The Sailor's Wife Ch. 04: Folk Song

He just lay there, accepting what she was doing, and didn't make a move for her. She didn't know why he was reluctant, but she didn't care. She took her blouse and bra off, then laid back down on him, kissing him. This time, he participated, feeling the breast, kissing it, rolling her over so that he was on top of her. It was glorious.

Then, all of a sudden, he stopped. "Stephanie, you sure about this?"

"What do you mean? Don't you want me?"

"Oh, yes, I want you, I have since you came into the place Wednesday night, but, listen, what about your husband?"

"Don't worry about him."

He looked her in the eyes, deep into them and asked, "You sure? We could be getting into something heavy here."

"I'm sure," she responded. "Now make love to me."

And he did. This man, unlike Chuck, was experienced, had been with a lot of women, knew what they liked, and how to excite them. By the time he'd undressed her and worshiped her breasts and vagina, she was flushed with excitement. When he revealed his manhood, she noticed it was bigger, fully an inch longer than Glenn's, and she wanted, more than anything, to discover what it would feel like inside of her.

Still he waited, playing with her, finger fucking her, telling her how beautiful she was, and when he finally climbed on top of her and entered her gracefully, she was screaming in desire. He seemed to know how to position his legs so that he obtained the maximum pressure on her sensitive clitoris, and she came and came and came, thinking about how he filled her more than the other men she'd been with. They repositioned, and he took her doggy style, pounding into her from the rear, reaching around to nip a teat, keeping her in climax. When he finally came, he moaned, first softly, then increasing the volume, with the sound of a human siren. When he'd had enough, they got under the covers and he felt her eyes, her nose with his thumb.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Never better."

"I'm glad, I wanted it to be good for you." They slept.

When the sunlight whitened the drab curtain, she woke and gazed at the man sleeping next to her. Another new experience, she thought, she'd never spent all night with a man other than Glenn. She put a naked leg over his stomach, feeling his warmth, and put her face next to his, smelling him, letting her cheek be tickled by his whiskers. Happy to be there, she let herself go back to sleep.

The next time she came to consciousness, they were curled up like spoons, his front to her back, he was stroking her shoulder and arm. She turned to him and they began to kiss. Gently, lovingly, they touched chins, bellies, legs, fingers, and, of course, boobs, dick and pussy. Through some iteration of movement, she found that they'd entered sixty-nine, and as he played with the layers of folds and sniffed her natural perfume, she loved his rod, feeling it on her cheek, watching it harden with each bit of attention. Later, after they'd unhurriedly faced each other, she climbed on top of him and felt his length fill her up. She liked the sensation that he was long enough to stay within her — she was often concerned with Glenn that he'd slip out of her in that position. Slowly, deftly, she sank on him and alternatively lifted up, watching the passion in his eyes. For a few moments she was so mesmerized by his reactions that she simply forgot about her own wants, happy to just pleasure him. But then he, having similar emotions, put a hand between them and inflamed her button, kindling sparks and then stars within her. And, of course, once she was moaning and groaning, he let himself go.

After they'd collapsed and rested, he began to kid her. "What do you think of my palatial digs," he asked, gesturing to the stains on the shag carpet, the cigarette burns on the furniture.

"I love what you've done with it," she replied. "Want to take a shower?"

"You go first, I need caffeine." He threw on a pair of jeans and a long sleeve shirt and headed out the door. She moved into the bathroom, trying not to bump into the toilet which, she decided, hadn't been 'sterilized' recently, and turned the water on. By the time the shampoo was rinsed from her hair and the pits and groin were thoroughly scrubbed he was back, drying her off with the thin, worn towel, throwing her clothes at her, and giving her mouthwash from his kit so she could freshen her breath.

Then he showed her breakfast—a cup of coffee for each of them (the darling had brought envelopes of both CoffeeMate and sugar for her; he didn't know her preferences yet,) and a paper sack from Jack In The Box containing breakfast sandwiches. They sat on the bed, she dressed only in a towel wrapped around her wet hair, he in his undershorts, and munched on the provisions. In a strange way, it was almost a domestic scene. "My turn," he said, and jumped into the shower. While he took care of himself, she combed her hair, used his deodorant, and put her clothes on. When she put her wristwatch on, she noticed that it was only 10:30.

