14

Chapter Thirteen

This trauma took its toll on us. We had mood swings—happy then despondent, relieved then regretful. Diana was nagged by guilt. She had defended so many people, but self defense didn't seem right to her if it meant hurting someone else. She was a pacifist tormented by the classic dilemma: If someone attacks you, should you fight back?

I felt that the only thing worse than what we had done would be not to have done it. I was very glad to be free of Jacquot's threat.

I wanted to keep the photos as souvenirs, but mom insisted on burning them.

Her friend Allen was assigned to be Jacquot's Public Defender. "Do you know this guy from somewhere?" Allen asked her. "He's making some pretty wild accusations about you."

"Never seen him before," she told him. "I think he's just another psycho."

"So there's no chance he's Tommy's father?"

"Pu-lease, Allen...really. Your man is crazy."

"Seems that way," Allen agreed. "Too bad we can't use that as a defense."

Mom and I had to testify at his trial that he'd threatened me and chased us on his motorcycle. I've never seen so much hatred pour out of two eyes as from Jacquot's hard brittle blues. His face twitched constantly, and his hoarse voice stuttered when he spoke. Finally something snapped inside him and went off the deep end, screaming that mom and I were incestuous lovers and he was my father. It took four bailiffs, one for each thrashing limb, to carry him from the courtroom.

We got a blistering letter from him in Attica saying he'd get even with us no matter what. Diana wrote him back saying this and any further threats would be referred to the district attorney for additional prosecution. That seemed to shut him up.

Diana arranged with the prison authorities that they would notify her if he ever came up before a parole board, so we could prepare ourselves for his release.

I was worried he might order a hit from prison, but mom said only rich cons can do that, Jacquot couldn't afford to kill us.

As the stress gradually wore off, we became more determined than ever to stay together. We had paid a price of suffering for this relationship, and now we had to make it last. We knew the world might try again to smash our love, but we were resolved to defend it.

I became intrigued with the idea of marrying Diana. Who were all those governments and churches to tell us what we couldn't do? We had a right to some traditions too. I went to a custom jeweler and spent the last of my saved-up money on two gold bands, each mounted with a smooth cabochon ruby—gold for fidelity and ruby for passion.

Although I couldn't afford a separate engagement ring, I decided to be a bit old fashioned about proposing. As she was sitting on the couch reading one evening, I got down on my knees before her. She looked at me puzzled. "You have really beautiful hands," I told her and took them in mine. She smiled at the compliment, even blushed a little. "What I would like most of all would be if you would give me your hand. In marriage."

Mom's face softened, sad with the impossibility. "I would like that too...very much. It'd be so wonderful. But...."

"We can do it for ourselves," I said. "We didn't need anybody's approval. We can write our own vows...have our own private ceremony. It would be for

us

."

"You really want," she asked almost shyly, "to marry me?"

"I want very much to marry you. It would be beautiful...our own wedding. And it would mean something...for later too. We'd know we were really a couple."

She sobbed with emotion, wanting this but seeing all the problems. "But I'm eighteen years older than you. At some point"—she forced the words out painfully—"you're going to want a girl your own age."

I squeezed her hand to show my sincerity. "I don't want a girl. I want you."

"But when you're thirty, I'll be forty-eight. When you're forty-eight"—she paused to calculate—"I'll be sixty-six."

"Those are just numbers. We'll still be you and me. We'll still be together. That's the important thing."

"Wait till I get all wrinkled." She turned her face away. "You won't want me."

"Do you really believe that?" I asked almost angrily.

Diana shook her head and squeezed my hand back. "No."

"Lots of times the man is eighteen years older than the woman. They do OK. So can we. It even makes more sense with the age difference the other way. Women usually live longer than men...so it'll come out more even. We can both kick the bucket at about the same time."

"You dear man. You really love me, don't you?"

"I really do. And to sweeten the deal, if you say yes, you get this." I took her ring out and slipped it onto her finger.

Mom stared at it astounded. "Where did you get that?"

"I had it made. You like it?"

She held it up so the ruby caught the light. "It's beautiful. So simple...and sensual. You are a schemer! You knew I couldn't say no to that."

"I hope not."

"Tom!" She flashed her hand around delightedly.

"I've got one for me too." I showed her mine. "They're a mated pair."

