!!!!!*****WORKING DRAFT*****!!!!!
We must have forgotten, that day, about getting back to Cambridge. The topic never came up, not on the way to New York, not in the deli, or walking through the Park, or on the train ride back. I had a round trip ticket, Boston-to-Grand Central. Somehow, though, I found myself getting off with him in Meriden. I thought, “Maybe just a kiss good-bye, then I’ll get back on.”
He held on so tight, so long, though, it seemed natural, as conductors whistled the stragglers into the cars and lifted the stairs inside, finally pushing the doors closed, for me to simply stay with him. I had no plan, just a slight inability to say good-bye.
“I guess Rich and Larry aren’t coming back tonight. He said something about going out this weekend.”
“You know why?”
“Larry is such a wonk. He wants to be a lawyer, a judge someday. He studies more than we do. Finally he got restless, asked Rich to take him somewhere. I thought they were going down to a mixer at Conn. College, would get back late tonight.”
I looked around his suite. He had divided the large common area in half with a few two-by-fours hauled in from the nearby hockey rink construction site. Most of this make-shift wall was covered by several burlap curtains nailed to the superstructure, with a swinging fabric door in the middle, next to a shelf which looked like a little bar. No liquor was in evidence though, only a green bulbous Chianti bottle holding a half-melted candle covered with waxy drippings. He had one bed, originally the bottom of a bunk set, underneath two windows in his jerry-rigged bedroom. Out in the truncated living room was the other bottom bunk, covered with a thin-ribbed faded red cotton blanket and a long vinyl back pillow.
I plopped down on this couch, and perused the contents of his bookshelf to my right. Without thinking, I pulled out The Abnormal Personality by Robert White, opened it up and said as I randomly flipped through the pages, “White. You know, he’s a famous guy in Cambridge. Everybody talks about him in the psych department.” I noticed Mike’s meticulous green highlighting, covering every page though Chapter 4, “The Integration of Personality.” One part had been furiously highlighted and starred. I read aloud, “Hey! Listen to this. ‘There is a certain restricted portion of the total range of intelligence which is most favorable to the development of a successful and well-rounded personality, somewhere between 125 and 155 I.Q.’ What did you say your mother tested you at?”
“138, I think.”
I went on, “He says, ‘Adolescents in this range are enough brighter than average to win the confidence of others, bringing about leadership, and a superior efficiency in managing their own lives. And, there are enough of them to afford mutual esteem and understanding.’ Reminds me of being at Avondale, and now in Cambridge. I feel at home, but not estranged.”
“OK, but there is more to you, to us, then just how smart you are. You know how to have fun, you can smile about your life. You’re not just a grind in school, I think that’s why…that’s why I like being with you so much.”
I put the book back on the shelf. Time to deal with the elephant in the room, I decided. “I’m staying here tonight, right? Can I use the bathroom down the hall?”
Only a little flustered, Mike hesitated briefly, eyes darting back and forth, then said, “Sure. I’ll stand outside, make sure it’s safe, OK?”
Back in the living room, seated on the couch again, this time with Mike, we fell together. One kiss, then two, and I leaned back, gently pulling him down next to me. The pillow left little room for both of us. Mike sat up, tugging at my arm, and guided me through the burlap curtain to the bed beneath the windows. I was thinking about the “mutual esteem and understanding” phrase in White’s textbook. I knew we loved each other, we said as much all the time. I knew that meant more than respect for each other’s minds, dreams, hopes, and ideals. I knew it also led to this, towards getting into bed together at night. We both got in, fully clothed.
“This is stupid,” I observed. I took off my shirt and skirt, slipped down my hose, and tugged at his pants. He finally got the idea, and pulled those off. We both worked on his pullover, getting it caught on his glasses, which he laid on the window ledge. Now what, I wondered, as we pulled the sheets over us. I certainly had no idea, and was pretty sure he didn’t either. Tentatively, I laid my head on his stomach, rubbing up and down across his belly-button. He felt so soft, so warm, I had to let him know.
“I like the way you feel, your stomach, here.”
“Why?”
Are you kidding, I thought. Now is not the time for analysis. It’s time to explore, to find and feed the feelings we each were hiding. “Shush,” I whispered. “Lie here with me, OK? Let’s just touch each other a while.” With that, he turned on his side to face me, started kissing my lips and cheeks, neck and shoulders. He stroked my head, my hair, and rested there, lost in those locks he professed to love so much. Then his hands roamed across my back, down my arms, feeling my hips, questioning, wondering as he went. I started to lose myself, began to open up to him, trying to meld my mind with his. I closed my eyes and saw a glistening, glowing tunnel, easy to enter, easier to slide down and through. One last gate stood in our way.
He stayed silent, still questioning with his arms around me. They slowly relaxed as he sighed and gently rolled me away from him. He fumbled briefly with my bra clasps, until I helped release them, slinging the straps across my shoulders. He pulled me closer, my back caressing his chest, my legs cupped and curved against his.
Two fingers tracing down from my ribs past my hips, he whispered, “I like the way you’re soft and round here.”
Flippantly, I came back with, “We’re are built like that so we can bear our young.”
Sounding puzzled, he said, “What, you mean, like rest a baby on your hip?”
I thought of a baby growing inside, enough room for a seven pound kid. I wondered why I’d said that. “No. We have to carry babies, inside, we’re made for that…” This was so weird. I hoped he wasn’t taking it the wrong way. “Women, I mean. Not me. No way I’m ready for that.”
“Yeah. That’s scary.” He reached around, found one breast, and cupped it in his right hand. Quietly, he asked, “Does that feel good?,”
It did, I couldn’t deny it, not to myself or him. “Mmm hmm,” I murmured, slowly snuggling my body closer to him.
“You’re just the right size, we fit perfectly together.”
We fell asleep like that, huddled together against the late October chill.
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