"Save Water, Shower with a Friend!"

[Teach]

This is the final installment of the post entitled: “The Her Who Was a He.”

Prologue: You may recall – if you read my last post – that my fourth computerized date turned out to be a man who “cross-dressed.” This post is about my fifth and final date. I would have to label it a home run. Make believe you’re at Yankee Stadium and Aaron Judge has just been announced: “All rise!” To set the scene: In the summer of 1968 I’m about to leave the New York City area (I had taught the previous two years on Long Island’s North Shore). It’s early-July. The only reason I’m still on Long Island is because I’m running a youth baseball program that’s sponsored by the P.A.L. (Police Athletic League). I might mention that there has been no appreciable rain in New York for weeks. It’s at this time that I call the final name on my computerized dating list. Her name is Linda. She lives on Manhattan’s West Side.

“Save Water, Shower with a Friend!”

“You can take a shower when I get out,” she said. I couldn’t wait. I had to see her. Her lithe body. Nubile. Her model-like figure. The urge… The desire to see her in the buff was too strong. I quickly undressed. I opened the bathroom door. I pulled back the shower curtain. There she was…in all her glory. By the look on her face, I had startled her. I wanted to say something, but what. There was this pause. We looked at each other. At that moment, I felt as if we were “soulmates” - Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Inwardly, I was feeling like Mt. Vesuvius, ready to erupt (You know what happened to those poor people). We stared at each other. We became fixated on one another’s nakedness. Yet, I knew that I had to say something. What? The silence was deafening. I blurted out, “You know what they say, ‘Save water…shower with a friend.’” Linda smiled. To Be Continued.

[Teach]

Seconds later, I stepped into the shower. Was I being too forward? After all, this was only our second date. I wanted so much to touch her. To hold her. To hug her. To bring my body close to hers. To feel her body against mine. To fondle her. To lather her body with the tips of my soapy fingers.

But, should I? I moved ever closer. We were now facing each other. I squatted down. I rubbed the bar of soap in my hands. I then started lathering Linda’s knees. I began sliding my fingers up and down her legs and thighs. If Linda were enjoying my shower massage, she didn’t show it, at least outwardly.

My fingers continued to glide over Linda’s body. I was moving my fingers up and down her torso. I remember my index fingers flicking the nipples of Linda’s tiny breasts. Just then. Suddenly… Linda lifted me out of my squatting position. I was now the one who was startled. It was as if Linda were doing her best impersonation of Charles Atlas. Had I touched an erogenous zone?

In an instant, I was now standing. I had been yanked upward. The two of us had suddenly congealed. Basalt. Melded into one. Inseparable. Seconds later, Linda thrust her tongue, rapier-like, into my mouth. She did it with such force that I nearly gagged. Linda had, almost instantaneously, morphed from a passive, almost nonchalant bystander, into a state of passionate- aggressive animation. Seconds later, unexpectedly, Linda hopped out of the shower like a kangaroo. To be continued.

[Teach]

I had stayed behind to wash the last bits of sand off my body. As I did, I thought about how I had met Linda. Computerized dating. Call it: “eHarmony in the Stone Age.” I filled out this brochure. A handful of questions. $10 submission fee. A week later, I received five women’s names, with their telephone numbers. I started at the top. The first four dates were, in a word: “uninspiring” (two women I never dated; one was a man). One more name on the list. One more woman to call. What do I have to lose? I called. She sounded pleasant. Her name was Linda. “I’ll pick you up Saturday evening at 7 p.m.,” I said. “How does a movie sound?” I added. That evening, I made my way over to her apartment. Manhattan’s West Side, near the Hudson River. I ring the bell. She buzzes me in. Linda opens the door. “Walt,” she says. She looked lovely. Pretty face. Cute ears. Thin. Delicate. Inside, I’m smiling like a “Chessie Cat.”

