The hostess was a former model and a friend of my wife’s. My wife was an art director and many of her friends and associates were models, photographers, designers and other assorted phonies. My wife, I learned too late, was the Queen Phoney over all other phonies. So we went to the dinner party at the interesting old home of the boring old model.
I found out after I got there that the party was a bon voyage affair for a man who was moving to New York for an interesting job as a writer for a news magazine. His wife was to move with him of course. I looked across the table at Mrs. News Writer and was not able to stop looking at her. She was Israeli I was told. Her face was stunning, her complexion was smooth and tawny and something made me desire her. Her name is Rebekah.
I hope you’ve experienced that kind of thing so you’ll understand what happened to me. I looked into her eyes, dark and deep as an ocean. She spoke with a knowing smile, her voice low and throaty yet I could hear her in spite of the conversations going on around us. I didn’t notice if her husband noticed that his wife and I were flushed with unexpected and unwanted stimulation.
“Arthur is leaving in two days,” she said. “I’ll stay here while he finds a home in New York. I’ll fly down and we’ll make the final choice together. Then I’ll come back here for a couple of weeks to arrange the rental of our home and moving of our belongings to the new place.”
“Do you have kids to put into school there?” I said.
“My kids are adults,” She said. “One’s in university and the other is in the military.”
“You look much too young,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said. Conversations around the table had quieted as a next course of the meal was served. I was embarrassed to think that everyone had been listening to our conversation, although nothing out of line was said. I’m sure the intellectual mating dance was obvious to all, with the possible exception of her husband. He seemed to be oblivious to the incredible hotness of his wife.
“Where is your home here?” I said. “Perhaps I’d like to rent it from you when you’re ready to rent it.” My wife heard that and glared at me. I didn’t care. I’d already decided I was done with her phoniness, and had to move on.
She gave me her address and phone number and asked me to call first if I decided to look at the place so she could make it nice. I said I would, and we dropped the dance of seduction we’d been doing below the surface. We returned to the general gab around the table while we enjoyed really excellent squab. The hostess graciously accepted my compliments on the meal. My wife later told me that the hostess hadn’t cooked it, just ordered it from a caterer. It came with the uniformed servant who had brought the courses to the table.
Three days later I left the office at noon and drove to the address that Rebekah had given me. I called ahead from the car and she told me it would be convenient for her as well. She opened the door in a white terrycloth robe, a white towel wrapped around her head, drying the just washed hair.
“I wanted to be nice and clean for you,” she said. “I have a feeling you’re a cunnilingus kind of man.” I was caught off guard and hesitated a moment before I replied.
“You’re right,” I said. “Perhaps you’re a fellatio kind of woman, so please show me where the shower is.
We enjoyed each other that way three or four afternoons each week, until she moved to New York. It had to end, so it was just as well. My wife and I split up as we would have anyway. I enjoy my freedom, but I miss Rebekah.
It was never my intension to be a Transition Man. In fact, I didn’t know I was one until a woman told me I was. Even stranger, I actually never heard of Transition Men until Judy said it to me. She was a very beautiful, tall, slender married suburban mother of two teenage children. She popped up on my monitor back when I had ICQ on it.
“Hi!” she wrote. “This is Judy in Chi.”
“Hello. How did you know I would know what Chi is?” I wrote back.
“Everybody knows Chi is Chicago, don’t they?” she wrote.
“I don’t know what everybody knows,” I wrote.
As time passed, we corresponded, and I guess we both liked what we read from each other. She told me she’d married a guy who had been a platonic friend in high school. Such a pal, it seems, that he took her out to lunch the day after she lost her virginity to some other guy, I assume. Somehow, they eventually married and had first a daughter and then a son, both of who were teenagers and in high school. Her husband had grown indifferent to her, and I suspected he had an outside lover. I still can’t understand a man who would grow indifferent to a truly beautiful woman with a remarkable body and flawless skin. One thing that especially drew me to her was her desire to do ‘everything’. She had a movie-star kind of face, a lovely body with large breasts and nipples, long legs that were very attractively shaped. Long black hair was a perfect top to the whole.
We grew to trust each other, and even feel strong affection for each other on line. Eventually, I had a good excuse to go to Chicago, and after I was checked in to my hotel room in the Ritz Carlton, I wrote to her with details of where I was. She wrote back about her estimated time of arrival, and I prepared by stripping down and putting on my Japanese silk robe. She tapped lightly on the door and I welcomed her in. She was just as beautiful as the photos she’d sent, and I hoped I measured up to the photos I’d sent to her. Apparently, I did.