"You busy today, or do you want to do something together?" he asked.

"No, I'm free. You want to go back into San Francisco?"

"I should, the tourists will be lining up to pay me to play 'Heart' and 'Flowers,' but I don't want to; I'd rather be with you. Have you ever been over to Muir Beach? I hear it's a really cool scene."

"No. I've been up to Stinson a bunch of times, but never Muir."

"You want to go?"

"Sure."

First, they drove up to her apartment, where she packed up her beach stuff and a lunch and he looked at the pictures of her family and Glenn, and then they took off, over the San Rafael Bridge into Marin County, and then on the switchbacked road through the mountains until they hit the shore. Rusty threw the gatekeeper a couple of bucks, and he warned them, "Straights are over to the left, don't mess with them, man."

"No sweat."

"Rusty, what did he mean? A gay beach?"

"You don't know about this place?" Seeing that she had no idea, he continued, "Hey, I'm sorry about that. This is a nude beach. I figured you'd heard. If you're not comfortable, we can go over to the side where they wear clothes."

The idea of exposing herself to the open air had always been appealing to her, but she'd never acted upon it. Glenn had talked about it once, looking over a cliff in Big Sur, trying to get a glimpse of nude breasts, but she hadn't taken him seriously. "Let's give it a try. We can always leave if we don't like it, right?" she agreed.

After they'd found a cove protected from the relentless wind to spread the blanket, Rusty shucked his clothes and looked around. To Stephanie, he seemed to be a god observing his creation, his tanned skin glowing, hair waving in the breeze. She wanted to be his goddess, and unashamedly joined him in his state of undress. Leaving their possessions behind, they walked the beach hand in hand, tiptoeing into the cold surf, joining a volleyball game.

Stephanie had never felt so free, and she tried to explain her emotions to Rusty. He seemed to understand. "This is what the Guess Who meant when they sang, 'Share The Land,'" he explained.

He unpacked his guitar and began strumming. Two other couples sat nearby, they turned to listen. After he'd played a bit of Croce and then one of his own tunes, one of the guys said, "You're good, man!"

"Thanks," Rusty replied. "What would you like to hear?"

"How about some Dylan?" a woman responded. As Rusty picked out the opening strains of 'All I Really Want To Do,' the foursome came over. After the song, they introduced themselves, pouring wine into cups for them. Steph felt odd, shaking hands with naked women, nude men that would never be her lovers, and she tried to keep her legs together to preserve a trace of modesty. But soon she observed that the other women didn't seem to care, one of them sat crosslegged facing Rusty. Stephanie decided it was nothing to get uptight about so she relaxed, not caring if the other men looked at her pussy or not.

The scent of sex was in the air as marijuana was passed from one hand to the next. The other men looked at Stephanie frankly, and she stared back, enjoying the bronze torsos. It was obvious they were regulars here, there were no lines separating the tan from the white, such as she and Rusty displayed. One of the women suggested more suntan lotion for Steph—her bleached skin would burn easily. When Steph stood to apply it to her stomach and rear, she saw the men divert their gaze without conviction; they were enjoying the view, and she realized she liked being looked at. And yes, Steph compared the flaccid penises to the one she'd enjoyed recently. They seemed smaller, thinner. And Rusty looked at the exposed breasts and vaginal areas of the other women. They had both shaved their pubic hair more than Steph, and she frankly admired how one of the women had just a thin strip accenting the protruding pussy lips.

Steph laid back, shutting her eyes, listening to Rusty's guitar and voice blending with the sound of the crashing surf and the seagulls noisily cawing overhead. Wouldn't it be nice, she thought, if the six could stay here all night? They would make love, she was sure. Would they swap partners? Would Rusty like doing it with the tall blonde? Would she enjoy the feeling of the other men entering her as Rusty watched her from the embraces of the other women?

After twelve or fifteen songs were sung, Rusty was tired of practicing and packed the guitar away. The other couples returned to their piles of stuff, leaving the rest of the jug as a token of their enjoyment.

In a moment of weakness, (or was it strength?) Steph rolled onto Rusty and kissed him. He touched her rear end tenderly, and for a few minutes she hoped he'd take her there, on the beach, with dozens of people watching them make love, but he made no move to further the romance, and she desisted.

