A FBOW excerpt in sequence “The Snake Man”

Marsha thought, I’ve become the invisible woman!

No one seemed to see her. No one seemed to notice her.

On the beach men ‘did’ see her: a tall, tan, beautiful young woman… with a ‘baby’, and they left Marsha to herself.

The older single and married women saw her also. But as a ‘lone’, tall, tan, beautiful young woman with a baby, ‘without’ a husband, and...

Considering her as a threat of sorts, they too left Marsha to herself.

 ________________________________________________

Lakeside,Michigan

June 16, 1958 —

Leaving the buggy on the side of the road beneath a tree. Slipping the strap of the diaper bag over her shoulder, with Michael in one arm, the blanket and towels under the other—long since giving up on the steep, narrow, weed choked path she’d used as a child—she walked down the incline of the Public Beach access.

Coming off the well beaten path and angling towards the water, Marsha nodded to the one other person at the beach this early: an older man she’d seen with a woman a few times before.

Trudging about fourty yards across the sand, to the approximate place Marsha had designated as ‘her spot’ when she was nine years old…

Letting the diaper bag slip from her shoulder. Dropping a towel onto the sand and sitting Michael on the towel, she spread and smoothed the blanket.

Muttering, “Oh, yes!” the man had been waiting for her. Watching for her. Expecting the young woman because it was at this same approximate time she came each day.

The man had seen the lone woman and baby a number of times over the past week, but had been with his wife each time so there wasn’t a right time to approach her.

The man watched as she walked through sand to place she went each day; to within seven or eight yards of the water’s edge where she lowered her baby onto a towel, spread the blanket then put the baby in its middle.

The sun shining brightly from a cloudless sky…

“There we go, Mikey.”

Unzipping the bag, Marsha removed her book and a lightweight summer blanket meant more for keeping the sun off her baby than for warmth even though a slight cool breeze came off the lake.

Remaining in the bag was a fresh diaper, a light pullover shirt and jar of cereal with bananas for Michael, a pack of Twinkies for her, an empty nipple bottle and a thermos of cold apple juice for them both. At the bottom of the large plastic bah was Marsha’s wallet, the key to the cottage and a Kodak camera.

“Come here, you!” Familiar with the on-shore breeze, well aware it pushed warmer, surface water inward, Marsha removed Michael’s diaper. “Okay,” and lifted him to his feet. “Let’s go!”

Walking behind while holding hands upward, Marsha helped the naked baby toddle across the soft, warm sand.

At water’s edge, still holding both hands stretched above his head, swinging the giggling baby over the calm water she allowed his feet to touch. Sucking in his breath, he tried lifting his feet but within moments, his flesh becoming accustomed to the tepid water, held safe in his mother’s hands, laughing his baby’s laugh, kicking Michael splashed water as, “Ollie...” lifting him so only his feet touched, “...ollie,” dipping his feet, “...ooops!” Marsha sat him in the foot deep water.’

Michael again held his breath, then laughing he splashed with both hands and feet until, lifting him, cradling her baby in both arms Marsha walked to where the water reached her navel.

“Ollie...” stooping, “...ollie... ooops!” stooping lower,she wet her baby to his neck and herself to her shoulders and, “Ollie, ollie, ooops!” again, and again.

Carrying Michael so sand wouldn’t cling to his feet, the mother and baby came back to their blanket.

Unaware he’d been holding his breath, Gordon Nathanson watched as the streaming young woman came from the water, laid her baby onto the blanket and kneeling over him rubbed him dry with a towel and re-diapered him.

Sitting as he was —about forty feet to the right of her blanket—he had a sharp view of the woman’s small, tightly encased buttocks.

“Ummm!”—unaware he had moaned aloud—Gordon Nathanson was aware, though, that he did have an erection… And an all but uncontrollable urge to do it now!

Sitting between her thighs, “Okay, Mikey,” the mother and son looked outward, to the west. Towards Chicago.

Each lost within their own thoughts, Marsha wondered of Mitchell: Where’s he now? What’s he doing now? Is he thinking of me now? While the fifteen-month-old baby, actually unaware of any thoughts, wondered at the warm, blue stuff up there and the wet, green stuff down here.

Forcing his eyes from the young woman, looking to the water also, concentrating, he waited for his erection to subside…

When it did, before standing, looking about to see if any of the now, three other people on the two blankets were looking in his direction. But too far away in any case, probing with his fingers, lifting the sewn in bathing suit supporter— which was needed otherwise ‘he’ would noticeably dangle, the man pulled upward adjusting his now flaccid penis.

Softly spoken…

“Hello.”

Public school in session for another four days, it was too early in the season for any old familiar faces and other than a few curt nods from a couple of women that had seen Marsha on the beach, weather permitting, day after day, no one had acknowledged her and she was not too sure that anyone was speaking to her now.

