— Yves Montand
You can get tubal ligation done in a hospital or…clinic. You will get anesthesia, so you won’t feel anything. The surgeon will make one or two small cuts in your belly…to band, clamp, or tie your Fallopian tubes shut…then stitch up your cuts, and you can go home a few hours later….
— Web MD
Chapter 13: A revelation in the flesh
The preacher’s daughter nude in a motel room was a revelation not found in any Bible. I already had known from clothed exploring in a darkened car how silken her flesh was, surprising given her heavy tan and the conventional wisdom too much sun roughens skin.
She was lean, flat-stomached, with tidy hips. Her breasts, untouched by the sun, were honeydew-melon size with a sexy little droop proving they were her own, not augmented. Immaculate ivory globes against the mahogany of her tan matched the thin pale band across her hips and Mons from a bikini bottom, like a living Playboy photo. If the visual was erotic, the tactile sensation of that flesh was transcendent — as if I was in bed with a whole new species of Venusian.
Our first night we only had a few hours before she had to be home. We had worked our way toward it all summer into the fall. Anticipation was high. We were not disappointed, though once more I forgot condoms. I made do with tongue and fingers. My efforts were rewarded with delight and orgasm.
She came the way she sneezed — quietly. I had never seen anyone sneeze so quietly. She said loud kachoos were unladylike. Her first orgasm was so quiet I almost missed it, busy between her thighs. It worried me I had not satisfied her. I lifted my face to inquire while my fingers gently probed for the famous — some insist mythical — spot named for Ernst Gräfenberg.
Got an eye-roll in reply. “Ish, you fret about the damnedest things. Course I came! Gonna — come — again — you keep doin’ that…” Her hips thrust up. This time I saw her lips move to emit a small mew, like a kitten.“God!” She tangled her fingers in my beard and pulled me up to kiss me. “Put it in me,” she whispered. “Just for a minute, okay? Don’t come — but I wanna feel you…you got me all het up…”
She gasped as I bottomed in her. Locked her arms around me. Her heels dug into my butt as she pressed up. I remembered she rode horses all her girlhood; she still had a rider’s thigh-strength. I carefully stroked a few times. She was tight and hot and slippery, but I was okay. I could go like this a long time. She convulsed, clinging. This time I heard that little mewling sound right in my ear, bourbon exhalation hot on my skin…
It had taken us a long time to get here after that first night in a bar. First she secured a flask of bourbon to share while we parked here and there, to avoid anyone noticing us in bars. To further forestall suspicion, she pedaled her bike to softball games and away after, to wait a few blocks away. We put her bike in the hatchback and unloaded it for her to pedal home, ostensibly from after-game tavern parties. Our time until that motel night had been limited to isolated beach parks for sophomoric petting that left her frustrated. As for me, nights with the roadhouse girl as she learned fellatio took the edge off.
The Georgian had amended her original comment that I looked like fun to“You just look like you’d be good in bed. All the girls talk about it.” Unnerving confirmation I was topic of Venusian gossip. But I still hesitated to suggest a motel, even when she said“You gotta quit rilin’ me up if you ain’t gonna fix it.”
Once, driving out a dark road toward a saltwater beach park, she mentioned the nearby town dump and a woman’s abused body found there.“You’re not takin’ me out here to use me and put me in the dump are you?” She chuckled at my mortified expression. “Just stick to the usin’ part, okay?” That Georgia sense of humor.
Softball season ended. The night had a hint of autumn chill when I passed a motel on the way back from necking in a state park. I said,“If motels weren’t unromantic I’d check us in right this minute.”
“What’s unromantic about a motel?” She was exasperated. “Ish, where do you get this stuff?”
And here I’d wasted our evening. “You wanna…?”
“Next time.” She had to get home. “No fiddlin’ around next time. Understand?”
Now it was next time, and I was buried to the hilt. She slackened her grip.“Better stop now, Ish — or I won’t let you stop!” I shifted to my side, easing out. She groaned. I let my fingertips roam over that silken body and kissed her neck and said I was sorry I forgot condoms.“Don’t forget next time!” Then she reached down and took hold.“We gotta do somethin’ about this…”
My suggestion elicited a throaty chuckle. “A titty-fuck? Ohhh…ain’t done that since college.” So I straddled her and settled my scrotum in the silken valley — no other adjective applies, and I checked 254 alleged synonyms — between her pale breasts. The exquisite texture of her flesh was almost distracting. I reached behind me to finger her Mons, and she writhed.“Do it, Ish. Fuck my titties!” In that hoarse Georgia drawl it sounded sexy as hell, not crude.
