Chapter 2: Margo

John Kostner came home from his freshman year at MIT for the Bicentennial Summer. He had a job at a chemical laboratory in a neighboring town. His mother had bought a new car without trading her old one in. The old one was his transportation. His first Sunday home, he went to church. When he got back, he said, “The last time I was in church, it was that one.”

“You’re suggesting that you’ve stopped being a regular churchgoer?” his father asked.

“Your friends know that I’m back. I’ll attend the last service before I leave.”

“Well, it’s a place to affirm your faith. You don’t seem to have much to affirm.”

His clothes had been unremarkable in Cambridge. They looked definitely scruffy in Wilmot. At his mother’s gentle hint, John went down to Sears at the end of his first week of work.

Sears was the perfect clothing store from John’s perspective, with no clerks to advise him about what was stylish. The drawback was that once you had your selection, you had to hunt for someone to pay. He found a short line, stood there, and started to figure whether summer fun programming his Kenbak would be good practice or build up bad habits for the bigger machines he programmed at MIT. He moved up to the cashier, handed her his selections, and waited with his wallet in his hand. Her words to him weren’t a total.

“You’re John ... um.”

“Kostner. By God, you’re Margo.” Margo had been one of the popular girls a year ahead of him in high school. He would have bet that she hadn’t known his name then, let alone recognize him two years later. If he’d been paying any attention, he’d have recognized her, by her slight build if by nothing else. Margo was barely five feet tall.

“Marge. The girls here won’t put up with ‘Margo.’ And it’s Standish again. Phil and I got divorced and I took my own name again.” She waved an empty left hand. John vaguely remembered that she had married soon after graduation, maybe just before. She was holding down a cash-register in Sears, and he let an impatient woman through to pay.

“And you,” she said. “You’re in college somewhere.”

“MIT. Just finished my frosh year.” There were more customers again. “Look, this isn’t working. When do you get off?”

“Close in half an hour. I’m out maybe half an hour after that. We leave by the north door.” He paid for his shirts and left. He was waiting by the north door an hour later.

“Oh,” she said. “You didn’t say whether you would be here.” He blinked. The Margos of this world tell you when and where you’ll meet. You’re there.

“Can I buy you a coffee or a Coke?” he asked.

“I should be getting back home. You didn’t drive, did you?”

“Sure. Want a ride?”

First, she had to pick up her daughter, though it wasn’t far from her apartment. “I moved back with the folks for a while, but that didn’t work. Katydid is the only good thing in my life since I left high school.” She laid out the new pattern of her life. “This woman keeps Katydid and some other kids days. If I want to go out at night, I have to get a babysitter.” She gave a detailed, if disorganized, report on her car and when it might be fixed.

The girl looked particularly alert and had big, brown, eyes. Otherwise, she looked like every other baby. “How old is she?”

“Eighteen months. She’s awfully small for her age, but she’s normal. The doctor’s tests all say, ‘advanced for her age.’” What was advanced for a one-year-old, he did not ask. He dropped her at home. She didn’t invite him up since the house was a mess.

That was Friday. Monday evening, he was stopped outside the north door from fifteen minutes after closing until she appeared.

“Want a ride?”

“Oh, John. Thanks.”

“Same route?” She nodded. “Look, this might be out of place, but ... would you be interested in seeing a movie with me Friday night?”

“That would be great. Thank you.”

“Dinner first? Or is that too frazzling?”

“That would be great. But I have to feed Katydid first. Is seven-thirty too late?”

“That’s fine. They have a late showing.” They exchanged phone numbers, to deal with emergencies.

John’s summer work was in a chemistry lab. Mostly, he washed beakers and test tubes. By Friday, however, he smelled like a chemistry lab. He came home, showered, and dressed in his suit. Marge called at the last minute and asked him to pick up April, the babysitter. He did.

The restaurant was nice. Marge updated him on people whom he hardly remembered, the golden girls after whom he had lusted. The wallflowers, whom he had actually known, were younger than she and below her horizon. On the way back to her place she asked him to drive the babysitter home. They got out of the car together, and she stopped halfway to the apartment-house door. Even he was experienced enough to know what that meant; he kissed her. She kissed him back, and their tongues came into play. Finding this exciting, he tried to search every corner of her mouth. Her tongue was subtler, but it was participating. The next thing he was aware of was that he had developed an erection. He was pressed against her, but she seemed to take no notice of it.

She broke the kiss gently. “We have to be getting in. April is probably watching.”

April was watching TV, to the extent she was awake. After another look at the baby, who was sleeping, he drove her home in silence.

Sunday, he rang to say, “Thank you.” He suggested a mid-week dinner out. Just the dinner. She countered with a suggestion that she cook him a meal. They settled on Wednesday.

