TAPE FIVE 10/20/85

OK, Dr. Wolly, we’ve been out of touch for a few months. After that last tape, things seemed to be getting better. It was like the talking had helped. I stopped having the sex problems for a few months, but now it’s started up again.
Actually, the first time I noticed it was when I was on a business trip to Oakland and stayed at a hotel near the airport. There were a lot of stewardesses there, too, and one of them got friendly with me at the bar. One thing and another and we ended up in the sack, but about halfway through, I lost it and couldn’t get it back. She was decent about it - blamed it on the booze and the hour - but you could only tell she was faking all that.
So I guess I haven’t really gotten to the grain of things yet and we’ll have to dig a little farther. Maybe it’s the curse of this affliction, but when I think about the past, when I unpack all these mental boxes, I can remember what happened with almost picture clarity, like watching it all on some damn TV. Actually, if I concentrate, that kind of memory is often possible for me, so that’s why I don’t like to think much about stuff from the past. It could really drive you crazy, like you couldn’t really draw the line between the past and the present.
But, getting on with it, what happened next was not really better; it was strange, though. To begin with, I got sick - I mean really sick. The doctor said it was just flu, but I don't remember ever being sicker. The first strange thing was that the dog got sick the same time I did.
The first day that I was really feeling crummy I told Coach and left workout early. The walk home nearly finished me, but when I walked into the yard, I could tell something was wrong. The dog sidled up to me like they do - with that guilty sort of look, tail wagging like crazy, eyes cast down. I looked around the yard for something broken or a dead bird, but couldn't see anything. I checked her water bowl and filled it, but didn't stop to play. I only wanted to lie down.
Taking care of the dog was my job, of course. There was no way my mother could ever feed her or give her water or tie her up or put her in the garage. And there was no way she could pay for a new fence so the dog wouldn't have to be tied up all the time. I never used to mind taking care of her, but lately that seemed to be changing.
I'd been lying down for about a half-hour and was almost asleep when something - a sound or just a feeling - made me look into the yard. The dog was on her side on the grass having an attack. I'd never seen anything like that before, and it really scared me. I ran into the yard and tried to stop the quaking by holding her tightly, but it did no good; I only got covered with her slobber. Her legs stuck straight out and wave after wave of quakes shook us both. Finally it began to let up until she was left limp, almost unconscious, in my arms.
We must have stayed like that about an hour. I didn't know what to do, but I was afraid if I put her down it might start again. Slowly, she came around. but she must have had other attacks that day and by that point was too weak to move. Luckily my mother didn't stay for her usual extra duty kiss-up at the bank, but it was almost dark when she pulled in and found us.
The vet we took the dog to checked her for a few minutes and listened to my story, then said it was this distemper. There was no cure, he said, making sure I felt a little extra shitty by saying she should have had shots. Then he said we should “put her to sleep." I'd heard about them putting dogs into vacuum chambers and sucking out all the air til they imploded or something, and I'd be goddamned if they'd do that to my dog. They both could see that I was sick by then and decided not to cross me, I guess. He gave the dog a shot, but I caught his “I'll see you later” look and wanted to grab the needle and jam it in his ear.
The next day nothing bad happened, except that I kept feeling worse. I made a bed for the dog on the back porch. That was never permitted, but, again, something in my eyes let it happen without my mother saying anything. I thought the dog actually seemed a little better. She was still weak, but there were no attacks. She ate a little and even went outside to do her things, although I had to carry her. For my part, I spent most of the day crashed and a little delirious.
The day after was bad from the start. All night I had nightmares - mostly huge, puffy hands and balloon faces and tremendous smothering shapes. My mother was going to stay home, but they called her with some problems, so she crammed me with aspirin and ginger ale and sneaked out. About ten o'clock there was a loud knocking on the back door as though a few people were out there pounding. I stayed put, waiting for them to go away, but it kept up. It seemed to be coming from the whole back porch. When I finally got out there the scene was about as close to hell as I ever want to see.
The dog was out of control again. Her body was bloated like the faces and hands I'd seen all night. Her legs stuck out straight, like toothpicks in a potato, but even without their help she bounced and caromed all over the porch, smashing into the water heater and the washer, bowling over the empty pop bottles under the laundry sink.
I screamed a lot of foul stuff and fell on her with all my weight, but her power was such that she simply carried me with her. When the attack finally died down we lay a sweated, stinking mess. I thought she was dead; her eyes were rolled back and her tongue hung limply. Slowly, I got up, and it started again.
Usually I never called my mother at the bank, because it was at least a half hour of hassle before she came to the phone. I can't remember what I said that day, but she was on the phone in less than a minute and home in two. Between the two of us we got the dog into the back of the car. I never saw her again, but the infernal vision she'd shown me was only the beginning.
During the next days I sank into a kind of delirious state. At first it had to do with the dog. I was convinced I'd killed her through some subconscious act of will. I'd deliberately made her sick and forced her through that agony. I guess I'd said something like that to the vet, and he'd told me dogs didn't get human viruses, but the idea haunted me.
