Chapter 4
Evelyn's Erotic Liberation
"Look, I'm just a born loser. All the way around. I just don't seem to have what it takes to do all those damn cliche things like 'pull yourself up by your bootstraps,' or 'cut the mustard,' or any of the rest of 'em. I'm just a weakling. An ordinary, everyday, household variety of all-around schmuck. I dutifully see Dr. H-twice a week, and I go to the A.A. meetings once a week ... all those things one is supposed to do if one wants to 'shape up.' Oh, I know what's expected of me, but I don't think I can do it. Not in this lifetime, not with my psyche. Was it Oscar Wilde or Shaw who said that he could resist anything but temptation? Well, whoever said that, it certainly applies to me!
"But one thing I'm reasonably sure about, and that is that if I'd never given in to myself in the first place, most of what's happened to me could have been avoided. That's why I consented to this interview. There must be thousands and thousands of housewives all over the country who are going through what I had to face, and I'd like to have this chance to tell them what happened to me, and then, maybe, they'll think twice before they make the same mistakes I did.
"You know, my best friend in high school was a Catholic girl and I can still remember asking her one day why Catholics went to confession. I'm not changing the subject, this all ties in. My friend told me that confession should be thought of like your neighborhood cleaners. She said to think of my soul as a brand-new white dress, that we're all born with brand-new white dresses. We're all very careful with something that's new and pretty, we try to take care of it, hang it up, keep it fresh and clean, crisp and ready to wear in front of company. But as she explained it, one day you accidentally spill something on your new dress. Well, if you took it to the cleaners right away, and got that spot out, you'd tend to try to be even more careful not to spill anything on it. Naturally, since we're human and don't live in a vaccuum, it'll get dirty again or we'll spill something again-but if each time you soil that dress you rush it to the cleaners, you continue to try to be careful. But, as she put it, if after that very first dirty spot on your dress you don't rush it to the cleaners, pretty soon there's another spot, and then another, and another, until you really don't care about that dress anymore-until you begin to think of it as not being worth the trouble to take it to the cleaners. And as you care less and less what happens to the dress, you begin to treat it like an old rag and pretty soon that's all it really is. Just a dirty old rag. She said that our souls are like the dress. If every time we commit a small sin-or even a big sin-we take it to the cleaners, or the confessional, we try to do better and not make the same mistakes. But if we commit sins and don't go to confession, then pretty soon we begin not to care until finally we decide there's no point in even trying to keep our souls free from sin.
"I remember thinking that her explanation was very interesting, that it had a lot of merit to it, but it didn't have anything to do with me since I wasn't a Catholic. But I've been thinking about that explanation quite a bit lately, about how it applies to my own life, everyone's life. I can't say for sure, naturally, but if I'd remembered her explanation before I first began my fantasizing, I'm pretty damned sure I'd never have found myself in this kind of a bind. It's too late now, much too late. I'm forty-one years old, and I can't change just like that! I've become too dependent upon my booze, too accustomed to bedding boys young enough to be my teenage son. Strangely enough, my husband Dick is having the most trouble adjusting to the scandal in our lives. My son and daughter were shocked, naturally, and for a while they really didn't know how to talk to me or what to say. But they're accepting the truth far better than Dick is. In a way, I think that if I only had to live with my kids, maybe I could kick my habits, but Dick is so obvious with his solicitude. His disapproval comes through his platitudes like sweat through makeup on a hot day. The kids have even begun to tease me, to laugh with me about my hang-ups-but not stoic Dick. My son will tell his sister to 'ask the nympho for the keys to the car' right in front of my face, or my daughter will pull a Coke bottle out of my hands and smell it to be sure there's no booze spiking it, and she'll say something like, 'Just checking up on the sly alkie of the family,' and stuff like that. I can live with the joking; I can't live with the disapproval.
"Dick is a subcontractor and he's built his business up from nothing. We moved out here in the mid-fifties, shortly after we were married--oh, maybe two or three years afterward. Janie, our daughter, was just an infant. Needless to say, there was still the postwar housing boom going on, and the Korean involvement seemed to spur people into building bigger and better. And, of course, Dick is a very conscientious fellow, hard worker, and all that, which meant that he worked forty-eight hours a day! At first, of course, I fully understood that his business required all his time, all his energy; and during those initial years, somehow Dick still found time to be with the baby and me. Not a lot of time, but enough to keep me aware of the fact that I had a husband. But gradually, as his business grew, he spent less and less time, even gave up vacations altogether. A couple of times, over the years, our family doctor has told Dick to take a vacation or risk a heart attack. When that happens, Dick does as he's told, but, for one reason or another, I've not been able to go with him. Either the children were in school and we just couldn't yank them out, or one time, I remember, my mother had just suffered a coronary and I had to be with her ... all very good reasons, but I ceased to see my husband. It was like living with a ghost who paid the bills. And at that time, I didn't have enough sense to realize how I resented his neglect. I was too busy living up to my image as the model wife, sacrificing and dutiful mother. Bullshit!
