Slow Hand (8 page)

The woman is almost eighty, after all, and Jonathan said he rarely played, but they beat us handily. I played poorly, which is unusual, but I was thinking much more about how I hoped Jonathan liked my long tan legs in my short tennis dress than about watching the ball. Luckily it was too hot to play for too long, and we went back to the house for bathing suits because Carolyn wanted to show me the swimming hole. Her mom opted to stay and mix up chicken salad, and Jonathan came with us to swim. Despite the heat, the water temperature was subfreezing so Carolyn and I only jumped in and out and then sat on a rock in the sun and talked. Jonathan stood in the water stomach-deep and cooled off his oversized physique, and I pretended to be engrossed in Carolyn’s boring tales of their childhood summers.

The hot day wore on till it was time for an agreed-upon
nap. It was about 2:00 P.M., and the guests were due at 5:30. Carolyn went downstairs to her bedroom, and I went upstairs and fell on my bed naked. I couldn’t really sleep wondering where Jonathan was and listening for signs of him on the stairs. It crossed my mind that masturbating would relieve some of the tension I felt, but I didn’t know if I really wanted to let go of it and besides the bedsprings were so creaky. Instead I fantasized about what it would be like if he walked in and took me in his arms and licked me all over. I became so aroused, I had to have some relief, so I licked my fingers and tweaked my straining, diamond-hard nipples, then ran them down my front to the moist fuzzy outskirts of my clit. I pressed it hard then in gentle circles. Within seconds I felt the wonderful spasms of relief all through my body to my toes. I hoped I hadn’t gasped too loudly. I rolled over pressing my breasts to the cool cotton sheets, happy that I could make myself feel so good, and fell asleep.

When I awoke I was sweating and disoriented. I was worried I had slept through the party. I pulled on my bathing suit and went downstairs to look for a clock. The one on the mantle said 4:30. Jonathan was in the far corner of the living room reading, and he looked up. “Aren’t you ever going to get dressed?” he said smiling. “Oh, yes, I mean I just came down to see what time it was. I fell asleep, and I thought it might be later,” I managed. “Why SHOULD she get dressed?” his mother, unexpectedly charging around the corner, boomed. “If I looked that good in a bathing suit, I’d never take it off. She isn’t chubby like you and me, Jon,” she added. Jonathan blushed visibly and mumbled something about taking a shower. He brushed by me, and I wanted to hug him and show him that we were allied against rude mothers and tell him I would never embarrass him like that, but, of course, I just stepped out of the way. Then Mrs. Steele started again, “Come help me put out the hors d’oeuvres, my dear. Carolyn’s out looking for my cat who has been missing all day. She’ll be back when she’s found her.”

I grabbed a vegetable platter and some Boursin and crackers and put them on coffee tables, and then I fraternized with
the enemy a bit, she was after all my hostess, and went upstairs to dress.

I came down in my black and white polka-dotted jumpsuit (once, someone at another summer place had called it a “clown suit,” but I thought it very chic) and gold sandals. Carolyn’s uncle, who’s a preeminent Chinese scholar and his wife had arrived. Carolyn was with them on the deck in a wonderful rust-colored handkerchief dress (she did have style), and she introduced us and told us to help ourselves to drinks. I was getting ice cubes out of the bucket when a large group of cousins came in the door shrieking and kissing. I reached for the vodka and tonic and went out to the Chinese scholar who recently had a building at Harvard named for him. He was very old, and his wife was ensconced with the cousins, so I sat near him and asked him questions about our surroundings. We talked at great length, and Mrs. Steele came by on several occasions and whispered offers of replacing me so I could “mingle,” but I was very content

I could see Jonathan across the crowded deck, and he looked uncomfortable even though it was his chance to shine about his documentary, with its initial broadcast on public television due in a month. Carolyn herself was madly mingling and soon started opening cards and gifts. The aged Chinese scholar talked about how he missed Carolyn’s father because he had had such a good mind, which would be refreshing at occasions like this. Then he started to nod off, and I decided to find a bathroom. When I emerged the party was delightfully dispersing except for one maiden aunt who was invited to eat duck and play bridge with us later, “because Carrie never likes to play.” I guess it was assumed that Jonathan and I would. Carolyn seemed locked in conversation with a Connecticut cousin, so I scurried around the kitchen and helped get the meal set out on the dining room table.

