A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “God’s Carrot”

“God’s Carrot” A metaphor: A farmer dangling a carrot before his mule to make him move forward, and when the animal moves forward the carrot is moved forward also so the mule keeps going, but never quite reaches the carrot.

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Since he was fifteen God had dangled that carrot in front of him and always pulled it away…

But ‘No’! Nothing was going to happen to stop it now…

‘Nothing’!

Coming off the bed, he stood before the dresser mirror.

Four months into his twenty-first year Mitchell’s face was youthful and handsome. His eyes were clear and his hair shone with a healthy sheen. His chest and arms solid. His stomach and buttocks tight. His calves and thighs muscled, and…___________________________________________________________

Seagate, New York

December 21, 1955: 10:05 PM —

....His penis jutted rigidly forward in expectation because in a few minutes…

He looked at the bathroom door.

In just a few minutes Marsha would come from the bathroom and for the first time in either of their lives they were going to complete the act of love, ‘together’, with each other…

And God had given this to them.

Back in bed, the water still running, Mitchell stared at the bathroom door.

Coming off the bed. Going to the dresser he opened the top drawer.

Back in bed he put the foil-bound prophylactic on the end table covering it with his handkerchief.

The water still running, Mitchell stared at the bathroom door.

Seeing it…

Noticing it, he came off the bed, turned the television off and went back to bed,

The water still running, Mitchell stared at the bathroom door.

Remembering...

Coming off the bed. Going to the dresser he opened the top drawer.

Back to the bed he put the small, round bottle of ‘Vaseline Petroleum Jelly’ onto the end table— next to his handkerchief-covered, foil pack prophylactic —then once again laid down but…

Thinking the bottle of Vaseline a bit ‘too’ obvious, taking it off the end table he put it onto the floor alongside the bed just out of sight, but within easy reach.

The water still running, Mitchell stared at the bathroom door.

Coming off the bed yet again, turning all the lights off with the exception of the lamp atop the television.

Returning to the bed, the water still running, Mitchell stared at the bathroom door.

Lying nude atop the blanket he began to feel a bit obvious. Standing, lifting his side of the blanket then lying down again he covered himself to the waist.

He looked at the bathroom door…

Silence.

Mitchell watched the door…

Five minutes…

Ten minutes…

Fifteen minutes…

The knob turned.

The door opened.

“Oh…”

Afraid any sound or movement would dissipate the dream before him, for…

Marsha— Mitchell Lipensky’s wife was the living embodiment of a thousand longing daydreams.

Marsha was the hand-held, lingering remembrance of thousands of empty, passionate nights.

Mitchell felt a tightening in his throat, a binding within his chest and a stinging behind his eyes and he was sure Marsha could hear the thumping of his heart, because…

Two months into Marsha’s nineteenth year…

A study of youth and beauty…

Illumination from the open bathroom door framed and back-lit, while the muted light from the one burning lamp— glowing through its parchment-like shade, cast Marsha in a buttery-yellow blush.

Given to her as a wedding gift from the manager and co-workers at the lingerie shop Marsha Goldman had worked at...

Cinched at the waist, the long, diaphanous gown opened into an inverted V from below the shadow of her pubic hair and widened as it fell along her long, slender legs, ending at her bare feet. The upright ‘V’ of the gown widened from the waist up leaving Marsha’s chest bare, but covered her breasts with a transparent, white sheen. Easily visible, her breasts laying slightly to the sides of her chest, the dark-pink areola of Marsha’s nipples had a soft, white cast, and….

Not sure how to proceed, Marsha stood perfectly still, as…

In this protracted moment…

In this flickering point in time the absolute beauty of his nineteen-year old bride became indelibly etched onto the mind of Mitchell Lipensky.

Taking a step towards the bed…

“Marsha...” spoken softly, “... no.”

Finding his voice, coming off the bed…

Not the reaction she’d expected. Surprised. Disappointed, Marsha looked at Mitchell.

Expecting him to be aroused, his penis engorged…

It wasn’t.

Marsha had no way of knowing that Mitchell’s reaction was far in excess of ‘anything’ she could possibly imagine…

For this moment in time was the culmination of his dreams and fantasies and for Mitchell, if the Ark of God were to suddenly be placed before his eyes, it would not—it could not—be more revered than…

“ ‘Marsha’,” standing before her. This moment in time more holy than sexual.

