David Zeman - The Pinocchio Syndrome

Susan and Michael had both been busy in recent weeks, too busy to find time for lovemaking. Their first chance came the weekend after the onset of Dan Everhardt’s sudden illness.

They met in the bedroom an hour after dinner. Both were eager. Their clothes came off quickly. Michael gasped when he felt his wife’s naked body against his own.

‘God, I want you,’ he said.

In no time, it seemed, the preliminary caresses were over and he was inside her. His embrace was gentle, though the heat rising in his loins made him groan. Her hands were on his shoulders, her legs wrapped around him.

Susan’s eyes were closed. Michael’s eyes were open. He was looking at her face, whose expression might have denoted pain as much as pleasure. She was very beautiful, he thought. Her breasts, still firm as those of a young girl, pressed against his chest. Her hips moved under him, her sex gripping him in its subtle feminine way, exciting him all the more.

Her hair covered the pillow like a splash of golden liquid. He moved faster. She slipped her hands down his rib cage and held him around his back. Her fingers touched the scar that ran down his spine.

He was very hard inside her, and very long. His strokes became slower, more deliberate. She felt him probing for the core of her, seeking to inflame her. The crisp, earthy smell of him grew more intense. Little moans sounded in her throat.

He kissed her, his tongue slipping into her mouth as his hands pulled her harder onto the straining shaft. She arched her back.

‘Oh, Michael …’

His last thought was for her closed eyes, her fresh young cheeks. She was so beautiful, so innocent …

The paroxysm came so suddenly that he gasped. The flow was long and rhythmic. His loins trembled. His breath came haltingly. It was as though he were drowning.

He stayed inside her for a long time. His pleasure ebbed slowly, and when at last he had returned to himself he kissed her cheeks and her forehead. The complicated eyes were looking at him now, and she was smiling.

She drew him to her breast and held him there. He listened to the beating of her heart.

After a while he ran a finger through her hair.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.

She just smiled.

There was a silence. They lay looking at each other.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ he replied.

Another silence.

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I love you too.’

Susan lay back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. ‘I’m not myself, Michael.’

He nodded.

‘It’s this awful year,’ she said. ‘With Danny Everhardt sick, and all the things in the media … I’ve lost my balance.’

‘Sure. I understand.’ Michael remained on his side, looking at her. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Thanks.’

There was a silence. Michael was looking at his wife and thinking about the fact that every time they made love there was an excuse.

Susan never had orgasms with him. Not anymore. Probably, he thought, the most important reason was the pressure on them to have children. It had made them both uneasy about their sexuality and even their relationship. Making love had become an endlessly reiterated attempt at something, rather than a simple sharing of affection and pleasure.

It was hard to sort it all out. He loved Susan more than ever. He delighted in everything about her. Her sweetness, her quirky humor, even her fearfulness. He had known before they got married that she was a bit on the neurotic side. He didn’t mind that. It was part of her charm, even if it did make her somewhat more dependent on him.

But as time went on and they became famous, their childlessness had become more and more of an embarrassment. An ambitious political man needed a wife and children. A family.

Consultations with physicians had done nothing to clarify the issue. There was nothing wrong with either of them. Not that medical science could see.

But Michael was aware that the problem had existed even before the issue of childlessness came up. Susan’s ability to experience sexual pleasure in his arms had lessened in direct proportion to the sacrifice of her own independent needs to be his wife, a political wife.

But perhaps it went further back still …

Michael often looked back on those early days, when he was a virtual invalid being nursed by Susan and his sister Ingrid. The intimacy between himself and Susan was born of the long, arduous convalescence from his second spinal operation. When they finally made love, weeks after his body cast was removed, their sex was not only a discovery of each other but a test of his return to health. She had wanted to make him feel strong and competent. They were both nervous that night.

She had been on top. Her bare knees rubbed against his ribs, her hands rested on his chest. As they grew hotter her hair fell over his face and she repeated his name, Michael, Michael , in a voice scalded by sex. The softness of her was amazing. He could feel how deeply she wanted him inside her, possessing her. His orgasm had made him forget all about his back.

Could she have been faking even then? It was possible. After all, she wanted above all to help him, to be useful to him. Perhaps that very loyalty had somehow poisoned her, made it impossible for her to take real sensual pleasure from his body.

There was also her painful childhood. Her father had been an unrepentant philanderer and had abandoned the family. Her mother never really recovered from the loss. Letting herself go sexually with a man might be a difficult issue for Susan.

Nowadays she seemed more tense after making love than before it. Of course she tried to hide it, using tender embraces and affection as her shield. But he knew her too well to be fooled.

Michael let these painful thoughts have their territory in his mind as he cradled Susan’s delicate body in his arms.

‘I spoke to Pam Everhardt,’ she said.

He raised himself on his elbow. ‘How’s she doing?’

‘Terrible,’ Susan said. ‘She can’t believe what’s happened. She’s really beside herself.’

She lay looking at Michael. ‘She depends on Danny for so much. With three children to think about … and they don’t have much money.’

‘They never did,’ Michael said. ‘Danny was never interested. All he ever wanted was a steady salary. He used to joke about it.’

Susan nodded. ‘Pam is frantic. I think she didn’t realize at first how serious it is. Apparently the doctors haven’t given her any news she can hang her hopes on. She’s thinking of getting consultations with some new specialists.’

‘I doubt that that’s necessary,’ Michael said. ‘They’ll throw in everything but the kitchen sink at Walter Reed. Danny is a national figure.’

‘Poor Pam …’

He touched Susan’s shoulder.

‘Uh-oh,’ he said. ‘Are you identifying again?’

‘Afraid so.’

This was an old habit of Susan’s. She always identified strongly with people she knew who suffered misfortunes. When one of Michael’s Maryland constituents made the news on the basis of some horrible tragedy, Susan could be counted on to write the victim personally and often to visit. Her mail was full of heartfelt thanks from people she had touched in this way.

The Everhardts had been entertained in this house many times. Dan and Michael had served on committees together when Dan was a senator, and both were, of course, involved in party strategy meetings. Over the years the two couples had become good friends. Susan looked up to Pam as a sort of older sister. Pam had been in the political wars longer than Susan, though Pam, an overweight, rather homely woman, had never known the burden of visibility the way Susan had.