Bodies and Souls by Nancy Thayer Page B

himself. And all he was possibly intending to do, after all, was to have one last pleasant fling before settling down to years and years of fidelity with Sarah Stafford. I wanted nothing of him but to look at him—and maybe hold him—poor lonely widow that I was. I was planning to move from this town as soon as the house was sold, and I had no friends to gossip with anyway; all his secrets were safe with me.
    “Well,” he said at last, weakening, grinning that lovely grin, “lots of guys do have stag parties …”
    “That’s right,” I said. “I could be your own private stag party.”
    He kissed me then. We were standing in the living room, with brandy snifters in our hands, and that first kiss grew so intense that I nearly let the glass just drop to the floor. Instead, I pulled away from him, and led him up the winding stairs to my bedroom. We were both nervous. I can’t even remember how we got out of our clothes; in the past few weeks I’ve managed to do some rather drawn-out striptease routines when undressing in front of Johnny, but that first time we just got out of our clothes and into the bed as fast as we could.
    “My God,” Johnny said as we lay together. “You are so beautiful. I didn’t know real women could be like this, so—curvy …”
    He ran his hands over my breasts and stomach, he kissed my neck and breasts, he made some attempt to be a good lover. It was obvious that he was experienced, for he did know what to do, where to touch, but suddenly he just lost control, forgot himself, forgot the new etiquette of lovemaking that even the youngest men are learning these days. Hestopped being gentle and considerate: he grabbed me, held me down, and entered me with all the finesse of a rapist.
    “My God, you’re so beautiful, you’re so soft,” he said, “My God.”
    They were sweet words, but he was hardly articulate, he was breathing so hard, and he was moving against me with the speed and sensitivity of a jackrabbit. I wanted him to realize whom he was with; I wanted him there with me. So I slid my hands between our stomachs to slow him down. I pressed, palms upward, against his flat stomach, so that each time he fell against me he felt the pressure of my palms, the teasing cut of my fingernails against the skin between his crotch and legs. I thwarted his rhythm. I slowed him down. Johnny raised his head from where he had buried it in the pillow and looked at me.
    “Johnny,” I said, “hey.”
    Then I began to move my hips, slowly. I wrapped my legs around his legs and brought my hands around to press down gently on his backbone.
    “Slow down, Johnny, there’s no hurry,” I said, and smiled.
    He looked at me. He did not smile. He saw who I was. He said, “Liza.”
    He wanted to heave against me. But I stayed in control, I stayed slow. I arched and sank away, tightening and pulling, taunting Johnny’s body into a different mood. I remained deliberate, controlling the cadence of our colliding bodies until I could sense just how he ached, how he yearned; we were both trembling, and our stomachs were slick with sweat. Then I too lost control and just held on, the rhythm quickened, and finally we both came, not in one quick explosion, but with the prolonged shuddering power of a rocket leaving earth. We rose, and flared and flared.
    I had concentrated him; I had won. He collapsed against me, grimacing, rubbing his head against my neck, the pillow, gasping. I stroked his back. Ha, darling Johnny, I thought, you’re mine now. And I was right.
    Didn’t you warn your son about older women, Judy? No, I don’t think you did. You don’t have the imagination. And you obviously have all the sexuality of a straight pin. All the times that your son has come home to you from my bed, and you’ve never once suspected: it makes me laugh, makes me want to laugh out loud in this church right now. God, how I despise you, you and this town, with its placid, rotten people with their smug and plastic