Gilbert Sorrentino - Aberration of Starlight

Well. Not bad. Not half-bad. She was pleased with herself, patting her hair, looking again in the mirror, listening to Tom’s voice on the porch, his laughter. The white dress looked fine, she’d pulled the belt tight to accentuate her hips and bosom and felt smooth and trim underneath in the new two-way stretch she’d worn the day they left the city. The white shoes were, well, they were even more stunning now that she was all dressed. What else? Something just right, something a little classy. What? Oh yes, yes, her white beads. Tony. At least he had some class, he knew what to buy when, before, oh … of course, they were just the ticket. Matched her white ball earrings, white, all white. God, I look like a bride. She took her purse and a white crocheted shawl in case it got chilly and left the room, five after eight. Perfect.

What else did she expect of Tom? He was perfect, an eyeful, really. He looked over at her and smiled as she stepped out on the porch, oh, God help us, we’re to be the sideshow tonight, Dave Warren and those two silly girls. Poppa? I’d think he’d … Just as well he wasn’t there, casting a pall over everything. Oh, but there he came, speak of the devil, with a face that would frighten horses on him, but Billy reached to kiss her and he told her how swell she looked. Tom took a step toward the edge of the porch, put his foot on the first step, and she bent and kissed Billy, pleased to see the touch of lipstick left on his cheek. Well, Poppa, you can stand there forever with your hands in your pockets like a wooden Indian, goodbye, goodbye — and may God forgive her but she wished it was goodbye forever, that she was shaking the dust of the place off her feet for good and all. She and Tom walked to his car and she started to blush, dammit to hell, dammit dammit dammit. What a relief it was to get in the car, and how it shone! and as Tom was backing out of his spot by the church, smiling vaguely in the direction of the porch while she waved — you’d think she was going to China, my God, the way everybody acted — she heard him say, she could just hear him over the engine, You’re beautiful. You’re such a knockout. She kept waving, still blushing, and she couldn’t see anything really, was Poppa waving? He was! Yes, that was Poppa! Thank you, Poppa, thank you, Bye, bye, bye-bye, Poppa, and then Tom had the car out on the road and they started off in the blue dusk, such a lovely night. A perfect night.

Tom told her she was beautiful when she blushed, that she was the best-looking woman in New Jersey, hell, anywhere, that her dress was lovely, that he loved her shoes, that there was nothing like silk stockings to make a lady look like a lady, that he had all he could do to keep from hugging and kissing her right on the porch, damn everybody! She laughed and felt like a girl. The luckiest summer of my life, Tom said. And I’ve got my brother to thank. Hell, I’m going to buy him a case of champagne when the summer is over. He reached over calmly and casually and put his arm around Marie, and she could smell his hair oil and tobacco, his bay rum. She felt hot under her clothes. The last time she could remember feeling this way was when Tony used to start unbuttoning her blouse or the back of her dress in the dark of the porch while he was supposed to be opening the door, and the baby-sitter, that nice girl from around the corner, probably listening to them, getting some earful. The time he pulled her over to the couch the sec the girl left and they didn’t even take their clothes off Tony could be so — God! That was a million years ago. Then she felt Tom’s hand move down from her shoulder and touch the top of her breast and she let him, she let him, she wanted him to caress and squeeze her and open her dress and unhook her and she’d sit there and let him, she’d let him do what he wanted to do. She told him that he really shouldn’t? Tom? Really. Tom, please? He moved his hand up a little and said that he was only flesh and blood and apologized. And may God forgive her, she looked down quickly at his pants to see if… What was she doing? The mother of a ten-year-old boy! Still married in the eyes of God.