“Oh, ‘God’, Marsha!” Having no way to describe how he felt. Feeling his words inadequate.

“You’re beautiful!” His voice husky. “So beautiful!”

The heartfelt emotion bringing tears to his eyes.

Placing his hands on either side of her face… “I love you! Oh, God, Marcie, I love you so much!”

Whispering, “Mitchell, I love you.” Placing her arms about his waist, “I love you!” Moving her body against his…

Their lips met, and…

The electrical contact of lips upon lips and body against body caused an immediate, non-holy reaction as blood pumped into millions of soft, sponge-like cells and Mitchell’s penis jerked upward and moved outward.

His arms encircling Marsha, feeling her flesh through the sheer, silken material, holding the small of her back in the palm of one hand, and the swell of a buttock in the other… “Marcie, I love you!”

Her body now pressed tightly against his body. Her chest pressed against his chest. Her thighs against his thighs... Pushing against and through….

Feeling him there, within the breach of her thighs.

“Mitchie, oh, God!” Holding both buttocks, her nails making sharp indentations in the soft flesh, “I love you!”

Moving back a foot, Mitchell untied the sash.

Moving back a foot, Marsha shrugged her shoulders.

The sheer gown fluttered to the floor.

Standing two feet apart. “My, God, Marcie.” Still finding it difficult to speak,…

“My, God…”

Taking his hand. Moving to the bed, Marsha lay upon the blanket as…

Standing above. Looking at her. Seeing her. Unable to take his eyes from the beauty, the ‘absolute’ beauty of the fully nude body of Marsha, of his wife, as…

Reaching to ‘him’. Her cool hand encircling ‘him’.

His eyes closed to the erotic ecstasy of her touch.

“Oh, God!”

“Lay next to me, Mitchie...” Her voice edged with passion. “...Touch me. Love me!”

He lay next to her and their lips met, urgently, urgently, till…

Tasting the savory taste of Marsha’s flesh, his mouth moved from her mouth to the warmth of a soft breast, to the hardening orb of a nipple.

His hand trailed down her stomach onto the silken floss of Marsha’s hair and, Oh, God! Touching the hair. Fingers twining the hair. Sensing the quiet, mysterious thrill he always felt at his first touch ‘here’.

Probing softly, his fingers finding and parting the tight, fleshy folds of Marsha’s moist labia, as…

Sensing the powerfully erotic sensation she’d experienced the first two times he had touched her ‘there’ because ‘spiritually’ this time, ‘now’ it was the right time, the sensation more intense...

Widening her thighs, Marsha opened her vagina to the touch of his hand that, sending a sweet chill throughout her entire body…

“Oh, God! Do it now, Mitchie!” Unable to wait. Anxious, ‘so anxious! “Please, Mitchie, do it now!”

Now?

Now! What he’d wanted! What he’d dreamed of his entire life.

Oh, God! Not wanting to wait. Anxious, so anxious! “Yes, baby, yes!”

Moving from her side to within her open thighs.

Kneeling within her open thighs…

Having the presence of mind to…

Reaching to the end table. Taking the foil pack from beneath his handkerchief… His, anxious fingers dropping it onto the fine hair. Picking it up...

Her lower lip held captive between her teeth. her eyes half closed, Marsha watched Mitchell with ever mounting anticipation as…

Ripping the pack open. Taking the prophylactic out he placed it onto the head of his penis… upside down. Turning the rolled latex and replacing it he unrolled it. Having to move from within her thighs, leaning to the far side of the bed, groping a moment his fingers found the small, round bottle of Vaseline. Coming back to within her thighs. Opening the bottle and dipping two fingers in, he anointed his tightly clad, rubberized penis…

Her lower lip held captive between her teeth, her eyes half closed, Marsha watched Mitchell with ever mounting anticipation as…

Leaning to the side again. Putting the bottle back onto the end table. Wiping his ‘Vaseline-Petroleum-Jelly’ covered fingers on his handkerchief, once again he positioned himself between Marsha’s thighs and her waiting ‘so’ anxious vagina.

Now!

