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conceals her privates. Had to have Megan try her suit on and take it
off a couple of times to make sure. While I was at it, I also made sure
the whole was nicely trimmed.
Then Megan returned the favor, and my genitals are likewise nicely
trimmed.
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Of course, the deck at her cabin is totally private and I was the only
person privy to the visual display. Megan’s bikini top is so tight that
her nipples show through. Mmmm.
At halftime, I found myself unable to resist untying the string that
connects the bra cups to suck and kiss the sensitive points.
"Look at this," I said, showing Megan my erection. With me
shaved, the hungering beast looks bigger than ever. "Can we do
something about it?"
Megan smiled, stood up bare breasted, and took me into the
bedroom, where she administered much-needed relief.
Driving back from the beach yesterday, I took a leisurely spin along
Poodle Creek Road to Highway 36. The sun was shining like it
always does on these last days of summer, these days of heaven. The
two-lane highway was a keening tarpaulining strip of asphalt that
wound lazily through the verdant woods.
What a gorgeous day.
I lustily sang "Tomorrow Belongs to Me," and pushed the van over
sixty miles per hour, making excellent time.
It was a wonderful weekend.
* * * *
September 17, 1979
Yesterday I asked Megan to find a job up here in Portland so we
can live together. The words just popped out of my mouth. My
instincts told me to ask her, I guess.
The wisdom of the heart. We will be very happy when we are
together, of that I am certain.
On Saturday we went with Chesley to Albany, to attend the
wedding reception of Leanne and her new husband Ricky Fairlane.
Megan drove us in her Volvo. Chesley knows Ricky from their
mutual doper days at college but never went as far down that path as
Ricky did.
The majority of the guests demonstrated a distinct lack of
enthusiasm for the match.
Leanne’s old roommate Sherry took it upon herself to invite
Chesley and me. Sherry is disappointed that Leanne is marrying a
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low-life like Ricky and told me so after a couple of drinks. Sherry
said Leanne showed poor judgment in dumping me four years ago. I
shrugged and said it was all water over the dam or under the bridge or
around the bend or something like that.
Perhaps, as Sherry said, I am the best and nicest man Leanne will
ever attract. But who knows? In retrospect, I am eternally grateful
that Leanne dumped me when she did.
Later on, I spoke with the groom and he seemed pleasant enough, if
a little dissipated. I give the marriage no more than three to five years
max.
Probably less, knowing Leanne.
While Megan was occupied elsewhere, I spoke to Leanne alone.
She wanted to know all about Megan.
"Chesley says you stole her from her husband," Leanne said.
"Chesley is a fucking idiot," I said. "Only last year his wife Shirley
was fucking another woman’s husband. He shouldn’t be pointing
fingers at anyone."
"Don’t get your briefs in a twist," Leanne said, with a grin.
"Chesley wasn’t pointing fingers or being critical. He was just giving
me the lowdown."
Leanne shot a glance to the buffet table, where Megan was pouring
punch for a little girl in a white dress.
"That’s my niece with your girlfriend."
"Hmmm," I said. "Her name is Megan."
"Megan seems very sweet," Leanne said.
"She is. I like her a lot."
"She’s beautiful and I can tell by talking to her that she’s really
smart."
I took a big drink of this very excellent white wine Leanne had
ordered up for the reception.
"Yep."
"So what’s next?" Leanne asked.
"I think we’re moving in together."
"Smart boy," Leanne said, smiling. "I’m happy for you. She seems
like the right one."
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"Thank you," I said. "I’m happy for you, too."
That was about it. Leanne’s wedding was a pretty weird affair,
especially coming as it did on my 28th birthday. Other people haven’t
changed. Only I have changed.
I am afraid of nothing. Nothing at all. I’m happy with Megan and I
am hopeful things will just keep getting better from here on out. Why
I didn’t see my way clear to settling down with one woman before?
Good question.
Emotionally, I simply wasn’t ready. I’m too suspicious of people
to give my heart away easily. I have to go down rocky roads with
them and see how they react. I don’t trust people until I trust them.
For my birthday, Megan gave me an expensive pocket watch, a new
book, and a toy tank. She baked a cake but I could only eat part of it
because I was still too hung over from drinking at Leanne’s reception.
Blew out the candles, though. After Leanne’s shindig we went to
the dormitory where Chesley and I showed Megan our old rooms
from 1969-70. After that, we went to see the football game at Parker
Stadium, where the Beavers got clobbered by USC, 42-5.
* * * *
October 8, 1979
Long weekend at the beach with Megan. We slept a lot, ate,
walked on the beach, and generally just goofed around. This world
spins on a tilting axis, a blue pearl, belonging to us alone. We are
growing into it, and it grows into us.
