-
I should take a moment to say something about Maggie Cartwright. She deserves that much at least. Back in June of 1976 she gave birth alone. John was in prison on an assault charge for nearly beating a man to death over some remarks he made about Maggie. He was twenty-two, stupid, and under just about as much stress as a pregnant girlfriend could give – not that she tried. In his defense, John never left her as most people thought he would. When he got out of prison, he married her and became a father.
His temper never calmed with either a criminal record or parenthood. If anything, it grew worse. He abused Maggie in every conceivable fashion. His fists were quick, certainly. But his tongue was just as quick. John devastated his young wife’s self-esteem and broke her will. One day Maggie just sort of went into herself and disappeared. She gave up her friends and only saw her family at weddings and at funerals. Her whole life became devoted to her bastard of a husband and their child.
At least she had her sewing room. She could always be found there when dinner was ready and all the housework was done. It was where she spent her evenings and it was the only place in the house where any remnants of her spirit remained. It was an oubliette – but it was her oubliette, where she could forget the world beyond the doorway.
Maggie made quilts and crocheted doilies, place mats and table cloths. She could make dresses and she did some hemming and alterations at a phone call’s request. Her hands were magic. I recall watching her when we were young, entranced as she worked, her eyes distant and her mind gone to a safe place where she never had a sore neck from being throttled or bruised ribs from her husband’s ham-sized fists. Her crafts were sold in a store down town and she made a few dollars doing it. But back then she never did it for the money.
-
This day was no different as Carrie followed Freddy into the kitchen at just after four in the afternoon. They were quiet, pausing only to grab drinks from the refrigerator before heading to the basement.
“Freddy, is that you?” Maggie called from the banister.
“Yeah. Hi mom.” Freddy was annoyed at the intrusion. He knew she probably wouldn’t come down from her sewing but one never knew. It was best to say hi now and make small chat instead of risking an intrusion later.
“Hi honey.” She leaned over the rail to see them and smiled when she caught sight of Carrie. Her smile was automatic. “Hi, Carrie. How are you?”
“Hi, Mrs. Cartwright.” Carrie was blushing and he was sure she was going to back out. “Good.”
“Do you kids need a snack?”
They exchanged a quick look. Freddy was growing more alarmed that he was losing her. “Nah, mom. Thanks. We’re fine.”
“Carrie, would you like to stay for supper?”
She glanced at Freddy before replying. “No, thank-you. My mom and I are going out for pizza.”
“Okay. Have fun. There’s some Pepsis in the fridge if you get thirsty.” With that she returned to her sewing room. In moments her old Singer resumed its methodic clacking.
Freddy hated John for what he had done to her, for what he had turned her into. These moments of life in Maggie were rare, typically brought on by the presence of company to quell any suspicions. If he had come home alone, she would not even have said more than hello to him unless he went into the room with her. She was hardly human any more. He hated John sure enough. But he hated Maggie even more because he figured she let him do it to her. She never stood up for herself, she never defended herself and she certainly never sought help. Of course, the whole dynamic of spousal abuse was lost on Freddy. He had no concept of self-esteem, of dominance in others or of the mental state someone could be put into when left in a situation of sustained abuse. He simply could not hope to understand how she could let it happen to her – as though she actually let it happen.
But right now, her lack of interest in their activities was a godsend. As he took Carrie’s hand and led her downstairs all thoughts of his mother faded. He could feel the warmth of her hand in his and smell the fresh, scrubbed scent of her skin. She used Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo and the powdery scent of it wafted into his nostrils as she drew close in the stairwell. Already he could feel his erection returning, pressing at the crotch of his jeans.
The basement was only partially developed, with pull-cord lights, the plumbing mostly roughed in and the floor joists still exposed in the ceiling above. As you came down the stairs the basement opened to the left into one large room devoted to laundry and storage. To the right, the wall continued and split the basement in two. Put up the first year in town, the wall was as yet unpainted. In the center, looking straight out of some seventies disco lounge, was a second-hand, orange Naugahyde-padded walnut door. It was just cheesy enough to be cool.
John had plans for the basement, starting with the TV room – or rumpus room – and working out from there. With overtime pay he built the wall and paneled the interior with a classic, contiguous walnut veneer. The red shag carpet was vintage as well. He salvaged it from an end-of-the-roll store before it could be thrown out. It was deep enough to swim in. John was handy with tools and he even built from scratch a wet bar along one wall with sink and fridge and even space for a keg and taps down the road. You could say he was going for a certain look and he was achieving it. He saw himself as a kind of Hefner of Suburbia type but other than Carrie and Maggie I don’t believe another female set foot in that basement the whole time the Cartwrights lived there. John and his buddies from work watched all the big games down there when they weren’t out at the bar. Maggie had her sewing room so John had his rumpus room.
For now, it was primarily a TV room. The two hundred pound G.E. console job was long-gone. In its place sat a nearly new 36” Sony Trinitron and a top of the line Hitachi four-head Hi-Fi VCR. Both were bought with overtime money just the previous fall. But a true sign of luxury: Shiny black coaxial cable snaking away from the back of the entertainment unit to a new plug in the wall. In 1991 cable was still uncommon in Prince William Falls. But for twenty-eight dollars a month John was willing to part company with his old rabbit ears.
