by Brenda Hill
“I don’t know,” I managed. “I just...can’t....” He regarded me for a few, long, miserable minutes.
“Okay, honey,” he said, “I have an idea. Here. Let’s rinse off and get out.” He opened the door, stepped out, and offered his hand to help me. As if I were a child, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around me, briskly drying my skin and placing the towel over my shoulders. He took another to use for himself. “If you need to pee, you’d better do so now. We’re going to be a while.”
I must have looked frightened, because he chuckled and held me.
“Don’t worry, I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want.”
“I’m thirsty,” I told him, more because I didn’t know what else to say than for any other reason. But once we were in the kitchen, I discovered that I was starved. And so was he.
After a snack of hot tea, buttered English muffins with peanut butter and some fruit, I relaxed and enjoyed Terry’s chatter. We were still in towels and we didn’t talk about anything major, just the house, the view in the daylight and his apartment in Redlands. After Terry wiped his mouth with the napkin, he stood and took my hand.
“Now to the bedroom.”
I followed, intrigued and a little nervous, although not as bad as before. Once there, he turned on both bedside lights, the rose glass one on the vanity, and even flipped the bathroom switch. Bright light flooded the bedroom. Irrationally, I thought of the sheets and was glad I’d changed them yesterday to a lavender floral design.
He took his towel to the bathroom. I wasn’t ready to give him mine. Then, back by the bed, he held out his hand to me.
I eyed the well-lit bed. “I’m not sure...”
“Do you trust me?”
I nodded.
“Well, come to me. It’ll be okay.”
When we were standing together by the bed, my heart raced. I didn’t know why I felt so frightened.
“You remind me of a frightened little girl,” he said, brushing the hair away from my forehead. “What in God’s name did someone do to you?”
I could only shrug. I’d never been abused, so I couldn’t tell him why I felt so uneasy.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Do you believe that?”
“I believe you.” I wanted to tell him I wasn’t afraid he’d hurt me, but I couldn’t tell him why I was so apprehensive.
He sat on the bed, then lying back, he stretched out in the middle and opened his legs. “I want you to look at me.”
Surprised, I must have made a sound.
“Take your time and really look,” he said. “I want you to know every inch of me.”
I hesitated, but once on the bed, I made sure my towel was snug around me and got to my knees. Determined to overcome any embarrassment, I began my scrutiny, looking at Terry like I’d never done to Mac in our twenty-five years together.
Starting with his face and head, I worked my way down to his broad chest and his shoulders and arms, still muscular, I imagine from years of hauling equipment for the fire department. He didn’t have the form of a body-builder who pumped iron all day; instead, he looked natural, like a man who worked hard and enjoyed life. He smiled and ran his hand down my arm.
Feeling a little more at ease, I returned his smile, patted his tummy, then ran my fingers through the mat of hair on his chest. I played with his nipples, wondering if, as a man, he felt anything. Mac had said more than once that he didn’t like me touching his. A waste of time, he’d said.
“You’re torturing me.” Terry pulled me down on top of him and kissed me. “I think if you’re going to look,” he said through clenched teeth, “you’d better do it now.”
Quickly glancing at his erection, I smiled, suddenly aware I had power over his body. I liked that feeling. “Well, it’s your own fault. You pulled me down on top of you, remember? I was quite content—”
“Ah, there's my girl, sharp-tongued, as usual. I was wondering what happened to you.” As he relaxed, his erection softened, although it didn’t totally disappear.
“Tell me about your marriage,” Terry said. “Were you happy? Did your husband abuse you in any way?”
“Mac was very good to me. He wouldn’t dream of abusing me. I was the one who failed him.”
“In what way?”
Thinking about his questions, I continued exploring his body. His penis lay on a nest of hair, the white strands curling with the darker ones. His legs were long, his thighs thick and calves rounded. They reminded me of a dancer’s legs, long and well-shaped. It was strange how much I liked looking at him. I even thought his little belly was cute.
“Why do you think you failed your husband?” Terry gently prodded.
It was obvious he wasn’t going to let it slide, so, folding my legs under me, I sat back. I didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to tell him what a total failure I’d always been as a woman. But whether I’d wanted him to or not, he meant a lot to me and I wanted to be open about everything.
He propped himself against the headboard and pulled me up next to him, clearly prepared to let me tell everything in my own time. Hesitantly, I began talking.
I told him everything about my marriage, the dismal sex life, how I never could relax. I explained that we’d tried everything, including wine. And how, each time, I just wanted to get through it.
“I don’t understand,” Terry said. “You felt something with me just now. I know you responded.”
“I can’t explain that. I never liked sex.”
“You can’t say that now.” Terry turned to me and took my left nipple in his mouth. When he gently nipped my nipple with his teeth then sucked it into his warm mouth, I felt that same throbbing need zing straight to my toes. I flooded with moisture. Had I turned into a wanton? He was already hard and I clutched his shoulders. He slipped a warm finger inside me. “You’re so wet.”
He gentle slid me down the bed, then bent low to kiss my tummy. When he moved lower, I froze inside and drew my legs together.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“That’s okay, honey,” he said, stretching out beside me. “But what happened? I know you were ready just then.”
