Susan in the Mist

She's demure. Or at least she thinks of herself that way. Demure Susan. Always modest. No, not always. Usually. No, not even usually, since she's only modest in public. Her public persona. In private, in her mind, she's a wild thing. Or a wannabee wild thing. Super-ridiculous.

* * *

Six years married, the charm of it gone, now nothing but work, have lunch, work some more, go home, have dinner, watch tv, go to sleep, work, have lunch, work some more, go home, the routine repeated five days a week, like the turning of the machinery of some giant fright of a clock that has her tied spreadeagled to a clanking wheel. Naked, of course. If she's going to think of herself spreadeagled, she wants to be naked.

Anyway, on Saturdays the routine changes, and then its shopping in the afternoon, maybe dinner out in the evening, then home to the bed where she lies on her back with her knees up as he climbs on and does the in and out, push, pull out, push, pull out, a groan, another groan, and then he squirts inside her, rolls off, says he can't keep his eyes open and he falls asleep. The routine on Saturdays.

The routine on Sundays is get up, have breakfast, read the papers, lie around doing nothing, look at a magazine while he watches football or baseball or golf or tennis or anything else they put on the screen, some sport he can't play now or ever before or ever in the future, with his growing beer belly and muscle turning to fat faster than he knows or cares. At thirty- eight, he's already a physical has-been. Maybe she does something in the garden. Maybe she sits in the bathtub and dreams with her fingers toying with her pubic hair. Too demure to masturbate in daylight, at least with him in the house. The routine on Sundays.

* * *

She enjoys his cock, at least what she has of it. And because of that she tells herself that maybe there is still something in the marriage. Still a possibility of renewal, a revival of incandescence. She has memories of their courtship, her games with his cock, the surreptitious fondlings, strokings, suckings. She knows her passion excited him then. So where is the excitement now? Fondling him now provokes no excitement, at least nothing she can sense. What does he want? What works in his mind beside his Sunday obsessions with teams and scores? Him lying there with eyes fixed on the tv screen, while upstairs she lies in the bathtub remembering the way things were, his cock and balls, the sucking and fucking, the heat. If she still delights in holding his hard cock in her hand, doesn't that mean the marriage still has a point to it? Not pointless? No, it's useless. She knows the fire is out. It's a farce to pretend otherwise. What good is pretense? She needs more than he can give. But who will give it to her?

* * *

In the evening in their bedroom, she tries a new shade of lipstick, paints her lips slowly in front of a mirror. Her mouth. She had one lover before her husband, one high school sweetheart. Hot kisses and gropings in the darkness of an automobile. She liked sucking him, adored the feel of his hot cock in her mouth, hearing him groan, watching him spurt over her stroking hand. It occurs to her that she probably had that boy's penis in her mouth more times than she's had her husbands. Since Norman never asks for it and she's always too reserved with him to take the initiative and start sucking him. Not since the beginning. In the beginning, during and after their short honeymoon, they were more playful, more spontaneous. She tries to remember the last time she had Norman in her mouth. Three months? And then only for a minute or so. He's always in a hurry to get himself inside her, get between her legs to huff and puff until the barn falls down. Her fantasy: a man who will let her suck him until she tires of it. So many years have passed since she's had that. She doesn't like the shade of lipstick. She thinks it's too dark. She wipes it all off, wipes her mouth and leaves the bedroom.

* * *

Sometimes she daydreams of lovers with exotic passions. An overheated romeo licking her spine from her neck down to her buttocks and back again. Again and again. His wet tongue like a wriggling serpent up and down her back, over her buttocks and thighs. Does such a man exist? You're a fool, she thinks. You want the impossible.

* * *

In the morning, Norman always says: "See you soon!" He waves to her as if he beginning an adventure. His days are filled with numbers and spreadsheets. Her days are filled with a classroom of ten-year-olds. "See you soon!" The best part of her day is the late afternoon when she has the house to herself, Norman not yet home. Her private time. The only time she dares use the buzzing vibrator she bought through the mail. Her buzzing lover. More a hum than a buzz. The hummer. So marvelous when she holds it against herself down there. Sometimes she imagines it's the sound of a steamship. She's going off somewhere, some exotic place. She likes to have her knees up and her thighs wide open. She does it through a towel because it's really too much to have that humming rubber head directly on her flesh. She believes the hummer has saved her sanity. Because of the hummer she can still function each day. Work, eat, work, come home, eat, sleep, work, eat, work. She has two orgasms, one after the other, then she lays the hummer beside her and she closes her eyes and rests.

* * *

Sometimes she imagines she's with a woman. An exquisite creature. The woman is the most beautiful woman she has ever known. A startling white face, burning dark eyes, a face so alive it seems to shimmer. Her skin phosphorescent, the profile of a huntress, perfect teeth, a woman bizarre, fantastic, febrile. Anyone near her drowns in her beauty. She would do anything this woman asked of her. The woman was color and brilliance and strangeness. A woman sensual, her eyes heavy with experience. She wanted this woman to touch her, caress her, make love to her. She imagined herself opening her thighs to this woman. Here I am, take me. To be possessed by such a woman had to be marvelous. She wanted it. She wanted it immediately. She hardly ever thought of herself with a woman, but when it did happen it was always intense, her masturbation frantic, her pleasure intense. Of course when it was

finished she was always amused at herself. Her secret. Her fantasy woman. She only rarely looks at women as sexual objects, and then it's usually women in photographs or erotic drawings. Women with long legs and promise in their eyes. Fantasy women. Would she want such a woman as a lover? Yes. She quivers as she admits to herself there are times when she hungers for it.

* * *

But only rarely. Her most intense erotic focus is on the male. The masculine aspects. Strength, vigor, blatant body parts. A muscular back, tight buttocks, strong thighs, a rearing cock, full balls, the male body ready for sexual action. She excites herself with images. She laughs inwardly as she tells herself she ought to be watching the athletes in the tv sports programs, the tight male asses in football uniforms, the bulging crotches, soccer players with thighs and legs that make her quiver. She imagines her body fondled by strong hands, her breasts grasped. A naked lover bends her over the arm of a sofa and penetrates her from behind. She can't see him thrusting, but she can feel it. His belly slamming against her buttocks each time he thrusts forward. His cock pummeling her.

You're unsettled, she thinks. All these phantom lovers unsettle her. What does she want? She has no idea.