The Reluctant Exhibitionist

by Martin Shepard

  Again I intended to stay out of it. But, wonder of wonders, Peggy walked right up to me. Peter was there, too.

  “No,” Peggy told him. “I want to get to know him.”

  “Perhaps I can join you and make it a threesome.”

  “I’d prefer to talk with Peggy alone,” I said, and the two of us turned and walked away.

  We made our way to an old barn, several hundred feet from our meeting spot, and sat on some piles of hay that were stored for the two horses on the property. At first we shared professional information and backgrounds. It turned out that we had an acquaintance in common. One of Peggy’s private patients, Betty, was in a weekly on-going Anthos group. I had always been attracted to Betty and told Peggy so.

  “You know,” she said, sitting back on her legs, glancing like a young innocent at the floor, and tentatively extending her hand to me, “I’d like to kiss you but I feel strangely shy.”

  “I know just what you mean. I feel the same way.”

  I don’t know whether I took her hand or she took mine, whether I went to embrace her, or she me. For in truth we came together as unself-consciously as two magnets might—equal forces meeting equally—and then, bodies entwined, rolled sideways in the hay.

  Her tongue was as artful as that of the serpent in Eden and darted about my ears, nostrils, neck, and lips, then down into my mouth, around gums and teeth, and into spaces that I never knew existed. Like some young voluptuary, I lay back and let her do me.

  And do me, indeed, she did. She undid my shirt, unhitched my pants, salivated on her hand, and began a series of exquisitely long, slow jerks that would have been enough to rouse a corpse—all the while continuing to work with her talented tongue, sucking and licking my nipples, umbilicus, and thigh.

  I began to abandon my own passive pleasure and slipped my hand down into her jeans and up into her cunt, fingering her as she kept lapping and pulling on me. She began to twist on the end of my finger. Her licking gave way to her own passive concentration on pussy on a finger, and she twisted and moved about on my hand, moanmg now, mouth agape. She fell on her back, pulled me toward her, and started to slip out of her pants.

  “I can’t fuck you,” I said. “I’d like to, but if I did I’d have to talk about it in the group, and I’m not prepared to do that.”

  “Then we’ll just have to do it some other time, after the group is over,” she smiled, and twisted free to lick and pull me to fulfillment while dancing on my right middle finger.

  When the group reassembled we all talked about what had transpired and what we felt. Neila realized she was jealous. Our mathematics professor was alone and lonely. And Peggy and I said that we really enjoyed our encounter, talking, kissing, and hugging …

  I felt no compulsion to mention my orgasm. Not that I would have withheld the information if anyone had asked. No, that wasn’t it. It was just that had the orgasm been achieved via Peggy’s vagina instead of her mouth and hand, I would have felt ethically obliged to confess it.

  As if it was any less of an orgasm.

  I am so convention-bound in spite of my freedom.

  Saturday midnight, August 8

  I happened to be sitting alongside Carla when she started the afternoon session.

  “Would you have gone out with me if I picked you?”

  “Yes, I would,” I answered.

  “I didn’t really want to spend time with Ben, but he was the only one who singled me out.”

  “I know just how you feel,” I kidded her, putting my arm about her shoulder. “Peggy was the only one who singled me out, too.”

  “If I weren’t so passive I’d probably get more satisfaction out of life.”

  “Well,” I teased, rubbing her back and staring playfully at Peggy, “we passive people just have to settle for pot luck.”

  She giggled. Then, glancing backward at the arm that encircled her:

  “What are you doing?”

  “Excuse me,” I said, and moved a few feet from her. “I didn’t know you minded.”

  “Who said I minded?” she giggled again.

  I moved back and started stroking her some more. This sad-looking wife of a cheating husband had suddenly come alive. Grinning like a school girl, teasing and being teased, and loving every minute of it. We continued to touch while having our intimate conversation in the midst of the group. The others seemed as pleased at Carla’s shedding her martyr’s mask as the two of us were. And she began to find her sexuality.