Having been married all those years, I knew what an effort it must have been for Terry to stop so suddenly.
“I didn’t douche.” I couldn’t look at him.
“What? You didn’t douche, when?”
“When I took a shower, so you don’t want to...to do what you were going to do.”
“Why don’t I? Honey, look at me. Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
“But I smell,” I said, so humiliated I wanted to die.
“You just showered, didn’t you?”
“But it’s not the same—”
“Listen to me. You don’t smell.” He crouched down between my legs and tried to open them. I kept them tightly closed. “You were supposed to trust me. Remember?”
I didn’t want to do it, but I relaxed my legs. Terry dipped his head and licked and I felt nothing but terror. We weren’t locked in a passionate embrace in which we forgot everything. He was going to be turned off by me and I couldn’t bear it. Not after everything wonderful that had happened before.
He opened me with his fingers and licked again. I couldn’t help it—when I felt his warm, wet tongue, I moaned with pleasure. Then I felt a different sensation. I looked down and saw the strangest thing. Terry was rubbing his chin and face in my pubic hair. I propped myself on my elbows.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m loving you, every bit of you.” He opened me again with his fingers. I almost bolted off the bed, but he ignored me. “Your smell? Yes, you have a smell. We all do, and yours is all woman. I love it, and I wouldn’t want you to douche it away.”
I stared at him. “You like it?”
“Like it? Honey, I could get lost in your smell.”
I burst into tears.
Instantly he rose and took me in his arms. “What is it? What did I do?”
“My husband never liked to, t
o do that. He didn’t want to get near me unless I’d just douched. He even picked them out for me.” Then I told him how Mac would never touch anything until he washed after touching me.
Terry’s arms tightened around me. “And you said you weren’t abused.” He sounded angry. “I don’t think the question is why you didn’t enjoy sex; I think it’s what the hell was wrong with your husband. Honey,” he said, turning me to face him, “we’re human. We all smell at times, we won’t always brush our teeth before kissing, and we won’t always have the opportunity to bathe first. But remember this. I love you, I love your smell. It gives me an instant erection. Everything that’s womanly about you calls to the man in me.”
I suddenly felt so gloriously free. When his arms tightened around me, I joyously gave myself to him. We made love again, our juices mingling, and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
When I woke around noon, we were under the covers. Terry must have pulled them over us some time during the early morning. He was lying next to me, his mouth slightly open and softly snoring. Listening to his breathing, I smiled and felt as though my entire body was smiling. When I reached down and touched his penis, he stirred and woke.
“God, you wake fast,” I said.
“All those years of training at the station, I guess.” He pulled me to him and we kissed. I wiggled against him, pushing my breasts against his chest.
“And I thought I didn’t like sex,” I said, still smiling.
“Oh, I knew you’d come around.”
“Just how did you know that?”
“Men just have this natural radar.”
“Oh? Tell me.”
“I can’t tell you anything right now,” he said, kissing the tip of my nose. “I’m an old man, you know. I need food, some kind of nourishment if I’m going to keep a wanton like you satisfied.”
“Wanton?” I grinned, and threw my legs over the side of the bed. “Okay, old man.”
His arms tightened around me. “Where are you going?”
“To the kitchen to feed you. I might want to do this again.”
I slipped into my robe, so light-hearted I almost danced to the shower. I felt so gorgeously alive. Now I knew what I had missed for most of my life and I determined I wasn’t going to miss more. I might be a recent widow—although after learning about Jenna, I no longer felt married to Mac—and Terry might not be officially divorced, but I no longer cared. It was time I grabbed some happiness of my own. No matter what had happened, I was going to live.
Then I thought of Shanna. If I knew my daughter, she was going to be horrified.
Chapter Twenty-One
By the time I got out of the shower, Terry had left the bedroom. Strains of a light opera drifted in from the kitchen radio, so I threw on some slacks and a pullover and headed in his direction. He was rummaging through the refrigerator, the package of muffins on the counter behind him.
“No eggs, no jelly,” he grumbled, giving me a quick hug. “Not even any butter. No respectable household goes without butter.”
“Who says I’m respectable?” Brushing by him, I took the tub of margarine from the tray.
“Naaa, not that stuff. I’m a real man.” Making fists, he struck a muscle-builder’s pose. “I want real butter.” His towel loosened and slipped to the floor. “Ooops.” He bent to retrieve it.
Laughing, I snuggled against him. “Well, real man, I’ll just have to figure out a different way to feed you.”
“I’ll be glad to help you figure it out. But later. Right now this real man needs real food. We’re going to the market.”
***
Since we were both hungry, we stopped at Denny’s for one of their breakfast specials. After we devoured eggs, bacon, sausage, and pancakes, we relaxed over coffee and talked. He asked about my past, my childhood, and while I’d never discussed those years with anyone, even glossing over them with Mac, I found myself opening to Terry. I allowed myself to remember, to feel, my childhood. I told him exactly how I’d tried to fade into the woodwork when my step-father was around.
“It was strange,” I reflected. “He never beat me, but when he’d look at me that certain way, everything in me froze. I’d never felt such hatred from anyone.”