I undressed her and lay her across the bed and lowered my face between her thighs. She made delightfully encouraging sounds, whimpers and moans mostly until the climax when she stifled a scream. She lay on the bed in a magnificent living graphic pose of beauty, her eyes closed as she recovered from her intense convulsions. I looked down at her in appreciation of her alabaster skin against the dark pattern of the hotel bedspread. I removed my silk robe and draped it over her. I sat at the obligatory hotel room corner table and sipped coffee I’d made with the hotel’s in-room equipment.
Looking at Judy, I was able to fully appreciate how fortunate I was that this fine, lovely, neglected woman permitted me to enjoy these special moments with her. I was attracted back to her internal sweetness and had a sudden impulse. I held hot coffee in my mouth and swallowed it at the last second before I put my lips and tongue on her. She caught in her breath at the feeling and almost immediately had another series of spasms.
As she left the room, five hours later, she said, “I never knew one could make love all day.” Now she knew it.
We met in this way once each month for about a year. During that time, she moved ahead to leave her husband and kids. She found an apartment not far from them with an extra room should they want to visit her overnight. She did not force the sale of their mutual home at that time.
When the affair had run its course, I was becoming interested in a woman closer to home. Judy and I met a final time, happily. I thanked her for the wonderful hours of love-making, and the new ‘firsts’ she had shared with me. She thanked me for being there for her, restoring her excitement in making love, and also the ‘first time’ things we explored together. Finally, she thanked me for being her ‘transition man’, from stilted married woman’s life to a level of freedom and adventure.
I wonder if there is any meaning in changing ones religion. Why would a person do that, if they have previously embraced a religion? I don’t know anything about statistics on abandoning one religion in favour of another, nor how many times it’s done. It might even be interesting to know in which countries or climates it is most or least frequent. I assume, possibly incorrectly, that most religion changes are for the sake of marriage.
I knew a barber on a personal level. He used to cut my hair at his home for a low price. He was in his 30s, and a very good barber. His name was very Irish; Maxwell O’Leary. He had the typical look of the Irish. Maxwell was a bit taller than average height, quite lean, with radiant red hair, somewhat curly, and his complexion was white as good bone china. One strange thing is, when he spoke, it was with a very distinct, southern Italian accent. He had no idea how he came to have an Irish persona although he was born and raised in Palermo and drank only Chianti. However, I digress…
Max fell in love with a manicurist. She was a beautiful Jewish girl who also had red hair, although it was not authentic like Maxwell’s was. Her name was Cloe Stern, and Max courted her for several months before he asked her to marry him. She agreed that she would if he would convert to Judaism. Max looked into it, and it was complex. The frightening part was not all the studying with a Rabbi, but the circumcision, which was a requirement.
Two important things about the conversion and circumcision; Maxwell had been a devout Catholic and actually went to church every Sunday. Secondly, Max was about 36 years old, and having ones foreskin removed at that age is not as easy as for an infant. However, Cloe said it was convert or no-go. Max loved her desperately, and made plans for the circumcision as a beginning. It required that Max spend a couple of days in the hospital, and some days at home, taking it easy. He followed the instructions, and readied himself for the all the studying of ancient texts.
Maxwell O’Leary did not continue with the conversion. While he was suffering through his circumcision, Cloe Stern changed her mind. Nobody knows why she changed her mind, but it left poor Max without a religion. He had surrendered his devout Catholicism to become a Jew, for a Jewish princess, and she withdrew. He has to live out the balance of his life, neither here nor there. Perhaps he’s an agnostic or atheist now. That would put his mind at ease. As it is, he’s no longer a Catholic and not yet a Jew.
Religion is bogus, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. Most people follow their parents’ example. Why? God only knows why.
My granddaughter calls her vagina her ‘nunu’. She says that boys’ nunus have cookies in them. It’s the confused, innocent point of view of a four year old. When we get older we might become comfortable with our bodies. Teen age years are filled with confusion and insecurity, so they’re not ready, but later. I’m sure it’s different from individual to individual when they’re ready to get friendly with their privates.
I’m thinking of renaming my penis. He’s been known for decades as ‘Little Willie’. It’s too common, and is the usual name of penises on British school boys. I haven’t come up with an original yet appropriate name for Little Willie. However, my tongue is famous as Riccardo, and there’s no reason to change his name.
Do you name your penis, tongue, or vagina? I think it’s a good idea. It’s friendlier than simply referring them by their anatomical names: my penis; my vagina; my tongue. That sounds too indifferent for one so close to you.
A penis might be called ‘Big Joe’, ‘Sweet Harry’, or ‘Slim’. A vagina might enjoy being called ‘Daphne’, ‘Rose’, or ‘Lily’. A tongue invites a more exotic name; ‘Andre’, ‘Dominic’, or ‘Gaetan’. Female tongues could be ‘Belle’, ‘Lady’, or ‘Ilse’. It’s just something to think about.