Chapter 7

Memories of Insanity

The very next morning Rebecca was indirectly responsible for a situation that embarrassed me almost to distraction. Never in my life-before or since-have I felt so utterly ashamed and small and wicked and humiliated.

I had spent a restless night. Rebecca's taunting laughter had kept waking me, mocking me, teasing me. And each time I'd wakened I'd listened to John's peaceful breathing and felt low and common to be having such thoughts about a mere waif of a girl (and an utter stranger besides). But trying to fall asleep again I'd found my mind wandering (like a vivisectionist's) to various parts of her: her hair (above and below), her eyes, those, nubile breasts, that succulent mouth with its wine-red lips and slippery, silken tongue, that harsh voice, the pungent effluvia of her libations. And I'd squirmed against by husband's warmth, feeling, no doubt, the same frustration an infant feels when, in lieu of a breast, he is offered a teething-ring.

When I say that Rebecca was "indirectly responsible" for what happened, I mean just that. For in actuality she herself was never even aware of it. I had risen late, showered and breakfasted in the slow-moving stupor that a restless night engentlers. John had made his own breakfast and left for work. After three cups of coffee I had decided to go back to bed and perhaps catch a few winks. I was in the act of drawing the blinds when I saw Rebecca. She was carrying a basket of .clothes. I watched her, a little listlessly at first, but then with growing interest, as she hung the clothes. She was wearing shorts and a halter and she was barefoot. When she stretched to reach the clothesline the muscles in her calves and thighs stood out prominently. The shorts were tight and brief and her bottom looked very sweet and enticing.

Pulling a chair up to the window I sat down and adjusted the blinds so that I could see her more clearly. I was wearing a shortie gown, so the task I set myself to was no trouble. Soon things were progressing splendidly. I took my time. I was in no hurry. The basket of clothes was piled high. I knew she'd be there for quite some time. With one hand resting lightly on my thigh, I used my other with the light careful strokes an artist uses to touch-up a fine painting. It was marvelous. I felt a luxurious sense of lassitude as I gently stirred my oils. I slumped in the chair and turned my toes up hard so that my calves flexed, and I let my lower abdomen pooch out, the better to indulge my sense of wickedness and languor.

Rebecca's every movement telegraphed itself to me with soft sensual throbs. She'd bend to pick up a piece of clothing and simultaneously I'd feel a delightful response. But I won't bore you with this. I'm not proud that I'd once again given in to such a lonely habit. I merely wanted to set the scene so that you might have a better idea as to my embarrassment later. Let me quickly get to my point.

It was perhaps ten minutes after I'd sat down that I finally achieved my purpose. And while I was achieving it I called out Rebecca's name probably a half dozen times. "Rebecca, Rebecca! You sweet, lovely little slut!" I cried out (among other things). And after a particularly ardent and obscene overture I heard a gruff, harsh snort of disgust-behind me. I jumped up, turned, and faced ... my husband. His expression was one of mixed loathing and scorn.

"Oh, Charles! I didn't hear you come in, I...."

"That's obvious, Doris," he said. "When you're quite finished, come out to the kitchen. I'm going to have some coffee."

It was an hour before I could summon sufficient courage to face him. I dressed. I brushed my hair. I stalled until I heard him banging angrily around and clearing his throat impatiently. He was pouring coffee when I walked in; his hand was shaking and his lips were set in the grim firmness of a man trying to stave off an emotional outburst. I felt timid, contrite.

"Who's the girl you were watching?" he asked not looking at me. "John's niece. She's staying with them for a month," I replied, my tone mousy.

"She's lovely," Charles nodded.

"Yes. Yes she is," I felt stupidly like a parrot.

"I ... ah ... came back home this morning because I was worried about you, Doris. You kept tossing and turning all night. I thought maybe you were coming down with something. Seems I was wrong, though. I walked in and heard you moaning and it really scared me. But when I found out why ... well ... I'm more concerned than ever now."

"Don't be, darling. It's just that that kid's a regular little sex-pot! I don't know what came over me ... but I suddenly felt I just had to ... you know."

"So, that's Rebecca, eh?" Charles' look was faintly ironic and meditative.

"Yes, you mean you've heard of her?" Charles nodded and that ironic look deepened. "Yes, John's mentioned her several times. He says she's really got quite a problem. If I remember right he mentioned something about her being over-sexed, a borderline nymphomaniac."

