284
Chapter Twenty-Six
Flappers
Cincinnati, Ohio September 24, 1920
Wild Indian Cafe & Bar
11:23 PM
Charleston rhythm.
One first steps back with the right foot and then kicks backward with the left foot…
Sweating now, shirt undone to the third button as Agie, kicking forward, the Flapper gown opening to mid thigh showing creamy white flesh.
...while the right arm moves forward. Then the left foot steps forward, followed by the right foot…
Shirt sleeves no longer buttoned. The loosened cuffs crawling up and down his sweat slicked arms.
..which kicks forward while the right arm moves backward. This is done with a little hop in-between steps and the foot swiveling.
The mind bending music seemingly swaying from above, from below, from side to side. The energy radiating from the sweat moistened bodies enveloping the huge room as if a mist from a frantic semi-religious ever moving, ever kicking, twisting and gyrating African produced trance.
Agie… Oh, my God! Breaking from him: legs kicking, arms waving, breasts flashing from within the now loosened blouse. Agie… Oh, my God! Sensuous! Erotic! Coming into sight. Moving from sight as another had comes forward with toes-in, heels-out, twisting and heel-kicking.
The roaring band rapping out the beat, the trombone slurring the black mans shrieking words blaring trough the megaphone:
“You many not be able to buck and wing
Fox-trot, two-step, or even swing”
Caroline, Caroline, At last they've got you on the map
With a new tune, a funny blue tune, with a peculiar snap!If you ain't got religion in your feet
You can do this prance and do it neat
Charleston! Charleston! Made in Carolina
Some dance, some prance, I'll say, there's nothing finer
Than the ‘Charleston’, ‘Charleston’.”
11:43 PM
The musical tempo changing. The motion of a hundred-fifty or more arms and legs and feet shifting rapidly into a different type prance.
The ‘Shimmy’, the ‘Black Bottom’ or just kicking and twisting; breath coming in short gasps, needing to sit, to cool off, breathing heavenly. “Baby…” arms about her waist, slowing, the repeating rhythmic movement surging throughout her body “...I’ve got to sit!” Holding her hand to his heart pounding, sweating, chest.
Slowing. Agie’ body Slowing as though an old “Model T’ huffing to a stop.“Me, too, honey.” Doing something neither the husband or wife would ‘ever’ think she would do in public. Holding his hand onto her heart thumping, sweating, nude chest. “I’ve got to sit, too.”
Back at the table they’d been assigned upon entering the ‘Wild Indian’ — Their four martini glasses still sitting empty as though asking to be refilled. Leaning back in their chairs, legs spread before them, flapping linen napkins somewhat cooling their sweat drenched faces— watching the leg kicking, body twisting movement of the crowded mass of people prancing before them as allowing their breathing to return to somewhat normal.
Nodding to the empty glasses, silently asking— because more than likely he’d not be heard above the musical roar— if she’d like another drink.
Looking into his eyes. Shaking her head, ‘no’. As — the wanton atmosphere, the two huge martinis, the barely disguised group sexuality, or simply that twenty-eight year old Agnes Longstead, AKA Agnes Pink was one sexually deprived, passionate woman that truly loved her husband and wanted none other, as, taking his head within both hands urging the side of his face alongside her mouth. “No. Do not want another drink, I want you to take me to our room and to bed, because, Morrie, my husband, I want us to…” spoken forcefully, passionately “...be naked together and to have you…” tightening her hands about his face “... inside me!”
Sensing a twitch in both heart, and penis, well aware that what he felt was far in excess of his, ‘accepted martial duty’.
The fifteen dollars left on the table well covered the two dozen oysters, the steaks and two martinis each, along with a two dollar tip.
Departing the Wild Indian Cafe & Bar...
Considering that, ‘more than likely’, they would have a brand new Hudson to drive the sixteen miles from Cincinitti back to Loveland in. And considering, ‘more than likely’, they would have consumed two or, ‘more than likely’, three martinis, and not willing to drive their expensive new Hudson motorcar while in ‘any way’ a ‘compromised condition’— to say nothing of their newly confirmed, going far beyond their past ‘amorous’ prodding— Mister and Mrs Pink had reserved a room in the Broadstreet Hotel, two doors east of the Wild Indian.
