, the length of his penis still enveloped within the silken lips —but tighter yet as held by her gluteus-maximus— the base of his penis making contact with, and grazing the nodule of her swollen clitoris…
Lying with her chest to his face...Placing the palms of both hands to either side of his head, locking elbows as, lifting her chest — her breast pulling from his mouth— gyrating her pelvis…
The weight of her lower body upon hmi….
His hip able but to twitch to the spastic motion...
Though the movement slight….
Feeling the direct friction upon her clitoris…
Slithering downward as he slithered upward….
Feeling the sweet, pulsing sensation within his testicles. Closing his eyes…
Hearing a low, carnal moan as Chris stopped all motion.. Then began a slow pelvic rotation… slowly…
Until all movement stopped and each felt the spreading warmth that saturated their closely entwined pubic hair and, her arms folding beneath her, dropping onto Mitchell’s chest she lay atop him until their breathing slowed.
“Whew!” rolling off, laying alongside him. “See?” Giggling, “Tol’ you we’d find something to do.”
“Yeah,” His head somewhat cleared, laughing dryly. “You sure did.”
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Come on!” Poking him in the side with her elbow. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s nothing! It’s just… ‘Nothing’!”
“What’s, ‘nothing’?”
“I can’t tell you!”
Coming back onto him. straddling his stomach, tickling him. “Come on, you!” She insisted. “What’s so funny?”
Feeling a queasiness in his stomach from drinking too much too fast, along with the now cold stickiness on his stomach— thinking it only his semen— easily shaking Chris off.
Lying on his side next to her with his head propped in his hand. “I think,” he said hesitantly, “that God and ‘every’ girl I’ve ever met, or will meet...” Now speaking seriously. “...has had or will have some kind of a conspiracy going against me.”
“What do you mean?” Thinking she knew. “Every girl you’ve ever been with has ‘had her period’?”
Chuckling. “No! Every girl I’ve ever been with has ‘not had her period’!”
Getting off the bed. “Never mind, Chris. I’m ‘not’ going to t…”
“You’re still virgin, aren’t you?”
“Forget it, Chris! I’m not…”
“ ‘That’s it’! Isn’t it? It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Mitch, to still be a virgin.”
“Says you! Mind if I hop in the shower?”
“No, of course not. I’d join you...” Knowing a shower would sober her, not really wanting to be sober. “...but don’t want to get my hair wet this late at night. Go on, I’ll get you a towel.”
Waiting for him. Having used the sink to clean herself, she’d put a nightgown on.
The shower sobering him. His stomach— more or less— being where it belonged.
Standing just inside the shower stall drying himself, looking at Chris he saw the shadowy ‘V’ of her pubic hair and the sharp points of, and the dark, roughly rounded projections of the impressions of the areolae of her nipples upon the slick material. as…
Looking at Mitchell also. Seeing the beginnings of the resurrection of his penis. “Mitch, if you’d like… I have no objections to your spending the night here.
Tempted! ‘Tempted’ beyond belief. Thinking, Damn it! He remembered the only other time he had been invited to spend the night with a woman—Connie, in Wildwood—and he’d chastised himself at least a million times for saying no then. And now, the sight of Chris in a slick nightgown and the thought that he could be sleeping next to her tonight… ‘Sleeping’? And the fact that he could be having more of what he had just had —and even now wanted again— was causing blood to pump upward from the soles of his feet, and drain downward from the tip of his head, that was witnessed by the upward jerking of his penis. But, looking for his underwear. “Shit!” he said.
Seeing, watching the rebirth, not expecting this answer, “Excuse me?”
Walking from the bathroom to the living roo. “Damn it, Chris!” Stepping into his shorts, “ ‘Believe’ me,” then his pants, “I’d like nothing better than to spend the night here.” Pulling the tunic over his head. “And normally I’d have tomorrow off, too.” Pulling his socks on. “But we’re sailing on Monday...” then his shoes, “...and I promised this pal of mine, that’s married and has duty this weekend, that I’d standby for him on Sunday so he can go ashore and spend the day with his family. ‘Damn’! I didn’t know I’d be meeting you and told him I’d be back before twelve.” Glancing at his watch, “Christ, it’s almost that now.”