There was some truth to my feeling guilty. When I was a kid I'd loved that dog. Around the time my father died she was the only one I could talk to. Even if she only answered with wags and licks, it was better than the phony shit I got from adults. Even then, or maybe especially then, things were drying up between my mother and me. But slowly the love I'd felt for the dog had turned to complacence and then to a vague resentment of the obligation she represented or - perhaps worse - of the fact that she was the only real tie that still held me to that house.
The fever boiled guilt into misery. I raved that I was a dog killer. I lapsed into and out of dreams of dogs and monsters and weird forms representing something I couldn't quite see. My mother tried to calm me down, and when that failed, she called in Danny which was like bringing a mortician to cheer up the patient. He told me it was just a goddamn dog, for chrissake, and to stop acting like a little shit. I was getting our mother upset, he said, which meant that I should cool it and get her off his back. Then he left feeling very justified.
Finally I did stop the craziness, but what followed was really worse. It was like a tremendous weariness. The fever was down, and the delusions stopped, but I had no desire for anything - not to eat or dress or even get up. If I slept, I dreamed of nothing, but mostly I just lay and watched the walls or the ceiling. At times I would find myself crying, but I couldn't say why. I'd never cried much, not when I was punished, not when Grandpa died, not even when my father died, but now I did it without even realizing it. It should have scared me, but I was beyond even that. As I see it now, it was a kind of mourning, but not just for the dog; it had something to do with me.
At last my mother couldn't take any more, although it hit her right where she lived. She'd already paid for two trips to the vet, but without saying much she got me into the car and took me to the doctor.
I remember him as a very dry person. You couldn't tell his age. His eyes were set in skin a little blue and smooth like a baby's, yet stretched too tightly over bones which appeared to be working their way through. He checked me out and concluded that the flu was over, the infection gone; but my eyes were still red and draining, and I was still exhausted.
“Young people don't have any reason to worry," he told me. "Now is the time to enjoy your life. Leave worry to the old folks, like me."
The skin pulled back to a grimace.
"It isn't normal for a boy like you to be all depressed."
I guess he and Danny studied bedside manner at the same place. The only thing I got from all his kindness was that I was abnormal, because, no matter what normal kids did, I sure as hell was depressed.
Just in case, he finished up, he would give an antibiotic; then he told me to drop my pants and bend over the examining table. Before I saw what was coming he got a shot into my butt. I didn't know they even gave shots back there, and, whether from exhaustion or humiliation, I passed out. A few seconds later I was back with a jolt, on the floor, pants still dragging, trying to escape from him and his nurse as they shoved little cotton wads full of ammonia up my nose.
I don't know what he gave me - he said it was antibiotics, but you can't trust doctors any more than vets. The main effect was that I slept for maybe two or three days, and when I woke up it was to a different world.
It was a Saturday in early December. I'd been sick over ten days, and it'd been two weeks since I'd worked out. Maybe it was the dead season of the year, but I felt like biting off a huge chunk of life. I wanted to run. I wanted to go. I wanted to use and use my body and forget my mind totally.
I ate a little then got into my old cross country shoes and some shorts and a sweatshirt. But then I found reasons to sit around and goof around until nearly ten o'clock. Finally I figured out what it was: I didn't want to go into the back yard.
The reason was I knew I wouldn't see the dog as usual. When I got out there all of her stuff - her chain and bowl and the old toys she used to chew on - were still the same as always. I gathered it all up and thought about what to do with it. At first I thought I'd put it all in some special spot, like a little memorial or something. But what I finally did was I took all that stuff and her blankets from the garage and put them way down into one of the trash tanks. Then I threw in a bunch of newspapers from the back porch and headed out the gate.
I really felt like going hard, but I knew I'd probably be weak after so long in bed, so, instead of heading right up the hill and into the paths that looped around the base of Mt. Verdugo, I took off along Stocker Street which wound east along the base of the mountain and gradually climbed a spur until it reached Rossmoyne Drive which ran down the crest of the spur. There were some great old houses along Rossmoyne.
As soon as I’d gone outside, I'd noticed something a little strange. I could sense smells I’d never noticed before. I could even smell the ocean, which was odd, considering that any breeze from there had to blow over thirty or forty miles of Smogville. The air usually smelled more like baked waste, but that day I could almost hear gulls screechlng and smell fish and seaweed.
As I ran along, other smells came in sharper than they ever had. There weren't many flowers around at that time of year, but I got a strong whiff of chrysanthemums in one yard, and you usually have to stick your nose right into them to pick up their sharp, medicine smell. Even the trees all shot out little aromas as I passed. I thought maybe it was the medication or all the sleep that made me so sensitive, but that really didn't explain it.
Long before I got to the top of the ridge, I was exhausted. I'd expected to be tired, but this was more like something fatal. I could barely put one foot in front of the other for the last two blocks. And the smells were completely out of hand.
What had been an interesting sharpening of the senses was now totally oppressive. It wasn't just plants. Anything within twenty yards filled my head - trash cans, dog crap, car exhaust. Layer on layer, they formed a smothering load that was burying me.
Finally I staggered onto Rossmoyne. Normally I liked to go that way because of the four houses that lined the east side of the street. Someone had told me that they were all designed by the same architect, but that was pretty obvious. The style wasn't wild or experimental or anything; they were all someone's idea of Tudor baronial halls.
