Almost 30 years have passed! A chance comic encounter with Irene Regan, a former lover, and memories consigned to Sidney Cuniff's mental attic tumble into the present. These escaped escapades assemble at his feet. Given their unplanned resurrection, he unsurprisingly finds himself reliving vicariously:
*
The divergence between Sidney Cuniff and Beryl Lind was tricky. No, twisty.
Perhaps had he been upfront at some point about Irene Regan their course of events might've been simpler and clear-cut. Instead what they once shared lingered improperly resolved over miles and years.
Having shared intimacy with Beryl, "nefarious" was not one of the attributes he'd ascribed to her. He saw her in mostly complimentary terms. Fortunately for him she never had an inkling of his liaisons with Irene. Because if Beryl had known then surely what eventually transpired never would've occurred.
In real life, that was. Certainly in the letters sections of men's magazines. Still, though, even the densest frat brother knew those stories were churned out in formulaic and assembly-line fashion.
Cuniff decided late on that fate, love and trust had coincided. Beryl wasn't using the occasion to discomfort nor intimidate him. Rather, taking an extensive now educated view, her gesture, as magnanimous as he'd ever heard or seen, proved the extent of her affection. Had he been less self-absorbed -- far less self-absorbed -- Cuniff would've recognized it and hurried to reciprocate, therefore solidifying their union.
While he grasped all the implications eventually, he acknowledged never possibly being man enough to abide such unquestioning belief.
Cuniff achieved sexual and emotional equilibrium between Beryl and Irene. His justification's perfection satisfied him almost as much as the girls' actual complementary charms.
Approaching that time of semester, Beryl grilled Cuniff about his previous Spring Break. He could've spilled completely, but had no desire to undergo any thoroughly subsequent interrogations. Sparing himself, Cuniff told Beryl he'd wasted the week away in Matzalan, a little resort town on the Mexican Pacific Coast. In reality, he'd spent much of that week bedding the woman whose guidance refined his urges, the same which Beryl and Irene enjoyed.
If Cuniff needed to keep Irene secret, no way he'd reveal ... Beryl might've parsed those interludes down to their molecular structure. Then he knew she would've culminated her auto de sexo by asking who the better of the two.
Any answer would've been unsatisfactory.
One early evening a few weeks before Spring Break 1979, Cuniff accompanied Beryl to the university's main library. These were rare occasions. Not his visiting the library, but going with her.
An essay was due. She absolutely required tranquility in order to write. As dead as he found a women's dorm during the week, she believed hers still had too much vibrancy. Beryl's academic struggles in a men's dorm surely would've made her skull explode.
Ordinarily, Cuniff simply borrowed books from this library. He didn't even bother haunting the stacks in search of sweet-looking susceptible betties.
Tonight, though, a rare convergence. "Triumph of the Will" had recently been screened in his Language of Film class. Impressed by the primitive propaganda, he scoured the shelves for writings about Leni Riefenstahl, the movie's director.
Through cursory reading, Cuniff learned the old Nazi had evaded major post-war punishment. In spite of having been in bed with the regime's high mucks, the director confessed to nothing. Or as Cuniff saw it she used the "piano player in the whorehouse" dodge.
Leni Riefenstahl had it right. When confronted by the facts deny everything! That often worked. It certainly did in her case. If she hadn't been an old Nazi who'd escaped serious reprimand, he might've admired her bald-faced lying as much as her work.
Cuniff knew Beryl would be holding down a table. He looked to demonstrate some diligence by keeping her company as well as separate Leni the artist from Riefensthal the fascist from the white-haired old lady who late in life became an advocate of animist sub-Saharan African tribes.
Somehow his inquisitiveness deviated into asking why the truly bad usually sought atonement for their misdeeds through prodigious botany or championing less advanced cultures. Oh, how Keyworth, Cuniff's professor, would cream over that theoretical switchback!
Their conversation sotto voce under color draining fluorescent lamps, Beryl suggested they take a driving excursion along the California Coast, from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Monterey, Carmel, the whole Pacific Coast Highway actually, particularly interested her.
He liked the idea. Over a year in the West and Cuniff had yet seen the Pacific. Besides, seeing Hearst Castle in San Simeon ought have clarified some questions he had about the movie "Citizen Kane." The vistas around Carmel were said to have been dramatic. Also, six nights with Beryl.
Unlike the spontaneity Irene presented him, sex with Beryl was too regulated. Mood seldom struck. The time always had to be right. The loosely structured approaching vacation week should've opened opportunity aplenty for them to indulge in mindless, feckless sex play.
Only after he wholeheartedly endorsed the road trip did Beryl mention Coral. She didn't pop his balloon, though rude fingers on its surface sure emitted skin-crawling squeaks.
"Beryl, darling, why do you want to bring Coral along?"
"You don't want her to come?"
"I see it as a time we can have all to ourselves," Cuniff said. "We won't have to be nice, kowtow or accommodate anybody else. We can be alone and do what we want when we want without worrying about maybe inconveniencing others. We can be selfish with each other."
Beryl owned an uncanny knack for shredding his solid reasoning.
"You mean we can stay naked a lot longer after we fool around that much more," she said.
"Well, there's that, too."
"Sid, right now chocolate wouldn't melt in your mouth."