-
Freddy went straight to the footlocker in the corner of the room and worked the combination lock. Within moments he had it open. He selected a VHS tape from the stacks inside without hesitation and slid it in the player.
“What’s that?” Carrie asked. She was standing by the couch and cradling her Pepsi to occupy her hands in the fashion of a person at a cocktail party waiting for a spouse to return or just simply looking completely out of place and knowing it.
Freddy showed her the tape case and winked. “Just something to set the mood.”
Her eyes went wide. Among other things John Cartwright was a collector of what he referred to as ‘Adult Cinema’. Freddy was intimately familiar with his collection.
“How did you get the combo?” She was nervous, fidgety and she was blushing even before he pressed play.
“Dad’s not too bright sometimes,” Freddy replied. He flipped the lock over in his hand and showed the sticker on its back plate. It was intact, clearly stating ‘20-13-03’ and ‘memorize and remove’.
Carrie giggled and took a seat beside him on the couch. She smiled demurely as he put an arm around her. The snow cleared on screen and the movie started. About a minute into it the first sex scene began.
Freddy watched Carrie closely. Her nervousness vanished and she watched, entranced, discovering much more than Life Studies intended her to know at such a tender age. He paused the tape with an image of an erect, well-endowed penis held in the firm grip of the leading lady. The actress gazed at it lovingly, with something akin to devotion in her eyes – or perhaps it was just theatrical hunger.
“So, there you have it,” Freddy gestured broadly at the television.
Carrie looked confused. “I thought -” she stopped.
“Oh, you wanted to see the real thing.” Freddy feigned shock.
“Do you still want to?” She asked. The fai
nt blush on her cheeks flared up, all but masking her freckles.
Freddy got up and went to the base of the stairs. He could still hear the sewing machine firing away. Maggie would be busy until John got home and John never came home early on Fridays. He went back into the rumpus room and stood before Carrie. “Are you sure you want to see it?” His heart throbbed in his chest and adrenaline-fed excitement coursed through his veins. His penis was a length of hot lead in his pants, pulsing lightly against his hip with each beat of his heart.
Carrie giggled behind a cupped hand and nodded. The same excitement he felt was evident in her eyes and the toothy grin splitting her face.
“Come here,” Freddy offered her his hand. He took her Pepsi away and set it on the coffee table. “Kiss me again.” He lowered his face to hers. Again, his erection pressed against her like a fleshy yardstick but this time she did not draw away. Freddy dropped a hand to his belt and opened his pants. When he stepped away from her his erection came forth like an uncoiling snake.
Carrie sat back on the edge of the couch. Her wide eyes were fascinated. She was the Indiana Jones of virgin girls unearthing a long-lost artifact hidden for millennia in the ground. “Cool,” she managed. Her eyes flicked up to his just for a moment before returning to his erection.
Freddy smiled. “Want to touch it?”
Carrie shrugged and bit her lip. “I don’t know.” Even as she spoke her hand moved on its own, a tentative finger tapping it once on the head before retreating.
“C’mon,” Freddy chuckled. He took a step forward. His stance was that of a gunslinger. “Don’t just poke it – hold onto it.”
After a moment she did. Her fingers closed around the shaft of his penis in much the same fashion as was displayed on the frozen television screen. Freddy masturbated regularly – almost religiously – but the sensations he was able to achieve with his own hand were nothing compared to what he felt as her fingers closed on him. His legs weakened but stiffened at the same time. His stomach began doing delicious back flips as an intense, hot, tingling sensation spread outward through his whole body. An involuntary moan of pleasure escaped him.
Carrie giggled. She stroked his penis slowly while watching his reaction with clear delight. Impulsively she leaned forward and kissed it. His reaction was immediate. Freddy’s loins exploded. He came with the earth-shattering force of an erupting volcano and nearly collapsed.
I recall my first ‘assisted’ orgasm. Without excessive detail I must admit I did not last much longer than Freddy on that Friday afternoon in his parent’s basement. But mine was far less embarrassing. Unwittingly Carrie had put herself on the receiving end of his eruption. She could only sit still, keeping her lips and eyes firmly shut. She took it well, all things considered, and endured it long enough for Freddy to recover and clean up the mess with his own shirt.
When she was able to open her eyes, Carrie smiled shyly. “Did I just give you head?” She asked in a small voice.
Freddy dropped his shirt and shrugged as nonchalantly as he dared. He made no move to put away his six-shooter but his cowboy stance relaxed. “Not really,” he decided. “You didn’t actually put it in your mouth. I think that’s an important detail.” The offending weapon hung in front of her, still fully engorged, still keeping pace with his heartbeat.
“I don’t think I could do that,” she said quietly. Carrie shook her head as Freddy thrust his pelvis toward her suggestively. She reached out and held it again – only held it, making no move to go further. “I can’t – not yet. That’s something I think I have to work up to.” She shook her head more firmly.
