Ginny

by James Francis Gray

  She took a prophylactic from the nightstand and said, “I’ve shown you what one of these looks like; now, let me show you how it’s used …”

  The weeks passed and Mr. Levy’s sex education took on more meaning for the eager young man. His skill level was at its highest, and Mrs. Bennington’s fantasies were being fulfilled.

  She said, “Tomorrow night, eight o’clock sharp, be here. I will leave the door open. Come in, close and lock it; I will be waiting in the bedroom.

  He stood at the door, a shaky hand on the knob, filled with apprehension and anticipation as he opened it. Once inside, he took a deep breath, closed the door, locked it, turned and headed into the bedroom.

  Mrs. Bennington stood at the side of the bed in the dim light, displaying all her radiant glory.

  Murray gasped at the sight of her magnificence. The demure schoolteacher had transformed into a ravishing, voluptuous woman; her raven locks swirled over bare ivory shoulders, a devilish smile on her painted red lips. A familiar see-through white nightgown enticed him. She displayed a young man’s sensual fantasies.

  She pulled the bow at her throat, letting the thin garment fall at her feet. The exposed woman, unashamed in her nakedness, displayed the loveliness he only dreamed of in his eighteen years. She sat on the side of the bed, swung her feet over, and offered a place beside her, patting the bedspread.

  He took another deep breath as she motioned for him to disrobe. Clumsy in his effort, his clothes piled beside the bed, as her arms opened to him.

  They lay beside one another, her warm skin invigorating him, and he took the expected liberties she offered in their soon-to-be lovemaking. His lips sought out hers—their tongues entwined, bringing heated ecstasy. His eager hands and mouth roamed with glee over her taut body. Their mutual foreplay and lovemaking lasted an incredible two hours until they fell apart. She moaned in pleasure as the heated, perspiring couple separated.

  “I love you, Mrs. Bennington …” he gasped, out of breath, “Bonita Marie.”

  She took his flushed face and pressed it against her breasts, saying in a gentle voice, “We’re making love, not in love; there is a distinct difference.”

  “But …” he said, a disappointed tone in his voice.

  “Murray, you’ll be fine,” she continued, whispering.

  A slight sob escaped him.

  “You’ll never forget me,” she assured him, running her fingers through his curly hair. “But you’ll find true love … there’s a woman out there especially for you.”

  He pressed his face against her moist stomach—tears filled his eyes as she rubbed his neck and shoulders. His enticing kisses roamed over her breasts and stomach, bringing her back to the fold.

  “Don’t cry my dear sweet man, you’ll do well in adulthood.”

  His whimpering slowed when she took his hand and placed it over her furry mound.

  With a playful move, he swirled his fingers through the thick forest, leading to the promised land. Heated bodies continued with another marathon lovemaking session.

  “You’ve passed the test, young man; you are ready to take on the world.”

  “May I see you one last time?”

  “Yes, tomorrow night. Come over at seven.”

  The following evening, he showed up at her door at the awaited time, a bouquet of red roses in his hand.

  She opened the door and he offered the flowers.

  “Why, thank you Mr. Levy. Come inside, I’ll make tea,” she said, taking the flowers.

  He followed her to the kitchen where she opened the cupboard, retrieved a vase, and filled it with tap water. He never took his eyes off her. “Such a pleasant surprise, Murray,” she said, placing the roses into the vase and setting it on the table.

  “Please take off your jacket and sit down at the table while I make tea.”

  “Thank you,” he said, “Oh, may I call you Bonita Marie?”

  She turned to him, as he took a seat, smiled, looked him directly in the eyes and answered, “I suppose we can dispense of the formalities on our last day together.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “You look lovely tonight.”

  “A gentlemanly salutation, young man, I’m impressed.” She lit the gas under the kettle, saying, “Tea will be ready soon.”

  He sat there, his eyes on her, but did not speak.

  She leaned against the sink, akimbo, smiling and said, “Blue and white are my colors.”

  When the tea was ready, she brought it to the table as Murray rose to greet her.

  “Ah, a gentleman,” she said with a wide smile.

  She served tea and cookies, then sat down to his right.

  “Murray,” she said, patting his hand. “We must talk.”

  “Now?” He questioned.

  “Yes, Murray, it’s the right time,” she said, softened her look and continued. “Sexual techniques and lovemaking are your strong points—no complaints there—but …”

  “But?”

  “The lessons in life are paramount—marriage is the greatest of God’s gifts. It keeps the family unit together. You know, the world turns according to the Lord’s plan.”

  “I know that!” he exclaimed, took a deep breath and then he sipped his tea, offering a wide smile.

  “Be serious!” she exclaimed.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Bennington.”

  “In this situation, sarcasm is not appreciated. Don’t make me angry!”

  “Maybe we should go into the bedroom?” he asked.

  “If you think that’s funny—think again,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

  “Let’s not quarrel, Bonita Marie.”

  “Mr. Levy, it’s time to be serious,” she said in a stern voice. “I want to send you out into the adult world, a new man. One that possesses strength and integrity, a gentle and kind man.”

  “I see …” he said.

