Something Happened

I don't think I have ever had a homosexual experience that counted. I was molested twice as a child, once by an older boy, but I don't think that counted. The other time was by an older girl in the same apartment house who pretended to wrestle with me but was really intent on giving me an erection and feeling it bounce against her. That does count because it felt so nice. I was lucky. I was eager to have her do it to me again and lurked around her optimistically.

She didn't. Poor me. It's hard to believe one can experience such acute sensitivity and still be unable to come. How does it end? We can't remember. It peters out. Pe

"Isn't it beautiful?" she would say.

Anyone could please her, and she left me in the warm weather for younger men in beach houses with less money who played volleyball in the sand but had more time to spend with her. I tried to get her back but failed. She jilted me. (I had to face the fact I bored her, too.) She outgrew me, saw through me. There was degradation — oh, boy — turned down by her. She had never seen men's garters before or noticed them in fashion ads, and she had never heard of Camus, Copernicus, or Soren Kierkegaard (the three big K's, ha, ha), either. She found my garters quaint and curious; she never actually ridiculed them, but her amusement was insult enough. I guess men's garters do look fu

"Do you have to go right home?" she asked unexpectedly. "Or aren't you afraid of your big, mean wifey?"

"No to both," I responded with terse bravado. "What do you have in mind?"

"Lover's lane," she a

She was a millionaire's frolicsome wife with a double chin and acrid perfume I didn't like, and I had always had to respect her (because she was a millionaire's wife. I was afraid of her husband). She was four years older than I was and had a hearty, predatory vivaciousness about her. She made fun of my shy caution and was entertained by my ignorance and naпvete.

"I've got a reputation as big as this whole county, baby. Oh, have you got a lot to learn. Didn't you know that?"

I felt like a yokel. "Does Bill know?"

"A lot I care. I'm a free spirit, puddy poo. I do what I want."

"Will Bill know about me when he finds you dropped me off?"

"Don't be such a worry wart," she chided with a squeaky titter.

My skin prickled, and I thought for a moment she might pinch my cheek or tweak my nose. She tore her stockings at the knees on the floorboard of her car and stuffed them in her purse before she started driving again.

"I can't walk in with these, can I? I'll call you in the city. I come in every Wednesday to see my mother."

"I have an apartment."

"We own a co-op."

"Will Bill know?"

"Don't be such a worry wart."

"Don't use that phrase. It makes my skin prickle."

"Your skin prickles easily, I've noticed."

"It isn't fitting for a woman of your position."

"I'll show you some new ones. Bill and I have an understanding."

"What does that mean?"

"I do what I want. And he can go to hell if he doesn't like it."

"That's some way to talk about a millionaire."

"Puddy poo."

When she called on Wednesday, I didn't want to see her again and told her I had a meeting. (I was afraid of Bill, and I didn't think I ever wanted to see again someone who had called me puddy poo.)

"I'm at the hair dresser," she said on Thursday the week after.

"I was expecting you yesterday," I lied again.

"You'll have to take me when you can get me. Let's have lunch."

"It can't he done."

"I'll pay."

"It's not that."

"You think I'm homely?"

"No. I think you're sexy as hell."

"So does he, puddy poo."

"Who?"

"The guy I'll meet instead. You're not the only fish in the sea, baby. We'll talk about you."

"Does he know me?"

"We'll have a big laugh."

"Who is it?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

(I began to feel she had the whammy on me.) I began to believe she would come up to the office una