She took it and held it up to hers. Happy tears spilled from her eyes. "You win, as usual. Your desire is so strong...resisting you is silly." She kissed me passionately. "But what kind of ceremony could we have?"

"Well, I've been thinking about it...."

She changed her mind. "Oh, tell me later. Right now just make love to me. I want you so much. But first"—she slid my ring onto my finger—"put it on." We held up both our hands together, admiring the matching bands. "Now"—she started unbuttoning my shirt—"take it off."

The book she'd been reading fell onto the rug and so did we. I needed to possess her, so I lay down right on top of her, encircled her with my arms, pressed my groin into hers, and clutched her to me. "Marry me. Be my wife," I insisted.

"Yes!" Mom almost sang the word.

I kissed her open mouth and filled it with my tongue, which she sucked and rubbed with hers. Her hands gripped my rear and pulled me harder against her. Aroused by this new level of our love, we pawed each other's clothes off greedily, impatiently. We'd gotten good at that—shirts, bra, pants, panties, all went flying. Nude, we stared at our too most different organs that held us so powerfully in their grips. Their attraction was obvious, they were really made for each other: an open part and a filling part, concave and convex, with my vex fitting so well into her cave, like a sword and a sheath, a finger and a ring. Above them reigned her breasts, fountains of psychic and physical nurture, magnificent, magnanimous, and rather large. I seized them and squeezed them and tried to decide once again if they were firmly soft or softly firm, roundly conical or conically round. Like riddles of the Sphinx, these were questions I could ponder for hours.

We surrendered and embraced, covering as much of the other's naked body with our own as we could, craving the touch of skin on skin.

I wanted to get to know some of her neglected parts, so I rubbed and examined her feet. Humble, practical, hard-working and very complex inside, they moved her through the world and certainly deserved some appreciation. I massaged the soles, and Diana lay back and relaxed with a sigh. Her toes wiggled and stretched, each digit so different from the others. I kissed them all, from big to little, thinking of Snow White's dwarves. But they were cuter than that. They reminded me a bit of her nipples, so I sucked them. This they really liked. They'd never been the center of attention before, and they seemed to tingle with excitement. I licked between them, tasting their good earthy salt, and mom began to moan.

Her pelvis was writhing in protest of being neglected, so I put my hand on her mossy pubis and ran my fingers through her hot wet core. I filled my mouth with toes while caressing her clit, which was bulging out like her little toe. Diana was making all sorts of noises now, like a baby learning to talk. Finally I understood what she was trying to say: "Penetrate me!" She grabbed my post and tried to drag me away from her feet.

Sorry, gotta go

, I told them.

The boss just called. I'll see you later

.

Since we were by the couch, I got her up on her knees facing it and leaned her down until her head and breasts rested on the suede cushions. Her rump stuck out grandly, white orbs so proud and inviting, and her snatch hung red and open.

I mounted over her back and tipped her buns up towards me to allow access. It took quite a bit of wiggling from both of us to get our angles right, insert my tusk into her sultry entry, then gradually fill her. "Oh yes," mom said once I was deep inside her. "That's what I need."

"How about this too?" I reached around in front of her, ruffled her petals, petted her ruffles, and fondled her clit.

"That too," she groaned. "Oh...that too."

I enjoyed the scenery from up here, watching the glide of her shoulder blades, the lift of her ribs, the bow of her neck as she responded to my long, slow thrusts. I could feel her dear ass squashed against my tummy.

I licked her ear and whispered in it, "Now we're engaged...you're my beautiful fiancée."

Mom sobbed with emotion. "I've never been loved like this."

Our fusion was generating a sun of heat between us, and we reveled in its radiance. We slipped and slid in sync—Diana pushing back and raising her butt, then me pressing her forward onto the couch. Her tongue stuck out as if to make more room inside. We worked so well together, sensing each other's movements like dancers. My other hand kneaded her breast, and I could feel her heart racing as we merged in a full-body caress of smoothness, wetness, and warmth. Our momentum built—my balls started drumming and her loins shaking.

"Soon you'll be my bride." As I pumped her with frantic lust, feeding her with my cream, she cried out and crumbled into convulsions. We came together in a rush of liquid love that washed open all our inner doors and made us one. Murmuring shards of sound, we surrendered to a pounding rhythm greater than both of us.