Everybody thinks that everything in southern California has to be Spanish, just because they were the first Europeans to get there; but sixteenth century England wasn't all that bad on top of a Sierra Madre ridge. There was a lot of brick and fieldstone, big oak beams and earthy plaster and big leaded windows that took in the hills, yet it was the slate roofs that tied these mansions into the chaparral. I don't remember a straight line in those massive stone canopies. They floated magically over their bases, swooping almost to the ground in places, soaring to three-story turrets, mixing into the oaks and sycamores like grey smoke from a campfire.
A couple of times I'd explored behind the houses where the ridge fell away into a small canyon filled with ferns and sycamores. Climbing toward the houses were flagstone terraces and ivy planters. Two of them had pools. The others had rose and camellia gardens below stone landings where wide glass doors made me want to walk right in as though it was my birthright to discover the secrets of great buildings.
That day,though, I didn't want to explore anything. As I dragged onto the street, a sodden, stinking shroud was trying to grind me into the ground. I slumped to the curb facing the row of mansions. I had little idea what was after me and less what was before me. I really felt I might be breathing my last.
Then changes began to come on very fast. The street appeared to melt first into shiny tar then into water which extended out and out, shoving back the houses until they were miles away. But they didn't disappear; they were growing, too, until they were snow covered peaks that dwarfed Mt. Verdugo. I looked in its direction, but it was no longer there,either. It was farther back and covered with pines, not sagebrush.
It was no mystery where I was then. It was a place I'd known since I was a baby. And I was sitting on a rock, a great chunk of granite, whose cleavages and cracks I'd used as racetracks for my toy cars when I was a kid. I'd spent hours in that very spot, right next to our cabin which stood on a hillside above Lake Tahoe. But, as I looked out from the rock, the cabin wasn't there anymore, or perhaps better said, not there yet. I could look over all the southern half of the lake and see most of the great mountains on the California side. No house blocked the view; but it was there - in part. The platform that would form its floor was in place, extended out from the rocky hillside on a web of posts and struts. And on that platform stood two men I knew well - or would know ten years after this scene passed into family history - my father and grandfather.
You could tell they were arguing, although I couldn't hear much they were saying. A strong wind roared off the lake and clouds had closed over it since the scene formed. My father turned, his face full of disgust and shame. He walked off the platform and passed within two feet of where I was seated. I'd always thought of him as strong and good looking, in a fatherly way. I hadn't realized how handsome he was in his twenties. Even in his heavy wool shirt and windbreaker you could see his build and feel his force. His sharply featured face, though troubled, was clear and open, his deep brown eyes penetrating, his black hair thicker and wavier than I'd known it.
As he passed me I could barely keep seated. I wanted so much to talk to him or just to touch him. But I knew instinctively that no movement was possible. Just as the smells had been a physical presence - a suffocating pile - so the vision rested over me like a web of crystal that any move would shatter.
He walked by my rock and went to the small clearing that had been Grandpa's cabin. There he had his tool box and equipment. He picked up a tall ladder and returned to the platform. I could see him and Grandpa arguing more - Grandpa was the agitated one - as my father set up the ladder near the far edge of the platform. He tried to get Grandpa to climb it, but Grandpa seemed horrified at the idea. Finally, though, he did go up, my father steadying the ladder, then going up a few steps behind him. And there they were: two men on a ladder to nowhere, perched on a rocky hillside in the midst of a gathering storm. I ached to go to them, to share what they were seeing, but the fragile touch of the vision kept me locked down more securely than iron chains.
Then, as I knew it would, the descending sun suddenly broke from the clouds in an explosion of gold and red that consumed us all. At last the whole scene just dissolved into a shimmering glow like falling sparks after fireworks.
For a long time I sat on the curb. I wasn't tired any more; energy was pouring back into me. I felt, I felt, I didn't know what I felt. I'm not sure that even now I can explain it to you. I mean, I don't know how your average person would handle seeing a vision - not a dream or imagination, but a 100% wrap-around vision. I mean, it's something like a dream, but as real as whatever you're looking at right now. I guess the average person would be shocked or amazed or at least pretty impressed. But then, your average person doesn't see visions.
That was part of the problem. A few months earlier I might have reacted differently; I was well on the road to weirdness, so what could a few visions matter? But things had been going so well recently; there was real hope for my averageness. I was making friends; I was breaking the mold; I was even getting a little popular. Then all that stuff I went through when I was sick and what the doctor said brought back the old fear I had about minds out of control. I really wanted things to hold together a little longer. I wanted a chance to be happy.
And there was the thing about seeing my father. It was a jolt to see him so young and strong and looking so good. I mean, it was like seeing some essence of my father, the real him before life got its hooks into him. It reminded me how much I loved him. But there was also this other thing that I remembered. It was something everyone in the family knew, but never talked about - which was typical - my father saw things other people didn't. Did this mean that in that respect I would be like him whether I wanted it or not?
I wasn't sure this vision had any particular message for me. It was nothing new. I'd heard the story since I was a kid; it was like family lore: Grandpa's Great Ladder Scene. It was supposed to tell why Grandpa had the cabin built in that place, and it also said something about the relationship between him and my father.
Something was wrong between the vision and the story, though, but I wasn't able to concentrate on what it was. Anyway, maybe this wasn't really a scene from the past. Maybe it was just a projection from my own mind. There was no way to tell, and I really didn't want to think about it.