She humped my fingers, hips curling up, as I kept my other hand spread, mashing her breasts around my cock. She came again before I exploded across her neck and face, white splash against dark tan, opalescent strands in her dark hair. I stayed in place as my breathing slowed, both hands now on her swollen nipples, rubbing gently. She daubed at her face with her fingers and chuckled bawdily. “I gotta shower.”
Once more her accent defeated me. I thought she meant she needed a shower to clean up. She laughed again. She meant she got a shower. A shower of me. She smoothed me into her tan cheeks, smiling. Damn, that was sexy. Finally I dismounted. She curled into my arms happily. “Guess it’s official, we damn sure having an affair now.”
That Georgia sense of humor. I agreed we damn sure were. We cuddled and shared her cigarettes and talked. She was not on the Pill because her husband had not touched her in months, maybe a year. They got along fine, there was no issue, they had just settled into sexless but friendly cohabitation. When younger I would have found that inconceivable. But the way my marriage was going, with periods of sexual drought I attributed to conflicting schedules and bickering over bills, I wondered if I was hearing my future. Didn’t say it. My peculiar brand of loyalty was to keep such matters private.
We found time for another motel night soon. Once more my hands and lips and tongue had free play of her glorious body — every bit as silken as remembered. Most vivid recollection of that night: her husky demand to find a condom quick. She squeezed my rampant erection.“I gotta have it!” We had our first full-on fuck. It was just as wonderful as everything else. We plotted a Saturday at the beach. I took my pickup camper, my cover story deer season.
An odd memory: the damn radiator overheated on the way to meet her. A filling-station guy found it leaking — and provided a box of black pepper. Said it would swell and plug pinhole cracks. A shade-tree mechanic trick that works.
The preacher’s daughter curled up on the bench seat with her head on my lap as we left town to avoid being spotted by anyone who knew us. The coast was far enough from the city to feel safe, and you could still drive on the beach then. I engaged four-wheel drive, stayed on mostly-firm sand because my new camper was so heavy, and found a place to park.
Seagulls called shrilly above the Pacific surf. Shorebirds made flickering shadows on the curtains. Cars cruised the packed sand along the tide line. Strings of tourists on rental horses clopped by our snug warm cabin on wheels. I had outfitted the fridge with cheeses and sandwich meat and bread and white wine, and purchased two wine goblets to use once. Donated half a loaf of bread to wheeling gulls when she was delighted as a kid by their competing aerobatics. Found fresh deer tracks in the dunes — confirming the Game Department report they came down to lick salt that inspired my cover story. End of the day, we stood the wine glasses together in wet sand to watch the evening tide take them. She called me a romantic.
In the privacy of my camper, with our growing familiarity, she was relaxed and wanton, her orgasms louder. We had the whole day to lounge in the overhead bunk and talk, to kill the bottle of wine, enjoy our picnic and make lazy love. I filled four condoms before it was over, a brief vacation from real life.
A favorite poet, Stephen Vincent Benet, wrote of Robert E. Lee, the general, saying “I’m always wanting something.” Benet listed all Lee had: his happy home, his marvelous horse Traveler, devotion of his butternut troops, respect even from enemies. His poem wondered what Lee could possibly want he didn’t have. The silken preacher’s daughter was something I didn’t even know I wanted until she inserted herself into my awareness. Now I thought I knew what Lee was driving at.
Like the general, my Suthren belle wanted more. At the beach she told me what that was: my unsheathed cock in her. To accomplish that she was going to “get my tubes tied.” I had heard of tubal ligation but knew zero about it. What was wrong with birth-control pills? She said getting a prescription would unequivocally inform her husband she was having an affair. Couldn’t argue, given the crisis when my former lover’s cuckold discovered her wheel of pills. But surgery — any surgery — gave me the cringes.
She laughed at my squeamishness. Surgery would not raise suspicion because they long since agreed no more children. So even though they hadn’t had sex in a long time, he agreed the procedure made sense just in case. “Men get uneasy talkin’ ‘bout female stuff. Once it’s done and insurance pays, he’ll forget it. Takin’ a pill every day — payin’ for ‘em — would be too much in his face.”
I knew enough about women finally to know when one makes up her mind, it is made up. Felt humbled that while she was finding it romantic to give our wineglasses to the ocean, she was planning a pragmatic solution for the more she desired.
Once the incisions healed, they were barely noticeable. I always took time to kiss them when we were together. She found that romantic, too. As for me, I hoped General Lee found his “more.” Because for as long as we were together, the preacher’s remarkable daughter was my more.
