Teach
10-11-2017, 04:46 PM
“Walter, Who Are You?”: Sleepless at Jones Beach
CAUTION: Reading these stories may be habit-forming. Drowsiness may occur. As these stories may appeal to the prurient interest, they should not be read by children.
I’m zombie-like. I’m bleary-eyed. I can barely walk. Yet, I gotta climb three flights of stairs. It’s 9:30 a.m., Sunday, July 7, 1968. I reach the door of Linda’s 3rd floor Amsterdam Ave. apartment on Manhattan’s west-side. It’s not far from Central Park. We had made a date earlier in the week -- this was our 2nd date; on our first date I took Linda to Yonkers Raceway -- to go the beach. Jones Beach.
That Saturday evening, about nine-hours earlier, I was in Boston. I was visiting friends. We had gone out for Chinese. We washed down our Hon Sue Gai with a couple Mai Tais (I love those rum drinks).
After my friends and I parted company, I headed for Rte. #95. Four hours later, about 4:30 a.m., I arrived at my apartment in New Hyde Park, NY. I managed to get some sleep; yet, when I woke up about three hours later, I was still groggy (a lack of sleep, plus a bit of a hangover will do that). But that was good. Very good!
At this point, you may be asking, “Why?” “Why is it very good?” “What’s so great about being sleep-deprived?” Well, I’ll put all my cards on the table – face up. I have – I didn’t realize it at the time – what might be described as metabolic issues. Some of my problems relate to cranial neurotransmitters (sodium ions) in my brain. The result of all this is that I’m a generally straight-laced, reserved, and stolid person. Yet, if I’m inebriated (tipsy) or sleep-deprived… Presto-change-o: my neurotransmitter inhibitors get blocked. I’m free -- as in uninhibited. I literally turn from a pumpkin into a splendid coach.
Seconds later on that Sunday morning, Linda opens the door. She looked lovely. An enchantress. Two-piece black bathing suit. She has a “boyish” figure. If she were in an inch or two taller, she might have been a model. As a jockey, she could have easily made the weights. I like women that way: Nubile. Lithe. Slender. Oh, Linda also has what I would describe as “cute” ears. We talk for a few minutes in her apartment. Linda then puts on a white terry robe and we head downstairs to my car, a 1966 Dodge Polara, for our trip east to Jones Beach.
A
long the way, we discussed several topics. Linda tells me she’s originally from Cleveland, OH. She graduated from The Ohio State University with a degree in English. She’s currently working at a NYC children’s publishing company. For my part, I tell her that I graduated from BU with a degree in History. I mentioned that I had just completed my third year of teaching.
It wasn’t long after that we arrived at the Jones Beach parking lot; it’s then that we began kissing and hugging. Linda’s lips were like red-hot pokers. This interlude was truly love-making ecstasy (not the drug). I was in another world, not just from my lack of sleep, but from kissing and hugging Linda.
A short time later, we put down a small blanket on the beach and quickly headed into the water for a dip. As if on cue, we start kissing and hugging, again. Later, we’re rolling around on the beach in front of dozens of people. I half-expect someone to call out: “Get a motel room!”
About noon, I go to the “Snack Bar”. I get Linda and me some lunch. The standard fare: hamburgers, hot dogs, French fries, soft drinks. Yet, it was after lunch that something happened. Something relating to my mood. It began to come over me. I was like morphing from that splendid coach back into a pumpkin. No more loosey-goosey. No more henny-penny. No more foxy-loxy. I was becoming my stolid self.
In fact, a few minutes later, Linda writes in the sand: “Walter, Who Are You?” I told you she was intelligent. At that moment, I felt bad. Terrible. I knew what was happening to me, and it hurt. For about an hour, we became, well – like strangers. Yet, a while later, Linda put on my red checkered (you could have spread it out as a tablecloth at an Italian restaurant) shirt. Symbolically, a peace-offering. We began to connect, again.
