garage before he could begin shifting tools and those endless, heavy, odiferous sacks. At ten thirty, when Mrs.
Young drove off in her two-tone Dodge, Alicia came out.
“What a fabulous job you’ve done!” she exclaimed.
She dumped an entire bottle of bleach in the toilet, leaving it there while they scrubbed walls, windows and the warped floorboards. Mrs.
Young had granted them certain furniture stored in the garage loft.
After making the box springs and mattress, Alicia surveyed their quarters.
“When I hang a sheet in that corner to rig up a closet and put your books on the shelves, it’ll be perfect.” Her face glowed with a light film of sweat and happiness.
Barry didn’t know what to say. His requirements, to his own mind, were modest; he hadn’t been reared in architectural splendors like his cousins, but God knows one needn’t have grandiose expectations to want better than a scuzzy lavatory and the ineradicable stink of manure.
That night she returned after nine, bringing with her the scent of hand lotion. He was at the table studying for the following day’s poli-sci quiz. Bending over him, she circled his throat with her arms, drawing his head back against those voluptuous breasts. He got up for a welcome-home hug, not intending anything sexy—he still had to learn several more points of the Volstead Act—but she pressed her palms to his buttocks, crushing against him as she made small whimpering sounds. Her passion astonished him. Previously she had responded with shy pleasure, never taking the initiative.
“Make love to me, Barry,” she pleaded hoarsely.
“Make love to me.”
He responded with an instant hard-on.
“Let me get a rubber.”
She was pulling him down onto the mattress, guiding his hand beneath her short uniform and under her panties to the hot, slick wetness.
Summoning every ounce of willpower, he pulled away from her embrace.
“Be right back.”
The sight of the toilet bowl, now a paler but equally evocative brown, demolished his erection.
He returned to find their one lamp dimmed by a scarf and his wife stretched naked on the bed. The nipples pointing up at him were the palest pink while the vulva exposed by her spread thighs was deep rose. Again he thought of goddesses, but this time of the ancient ones before civilization began, the deities served by fertility rites.
His hardness reasserting itself, he fell on top of her, grasping the full curves of her breasts so tightly that she cried out.
^ ^
“Is this what you like?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Yes,” she whimpered.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Make love to me.”
“No, say the word.”
“Fuck….”
“Beg me.”
“Fuck me, please fuck me.”
His own hoarse breathing filling the universe, he entered her, pumping deeper and deeper into her rosy mysteries, coming so intensely that it ached far up in his balls.
When his gasping ceased, he kissed her ear.
“Hey, when you’re hot, you’re hot.” Wishing he were uninhibited enough to tell her of those favorable comparisons with goddesses, he fell asleep almost instantly.
Alicia pulled the blanket over his shoulders, then began to cry. But why was she crying? Hadn’t she accomplished what she had set out to do? Hadn’t her husband just made love to her?
Alicia, too, had brooded about the previous night, deciding the failure was hers. I’m just not sexy, she had thought miserably. Maybe he can’t make it because he senses I’m not leveling with him.
But honesty was out of the question.
When she’d first spoken to Barry Cordiner at Ship’s Coffee Shop, an infallibly sure intuition had informed her that he might be educated and say things she’d hitherto only read in books, but he was utterly naive about one word: poverty. He had no comprehension how deep and shameful a thing poverty could be. He believed that being poor meant having a father named Lopez who was occasionally laid off from his trucking job, scratching together the
Young drove off in her two-tone Dodge, Alicia came out.
“What a fabulous job you’ve done!” she exclaimed.
She dumped an entire bottle of bleach in the toilet, leaving it there while they scrubbed walls, windows and the warped floorboards. Mrs.
Young had granted them certain furniture stored in the garage loft.
After making the box springs and mattress, Alicia surveyed their quarters.
“When I hang a sheet in that corner to rig up a closet and put your books on the shelves, it’ll be perfect.” Her face glowed with a light film of sweat and happiness.
Barry didn’t know what to say. His requirements, to his own mind, were modest; he hadn’t been reared in architectural splendors like his cousins, but God knows one needn’t have grandiose expectations to want better than a scuzzy lavatory and the ineradicable stink of manure.
That night she returned after nine, bringing with her the scent of hand lotion. He was at the table studying for the following day’s poli-sci quiz. Bending over him, she circled his throat with her arms, drawing his head back against those voluptuous breasts. He got up for a welcome-home hug, not intending anything sexy—he still had to learn several more points of the Volstead Act—but she pressed her palms to his buttocks, crushing against him as she made small whimpering sounds. Her passion astonished him. Previously she had responded with shy pleasure, never taking the initiative.
“Make love to me, Barry,” she pleaded hoarsely.
“Make love to me.”
He responded with an instant hard-on.
“Let me get a rubber.”
She was pulling him down onto the mattress, guiding his hand beneath her short uniform and under her panties to the hot, slick wetness.
Summoning every ounce of willpower, he pulled away from her embrace.
“Be right back.”
The sight of the toilet bowl, now a paler but equally evocative brown, demolished his erection.
He returned to find their one lamp dimmed by a scarf and his wife stretched naked on the bed. The nipples pointing up at him were the palest pink while the vulva exposed by her spread thighs was deep rose. Again he thought of goddesses, but this time of the ancient ones before civilization began, the deities served by fertility rites.
His hardness reasserting itself, he fell on top of her, grasping the full curves of her breasts so tightly that she cried out.
^ ^
“Is this what you like?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Yes,” she whimpered.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Make love to me.”
“No, say the word.”
“Fuck….”
“Beg me.”
“Fuck me, please fuck me.”
His own hoarse breathing filling the universe, he entered her, pumping deeper and deeper into her rosy mysteries, coming so intensely that it ached far up in his balls.
When his gasping ceased, he kissed her ear.
“Hey, when you’re hot, you’re hot.” Wishing he were uninhibited enough to tell her of those favorable comparisons with goddesses, he fell asleep almost instantly.
Alicia pulled the blanket over his shoulders, then began to cry. But why was she crying? Hadn’t she accomplished what she had set out to do? Hadn’t her husband just made love to her?
Alicia, too, had brooded about the previous night, deciding the failure was hers. I’m just not sexy, she had thought miserably. Maybe he can’t make it because he senses I’m not leveling with him.
But honesty was out of the question.
When she’d first spoken to Barry Cordiner at Ship’s Coffee Shop, an infallibly sure intuition had informed her that he might be educated and say things she’d hitherto only read in books, but he was utterly naive about one word: poverty. He had no comprehension how deep and shameful a thing poverty could be. He believed that being poor meant having a father named Lopez who was occasionally laid off from his trucking job, scratching together the