"At first, I used to be shocked by some of the notions that would pop into my head. I never considered myself a horny broad, and while I enjoyed Dick's lovemaking, it would never have entered my head to instigate a sexual liaison ... or, to be more blunt, I'd never go up to Dick and say, 'Let's fuck!' I never even used language like that; damn was the strongest word in my vocabulary in those days. I guess my white dress has got a lot of spills on it. ... And it was only about four years ago that I began to realize that my subconscious, or my libido, or whatever you call it, was on a different wavelength from the rest of me. I remember that first time very, very clearly-mostly because I shocked myself. A Western Union boy had come to the house and delivered a telegram. That's all he did. But for a split second, just before I closed the front door, I had the most overwhelming urge to call him back to the house, to invite him in ... and to seduce him!
"I can't tell you what prompted such a thought in my very conventional, square head. But there it was. Naturally, I dismissed the matter at first, but the mere fact that such a thing could even enter my mind was terribly disturbing. I felt hounded by guilt and a slow fear began to spread through me, as if I knew that it would happen again ... and that maybe I wouldn't be able to resist the impulse the next time. That I, a quiet unassuming housefrau, mother of two healthy children, and a woman in her late thirties, could ever even toy with such a notion, much less the deed, frightened me into a kind of bottled-up hysteria. And I admit that it was just about that time I began to drink to excess.
"There were more such moments, and they seemed to increase both in frequency and in intensity. The box boy at the supermarket, the paperboy, young elevator operators ... on and on and on. I was terribly naive about sex, I suppose. Being a married woman and a mother does not mean you know anything about sex; it only means that you've been fucked. Women's Liberation aside, proper women my age simply do not know about libertine things-and if they do know, they sure as hell don't talk about it. I'd give a great deal to be a teenager in today's world; it's freer and even though the kids make an awful lot of mistakes, it's more honest today. Why, do you know that drugstores nowadays sell condoms next to the cash register? Right out in the open for everyone to see? And you see signs about V.D. everywhere! This would never have been permitted when I was in my teens!
"Now, I'm drifting from the point of our interview. Let's see. I guess it was about seven or eight months after that Western Union episode that I really started to go off the deep end-both with the bottle and with my sexual fantasies. I've always tried to stay in shape, so I've made Jack LaLanne sort of a routine part of my life, exercising in front of the TV set every morning, listening to his godawful jokes and watching those dumb dogs of his trample the set. So even though my drinking habits were making any kind of exercise impossible, I somehow found myself sitting in front of the set in the mornings watching his show anyhow-usually with a cup of spiked coffee. And as only an alkie can, I began to deride him-talking back to the TV set, giving him the finger whenever he'd tell me to get out of my chair and join in on the exercises.
"One morning, I don't know quite why or how, but as he was explaining how a particular exercise would build up the thigh and belly muscles, I began to feel mine, to see just how bad they really were. And suddenly everything became unreal to me. It had been almost a year since Dick and I had fucked, I know that. I let my house robe fall open as I sat in the deep easy chair watching the set, and let my hands begin to roam over my body, touching my breasts, my vulva, grazing my clitoris-and all the while watching the TV set. I felt how hot and wet I was getting in my twat, my hand rubbing around my groin gently, the motion causing my whole vulva to come awake. My other hand crawled to my full heavy breast, kneading the not-so-firm flesh, my thumb teasing my nipple up and down and around, while my other hand continued to play with my body. I'd stare at the set not even fully aware of what was being said or done on the screen. But it was giving me some sort of terrific jag to be touching myself in front of the set-as if LaLanne could see what I was doing, but he couldn't touch. It was as if I had been mesmerized, I was someone other than good ol' Evelyn. My hand sneaked lower and lower, taunting my hungry and sensitive flesh until my thighs parted with a will of their own, allowing the hand to tease its way down to the tender flesh of my vulva. With delicious and lustful anticipation, I relished the slowly spreading awareness in my cunt, the feeling of engorgement, and the increasing tingling that warned of urgency, of my long neglected need. I pretended that it wasn't my hand that toyed with my clitoris or that pinched the lips of my vagina. It was like a form of madness, I guess, sort of like being possessed by some other spirit ... it's hard to describe. But it felt so good, so damned good and wicked! I wanted to celebrate this new experience; I'd never masturbated before ... frankly, it had never occurred to me. Nice ladies don't. So with one hand busily playing with my snatch and kneading my buttocks, I got up and fixed myself a stiff scotch with my free hand and then came back and sat down in front of the set-ready to do myself justice with a good drink and an audience that couldn't complain or ruin the atmosphere. It was like a geyser of strange new emotions were being let out of the dusty bottle, and I had no control over what I was doing. I massaged my slick wet cunt almost casually, savoring the wonderful sensations that soared through my limbs. Occasionally, I'd dip my index finger into my vagina, but it wasn't very satisfactory. So I got up again, and this time I took an ornamental candle I kept on the dining-room table and brought it back to the chair with me. It was about an inch and a half across and had spiraling ribs to it-not a hell of a big deal, but better than just my index finger. I slid down low in the chair, rested one foot against the coffee table, my knee bent, and let my other thigh rest across the arm of the chair so that my entire hairy cunt was exposed to the TV set. And I gradually inserted the candle up my cunt, feeling the ridges of it inside my hole and how easily it slipped in past my sphincter.