Fitting the neckerchief beneath the wide flap of the tunic, tying the knot. “I’ve ‘got’ to get going, Chris. I’m ‘really’ sorry! I’d ‘love’ to stay, more than you’ll ever know. Invite me again, will you?”
Following him from the bathroom to the living room. Watching as he hurriedly dressed. “Sure. Well, like they say, if you gotta go you gotta go.”
Walking him to the door, kissing each other quickly. “So long, Mitch.”
“So long, Chris,” he said, rushing to the elevator. “I’ll call you when I get back.”
Closing the door, Sure you will, Mitchie, she thought sadly, if you cared enough to get my number.
****
Taking the Times Square subway to the Manhattan ferry dock, ‘Shit’! On the ferry — crossing from Manhattan to Staten Island— mentally kicking himself he realized that he didn’t know Chris’ last name and, ‘Again’ I didn’t get a phone number! Okay, he thought, when I get back I’ll go to her building… ‘If’ I can find her building! And I’ll talk to the doorman… ‘If’, because he hadn’t been paying attention as Chris led the way, I can find her building! And next time she won’t have her damn period!
Impatiently waiting for the ferry to dock in Staten Island— his mind still a bit fuzzy— an analogy… A baseball analogy came to Mitchell Lipensky: So I hit a ‘double’ with Gina and Ina and a ‘triple’ with Sally and Elsa and I was sliding into ‘home’ with Chris and was ‘almost’ there, but was called ‘out'!
****
Mitchell Lipensky spent a good part of the next forty-three days thinking about Chris, and his bad luck—the will of God?—at being with a woman who was ready ‘to’, and wanted ‘to but couldn’t because of a bit of dangling string… Also about the ‘very’ possible possibility that he would ‘not’ be able to find her building…
And also! And ‘mostly’ about his stupidity at forgetting to…
God damn it! Why didn’t I ask for her fucking phone number?
September 13, 1954 to October 25, 1954
At Sea/Fall Patrol/Finding Chris
The piping of the boatswain’s whistle…
“Now hear this! Now hear this! Cleaning stations! All hands man your cleaning stations!”
The shrill, low, high, low whistle sounded again.
Stepping through the waterproof hatch partition, Mitchell Lipensky went to his permanent cleaning station: the C.P.O.’s (chief petty officer’s) head.
In one hand he carried a mop. In the other a steel bucket containing a toilet brush, a can of scouring powder, waste rags, window cleaner, a few pages of newspaper, a hand-made ‘HEAD SECURED’ sign and a ‘Max Brand’ paperback western.
Hanging the ‘HEAD SECURED’ sign on the outside. Swinging the hatch shut, securing it from the inside. Lighting a cigarette he went to work…
After spraying the three mirrors with window cleaner, he shined them with the newspaper. Sprinkling scouring powder onto the three sinks, he scoured the sinks and —not caring how much water slopped on the deck— rinsed and dried all three with waste rags. Using the window cleaner again, he buffed all three to a burnished shine with more newspaper.
He scrubbed the inside of the one urinal and two commodes with scouring powder. Then spraying window cleaner on the outside of the urinal and one commode only, shined them with waste rags. Dipping the mop into the unshined commode, splashing water onto the deck he swabbed around the urinal, beneath the sinks and commodes. Rinsing the mop then wringing it out by hand, he re-swabbed the deck until it was near dry. He then shined the one unshined commode.
Having taken slightly more than fifteen minutes—his duty station manned — having about a half-hour remaining at ‘duty stations’, taking the paperback from his rear pocket and lowering a toilet seat and sitting with his legs spread before him—lighting a cigarette— and flicking the ash into the toilet, Mitchell read his book.
‘Bong!’A hollow metallic banging, ‘Bong!’A C.P.O., anxious to use the head, ‘Bong!’, was pounding on the secured hatch.
Jesus, can’t he read? “Deck’s just been swabbed!” Mitchell yelled from his perch atop the toilet. “Try one’a the other heads!”
“Fuck!” The chief petty officer rushed to one of the larger, more difficult to secure petty officer’s or enlisted men’s heads.
****
The boatswain’s whistle.
“Now hear this! Secure all duty stations! All hands report for work parties!” The whistle sounded again.