Our date was enjoyable. The conversation flowed. I told Linda that I was from Boston. That I was teaching history on Long Island. Linda, for her part, told me that she worked at a children’s publishing company, an associate editor. She was from the Midwest, someplace in Ohio. She attended a “Big Ten” college. I don’t recall the name of the movie we saw, but I do remember that we ended up back at Linda's’ apartment. Coffee, apple pie, and conversation. A short time later, as we sat side-by-side on the sofa, we began kissing and hugging. I could feel the vibes. The simpatico.

[Teach]

As I was about to leave, Linda said, “Walt, do you have a minute?” “I’ll be right out,” she added. Linda then disappeared into what I believed was her bedroom. As I waited, I thought, “What does Linda want to show me?” I didn’t have long to wait. Soon, Linda emerged from her bedroom. She was wearing lingerie. A “nightie”. I gasped. She looked luscious. Delectable. She began by kissing me on the cheek. Linda then unbuttoned the top button on my shirt. I was fast succumbing to her charms. Yet, I needed to leave. Dedicated me, I was giving a final exam early that next morning at the high school at which I taught. I wanted to be sure that I was there to administer it; there was no thought of calling in “sick”. Yet, I do recall the disappointed look on Linda’s face. As I was leaving Linda’s apartment, I kissed her. I told her I’d call.

Our next date was at Jones Beach on the south side of Long Island. A warm early-July Sunday. The night before I had been in Boston. I was visiting friends and family. At midnight, I started my trip back to Long Island. I was heading south on Route #95 during those wee hours of Sunday morning. I had arrived at my New Hyde Park apartment about 4:30 a.m. I was totally exhausted. Oh, I caught a few hours of sleep. Yet, I was up by 7:30 a.m. I groggily went for my Sunday morning jog at a nearby high school track. Then a shower and toiletries. A light breakfast. By 9 a.m. I was on the road heading west toward Linda’s apartment. About 9:45, I arrived. I was, by now, in a nearly trance-like state. Lack of sleep will do that. Linda buzzed me in. I walked up three flights of stairs. I knocked. I could hear Linda’s footsteps. She opened the door. Wow, did she look nice! Linda was wearing a 2-piece black bathing suit. Her tight-as-a-drum hardly-an-ounce-of-fat body excited me. She looked delicious. I wanted to undress her right then and there, but I said, “Are you ready to head for the beach?” Linda replied, “Yes.”

[Boomer]

Teach, the posts seem to be out of order but I await the Rest of the Story.

[Teach]

As we made our way toward Jones Beach on that early-July, 1968 morning, Linda and I engaged in “small talk”. Yet, our conversion was but a diversion. The physical feeling we shared for one another was palpable. It was slowly overwhelming both of us. We were both succumbing to this invisible libidinal force. When we finally arrived at the Jones Beach parking lot, we looked at each other. In an instant, we were kissing and hugging, passionately. Linda’s lips felt like hot embers (whatever that feels like).

As we continued to embrace, the only word I could think of to describe our romantic interlude was: “rapturous” (If I had a car with tinted windows, there's no telling what I might have done). We would soon exit the car and stake out a spot on the beach. We put down the blanket that Linda had brought with her. We then headed into the water. It was delightful. Water temperatures were a far cry from the chilly ocean temps -- even in July – that I had remembered as a boy at Boston-area beaches, such as Revere and Nantasket (Hull).

Soon, we were at it, again – kissing and hugging. I can’t ever remember in my then nearly 26-years on the face of this earth being this demonstrative, so free-spirited. I was, in a manner of speaking, “unchained”. Actually, “making out” in the water made it seem all that much more pleasant. I could have only imagined what it would have been like in a hot tub or a shower (I would soon find out). To be continued

[Teach]

Linda and I would continue our love-making on the Jones Beach sand in front of dozens and dozens of other beach-goers. Whatever inhibitions I should have had were non-existent. I was half-waiting for one of the people nearby to call out, “Get a motel room!”

By now, it’s after 12-noon. At the time, Linda asked me if I would go to the snack bar to get us some food. The usual fare: hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries, and soft drinks. I return about 15 minutes later. We sit on the blanket and chow down our lunches.