"I used my other hand to pull the lips of my vulva apart, to pull the area upward and expose it to the air. Glancing down, I could see my clitoris poking out at the center of my twat up at the top. It bobbed and twitched for attention. So I shifted the candle to my left hand, grinding my hips slowly with the pumping motion, and using the first and third fingers of my right hand, I kept my cunt spread open while my index finger gently massaged my clit. I'd never known such a delight before. I'd come once or twice with Dick's lovemaking-well, more often than that, but I couldn't count on it and I'd never been able to bring myself to confess when I hadn't orgasmed-but fucking myself with the candle while rubbing my clitoris was a terrific sensation! I suppose I could've been a sexpot if Dick had been a more knowledgeable lover, but as it turned out, I turned myself on. It was a fantastic experience-furtive or not, rebellious or not. And when I orgasmed, it was marvelous! I remember that I broke into the giggles as my vagina spasmed its release, and I watched the candle sticking out from my cunt, twitching and finally falling out. Later, when I washed it off to replace it in the holder, I noticed that the spiral ridges around the base of it had melted down. I hoped that my cunt wasn't encased in wax, and I hurried to the bathroom to douche, making a mental note to myself to replace the candle as soon as possible-and to buy a fatter one just for masturbatory purposes.
"And that was really the beginning. Fucking to the TV in the morning, getting drunker than a whore with clap! All hell seemed to be breaking loose after that. It was as if with that first defiant act I'd unleashed a wanton hellion within myself. Someone I had never met, didn't know, and certainly couldn't control-and she only emerged with a snootful of booze in her. It didn't take me very long to realize that this creature from the bottle lived independently from the real me. And I don't know how to divide up the responsibility. That is, if I didn't drink would this other me never show up? Or does she only come forth because I'm a boozer? No matter how you look at it, it's the bottle that's my biggest enemy. Dr. H-listens to me say that and he smirks; I'm glad that you don't think it's so all fucking funny! I've got a life to rebuild, and my sense of humor isn't up to such enigmatic responses from people. But as I had said, that seems to have been the beginning . ... "
The case of Evelyn B-is a rather complex, integrated set of circumstances. Her family life is, to say the least, not very fulfilling to her needs and expectations. The husband places more emphasis on and shows more interest in his work than in the family and its functions. The children, in Evelyn's eyes, appear to be disrespectful and unsympathetic to her problems and needs.
Within this framework, Evelyn has no place where she may find the relationships which are left unsatisfied, including any type of close sexual contact with her husband. Therefore, the only road left open to her is for the creation of her own world through fantasies.
It appears the neurosis displayed by the subject goes deeply into three problems: alcoholism, schizophrenia and fantasy.
The fundamental difference between the neurotic and the schizophrenic consists in the maintenance of the potential unity of the personality. Despite the fact consciousness can be split up into several personal consciousnesses, the unity of all the dissociated fragments is not only visible to the professional eye, but it can also be reestablished by means of hypnosis. "This is not the case with schizophrenia," contends C. G. Jung. He clarifies his statement in his work "On the Psychogenesis of Schizophrenia" as contained in The Basic Writings of C. G. Jung :
...in a schizophrenic patient the connection between the ego and certain complexes is more or less completely lost. The split is not relative, it is rather absolute . ... A neurosis, it is true, is characterized by a relative autonomy of its complexes, but in schizophrenia the complexes have become disjointed and autonomous fragments, which either do not reintegrate to the psychical totality, or, in the case of a remission, are unexpectedly joined together, as if nothing had happened before.
It can be seen that Evelyn's split-off figure assumes banal, somewhat grotesque or highly exaggerated character-often objectionable in some ways to her. It does not cooperate with Evelyn's consciousness. It is not tactful and obviously has no respect for sentimental values earlier expressed by the subject.
As revealed in the following narrative by the subject, there is a drama involved with her split-off figure, and it is certainly far beyond her understanding. The disorder may stem from several factors, any of which might be applied to Evelyn's case based upon the limited information contained herein: intoxication, fatigue, shocks, anemia, intense affects, primitive mentality or religious fanaticism.