After three hours or so of the revelry, Rusty suggested they head on back. He had to be on the stage at 7:00, and he'd never been late for an engagement in his life. Steph sat with him as he sang his songs, mellower ones for a Sunday night crowd, sad ones for the couples that had spent the weekend together and would be leaving each other soon, happy ones for the people who'd stay together once the workweek started.

"It's not that I don't love your digs," she told him after the show was over, "but I think I'd rather sleep at my place tonight." She watched as his face crumbled. "What's wrong?"

"I guess I thought we were getting along pretty well, that's all," he explained.

"Oh, my dear, come with me. What's mine is yours." At that he smiled, and they spent the long night in her bed, cuddling to each other, talking of their hopes and needs, making love.

The alarm clock rang at an entirely obscene hour, and Steph toddled off to the shower and sink. As she opened the tab on her birth control pill, something bothered her. She walked into the kitchen and compared the numbered wheel to the date on the calendar; shit, she'd forgot all about it yesterday! Oh, well, nothing she could do now, and besides, the chances of her catching were a hundred to one. She took today's, throwing yesterday's in the trash can.

As she donned slacks and shirt for the daily grind, Rusty watched her from the safety of the covers. "You look good. Come on back."

She giggled. "If I do, I'll never make it to work. What are you going to do today?"

"I don't know. Go back to my room, maybe."

"Why don't you check out of there?"

"Are you suggesting I stay here?"

"I'd really like to see you when I get home tonight."

"I'll be here."

And he was, reading philosophy on the patio. He followed her into the bedroom and helped her undress. Of course, he tickled her, excited her, and they quickly found themselves intertwined on top of the bed. As she begged him to come inside of her, she looked to the side, to the two portraits hanging on the wall. 'Glenn doesn't matter anymore,' she tried to tell herself, and concentrated on the man, the lover, inside of her, on top of her, but the crucial moment had passed, and she let him come without joining him.

"Are you okay, babe?" Rusty asked.

"I'm fine, why?"

"You just didn't seem to be with me."

"I just got distracted, that's all. Nothing you did wrong." And she kissed him tenderly, trying to face away from the picture.

Since he had the night off, they headed for a Mexican joint she liked. Seated at a cheap table over a linoleum floor, they dined on enchiladas, burritos, refried beans and margaritas, laughing, feeding each other.

At sunset, they walked the shores of Lake Merritt, watching the water reflect the pinks and oranges in the sky. "Steph, listen, I don't want to ruin this, but I have to talk about something." She stayed quiet, wondering what was on his mind. "It isn't that I've never bedded a married woman before, but this time it's different. You know that, don't you? You can feel what's happening, can't you?"

She pulled his hand to her face, feeling the hair on the back with her cheek, kissing his knuckle. "Yes, I feel it."

"Well, what are we going to do about your husband?"

"He's far away. He won't bother us."

"Not today, not next week, but sooner or later..."

"Are you planning on staying? I thought you'd be gone soon."

"I called my agent, asked him to pick up some more gigs for me in the Bay Area. He thinks he can get me an extended run at the Harbor House; the manager was really happy with me this weekend."

"Honey, my husband won't be back till spring. Let's not talk about that anymore." For a few minutes Rusty didn't look happy, but he figured she needed her space, left her alone.

When they got back to the apartment, Steph disappeared into the bedroom. She took the pictures of Glenn, her family, stuffed them into the closet. Then she emptied one of her drawers and dragged Rusty into the room. "This is yours, sweetheart. Put anything you want in it."

They sat together on the couch, listening to the radio. Suddenly he sat up. "That's new," he said, listening intently to Stephen Stills. After the song ended, he turned the volume down and proceeded to pick out the tune on his stings. He had some of the words, hummed the rest. Within ten minutes, he was playing the chords confidently. "I'll get the rest of the words the next time they play it."

"What about your job this week?" Steph asked.

"I'm on for cocktail and early dinner tomorrow, 8 to 1 Wednesday to Saturday, 7 to 11 on Sunday, then the landlord pays me off. Normal stuff. All I have to do is figure out which bus gets me from here to there."

"I'll take you there, pick you up," she promised, "or you can take the car and wake me up when you get home."

"It gets late sometimes."