A mailman had just delivered something to one of the big houses. He crossed in front of me and nodded. I remembered where I was. I got to my feet and made it on up the hill. Something was turning in me. I wanted to run - to go and go until I was out of breath. I needed some place to think - or not to think. I needed some place to find some peace from the anxiety that was growing in me. Mainly, I needed some place to take a leak.
I jogged over the saddle in the hillside and dropped down into Nibley Park. By this time of year the park's sycamores had lost all their leaves. They stretched scraggly branches against the brittle blue December sky. The sage and mesquite on the rocky hillside showed no trace of green. Even the grass seemed colorless.
I used the men's room next to the deserted tennis courts. I hadn’t seen anyone in the park, but as I finished I could hear quiet talking. In the back wall of the restroom there was a grating of cement blocks that served as a vent, and voices were coming through it. Curious, I tried to see who was on the other side, but the vent was too high. So, leaving the building, I edged carefully down the side and peeked around the corner.
The hillside came down in a steep cliff about fifteen feet behind the restroom. From the other side of the building a fence and hedge extended back to the cliff. This side had been blocked by picnic tables stood on end for scraping and painting. As I looked around the corner of the building, I could see a narrow space between the wall and the tables. Standing about ten feet away in this path was a boy with his back to me talking very earnestly with another person I couldn't see. He rolled to his right, bracing himself against the wall with both arms, forming a cage around the other person.
I recognized the boy. He was a seventh grader the year before. That made him about fourteen. The other one was a girl who couldn't have been much older than twelve. He was arguing softly with her, trying to stay in her line of vision as she dropped her eyes. Now he leaned forward pressing his body against her and kissing her softly. She squirmed a little under his pressure, but he persisted. He ran his hand over what would someday be breasts and then dropped it down to finger her out over her pants. She tried to move sideways, but he had her well pinned. He continued whispering things and rubbing different parts of her body.
Then he backed off, unbuttoned her pants and had them over her hips by the time she could grab them back and pull them up again. His pleading and kissing began again as she continued to resist. I noticed she hadn't rebuttoned her pants. Then in a flash he had her pants and panties down to her knees and was fingering the real thing.
I looked back over my shoulder to be sure that no one was watching me watching. The park was deserted. When I turned back to the couple, he had his pants open and his cock out. He looked in my direction as he jerked it up, and I flattened myself against the wall, peeking around again where some ivy broke the line of the corner. Now he had it between her legs and was thrusting slowly. I don't think he was really in her yet.
Suddenly a shout ripped the air.
"What the hellfire you doin’? Get away from here. Get out of here, you bastard."
I went about three feet straight up. The reaction of the couple was even better. The girl, with a weIl-placed knee and a big push, freed herself and rolled out to her left. The boy, left in mid-thrust, fell against the wall and nearly punched a hole in the concrete blocks with his dick. He cursed in pain, but both were frantically pulling and buttoning pants.
I looked behind me to find the cause of the screaming. A large German shepherd had turned over a trash can near the picnic area and was rummaging through the trash. A caretaker was closing in on him at full clip, a pair of open hedge clippers flailing madly in his right hand. The dog, apparently not too experienced at eat and run, chose the path leading to the restroom for his escape, not realizing it was a dead end.
Quick as hell I jumped back to the door of the restroom, like I was just coming out. I did a fast jog down the path, and as I got out on the open grass there was a hell of a scream and yell as boy, girl, dog, caretaker and hedge clippers all came together behind the building.
I could barely make it to the top of the hill. I was laughing so hard I developed a stitch in my side and had to collapse on a lawn when I reached the top. After several minutes I noticed that the lady whose lawn I was using was watching me from her living room window. That brought me back to the sound of my own laughter which had taken on a hysterical note. Quickly, nervously, I jumped up and continued on along Mountain Street feeling more anxious than ever.
There was no peace anymore - not in my room, not in running. Even the park which had always seemed wholesome and respectable had become a place for peep shows. It was no fun being pushed and pulled and jerked around by things I couldn't even see, and it wasn't comfortable running with a hardon which had been there since the park and wasn't going away. Everything was in control of me but me. I needed some relief, and my thoughts began to turn in a particular direction.
Without thinking much about it, I ran about two blocks past our street and then dropped down the hill. As I circled back, there was Marlene watering the flowers. It seemed like months since I'd seen her. I jogged up to the lawn and stood panting and sweating in front of her. She smiled.
"Hi, what've you been doing?"
"Uh...modeling tuxedos at a fashion show? Sweat testing new deodorants? Early entry in the Olympics marathon?"
"You’re nuts. Where have you been? What's got into you?”
"Not half of what I'd like to get into you, baby,' I said, doing a Groucho Marx walk, flicking my cigar. “Why don't we get something straight between us?"
"You idiot, you've gone completely ape."
At that I hung my arms like an ape and scratched my sides and loped sideways around the yard, making chorking sounds. I mugged it up good - a totally desperate clown.
"Will you stop it? The old ladies across the street are watching."
"To hell with them. Me Tarzan, you Jane."
I tried to pick her up and swing away.
"Stop it!"