Evelyn's fantasies evolve from a limited experience, usually with young men, and create sexual satisfaction by projecting to her conscious through masturbation her engaging in sexual acts with men. Although later she creates such fantasies which she regards as real, her earlier experiences are not recognized by her as reality. She realized she dreamed the sexual encounter with the young lumber-yard helper as well as with the cyclist.
She was able to invoke these fantasies, and through her masturbation, she was able to fulfill her sexual drives. She began by masturbating, then she was able to find a substitute for the male penis-replacing the absent husband's role in the sex act. This proved to be stimulating and satisfying for her, and it was only a short step to creating the situation through fantasy.
If at this point the family situation would have changed for the better, it is highly likely that Evelyn would have been able to drop her fantasy creations and learn to return to a very satisfying relationship with her husband. However, such was not the case, and her fantasy creations expanded into the type where the subject engages in fantasy to such an extent that such appears and is accepted as the real.
It is somewhat doubtful that her experience with the interior decorator is, therefore, factual. It can be assumed that this particular fantasy became so vivid to her that she was able to regard and believe it as reality.
Without getting into a detailed discussion of homosexuality, a simple statement can be made regarding the feasibility of Evelyn's contact sexually with the interior decorator Terence. In the first place, it is doubtful that a confirmed homosexual such as we are led to believe Terence is would consent to having any type of sexual relations with a female. For the homosexual (male as opposed to female, lesbian) women's genitals become phobic objects because they remind him too strongly of the danger of castration. Thus the possibility of being interested in them, curious about them, even of seeing them, let along having sexual intercourse with them, becomes firmly repressed. Homosexual objects (in most cases the penis) become the only safe ones, and the assertion of homosexual inclinations serves as a protective denial of the dangerous heterosexual ones.
Therefore, it may be concluded that Evelyn's experience with Terence (although an initial contact and business association could well have been real) was a fantasy-so strong she regarded it not as such, but rather as reality.
As all the facts surrounding her experience in the motel which resulted in a reported beating and robbery are not available at this writing, no assumption can be made as to its actually having happened, or if, in fact, this was a vivid creation of her fantasy, resulting in her partial physical participation in the fantasy, resulting in the beating being self-inflicted.
"You want specific examples? All right. I'll do the best I can. I soon found myself fantasizing about the most un likely people and in my boozed up state, I suppose you could call it something like self-hypnosis. I could have anyone I wanted merely by closing my eyes, letting go, and giving in totally to the fantasy. I'd make up the story or the situation as I'd go along. Or more accurately, she would ... that other me. I know that sounds buggy, but I don't know how else to describe why I was doing what I was. I certainly would never do such things, so it just has to be her. Anyhow, I became fascinated with the tough-guy types, the leather-motorcycle kind of guy. I certainly didn't know any, and they don't usually hang around middle-class suburbia. Maybe I got the idea from TV since there were so many movies or stories involving this lowbrow element. But I found these crude young men fascinating; they were the very antithesis of everything I'd ever known or been brought up to seek-and I turned to this type avidly, with wicked pleasure.
"I saw myself as a sort of tough Natalie Wood in my mind, saw myself working in a roadside cafe where all the truck drivers would come by ... and the motorcycle gangs. Even as my real body sank deeper and deeper into the chair, my imaginary self became lighter and lighter. Pounds rolled off of me, muscle replaced flab, sleek long black hair replaced gray split ends, and so on. I became that girl totally. There was nothing else in my life: no Dick, no kids, no split level in suburbia.
"I was clearing the counter, wiping off the crumbs with a damp and rather dirty cloth, when he walked in. He was tall and thin, unkempt, and with at least a day's beard stubble on his face. His black leather jacket had a picture of a lion roaring on his hind legs on the back of it, and underneath was printed the word: Rex. He threw one lean muscular leg over the stool and slouched over the counter, his hat pushed back on his head revealing dirty blonde hair. 'Coffee. Black,' he mumbled. I could tell you all the details of my fantasy, how I sauntered toward him and flirted, but that's not so terribly important. What is important is that I managed to get him to offer to buy me a beer after work-only we never got as far as the roadhouse, at least, not till later. I was too hot for that, and Rex knew it. I'd have fucked that bastard on top of his motorcycle, but instead we pulled off the road and walked his bike to where there was a great big tree and lots of cool grass. No sooner had we reached the spot and I was sitting down than I realized that Rex had his shoes and trousers off, that he was already climbing out of his shorts. Even in the dim moonlight, I could see that he was beautifully hung and already semi-rigid. Seeing that, I was too anxious to even bother with undressing and, instead, I pulled off my panties and hoisted my skirt so Rex could see my snatch.