They moved into a predictable pattern, she working during the day, spending a couple of hours or so before the show, listening to the first hour of it, returning to the apartment to write a quick note to Glenn, catching a nap, then picking Rusty up at the bar. Then the best part of the day, undressing for him, watching the hunger in his eyes, and finally gorging herself with his body.

They didn't talk about the future, they had only today, and that was enough. Wednesday night, when Rusty was at the club, Joann stopped over. Some of Rusty's things were lying around; it was obvious something was going on. "You okay, Steph?"

"Fine," she said, a little defiantly.

"Okay," Joann said, not challenging her. They got beers out of the refrigerator, and went out to talk on the patio.

"Can I tell you something?" Joann began. "You probably think I'm the perfect wife, don't you?" It was true, she was the one who always put the parties together. She was forever hugging her husband - when he was around. "Well, last year, after the ship was gone about four months, an insurance salesman knocked on my door. He was cute, and I let him come in. He started telling me about his policies, and, well, I bought one, and a lot more."

Stephanie didn't quite get it. "What do you mean?"

"Hell, I fell in love with him. Took him to bed that night. He's married, and he came over once or twice a week to take care of me."

"I never knew!" Steph explained.

"You weren't supposed to. After awhile he started talking about leaving his wife, and how we'd run off and get married. For awhile I thought we were really going to do it. Then the ship was on its way back, and I pressed him, told him we'd better do it if we were going to. He said he had some details to take care of, his kids needed him. I told him to get the hell out."

"Did you tell Bill about it?"

"Of course not. Haven't told anyone, you're the first."

"But you seemed so happy when Bill got back!"

"I was. I realized when he pulled into port that I loved Bill, didn't love the twerp. That it was all a mistake. I did everything Bill wanted. It was a great three months while they were home."

"That's great, Joann. Now you know what you've got, and..."

"Steph, he called me last week." Her face revealed the melancholy. "It just gets so lonely out here." For awhile they shared a good cry, holding each other. Then Steph got them another beer, and Joann had wiped her eyes by the time she got back. "Hon, you've got a guy here, don't you?"

"Yeah. You remember that singer at the Harbor House last week?" Steph took a few minutes, told Joann how she'd been smitten, how happy she was.

"I'm glad for you, dear. But listen, don't get too used to it... It's not safe."

Saturday morning, Rusty announced he needed to go back into San Francisco, do the tourist thing. "Bread's getting a little thin." For five hours he stood and played, picking up nearly $40, and Stephanie stayed right by him, watching him, enjoying him. After the show was over that night, they got invited to a party that someone was throwing up in the hills. They stayed all night, drinking and smoking, talking to the beautiful people. When they passed the hot tub, they noticed it was filled with people, so they took off their clothes and jumped in. After awhile a couple got out, went over to a lounge chair and began to screw. Steph watched them in awe, enjoying the site of the man's penis entering the woman over and over again. It turned her on, and she took Rusty to a corner of the deck secluded by palm bushes, and they made love. A group of men and one woman peeked, and Stephanie didn't care.

Late the next morning, the phone rang. Steph ran out to answer it. A strange male voice asked, "Is Rusty Newland there?"

"Just a minute." When Rusty responded to her call, she began to make coffee, she couldn't help but hear his end of the conversation.

"Hello... Oh, hi, Jeff ." ("It's my agent," he whispered to her.) "Yeah, it's great... Clapton? You're shitting me... That's fantastic... I don't know if I can make it... Well, I'm sort of hung up here... " (a very long pause, Steph could tell the agent was making a long, involved deal.) "Tell you what, let me think about it... I understand, either I'm there or I'm not... The ticket's refundable isn't it? Then don't worry about it... I can't make any promises, I need to think... All right, I'll call you first thing in the morning... I promise. Take it easy, okay... Oh, and thanks, Jeff, you're the best."

"What was that about?" Stephanie asked him.

"Nothing." He seemed to close a piece of himself to her, to withdraw.

"Did he find you another gig?"

"Don't worry about it," he insisted.

She walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind her, enclosing her fears.

Again they went to the cable car turnaround, but Rusty was having trouble connecting with the crowd, singing a little sadly. After an hour and a half in which he only got two or three dollars worth of dimes, they packed it in and went to a bar.

"If you want to tell me about it, I'll listen," Steph told him.