  “You know, you’re the first man I’ve met in the six years I’ve been married that I’d really like to go to bed with.” She blushed, then, looking shyly at the floor: “Would you be interested in that, too?”

  “Yes, I would,” I answered without even giving it a second thought. As soon as the words were out, I knew I was home free. This was indeed a significant breakthrough for me. For I realized I was relating to Carla as an individual, not as somebody’s wife. I couldn’t have given two shits what Peter thought. It was between Carla and me. How different from the experiences with Mary Boyle or even with Peggy a few hours ago!

  And not only that, but I was comfortable enough and free enough to make my arrangements out in front of everybody. If there were objections, now was the time to let them fly. But nobody objected at all. Not even Peter.

  For the evening’s session I suggested another “Director’s game.” Carla continued to come on strong sexually both toward me and toward others all night. During her turn as Director she picked out all of the men and women she was attracted to and had them surround her. In the midst of all the touching and hugging she jestingly invited them all to an orgy.

  It was a delight to see her glory from the same position Peter had occupied for so long. And Peter was, I believe, starting to understand where Carla had lived these past few years. She had made clear her intention to meet me after the evening’s session ended. Peter, looking very much like a lost little boy without a security blanket, was trying desperately to score with someone else. But both Peggy and two other attractive wives he approached rebuffed him.

  It’s quite a different thing for a man when his wife picks a lover on her own, as opposed to someone safe he has picked out for her. At one point he proprietarily came up to me and said:

  “I hope you’re careful with Carla. She takes things very seriously.” I smiled back and said nothing.

  I thought I understood his game. Hadn’t I played it myself in the past? You want the freedom to fuck others without having it crush your wife’s spirits or endanger your marriage. And you don’t want to have to sneak around about it. So you try to convince her to fuck someone, too. Then if she ever objects to your screwing around, you can salve your conscience and counter her accusations by pointing out that she has done the same thing. What you don’t consider is that she might like this freedom as much or more than you do, and then you’ve got a tiger by the tail. It is then that a man knows what it’s like to be cuckolded.

  I was convinced that this bitter pill would be good medicine for Peter.

  As the session drew to a close, however, it wasn’t clear what was going to happen.

  “Let me talk to Peter and make sure it’s all right with him.”

  “Hey, look! I don’t want to get involved with all those checks back and forth. I’m tired and I’m going to my room. It’s number 29. If you’re really interested, come by. If not, I’ll understand.” And with that I left.

  Within half an hour there was a knock on the door. I answered it. It was Carla.

  She blushed, looked down at the floor, then came to me and kissed me. She disrobed. I was already undressed, having just gotten out from under the sheets to let her in.

  Her body had a peasant loveliness—chunky, white-skinned, an occasional mole. There was a somewhat acrid smell about her, an unwashed, sweaty odor from the day’s ordeal. But that too I found inoffensive. Indeed, it suited both her earthy quality and the innocence of our liaison. No unguents, no oils. No artful contrivances. Jus
t an honest meeting of two healthy, respectful, and sexually alive creatures.

  My prick rose as she climbed into bed with me. I stroked her back, her buttocks, her moles. I ran my finger down her spine, down the cleft of her ass; I paused at her bum hole and pressed in a bit when she began to moan, and then I worked my hand forward to her cunt.

  We were on our sides. She pulled me around on top of her. I raised myself on one arm, separated her wide cunt lips with my free hand, and plowed straight home. She lay there and gasped as my cock opened her up, and then she raised her knees and her legs, grabbed her ankles with her hands, and pulled her legs sideways and apart until it looked as though she might tear herself asunder. No dancer, splitting down on the floor, could have opened more fully.

  As she began to bounce her ass off the bed she momentarily released one ankle, grabbed my hand, and led it down to her clit, which I began to fondle and rub—it was like a small marble buried deep inside that mound of pubic flesh.