The WigWam was everything she remembered, it was even better. And she wasn’t sad or nostalgic, not a bit, about Tony or anything, the good old days, oh yeah? Good? Tom was a wonderful dancer, she knew he would be, just knew it, and she felt her own abilities returning, he led so well, she loved a man who knew how to lead, and they danced all the fox trots, fast and slow, and a two-step as well. We’re game for anything, honey, Tom said, that’s the way it should be. We make a great pair. She decided on a Tom Collins and Tom did too, it was warm and they tasted good, she’d always liked a good Collins anyway, not too sweet. When she looked at her watch it was eleven, impossible, and she held it to her ear. Now, listen, I command you to have a good time and stop worrying about the time, you’re with me, I’m a grown man, you’re a grown woman, and we’re out on a Saturday night like everybody else in the world who’s not dead from the neck up. Your father is able to make his own hot milk and tuck himself in. Something like that, the funny way Tom had of saying things, smiling around the stem of his pipe. Billy, she said. But Tom gave her one of his looks and she laughed and felt ashamed and looked at the table. He was right, it was silly to worry, Poppa probably spent the night with ach der Kaiser anyway, God knows she wouldn’t miss an opportunity like this to get her hooks in him a little more. She could do her backbiting in peace the whole night, that terrible thing about Tom — she was about to ask him about it but knew then that it would be the wrong thing to say, and they danced again anyway. This time it was a very slow fox trot, “Alone,” what a lovely old song, and from the very beginning of the dance she could feel him really hard down there against her belly and inner thigh when she moved against him and she pushed herself close to him and closed her eyes, well, she had her girdle on. She could hear his breath in her ear, My dear Marie, my sweet, I love you, I love you. She opened her eyes to look up at him and he smiled and held her tight in the small of the back and pushed himself against her so that she could feel him almost as if he, oh my God.

At twelve-thirty, she said that they really better go, it was almost an hour’s drive back and there was no use in, well, she meant, you know. Let sleeping dogs lie. Tom agreed. He paid the check and left a nice tip and they walked out, the air was cool and still and she pulled the shawl around her shoulders and Tom helped her, then caught her by the arms and kissed her, kissed her again. She wanted to get in the car and go and go. Go away. No, first go and get Billy and go away anywhere. Tom drove fast, the roads were dark and almost deserted, the wind bubbled in the half-open butterfly windows and his arm was around her shoulder, his hand on her breast, squeezing it softly and persistently, almost as if she imagined it, oh, how wonderful it felt, her eyes closed, his thumb slid over her stiff nipple and revolved around it, sliding smoothly over the fabric. Then the car bounced once, hard, and then again, Tom? They were moving slowly down a small, grass-grown road under tall black trees, stars between their leaves and branches. Tom stopped the car and turned to her, pulled her close, oh, the time! the time! It must be one in the morning, even later. Tom! But he was kissing her and she opened her mouth, wide, wide, greedy, and she could taste Sen-Sen and then his tongue slid all the way into her mouth and she sucked on it delicately, oh Tom! His hands were opening her dress and then he had her breasts free of her brassiere and slip and was kissing them alternately, and licking her nipples, sucking them, he was moaning, and she moaned too, smiling crookedly into the dark, her face burning. He was pulling at her skirts, pulling them up around her hips and trying to get her step-ins down, get them off. No. No. Tom, no, Tom, no, no, no, please. Not now, Tom. Here. Please not here now. He stopped but continued to caress her breasts and suck her nipples and she lay back against the seat, dizzy and breathing hoarsely, aware her skirts were still bunched around her hips and her thighs open. He said, Marie, he said it again and again, he wanted her to look at him and she opened her eyes and turned. He had pulled his pants open and exposed himself, it was sticking out of his pants, so big and stiff, and he pulled her hand over to it firmly. She grasped him tightly and he moaned and took one of her breasts in his hand and sucked just the point of her nipple, his other hand crammed in between her legs but she wouldn’t open them any further. She began to move her hand up and down, O love, love, love, he whispered, Marie was whispering too, Tom my dearest, how big he was. She felt filthy, like a slut and a tramp, and imagined how she must look, with her clothes like they were and doing what she was doing. But it made her more excited and she moved her hand faster and faster and put her other hand into his open pants so she could touch his … his balls. Then Tom sat up, suddenly, his thighs wide open and he had his handkerchief over himself and she could feel him spurting and spurting and he breathed and grunted through his gritted teeth. Her hand was all wet and sticky and she kept moving it up and down, doing it, doing it like a tramp, until he leaned his head back on the seat and sighed, then reached over and held her wrist and she stopped.