Well, we stayed at the beach for another hour or two before setting sail for Linda’s Manhattan apartment. One thing about that trip back to Manhattan, there were signs everywhere cautioning New Yorkers to conserve water. There hadn’t been measurable rain in several weeks.
When we arrived back in NYC, I remember walking bare-chested with Linda to her apartment. Strange what you remember, I recall the doorman being taken aback by my partial nudity (and I thought Bostonians were the overly proper.). I believe the doorman said in a cross tone: “Miss Stone...”
What would transpire next would stay with me forever. It was one of those moments in life that well...become indelible. I recall that Linda took a shower. Moments later, I surprised her by hopping into the shower with her (I was becoming “a coach,” again). I had to think of something to say so I repeated the phrase that was making the rounds: “Save Water...Shower with a friend.” Linda laughed.
Well, the next few minutes were electric. I remember lathering Linda's body with my soapy fingers. I then recall squatting down and slowly running my fingers up Linda’s torso. For my part, I had become spray-starched. You coulda hung clothes out to dry (oh, to be young, again).
Seconds later, I ran my fingers up on Linda’s nipples. It was like I had just hit “The Third Rail”. Talk about erogenous zones. Linda, for her part, impersonated Charles Atlas and lifted me out of my squatting position. She then thrust her tongue into my mouth; she did so with such force that I almost gagged (I’m a mouth-breather). I remember Linda then saying in a coquettish voice, “Are you this good in bed?”
Seconds later, Linda exited the shower like a kangaroo (I stayed to wash off the last bit of sand and soap from my body). When I got out of the shower, I found Linda lying in her bed. Her position and pose reminded me of a Goya nude. I recall that as soon as I arrived, we began kissing, passionately. Yet there's one thing will always stand out, almost 50 years later. Linda began scratching my back (she actually drew blood) with the ferocity that would have given ‘Cat Woman’ a run for her money.
Just then, wouldn’t you know it, the phone rang. When Linda returned, the intensity we had enjoyed had diminished. Candidly, for my part, I was nervous. You see, in those days, believe it or not, I was the 25 year-old virgin. Oh, I had petted, necked and gone pretty far with several women, but I had never had sexual intercourse (I’ll chalk that up to overprotective parents who kept me “on a short leash”).
Yet, I do remember having carnal knowledge (I didn’t come) with Linda late that afternoon. Frankly, it wasn’t pleasurable (it wasn’t Linda’s fault...it was mine). I was so apprehensive. I didn’t have any protection (I rarely carried “a safe”). I wasn’t sure if Linda were on the pill or had inserted a diaphragm? IUD? I was too ashamed to ask. I was, in those days, both naive and gauche.
Thus, when I had sex with Linda that day, I was petrified. I kept thinking: “If I’m not careful, I’ll ‘climb the ladder’”. If I ejaculate, it could portend disastrous, life-changing consequences for both of us. I kept thinking, “I hardly know this woman.” It wouldn’t have been fair for either of us.
In hindsight, I’m sure I came across as coarse, callous and crass. A selfish S.O.B. That wasn’t my intent. I had enjoyed Linda’s company, very much. As I prepared to leave Linda's apartment, I knew I had disappointed her. The Linda I had met was an expressive, free-spirited woman. I, on the other hand, had briefly “escaped” from my inhibitions, only to have them take hold of me once again. To add insult to injury, I had, in my haste to leave, forgotten my watch. I needed to retrieve it. When I walked back up the stairs to Linda's apartment, I found it hard to look Linda in face. I felt like climbing under a rock.
Oh, I’d call Linda one more time, but she was busy. A few weeks later, I would leave Long Island forever to return to Boston to accept a position teaching history in the Boston Public Schools. That Sunday afternoon in early July would be the last time I would ever see or speak to Linda Stone.
Even now, nearly 50 years later, I occasionally think of the lovely, young woman whom I had met for so brief a period of time during that summer of ’68. What intrigued me about Linda was that she was the only woman I had ever dated who knew what I was, or more aptly, what I wasn’t, when she wrote in the sand at Jones Beach: “Walter, Who Are You?”
