Norman Singer: The Hungry Husband

David's trapped penis had felt so very alive and dimensional in the deep nagging recesses of his mother-in-law, and he could still hear her exalted shrieks as he thumped all the airy elegance right out of her. The old man knelt beside them and watched, furiously beating his big barnacled peter up and down… "Oh sweet Jesus!.. Does anyone know what this Sexual Revolution is doing to the Elderly? It's like giving Medicare to the Ancient Greeks… mythological treats instead of iron-tonics and physics! Me next, boy! Get off her… She's spoiled enough as it is…!"

Too snarling and impatient to wait his turn, the old dragon kicked his writhing empress out of bed and promptly sat down hard on his son-in-law's rigid thick identifier. "Ooumghff!" said the white-maned patriarch, grunting out his excruciating joy as David's stout bombardment surged up against his weathered colon. And while David bitterly shunned the thought later, at this moment he had to agree with the rangy old guy… because ooohWOW!.. did it ever feel wild and tight in there as he banged and popped his hips like a madman, jammin' right up Linda's ancestry… Aw, up your old dynasty, Dad… up it!.. And oooh!.. Aw man, what a generation-gap!.. Oooooh!.. The King is in his counting-house and I am in the King… Li'l David blow up your in-laws, Li'l David Blow!

And dammit-all, he just hated to think about that part of it later, because it was during that blistering ecstasy of screw-punishing his own nobly-born father-in-law that David screamed, awoke and came all in one horribly delightful instant. If only he'd reached his climax with Linda's mother instead of her father (his boss!), the portent of these dreams mightn't seem quite so harrowing to him.

Lately, all of his dreams had involved sex. If not with his in-laws, somebody else's. And always someone in high authority, someone he could maim or cripple or topple with his hard, steam-driven appendage. Show'em what-for, David!.. You've got the weapon!

He preferred to see these bestial fantasies as a pageantry of protest, an adolescent attempt to escape the rigid conformities that had been thrust on him by his elders. But he refused to believe the dreams had any real sensual significance in themselves. Since Linda had a beautiful and exciting body, it was impossible for David to consider that he, of all people, might be sexually repressed. Who among his contemporaries could boast a more appealing or curvaceous young wife? Everyone envied him this dazzling creature, she with the entrancing, full-bodied figure, the winsome smile that had gotten her everything she'd ever wanted out of life.

How could any man married to such a healthy, busty beauty be plagued with sex hang-ups? With Linda there'd never been time to feel lonely or unwanted. She'd always been there and pretty and blooming whenever he'd needed her. Why hell, he couldn't even remember their first date. All through high school and their first year at Stanford-during which term they were married-it had been like one long continuous date. And, as Linda was so fond of saying: "David and I each married our best friend. That's why we're so compatible!"

It was during the late 'fifties that these two tender comrades quite self-consciously described themselves as "courting." David, the more socially advanced of the two, preferred to think of it as "going steady." He stuck her only with his fraternity pin. And yet, in view of the standards still prevalent in the 'fifties, theirs might have been considered a rather daring engagement, if some of the lurid details had been made known: they'd indulge in flagrant premarital kissing and fingerplay, though never to climax, except for David, who wended his way swiftly home to masturbate in the cellar, praying that the gossamer-Linda would never suspect him of such gross excesses. Linda always looked so fastidious and neat, and his semen looked so messy, how would he ever be able to get the two of them together?

Once she'd let him slip his tongue between her lips while kissing. But afterwards she'd given him a fierce lecture on the perils of mononucleosis, so it had never happened again. As for the more primary penetrations, Linda remained adamantly chaste until their wedding-night. And for a tussling ten nights thereafter she was still, technically speaking, a virgin. Despite their having been intimate buddies all their lives, these two adoring youngsters hadn't gotten around to measuring their respective diameters and circumferences. David possessed what Linda insisted on calling an overly inflated and quite untenable penis, a description which almost made him feel ashamed of his eight-and-one-quarter inches, although until then this part of his architecture had given him a sense of smoldering power. But, alas, Linda's main freeway seemed to be barred to him by a bit of a taut buttonhole, from which narrow viewpoint his mammoth hunk of adoration must have seemed destined for nothing but breeding bulls. Since it stood to reason that his dimensions were not going to shrink in order to fit an hysterically tightened bride, David realized there was only one alternative-an exhaustive course in advanced anatomy; i.e., his anatomy advancing into hers. And if he could divide and conquer without killing her, he was game to try.

Finally, after a great deal of faith, tenacity and coitus-abortus, David managed to dig the full wedge of his tool straight up the shrieking pores of her sub-deb vagina. Habitually well-mannered, the girl retained a polite, sophomoric smile right in the middle of a scream. From the beginning, David sensed that she merely pretended all this sexual revulsion for fear she might lose his respectful friendship if he found out how much she enjoyed it. But he could never be sure of this; and, indeed, if his wife really was on the frigid side, far be it from him to become a rampaging beast in bed just to satisfy his own violent lusts. It was one sure way to lose the greatest pal of his life, so he policed himself accordingly.

However, for months afterwards Linda looked as if she were on her way to the dentist whenever they made love. Yet, when he thoughtfully suggested a dash of novocaine, she vehemently declined: "Not on your life, darling. This is what I was made for, to lie here while you take your rightful pleasure…" So, guiltily, David let her suffer in his heat, his rampant member usually so afloat in lubricant, it was often like having intercourse with a tiny jar of hormone cream.

And now, seated on the side of his bed, Linda slipped an arm about his waist. "You poor dear, you look so tired and spent. These dreams are beginning to sap your energy, David. Perhaps you ought to see a doctor. I mean really, darling, it's a little ridiculous for a man who has everything to be having nightmares…" Then her eyes fell on the extensive dampness of his sheets. "Why, good heavens, dear, you've been sweating like a horse! Even the bedding's wet, Here… feel it?"

He let her guide his hand along the sticky moisture, going shaky again with quavering thoughts of his father-in-law, but grateful that the perspiration oozing from his upper portions made his general outpouring look quite legitimate.

"You get out of those wet jammies this instant and you…" she paused and took a deep breath, as if about to make a radical decision… "well, you… come over to my bed, David." Bravely thrusting out her chin. "Mommie's got just the cure for her sensitive, handsome sweetie!"

David couldn't believe his ears, and for a minute he thought he was having another drenched, erotic dream. Then his heart started pounding and he shot up in bed, his eyes bulging with surprise. "But honey, wait!.. I mean, listen, it's Thursday!" He thought it only fair to remind her she'd gotten her wires crossed.

He and Linda usually made love at eleven o'clock every Sunday evening, right after watching 'Mission Impossible.' They had chosen this time-slot several years ago, ever since the Weekend News Roundup had become so bloody. They found this familial act as comforting as renewing an expired subscription, and each time it happened, Linda christened it with the same coy label, gaily pretending it was a purely spontaneous bon mot: "How about it, non?" she'd twinkle. "Do you feel like being convivial?" This preamble never varied, with the result that David became so programmed by the word "convivial," he got an unthinking hard-on whenever he heard it.