Finally our motions slowed and I slipped out of her. We raised up from the couch onto our knees and turned facing, then rubbed our tummies and chests together. "I think I like being engaged," she said.

We stretched out on the shag rug and clung to each other. "Thanks for saying yes," I said.

She stuck her tongue in my ear. "Thanks for asking."

By the time we noticed our seeping fluids, the rug was already wet. Mom sat up with a wry grin. "The cleaners again! Oh well, it was worth it."

Chapter Fourteen

We decided to have the wedding in New York City: it was a tolerant place and we didn't know anyone there, so we'd be free to be exuberant.

On the flight I tried to get mom to join the Mile High Club—we could cover up with the little blankets they give you—but she said we shouldn't push our luck.

We stayed in the penthouse suite of a small hotel in Greenwich Village. Diana figured we could splurge since we'd saved so much money by not having to pay Jacquot. The suite had a king-sized waterbed, which were new back then; I was looking forward to giving it a test ride. It also had a private roof garden with a great view of the city.

After we unpacked she said, "I need to henna my hair," and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard water running, and she came out in a robe with her head wrapped in a towel.

I'd seen her this way before and assumed that was just how she dried her hair. "What's henna?" I asked.

"Henna's how the red gets in my hair."

I was shocked. "I thought it was just that way."

"'Fraid not. If you're going to be my husband, I guess you need to know a few things."

"You mean you dye your hair?"

"It's not really dye. It's like a rinse I put on...then it has to sit. It's all natural," she said a bit defensively. "Made from the leaves of a plant."

"If you didn't put it on, what color would your hair be?"

"Brown...just like yours."

I was astounded. All these years I'd thought we had different colored hair, but underneath this stuff we were the same. "That's weird." I resented this henna, although I loved the rich color of her hair. "Why do you do it?"

"Because you like it that color."

"What? How do you know?" I asked, thinking she must be reading my mind.

"I tried it years ago and asked you how you liked my hair. You said great. So I've been doing it ever since. And just a couple of weeks ago you said you liked me to be your chestnut mare."

I was amazed. She did it to please me. And she remembered all my reactions to her. My opinion really mattered. "Well, it does look great. I just thought...that was the way it was."

"Sorry to shatter your illusions."

"I'm crushed. Next you'll tell me there's no Santa Claus."

"You'll get over it, I'm sure. Actually, maybe you want to try it," she suggested with a wicked smile. "We could have matching hair for the wedding. Who knows, you might like it."

The idea had an alluring appeal—to look even more like her than I did already. I pictured our hair entangled as we made love, unable to tell one from the other. We'd look like one tree with merged trunks and the same color leaves. But I drew back from the idea, afraid of disappearing into her. We needed some distinction between us. After all, the parts that were the most different were the ones that gave us the most pleasure. "I don't think so," I said.

She scrinched her gamine face at me. "Want to be the tough guy, huh?"

"Well, it's a hard job...but somebody's gotta do it," I said. "Let's go outside and look around." I led her through the French doors out onto our roof garden, and we gazed out over Washington Square with its arch and fountain. Greenwich Village isn't as high-rise as the rest of Manhattan; the surrounding buildings didn't tower over us, so we could see a long ways into a forest of stone, metal, and glass under a hazy gray sky. In summer swelter we sat side by side on chaise lounges among potted plants.

"Take off your robe," I said.

Mom glanced around nervously. "Someone could see."

"From way over there?" I pointed to a far building taller than ours. "They'd need binoculars."

"Everybody in New York has binoculars. But what the hell. It's the Big Apple—Give 'em a thrill." She slipped out of her robe. "The sun is hot...and so is this son." Mom tousled my hair. "They'll think I'm an old woman with a young gigolo."

"You don't look old." I rubbed her sleek leg. "They'll think the truth, that we're a honeymoon couple, the way we're all over each other."

Diana sipped her kirsch-sweetened lemonade. "We're not even married yet."

"That's right. That means this is our last chance to sin." I moved my hand up and caressed her garden. "How long does it take this henna stuff to dry?"

"About half an hour."

"Great."