Notation:
As origin of the term ‘flapper’ is unknown, it has been assumed to have originated in Great Britain before World War I, when it might have been used to describe gawky young teenage girls.
After the war, the word become synonymous with the new breed of 1920s women who bobbed their hair above their ears, wore skirts that skimmed their knees, smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol while dancing in jazz clubs, always surrounded by admiring male suitors.
In August 1920, women’s independence took a giant step forward with the passage of the 19th Amendment, giving them the right to vote.
The 1920s also brought Prohibition, the result of the 18th Amendment, ending legal sales of alcohol.
Combined with an explosion of popularity for jazz music and jazz clubs, the U.S. readily became set for speakeasies, which offered illegally produced and distributed alcohol.
The classic image of a flapper is that of a stylish young party girl. Flappers smoked in public, drank alcohol, danced at jazz clubs and practiced sexual freedom that shocked the Victorian morality of most in America.
Flappers were famous, or infamous, depending on one’s point of view for their ‘devil mat care’ attire as they threw away their corsets in favor of bras and lingerie; wearing fashionable flapper dresses of shorter, calf-revealing lengths and lower necklines, though not typically form-fitting: Straight and slim was the preferred silhouette.
These young ladies of the early 20s wore high heel shoes and joyfully applied rouge, lipstick, mascara and other cosmetics and also favored shorter hairstyles like the bob.
Broadstreet Hotel
11:53 PM
Walking up the flight of stairs taking them to their second floor bedroom. “Mind if I got a ‘bob’?”
“A ‘bob’?”
“Yeah…” reaching behind and fluffing her still sweat dampened long hair “...flappers wear their hair m what they call the modern way. I think it looks cooler and...”
Onto the second floor landing. “Different.”
“Yeah, honey.” waiting as he unlocked the door. “It does look different and I love it.”
“Who am I to say no to a lady that goes around breaking men’s noses?”
Aw, come’ on…” lightly punching his shoulder “...it was ‘only’ that one time!” Smiling. “And don’t forget, I knocked his teeth out, too.”
Entering the single electric bulb lit room: Morrie’s slacks hanging below his noticeably protruding stomach. His jacket, slung over a shoulder hanging by a thumb. His once white shirt, now sweat stained and thoroughly wrinkled, open to his navel revealing a sparsely covered, dark haired chest.
Morrie’s somewhat round, ruddy complected, blue eyed face still the face that then, at their first meeting at National City Bank on May 3, 1915, with her within Tellers compartment number three, and the man with a name she could not pronounce on the other side, Agnes Longstead had sensed something different and protective and trusting about this man, this Morris Pinowskiz that, weirdly, upon first sight Agnes Longstead had fallen in love...
...Had fallen so completely in love, that the very next nigh, given an opportunity — horny, virginal, twenty-three year Agnes Longstead had attempted to seduce thirty-two year old Morris Pinowskiz, and had failed miserably.
What was so different about this man. This man that Agnes ‘trustingly’ fell in love with — and was ‘never’ to discover — Morris was a wanted European jewel thief, on the run from German detectives, that had used, and even married Agnes to help facilitate his safe escape to ‘somewhere’ in Mid-America with the fortune obtained from an illicit sale of the eight moderate sized, but perfect diamonds he had stolen from the high-end jewellery store where he had worked as a, perfectly, English speaking German salesman in Berlin, Germany.
Did Morris love Agnes? When he met Agnes — aware that there was something pleasantly different about this woman— Morris felt that he did love her. But fear of capture was constantly his chief concern, and then when Agnes instigated a sexual tryst and he was unable to preform, then again in the their sleeper car during the train ride from New York City to Cincinitti eroded something deep within his sexual psyche.
However, it hadn’t been until their meeting with the banker, Mr. W.E. Forester of Loveland National Bank on the mid-morning of 5/7/15 when…
“Make it fourteen-hundred even, and you’ve a deal!” Agie said, negotiating a good deal, making it an even better deal, when Morris, then, Morris Pink began to appreciate the drive and superior intelligence of the woman that as of three days earlier had become his wife.
Throughout the five years of their marriage there were times when Morris knew he did love Agnes, as the times of their life’s together were more than merely satisfying and financially productive, that in all honestly, without the slightest compunction the husband give all credit to his wife.
Having no idea why the desire for physical love did not reveal itself for, and to both himself and his wife.