The duck was superb, which was surprising. Mrs. Steele was a good artist, but her kitchen here, and in Cambridge, had none of the inviting signs of an accomplished cook. The bridge was fun, too, and we all fell into an amusing round of harmless gossip while Carolyn cleaned up. Then, just when I was starting
to feel at ease with Carolyn and her family, she announced she was retiring. It was only about ten, but she said she hadn’t slept well the night before, thanked us again for our birthday efforts, and descended to her bedroom. When the rubber ended, Mrs. Steele also retired, and Jonathan was asked to walk the aunt home. I wasn’t at all tired, but I did feel a chill of isolation and abandonment. I walked out on the deck and made a silent prayer that Jonathan would come home and keep me company. After a few very long minutes, the front door opened and shut, and I could hear him in the kitchen rustling around. The sliding door to the deck opened, he came out, sat down behind me, and lit a joint. I turned my chair around, and we stared at each other.

“Want some of this?” he offered as he held out the rolled cigarette. I hadn’t smoked dope in ages and I didn’t usually like it, but I didn’t want to offend him in any way so I reached for it and inhaled. “How did you like the Jesus freaks?” he asked. I looked confused, so he regaled me with a tale of cousins I had met earlier who had discovered the ways of Satan and had joined the First Assembly of God. I laughed and said I hadn’t noticed, but that I had that in my family too, and he laughed and we toked some more. He pointed out their house across the meadow, and we pretended to hear Satanic rituals being performed and laughed some more. He told me we should try to talk softly because his mother’s room had a window on the deck. I felt like we were naughty children sneaking around after the adults had gone to sleep, and it was forbidden and fun and the way I imagined it would be with a brother in the house. I had a sudden urge to lie down on the bench near his chair and put my head in his lap, but instead I asked if I could sip his ice water.

I drank it all, then offered to get some more from the kitchen. I was a bit tipsy, but I managed to get to the kitchen and had just opened the refrigerator door when I felt him behind me. He put his hand over mine and closed the fridge door. I turned around, and he sort of pinned me with his arms against it and kissed me in the most unforgettable way. First it was tentative and probing, then as we relaxed into it and found
our rhythm we simultaneously hugged and rubbed each other with our arms, still sucking on each other’s tongues and exploring for what seemed like a very long time. I guess some of it was the dope, but I honestly can say I had never kissed like that before. Jonathan took my face in his hands then my hand and led me over to a large comfortable chair in the living room. We collapsed into it and kissed more and more, and I could feel my whole body responding and aching for more. I took his hand and placed it on a breast, and he stopped kissing and looked to see where to put it. Then he gently pinched my nipple and stuck his tongue in my ear.

“You’re beautiful,” he groaned. I was panting, and I grabbed for his shirt and felt his smooth soft skin, and he moaned softly. Then he whispered in my ear: “You go upstairs first and open your door and close it and listen for me to come up and then sneak into my room.” I tried to sit up straight and unconvincingly said, “But, Jonathan, I don’t think we should do obscene things in your mother’s house.”

“We don’t have to,” he whispered, “but don’t you want to kiss some more?”

“Oh, yes,” I agreed. “Let’s.”

I followed his instructions about entering my room and listening for him, and then I quietly opened my door and crept down the hall to his room. He was lying on his bed with his shirt off, and I longed to rest my breasts on his chest. As if mind reading, he fumbled at the large buttons on the front of my jumpsuit until they opened. I was bra-less, and he rubbed my breasts, and we lay chest to chest for severed minutes. Then he said rather naively, “Did you ever expect that today would end up like this?” “I was hoping it would, weren’t you?” I asked. “Yeah, it’s just that Carrie and I don’t usually like the same people,” he explained. “It’s not as if she’s been particularly friendly today, so it’s nice that you are,” I murmured, as I reached down to rub his cock. “Mmmm,” he grunted as he helped me unzip his fly and put my hand on his throbbing erection. Then he took my hand off and said, “I might finish too soon, so let’s concentrate on you for a bit.”