The sun at her back, the shadow was cast across the blanket.

“Hi, there!”

Gordon tried again, going to the other side of the blanket.

“Hi, There!”

Looking up, “Oh…”

By Marsha’s reckoning the man was at least as old as her father and other than being exceptionally thin, in a small way reminded her of Eli.

The man had a kind, gentle face and, as her father, a prominent nose. Unlike her father, the man has dark eyes and black streaked gray hair. His chest and legs were covered with fine, sun bleached, near white hair. His spindly legs, almost comically, poked from his loosely fitting bathing trunks.

“…sorry. I didn’t realise you were talking to me.”

“No, no, it’s okay! No need to be sorry.”

Close up Gordon thought her even prettier than from a distance. Standing above as he was he was able to see the crevice and upper swell of her moderately sized breasts. Which of course did not matter, but the fact she was pretty certainly added icing to the cake.

“I’ve seen you here, at the beach, and you always seem so lonely that I thought I’d just come on over and say hello.”

Before she could respond, he added, “You seem so young...” making conversation, “...is this your baby?”

“Oh, yes! This is Mikey… Mikey, say hello to the man.”

Looking up, smiling, Michael gurgled his rendition of “Hello.”

Standing at the outter fringe of the blanket, smiling at Michael’s smile. “Hi, Mikey! Squatting, Gordon gently squeezed the baby’s chin. “Your baby’s beautiful. I’ve two of my own, you know; grown now.”

“Thank you… Boys?”

“Huh?”

Your children; are they both boys?”

“Oh, no. One of each. Hal, uh, he’s almost twenty-four and Marge is, uh… Oh, God! How time flies! My daughter’s thirty. They’re both on their own now, you know.”

A frown replacing his smile, Gordon became reflective. “Hal lives in New York and Marge is… uh, someplace else.”

“We used to live in New York, too, Mister, uh…?”

“ ‘Nathan’. My Name’s Nathan, but you if like you can call me ‘Nate’.”

“Hi, Nate! I’m Marsha… Here,” patting the blanket, “why don’t you sit down.” Edging sideways, bringing Michael with her, moving to the far edge of the blanket she made room for the man.

“Thank you, Marsha, don’t mind if I do.” Actually sitting more on sand than blanket, he crossed his legs.

Facing Nate, the sun at her back, “Mitchie and me—he’s my husband—we used to live in New York when we were first married, in a place called Seagate, off Coney Island. You ever been there, uh, New York City, I mean.”

“New York City? Yes, many years ago. Your husband…” Supporting himself with his arms spread outward and backward, leaning back, the man looked downward, “I haven’t seen him on the beach with you and Mikey.”

“No, Mitchell’s… uh,” her eyes following his eyes…

****

When Marsha Goldman was eight or nine years old, occasionally some gawky, gangly legged boy, usually right here at the beach, would inadvertently allow his penis to show through the gap of his wide legged shorts or bathing trunks.

Being young girls and being, to say the least, curious, Marsha and her girlfriends would, of course, look and rather than embarrass the boy—or stop the show—once away, ‘J’ya see it? J’ya see Donnie’s whatchamacallit?’

As boys ‘did’ have ‘something’ to be seen the girls would compare notes and laugh, unaware, though, that every now and then, although, truly, not nearly as often as the boys, some gawky, gangly legged girl would inadvertently allow her vulva to show through the gap of her wide legged shorts or bathing suit.

Being young boys—until they’re ninety—and being, to say the least curious, but unlike the girls, not sure if they were seeing just a crease of flesh or something else, the boys would try not to stare and rather than embarrass the girl—or stop the show—once away the boys would compare notes and as boys take these things ‘much’ more seriously than girls…

‘J’ya see ‘it’?’ They’d ask in tones of pure wonder. ‘J’ya see…’

As she was always the gawkiest and gangliest, often it was…

...’Marcie Goldman’s whatchamacallit... I think?”

But now…

Quickly moving her eyes upward, It’s by accident, Marsha thought. He doesn’t know it’s out.

If it ‘was’ by accident Marsha did ‘not’ want to embarrass the man. Also, her inbred respect for elders forbidding her to say anything rude. Pretending she does not, did not see it…

“My husband and I…”

But whether it was or was not by accident. Whether Nate did or did not know, her instincts taking over…

“...he’s a salesman and hasn’t been able to get away till now, and he’ll be here later… ‘Today’.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

Intently watching Marsha’s face, Gordon had noticed what he considered to be a ‘lingering’ look—the downward and rapid up shift of her eyes along with the change in the tone of her voice…

She’s seen ‘me’! He thought excitedly…

The thought that this ‘so’ young, ‘so’ beautiful woman had seen ‘it’ and was ‘so’ shocked aroused him even further... And he engorged even further.