"Rex took one look at my exposed cunt, grinned, and began feeling his meat, stroking it like a trusty pistol, and joined me on the grass. Even as I stretched out, I could feel Rex's thick meat pushing at my loins. I was going crazy waiting to have this coxman fuck me! And I just couldn't wait any longer. My cunt was sopping with my slick juices, wanting to get fucked, and this stud didn't strike me as the type who'd go in for all that foreplay shit. He had a ready cock and he needed a place to shove it. I had a burning box and couldn't see any point in wasting time.
"Even as he was positioning himself between my legs, I grabbed his cock and ran the fat head of it up and down my slick cunt, teasing my clit with it, and getting him really all up tight pushing my hard clit into the tiny hole of his glans.
" 'You know what it's for, don't you, baby?' Rex said, already breathing hard. And I didn't bother to say anything. Instead I took his prick firmly in my hand, and I guided it back down to my feverish vagina and began to insert it inside my hole. It was a nice thickness, and even a nicer length-and was hard as a handlebar. I got the head of his cock almost to my sphincter, then gave a great big shove with my hips, sinking his shaft into my canal for its entire length.
"Oh, wow, was it ever great to have fresh young meat up inside of me. To have a real man who was young and strong and virile! The size of his cock was stretching my vaginal walls enough to really enjoy some real male meat inside of me and it was really terrific. There's nothing quite so great as a big hard cock inside of a hungry cunt. I felt that rod of his hit my cervix and let out a groan of pleasure-I was going to get good and fucked by a healthy young stud.
"I guess Rex was pretty horny 'cause he started pumping as if he wanted to get his rocks off right away, but I told him to cool it, to take his time and really enjoy himself. So he slowed up, shoving that big thing up into me gradually so I could feel the way his cock thrust through my hot canal, pushing past the sphincter so that it could grab at his prick. I was so goddam grateful to the guy that I gave him the extra treat of snapping-letting his cock get the full benefit of my muscle control. I'll bet he thought his cock was caught by a revolving door the way I was snapping it. But it felt so damn good to me, so very hot-damn good. To have an all-male prick inside of me, shoving in and out, pulsing within me, pushing into me until I thought he was going to shove right out my ass. Rex was really okay!
"Before long, I was getting too close to coming to play any more games. I hoisted my legs up and held them against my shoulders with my arms, giving that savage full access to my steaming snatch. 'Fuck me, Rex, fuck me hard!' I shouted at him. And with deep, powerful lunges, Rex started slamming into me, really hard. His balls were bouncing off my ass as he thrust and retreated, shoved that meat in, then pulled back. Harder and harder, then faster and faster. It was sensational!
"And it was only a matter of seconds, then, for me to begin spasming. 'I'm coming, Rex, I'm coming ... shoot into me, let me feel your hot come shoot into me, come, baby, come ... now, Rex, now I'
"Rex grunted and pumped, slamming his cock into my cunt like he was trying to beat me to death, and I loved it. I wriggled my ass all over the grass, ruining my skirt but not caring. I was giving him a rotating movement he'd never forget, and even as I finally began to orgasm, to feel all my guts churning and clutching at his cock, I could feel his burning semen spurting up into me, playing paddle-ball against my womb. It was a terrific come for both of us and I knew Rex was pleased with me 'cause he could've just left me out there ... but he really did buy me a beer.
"That's how these fantasies go. They vary, but they're always culminated with orgasm. Yeah. I can really will myself to come. How about that! I just make myself comfortable in a chair, close my eyes, and let my mind go-then she takes over and does the rest. Of course, the more I've had to drink, the easier it is. Sometimes, when I'm drunk enough, I can really wipe out all my environs-the house could be on fire and I'd never know the difference. Weird, isn't it?
"One time, Dick had asked me to stop by a nearby lumber yard and leave off an invoice with the owner. He wasn't there, but he had a bronzed young helper who said he'd give the invoice to the owner when he got back. A really young boy ... maybe only seventeen. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just jeans, and his wonderfully smooth torso was magnificently tanned. So, of course, when I got home I couldn't get the boy out of my mind. He'd said his name was Vince, and I had no trouble at all getting Vince into my fantasy live.
"I'd asked him to drop by to pick up the invoice, instead of what really happened, and I'd met him at the door wearing a bikini that showed off my beautiful full figure. I was me ... but I was her. I could see that Vince was eyeing me whenever he thought I wasn't looking. I had to have the boy, and instantly; it was no time for polite games.
" 'like what you see?' I said to him, smiling, and catching him off guard with his blue eyes riveted to my tits. I'd not anticipated Vince's reaction and I was momentarily surprised when he reached forward and ripped the top of my suit off my body. And then we were off! It became a free-for-all. By the time Vince was naked, I could see that for a young kid he had a terrific hard on and it excited me wildly. Stark naked, like two wary animals, I wanted to be fucked right out of this world-and to do the same for young Vince, with the tanned torso and legs and milk-white loins. My God, what a beautiful young man he was!