That Monday, when he got in from work, he found his mother reading a MS magazine.

“That seems so unlike you,” he said.

“You think I’m a weak woman?”

“Not at all. But I’d bet that Gloria Steinem would consider this a patriarchal household.”

“Who was that Frenchman who said that God would forgive him, forgiving was God’s business? Hmmm?

“Gloria Steinem would disapprove,” she continued. “That is her business. But there is something which you overlook. When your father left the bench, there were gains as well as losses -- not counting money. Lloyd Kostner is simply the best negotiator that I have ever met. Now wouldn’t it be silly of me to sit across the table from him negotiating? Hmm?”

“And, instead, you...”

“Consult with him and let him be my negotiator. Works. Who do you ask when you want a budget-busting computer?”

“Both of you.”

“Hmmm?”

“Well, you first.”

“And your father and I talk, and the better negotiator meets with you to get the deal we want. Same with rules. There are a few things that your father lays out because he thinks them essential to family living. He enforces a few rules that I consider vital, as well. But most we talk over, first. You know, when we were first married, he kept asking me, ‘What do you really want?’ Took me the longest time to see what he meant. Which was, ‘What did I really want?”

“It does have a certain resemblance to the original question.”

“But, you see, that is fairly rare. Most people don’t ask questions that nakedly.

“He wanted to know what I considered most important, why I wanted what I wanted. Then he made quite strong efforts to deliver that.”

“Still sounds like a patriarchy to me.”

“Ah! If I’m not careful, he’ll put himself really out of joint to satisfy my twenty-seventh priority. For that I can follow his formulae for getting there.

“You see, people seek power. Some people want to be in charge so that they can make themselves happy. Some people want to be in charge because that makes them important. These idiots, you’ll find them in every club, label proposals as ‘mine’ and ‘theirs.’ They don’t know enough to see that what you do matters a whit. Anyway...

“The Lloyd Kostners of this world think that they can make it right. That doesn’t necessarily make it right -- Hitler was one of these -- but they have some chance of doing things right because they ask that question. Where was I?”

“Why Dad is like Hitler.”

“Much taller. And a much worse at speaking German.

“He, your father, doesn’t want to run block clubs and committees. He thinks that running must mean putting your interest last. He does run the family within constraints that my desires, if not always my opinions, are always consulted.

“As I said, I have to beware that his own desires are not too scrupulously ignored.”

“And how does one get one’s desires put on record?”

“Your desires don’t count. Your interests, as seen by us, are very carefully considered.”

“Tyranny?”

“Dictatorship. Starting from when you were too small to know whether milk came out of a nipple or a finger.”

“And now that I’ve grown perilously close to adult status and can vote and all?”

“We still have a dictatorship, only over a smaller range of your action.”

“And if I were to demand freedom and equality?” He had gone off to school intending to major in physics. He still hadn’t mentioned his intention to change to electrical engineering.

“The equality is the equality of a fellow head of household. Start your own household. We’d wave bye-bye. We might cry, but not ‘uncle.’”

“Neither of us will top that line. Let’s end on it.”

“Sure. Back to the gender wars.”

John showed up for dinner at Marge’s apartment with a bottle of red wine. Dinner was home-made spaghetti. The baby, about to go to sleep, gave him a g’night hug and kiss first. The spaghetti was surprisingly good, although the kitchen in which they ate it was uncomfortably warm. “The only air conditioner is in the bedroom,” Marge said, “and I have to close that door.” The wine went down fast. He helped her clear and took the rest of the wine into the living room. Television was a great invention. It required that you to sit next to each other.

He reached an arm around to hug her, and she snuggled next to him and turned her face for a kiss. They were a high-school couple out of time. He was a college (fresh) man. She was a divorced woman. It was a second date. He wondered how far she would let him go.

The kiss was immediately open-mouth with their tongues in full play. During it, he caressed her back and then brought his hand around to her breast. The bra was rather stiff, but when he got his hand over where the nipple should be, the ardor of her kiss increased. He stopped for breath.

“Oh Marge.” She held his face and kissed around on it. That put him distant enough from her that could reach her buttons. He did. The blouse was open, the bra unsnapped, the kiss again liquid, and his fingers inches from her bare nipple, when there was a noise in the bedroom. He lost her attention and then her presence. He heard crying, soothing, and a flushed toilet; then she was back. Her blouse was buttoned again, and he expected a dismissal. She didn’t need to draw the line; her duenita drew it for her.

Instead, Marge dropped back down in the same place. “There. We have an hour.”

