PIT: The Fields 7

Points In Time

Woodland Hills, California

Saturday, May 10, 1986

4:20 p.m. 

Still to this day, Marsha Goldman Lipensky loved Stan Jacobson.

Marsha had not seen Stan since November of 1955,— one month before her marriage to Mitchell, and would have no idea what he might look like all these near thirty-two years past.

Would the Roosevelt High School star basket ball player still be as slim and as muscled and handsome as he’d been at seventeen years of age?

Was Stan still into the muscle building exercises that had made his nude body to — At the time fifteen year old Marsha Goldman loved to lie nude alongside Stan, running her hands over his blonde haired chest and onto his taunt stomach and noticeably muscled thighs and…

Marsha Goldman loved the sensation of his long penis as it grew to three times it’s relaxedstate as she held it in her hand… Or sometimes, at Stan’s request in her mouth.

Taking her virginity at age fourteen, Marsha Goldman loved the sensation of Stan Jacobson’s penis within her vagina as they made love; always, though with ‘protection,

“Hi!”

The television on, but completely unaware, Marsha Lipensky dozed in that extremely comfortable plateau.

“Hi!”

Glancing at Mitchell as he entered the room. Wordlessly bringing her attention back to the television, then doing a quick ‘double-take’. Her eyebrows moving upward, her eyes widening, Marsha stared at her husband for a slow three count, then, with a lip curling sign of disgust – that Mitchell so recognized – turned back to the television.

Looking at the back of her head, having noted the dismissive look on Marsha’s face as she’d stared those long moments; fighting an urge to look downward to see if he’d zipped his fly, but cycling shorts having no fly, wondering why the long look,he’d simply stared back.

Thinking he’d make one last stab at ending the current hostility between Marsha and himself although – planning on retrying to Elysium the next day, truly, hoping she wouldn’t.

“Would you care to go out for dinner?”

Receiving the answer he’d expected...

“Don’t want to go ‘anyplace’’ with you! Besides...” looking at him now, a thin smile twitching at her lips “...I made dinner.”

Having an idea what, but, “Yeah, what?”

“See for yourself!”

Going to the kitchen. On the stove was a congealed pot of ‘Kraft Macaroni’ which she knew he hated. Knowing what he would find, opening the refrigerator, laying on a platter were six salmon patties, which he also hated.

Knowing she knew macaroni and salmon paddies was his absolutely least liked food. Also knowing she made it to spite him,

“Thanks! I’ll ask you once more...” he called from the kitchen, “...you want to go out for dinner?”

No answer...

“Fine.” Truly meaning it. For the first time in the thirty-one years of their marriage, wanting her to remain angry. Actually hoping she’d remain angry, because tomorrow...

“I’m not eating here!”

“Don’t care what the hell you do, Mitchell.”

“I don’t care what the hell you do either, Marsha.”

“Fine! Then just leave me alone.”

“My pleasure, Marsha!”

Going into the bathroom, Mitchell Lipensky looked at himself in the mirror.

As...

Why? Marsha wondered. Why an I treating him like this? What the hell am I so angry about that I can’t just let it go?

Trying to recall: Did he say something? Did he do something? She couldn't remember what had started this — As so often had happened throughout the years of their marriage: her ‘unreasonable’, ‘unrelenting’ ‘continuing’ anger.

‘He’s a good guy’! Everyone seems to like him.’

‘He was a great dad!’ He was always doing stuff with the kids.’

‘He’s earning a decent living’…we’re living in a nice place.

‘I know he loves me’…

‘ I know that every now and then he’ll say or do something that ‘gets’ to me. But Mitchell is a guy and guys do and say dumb things every now and then…’

‘He’s still so damned good looking!’...

‘He’ll do anything and everything possible to make me ‘come’ when we’re fucking’…

‘So why am I always so God-damned angry and why can’t I ‘ever’ just ‘let it go’?

Why? Marsha Lipensky wondered.

Though not aware of ‘this…

‘This’ deeply buried, deeply hidden thought as a ball of unknown lead hiding withing the psyche of Marsha Goldman Lipensky.

Why?