"I threw myself at Vince, toppling us both to the rug, and wrapped my naked legs around his waist. Then I sank my teeth into his shoulder, my hands all over him raking his flesh with my ruby-red nails. For a youth, Vince was surprisingly knowledgeable about sex, and he'd slap my bare ass hard if I got too rough with my nails or teeth. I was excruciatingly hot for Vince's body and I could feel my cunt steaming to feel his rock-hard cock inside of it. With something like a war cry, I managed to roll him over on his back and threw myself astride his torso. Then I took his rigid cock and sank it into me from tip to balls! His prick slipped into my sopping cunt with ease, its thick burning shaft filling up my vaginal canal as if it had been meant for it. I wanted more and more of his cock in me, and I writhed and shoved, grunting to fill myself with him. We rolled on the rug, grappling with each other like gladiators, Vince fucking at me whenever he could manage to get on top of me, sweat pouring from our bodies as he tried to skewer me with his pecker, tried to fuck me senseless.
"When we finally orgasmed, it was one of the sweatiest comes I'd ever known. It was exhausting, but very satisfying. When I snapped out of it, I was drenched from head to foot in sweat. It had been a good come.
"Other fantasies came and went, depending upon who I might encounter that day or week. It didn't have to be someone I actually talked to; it could be someone I merely glimpsed but who captured my imagination. This went on and on and it seemed a harmless enough escape from reality-after all, no one was really doing anything. But she wasn't satisfied with just fantasy anymore; she wanted the excitement, the adventure, of the real thing. Since I very rarely drew any sober breaths, she was in control almost constantly.
"Looking back, of course, I can see where my children were growing away from me ... recall the patient sighs when they'd come home from school and find me already thick-tongued and wobbly on my feet. I look back and I begin to see when I saw less and less of my kids, when they began to withdraw from me, to consult me less ... when they began to take care of me. It's not a pretty memory. But I was as helpless against that turn of events as anyone is against the unknown elements of his nature. Fortunately, I was able to keep the truth of what I was to become from them. That's to say, I somehow managed never to let her bring home her disgusting tricks.
"As for Dick, I'm sure he knew that I'd become a lush. He'd almost have to know. You can't share a bedroom with someone and not smell liquor. In these past four years or so, since all this started, I don't think Dick has laid me even five times. Now, of course, it occurs to me to wonder whether or not he's been screwing some other dame ... but I doubt it. I truly believe that Dick has been working all that hard, every night. And no one who works that hard has much interest in sex. He's not a eunuch, or at least, he wasn't during our initial years of marriage. But Dick doesn't know how to hire executives and delegate authority-he thinks that if he doesn't handle everything, it's got to get loused up. So of course he's still working forty-eight hours a day. And with that kind of pressure and load, no man's very interested in sex. Not at our age, anyway. Maybe if I'd gotten a job instead of turning to the bottle I'd have been kept busy enough not to need all that fantasizing or the booze. But I didn't. No point in lamenting over the 'I should've this or that.' And whatever disapproving thoughts Dick may have had about my becoming a bottle baby, he never confronted me with them.
"But anyway, soon the fantasies gave way to realities. The first time was when I'd decided to have the house redecorated and I'd gone to one of those chic places that charge you an arm and a leg just to view the showroom. This young fellow, Terence, was put in charge of my account. A mincing, prancing lad of probably twenty-five who didn't look a day over eighteen. And he was working so hard at making me think he was straight that instead of revulsion toward his aberration, I felt sympathy. I began to realize that boys, too, can have harmful emotional experiences that incapacitate them for a normal life-usually, we only hear about what happens to girls. Things like rape, or brutality, and so on. But I'm sure that boys can be just as impressionable and just as easily warped during childhood. And I began to take Terence under my wing, to gain his confidence in me as a person and not just a gentler. It didn't take long for him to begin to open up around me, and even to comment freely about my drinking habits. And soon we became buddies, on the telephone constantly swapping gossip or talking about recipes or I'd drop by the store to see some new material he'd just gotten in that he thought would be 'A-DOR-a-ble' for the dining room. And Terence always wore very tight-fitting pants. I could see how well-endowed he was. Why is it that gay men never seem to wear pants with pockets? Shit! Every tiny bulge in their crotch shows! Well, one evening when I was over at the store and everyone else had gone on home, I asked Terence the big question: Was he really gay?
" 'Well I must say, Evelyn, that at least you're honest enough to come right out and ask! Most straight people are so furtive about the subject. Gay? Darling! If I were any more gay I'd be in paroxysms of perpetual laughter! Of course I'm gay.'