He hadn’t been drinking homemade ‘Dago Red’, and the room was not spinning.

She was not lying unconscious under the steering wheel of her father’s 1950 Pontiac.

She was not saving herself for an unknown, far-in-the-future marriage.

He was not holding back for a distant, far-in-the-future marriage.

She was not sixteen and her father was not a sergeant in the ‘Bayside, New York’, Police Department.

There was no tampon string dangling from between her thighs.

Her mother did not have to go to the toilet.

They are married... Married in the eyes of God.

She was no longer menstruating.

The phone did not ring! No one was knocking on the door. There was no tornado, hurricane, earthquake or volcanic eruption…

There was just Marsha… And, oh, yes, she was ready and she was waiting, oh, so anxiously!

Now! Now!

For the moment it took for him to position himself for insertion, he could not help but think of ‘God’s carrot’. And now! Now, parting her labia….

Now! he thought, as…

Huh? As…

Unbelievably, the process reversed and blood ran from millions of hard, extended cells and, “Huh!” his penis wilting, he tried to insert it… but couldn’t because…

Waiting, when nothing happened, hearing his, ‘Huh’!

“Mitchie...” sitting up on her elbows “...what happened?” Looking at him, at ‘it’... “where’d ‘it’ go?”

“Uh…”

Hearing ‘Huh’! and ‘Uh’?

Thinking he might be having a heart attack “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong?

Still kneeling between Marsha’s thighs. The greasy— no longer flesh filled— Vaseline-smeared prophylactic hanging from his fully retracted penis as an icicle from a stumpy protrusion “Marcie, I…” What can I say?

“Mitchell, are you okay?”

“I don’t know!”

“What happened to, uh, ‘it’?”

The expectant look he’d seen on Marsha’s face before had changed to that of concern.

However he didn’t see the look as ‘concern’; Mitchell saw it as ‘disappointment’. “I don’t know!”

“But are you okay?”

His feelings now of dismay and embarrassment.

“Yeah, I’m okay, I guess.”

Further knowing he looked ridiculous with a greasy prophylactic hanging from his shrunken penis. Turning away, he yanked it off, painfully, along with a couple dozen pubic hairs.

“Mitch…”

“Marsha...” His feelings now of anger, and having no one to take it out on, “...please, ‘don’t ask me’!”

“Mitchell?”

“ ‘I don’t know’!” Softing his tone. “Marcie, I don’t know what the hell happened to me!” Angrily flinging the prophylactic across the room, it landed om the dresser with a wet ‘plop’.

Having no idea what to say, what to do, his back to Marsha he scrambled beneath the blanket.

Unsure of what to do. Lying atop the bed fully nude looking at the back of Mitchell’s head. Bewildered by what had caused his penis to go limp and by his apparent anger at her. Simultaneously thinking: Did I do something wrong? Also, How terribly he must feel about what happened… Whatever it was that had happened.

“Should I get into my pajamas?” she asked softly.

In addition to anger. In addition to embarrassment, Mitchell now felt guilty for taking his anger out on Marsha who, after all, did nothing but look strikingly beautiful. However having no idea what to say — prevented him from saying anything.

Now came another emotion: ‘Betrayal’! He felt betrayed. Betrayed by God—again! And betrayed by his own body, because when there was nothing to stop him, he’d—but really, it was God—stopped himself.

Waiting for an answer, when none came, Marsha began to get off the bed…

“No, honey,” turning, facing her, “don’t get up!” Taking her hand, urging her to lie next to him, “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“Was it me?” She asked tearfully. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Wrong? ‘You’?” He’d love to find a reason for this other than himself. “ ‘No’! Are you kidding? No! It sure as hell wasn’t you, Marcie. You’re ‘perfect’! You’re ‘beautifu’l! No one could ‘ever’ want more than you! No! You’re great! It was…”

He wanted to say ‘God’, but knew, besides looking ridiculous, he would sound ridiculous, too.

“It was me.” Now sorry he had told her that he was a virgin too, because now he was afraid she’d think it was his lack of experience that had caused this…? ‘Personal catastrophe’. “I don’t know what happened. I was there, then it just… I don’t know, ‘it’ just... uh, went away. “Marcie, please believe me! This has never happened before!”