  “I hope and pray that you do,” she paused. “Others will look up to you. It’s a lot easier to smile than frown.”

  He nodded.

  “Your posture and attitude—the way you act and carry yourself will set you above the ordinary. Be kind, always be polite in your dealings with family, friends, and business associates alike.”

  “You’re setting a very high standard for me.”

  “There’s only one way to be, Murray—take the high road and you’ll feel much better than the opposite. You’ll want people to like you without a massive amount of sugarcoating. That’s where sincerity takes over—so no overkill.”

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  “No!” she exclaimed. “I do not want you to try! I want you to succeed!”

  He nodded again.

  “Stand tall, chest out and with the boldness of a determined man. Win the world, Murray.”

  “I can do that,” he said. “Let me start right now with you.”

  “No!”

  “But …?”

  “Let me put it this way. Do you know what the life expectancy of an American female is these days?” she asked.

  “I love you!” he exclaimed, “What’s life expectancy got to do with it?”

  “Everything. I’m past the halfway point in my life now. By the time you’ve finished your education and military obligation, you’ll be in your late twenties and me, my late forties … see?”

  “Crap!”

  “You’re over eighteen now. You’ll have to sign up for selective service.”

  “Double crap; I’ll have to join the Army?”

  “Whatever you join, become an officer; the pay is better,” she said. “Now, it’s time for you to go.”

  He sulked, got up and went to the door, where he stopped and looked back at her.

  She followed him and let him out as he walked away from the house. She stood in the doorway, arms folded over her chest.

  He turned again, gazing back at her. They kept their eyes on each other for several minutes and, with a sigh, she said,
“OK, one last time.”

  He raced back to her open arms.

  Nine months later.

  Bonita Marie picked up the phone and said, “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” Murray said.

  “My, my, what a pleasant surprise. How are you, Murray?”

  “Very good, and you?”

  “Same, good,” she said.

  “You were right, I’ve fallen in love. It’s a miracle!”

  “Good for you, thank God.”

  “Her name is Hooda. She’s from Jordan, lives with her aunt and uncle in New York City.”

  “Tell me all about her.”

  “She was sitting alone in a crowded coffee shop near campus. I asked if I could share her table and she said, ‘Yes’. Can you believe it?”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  “We hit it off immediately. She’s beautiful, has jet black hair, dark skin, deep brown eyes, full lips and features to die for.”

  “You’re a lucky man, I’ll pray for your success.”

  “We’re going to go slowly until we get to know each other better. Does that meet with your approval, Bonita Marie?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about you?”

  “Ha,” Bonita Marie said, “Don’t worry about me. A nice new teacher joined our staff, he asked me to dinner, and I said yes.”

  “Name?”

  “George.”

  Murray and Billy lost touch after Basic Training.

  The End

  PETERMAN

  Frank’s Bar on Sunset in Hollywood: Monday, December 1st, 1945, 8:00 p.m.

  “Sam,” John L. Peterman, Esq., said to his friend, “You buyin’ or cryin’?”

  “Cryin’ my friend—just put it on your tab.”

  John waved to the bartender and ordered, “Two whiskeys.”

  “Ha, Johnny, your tab is overdue … five bucks brings you up to speed.”

  “Hey, come on, business has been off lately—give me a break, OK?”

  Fred, the bartender, shrugs his shoulders, gathers two shot glasses and a bottle of bar whiskey, and labors his big frame over to them, shaking his head.

  “Thanks, Fred, you’re a peach,” Johnny said.

  “Cops,” Fred replied.

  “I’m a cop—he’s the gumshoe, ha, ha,” Sam laughs, polishing his badge with his sleeve.

  “Johnny, you missed Sergeant Murphy by two minutes—he had some choice words for you,” Fred said.

  “Good ole Sergeant Murphy,” Johnny says with a half-smile.

  “He mentioned the Blatz case.”

  “Yeah, he would—it had him in a pickle, that’s for sure,” Johnny says.

  “Care to enlighten me?” Fred says. “Mondays are always slow.”

  “Gotta go, gentlemen,” Sam says, “the wife and kids are waitin’.”

  “See ya, Sam,” Johnny says as Sam tosses his whiskey down and leaves.

  Johnny gets his notebook from his inside jacket pocket and flips through the pages, then offers a lie, “I have all night—wife’s at some big party with her boss.”

  “It’s not another boring tale?” Fred asks.

  “It’s different … I think you’ll like it. I got a call, end of August, about four in the afternoon—some guy wanted to make an appointment with me.”

  Fred inquired, “A big fish?”

  “He didn’t want to discuss it on the phone,” Johnny says, ignoring Fred’s last remark.

  A customer enters the bar and Fred goes to wait on him. The evening drags on as business starts to surge. Peterman moves to a booth, whiskey in hand, as his thoughts drift back to the Blatz case.

  A big, fiftyish gentleman, well-dressed, enters my humble Hollywood office at ten in the morning, carrying a briefcase. Today’s date is the second of August. He seems a bit timid at first. After we’re seated and the introductions are behind us, I ask, “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Blatz is my name. This has to be confidential, Mr. Peterman.”