Freddy nodded. “Well maybe …” he began. A basketball player will claim to be able to tell if a shot is good or not the moment it leaves his hand. Some would scoff at the idea. Others would readily agree. I don’t believe there is anything supernatural about it. The feel of the ball against the fingers, the spin it gets at the instant of launch and its angle of departure all offer feedback to the player which he is able to interpret with greater accuracy as his experience and skill increases. Right then Freddy would agree. He knew he was throwing up a brick before he even finished the question.
The question of course was whether or not Carrie would be willing to give him the honor of relieving her of the cumbersome burden of her virginity.
“I’m not ready – not yet,” she returned immediately. Her eyes met his and the look in them was one Freddy was unfamiliar with but one we would all come to know quite well. Carrie was serious, uncertain and more than a little afraid.
This time Freddy nodded and managed a glum look of acceptance. He really was not expecting much. “Okay.”
Carrie paused. Her hand was still on his penis and her eyes shifted passed him to the television. The look of fear vanished but she was still nervous. Her hand left him and fell to the top button of her own pants. “Have you ever seen …?” Her voice trailed off.
Freddy shook his head quickly. “I would like to,” he managed. His own hand found his penis and stroked it as she unbuttoned her fly. A decisive moment later, she slipped her pants down into a puddle around her ankles.
Revealed nearly completely, Carrie watched his hand work with fascinated eyes. Her fingers hesitated in the waist band of her plain, cotton panties. They were pale blue rather than white and the lace and frills were non-existent. Freddy didn’t mind. “You won’t tell anyone will you?” She asked. One finger tugged at the seam of her young-girl underwear.
Freddy shook his head once more. He was sincere but I knew within short hours. I was also only the first to know.
Satisfied, Carrie lowered her panties, hiking her backside off the couch with a grunt and a giggle. She kept her knees closed, self-conscious of her exposure although she was willingly exposing herself.
Freddy knelt before her and placed his free hand on her bare thigh. Her legs parted. The vision of what lay before him joined the catalogue in his mind, placed neatly beside her mother’s triangle of lace. He masturbated slowly, his fingers caressing the length of her inner thigh, almost afraid to draw any closer.
“You can touch it if you want to,” Carrie told him breathlessly.
Freddy nodded. His hand drew closer. With his first two fingers he gently traced the outer path of her labia. His index finger found an opening and she gasped softly. He smiled and extended his liberty. Freddy leaned in.
Only minutes later John walked through the door.
-
John Cartwright spent the day like most others. He was up at six o’clock. He hit the snooze button twice before getting out of bed (he set his clock eighteen minutes fast in order to accommodate this). Breakfast was waiting for him at the table when he came down, scrubbed, shaved and dressed. He was out the door by seven-thirty. He let his car idle and warm up for a full five minutes before pulling away despite the June temperatures.
The Impala was his pride and joy. Maggie was the only woman he had ever lain with and Maybelline was the only car he had ever owned – bought the day after he graduated from high school. The sad truth was that John had more pictures of his car than he had of his wife and son.
Day shift started at the plant at eight and ended at four-thirty. Lunch was at noon and they got breaks at ten and two-thirty. Union life was great he said. All afternoon there was talk about Dyson’s that evening. A couple of guys were going into the city to catch a hockey game and a few more signed up for overtime. John worked his forty and tried to average two or three hours of O.T. each week. Any more than that made a man crazy he claimed.
But on Fridays John rarely worked extra. He left work and headed to the carwash before going to Dyson’s. To John there was something about washing the car on Friday that was somehow right, as though he was washing away the work week with the road dust and grime – cleansing himself as much as Maybelline. Also, he loved the way the Impala seemed to shimmer under the neon lights in Dyson’s parking lot at night.
He liked being first to arrive, sitting at the prime table i
n front of the big projection TV. I think it made him feel important. He felt as though everyone came to sit at his table as opposed to their table. He was King Arthur and for the evening Dyson’s Roadhouse was his Camelot.
This Friday was different. Maybe it was something in the air or the water. Maybe John was just feeling fatherly. He decided to skip the bar – for now at least – and take Freddy to the carwash with him. Freddy had his learner’s permit and had yet to use it. He would be fifteen in days and sixteen a year after. Time had a way of getting away. It was time the kid learned to drive a real machine. Maybe tomorrow they could change the oil together or toss the football around. John recalled Freddy had a cute girlfriend and it was about time he learned the basics – just like his old man had taught him. Anything was possible.
At twenty to five Maybelline turned out of Clausson Foods and hauled north back into town. She was running good – real good. On Tuesday John changed the spark plugs and wires and had somehow managed to knock a vacuum line loose. He spent the next two nights chasing it down. He eventually fixed the problem last night at around eight-thirty. Now she was purring like a lioness with a belly full of meat. John always felt good after a job well done. He patted the dashboard affectionately and gunned the throttle. The purr became a roar.
-
Neither Freddy nor Carrie heard the front door. Nor did they hear the characteristically heavy tread of his footsteps as he mounted the stairs to inquire about his son. Freddy heard nothing because his ears were mostly covered by Carrie’s smooth thighs (pale, he noted quickly, not tanned like her mother’s). As for Carrie – she was at that moment deaf to the world.
After The Flesh Page 5
