Lying here in bed, in my room at the nursing home, I think back on
all the women I’ve had. Sweet as maple syrup, every one of them. The
warm smell of the soft nipple of my high school sweetheart, back before
the War that was. It would stand right up, that nipple, when I popped
it into my mouth, but, no, she wouldn’t let me go much farther than
that. Nope. Virginity still meant something in those days.
My first real woman was Polynesian. We were based on Maluka Nui, in the
Solomons, ’bout the middle of ’43, I guess. Had the Nips on the run by
then, and we were building airstrips like mad on every shitty little lump
of coral in the South Pacific. I’d gotten a touch of malaria on the Canal,
and now here I was playing guard dog to the damned Seabees, watching to
see that no sniper took a potshot at those hotshot ‘dozer jockeys.
Kathleen her name was, the name the missionaries gave her. I couldn’t get
my mouth around her native name. Damned if she didn’t initiate me into
the mysteries, and with none of the nonsense the girls stateside used to
insist on. Got right to the point. And whatever else the missionaries
taught her, it didn’t include the missionary position. From behind
I took her that first time, with my right hand across her breast,
rubbing her nipple, and my left grabbing on to her hip, so her bucking
ass didn’t knock me out of her. I still remember her cheeks pounding
back against my groin. That was even sweeter than the feel of me inside
her. Kathleen. Hell of a name. Hell of a woman.
Memories. They fill out the nights and make the long days pass.
Last week one of the young nurses took an interest in me. Must have liked
the stories I told. Felt sorry for the old geezer, did she? She gave
me some relief, a “bee-jay,” she called it. Felt all right at first,
but mostly it just tickled. I patted her on top of the head as she was
working hard at it. Nice girl. Meant well. But I don’t think I’ll ask
for an encore.
I remember the first time I took a woman in the back passage. That
has more class, somehow, than “fucked her in the ass,” as the kids say
nowadays. Nothing against realism and honesty in language, but somehow
earthiness loses its bite if overdone. Try telling that to some of those
hotshot millionaire writers, though.
Anyhow, I had already been married and divorced. It was early in Ike’s
second term, as I recall, that I met Margaret, or Meg, as she insisted on
being called. We were all over each other like minks in heat almost from
the start, no matter that we were introduced at a church social. Good
dancer. She knew the moves. All the moves. We were already in bed that
first night, and I was sleeping over regularly after that. Then she
got her period, but that wouldn’t stop her, no sir. “Hey, big fellow,
I’ve got another place where you can stick that,” sez she. Turns out she
liked it even better that way. Got to prefer it, even when not on the
rag. Wiggled her butt real nice, she did. It’s a shame we never really
found anything to talk about. The only thing we had in common was lust,
and that’s a pretty damn weak glue for binding two people together. Try
telling that to some of these hotshot young lovers nowadays.
Once, out of curiosity (or maybe just to see what a woman feels), I let
a friend, a sailor he was, do it to me up the ass. After he showed me
the right way to relax the muscles, it didn’t hurt at all. Interesting
sensations, actually. I could see how someone could get to like it. But
I never had the time, or the inclination really, to pursue it.
Yep, I’ve had a few other women in my time. A couple of them very prim
and proper society ladies. Showed one face to the world, but once the
shades were drawn they couldn’t get out of their clothes fast enough.
But time passes, and I more or less settled down. Got married again,
and this time for keeps. Irene died eight years ago, and after that I
just haven’t had the heart for much in the way of social life. Then I
had the stroke.
I’ve figured out a few things about this sex business over the years,
and I’ve had plenty of time to think, just lying here. It’s really only
an excuse to connect with people, and I mean more in the spiritual than
the physical sense. Alone, alone by ourselves, we’re only half complete,
half-human. Companionship, emotional support, just the simple touch of
a hand on your cheek. That’s what it’s about. Touch.
Some nights after lights out, I sneak down the hall in my wheelchair.
There’s a lady there who needs me. A nice lady. I quietly slip into
her bed and just hold her, just cuddle with my arms around her. Mostly
paralyzed, she is, but she gives me soft little kisses and she cries. She
cries a lot.