CAUTION: Reading these stories may be habit-forming. Drowsiness may occur. As these stories may appeal to the prurient interest, they should not be read by children.
I’m zombie-like. I’m bleary-eyed. I can barely walk. Yet, I gotta climb three flights of stairs. It’s 9:30 a.m., Sunday, July 7, 1968. I reach the door of Linda’s 3rd floor Amsterdam Ave. apartment on Manhattan’s west-side. It’s not far from Central Park. We had made a date earlier in the week -- this was our 2nd date; on our first date I took Linda to Yonkers Raceway -- to go the beach. Jones Beach.
That Saturday evening, about nine-hours earlier, I was in Boston. I was visiting friends. We had gone out for Chinese. We washed down our Hon Sue Gai with a couple Mai Tais (I love those rum drinks).
After my friends and I parted company, I headed for Rte. #95. Four hours later, about 4:30 a.m., I arrived at my apartment in New Hyde Park, NY. I managed to get some sleep; yet, when I woke up about three hours later, I was still groggy (a lack of sleep, plus a bit of a hangover will do that). But that was good. Very good!
At this point, you may be asking, “Why?” “Why is it very good?” “What’s so great about being sleep-deprived?” Well, I’ll put all my cards on the table – face up. I have – I didn’t realize it at the time – what might be described as metabolic issues. Some of my problems relate to cranial neurotransmitters (sodium ions) in my brain. The result of all this is that I’m a generally straight-laced, reserved, and stolid person. Yet, if I’m inebriated (tipsy) or sleep-deprived… Presto-change-o: my neurotransmitter inhibitors get blocked. I’m free -- as in uninhibited. I literally turn from a pumpkin into a splendid coach.
Seconds later on that Sunday morning, Linda opens the door. She looked lovely. An enchantress. Two-piece black bathing suit. She has a “boyish” figure. If she were in an inch or two taller, she might have been a model. As a jockey, she could have easily made the weights. I like women that way: Nubile. Lithe. Slender. Oh, Linda also has what I would describe as “cute” ears. We talk for a few minutes in her apartment. Linda then puts on a white terry robe and we head downstairs to my car, a 1966 Dodge Polara, for our trip east to Jones Beach.
A
long the way, we discussed several topics. Linda tells me she’s originally from Cleveland, OH. She graduated from The Ohio State University with a degree in English. She’s currently working at a NYC children’s publishing company. For my part, I tell her that I graduated from BU with a degree in History. I mentioned that I had just completed my third year of teaching.
It wasn’t long after that we arrived at the Jones Beach parking lot; it’s then that we began kissing and hugging. Linda’s lips were like red-hot pokers. This interlude was truly love-making ecstasy (not the drug). I was in another world, not just from my lack of sleep, but from kissing and hugging Linda.
A short time later, we put down a small blanket on the beach and quickly headed into the water for a dip. As if on cue, we start kissing and hugging, again. Later, we’re rolling around on the beach in front of dozens of people. I half-expect someone to call out: “Get a motel room!”
About noon, I go to the “Snack Bar”. I get Linda and me some lunch. The standard fare: hamburgers, hot dogs, French fries, soft drinks. Yet, it was after lunch that something happened. Something relating to my mood. It began to come over me. I was like morphing from that splendid coach back into a pumpkin. No more loosey-goosey. No more henny-penny. No more foxy-loxy. I was becoming my stolid self.
In fact, a few minutes later, Linda writes in the sand: “Walter, Who Are You?” I told you she was intelligent. At that moment, I felt bad. Terrible. I knew what was happening to me, and it hurt. For about an hour, we became, well – like strangers. Yet, a while later, Linda put on my red checkered (you could have spread it out as a tablecloth at an Italian restaurant) shirt. Symbolically, a peace-offering. We began to connect, again.
Well, we stayed at the beach for another hour or two before setting sail for Linda’s Manhattan apartment. One thing about that trip back to Manhattan, there were signs everywhere cautioning New Yorkers to conserve water. There hadn’t been measurable rain in several weeks.