What I didn’t know then that I know now is that certain food-groups affect me, in some cases, adversely. If I had a choice today, I wouldn’t be eating fast-food, particularly fried food. It has something to do with the way my body processes food. Metabolism. I also learned, years later, that I had issues with neurotransmitters, e.g., dopamine, serotonin, etc.

In addition, the lethargy that I had experienced earlier in the day, because of my lack of sleep, is beginning to wear off. My mood is changing. It’s like: “Flowers for Algernon” (Did any of you see the movie “Charley”?). I’m beginning to morph back in my stolid self. My stiltedness and inhibitions are returning. Linda, who’s very perceptive, can sense it. She was, in hindsight, one of the most perceptive women I had ever met. Seconds later, I notice Linda writing something in the sand.

[Teach]

“Walt, Who Are You?” she wrote. When I saw those four words, I felt sad. Downtrodden. My “cover” had been blown. Linda had discovered exactly who I was - or more aptly - who I wasn’t. Did this mean our relationship was over? At that moment, I literally wanted “to climb under a rock.” I felt devastated. Yes, although I was never diagnosed as such, it was possible that I was suffering from some form of dissociative identity disorder, i.e., multiple-personality, complete with “alters”. If I were introspecting, I could have easily asked myself the same question that Linda had posed in the sand. Only I’ve repressed many of my feelings…and also my identity. I was in denial.

[Teach]

At this moment, let me step back in time. As a boy, I lived in a very strict household. My parents’ philosophy was: “Children should be seen and not heard.” If I ever spoke up, unprompted, I was scolded. I learned – better-stated, I was conditioned – early on that I was never to interrupt adults.

For a matter of fact, when I was in elementary school, I rarely said a word. I remember one day when I was in the 5th grade I raised my hand to answer my teacher’s question. When I answered the question, one of my classmates called out, “He speaks!”

As a result, I was extremely shy. In fact during my early life, through my teens and 20’s, the only time that I really felt “comfortable” was during two circumstances. In a sense, those two "circumstances" allowed me to experience "a release.” To become what I believed to be myself. One involved sleeplessness (such as occurred the day I took Linda to Jones Beach after having driven throughout the night to New York from Boston). The other involved alcohol. This may seem like “a tale out of school,” but when I was in college and during my early years of teaching, before I got married, every time I went out on a date, I’d go to the local liquor store to get a couple “nips,” usually rye, e.g., Canadian Club, Seagram's, etc. I would cut the rye with ice cubes or water. I’d get myself slightly tipsy.

Then one evening, while stopped in traffic, I rear-ended another car. There was no personal injury and only minor property damage to the other car’s rear. Thankfully, no cops were involved. We exchanged papers (I had sprayed my mouth with Binaca). I was to blame because I had rear-ended the other vehicle. My car insurance got surcharged, but I had “dodged a bullet.” Nothing on my record. No OUI. That can have serious repercussions when you're applying for a teaching job. Yet that incident taught me an important lesson: No more alcohol before going out on dates.

[Teach]

Back at Jones Beach, I decided to walk down to the water’s edge. I was glum. I thought, “Damn it, why did Linda have to be so perceptive?” It hadn’t taken her long to figure me out. Oh, I had been through this before. Not quite in the same manner. Yet, similarly. I had heard, “I don’t think we’re right for each other.” There had been others. They all said the same thing: “Kaput!”

Yet when I turned around to walk back to the blanket that Linda and I had been sitting on, a surprise. Reconciliation? Linda was standing next to the blanket; she had put on my red-and-white checked shirt. I smiled. Although I barely knew her, Linda had a way about her. I’m sure she sensed I was “down”. I came back to the blanket. I kissed her on the cheek and gave her a hug. Even with all my "warts" she was willing to accept me. She was willing to give us chance. I loved her for it.