But not until this day; near five and a half years after their marriage, seeing Agie three aisles over working in the chisel, screwdriver aisle, as the opening of a valve, Morrie had an overweening desire to love, and to make love with his wife, when earlier on this day...
In a move he’d never considered before, softly spoken. “Hey, baby..” Coming from behind Agie in the chisel, screwdriver aisle, arms about her upper stomach; so unlike her husband, genteelly cuddling both breasts.
Broadstreet Hotel
11:56 PM
Crossing the room, standing alongside the bed, having no problem pulling her damp flapper gown over her head,“Whew, still so hot...”’ as the neckline was more than wide enough to allow for the swaying movement of both breasts “...going to take a shower.”
The muted sound of music coming through a cracked window from the Wild Indian two doors to the west. Standing within the dull light of the one electric bulb, now in but bra panties and diaphanous lingerie. “What are you waiting for?”
Padding into the small bathroom, reaching behind the shower curtain and turning both knobs, adjusting the water temperature. “You going to get naked, or what?”
Pulling the shirt over his head, stepping out of his slacks and taking his underpants with, stepped out of both. Possibly unsure of his humanistic, physical reaction, possibly as a secondary stall. “Uh...” he asked “...you’ve any soap?”
“Of course, silly!” Reaching into her overnight bag perched on top of the toilet tank, she came up a bottle of liquid soap and wash cloth.
Slowly unbuttoning the five buttons holding the bra closed, let it fall to the floor, removing the lingerie then, balancing on one foot then the other, pulled her panties off her hips, down her legs and off her feet.
In the light, yellowish glow of one electric light bulb the wife stood fully naked before her husband.…
Oddly enough, throughout the years of their marriage neither had witnessed the other fully nude.
Now, within the dull glow of one electric light bulb the — possibly in the light of day, minus the two martini's and wild, flesh showing dancing in time with the pounding music the illusion would be far different.
Most likely. However, to the husband the beauty, the undiluted beauty of his Agie... The erotic beauty of this woman overcoming the sliver of ambivalent reluctance that had festered within his sexual psyche all these years had now dissolved.
Seeing her husband’s rapid rise from flaccid to rigidly erect, the tempo of the moist warmth of her own passion further increasing, holding the shower curtain aside, placing one leg after the other, Agie carefully, slowly stepped into the tub.
Watching the long sway of her breasts and the dark fissure within the careful movement of is wife’s legs, mentally witnessing a need he had never before experienced, Morrie, following his wife, stepped into the bathtub and drew the shower curtain.
Warm water streaming onto Agie onto Morrie, their bodies tightly encircled by four arms with hands clasped onto Agie’s buttocks, onto Morrie’s buttocks.
Feeling the soft flow of soap slicked breasts onto his chest’
Feeling the pointed probe of his penis hard against her thigh.
Mouths together. Kissing a kiss they had never before kissed.
His hand rubbing the hairy mound of her vulva, probing fingers parting the petals of her lubricious channel...
Straining into the probe of his finger. Slowly moving one hand fore and back along the warm, hard shaft. The nails of Agie’s other hand tightening into the soft flesh of his buttock, urging Morrie even closer.
Breaking the kiss. Lowering his head, holding a breast from beneath, bringing it to his lips, along with streaming water drew an elongated, tightly constricted nipple deeply into his mouth.
Oh, God! Not knowing if she’d thought or said the words.
‘I love you!’
Their words but thoughts within both minds.
‘I love you!’
Moving from his hand, and mouth, wet soapy breasts to chest, hugging tightly. then, “Turn around, honey.”
Agie’s breasts reluctantly pulling from Morrie’s chest… The two stood, without words for seconds, until hands upon both shoulders, the wife urged the husband to turn about.
Cuddling closely onto his back, the soapy wash cloth gently massaging
from neck to— encircling the cloth about her husband’s penis, tightening her hand, the wife, forcing her hand to remain still, fought the urge to massage... then moved the cloth to to his thighs.
“Better get out of here…” Agie said “...before we become waterlogged.”
Standing outside the bathtub, each watching the other, as, drying themselves. “Ready to go to bed?”
Barely heard through the slightly open window.
‘Charleston’, ‘Charleston’.
“I am, sweetheart! ‘I am’!”
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293
Chapter Twenty-Seven
1929: The Depression
