afternoon?”
Nuzzling his neck, she takes his arm as if to lead him tentward. As he pulls himself up, “What the fuck, guys?” Narrator wonders, seeing Ned and Marsha, still loosely embraced, grinning up at him from their blanket.
Says Ned with a shrug, “Arms-o’-Life, man: Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Marsha—Narrator’s own Marsha!—squeezes shut her eyes and lips and gives the merest nod of assent, as if to say (what in fact she’ll say later, in past tense), “It’s
what you’ve obviously been wanting to do, so go do it and be done with it.”
We do.
“So we’re done with it, right? I mean with this whole Flashbangwhatever, and now we can both get back to work and on with our lives?”
We’ll get there, dear Mandy, after one or two devilish details. Your quote-Narrator-unquote was initiated that night into the guilty pleasures not only of “infidelity” (if that term applies to what seems to have been both consented to and reciprocated by all parties concerned, none of them married and only one couple more or less pledged), but to anal intercourse as well, at Ms. Hyman’s direction, she being by then in full menstrual flow, reluctant to bloody up the bedding but not at all to take it up the ass, which (she assured her much-impressed partner- du-soir ) she and Ned sometimes did for sport even when she wasn’t Tampaxed. A little Vaseline (which she just happened to have in her pack), a full firm erection (which her aroused tutee happened to have in hand), and Bingo (no contraceptive measures necessary)! ’Twas an experience not to be repeated in George Irving Newett’s curriculum vitae thus far, nor likely to be at this late stage thereof. Although not prudes, neither Marsha Green, to whom he will be happily married for three years and then regrettably ever less so for two more, nor Amanda Todd, with whom he remains happily, totally, faithfully bonded after four decades, was/is inclined to butt-fucking.
As Mandy put it pithily when her then-still-frisky spouse suggested same during one early “period” in their marriage, “ A , it hurts (been there, done that). B , it’s shall-we-say unsanitary. And C , it can lead to hemorrhoids. You want to get your rocks off when I’ve got the rag on, we’ll think of something.”
End of quote, and of erotic/scatologic specificity.
“Satisfied?” Marsha wants to know later that night, after the men have returned, quite spent, to their usual tent-mates. Narrator is tempted to reply, “On the whole, yes,” but resists the poor pun and says instead, “I guess. You?”
“Don’t ask,” orders his soon-to-be-bride, cuddled sleepily now against him in the tented dark. “And no more of this Arms-of-Life stuff for us, okay? It’s each other’s arms or none. Or else.”
“Agreed,” Narrator assures her, and himself.
Over next morning’s breakfast and camp-breaking, the four of us shake our heads at having been simultaneously so stoned and boozed, but avoid the subject of our partner-swapping. Impish Ginny, however, manages to make a little mwah at Narrator over our instant coffee, and Ned, when the girls aren’t looking, tilts his head toward Marsha and gives Narrator a knowing wink and nod of approval.
We presently repack and trudge carward with our stuff. There seems to be, along with the subtropical humidity, some small voltage in the air, but Narrator, for one, is still too hung over to assess it. Setting down his load at the station wagon’s
tailgate, he fishes in the side pockets of his Bermuda shorts, wondering aloud, “Where’d the fucking keys get to?” and then locates them in one of the buttoned front pockets, where he’d secured them along with his Swiss Army knife against getting accidentally dropped in the sand and lost. Without our customary josh and banter, we open and make to reload the old Olds, Narrator beginning vaguely to wonder what if anything is afoot. Then “Y’know what?” Ned Prosper asks or
Nuzzling his neck, she takes his arm as if to lead him tentward. As he pulls himself up, “What the fuck, guys?” Narrator wonders, seeing Ned and Marsha, still loosely embraced, grinning up at him from their blanket.
Says Ned with a shrug, “Arms-o’-Life, man: Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Marsha—Narrator’s own Marsha!—squeezes shut her eyes and lips and gives the merest nod of assent, as if to say (what in fact she’ll say later, in past tense), “It’s
what you’ve obviously been wanting to do, so go do it and be done with it.”
We do.
“So we’re done with it, right? I mean with this whole Flashbangwhatever, and now we can both get back to work and on with our lives?”
We’ll get there, dear Mandy, after one or two devilish details. Your quote-Narrator-unquote was initiated that night into the guilty pleasures not only of “infidelity” (if that term applies to what seems to have been both consented to and reciprocated by all parties concerned, none of them married and only one couple more or less pledged), but to anal intercourse as well, at Ms. Hyman’s direction, she being by then in full menstrual flow, reluctant to bloody up the bedding but not at all to take it up the ass, which (she assured her much-impressed partner- du-soir ) she and Ned sometimes did for sport even when she wasn’t Tampaxed. A little Vaseline (which she just happened to have in her pack), a full firm erection (which her aroused tutee happened to have in hand), and Bingo (no contraceptive measures necessary)! ’Twas an experience not to be repeated in George Irving Newett’s curriculum vitae thus far, nor likely to be at this late stage thereof. Although not prudes, neither Marsha Green, to whom he will be happily married for three years and then regrettably ever less so for two more, nor Amanda Todd, with whom he remains happily, totally, faithfully bonded after four decades, was/is inclined to butt-fucking.
As Mandy put it pithily when her then-still-frisky spouse suggested same during one early “period” in their marriage, “ A , it hurts (been there, done that). B , it’s shall-we-say unsanitary. And C , it can lead to hemorrhoids. You want to get your rocks off when I’ve got the rag on, we’ll think of something.”
End of quote, and of erotic/scatologic specificity.
“Satisfied?” Marsha wants to know later that night, after the men have returned, quite spent, to their usual tent-mates. Narrator is tempted to reply, “On the whole, yes,” but resists the poor pun and says instead, “I guess. You?”
“Don’t ask,” orders his soon-to-be-bride, cuddled sleepily now against him in the tented dark. “And no more of this Arms-of-Life stuff for us, okay? It’s each other’s arms or none. Or else.”
“Agreed,” Narrator assures her, and himself.
Over next morning’s breakfast and camp-breaking, the four of us shake our heads at having been simultaneously so stoned and boozed, but avoid the subject of our partner-swapping. Impish Ginny, however, manages to make a little mwah at Narrator over our instant coffee, and Ned, when the girls aren’t looking, tilts his head toward Marsha and gives Narrator a knowing wink and nod of approval.
We presently repack and trudge carward with our stuff. There seems to be, along with the subtropical humidity, some small voltage in the air, but Narrator, for one, is still too hung over to assess it. Setting down his load at the station wagon’s
tailgate, he fishes in the side pockets of his Bermuda shorts, wondering aloud, “Where’d the fucking keys get to?” and then locates them in one of the buttoned front pockets, where he’d secured them along with his Swiss Army knife against getting accidentally dropped in the sand and lost. Without our customary josh and banter, we open and make to reload the old Olds, Narrator beginning vaguely to wonder what if anything is afoot. Then “Y’know what?” Ned Prosper asks or
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