Now she turned the hose on me. I continued to dance around her as she soaked me good. Then I charged in and grabbed the hose and turned it on her. She fought back for it, and after a while we were one soggy, laughing mass on the lawn.
"I've never seen you like this. What brought all this on?"
"I don't know. Just feeling good today," I lied.
I lay back on the lawn and watched some birds in a nearly bare jackaranda tree. The stuff that had been pushing at me backed off a little, but I could feel it near.
"You've completely soaked me. Now I've got to change everything."
"I'm sorry, that was kind of stupid."
"Well, I got you pretty good too. I just didn't know how to stop you."
"Why should you have to stop when you're having fun?"
"You just looked so stupid swinging around the yard like that."
"I'm just a fool over you, baby."
''Don't start again. Come around back; you can dry your clothes."
"Why bother? I just live three blocks away."
"What will your mother say?"
"Who cares? She won't notice."
"Come on in. You can have a drink while you're waiting."
We walked down the driveway to the back yard and up the steps to her service porch. It was a long, sun-lit room with large windows all along the back. Against the back walls were the washer and dryer and a large sink. I didn’t know anyone else who had a clothes dryer. My mother still hung out clothes on a clothesline in the back yard. Marlene went into the kitchen.
"Take off your clothes. I'll get you a towel."
I felt strange taking my clothes off in that big, bright place. At one end of the service porch I could see a door that was open slightly. I walked over and pushed it. There was a small room and bath, apparently for a maid. The Barzanis were using it for storage. Pieces of furniture stood around in no particular order, and there were several closed boxes. I kicked off my running shoes and took off everything except my undershorts. For a few minutes I explored around the room and then looked up to see Marlene in the doorway. She'd changed her clothes.
"Aren’t your shorts wet? Take them off, too. Here’s the towel."
"And your father?"
"He's not here."
I took them off, and she threw me a towel. We walked back to the porch where she threw her clothes and mine into the dryer.
"That really isn't necessary for that little bit of clothes," I said, wrapping the towel around me. "You're just going to have baked sweat."
"Who cares? Come on, have something to drink. You must be thirsty after running."
In the kitchen I sat down at the table while she got two sodas from the refrigerator. Although it had been warm for December outside, the house was a little cold. A chill ran through me. Marlene brought the drinks and sat down.
"Where have you been the last few weeks?"
"I was sick. Just the flu or something. And..."
I looked around the kitchen. It was changed a little. The open cabinets had doors on them now - sort of a frosty plastic that let you see colors and shapes inside, but not much detail.
"And what?"
"Oh, nothing. The dog died."
"I'm sorry. Is it better now?"
“The dog?"
"No, you jerk, the flu."
"Oh, yeah. I've felt OK the last few days. I finally felt like running a little today, but I don't know, things don't seem right. Out of condition, I guess."
"I guess you would be, after being sick so long."
She got up and opened the double-door refrigerator.
"You want some cake?" she asked.
"Yeah, I guess. I didn't eat lunch."
The refrigerator was loaded like for some invasion, but only two people lived in that house. I decided not to ask about that. She took out cake and some cold cuts.
"You and your father doin' better?"
"Better? "
"Yeah, the last time I saw you things weren't so hot."
"I guess you could say things are better, relatively."
"But he's never here?"
"Well, he works, of course. He's here at night if you'd like to meet him. You might have to come a little late."
"No thanks. It sounds like my house."
"He had a big party here last Saturday."
"And I wasn't invited."
"Well, you were sick, weren’t you? Anyway it was for business people - his associates."
We yakked on like that for a while - like your typical teens, which was a little odd because we weren't. I knew that about her already, and now I knew it about myself. It sounded like the first time we were in that kitchen, but it wasn't like that at all. That time I hadn't a clue, but now I knew exactly what I wanted. The only thing was I didn't know how to go about getting it.
Gradually the talk dropped off; the silences grew. Sensuality drifted over the room. The afternoon light gave even the brushed steel of the refrigerator and stove a warm glow. From the varnished teak of the cabinets and the waxed mahogany floors came smoky, musky smells.
The silence became louder. She reached across, took my hand and stood up. I stood; the towel dropped. What I wanted was pretty clear.
She led me to the service porch. I didn't like crossing by all those windows. At the end of the porch opposite the maid's room a small staircase led to the second floor. I guess it was for servants to use. Once we got in the stairwell I felt a little better. Feeling the plush carpet under my bare feet, the uneasiness of walking around with no clothes on gave way to the excitement of being nude in a strange place, like in my old fantasies.
The second floor landing opened on a large hallway which ran nearly the length of the house. An arched window almost filled the end of the hall where we were. In front of the window was a heavy carved table which held a pot full of freshly cut flowers.
There were four or five doors on the hall. I guessed that each was a bedroom. The walls were covered with a beige textured cloth that had a raised design woven into it. Several groups of etchings and watercolors lined the hallway, mostly architectural renderings of buildings - some modern, some old palaces or cathedrals. About halfway down was a small alcove on the right. In it was a half-round lacquered table with a big Chinesey pot and a mirror on the wall behind it. The effect of the whole place was that of calm and careful artistry. The only jarring note was the image of my bare ass as we passed the mirror.
