twisted among stunted pines overlooking the ocean, just across the blacktop road. Vida felt a little nervous. It looked expensive. But it would be Leigh’s treat. She wondered if she looked shabby, but the blue dress was still in good shape. She had not worn it much in L.A. She had a picture of herself in the dress sitting there, and she thought she looked good as he went in to register. Then she realized that in her mental image of herself she had red-gold hair halfway down to her waist. Somehow she saw herself as still looking that way, just as she saw herself as really married to Leigh and active in Natalie’s life and an aunt to her nephews and niece and a friend to her best friends.
“I’ll show you the way, Mrs. Biggs,” the woman said, pointing up the pathway but giving Vida a quick scornful glance.
She followed Leigh uphill. He had a suitcase and a briefcase; she had only her pack.
“Biggs?” she asked.
“K. P. Biggs. E. Power. Get it?”
E. Power Biggs played Bach on the organ: some level of sexual pun, she supposed, and was annoyed he trifled with unlikely pseudonyms. The pines dripped, the sea faded into a fogbank, but the air smelled freshly laundered. No one was in the other side of the duplex, through the knotty-pine wall. They had a big room with a double bed, a couple of pleasant chairs at the table, a modern bathroom with tub and shower, and an outside counter lit up like a theatrical makeup table, with bulbs all around the mirror.
Leigh bounced on the bed. “Not bad at all.”
Shyly she sat beside him, against the headboard. He opened his briefcase, took out a bottle of dry sherry—Amontillado—and opened it, pouring some into two tumblers from the bathroom. “Here’s looking at you, kid. Hey, didn’t I pick out that dress?”
“For my last birthday.”
“That’s right. It’s too pretty for anybody else to have chosen. Right classy”‘
”Who would?” she asked. “Do you like it as much as you expected?”
“Absolutely” He put his arm around her forcefully, if a little awkwardly, and grinned through his curly beard. “Now, enough of the dress already”
As they made love, she was preternaturally conscious. It meant too much. She wanted to take his face between her hands and stare at him for hours. Every caress of his dry warm palms on her, every inch of his body brought back memories. The experience was too strong emotionally to move her sensually. When he entered her and she felt his weight, the pressure of his known body on hers, his dense hairiness, the pelt of him, the bones jutting, the outsized joints, the full hammering of his penis in her, she wanted to beg him to stop, to wait, to slow down, to lie still on her and let her endure the onslaught of wanting that could not be used up in sex. She felt as if she would weep with happiness, but she soon realized she would not come. She had not made love in a month and a half, she had not been with a man since the last time she had been with him, and her vagina had tightened. She could not jam the circuits of her mind, could not find the easy sensuality she had repressed on the road. Nor was she acclimated to him yet. Yet his thrusting pleased her, moved her intensely. Her pleasure was of emotions more than sensations, but she did not care.
However, after a while she realized that he would mind if she did not seem to reach orgasm. With so few times to make love in the course of a year, fierce pressure fell on each of them to be perfect, or acclaimed so. She did not want to get things off badly, and she knew she had no way to make him understand she felt totally satisfied to make love with him even without a climax. She was too conscious of him, too moved by his presence, to sink into her muscles. Finally she moaned several times and clenched him hard; then from the way he began to move she knew he assumed she had come and was getting ready to come himself.
“You came okay, babes?” he asked her afterward, lying
“I’ll show you the way, Mrs. Biggs,” the woman said, pointing up the pathway but giving Vida a quick scornful glance.
She followed Leigh uphill. He had a suitcase and a briefcase; she had only her pack.
“Biggs?” she asked.
“K. P. Biggs. E. Power. Get it?”
E. Power Biggs played Bach on the organ: some level of sexual pun, she supposed, and was annoyed he trifled with unlikely pseudonyms. The pines dripped, the sea faded into a fogbank, but the air smelled freshly laundered. No one was in the other side of the duplex, through the knotty-pine wall. They had a big room with a double bed, a couple of pleasant chairs at the table, a modern bathroom with tub and shower, and an outside counter lit up like a theatrical makeup table, with bulbs all around the mirror.
Leigh bounced on the bed. “Not bad at all.”
Shyly she sat beside him, against the headboard. He opened his briefcase, took out a bottle of dry sherry—Amontillado—and opened it, pouring some into two tumblers from the bathroom. “Here’s looking at you, kid. Hey, didn’t I pick out that dress?”
“For my last birthday.”
“That’s right. It’s too pretty for anybody else to have chosen. Right classy”‘
”Who would?” she asked. “Do you like it as much as you expected?”
“Absolutely” He put his arm around her forcefully, if a little awkwardly, and grinned through his curly beard. “Now, enough of the dress already”
As they made love, she was preternaturally conscious. It meant too much. She wanted to take his face between her hands and stare at him for hours. Every caress of his dry warm palms on her, every inch of his body brought back memories. The experience was too strong emotionally to move her sensually. When he entered her and she felt his weight, the pressure of his known body on hers, his dense hairiness, the pelt of him, the bones jutting, the outsized joints, the full hammering of his penis in her, she wanted to beg him to stop, to wait, to slow down, to lie still on her and let her endure the onslaught of wanting that could not be used up in sex. She felt as if she would weep with happiness, but she soon realized she would not come. She had not made love in a month and a half, she had not been with a man since the last time she had been with him, and her vagina had tightened. She could not jam the circuits of her mind, could not find the easy sensuality she had repressed on the road. Nor was she acclimated to him yet. Yet his thrusting pleased her, moved her intensely. Her pleasure was of emotions more than sensations, but she did not care.
However, after a while she realized that he would mind if she did not seem to reach orgasm. With so few times to make love in the course of a year, fierce pressure fell on each of them to be perfect, or acclaimed so. She did not want to get things off badly, and she knew she had no way to make him understand she felt totally satisfied to make love with him even without a climax. She was too conscious of him, too moved by his presence, to sink into her muscles. Finally she moaned several times and clenched him hard; then from the way he began to move she knew he assumed she had come and was getting ready to come himself.
“You came okay, babes?” he asked her afterward, lying
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