When we arrived back in NYC, I remember walking bare-chested with Linda to her apartment. Strange what you remember, I recall the doorman being taken aback by my partial nudity (and I thought Bostonians were the overly proper.). I believe the doorman said in a cross tone: “Miss Stone...”
What would transpire next would stay with me forever. It was one of those moments in life that well...become indelible. I recall that Linda took a shower. Moments later, I surprised her by hopping into the shower with her (I was becoming “a coach,” again). I had to think of something to say so I repeated the phrase that was making the rounds: “Save Water...Shower with a friend.” Linda laughed.
Well, the next few minutes were electric. I remember lathering Linda's body with my soapy fingers. I then recall squatting down and slowly running my fingers up Linda’s torso. For my part, I had become spray-starched. You coulda hung clothes out to dry (oh, to be young, again).
Seconds later, I ran my fingers up on Linda’s nipples. It was like I had just hit “The Third Rail”. Talk about erogenous zones. Linda, for her part, impersonated Charles Atlas and lifted me out of my squatting position. She then thrust her tongue into my mouth; she did so with such force that I almost gagged (I’m a mouth-breather). I remember Linda then saying in a coquettish voice, “Are you this good in bed?”
Seconds later, Linda exited the shower like a kangaroo (I stayed to wash off the last bit of sand and soap from my body). When I got out of the shower, I found Linda lying in her bed. Her position and pose reminded me of a Goya nude. I recall that as soon as I arrived, we began kissing, passionately. Yet there's one thing will always stand out, almost 50 years later. Linda began scratching my back (she actually drew blood) with the ferocity that would have given ‘Cat Woman’ a run for her money.
Just then, wouldn’t you know it, the phone rang. When Linda returned, the intensity we had enjoyed had diminished. Candidly, for my part, I was nervous. You see, in those days, believe it or not, I was the 25 year-old virgin. Oh, I had petted, necked and gone pretty far with several women, but I had never had sexual intercourse (I’ll chalk that up to overprotective parents who kept me “on a short leash”).
Yet, I do remember having carnal knowledge (I didn’t come) with Linda late that afternoon. Frankly, it wasn’t pleasurable (it wasn’t Linda’s fault...it was mine). I was so apprehensive. I didn’t have any protection (I rarely carried “a safe”). I wasn’t sure if Linda were on the pill or had inserted a diaphragm? IUD? I was too ashamed to ask. I was, in those days, both naive and gauche.
Thus, when I had sex with Linda that day, I was petrified. I kept thinking: “If I’m not careful, I’ll ‘climb the ladder’”. If I ejaculate, it could portend disastrous, life-changing consequences for both of us. I kept thinking, “I hardly know this woman.” It wouldn’t have been fair for either of us.
In hindsight, I’m sure I came across as coarse, callous and crass. A selfish S.O.B. That wasn’t my intent. I had enjoyed Linda’s company, very much. As I prepared to leave Linda's apartment, I knew I had disappointed her. The Linda I had met was an expressive, free-spirited woman. I, on the other hand, had briefly “escaped” from my inhibitions, only to have them take hold of me once again. To add insult to injury, I had, in my haste to leave, forgotten my watch. I needed to retrieve it. When I walked back up the stairs to Linda's apartment, I found it hard to look Linda in face. I felt like climbing under a rock.
Oh, I’d call Linda one more time, but she was busy. A few weeks later, I would leave Long Island forever to return to Boston to accept a position teaching history in the Boston Public Schools. That Sunday afternoon in early July would be the last time I would ever see or speak to Linda Stone.
Even now, nearly 50 years later, I occasionally think of the lovely, young woman whom I had met for so brief a period of time during that summer of ’68. What intrigued me about Linda was that she was the only woman I had ever dated who knew what I was, or more aptly, what I wasn’t, when she wrote in the sand at Jones Beach: “Walter, Who Are You?”