Played cards with Megan’s neighbors Ginny and Chuck Saturday
night. The Ducks beat Cal in football, 19-14, but it was way too close
for comfort.
Gotta get my hair cut this week.
* * * *
October 9, 1979
Cripes. Arianna called me at work this afternoon (these women
seem to be able to locate you at a moment’s notice) and wanted my
advice on filling out a 415A form.
Apparently she is pregnant (again) and wants to have the taxpayers
foot the bill for an abortion. So I coached her through the process and
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told her what to write down. For about twenty minutes there, I was
Arianna’s own personal welfare worker.
Ah well. She can do what she wants to do. I don’t care. I am
serious and she is not. What really bugs me about her though, is that
she’s a fucking troublemaker, too.
I don’t care if she’s the former U. S. Senator’s niece. Arianna
enjoys making mischief. I’m sorry I ever touched her, ever got
involved with her. Yet another mistake.
* * * *
October 14, 1979
Cripes. Saw Jenny Justin out front of Nordstrom’s downtown on
Sunday. I had been inside with Megan, shopping for threads. We’ve
been invited to Lloyd Schenzler’s wedding and I need some new stuff.
Lloyd’s marrying his beloved Jean, and the event is next month. Can
you believe it? The Schenz getting married? I almost went into
shock.
But that’s another story. Outside of Nordstrom’s, Jenny looks
Megan up and down and then starts telli
ng me snidely that the other
one has gotten married, describing the details, essentially flicking me
shit in kind of a snotty, mean-spirited voice.
Why Jenny has to give me shit I have no idea. I’ve never done her
any harm, never spoken ill of her, either now or in the past. She went
on and on about the wedding, the reception, the bride. Finally, I cut
her off and said I had to get going.
As we walked away, Megan asked me what that was all about. I
shrugged and told her Jenny was a person I used to know. There
seemed no point in going into it and Megan maintains that she doesn’t
want to hear about my past affairs anyway. So we let it drop.
Nevertheless, I was unable to contain my curiosity about the
wedding, and so later on I looked it up.
At Maryhill Library they have a large selection of out-of-town
newspapers, including the Redmond Ranger. During lunch I checked
out back issues of the Ranger to see if there was a story about the
nuptials.
I was also hoping to maybe see a picture.
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Nope. I found the story but was truly disappointed that there was
no accompanying picture of the happy couple. That was what I
wanted to see most of all – their faces.
However, not only did I find the July wedding announcement, I
also found the engagement announcement, dated a month earlier.
Took less than an hour to find it. Although it is a daily, the Redmond
Ranger is just a tiny little rag. We’re not talking The New York
Times here.
But it was mildly interesting. The wedding announcement was
mainly a rehash of the engagement story, with a few details added.
Here’s what it said:
REDMOND – Polly Ellsworth, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Chester
Ellsworth, became the bride of Dr. Keith Gordon, Ashland, at a noon
ceremony on July 27.
The groom is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Burke Gordon, of Napa,
California.
The Rev. Clarence O’Malley officiated at the ceremony, conducted
at Our Lady of the Desert in Redmond.
Given in marriage by her father, the bride wore a gown of old ivory
fashioned with a high neckline, and antique lace trimming on the
fitted bodice and sleeves. The bride carried a bouquet of mixed
summer flowers.
Peggy Ellsworth of Portland was the maid of honor.
Best man for his brother was Bob Gordon of Weed, California.
Paul Ellsworth, the bride’s brother, read scripture selected by the bride
and groom.
Following a garden reception at the home of Mr. and Mrs. John
Fitzgerald in Redmond, the couple left for a wedding trip to Hawaii.
The bride graduated in 1969 from Redmond High School and in
1974 from the State University in Eugene. In 1977, she graduated
from the Nursing program at Southern State College.
She is presently employed as a registered nurse at Ashland
Community Hospital. The groom, a graduate of Loma Linda School
of Medicine, is a physician at Ashland Hospital, specializing in
urological and internal medicine.
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End of story. I really liked the part about the reading of the
scripture. No doubt that was Prude’s idea. It’s nice to know the
marriage will be based, like many others, on a solid foundation of
total hypocrisy. We need more of that in society. It helps keep the
divorce rate up and thereby provides our attorneys with a crucial
source of revenue.
Hmmm. The vacuum-cleaning urologist. I will leave all the usual
jokes unsaid at this point, except to recall that when I was growing up,
performing digital rectal exams on portly middle-aged men was
precisely what every red-blooded American boy dreamed of doing as
an adult.