  And then I worked my hand toward her ass once more. The frenzied motions she made convinced me to pursue this target. I slipped my index finger into that foul hole and, working it in tandem with my cock, massaged that thin sheet of tissue consisting of cunt wall on one side and ass wall on the other.

  Her head began to twist and turn. She damn near pinned her feet on opposite sides of the bed as her cunt and her ass rose to swallow every last millimeter of cock and finger. And with grunts and groans and shrieks and bites we both came.

  Lying still, afterward, before she rose to return to Peter, she looked at me and said self-consciously:

  “The next time we meet I’ll be without braces. They’re coming off my teeth in ten days.”

  “I kind of like them,” I answered. “It’s the closest I’ve ever come to making it with an adolescent.”

  Sunday, August 9

  It was a phenomenal, flattering, and joyous conclusion to the weekend. Almost everybody was ecstatic over his experiences and the personal progress he felt had been made. Many couples worked free of jealousy—the bane of so many marriages—and found pleasure in turning on to others.

  After sharing their opinions regarding one another, they began on me. I was overwhelmed by their positive regard. They admired my “intelligence,” my “perceptiveness,” my “out-front sexuality,” my “compassion.”

  And then they began to rub and stroke me. Carla at first. Then Peggy. Then Hank, Peggy’s husband. Then Neila. Then Ben. Then Peter. Then everyone.

  I was in the center of this sea of moving hands. The girls started to unbutton my shirt and loosen my pants, all the while caressing my chest, and arms, and thighs, and belly, and prick.

  It was the closest I had ever come to pure bliss. Sex, at that point, would have been superfluous. For every inch of my body felt alive, cared for, loved, and warmed.

  While lying there I was suddenly struck by the funniest thought.

  “What are you smiling at?” someone asked.

  “I just had this fantasy in which all of the people who have ever trained me in psychiatry—my supervisors, analysts, instructors—come into this room, see me lying here this way, and, with great shocked expressions on their faces, say:

  “‘For this we trained you?’

  “‘This you call therapy?’”

  Monday afternoon, August 10

  Revolutionary idea number one: Therapy can be fun for everyone.

  Monday evening, August 10

  August New Year’s resolution: I shall henceforth lead only couples’ groups.

  XXII

  I had another fantasy. Only this time it is harder to smile.

  In the fantasy, Dr. X., Director of Training at the William Alanson White Psychoanalytic Institute, has just put down her copy of A Psychiatrist’s Head. She has gotten to the end of Chapter 20, and will read no more. She is incensed, offended, and smugly self-assured.

  She puts the book in her purse and carries it to the Institute. She sees Dr. Y.

  “There’s something you’d be interested in seeing,” she says, and with a look of utmost gravity takes the book out of her bag and hands it to him.

  That evening, Dr. Y. skims the book, devoting at the most one-half hour to its examination. He is offended at the poor taste of the Tantric Road chapters—turned off by my turn-on. He spends most of the half hour looking for references that might reflect unfavorably upon the White Institute or upon himself. As far as he is concerned such references are one and the same.

  The book is read by other members of the Institute’s training committee, and at their next meeting they congratulate themselves on their wisdom in having dismissed me years earlier.

  Dr. Y. has already consulted with the Institute’s attorney in order to make a decision as to whether or not to institute a libel suit. In the end, this opinion was based in part upon some technicality of law and in part upon “image,” i.e., would it seem that the Institute trod a “higher road” by ignoring the printed challenge of this poor, sick, “acting-out,” incompletely analyzed devil, or would it be “more appropriate” if they defended themselves in court from these “outrageous distortions.” The idea of a public dialogue, uncensored and open, does not readily occur to Doctors X. and Y. or to their attorney.

  No. They will ignore me or they will try to silence me.

  The Institute attorney’s opinion on this moral dilemma is announced to the committee and readily accepted by the other three or four members in attendance.

  Cut fantasy. Enter memory.