  “Client confidentiality is paramount, Mr. Blatz. Anything that transpires between us will remain between us—I assure you,” I say, offering my hand. He takes it with a weak shake. Not a very good sign in my book.

  “I want my daughter, Daphne, followed,” he says.

  “She in some sort of trouble?” I ask.

  “She’s seeing a married woman—I’m confused about this relationship—I fear the worst.”

  I ask, “The worst—in what way?”

  “There’s a word for it … lesbian,” he says, pausing, as his chubby face reddens.

  “Explain.”

  “Daphne cut her hair short, wears baggy pants and men’s shirts, for God’s sake!”

  “When did she start doing this?” I ask.

  “It was shortly after she began to see this woman.”

  “Who’s the married woman?”

  “Mrs. Hallstead, the wife of Reverend Hallstead of a non-denominational Christian church in Hollywood … not sure of the address, but I can get it,” he says. His face begins to perspire and he mops it with a handkerchief he procures from his inside jacket pocket.

  “I’ll find out,” I say. “When do you want me to start?”

  “Daphne has a luncheon date with Mrs. Hallstead tomorrow at twelve-thirty. I overheard this phone conversation yesterday afternoon, but I do not know where they’re meeting.”

  “I’ll need a recent photo of your daughter, a physical description, and any pertinent information that you have: her age, education, work history, habits, friends and such.”

  “This must be hush-hush, I do not want …”

  “Is there a Mrs. Blatz?”

  “My wife passed away two years ago,” he says, blinking tired eyes.

  “My condolences for your loss, Mr. Blatz,” I say, offering a solemn glance.

  “Thank you.”

  “My services are—one-hundred-dollar deposit and twenty dollars a day plus expenses.”

  He fishes a roll of bills from his pocket, counts two hundred dollars in twenties and passes them to me.

  “Thank you—this will cover my services for the next several days.”

  “Daphne took it really bad when her mother died. She’s a soft-spoken girl, very sensitive, never had a boyfriend that I know of …”

  “How old is she?” I ask.

  “Twenty-three,” he says.

  “Do you practice a religion, Mr. Blatz?”

  “We’re Jewish, non-practicing since my wife’s death.”

  “Do you think this Mrs. Hallstead is trying to convert your daughter?”

  “I don’t know what Mrs. Hallstead is up to …”

  “Have you confronted Daphne about this?”

  “No, Daphne was close to her mother … I, um, I didn’t play a big role in her upbringing—away on business most of the time.”

  “I understand. Please get me as much information as you can on Daphne, and I’ll follow her tomorrow and see where it takes me.”

  Mr. Blatz places his briefcase on my desk and opens it, saying, “Everything you’ll need is in here.”

  We spend the next hour as Mr. Blatz fills in all the details about his daughter. We smoke cigarettes, have a few shots of whiskey to seal the deal and he’s off, content that I, John L. Peterman, Esq., will solve his perplexing problem. I like a drinking man; you can trust most of them. He makes his exit and then I’m on the phone to my beautiful wife, Helen, with an offer for lunch.

  “Sweetie, I have a job. I’m loaded with cash. So, let’s have lunch, OK?”

  “Johnny, I’m busy …”

  “Aha,” I say. “Not too busy to have a bite with your ever-lovin’ husband?”

  “Depends on who is biting, ha,” Helen giggles. “Meet me in fifteen minutes. We’ll eat in the coffee shop downstairs.”

  Johnny-on-the-spot, I arrive on time. After parking my Chevy behind the building, I find the smiling Helen, si
tting at a table against the far wall. She has a cigarette in hand—precious and alluring is she—two steaming cups of coffee on the table.

  “Hello, my dear,” I say and lean over, kissing her rosy cheek. She smiles as I slide in next to her and drop my hat beside me.

  “So, Johnny,” she says, “what mischief are you up to now?”

  “Should we order?”

  “I’ve already ordered. I do not have much time, you know,” she says. Her smoky grey-green eyes shine.

  I remain silent, teasing her.

  “This is an interesting case, it’s odd—that’s for sure …” I do not finish.

  “Not dangerous?”

  “Different,” I say as the waitress brings two Waldorf salads and places them before us.

  “How?” she asks and nods to the waitress. The waitress nods back and takes her leave.

  “Shall we eat first?”

  “Johnny, don’t …”

  “Helen,” I smile and say, “OK.”

  “Spill it,” she demands.

  “I’ll tell you,” I say. I take a mouthful of salad and chew slowly.

  She takes a bite and watches me, waiting for an answer—she’s patient, she’s adorable.

  “What do you know about girl-on-girl relationships? Or, I should say, woman-on-woman, since the ladies in question are of consenting age.”

  “Very little, Johnny,” she says, puts her hand to her chin, thinking … she’s delectable.

  “Well …”

  “In college, years ago, there were these two new students, inseparable—practically joined at the hip. They were an odd couple, dressed funny, always hugging, giggling and kissing.”

  “So?”

  “They roomed together, so there was talk, but nobody ever found out what they were all about.”

  “Did you have a term you used for such couples?” I ask.

  “Johnny, don’t be so naive. You know!”

  “Then say it!”