The professions of baseball star, pro football player, captain of
industry, astronaut, mountain climber, Indy race driver, jet fighter
pilot, famous writer, congressman, secret agent, or world adventurer
were way down the list after urologist.
However, I realize that urology is fairly lucrative and, more
importantly, somebody’s gotta do it.
Hmmm. By "wedding trip" I believe once again I detect the hand
of Mother Prudence at work. She probably can’t bring herself to say
"honeymoon" after her daughter shacked up with the jerk on and off
for three fucking years. Uh uh.
You know, I almost feel sorry for her. (The bride, I mean.) In fact,
I do feel sorry for her. From these words in the hometown newspaper
I get the strong feeling that she probably had to eat a lot of shit before
she finally got that chump to marry her.
The poor, poor girl. She was so fucking desperate.
Of course, writing this also makes me disgusted with myself all
over again. I was so goddamn wrapped up in my own problems when
I got involved with her that I never realized how truly insecure she
was. It never made any sense to me because she was so intelligent
and beautiful that I never thought she could be that desperate.
But I was wrong. She was that desperate. She completely blew
away the competition but I stubbornly hung on to another woman just
to spite her. I did because she had this unfortunate tendency to want
to bully me, although she would never have called it that.
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She would have called it "nagging."
The whole scene with her was so strange. She was a mystery
wrapped in a riddle folded in an enigma, like pigs in blanket. Though
I did love her, she would never just let me be myself. Then suddenly,
she dumped me. Wham.
That was it. If I had it to do all over again, I would have cut my
ties to the other woman and dealt with her bullying on an as-needed
basis.
But because I didn’t, I really wasn’t being fair to her, myself, or
anybody else. Sometimes, you need to do more than just rely on the
tools at hand. You need to think things through.
And then there was that pregnancy thing. Call me despicable, call
me rotten, but overall I still say it is a poor strategy to fuck another
guy, dump your boyfriend, and then turn around and expect said
former boyfriend to become Sir Fucking Galahad the instant you
announce that you are knocked up.
From January to March, 1976, she put me down in every
conceivable way. I read those letters more than once. She said that
she loved Blane, was with Blane, had made Blane a permanent
fixture. So when she tells me she’s pregnant, I’m supposed to be
thrilled?
I figured that she had gotten pregnant by Blane or that other guy
she fucked. It never occurred to me until much later that maybe she
was saying the baby was mine. She never came right out and said it.
Maybe she didn’t even know. When she had the abortion, well, that
was it.
My experience with the welfare crowd tells me that it is a very rare
man who will cheerfully support another man’s child. Only a rare
man will tell a woman he loves her so much that he doesn’t care about
the circumstances, that he loves her and cherishes her no matter what.
Of course, a rare man I am
not. Never have been. In most respects,
I’m as common as dirt.
Later: I’m sitting at my desk now, thinking. In about five minutes I
will drive back to my apartment downtown. I have photocopies of the
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wedding stories from the Redmond Ranger. They are clean, crisp
photocopies. I keep looking at them.
Right now, at this minute, I feel such a deep sadness for her. And
for myself as well. How can you expect someone trust you, to place
their trust in you, when you do not deserve their trust? I keep thinking
how she poisoned things almost from the start by sneaking through
my journals. It wasn’t an accidental or strictly one time deal.
Violating my privacy was a regular part of her routine. She promised
she wouldn’t do it but then she kept right on doing it. She broke her
promise.
She lied to me about important stuff. How can a man trust a
woman who breaks her promises?
What other promises would she have broken?
Nor would she let my internal development proceed at its own
pace. What can I say? At least I was trying to deal with my
problems, not ignore them. At least I was trying to grow myself up,
and I never got any credit for that. Just grief.
She cheated on me virtually the whole time. I was her stupid
trusting bird dog, tail wagging, ready to fetch when she gave the
signal. As she herself said in one of her last letters, it was a close call,
very close.
Indeed it was.
All the sad young women. Deep down, I feel very sorry for them.
They crave love, security, companionship, and physical affection.
Desperate for it though they may be, they frequently blow themselves
up with their own bombs. And we men get blown up with them.
The poor, sad daughters of the earth.
Here they are and here we are.
Once in a while they see a chance for love and grab it. Women
want babies and men want women. That is about as much as I can
figure out so far. To the woman I call the other one, I raise an
imaginary champagne glass:
Good luck, sweetheart. You’ll need it.
Thank heavens I have found Megan.
* * * *
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October 20, 1979
Megan spent the weekend here again, driving up from the beach on