He reached for her again. The bra was gone. He felt the breast through the blouse and then held her in a position where kissing could be combined with efficient unbuttoning. She cooperated in both. After holding the smooth, soft skin of the breast for a moment, he broke the kiss and began a series of nibbling kisses down her neck and then down to the long nipple. He kissed it before he had clearly seen it. She moved to give him better access and then started to unbutton his shirt. He helped for a minute before standing up. The shirt and t-shirt came off and decorated her TV. He stopped and looked at her. Her blouse had come off too, and she was removing her skirt. There didn’t seem to be any underwear.

“Don’t worry about a thing. I’m on the Pill.”

He finished stripping. She was lying down on the couch where they had been sitting. He knew, in theory, what to do once between her legs. The step in between was a mystery, and the couch made it harder. Two voices spoke together in his head. “It’s going to happen,” said one; “How?” asked the other.

He climbed over her left leg and knelt in the little room available. He bent down to suck at her breasts again. A minute later, her hand reached his penis and pulled it forward. There was less moisture than he had expected, and he had to try twice; but he pushed inside her, and she smiled. He kissed her again and then started an in-and-out motion. She moved against his motion and became silkier. The feeling was softer than his hand and reached everywhere at once. She was moving harder and faster under him. He held on to her shoulder and quickened his pace. Then something took him over and drove him more and more furiously. He tried to appreciate the smooth tunnel, but the charge was gathering, and he felt only his own tension. When her hand cupped his scrotum, he exploded. He rammed forward and stayed there as his seed pulsed through him and into her.

He tried to hold his weight off her as the lassitude struck. When his breath came back, he had slipped out. He climbed off the couch, wrapped his member in his underpants to protect the carpet from drips, and knelt on the floor so he could hug her. He hugged her bare torso, occasionally pulling up to kiss her mouth, her forehead, or something more interesting.

“Marge, you are wonderful.”

“Thank you. We’d better get up.”

He dressed there, she went into the bedroom and came back in her original outfit. The TV program seemed to have changed. He’d given so little attention to the other that he wasn’t sure. The evening was over. He took a last look at Katydid, who looked like a sleeping baby. They hugged briefly as they kissed good night. She was again wearing a bra.

By God, he’d done it. He had not only done it, but he had fucked Margo. But his inexperience bothered him. He didn’t want to tell Marge that he was new at this. He decided another raid on his parents’ stash of marriage manuals was called for. There was no chance of detection. They knew what they were doing. He would bet that he was still the last person to visit the stash.

The next evening, his parents went walking after dinner. He dodged into their room, opened the closet, reached down the hat box and pulled the pile of books down. The top one was new! The Joy of Sex. It looked good, he was in a hurry, and he took it and the old The Marriage Art.

He replaced everything else, tossed the books into his room, and went to the phone.

“Hello.” It didn’t sound like Marge’s voice.

“I’m calling Marge Standish.”

“Mrs. Standish isn’t home.”

“Is this April?” No answer. “Can you take a message? Got a pencil?”

Negative sounds and the phone clicked on something. Then, “I have a pencil.”

“Please tell her that John Kostner called. I’ll call tomorrow.” He spelled his name.

It was late, and he was deep into the newer book when his father knocked on the door. He tossed the book under the pillow and called out, “Come in.”

His father closed the door behind him. “I believe that you have a book of mine that you borrowed without permission.”

“Without permission?” He had read most of the books in the house. He got both books and handed them over.

“I long ago told you that, except for my office, the bookshelves were open to you. Are you really going to plead that you didn’t think that these were private?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want your intellect going too.” He sat. “You’re being neither honest nor prudent in this whole affair you know. What’s between your legs has cooked what’s between your ears.”

“You should talk! Getting that book at your ages.”

“Let me make a few things clear!” His dad’s voice was forceful, a shade quieter, and very precise. All were danger signs. “I have put up with you these past few weeks because ‘18-year-old arrogant snot’ is a redundancy. Look ‘sophomoric’ up in the dictionary, Mr. ‘about to be a Sophomore.’ But past tolerance wasn’t meant to be a precedent. My relationship with your mother is blessed by God and State. When we close that bedroom door, it is the business of no person in the entire world besides ourselves whether nothing happens or whether we reenact this whole book every night. But, of all the people who have no rightful interest in that, you have the absolute least. You make a big point about being an adult, but I’ve been an adult one hell of a lot longer.

“Now on the other matter. I won’t ask you whether you are having sex with this divorcee, because a gentleman always lies. (Not that you are acting much like a gentleman.) I’ll tell you that you are having sex with her. I’ll also tell you that you are responsible for contraception. She may be providing her own, but you are responsible. You can’t support a child, and you have the duty to support any child that you have, legitimate or not.

“You don’t have to tell me what you have done. I want an unconditional and a conditional promise. That you will buy some condoms tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That you will not have intercourse without them until you have already told me that you will not need my money for tuition ever again.”