[Teach]

A short time later, we left Jones Beach. We were heading back to Linda’s Manhattan apartment (There were signs everywhere urging New Yorkers to conserve water). On the way back we talked about everyday mundane topics. Linda asked me what I was doing over the summer. I told her that I was running a youth baseball program in the town in which I was teaching. I added that the program ended in late-July. What I didn’t mention was that I was leaving Long Island. I had accepted a teaching position in one of Boston’s high schools beginning in the fall of 1968. I had even put down a deposit on a studio apartment in the Kenmore Square section of Boston near Fenway Park. Linda, for her part, told me that she was going to be quite busy over the next few weeks as she was the team-leader for a new children’s book that her company was publishing in the fall. Eventually, we would arrive back at Linda’s apartment building. That’s when she took a shower and I joined her.

[Teach]

About a minute or two after Linda exited the shower, I hopped out and toweled off. As I exited the bathroom, I spotted Linda on the bed in her room. Her pose reminded me of a Goya nude. I jumped into bed with her. We began kissing and hugging. I reached for her tiny breasts, her nipples. I began fondling them. Erotica! Linda became animated. It was if I had “plugged her in”. She turned my body ever so slightly and began scratching my back. She did so with such ferocity that it would have made “Cat Woman” proud. I felt her nails grinding down my back. Although I couldn’t tell for sure, I sensed that she was drawing blood. I asked myself, “Don’t tell me this woman is into S & M.”

Yet, just then – the timing couldn’t have been worse -- the phone rang. Linda gave me this look, “Should I answer it?” I said, “You better.” I added, “It could be important.” Linda jumped out of bed and picked up the phone. I could tell from her end of the conversation that it was likely her mother. I sensed from Linda’s answers they were the usual motherly questions: “Where have you been?” “What did you do today?”

[Teach]

After what seemed like an interminably long phone conversation, we were once again together in bed. We soon began hugging and kissing, but some of “the magic” had dissipated. The fervor that we had earlier shared had subsided. We both found it hard to re-capture “that feeling”. Yet even during this lull, there was something about Linda that attracted me; it wasn’t just physical, but also emotional.

Soon, I began to playing with her again. As I did, I was exciting myself. I wanted to have sex with Linda; yet I wasn’t sure if she were willing, or even interested. However the more I stroked and petted her, the more motivated she became, and so did I. My problem: I had no protection. I wasn’t sure if Linda were on “the pill”. Or if she had, while I was still in the shower, inserted a prophylactic. I was too ashamed to ask. (Shyness will “kill” you every time). Most emphatically, the last thing I wanted was an unwanted pregnancy. Linda and I hardly knew each other. It wouldn’t have been fair, for either of us.

[Teach]

Yet, I went ahead and “entered” Linda. Frankly, I was concerned that if she became overly excited, we both might lose it. In that case, I -- actually “Little Walt” -- would be trapped inside. I would, in that instance, be straight-jacketed to a point that I might not be able “to pull” in time. I suppose, to carry this to an extreme, I imagine it to be like being trapped in a castle’s portcullis.

At that instant I kept thinking, “How excited will she become?” Once you “climb the ladder…” At the very least, I figured I’d “come” all over her face. But, in the end, the whole thing turned out to be a moot point. As it turned out, it was like having sex with a mannequin (whatever that must feel like?). I didn’t ejaculate. In retrospect, I had been selfish. I could have easily done without intercourse, especially in light of the then circumstances and potential consequences. Oh, why am I so shy? So inhibited?

[Teach]

Shortly thereafter, I got dressed and said good-bye. I’m not sure if I even kissed Linda. As I rode home to my Long Island apartment, I felt terrible. What a cad I had been! How immature. About a three or four days later, I called Linda. Nothing special. Just a chance to hang out together or “Do lunch”. But she wasn’t interested. In reality, I couldn’t blame her. I knew as soon as I got off the phone that evening that I would never see Linda again, or for that matter, talk to her. A couple weeks later, I left “The Island” and returned to Boston.

As I think back, it was a wonderful interlude: our short-lived, yet nonetheless most pleasant romance. I would, over the years, visit several psychologists; however, that afternoon at Jones Beach, Linda summed it up best with her succinct 4-word question that she had written with her index finger in the sand that early-July 1968-day when she asked: “Walt, Who Are You?”

XXX