A “Becoming” excerpt in sequence: “Christmas 1955”
___________________________________________________________
The milk not working on the carpet, they decided it would be best to tell Mrs. Tennenbaum, and offer to pay for a new carpet.
“Mitchie...” yawning, “...It’s ‘really’ late and it’s been a real long day and I’m exhausted.”
“Go on to bed, honey.” Reaching under his scrotum, his hand coming out a bit of bubbly with dish soap. “I think I’ll try another shower.”
In bed, wearing only pajama tops, Marsha had tried waiting up for him.
In the shower he’d reasoned, It’s an understandable mistake… Yeah, ‘sure’! Like everyone goes around sticking their dicks in a bottle of ink!
By the time he’d finished the shower and came from the bathroom Marsha had fallen asleep.
Glad to see she was sleeping because —the laughter over— feeling more, ‘much’ more than just a ‘bit’ stupid...
__________________________________________________________
Seagate, New York
Christmas Morning
December 25, 1955
3:56 AM
Cold.
The window opened a bit, the curtain fluttered inward on the slight winter breeze.
Dark.
But for the sliver of light from beneath the door, the room is in total darkness.
Still.
In the room there is only the lulling sound of breathing.
Quiet.
Cold. Dark. Still and quiet.
The radiating heat of Marsha’s body drawing him…
Turning in his sleep, unknowingly Mitchell comes closer…
And even closer…
Until, nuzzling against the warmth of Marsha’s naked buttocks, feeling her warmth, sensing absolute, luxurious comfort…
The total of Mitchell’s consciousness once again becomes deeply suspended.
In the reach of her wondrous dream, sensing Mitchell’s body closely against her, Marsha moves her hips, arching herself, nestling her buttocks into the warm forming contour of his stomach and thighs.
His left arm under the pillow, his right arm beneath the blanket draped over her waist where his hand lay flat upon the bare flesh of Marsha’s stomach…
Then instinctively moves upward…
Upward, beneath the loose-fitting pajama top to the soft warmth of a sleep-creased breast…
The sense of Marsha’s breast within his hand causing the gauze-like veil of his subconscious to lift for a moment…
Then return to the dream of Marsha:
Of lying closely beside her.
Of feeling the softness of her breast within his hand.
Of feeling the warmth of her back against his chest.
Of feeling the roundness of her buttocks nestled closely against his stomach and thighs, and…
Marsha’s subconscious mind flitting towards consciousness…
Mitchell’s subconscious mind hovering just beneath consciousness…
Both returned to their dream of lying close and comfortable, warm and safe…
To the dream they each dream:
That Mitchell is holding her closely.
That Marsha is held within his arms. And…
A part of Mitchell stirs, and moving in his sleep…
Fractionally moving the dream of his turgid penis between the dream of the soft, enveloping fissure of Marsha’s thighs…
In… out…
in… out.
Through the layers of darkness Marsha feels the erotically stirring, teasing friction…
In… out…
in… out.
As the very tip of Mitchell’s penis probes into and out of the moist, outer folds of her vagina, as…
Dreaming...
Wanting him there! ‘Oh, God’! Wanting him there…
Marsha arches her backside even deeper, as…
Dreaming…
Wanting to be there! ‘Oh, God’! Wanting to be there…
Tightening his arm about her he drew himself even closer, and…
His thighs and legs forming tightly against the back of her thighs and legs and his forward straining pelvis molding tightly, ‘so’ tightly against her sharply angled backside…
In the ethereal wisps of their dream…
“Mmm,” moaning in his sleep, Mitchell strained forward.
Awake…
“Mitchell…” Whispering his name. “Mitchell.”
His name sounding as though heard within a vacuum.
“Mitchell,” Marsha says softly. “Love me.” As…
Turning onto her back…
“Mitchell...”
The whispered name registering in his semi-conscious mind.
“...Come to me.”
“Come to me. Love me.”
Now moving forward and upward…
Bringing his face to her face and his body onto her body…
His wondrous dream became vaporous…
then faded, and…
Marsha and Mitchell kiss and as they kiss, they…
Meld.
“I love you!”
Feeling his soul enfolded within the lubricious sheath of Marsha…
Enfolded within her warmth...
Within the fathomless, mental, physical, all-enveloping warmth.
“I love you.”
Coming from the heart of each…
“I love you.”
With each thrust he whispers her name…
“Marsha…”
With each withdrawal she whispers…
“I love you.”
Christmas Day
HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!
And ‘even’ once again:
“HALLELUJAH!”
__________________________________________________
“Becoming” Prologue and Epilogue
And for Marsha and Mitchell life continues
For Better Or Worse’
__________________________________________________________
“Becoming” Prologue
Chicago, Illinois
Spring, 1939
The lady and boy stood at the curb.