‘Yes’!

Thinking exactly what he was afraid she might be thinking, And you’ve never had intercourse before, either. Blaming this on her husband’s lack of experience. Relieved that he wasn’t ill, though, Marsha did feel a deep sense of loss because of what ‘should’ have happened and could not believe that after waiting all her adult life, after all of her months of planning for this night, Marsha could not believe that she was still a virgin.

Knowing how bad he felt, a remembrance of something she’d read coming to mind, It’s possible, I suppose. Trying to placate him, “Know what I think?” Maybe, maybe in a way it was her fault. “Maybe it was the pepper.”

“ ‘Pepper’? How in hell could it be pepper?”

“I heard, or read someplace, that sometimes too much spice or spicy food can affect people—uh, guys—in some ways and maybe this… that...” her head nodding vaguely in the direction of his crotch, “...is one of the ways.”

“Think so?” Willing to believe just about anything. “You really think so?”

“Yeah, you always got one, uh...” vaguely tilting her head again, “...you know, before.”

“Yeah! Never had a problem getting ’em! Even when I didn’t want ’em, I’d get boners!”

“So? Who knows? Maybe it was the pepper.”

“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “It’s been over twenty-four hours since then,” Actually, Marsha’s first attempt to make a meatloaf had been over forty-eight hours ago. “And I only took a couple’a bites.”

“I know, Mitch.”—although, in Marsha’s mind the pepper theory was a ‘very’ distant possibility, actually, she really thought it was due to his inexperience—“but what else could it be, then?”

“Yeah...”—grasping at straws and as unbelievable as it was he was willing to grasp at this one—“...maybe you’re right.”

Mitchell and Marsha were still lying next to each other.

She was still naked and he was still naked.

He moved his mouth to her mouth.

They kissed, they hugged. Mitchell caressed Marsha’s breasts and Marsha caressed Mitchell’s penis.

And it was ‘not’ limp now! No, it was not limp, not at all!

Coming off the bed. going to the dresser and getting another prophylactic, he opened it, rolled it and rubbed Vaseline onto it. Getting back into bed, between Marsha’s open thighs… Don’t get soft! Please, God, don’t let it get soft!…

“ ‘Shit’!” Rolling the prophylactic off his penis, “Ouch!” along with another twenty-one pubic hairs.

“What the hell’s wrong with me?”

“Yeah, I’ll bet it was the pepper.” Just about as disappointed as he. Doing her best not to show it “Come on, baby...” attempting to console him, “...let’s let it go for tonight, and we’ll try again in the morning.”

Totally embarrassed. “Yeah, Marcie maybe you’re right, maybe it is the pepper, or...”—fishing, looking for some excuse, ‘any’ excuse—“...maybe I’m still tired from the drive and all the excitement of getting married and having you here with me.” If Marsha’s pepper theory was a very distant possibility, “Yeah,” a new thought striking him, “I’ll bet that’s what it is! Maybe I’m right!”

“What?”

Terribly upset. “Maybe, when a guy sits too long in one position, maybe something happens like, uh, the blood or something gets cut off… Nah.” Disappointment sounding in his voice. “That’s not it! I’d’a never had a boner in the first place then”—he’d had lots of those in the last four days. “Maybe it’s that I’m just too excited when we do...uh when we try to do it.”

“Think so?”

Once again ‘any straw’.

“I’ve been looking forward to making love to you for so long now, Marcie. Yeah...”—doing his best to convince himself—“...maybe that is it! Maybe I’m just too excited.”

Oh, yeah! That makes a lot of sense.

Having absolutely no way of knowing. Even so, speaking with positive knowledge, “I’m sure this happens to ‘lots’ of guys when they’re first married. So don’t worry about it, Mitch, I’m not!” Oh, yes, she was. “And I’m ‘positive’ you’ll be able to do it in the morning!”

“God, Marcie, I sure hope so.”

“Don’t worry, honey,” stroking the side of his face, “I love you no matter what, and we’ll have all our lives to make love.”

“Yeah,” trying to lighten the situation, “and we’d better do it before I go bald.”

“Huh?”

“These damned rubbers, they’re scalping me!”

Next “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “Poop & Oysters”