"And we got to talking about it-man to man, or woman to woman ... whatever you prefer to call it. And, of course, I was plying Terence with plenty of booze-he always kept a bottle on hand for when I was around, but that night he was matching me drink for drink. And one thing led to another-life stories, that sort of thing. As we talked, and as we drank, I knew I was losing ground to my other self. I found myself posing before Terence, showing my middle-aged cleavage, doing many small things that are the mark of a woman on the make. I suppose I'm as bad as straight men who think that all any lesbian needs to be normal is a good lay from a real man; I found myself thinking that if I could just give Terence a truly good lay he'd not need his faggot friends any more. And Terence was drunk enough, feeling sorry for himself enough, to want to give it a try. At least we did have respect for each other-that much, at least. So it wasn't as sordid as one might think just hearing about it. He wanted to please me, to try to have sexual intercourse with a woman-even though I was considerably older. And I desperately wanted to convince him that he could make it with women, that he didn't have to lead the guilty life he led, a social outcast.
"Knowing my own body was not that of a beautiful young girl, I asked Terence to turn off the lights ... so both of us 'would feel more comfortable' that way. As it was, there was enough light from the streetlamp to keep us from walking into furniture. After we'd both stripped down, rather bashfully and awkwardly, I lay down on the couch and watched Terence approach me. I remember being surprised that his mincing step had disappeared, that as he came toward me it was with considerable grace, but it was masculine-not feminine. His balls swayed gently with his movement and I could see that he already had a hard on.
"Silently, Terence positioned himself above me on the couch. I felt him entering me, shoving that magnificent shaft up inside of my hole. And as calmly as a surgeon, he brought my legs up and placed them around his waist so that all of my own weight was upon my shoulders on the couch while he was able to fuck me on his knees. To my amazement, and pleasure, Terence fucked beautifully ... despite his clinical detachment. It was as if he were working a puzzle. He had a hard on and I was the nearest hole. Slowly, leisurely, Terence slipped his rock-hard cock into my hole and then withdrew it calmly; but not all the way out, naturally. He kept this up for delicious moments until my entire body was alive and aflame with sensation. Terence fucked as if clocks didn't exist, shoving his prick into my slick hole, sliding out, shoving in-gradually, comfortingly, as if he fucked women every hour on the hour.
" 'Where the hell did you learn to fuck like that?' I asked him absently, not really caring as long as he kept it up.
" "Tell you later,' was all he said.
"By then I was absolutely beside myself with pleasure. This wasn't any self-induced fantasy-this was real. This time when I came, there'd be an honest-to-God cock inside of me. I don't think you can know the turmoil of emotions within me that first real act of infidelity. But my emotions had to play second fiddle to my sensations. I was too deliciously thrilled to be doing any thinking. And I gave myself over to simply enjoying the screwing I was getting. I felt Terence's hands cupping the fleshy folds of my cunt so that my clitoris was pulled downward and began to feel the friction of his cock upon it. He played with the soft flesh of my pussy while he rode in and out of me, first exposing my clitoris to the air and then folding it into its protective vulva, giving himself something like a private peep show without ever lessening his quiet fucking of my cunt. It was magnificently slow and I was very near to or-gasming. I guess Terence knew that too. He increased his tempo, sliding in and out of me; my cunt was making sopping sucky noises with his movements and I could no longer hold still but had to begin wriggling around. And before you could say jackrabbit I was coming all over the place, shouting and half-crying-something I never did in my fantasies.
"Gradually, Terence let my hips back down to the couch so I could rest, but I could feel his cock still inside of me. Not only just inside of me, but still hard!
" 'My turn, Evelyn ... don't go away now,' he said, then yanked his prick out of my hole and ran to the bathroom. I was still huffing and puffing when he came back, smelling of soap and water.
" 'You wanted to get laid, Evelyn, and I wanted to get sucked. Fair is fair, now.'
"Well, shit, I'd never sucked cock before. I didn't even know people did such things! But when I'm drunk, when she's taken over, I soon learned that there wasn't anything I wouldn't do as long as it was connected with sex. Terence had propped me up against a cushion so that I was nicely comfortable, and then he'd straddled my waist so that his poker-hard dong was right in front of my face.
" 'Don't be afraid, Evelyn. You'll enjoy this, I swear to you, you will.'