I remembered that Marlene's room was at the end of the hall overlooking the front of the house. To the right of her room was the main staircase, and to the left was a large open area. Instead of entering her room she stopped before a wide double door on the left and opened it. Inside was a bedroom so large it had to be the master bedroom of the house. As we stepped in on a grey plush rug, I could see that the whole interior was done in blacks, greys and whites with touches of chrome and some well-placed mirrors, especially in the area of the bed, which occupied most of the south wall and appeared bigger than king-size. We walked through that room and into a spacious bathroom. It, too, was mostly in grey tones with a lot of towels, soaps and other bathroom things. I remembered Marlene's bathroom. I wondered why they needed so much stuff for two fairly clean people. Like her bathroom, this one had plenty of mirrors. A huge one covered the wall behind the lavatory. The opposite wall also had large areas covered with mirror. There was damn little you could do in that room without being reflected somewhere. It was not a place for a self-effacing person because you faced yourself everywhere.
Marlene slipped off her tennis shoes, and then turned her back to me. I helped her take off her sweatshirt and unclasped her bra like a real expert. She stepped out of her shorts and panties, and there we stood, multiplied by hundreds on either side of us. I put my arms around her and kissed her. She kissed me back, but I didn't sense much passion in it. After a bit she broke away and, lifting herself, sat on the edge of the wide lavatory top. I moved in front of her to kiss her again, but she pushed down on my shoulders. I thought that she wanted me to kiss her breasts, but she just kept pushing. I knelt down as she spread her legs and with one hand parted her lips.
I suppose, considering all the pleasure it gives, that it's ungrateful to be critical, but really, that is not the greatest looking part of a woman's body. At that age I found it pretty repulsive, to tell the truth. Not that a close-up of a guy's stuff looks all that much better, really.
I didn't have a lot of time to think about all that, though, because with her other hand she pushed my head right in there. I'd barely had time to take in what it all looked like when the smell and taste of it were all over me. It really wasn't all that bad, I had to admit even then. It was the first time I'd sensed a woman's muskiness, and she'd used something so there was also a smell of strawberry ice cream. But I was fifteen, and the only thing I'd heard about that kind of stuff was that it was dirty. She seemed tense and ready for something, but involuntarily I jerked back and was on my feet again in one move.
Marlene only laughed and dropped off the edge of the sink. Without saying anything or looking back, she walked to the end of the room.
That area was a broad semicircle that had a sunken part in the middle. Part of it was the shape of a round tub and had a whirlpool setup. Marlene told me later that her father suffered back pains, and I guess that gave him some relief. The rest of the area was tiled and indented with a drain in the center. She led me into this scooped-out place and touched a lever with her toe. From the wall several jets of water shot out, aimed about chest high. I wondered if this strange shower was a Barzani invention or had come with the place.
As we stood in that tingling warm mist, Marlene went down to her knees and took my cock in her mouth. I was still a little erect and responded rapidly, although I didn't like the idea much better than what she'd wanted from me. I tried to pull back, but she held tight to my legs, so I stood passively as she worked back and forth. In a couple of minutes I was ready. As I felt it rising I backed up, expecting her to let go. She continued as before, this time almost taking in the whole thing. I tried to pull free, but she kept her arms around my legs. I couldn't hold it anymore. She took it all in, then stood up and gave me a hard kiss full on the mouth. My mouth filled with the salty, bleachy taste.
This time I reacted violently, pushing her back as I ran my arm over my mouth, trying to get the taste out.
"What's the matter?" she said coyly.
"You know what's the matter. I don't know why you're being so goddam gross today."
"Gross? I thought you liked sex.”
"Yeah, I like it - the way we did it before. But all this stuff today; it's a little perverted. Hell, It's a lot perverted. Shit, you think I like to kiss my own cum?"
She laughed at that, but it was like a nervous laugh. Without saying more she turned and touched another lever. A shower of water from the ceiling joined the mist from the wall. I left the shower area to rinse my mouth and then, still angry, sat on a bench by a potted palm. She only said,
"Get me the shampoo.”
"Where is it?"
"In the cabinet there."
I walked over to the shiny black cabinets under the lavatory and found a bottle of shampoo which I tossed to her. I sat down again, still hurt, but I couldn't turn my back on her. She paid no attention to me. She washed herself and then lathered her hair. In spite of my anger, I was held by the sight of her beautiful body. Her legs were long and firm, the thighs round and solid, but not muscular, the calves well curved. Her hips were full, but not too wide, and her stomach protruded slightly in a perfect female curve. Her breasts were large, but not out of proportion to the rest of her body. As she stood then, facing me about three-quarters, her eyes closed, her head back, the shampoo streaming over her body, I couldn't take my eyes off her. She knew it.
"Throw me a towel.”
I did. She stepped from the shower, but left it running. I was still crummy from running, so I walked into the mist and washed myself quickly, my back to the rest of the room. I knew she was watching me like she had in the kitchen. Was it the same kind of curiosity I felt, or was she trying to find something else? Sometimes her stare was so penetrating I couldn't tell if she was seeing me or right through me.
With my foot I pressed the same lever Marlene had, but the water pressure increased. When I pressed again it went up again. I turned to Marlene to ask what to do, but she'd left the room. I hit the lever one more time, and the water stopped.