Possibly because Mitchell Lipensky is ‘not’ Stanley Jacobson and the body of her husband is ‘not,’ or ‘ever’ was the lean, extremely muscular body of then seventeen year old ‘Stan’ Jacobson.

Also, even more deeply hidden within the furthermost recess of Marsha Lipensky’s soul …Why did I marry him...Twice, yet?

Marsha Lipensky does masturbate.

And when within the throes of her imagination the man she is with…

Marsha’s shadowy lover is extreme muscular.

In the deeply hidden passionate mind of Marsha Lipensky the man might be of indeterminate age but always with bulging muscles that…

Within her self induced heightening passion her fingers play over the thick veined bulging muscles of the man’s arms and onto his hard, muscle rippled stomach then…

The palm of her hand slickly coated with her bodily fluid, rubbing hard onto her vulva, fingers parting the now slick lips, Marsha’s palm rubbing hard onto her hypertrophied clitoris, as...

His thick, rock hard penis in her hand... In her mouth… In her…

Oh, my God, Marsh would think… Fuck me!...Fuck me!!! Fuck me!!!

****

Going into the bathroom, Mitchell Lipensky looked at himself in the mirror:

Extremely good-looking normally, even with the touch of grey sprinkled within his sideburns, looking years younger than his rapidly approaching fifty-second birthday.

Tanning easily, his face, arms and legs having a jump on it due to the hours he’d spent on his bicycle. Now, after five hours in the sun; the green of his eyes vividly brought out by the rich, deep tan of his face, Mitchell realized the reason for Marsha’s stare.

Removing his shirt and shorts, studying his nude reflection…

As he and his wife did share the same bedroom, Think I’d better not get undressed in front of her, he thought, looking at the now melding difference between the areas of his body that had been, somewhat, shielded from the sun.

Turning, looking over his shoulder at his backside...

If warm enough he often rode the bicycle minus his jersey – only his buttocks and the corresponding area in front— including his penis had a deep red blush that he knew would be giving him a bit of pain later in the evening.

Pulling the shower curtain, stepping into the shower stall he stood spread-eagled with his palms held flat onto the shower wall.

Tepid water cascading over his body, thoughts...

Thoughts of this fantastically beautiful day and thoughts of the fantastically beautiful place that he’d allowed his life to become a part of...

And, ‘of course’, thoughts of the people, the beautiful people that he had brought himself to...To become one of these people filled his mind...

Tepid water cascading over the back of his neck, down his back, through the fissure of his buttocks...

The beautiful people...

The dark haired, fairly attractive woman that, upon meeting, he thought of as a bit on the chubby side, that, the more he saw of, the more attractive she became and by the time they said ‘Goodbye’, Mitchell thought of Sandy as beautiful.

As for ‘chubby’? ‘Chubby’ was what he’d ‘always’ thought of as ‘his type of girl’ and later, before marrying an eternally thin woman, ‘chubby’ — a lady with a bit of meat on her bones had been his type of masturbatory woman...

At the time he’d done it spontaneously… Done it without thought, other than as a sign of affection; when he had, ‘platonic ally’ kissed Sandy’s breast...

Could Mitchell Lipensky ‘ever’ kiss a woman’s breast platonic ally? When he had kissed Sandy’s breast he knew that moment would return to him, and...

Standing spread-eagled with his palms held flat onto the shower wall, tepid water cascading over his body, thoughts of Sandy came to mind along with the warm touch of her breast to his lips...

Twitching upward. Blood pumping now. Millions of spongy cells filling now... Jerking now, standing rigidly forward now....

One hand pressed against the wall, now taking hold of himself.

Thoughts of this beautifully erotic day filling his mind. Thoughts of Sandy! Thoughts of Sandy and her soft, warm breast and the darkness at the intersection of her thighs and the slight, pink, furled lips there…

Did I fuck her? ‘

His mind going back to those minutes in the spa…

Did I fuck Sandy?

Arms about her chest, both hands holding both tits… her ass thumping onto me… My dick there! — imagination replaying —My dick into her cunt! Her hand ‘jacking’ Ken’s dick while Sandy and me fuck…

We fuck!