“Yes sir.”

His father sat there for a minute, then visibly relaxed. “That doesn’t mean that I’m condoning anything, but I feel that prudence is the higher need just now.”

“If you are neither condoning nor forbidding me to do it, why make it harder to do it right?”

His father looked at the books still in his lap and smiled. “Buy your own.”

The next evening, he stopped in another town on his way home from work. At a drugstore he bought some Trojans. The bookstore was about to close, but they had The Joy of Sex. He bought it.

He called Marge that evening before dinner.

“This is John. Can you talk?”

“Look, I never told you that I wasn’t dating other guys.”

“I never asked that you wouldn’t. I called to tell you that I enjoyed your dinner and to thank you for a wonderful evening.” There was no way to avoid the double entendre. “I was wondering if I could take you out next week. I know that you need to warn the sitter, and my time is more flexible than Katydid’s. If you have a day, I would appreciate it.”

“I can always get April on a Friday.”

“Dinner and movie again?”

“That would be nice.”

“Want me to pick up April?”

“Please.”

“You call her to arrange it.”

The Joy of Sex provided little Comfort for John. It assumed the reader knew too much. He went back to the used bookstore and got two old manuals. They were a little better.

Friday was broiling. That night, he took Marge to the movies and found the place full of high-school students enjoying the air conditioning -- and each other. Between car chases in the movie, Marge leaned over to whisper to him.

“We were never like that.”

“Not that bad. And we are restrained adults now.”

“Yes.” She didn’t sound overjoyed by that comparison.

“On the other hand, nobody can identify us in the theater.” She giggled and snuggled closer.

First in parody of the kids around them, kids only a few years younger than Marge and some John’s age, then in enjoyment of the deed itself, they petted there. His right arm was casually over her shoulder, the hand coincidentally reaching the side of her breast. The popcorn box was between her legs; and, if sometime his hand missed the box, no one else cared. Most of them were doing something similar. She was not merely the passive recipient. Finally, he had to move her hand back into her own lap.

“You don’t like me?”

“I like you too much.”

He parked farther from the apartment house and stopped her in the shadows under a tree. They came together in a kiss. Their tongues played tag while he kneaded her buttocks and pulled her to him so that her mound rubbed his leg. They finally broke.

“You have to take the sitter home,” she said.

“Damn the sitter.”

“Nothing stops you from coming back after.”

“Let’s go get the sitter home, she needs her rest before tomorrow.”

Marge was giggling as they climbed the stairs to her apartment.

He drove April to her door, watched her in, and drove back. Marge was wearing the same dress, but not -- he soon learned -- the bra.

They kissed standing. He played with her tongue for a while, then broke the kiss to kiss her face and neck. He stroked her back and butt, then moved to her breasts. When she pulled him back to her mouth, lust suddenly grabbed him. He hugged her tight against him, first ignoring and then enjoying the stiffness that he pressed to her soft belly. She started to remove her dress, and he helped.

When her dress was off, all that remained was panties and sandals. She tried to help him, and he hurried to strip. They kissed again, and she lay down on the couch. He knelt there and kissed her mouth, her throat, her breasts. His hands went everywhere her his mouth wasn’t at the time. He kissed her breasts and stroked her thighs. He petted her through the panties and then helped her remove them. He suckled her nipples and parted her labia. She was moist there and he spread that moisture upwards.

His finger crossed the nubbin of her clitoris and she inhaled in a hiss. He returned to the source of her moisture and pressed a finger into her. She widened her legs. He returned to her clitoral area and spread a little more moisture. He stroked around to the meeting of her folds and then across the clitoris again.

She touched his wrist and he stopped for a moment. She caressed up his arms and across his shoulders. He resumed his petting. She stroked over his chest and down across his, suddenly taut, belly. He thrust two fingers into her. She brushed her fingers across his erection.

He got up, went to his trousers, opened his wallet, and got out the packet.

He stopped in the light from the kitchen to open it and roll the latex on. When he returned to the couch, Marge beckoned to him, and he climbed over her leg and knelt there. He kissed her belly once and then her breast. He tried to find purchase for his left hand at the edge of the couch, gave up, and grasped the back with his right hand. He felt for her with his left hand, but she was there before him. Grateful, he lowered himself, checked the position, and pushed in.

Once there, he stopped thinking about the clumsiness. He was in her vagina and in her hands. The feeling was a little different with the rubber but still warm and clinging. Only a little effort was needed to bring his lips down to hers, and the reward was a wet kiss. She cupped his hip with her hand and squeezed. He thrust forward and actually moved her on the couch. She adjusted her legs and then thrust back. He retreated and got into the rhythm. She squeezed his butt in time.