He was able to thrill her, and he was the first boy to manage this. In the limited petting she had done previously she had never been remotely excited. She had been neither fast nor slow, permitting this and prohibiting that intuitively, guessing at what the boy himself expected her to permit or prohibit. She had never enjoyed being touched or kissed. At times she had thought that no girl enjoyed it, that it was something one did — and pretended to enjoy — for the benefit of the boy. At other times she decided that this pleasure real enough for most people, but that it was denied along with access to the warm and intimate world others.
Carl, whose conversation at best bored her, whose appearance varied in her eyes from peculiar to near-ugly, was able to excite her beyond belief.
It was almost as though, when his mouth was on hers and when his hands were inside her blouse or under her skirt, he ceased to exist. He was not there at all for her. The hands on her breasts were disembodied. They were not hands at all; the warmth of her flesh, the urgent stiffening of her nipples, were simply happening.
It took him over a month to do more than kiss her chastely goodnight at her door. But from the first night he kissed her with passion she never considered denying him anything he wanted. Her capacity for refusal vanished instantly and permanently with the first utterly unexpected wave of excitement.
Yet it was six months more before he had coitus with her. She never once stopped him, and each time he managed to stop himself. Every night they were together he would go just the slightest bit farther than they had gone before, and she wondered years afterward if he had imagined himself a brilliant seducer, always moving closer and closer to that unattainable goal, never realizing that he could have her at any time simply by taking her.
As their weekly dates became more specifically sexual, they talked less, saw fewer movies. She preferred it this way. In his parked car, in darkness and silence, it was easier to tune him out and tune herself in. Their times together left her knotted with frustration which she was unable to recognize as such. She did not know that women had orgasms and mistook the tingling tension for ultimate sexual pleasure. Indeed, it was pleasurable for her; afterward she would feel vital and alive as she had never felt previously.
The pattern of their evenings together became as predictable and ritualized as a bullfight. He would park the car in the riverside park, and they would kiss and touch each other for a few minutes before moving to the back seat. There he would spend an hour undressing and exciting her, and then she would bring him to orgasm. He taught her to do this with her hands and sat back with eyes clenched shut while she stroked him rhythmically as he had shown her. A sudden intake of breath would warn her to be ready with the Kleenex.
Later she satisfied him between her breasts. Her breasts were not especially large (“One thing I can’t take is the type who looks more like a cow than a girl”) but neither were they small, and she would recline on the car’s back seat, knees high and upper body bared, while he crouched over her with his penis between her breasts.
“Hold ’em together, make it tight, oh that’s right—”
Finally there was a night when he tore the foil from an oiled prophylactic and pulled it on like a glove. Well, this is it, she thought, and lay back trembling. He had trouble entering her and cursed tonelessly. Then he was inside her, and there was pain, but hardly enough to think about, and then an instant later it was over and he was gasping and shaking upon her.
“Well,” he said. “Well, now.”
Later that night she was struck by the thought that this first time would surely be the last time as well. That it had been the pursuit he enjoyed, and that he would cease to be interested in the prize now that he had won it. The thought did not particularly bother her, although it seemed to her that it ought to. She knew she felt nothing like love for him, but she needed him in certain ways, didn’t she? There must have been a need that led her to give herself to him, and what could have happened in the act of giving to eliminate the need?
Perhaps she more than he was excited by the approach and disappointed by the arrival. They went out together five more times and had intercourse each time. On these occasions his own performance improved significantly. He sustained the act for a respectable amount of time and performed it with rather more flair. And yet each time she enjoyed it less. He had had the ability to drive her wild with excitement, and now, although she still drew pleasure from his lovemaking, her excitement was only a fraction of what it had been.
Toward the end, she began to withdraw mentally while they were making love. Previously she had blanked out her lover as a specific person. But now she blanked out the act itself and substituted fantasy. While he was astride her, his penis buried within her, her mind would entertain memories of when she had held him between her breasts.
And years later, when she thought of Carl, she would at once see him curled beside her in that car, wiping his seed from her neck and throat, then folding the tissue and putting it away. That was always the first and strongest image that came to mind when she thought of him. It was the most he had ever shown of tenderness, the closest approach he had ever made to concern, and she never forgot it.
She lit a cigarette and went over to the telephone. She lifted the receiver, poised herself to dial, and for a moment her mind lost the number completely. She could not even remember the area code. Then it came back and she dialed the number and her mother answered on the second ring.
She said, “Hello, Mom. How’s everything at home?”
“Linda! What a surprise.”
“I just thought I would call.”
“Dad and I were going to call you on Sunday. Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“I was just about to call your father for dinner. He’s out in the garage. We’ve been having a little trouble with the car.”
“I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Well, you could ask him. No use in asking me, for all I understand about mechanical objects. I seem to remember something about a wheel bearer or bearing, if there’s such a thing. I suppose Marc would know.”
“He probably would.”
“He’s still at the theater?”
“Yes. He’s going to be directing a show in the spring, if everything goes right.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. He’ll be the director.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’m glad he’s making progress. It’s a difficult business, isn’t it? The theater. You have to keep at it for years and years. The struggle to get ahead. Do you think — I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”
“What?”
“Oh, the usual question, I suppose.”
“There’s really no point in our getting married, Mother.”
“I know it, and I’m sorry I—”
“It would be different if we were living in Dayton, of course it would be different, but we’re not. But here nobody thinks about it.”
“You’d be surprised how many people aren’t thinking about it in Dayton. I suppose I’m old-fashioned.”
“I was married once, and so was Marc. Neither of us wants to rush into it again.”
“You don’t have to explain to me, Linda. I understand.”
“Well.”
“All that’s really important is for two people to love each other, isn’t it?”