Bursting! The harsh, rapidly intake of breath drawing driblets of water into his mouth. The erotic beauty! The passion of this erotically beautiful day spasmodically burst from Mitchell Lipensky in a pulsing stream of near painful ejaculations.

Eyes closed. His normal intake of breath coming now.

Thoughts coming back to now, to here, to the — in his mind, the unforgiving, frigid, passionless woman his life was bound to.

I won’t let her spoil it! I don’t even care anymore! Let her stay angry! I want her to stay angry!

****

Purposely accentuating his tanned appearance, dressed in white shorts and shirt.

“I’m going now!”

Still – actually pretending to be engrossed in television – forcing herself not to look at or respond to Mitchell, Marsha did not respond.

Driving to the strip mall on Ventura Boulevard and Topanga Canyon, to a ‘kosher style’ delicatessen, Mitchell ordered a chocolate phosphate a pastrami on rye— which came with french fries and half a crispy kosher pickle.

Returning home...

Once again — neither having any idea…

Marsha not remembering… Mitchell wondering..

‘Why’?

Marsha and Mitchell Lipensky spent an emotionally cold, wordless night.

Topanga, California

Sunday, May 11, 1986 

Elysium Fields

9:48 a.m.

On this morning, not even making an excuse or saying where he was going— after a ‘self served’ cold cereal breakfast, dressed in fresh cycling shorts and jersey, hiking his bicycle back onto the bike-rack he simply left.

Stopping at the same delicatessen he’d had dinner at the evening before, Mitchell ordered a corned beef on rye to go.

Having seen a soft drink dispenser alongside the communal shower, he figured for two-bits he’d have a cold ‘Coke’ with lunch.

Disappointed because it wasn't Elsa.

Dressed in a solid purple caftan, looking up as he entered, “ ‘Morning!”

“ ‘Morning, Gwen.”

“You enjoyed your day here yesterday?”

“Yes, very much so. I’m here to, uh, I think I’d like to join.”

“Name was....?”

“ ‘Mitchell Lipensky’.”

Thumbing through four or five one day memberships… “Ah, yes... Just you?”

Remembering I had signed ‘Married’ under ‘Marital Status.’ “Now, yeah, but...” I answered, never imagining it would happen “...if my wife should decide to come here with me, can I add her to my membership later?”

“Not a problem. We much prefer couples.

“Most women will shy away from a place like this but just keep reminding her that we are ‘clothing optional’ and that she doesn’t have to get undressed unless she wants to."

Thinking, It’ll never happen. “Yeah, thanks, Gwen, I’ll be sure to tell her! What do I owe you now, though?”

“One year’s membership is ‘one-fifty’, but minus the fifteen you paid yesterday, that’ll be one hundred-thirty-five dollars now and if your wife decides to join, it’ll be another seventy-five for her.”

Writing a check, I handed it to Gwen.

So we don’t have people here that shouldn’t be here; each time you come here, to Elysium, come to the office first.”

Removing the hand stamp and ultra-violet stamp pad from the drawer…

“Hand!”

Hoping, of course, that Ken and Sandy would show up today, dropping the pannier, removing the beach towel, I planted myself in the same approximate place.

Today actually warmer than yesterday, and also, being Sunday, there were many more people present and, though still on the lookout for Ken and Sandy, still new to me, I spent a good part of the morning just watching people...

I sat watching naked people. Primarily, of course, naked woman people.

Yesterday — having the support of my missing friends, after a while I found it rather natural to be seen nude.

On this day, though, being alone, forcing myself, I walked to the tennis/volley-ball court, then the Jacuzzi, where there was an older woman with two children.

Leaving immediately, I walked across the entire length of the field feeling somewhat conspicuous to the pool where I dove in, swam a few lengths then stood, the backs of my forearms resting on the coping, watching, although attempting to look disinterested, I stood watching as one young couple came, swam and — with a few words of the beauty of this day, left.

Remaining in the water for about twenty minutes, about to head back to my spot on the grass…

Oh, God!

Next PIT # 8: The Black Girl