San?”
“Yes.” She was already in bed, reading.
“You’re getting a nice tan. Are you ready for a little something?”
“I think so.”
“Got your diaphragm in?”
“No, I forgot.”
“Where is it?”
“In the bathroom cabinet.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
“Okay.”
He came back and handed her the case, then looked the other way while she reached under the covers and inserted it. “Ready,” she said when it was in place. Norman turned out the light and climbed into bed beside her.
Rules and Regulations for a Norman Pressman Fuck.
The room must be dark so they do not have to look at each other. There will be one kiss, with tongue, to get things going. His fingers will pass lightly over her breasts, travel down her belly to her cunt, and stop. He will attempt to find her clitoris. If he succeeds, he will take it between his thumb and forefinger and rub. Too hard. He will roll over on top of her. He will raise himself on his elbows, and then . . .
Norman kissed her. He tasted like Colgate toothpaste. She hated Colgate. Question: Did she also hate Norman? Answer: Yes, sometimes.
Norman’s cold tongue was darting in and out of her mouth. One kiss. That was enough for him. Sandy didn’t mind. Her lip hurt. Besides, his kisses no longer pleased her, no longer offered any excitement.
“Ready, San?”
“Yes.” Sandy raised her hips to catch him. In and Out. In and Out. She closed her eyes and imagined herself with the beachboy. She would be on top, bouncing wildly. Almost thirty-two years old and never been on top. How unfair! Uh oh . . . Norman, was beginning his descent. Three more strokes and it would be over.
Hurry, Sandy . . . hurry, or you’ll be left out.
She moved with Norman but it was too late. No main course tonight.
“Sorry,” he said, “it’s been a long time. I couldn’t wait. Wake me in twenty minutes and we’ll try again.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sandy said.
Liar. Liar. Of course it mattered.
Norman used the bathroom. She heard him gargling. Was he afraid that her kisses still bore germs? He returned to his own bed, across the room. In seconds he was asleep, snoring softly. Sandy masturbated, continuing her fantasy with the beachboy. The climax she reached alone was stronger and more satisfying than any she had had with Norman. When she could breathe easily again she said, “Norman, do you love me?”
She knew he was asleep. She didn’t really expect him to answer. And he didn’t.
7
1 970. N OT ONLY A N EW Y EAR but a New Decade. When they returned from Jamaica Sandy was full of resolutions. She would learn to be a gourmet cook. She would get a slinky dress. She would become an outstanding mother of the year. She would clean out all the closets and organize them. She would make sure the baseboards were as clean as Norman claimed Enid’s were. She would read
Time
magazine from cover to cover and make interesting, occasionally startling, comments. She would devour three books a week from the library and only one of them would be fiction. She would be sexy. Yes, she would be very sexy. Always. Looking her best. Never in need of a shampoo. Shaving her legs before it was necessary. Dental floss between her teeth morning and night. Regular douches with vinegar, maybe wine vinegar for variety, and not just the morning after. She would please Norman in every way. If she made him happier, if she concentrated on his every wish, then she would be rewarded. She would become a happier person. A better person.
“Make his interests your interests. Make his friends, your friends. When he’s in the mood, you’re in the mood. Dress to please him. Cook to please him. What else matters? A happy husband is the answer to a happy life,” Mona Schaedel said to her daughters, Myra Suzanne and Sondra Elaine, December, 1954, upon the former’s engagement to Gordon Michael Lefferts, third-year medical student, excellent catch, who the night before had presented Myra
“Yes.” She was already in bed, reading.
“You’re getting a nice tan. Are you ready for a little something?”
“I think so.”
“Got your diaphragm in?”
“No, I forgot.”
“Where is it?”
“In the bathroom cabinet.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
“Okay.”
He came back and handed her the case, then looked the other way while she reached under the covers and inserted it. “Ready,” she said when it was in place. Norman turned out the light and climbed into bed beside her.
Rules and Regulations for a Norman Pressman Fuck.
The room must be dark so they do not have to look at each other. There will be one kiss, with tongue, to get things going. His fingers will pass lightly over her breasts, travel down her belly to her cunt, and stop. He will attempt to find her clitoris. If he succeeds, he will take it between his thumb and forefinger and rub. Too hard. He will roll over on top of her. He will raise himself on his elbows, and then . . .
Norman kissed her. He tasted like Colgate toothpaste. She hated Colgate. Question: Did she also hate Norman? Answer: Yes, sometimes.
Norman’s cold tongue was darting in and out of her mouth. One kiss. That was enough for him. Sandy didn’t mind. Her lip hurt. Besides, his kisses no longer pleased her, no longer offered any excitement.
“Ready, San?”
“Yes.” Sandy raised her hips to catch him. In and Out. In and Out. She closed her eyes and imagined herself with the beachboy. She would be on top, bouncing wildly. Almost thirty-two years old and never been on top. How unfair! Uh oh . . . Norman, was beginning his descent. Three more strokes and it would be over.
Hurry, Sandy . . . hurry, or you’ll be left out.
She moved with Norman but it was too late. No main course tonight.
“Sorry,” he said, “it’s been a long time. I couldn’t wait. Wake me in twenty minutes and we’ll try again.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sandy said.
Liar. Liar. Of course it mattered.
Norman used the bathroom. She heard him gargling. Was he afraid that her kisses still bore germs? He returned to his own bed, across the room. In seconds he was asleep, snoring softly. Sandy masturbated, continuing her fantasy with the beachboy. The climax she reached alone was stronger and more satisfying than any she had had with Norman. When she could breathe easily again she said, “Norman, do you love me?”
She knew he was asleep. She didn’t really expect him to answer. And he didn’t.
7
1 970. N OT ONLY A N EW Y EAR but a New Decade. When they returned from Jamaica Sandy was full of resolutions. She would learn to be a gourmet cook. She would get a slinky dress. She would become an outstanding mother of the year. She would clean out all the closets and organize them. She would make sure the baseboards were as clean as Norman claimed Enid’s were. She would read
Time
magazine from cover to cover and make interesting, occasionally startling, comments. She would devour three books a week from the library and only one of them would be fiction. She would be sexy. Yes, she would be very sexy. Always. Looking her best. Never in need of a shampoo. Shaving her legs before it was necessary. Dental floss between her teeth morning and night. Regular douches with vinegar, maybe wine vinegar for variety, and not just the morning after. She would please Norman in every way. If she made him happier, if she concentrated on his every wish, then she would be rewarded. She would become a happier person. A better person.
“Make his interests your interests. Make his friends, your friends. When he’s in the mood, you’re in the mood. Dress to please him. Cook to please him. What else matters? A happy husband is the answer to a happy life,” Mona Schaedel said to her daughters, Myra Suzanne and Sondra Elaine, December, 1954, upon the former’s engagement to Gordon Michael Lefferts, third-year medical student, excellent catch, who the night before had presented Myra
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