Going to the utility closet and stowing the bucket, brush, mop, window spray, scouring powder and waste rags—that he’d rinsed and laid around the rim of the bucket to dry—Mitchell made his way to the bow of the ship where he reported to Boatswain’s Mate Third Class Myron Lynch who— because the hobby of the Coast Guard is to paint it on then scrape it off, then paint it on again— handed Mitchell a paint scrapper and a wire brush.
****
Located on the forward quarter of the ship, the Captain’s stateroom was directly beneath the bridge. Working aft: Next to the Captain’s quarters was the X.O.’s (Executive Officer’s) private cabin. Commissioned officers and chief petty officers had semi-private cubicles. First, second and third class petty officers shared a combined living area just forward of mid-ship. The general mess and recreational areas were at mid-ship. Aft of mid-ship were two large compartments housing the ‘swabbies’— the non-rated enlisted persona— The swabbies slept in multiple rows of double-deck bunks. Each man had a narrow steel locker and a sea chest.
****
In foul weather. Cutting through high seas, the bow of a ship rises above the water’s crest and as it passes over the swell and drops into its trough, depending on the height of the crest and the depth of the trough, the bow descends striking the water with a shuddering crash as the stern glides through in relative smoothness. While at sea the comfort level of a ship usually begins aft and becomes increasingly less so going forward. In essence, the swabbies are more comfortable in foul seas than the captain.
****
Powerful winds howling through the constantly shifting rigging playing a discordant, lunatic’s cacophony.
The prow rose, ascending upward and upward until momentarily all the man on watch saw was a world of roiling black clouds as the Halfmoon was seemingly pushed backwards on the water’s precipitous turbulence.
Three-hundred-eleven feet aft, the twin propellers rose from out the water to spin uselessly as the ship hesitated on the crest of the wave for an eternal heartbeat then, as the torrent’s momentum pushed the Halfmoon backward, the propellers bit once again and, tottering, the ship slid off the crest of the giant wave into its dark-green, near vertical trough where it picked up roller-coaster speed and with a shuddering crash the prow struck, submerged, and flung a sheet of water backwards, dousing the shivering lookout on the flying bridge sending driblets of cold water down the back of his foul-weather gear.
Now the man on watch saw only boiling green water.
Rising… Rising, again…
Plummeting again… Again.
Below deck: Rotating with the motion of the ship, the crew instinctively rotated their bodies from hip to hip as their legs alternatively became longer and shorter.
Miscalculating his footing, “God, damn!” a sailor painfully barked his shin on the rise of the waterproof hatch.
In the ‘head’: “Fuckin’ helm! Holding his penis with one hand and the urinal with the other as his stream went from vertical to horizontal. “Can’t the fucker keep this fuckin’ ship steady long enough so’s a guy can take a fuckin’ piss?”
In the galley: Hissing. Spitting. Water and cooking oil splattered from out of secured pots and pans onto flaring gas flames and sissling hot griddles.
Eating: Chow trays slidding from side to side on the long tables as the men held onto their trays with one hand and the bench they sat on with the other while waiting for a level moment when they were able to release either the tray or bench long enough to shove some food into their mouths before dropping their fork or spoon to grab hold of the tray or bench again.
At night: Laying awake. Listening as a forgotten screwdriver maddeningly rolled from port to starboard clanking into the bulkhead… then, rattling as it rolled to the other side.
Sleeping: Shifting from side to side. Subconsciously hanging onto the bunk frame… occasionally falling off.
Until…
The seas abated.
The winds subsided.
The outside air cold, invigorating.
Clouds floating from here to infinity.
Forward: To the east, beautiful to behold in the intense cerulean blue heavens, virginally white clouds formed thin stuttering banks broken by ragged strips of deep blue sky.
To the north and west: Thick and puffy with solid appearing three dimensional clouds leaving the definition of their phantom shapes to the eye, and imagination of whomever was looking.
****
Back in port: On his first liberty Mitchell attempted to find Chris’ building. But could not.
Hoping she would be there, he went to the U.S.O…. On this and other liberties.
But Christine Sanbourne was not at the U.S.O… Then or ever…
And Mitchell Lipensky never saw her again.
End Christine series
Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “ 1954 Spring Patrol/Furlough 2"”