Watching the stoplight across the wide, busy street, the lady looked forward waiting for the light to turn to green.
The five-year-old boy at her side looked to his left, watching the light across the smaller street waiting for it to turn to red.
The lights changed colors: from red to green, from green to red.
Automobiles stopped on either side of the wide street.
From the little boy’s perspective, looking much like a red monster, its steel wheels squealing in steel tracks, a streetcar halted its rattling forward motion.
Tightening her grip on the boy’s hand, the woman and child started across the wide street.
On the other side of the street a man carefully stepped off the curb to begin his journey in the opposite direction.
Scraggly gray hair hung over his age-splotched forehead and he propelled himself slowly with the help of a wooden cane held tightly in his gnarled hand.
Crossing paths, the fog-cast, green eyes of the old man made contact with the clear, green eyes of the little boy and held for the seconds it took to pass.
Passing, the little boy turned his head watching the old man. Tripping on the curb, he hung by his mother’s hand until she pulled him up onto the sidewalk and his own two feet.
“Mommy, what’s wrong with that man?”
“What man?” Turning, the woman looked at the slowly receding figure. “Oh. Nothing, baby, he’s just an old man.”
Watching another moment. “Will daddy be an old man someday?”.
“Why yes, baby. I hope so.”
“And will you be old someday, too, Mommy?”
“Yes, Mitchie. ‘God willing’. Unless something bad happens, I’ll be an old lady someday.”
“And me too, Mommy, I’ll be old, too?”
“Yes, baby, someday.”
His throat tightening, his eyes stinging, the boy began to cry.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Reaching into her purse, removing a handkerchief she wiped away his tears.
“I don’t want to be old, Mommy!”
Stooping, “Shhh...” hugging her son to her chest. “...don’t worry, Mitchie. You’ve a ‘whole lifetime’ until you’ll be an old man.”
Standing, taking hold of her son’s hand, the two began to walk again.
The boy looked over his shoulder at ‘him’ one last time, but the old man had disappeared from sight.
___________________________________
“Becoming” Epilogue
Brighton Beach, New York
Spring, 1956
Standing at the curb, the old man looked forward, watching the stoplight, waiting for it to turn green.
The lights on the four corners changed colors: from red to green, from green to red.
A dark-blue convertible, its top open to the early spring sun, rolled to a halt.
Stepping off the curb carefully, the old man began his shuffling journey across the wide street.
Scraggly gray hair hanging over his wrinkled, age-splotched forehead, he propelled himself slowly with the help of a wooden cane held tightly within his gnarled hand.
In the convertible, the young man placed his hand onto the bare, sun-warmed knee of the young woman that sat next to him.
Approaching the convertible, lifting his head, the fog-cast, green eyes of the old man made contact with the clear, green eyes of the young man, and…
…For a prolonged moment the eyes of the old man and the eyes of the young man locked, for…
…There was a sense of an unknown, but long-remembered distant recognition.
And a shroud of unbearable sadness griped the old man’s heart…
…For he remembered ‘what was’ when once he was young.
The young man, though, had no fear for after all he had a ‘whole lifetime’ until he became an old man.
Shuffling on…
...Passing the car, stopping, turning, the old man peered through the convertible’s open top at the beautiful, dark-haired young woman…
...And a veil of tears covered the old man’s eyes, as…
...Looking back at the old man, the young woman smiled, and…
...Nodding his head, sadly turning his eyes from the face of the young woman, the old man continued across the street.
The lights changed colors: from green to red, from red to green.
Stepping onto the curb, the old man turned to look at the girl and ‘him’ one last time …
But the convertible was gone.
________________________________
“For Better or Worse” Prologue
Brighton Beach, New York
Spring, 1956
Twisting on the seat, the young woman looked at the receding figure, watching the old man as he crossed the street.
When he was no longer in view, facing forward. “Did you see that old man back there, the ‘way’ he looked at us?”
As the convertible waited for the red to change to green, the young man did see the old man.
When they began to drive, his eyes had flicked nervously to the rear-view mirror and back to the busy, early evening traffic of Neptune Avenue.
Glancing at the pretty, dark-haired young woman sitting alongside him. “No,” he said. “What old man?”
“That old man back there!” she said impatiently. “When we stopped for the light he crossed the street. Remember? And he stopped and stared at you, then at me, almost as though he knew us.” Feeling a chill, she shuddered. “I don’t know… The way he looked at us was… weird.”
His hand upon her bare, sun-warmed knee, hesitating…
“Back there? An old guy? Nah, I didn’t notice any old guy.”
___________________________________
First "For Better Or worse (FBOW) excerpt: “1956: Marsha & Mitchell”