“I’ll bet...” Nate said matter-of-factly, “...you can’t wait to see…?”

Moving his extended arms further backward, leaning back the gap in the thighs of his trunks widened.

“What did you say your husband’s name is?”

“Uh, Mitchell.”

Not sure that what was happening was ‘really’ happening, and not wanting to look in any case but wanting, ‘having’ to prove this was not what it looked like, Marsha’s eyes once again were drawn downward, where…

****

Restraining himself publicly for the first thirty-three years of his life, Gordon Nathanson—from the time Marjorie was eleven and Harold five—exhibited himself only to his children until seventeen years ago when he went ‘public’, exhibiting his reedy, albeit—in Gordon’s opinion ‘magnificent’ extremely long penis to unsuspecting women and in particular to young girls throughout the city of Detroit where he’d been dubbed ‘The Snake Man’ by the Detroit Police Department, who had been on the lookout for him for almost sixteen years.

While on his yearly vacation with his plump wife, ‘Harriet’; while at the beach— in order to effectively hide himself or his compulsion to show himself, Gordon wore a size extra large athletic supporter in addition to the sewn in support of his, purposely, loose legged bathing trunks.

Sitting with Harriet at this beach over the past six days, seeing Marsha. Watching Marsha he fought the urge to treat this young woman to the sight of himself…

On this morning… At this time being three hours from checkou at the ‘Emerald Isle Hotel’ and the long drive to the wealthy Detroit suburb where he and Harriet lived.

Hoping Marsha would be at the beach as she had for the last number of days, Gordon had ‘physically’ convinced Harriet to remain and pack allowing Gordon to go on by himself.

So he could show…

A moment ago it had only been the glans and an inch or two of his penis that Marsha had seen...

Now about six inches of extended, obscenely pink flesh was exposed and…

“Oh, my God!” Marsha said aloud as…

Spasmodically jerking outward as though attempting to free itself from the restraint of his trunks…

...As though hypnotised before her eyes Nate’s’ penis— appearing as a slim, one-eyed pink snake slithered outward till it lay extended near midway to his knee.

****

Other than her son, if he had to urinate and those little boys of so long ago, who did not have erections, Marsha had seen only her husband’s penis in an extended state.

But the size of her husband’s was—so he had told her and so, to the best of his knowledge it was—average, but in comparison to this man’s penis Mitchell’s was…?

She ‘and’ Mitchell had occasionally joked about the size of it. She saying, jokingly, ‘It’s a teensy weensy weenie’.”

He, of course, knowing his was the only adult penis Marsha had ever seen, especially in a state of arousal, had, jokingly, told her, “No, baby, I am ‘definitely’ a man of gigantic proportions!”

Once, driving on Touhy Avenue on the north side of Chicago, as they’d passed a ‘Steinway Piano’ store where a banner was on display in the window announcing ‘A piano and organ exchange’, Mitchell had jokingly suggested he go inside and have his organ exchanged.

However, through this joking banter between husband and wife, in times of passion, and there ‘were’ times of passion.

Though Marsha could not find it within herself to take ‘him’ into her mouth or display noteworthy signs of passion, quietly she ‘always’ loved the more than substantial length and width of her husband’s penis and when... ‘Mitchie, fuck me’! She would feel the length and width of ‘him’ glide into and within her vagina, ‘I love you’, the wife would whisper into the husband’s ear and for the husband, usually that was enough.

****

Knowing Marsha was openly staring, “Your husband…” Gordon said, glancing about once again to be sure none of the now nine people on the beach were looking in their direction. But only yards from the water, there was no one behind and sitting directly in front Marsha, unintentionally was hiding what he was displaying. “…what’s he sell?” Continuing the conversation as though nothing was happening. “Everything is so expensive nowadays...” His entire penis and scrotum fully exposed and, “...It’s got to be pretty hard to support a wife and baby nowadays,” the man said in an—to Marsha—infuriatingly matter-of-fact voice.

Shaking her head. Closing and opening her eyes to be sure this was really happening: A man—who was old enough to be her father, who in a small way even resembled her father—was sitting directly in front of her making everyday conversation. Asking everyday questions about herself and her family as all the while he was nonchalantly exposing himself.

The unbelievable, surrealistic scene before her eyes suddenly becoming real. The lump of anger in her throat having the taste of vomit. Making no pretence of her abhorrence of him and repugnance at what he was doing…

Compelled her eyes to shift from the man’s loathsome penis to his bland appearing face.