"I'm sure she is, Charles. Wait'll you meet her. You'll see. She fairly oozes sex. And she sort of ... well ... she communicates passion. No, I mean it! I know it sounds phony ... especially after what you've just seen. But that was part of it, darling! Really! Oh, I won't say that I was powerless to resist or anything like that. But what I was really doing in there, Charles, was sort of an echoe ... a repercussion ... that resulted from being around her yesterday. You'll see, darling. Believe me you will! I want you to meet her. That's the only way you'll ever understand. And Charles ... I'm sorry. Really I am."

"Yes," he said, "I know you are, Doris. You're sorry I caught you."

My husband, seven years before (two years before we'd married), had, without knowing it, cured me of a strange sexual quirk. Perhaps if I go back to that time and tell you about it, you'll be able to see why I was so terribly worried (let alone embarrassed and humiliated) about Charles having caught me in that scene. Not that it was the act itself that worried me (eighty five percent of all married women have the same habit)-but the fact that I'd been "peeking" at Rebecca did. I knew then that the lovely little girl had, practically overnight, become somewhat of an obsession with me. And Charles walking in on me like that had simply served to point up the fact in a distinctly sordid fashion. I was frightened. The "compulsion" I'd had seven years ago had threatened to ruin my life; I didn't want Rebecca to assume the role of another such sexual quirk. But bear with me while I flash-back....

My quirk? Following people. It started as a whim. And then it quickly developed into a full-blown kick; worse, into an utterly unbearable habit! I followed no one in particular; nor was there any predictable pattern to my tailings. Unless of course you consider the fact that I was always on foot, and that I kept (through a horror of discovery) a good distance from my subject. At times it would be a man, at times a woman (a clue to future bisexualism?). Once I found myself following a young boy and his girl. I trailed them to the outskirts of town where, in a wooded area, I hid behind some trees and watched the boy treat her in that "under the table" manner. I was fascinated. It seemed so ... .unusually ardent. So sweet.

Naturally I worried about myself. What was happening to me? Was I going insane? If not, why was I becoming the unwilling victim of such a strange and extraordinary compulsion? Where would it lead me? What was wrong with me?

How could I stop? How could I escape? These and dozens of other impossible-to-answer questions I asked myself as, night after night, I surrendered to my embarrassing urge.

Everyone seemed to think I was a lovely girl-though a trifle slim at that time. Fresh out of college I'd landed a job as a dentist's assistant, it was said that I had a marvelous personality: witty, charming, affable. There was certainly nothing in my outward nature to explain the why and wherefore of my nocturnal mischief.

Finally, becoming more and more frightened, I consulted our family doctor. I told him of my fixation, leaving out none of the details. The doctor, a snobbish anti-Freudian of the old school, advised me to "find a nice young man and get married and have lots of babies and to do so at once".

I disagreed. I told the old pill-pusher that while I appreciated his advice I thought that marriage (and babies) should come about through mutual affection and love ... not as a remedy for any psychological quirk. The doctor, his blue nose wrinkling unpleasantly, had replied: "Yes, that's all very well, but if you don't find yourself a man ... er ... a husband soon, you stand a good chance of winding up in some psychopathic ward."

"Gee thanks, Doc," I said as I rose to leave. "You've no idea what your advice has done for me. A husband and babies, eh? But don't you usually prescribe aspirin?"

It goes without saying that his "connubial advice" did nothing to allay my fears. Indeed I began to feel that it was only a matter of time before his dire prophecy would come true. Night became an absolute horror for me. I would come home from work, shower, have dinner, and then, sometime during the long evening, the urge would come. And there was simply no resisting it. I'd tried, believe me. I'd tried everything! TV, movies, bowling, dates, alcohol. Nothing worked. When the urge came (and inevitably it did!) I seemed utterly powerless to resist it.

Not that my perverse kick harmed anyone except myself. It didn't. I'd pick my subject at random, and then, without rhyme or reason, follow him (or her), walking a discreet distance behind; and keeping, ironically enough, in step with my subject ("victim" sounds ridiculous). Had not the habit become in a sense "an addiction", I would've been the first to laugh at myself (my sense of humor was never lacking). But arriving home, footsore and exhausted after having indulged my "impossible urge" far into the night, I would usually cry myself to sleep.

Finally, in utter desperation, I joined a woman's gym. I exercised hard and long, amazing the instructor (my future husband) who assured me he'd "never seen a beginner work so hard". And that night, for the first time in many months, my urge failed to assert itself. I slept like a baby and awakened next morning stiff and sore in every muscle, but immeasurably relieved. I'd won! I'd channelled what must've been merely excess energy into harmless exercise.

Months passed. Afraid to stop (or to even lessen the severity of my exercise) my slimness rounded out. My breasts, once rather inadequate, became high, upturned and full; my thighs and calves took on curves that made old men turn and yearn and young men stop and whistle. I had even quit smoking and was taking vitamins and eating a balanced diet.