"So feeling inept but defiantly determined, I lifted Terence's penis to my mouth and began kissing it tentatively. It wasn't as bad as I had more or less expected. And I wondered if that's what was meant by being 'gay'? If they could only orgasm if they got sucked. And then, did that mean that lesbians did each other too? That seemed a very repulsive thought, indeed! But, as I said, I had a great deal to learn about sex. So I began to give Terence's cock tiny kisses all up and down the hard length of it, and down around his balls when he'd push my head down there. I didn't like being pushed like that; it made me feel as if I were being forced to suck him. Which wasn't true. I was curious. I was grateful for my first real live sex in God know's how long. I also wanted to please Terence, and if the only way he could get his rocks off was to be sucked, then I'd suck him. Gradually, I lost my revulsion at the idea of sucking him off and began to really sort of enjoy myself. I was getting hot again, and the notion stuck in my mind that if I sucked him well, maybe he'd suck me? Maybe? With that in mind, I started licking his dong, playing with his balls at the same time so he wouldn't have to push my head. And Terence really began to react to that.
"His prick seemed to be burning in my mouth and I don't know much about male anatomy, but I was certain that it had to be terribly painful for him to have remained that hard for so very long. I took the warm shaft in my hand and started to lick around the ridge at the head, darting the tip of my tongue in and out of the tiny little hole at the tip. And then Terence started to groan, began to writhe before my face, and tried to shove his cock all the way up into my mouth. I was very careful and took a little love-bite on the head of it. I thought Terence was going to jump right through the roof! Well, he grabbed my head by the ears and then really began to fuck my mouth. He slammed his rigid cock so hard that it was banging against my throat and gagging me. I got a little scared, but I hung in there. And anyway, I was so hot all over again that I'd have done just about anything to keep Terence happy enough for at least one more fuck ... unless I could talk him into sucking me. Finally, Terence was humping and pumping into my face frantically, saying over and over, 'Suck it, sweetie, suck it!' A few moments later he made one great big lunge into my mouth with his bulging cock and started shooting and shooting his thick come down my throat.
"It wasn't too bad. It was sort of like an over-salted white sauce ... but not bad. I thought to spit it out as he spewed it in, but that would have been not only impractical but rude. It was already going down my throat, why not just swallow it. And when he was through, Terence just slumped down across my torso, panting in rasping breaths.
" 'Your first time?' he asked me several moments later.
"I just nodded, but I was already frantically trying to maneuver my cunt toward his face.
" 'You've got a lot to learn, but you show promise, darling.'
" "Terence, I'm all hot again.'
" 'Oh, God! You women are disgusting! Look, luv, it's been interesting for a change, but let's not be piggy-piggy about it!'
""That's it, then? You're through for the night?'
" 'Well, darling Evelyn, with women I am. That's enough to hold me for at least another two or three years. Cunt will never ever replace ass-not in a million years of gay Sundays!'
"I didn't know what he meant-then. And Terence and I do see each other from time to time, but it's not the way it used to be before we'd laid each other. Now there's a sort of embarrassing atmosphere, as if we knew something about each other-for sure!-that in a way we wished we didn't know.
"And as I said, Terence was the first live one. After him, I guess I sort of went wild. There was a whole new world of fresh, young, willing, live meat out there, and it soon became apparent that my age didn't matter to these young ones. When they're hot, they're hot. They'd stick it in a piece of liver if it could wriggle back at their pricks! So I took my drinking habits to the bars-all kinds of bars. I've bedded just about anything walking in the past couple of years. Or to be more accurate, she has. If I'd been sober, I wouldn't have touched those people with a ten-foot sterilized pole!
"And, of course, you know about the last encounter. That pickup mugger who beat the living shit out of me, stole my money and my watch, and then left me to rot in a cheap motel room. I probably would have died from internal bleeding if the chambermaid hadn't been doing her rounds. And what could I tell Dick? That I'd been run over by a Mack truck while taking a cool siesta in a run-down motel? No. It was time to see the truth about myself, to come to terms with her and get her out of my life. I have children-I don't want them to remember me as the slut of our community.
"But Dick makes it so very hard. He's hurt, I know; but there's nothing I can do to undo that hurt unless he'll give me another chance. But all he does is sulk, or pretend to care about how I feel-and all the time he's got his eye on the liquor cabinet, watching me ... always watching me. He stays home quite a bit now, treating me like some kind of an invalid. He's driving me buggy . ... I don't think I can take much more of it. And inside the cabinet, right over there, is a quart of scotch, a fifth of gin, and whatever else Dick has locked up. It's right there ... all I have to do is pick the lock. Or, for that matter, I could walk into any bar. Any man'll buy a lady a drink. You see? It's really the booze I'm fighting-not the sex. Don't you see that? If I have to go to bed with a man as the price of a drink ... well, why not!"
Treatment for the subject Evelyn will have to be in the three areas mentioned before: schizophrenia, fantasy and alcoholism. Naturally, the first step will be to improve the home and family environment for the subject. She will, in addition, have to demonstrate a strong desire to be cured of her alcoholism, as well as to display a willingness to be treated for her fantasy and schizophrenia. Under these conditions, the outlook for Evelyn can be bright and hopeful.