It was muggy and buggy but we didn't mind. We made love while traffic noise, jazz, sirens, our shouts and those of our fellow villagers, all the great wild roar of Manhattan thronged the air around us.

Afterwards we strolled arm in arm through Greenwich Village. We really felt at home in this bohemian enclave—everybody was a freak of one sort or another. From the crowds here it was obvious that more and more people weren't fitting into the cookie-cutter mold of straight society. I began to understand how important it was to have these alternatives to the mainstream.

Diana and I had dinner in a sidewalk café, then went to a jazz club that reminded her of the be-bop spots in the 1950s. We didn't stay late, though; we wanted to be rested for the big day tomorrow.

In the morning we went shopping. Now that we were getting more traditional, I tried to convince mom to get a white wedding dress, since she'd never been married before, but she said she'd be too self-conscious. In a West Village boutique she found a silk dress with gold and violet flowers on a white background. It looked great with her freshly hennaed hair.

I didn't own a suit and didn't want one, and I've never worn ties, although my grandparents gave me one for every birthday. I preferred to wear my phallus between my legs rather than around my neck like a hangman's noose. In a Hippie shop on the Lower East Side I found burgundy bellbottoms and a white linen shirt with a Nehru collar.

Diana decided she wanted to wear the traditional something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. She had the new dress and had brought along a cameo barrette that had been her grandmother's. For blue we found a beautiful lapis lazuli necklace and earrings in a hand-crafted jewelry shop. But what could she borrow?

When we went back to the hotel, the maid was cleaning the hallway. She was a friendly, heavyset black woman, and Diana asked her if she had a bobby pin she could borrow. "Why sure, honey," she replied, searching in her hair and plucking one out. "You sure you need just one?"

"That's fine, thanks," mom said and stuck it above her ear.

She secreted herself in the bathroom for a few minutes and emerged in blue eye shadow and apricot lipstick. We put on all our new finery and stood arm in arm for inspection in the full-length mirror. "A very attractive couple...in my biased opinion," mom said.

"We look great together," I agreed.

As we were getting ready to leave, I surprised her with a wreath of red rosebuds for her hair. She loved it—the crowning touch.

Outside, on a street softened by late-afternoon shadows, we flagged down a battered yellow cab. "Central Park, please," Diana said.

"Central Park?" The driver tossed back curtly, "What part a Central Park? It's huge." His accent was so heavy I could barely understand him.

"Where the horses are," I put in.

"Horses?" He snorted as if we'd insulted him, then turned the radio up and listened to the Mets game, cheering them on to another glorious defeat.

We got out by the carriage stand on Central Park South and rented a horse taxi. This driver was polite and friendly, an out-of-work actor. The horse was sadder looking than our Colorado mares, laden with blinders, feed bag and heavy harness, but his hooves made nice clip-clops on the street and he lifted his tail and made some nice plops there, a bit of nature in the city. We meandered through the sylvan oasis of the park, enjoying the trees and grass and slow pace, looking for the right setting for our ceremony. When we saw a small pond and a meadow with not too many people around, we told him to stop, we'd be staying here.

Above the trees, skyscrapers enclosed the park in a jagged, toothy horizon. The sun had disappeared behind them but still shone on the clouds, which hung in stripes of mottled gold.

We strolled about, searching for the best spot. Three people were tossing a Frisbee around and three others were passing a joint around. Ducks with shiny green heads cruised the pond and waddled through the reeds and ferns around its bank. Two birds with sleek black heads flew with beaks full of bugs to a nest hidden high among the leafy branches of a maple. Grass grew thick beneath the tree, almost hiding the cigarette butts and other trash that were a constant reminder of the surrounding millions.

We decided this tree would be our witness, and walked over to it with the bag we'd brought with us. I patted its bark and said, "Thank you for being here at our wedding."

"Mighty maple tree," Diana addressed it, "you are our minister, maid of honor, and best man. Please witness our vows."

I took out the notes we'd made for the ceremony, and we read aloud passages on love from First Corinthians and

The Prophet

.

Standing with arms around each other's waists, we said in unison, "We are here to declare that our relationship has grown and improved. In addition to being mother and son we are now going to be wife and husband. Today we are having a family marriage. We promise to stay together, to have and to hold in joy and in sorrow, through good times and bad, to honor and cherish each other with faithful love."