Charles Clinton, the instructor at the gym where I exercised, had been watching my change closely. I even saw him pridefully point me out to potential pupils as "the perfect example of right diet and exercise". But I, in turn, found Charles distracting. He was attending law school and his job in the gym was only part time. He had a nice build, and I liked him well enough. But there was something about the way he looked at me (especially when I was bending over to pick up a weight) that made me terribly uncomfortable. And several times I'd caught myself staring at him, pleasuring in the supple ruggedness of his physique, wondering, as I admired the play of his arm muscles, if he was as firm and well built beneath his sweat-pants.

And then one evening, as I was leaving the gym late, fresh and tingling from the cold shower I'd taken after my workout, Charles approached me and said, "Why don't you wait a few minutes, Doris? It's nearly closing time. I'll walk you home."

"No thanks," I told him curtly. "I've got a date in half an hour. See you tomorrow night, Charles."

Why, I asked myself as I walked out, did I lie to him like that? Why didn't I agree to wait and let him walk me home?

The answer came when I left the gym and filled my lungs with the night air. It began low, the feeling, tugging at the inside of my thighs. Then it began to rise rapidly, first to my stomach and then to my breasts. I felt my nipples grow rigid. I felt a hot longing in my pelvis. Then I felt a sudden glad giddiness that I was helpless to resist. I was scared half to death ... but I knew what I had to do.

Walking into a department store alcove I waited, pretending to be looking at clothes. Soon he walked by, as I knew he would, strutting with that bouncy gait that men who exercise seem to affect. I waited until he was perhaps twenty-five yards ahead of me before I stepped out and followed him.

I was different (the sensations provoked by following Charles), I noticed that at once. There was no vague uneasiness; no hot flashings of guilt; no terror of discovery; no preview of humiliation and remorse. Only pleasure. I gained on him, striding with him step-for-step, oblivious of time or distance. Soon I was almost directly behind him-the click of my heels punched time with the throbbing in my temples. I drew closer. I could hear his breathing now: easy, regular. The rhythmic sway of his broad shoulders, the pumping of his arms, intensified my pleasurable sensations; I became downright vertiginous. A maddening desire to reach out and touch him, an ineffable urge to realize the swaying of those shoulders with my hands, became almost irresistible.

Suddenly he stopped in front of a building; there was a flash of keys, an opened door, and Charles standing there looking at me with a slight smile on his handsome lips.

"Come on in, Doris." His voice was low; his smile quietly reassuring.

I looked around, startled (as if I'd been wakened from a deep sleep). And then, seeing where I was, I gasped in open astonishment. We were in front of the gym. Evidently I'd followed Charles round the block! I hesitated, shrugged, nodded, then followed him in. He closed the door, turned to me, smiled (his mouth gave me a sudden twinge), and then took me in his arms and kissed me. It was a soft kiss, but I thrilled to it. And there was no mistaking the persuasive way his tongue played with my lips.

"Shall we have an after-hours workout?" he whispered.

"Yes, I think I'd like that," I answered him. "But tell me, Charles ... how did you know it was me behind you?"

"I didn't," he shrugged. "I got half way around the block ... near my apartment ... and remembered that I'd forgotten to turn off a valve in the steam-room. I heard someone behind me ... but thought nothing of it. And then ... as I opened the door...."

"There I was, eh?"

"Yes. Sorta," he smiled.

"Well, I'm glad you've a poor memory, Charles."

"And your date?" his question was very perfunctory.

"Forgotten," I said. "Seems we've both been blessed with poor memories."

But the next night, as I went through my' exercises, my memory was far from poor. I felt a fondness for the gym and its equipment I'd never felt before. The various benches were no longer only austere devices where I might recline and exercise ... now their upholstered contours brought back memories of intense pleasure. The mat, where now I lay to do my waist exercises, was no longer a medium for tightening my abdomen. I remembered the zest and "developments" my tumbling had evoked during last night's "after hours workout". And the vibrating hip-belt, where now I stood vibrating alone, brought back a memory of sensations so sharp and wild that I knew my strange compulsion had literally been shaken out of me forever!

And as I glanced towards the front of the gym, where Charles was putting a pudgy pupil through her paces, the flesh-in-blood image of my memories grinned back at me and winked. I was cured at last. I was in love.

That, as I've said, was seven long years ago. Charles, since then, had graduated from law school and made me his wife. I still loved him deeply. But now, after all these years, I could sense the same vague uneasiness in myself that I'd felt when that "following whim" had gradually turned into an addiction. Was it possible that (on such short exposure) I was in the process of becoming addicted again?