erection—in case I hadn’t noticed. “Does that feel tired to you?” I conceded that it felt extremely alert. “Unless you’re too tired,” he added bravely.
“No, of course not.” My usual I’m-not-in-the-mood signal is a mighty yawn as we ascend the stairs. At that moment, we achieve a tacit understanding and he heads for his pajama drawer. But that night, I was already at Orsini’s with Claymore, examining some fine points of criminal law over an icy glass of Lillet. Bob began biting my lower lip. It worked. I put my hand on his chest and moved it slowly southward.
“Mmmmm. Judith. Hey, why did you stop?” I stopped, I declared silently, because what happens if someone sees me with Claymore Katz and mentions something to you? Automatically, I started my hand moving again. “It feels so good,” he intoned. Would you think I was spending the afternoon making Claymore Katz feel good? That, of course, was patently ridiculous. Claymore had flabby thighs and a jiggly ass. But would that convince Bob? Or would he say, his blue eyes frosted with cold anger, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” And pack up, leaving me in Shorehaven, and move to a lovely apartment in the East Sixties and fall in love with a thin blond biochemist who got her Ph.D. at twenty-four.
“Bob,” I sighed. “I have to tell you something.”
“I know. Oh, honey, I know.”
He pushed me down onto the bed. I tried hard to concentrate on Bob’s tall, compact, beautiful body. It didn’t work. Nor, as he tried to pry my legs apart, would my Lamaze breathing techniques; he’d taken the course with me and would spot it at my first deep cleansing breath. My knees remained sandwiched together like a recalcitrant Oreo. “Not yet,” I whispered.
“Now. Please.”
“Just one second,” I pleaded, concentrating on finding someone on whom to focus, some wonderful, sensual man who would put a swing in my step and a zing in my labia. No one, just a series of faces, men I had known, men I would like to know, but all whizzing by as if on a too-fast film strip, with a voice-over by Bob saying, “Mmmmm.”
“Bob.”
“Don’t stop. Oh, God, don’t stop.”
In ten minutes, he was sound asleep. It took me another hour.
So, on Tuesday morning, I decided to face the issue boldly. “I’m going to the city today.”
“That’s nice,” he responded.
Enough boldness for one day. After he left, and before Mrs. Foster, the baby sitter, was due to arrive and eavesdrop, I called Mary Alice and told her about my appointment with Claymore.
“How can I possibly thank you, Judith? You know I’m an agnostic, but believe me, if there is a God, then He will bless you. Or should I say, She will bless you.”
“I haven’t even bought my train ticket yet, Mary Alice. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you what happened.”
“Can’t you tell me tonight? I feel so terribly impotent, just sitting here. Impotent. What a strange word to choose. Impotent...”
“I don’t want Bob to hear our conversation. I think it’s better to keep him out of this, so I’m doing it on my own.”
“I thought the two of you had a very honest, open relationship.”
I assured her that it was as open as I could handle and made a date to see her the next morning at ten, this time at my house. I really didn’t like her, I thought. Then why was I spending the day as her agent? Not for Mary Alice, I realized. For me. To satisfy my own intense curiosity. To be somehow a part of the Fleckstein case, to position myself in the center of all those currents of passion and emotion and intrigue. And less than an hour later, I found myself in front of Orsini’s, ready to insert myself even deeper into the situation. But it was only twelve-fifteen, and nothing could happen until Clay arrived at one.
I strolled along Fifth Avenue. The snow that still frosted Shorehaven was gone in Manhattan, melted away by the intensity of city life. I peered into Valentino’s
“No, of course not.” My usual I’m-not-in-the-mood signal is a mighty yawn as we ascend the stairs. At that moment, we achieve a tacit understanding and he heads for his pajama drawer. But that night, I was already at Orsini’s with Claymore, examining some fine points of criminal law over an icy glass of Lillet. Bob began biting my lower lip. It worked. I put my hand on his chest and moved it slowly southward.
“Mmmmm. Judith. Hey, why did you stop?” I stopped, I declared silently, because what happens if someone sees me with Claymore Katz and mentions something to you? Automatically, I started my hand moving again. “It feels so good,” he intoned. Would you think I was spending the afternoon making Claymore Katz feel good? That, of course, was patently ridiculous. Claymore had flabby thighs and a jiggly ass. But would that convince Bob? Or would he say, his blue eyes frosted with cold anger, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” And pack up, leaving me in Shorehaven, and move to a lovely apartment in the East Sixties and fall in love with a thin blond biochemist who got her Ph.D. at twenty-four.
“Bob,” I sighed. “I have to tell you something.”
“I know. Oh, honey, I know.”
He pushed me down onto the bed. I tried hard to concentrate on Bob’s tall, compact, beautiful body. It didn’t work. Nor, as he tried to pry my legs apart, would my Lamaze breathing techniques; he’d taken the course with me and would spot it at my first deep cleansing breath. My knees remained sandwiched together like a recalcitrant Oreo. “Not yet,” I whispered.
“Now. Please.”
“Just one second,” I pleaded, concentrating on finding someone on whom to focus, some wonderful, sensual man who would put a swing in my step and a zing in my labia. No one, just a series of faces, men I had known, men I would like to know, but all whizzing by as if on a too-fast film strip, with a voice-over by Bob saying, “Mmmmm.”
“Bob.”
“Don’t stop. Oh, God, don’t stop.”
In ten minutes, he was sound asleep. It took me another hour.
So, on Tuesday morning, I decided to face the issue boldly. “I’m going to the city today.”
“That’s nice,” he responded.
Enough boldness for one day. After he left, and before Mrs. Foster, the baby sitter, was due to arrive and eavesdrop, I called Mary Alice and told her about my appointment with Claymore.
“How can I possibly thank you, Judith? You know I’m an agnostic, but believe me, if there is a God, then He will bless you. Or should I say, She will bless you.”
“I haven’t even bought my train ticket yet, Mary Alice. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you what happened.”
“Can’t you tell me tonight? I feel so terribly impotent, just sitting here. Impotent. What a strange word to choose. Impotent...”
“I don’t want Bob to hear our conversation. I think it’s better to keep him out of this, so I’m doing it on my own.”
“I thought the two of you had a very honest, open relationship.”
I assured her that it was as open as I could handle and made a date to see her the next morning at ten, this time at my house. I really didn’t like her, I thought. Then why was I spending the day as her agent? Not for Mary Alice, I realized. For me. To satisfy my own intense curiosity. To be somehow a part of the Fleckstein case, to position myself in the center of all those currents of passion and emotion and intrigue. And less than an hour later, I found myself in front of Orsini’s, ready to insert myself even deeper into the situation. But it was only twelve-fifteen, and nothing could happen until Clay arrived at one.
I strolled along Fifth Avenue. The snow that still frosted Shorehaven was gone in Manhattan, melted away by the intensity of city life. I peered into Valentino’s
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