The expression on Marsha’s face changing from incredulous shock to utter abomination…

Which, of course, was the same look Gordon Nathanson had seen on the faces of the hundreds of women and girls he’d molested in somewhat this same manner. Which of course was ‘exactly’ what Gordon Nathanson wanted, because Marsha’s look of revulsion far from abrading, rather further stimulating him lifting his penis, holding it from beneath and actually waving the snake’s head at Marsha, “You love my cock...” he said in a strange, sandy voice “... you want to hold my cock, don’t you, Marsha!”

“ ‘Hold it’?” she said incredulously. “No! God, ‘no’! You’re disgusting!”

Standing, scooping her baby from the blanket, causing him to cry. “We’re getting out of here...”

Having no way of knowing how many women, girls and Detroit Police officers agreed with her…

“We’re getting out of here you sick, perverted, nauseating ‘bastard’!” Marsha snarled. “They ought to lock you up!” Her voice rising. “They ought to put you in a god-damned looney bin and throw away the god-damned key!”

As Gordon was only sitting on the edge of the blanket, using her adrenaline pumped strength, Marsha was able to yank it from beneath him.

Shoving her arm through the strap of the diaper bag, spitting out, “You perverted son-of-a-bch!” Not bothering to fold the blanket or towels, bunching them under her arm her son in her other arm, Marsha Lipensky stormed off the beach.

From the time Gordon Nathanson sat on the blanket, the entire incident had taken no longer than five minutes and though the few people sitting about had heard the young woman’s rising voice, all wanting some degree of privacy on this sparsely populated beach had spaced their blankets far from their closest neighbour, and between the babble of some of their children, the lapping of water and the rustling of wind in the tall grass of the embankment, unable to make out the words or understand what Marsha was saying, those on the closest blankets sat up and watched as Marsha jumped to her feet, gathered her belongings and baby and rushed from the beach.

Shifting their gaze to the elderly man that still sat cross legged on the sand. Those looking watched for a moment, then went back to their reading, dozing or keeping an eye on their children.

Still unbelieving, “My God!” Marsha muttered as she trudged through sand and up the incline of the beach access. “Oh, my God!”

Catching her breath only after placing Michael in his buggy, Marsha realised—as old world explorers eventually brought plague to the natives of virgin lands — Marsha realised that Gordon ‘Nate’ Nathanson had become the despoiler of Marsha Goldman’s paradise, and Marsha Lipensky knew that the paradise of her youth now existed only in mind and memory.

Be it the loss of her utopia, or the encounter with Gordon Nathanson in her utopia, the realisation caused more than merely anger…

The realisation caused an insurmountable sadness, and Marsha Goldman Lipensky cried.

 ****

Having past experience, he knew the best way to make an exit was by being nonchalant.

Ignoring the looks of whomever might be looking in his direction, still seeing, still savouring the look of disgust on the young woman’s face, his hand hiding the long cylinder of hardened flesh that showed from beneath his trunks, turning to the water Gordon Nathanson sat in the sand for the two minutes it took for the blood that engorged the cells and chambers of his penis to reverse.

Going to his blanket. Gathering his belongings then hurrying to the next access, Gordon left the beach.

 ****

Wanting to be someplace away from Detroit for his spring vacations, Gordon and Harriet Nathanson had first come to Union Pier, Michigan, in 1955.

Hesitant to use a beach near the Emerald Isle Hotel, where they always stayed, afraid he might do something he hadn’t the power to stop and later be recognised, Gordon told his wife it was too crowded at nearby beaches and that he’d found a much quieter beach a few miles away, in neighbouring Lakeside.

With the help of more slaps and punches then she cared to remember, Harriet Nathanson had long since learned to give in to the whims of her perverted husband and knowing why, she’d dejectedly agreed to go to whatever beach Gordon suggested.

Her husband’s perversion had driven the boy from their home by the time he was seventeen, and Marjorie when she was fifteen. They did hear from Harold every now and then, but the girl, never. Seemingly Marjorie had disappeared from the face of the earth.

Harriet Nathanson had three fears: One, that one day she would learn of the death of her daughter. Two, that one day the police would discover and arrest her husband and three, that they would not.

****

“Dotty!”

“Marsha?” Seeing the dismayed, highly distraught look on her face, the older woman hurried from behind the counter. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, God! The most horrible thing just happened to me!”

“Come here!” Taking the buggy and wheeling it into the store, Dorothy led Marsha to a chair. “Sit! Now tell me! What’s the matter?”

“Some disgusting man—an older man—on the beach, he, uh, he showed himself, it…” pointing to her crotch, “...to me.”

“Oh, God! ‘Not again’!”

Shocked, Marsha looked at the older woman. “ ‘Again’? Dotty, what do you mean, ‘not again’?”

 Next FBOW excerpt in sequence “A Bad Dream”