I found a towel and dried as I walked into the bedroom. She was sitting on the edge of the bed wrapped in an oversized towel, drying her hair with another one. I finished and wrapped the towel around me.
"You still mad?" she asked.
"I'm not mad. I just get confused. I guess you like to make fun of me sometimes because I'm younger than you."
"I'm not making fun of you. It was just a mood - something I wanted. I don't think it was perverted."
"I guess not. I'm just not used to it. Well, I guess I don't know much. I don't mind doing what you want. It's just..."
"I know. Don't worry about it. Here rub my back will you? It's really tight around the shoulders."
I crossed to the bed, knelt behind her and began massaging her shoulders. I hadn't rubbed anyone's back before that I could remember, but I could feel the knots of muscles standing out in her shoulders. My mother would often massage my father when he came in from work, but he did a lot of lifting and hauling.
"Why's your back so tight? You been lifting things?"
"No. It gets that way when I get tense. Can you really feel it?”
"Yeah. What are you tense about?”
"I don't know. I guess I don't like you to get mad at me."
I was amazed that I could have that effect on her. It never would have occurred to me. I thought that she was above it all, calling all the shots as far as we were concerned.
I guess I inherited some of my mother's touch, because Marlene began to relax. She dropped the towel and let me rub up and down her back. After several minutes she said,
"Will you just hold me?"
"Hold you?"
"Put your arms around me."
I tried to sit back against the headboard, but the towel was damp. I threw it on the floor. She sat in front of me, leaning her head back on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her stomach, and we just sat. She seemed more calm and released than I'd ever seen her. I felt the calm passing into me, and it felt so good just sitting there, relaxed, clean, her body warming mine, her fragrant, damp hair spread against my shoulder. I must have dozed off.
After a while, I woke up a little startled. Something had changed. The winter afternoon was passing, and the room had darkened. I was disoriented, but remembered quickly where I was. Marlene was still lying against me, curled somewhat, her head on my chest. I sat there for a while and thought about the afternoon. The boy in the park came back to me - this time not so comically. His earnest drive, his pleading, fumbling need came through to me. At the same time I glanced to the side and caught myself reflected in one of the large mirrors which flanked the bed: a lanky kid - maybe not such a kid anymore - with a beautiful girl resting against him. From the mirror I could see most of Marlene as she slept. The thoughts and images combined, and my desire kicked up again, more strongly and darkly than I had ever felt it. I felt a great need to do it, rather than just to be there.
Apparently I was making my point felt to Marlene, too, right in the middle of her back. She moved her head and looked up at me drowsily.
"It's the mirror," I said a little apologetically.
"One of my father's less inspired ideas," she mumbled.
"Oh, I find it pretty inspiring."
"I mean architecturally inspired."
She tossed her head back and kissed me the way I loved it - that soft, cool, almost nonexistent touch electrifying my whole body. She rolled to my side and we lay, barely touching, connected only at the lips, but connected totally. Gradually I began to move, to touch her softly, gliding my hands over as many places as I could. At the same time she moved her hands across my body with the same light, charged touch as her kiss, making me aware of every part of me. I began to hold her more tightly, to press her into me, to kiss her with deeper passion and need.
At last she moved away from me to the center of the bed and lay back. I followed her and lay partially over her, kissing her face, her shoulders, her breasts. Slowly I moved onto her, kissing her lips lightly again. She opened her legs, but we continued just to kiss and touch. Finally, with no particular effort, I was in place and with a few light thrusts I was in.
I was still not too good with the moves, but this time it all seemed to depend on me. She let me take over. I began to move in and out with my whole body. I lifted myself to see what was happening and stayed resting on my arms as I moved back and forth watching. Sometimes I pulled it all the way back and then buried it again. Marlene seemed patient but not too involved. Gradually I lowered myself to my elbows and began thrusting more with my butt, swiveling at the pelvis.
Then from within that very good, very expensive bed I began to hear a faint but very definite squeak. I expected that at home but not there. At first it annoyed me and threw me off some as I tried to avoid it. Then it began to excite me. I noticed that, without any noticeable change in my movement, it was getting a little louder. I became aware that I was driving a bit deeper, my cock seemed stiffer and my muscles more tightly bunched. Now I began to use the squeak as an intensity gauge. I felt the first rises wash over me. Like in running,when your body finally figures out what you're doing and begins to signal the lungs to breathe harder and the heart to beat stronger, my breathing settled into a definite rhythm. Marlene, in spite of her detachment, began to thrust back against my increasing pressure.
Now, using my squeak gauge, I backed off a little. She sensed the change and opened her eyes to study my face. I felt sweat forming over my forehead and chest, but tried to pace, to hold on and let the tension build. In spite of my control, I felt a third rise and lowered myself completely over her body, slowing, holding wrapping my arms around her. I kissed her but could feel impatience growing in her. She was moving with me, but the tension she had shown in the bathroom wasn't there. No matter. This was my time and I took it.
My mind began to shift, like when I was running. It began to turn from the world and move to places beyond. But this was much better than the running high because there wasn't the pain that was always waiting just beyond the edges. I wanted to hold onto the feeling and move deeper into it, to find a place where the fears of that afternoon couldn't touch me.