“What caused it? Did you resent it when your mother married him?”
“Of course, but I was only seven. I could’ve warmed to him if he’d been loving to me. Instead, he hated me and did everything he could to tear me down. When he was home, I wasn’t allowed to play my radio or make noise of any kind. I wasn’t allowed to take part in family discussions, which usually meant giving Mom hell for something or other. He didn’t allow me to express anything except complete obedience. I couldn’t show anger, and I certainly wasn’t allowed to defend myself if he accused me of anything. He considered that backtalk. The only way I could get through those years was to stay out of his way, and above everything else, stay quiet.”
Terry covered my hand with his. “I’m so sorry you had to endure that. Where was your mother? Why didn’t she intervene?”
“Mom had enough to handle. She worked all the time trying to hold us together. She never had anything, never did anything except work and come home. All her money went for bills, and there was never enough. We were always moving, only spending a few months in each apartment until they kicked us out. I never knew where I was going to be living next. That man kept us in poverty all the time by drinking up the money.” I shook my head. “But she loved him. No matter what he put us through, she loved him. I never could understand that. Even as she lay dying, I knew she was thinking of him.”
We said nothing for a few moments. I didn’t realize how tightly I was gripping Terry’s hand until he loosened it.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, wiping sudden tears. “I don’t know why I went into all that.” Cheeks burning, I glanced around to see if anyone was looking at us. I picked up my coffee, more to cover up the tears.
“Honey, don’t worry what anyone else thinks,” Terry told me. “It’s okay if you cry; it’s natural. It must have been horrible for such a sensitive little girl. I’m honored that you could talk about it to me.”
It was another kind of freedom that I now felt. Terry accepted my past, my feelings, and me, without judging, without telling me what I should have done. Years ago when I’d tried to talk to Mac, he hadn’t understood. “After all,” he’d said, “your step-father never beat you. You should’ve ignored it or gone to the authorities.”
Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have done a lot of things in my life, but that wasn’t the way it happened. I’d been so terrorized that going to the authorities never occurred to me. Instead, I stayed quiet and made plans to escape as soon as I was old enough to survive. Until I told Mac, I’d always felt a sense of pride that I’d made it on my own at seventeen, but he only made me feel more inadequate.
But Terry understood. I could see it in his eyes. Not caring what anyone thought, I leaned across the table to kiss him.
“Well, that’s a nice surprise.” His smile was so wicked it was almost a leer. “Could I have a little more?”
Just like in the old musicals on TV, I could’ve broken out in song. “Just wait until I get you home, big boy.”
When I heard a snicker behind me, I turned to a booth full of teenagers, lips and eyebrows pierced with silver hoops.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “I’m here to tell you that love isn’t only for the young.”
They laughed, and when they filed out of the booth to leave, the boy with the most metal attached to his face, smiled and gave Terry a thumbs up.
***
Grocery shopping had always been a chore, but today, strolling the aisles, loading the cart with anything that struck our fancy, was a treat. I picked out my normal staples—bread, eggs, cheese, and Terry tossed in real butter, along with ingredients for stir-fry, spaghetti and chili.
“I hope you’re going to cook all this,” I said, eyeing the cart. “Don’t forget, I’m a working woman
and don’t have a lot of extra time.”
“I love to cook. We all took turns at the station. Which reminds me, I want to talk to you about that.”
“About what?” We stopped at the bin of watermelons and I started thumping them with my thumb and forefinger like I’d seen others do. I had no idea what to listen for, but I did it anyway, loving how efficient it made me feel.
“Your working.” Terry reached over and picked up a dark green melon. “How about this one?”
“Looks as good as any. You were saying?”
He placed the melon into the cart. “I was thinking about the two of us taking off and seeing the world.”
“Okay,” I said lightly, pushing the cart to the tomato bin. “And while you’re at it, how about a Caribbean cruise? Then perhaps we could hop a private jet and fly to Paris for dinner.”
“Well, the private jet may be a little out of my reach, but we can talk about the cruise.”
I came to a halt and looked at him. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Damned right I’m serious. We should do some things together while I can enjoy them. Travel, even. So many things I’d like to see—the Greek islands, Lock Ness, the pyramids. Hell, I love seafood and always wanted to go to one of those clambakes on the east coast.”
“I’d love to see those things with you,” I said, “but I have to support myself.” Suddenly aware of people trying to get around us in the aisle, I scooted my cart over. “We should talk about this later.”
“If that’s what you wish, but no matter when we talk about it, my feelings aren’t going to change.”
A white-haired woman in a lavender pantsuit walked by and smiled at us both, her smile suggesting she’d heard our entire conversation and approved.
“Later,” I whispered, my face flaming. Keeping my head down, I busied myself with the tomatoes. I picked out a beefsteak tomato. When I looked up, my heart nearly stopped. Rick stood in front of me. Dressed in jeans and a sport coat, his black hair as perfectly coifed as ever, he stood motionless at the end of the produce aisle, the expression on his face one of pure hatred. Gasping, I dropped the tomato. It split open, splattering juice and seeds on my feet and the floor.