He encircled my breasts and very slowly and softly stroked
my stomach and thighs. I felt very wet and juicy and almost cried out when he found my clit with one finger and put another up my vagina. He took that finger away and put it up to my lips to remind me to be quiet, and I could smell my female juices on his finger, which turned me on even more. He stuck his tongue in my mouth and we kissed some more, then his tongue followed the path his finger had made around my breasts and down my stomach to my overflowing cunt. He gently sucked on my clit and reinserted his finger, and I held onto his head while I lurched in an orgasm unknown to me. Waves of chills all the way to my toes seized my flailing body over and over again. When I was spent, I felt relaxed and happy and warm all over. He grazed gently on my front some more and rested his hand on my moist bush, and I reached over to his semihard penis. He took my hand and licked it and then put it back on his cock and I rubbed it slowly. “Touch my balls,” he requested softly, and he moaned when I grabbed them.

His cock was glistening with a few drops of sperm, and I could feel my excitement rising up again. I licked him the way he had me all down his front, and then I teased his tip until he begged me to take him. Still I ran my hand up and down his shaft and licked only the tip of his cock while he thrust himself into my mouth. I removed the penis and coddled it in the cleavage of my breasts. “Please, please,” he groaned, as I held him and rubbed him across my hard nipples, then put him back in my mouth, sucking up and down and carefully keeping my teeth out of the way. He found my clit again with a spare hand, and we writhed around together until I could taste his sperm. He was delicious, and I loved the Chinese food taste of him. We lay all wrapped up in each other for a very long time until I felt him reach for a clock. We looked at the glow-in-the-dark hands together. It was 3:30. I would be an utter wreck at the baseball game if I didn’t try for a few hours of sleep, but I couldn’t let go of him. He kissed me again, and we entwined tongues. Then he gently lifted me up in his arms and crept down the hall to my room. He lay me down on the bed and kissed my bush. “You have a beautiful pussy,” he said. I wanted
him again, but I knew we should stop. “So much for not doing obscene things in your mother’s house,” I whispered. “No penetration,” he said smiling. Then he was gone. I fell into deep satisfied sleep.

The next morning was a rush of showering, dressing, packing, morning salutations, thank-yous, and English muffins, with everyone at the breakfast table when I got there. Jonathan and I had our furtive exchanges, and when it was time to go, he walked me out to the car with my bag. He put the bag in the trunk and stood staring at me as I started the car. I rolled down the window and winked at him. “I sure hope you’re in the book,” he said. “Have a safe trip.”

“I am,” I replied. “Oh, brother,” I thought as I drove down the road.

AU
THOR’S NO
TE

There are relationships with strangers, and then there are strange relationships. In “Ninety-Three Million Miles Away” Barbara Gowdy mixes the two, adding, as well, a paradox: the intense intimacy of distance. It is across this space, she suggests, that we might find a singular opportunity to be most ourselves. While certainly an intriguing notion of itself, it is accompanied by another, equally provocative one—that most women have in them an instinctive streak of exhibitionism, which is, Gowdy posits, “a side effect of being the receptor in the sex act.” However, her concluding message, reminding us as it does that the sensation of feeling desire always carries with it the potential for surprise, is unassailable.

A
t least part of the reason Ali married Claude, a cosmetic surgeon with a growing practice, was so that she could quit her boring government job. Claude was all for it. “You only have one life to live,” he said. “You only have one kick at
the can.” He gave her a generous allowance and told her to do what she wanted.

She wasn’t sure what that was, aside from trying on clothes in expensive stores. Claude suggested something musical—she loved music—so she took dance classes and piano lessons and discovered that she had a tin ear and no sense of rhythm. She fell into a mild depression during which she peevishly questioned Claude about the ethics of cosmetic surgery.

“It all depends on what light you’re looking at it in,” Claude said. He was not easily riled. What Ali needed to do, he said, was take the wider view.