Marlene moved impatiently. I came back to the world and saw myself in the mirrors that seemed to be everywhere. For the first time I was aware of what it was to have my body splayed out over another - moving and driving another body without a care for the world's opinions. I felt the power of the act, and then I lost it. I stopped the measuring and pacing. I drove my head into the pillow, arched my back and felt wave after wave wash over me and into her.
After we'd rested together a while Marlene went into the bathroom, and then returned wearing a bathrobe. She sat on the edge of the bed again and began to brush out her hair. She was letting it grow, I noticed.
I'd covered myself with a sheet. The room was getting cooler as the evening came on, but I felt good watching her slowly stroking her hair. It was a letdown that the high was gone, but I felt content for the first time in weeks. All the crap that had been building was gone from my mind, or at least it was well stored and covered. And then, for some reason, I thought about that kid in the park.
What happened next can only be a sign of retarded development. In spite of all that had happened between us, it was like I hadn't learned a damn thing about her. At the thought of the park I gave a stupid giggle, like some idiot kid.
"What's so funny?" she asked with just the hint of a tone.
"Nothing. "
"Is it me?"
"No, it's nothing. Just something I saw today came back to me for a minute."
"And I remind you of something funny?"
"No, it's not you. It's just..."
"I don't see why you would think of something funny when you're looking at me.”
The tone should have warned me, but, stupidly, I told her what had happened in the park. A silence followed, and then she said very quietly,
"And what did you do?"
"What do you mean, what did I do? I got out of there fast."
"I mean, what did you do for the girl?"
"For the girl? What should I do for the girl?"
"You witnessed a rape and you did nothing to prevent it? To save the girl?"
"Save her from what? What rape? She seemed to be part of the action."
"You said she resisted. Even if she didn't resist, It's still a statutory rape."
"Well, you know about resistance. Sometimes it's expected of you, even if you don't really mean it. Like, you know, maybe you're out for dinner at someone's house and the lady - the lady who invited you - offers you another dessert. You say, 'No, thank you,' because it's expected of you. She says, 'What, a young man like you? I'm the one who should worry about eating too much,' and you go 'Ha, ha, ha,' meaning, 'You're not really a fat sow,' and then you say, 'Well, it's really good, maybe just half,' and she brings you the double serving that you wanted anyway."
"Very clever. But we're talking about something serious here. You saw someone being abused and you did nothing to stop it."
"Now you're making me out like a coward. It was not my opinion that she was being abused. Why are you so hot on abuse all the time?" A defensive tone had come into my voice. “Maybe she wasn't enjoying herself as much as he was, but I had the feeling she wanted it too. Anyway, when she had to, she got out of there fast enough.”
"A girl of twelve doesn't want that. She doesn't know what she wants. He was just pressuring her into something, and she goes along because she thinks he'll stop loving her."
"And I'm going to run in there like Captain Do-Right yelling, 'Stop that sinful lust right now?' "
"You could have done something."
"And what if they're in love?"
"Some love. He's just using her to get his rocks off, and then he'll go tell all his buddies like you probably do."
"What do you mean? Who tells everybody?"
"And then he goes after a new record with someone else. Meanwhile all the guys make her life miserable because they think she's a free lay."
"Well, isn't she? I mean, the park is not really the classiest place to do it."
In spite of myself, I was getting pissed at her sudden holiness, but now she really flared.
"And you think you're a little classier because you're doing it in a fancy bedroom?"
"I didn't mean that. I wasn't comparing us to them. Things are different."
"How are they different?"
"Well, you can hardly say I raped you."
"Oh, you mean that I raped you?"
"Why do get such pleasure in twisting things all around? I didn't say that either, but at least I didn't come close to forcing you into something you didn't want."
"No, you were all sweet innocence. How do you know what I want? You know, you're really twisted. "
"I'm twisted?"
"Yeah. A few minutes ago you were saying I was perverted, but look at you .
"I never said you were perverted."
"You're one of these weirdos who hangs around restrooms in the park hoping to see someone go pee. Then today you really strike it rich. You sneak around and see some delinquent trying to stick it to a little girl, and you're so perverted it turns you on. So you come over here, because you can always get your hots off with good ol' Marlene."
"Man...man...how can you? That's not the way it was at all. You've changed the whole thing.”
"I haven't seen you for a month and suddenly you're ready to go. That's quite a coincidence."
"Look, maybe what I saw turned me on, but running into you was a coincidence. How did I know that you were going to be here?"
"My being here may be a coincidence; your looking for me wasn't. And I don't like to have creepy little perverts chasing me around."
"Man, don't talk to me that way. I'm no pervert."
"And I'm not your man, or maybe you're going to try that next."
"You asshole!"
"Perverted creep! Get the hell out of here!"
"You're damn right. Where're my clothes?"
"Who cares? Get out!"
I completely twisted myself up in the sheet trying to get off the bed and ended up on my head on the floor. Gathering what dignity I could, I stormed out the door and down the stairs to the service porch where I got my clothes from the drier. Jamming on my running shorts only, I grabbed my shoes and shirt and bolted out the back. To hell with her and her fucking moods and goddamn rotten temper. But even in all that rage, as I left I knew that I was losing something I needed more now than ever.

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