  From 1964, when I first entered the Institute’s training program, through 1966, I did quite well. Evaluation of my work by supervisors and instructors was almost unanimously positive.

  In the spring of 1966, Lyndon Baines Johnson tried to draft me into the armed services.

  I took it as a personal affront, an outrage. I had never liked this damned war and couldn’t see myself psycho-therapizing soldiers to get them back to the front lines where they could either kill Vietnamese or be killed. Medicine—psychiatry—was supposed to help people live, not die.

  “But, doctor! A man’s been shot. If you don’t stop the bleeding, he’ll die.”

  Bullshit. That’s like saying that Congress must keep appropriating money for this accursed war so that our soldiers will have sufficient weapons to defend themselves.

  No. You keep people alive best by stopping the shooting.

  So I decided upon “alternative service.” If Lyndon Johnson wanted my ass, I wanted his. For the next two years I spent, perhaps, forty hours a week working to oppose the war. My twenty hours a week of psychiatric practice were of secondary importance and served, primarily, to support my family and my political work. And by means of every legalism, postponement, and appeal, I managed to avoid induction to the army.

  A month before Memorial Day, in 1966, the government announced plans to sell Series “E” savings bonds, the old “war bonds” of World War II. The New York Times mentioned that there were fifty billion dollars outstanding in such bonds. I figured that if everyone opposed to the war cashed in his savings bonds, the run on the Treasury would make it more difficult to finance the conflict. So I, “with a little help from my friends,” launched a “National Turn-in-Your-War-Bonds Week.”

  We passed out pamphlets, collected pledges, sent out press releases, and went to Washington on that Memorial Day. We took with us signed coupons from people throughout the country who vowed to turn in their bonds. The coupons were turned in at the White House. We held a press conference. There was a flurry of newspaper stories throughout the country. These helped to show other people what action they could take to protest the war.

  It was my first experience in reaching people outside of my immediate circle. But the run on the Treasury was merely a trickle. The killing went on.

  In September of 1966, we Johnny-come-lately political activists decided that the best strategy for opposing the war was to challenge L.B.J.’s renomination.

  It seemed so clear. L.B.J. loved powe
r more than life itself. If he felt his power base to be in jeopardy, he might (being the political animal that he was) reverse his course in Vietnam. Instead of escalating, perhaps he’d pull out. It was quite obvious that no challenge would come from the Republicans, for he had co-opted the political Right. It was equally clear that no effective challenge was likely to develop immediately from the radical Left. To end the war quickly, then, the best hope was to threaten the President from within his own party. And Robert Kennedy, given his own ambition and his growing distaste for the war, seemed the most likely weapon.

  So began the “draft Kennedy” movement. We called it the “Citizens for Kennedy/Fulbright” (later shortened to “Citizens for Kennedy”)—our peace ticket for the 1968 elections. I was national co-chairman.

  For the next year and a half most of my energy and every bit of my free time was thrown into the project. I traveled about the country on weekends helping to organize local chapters. I spoke at meetings, stuffed envelopes, wrote letters, raised money, printed literature, ordered campaign material, and held interminable news conferences. We wanted to reach people. We “created” newsworthy events so that others could read about us in the morning papers and then join with us.

  We pressured politicians, brought people into local Democratic political clubs, and introduced resolutions putting these clubs on record as opposing L.B.J.’s renomination if the war continued.

  We wrote to several thousand delegates to the Democratic National Convention of 1964—the convention that unanimously nominated L.B.J. Nearly one hundred of them signed a pledge revoking their support of the President and stated they would work against his re-nomination and for the nomination of Robert Kennedy. We made plans to enter a reluctant Robert Kennedy’s name in primary races across the country.

  In little over a year, there were four front-page stories in The New York Times alone concerning the draft-Kennedy movement. During the same short period the foundation for challenging the President became so solid that Eugene McCarthy announced his candidacy. And shortly after that, Kennedy himself jumped into the race.