Ginny Page 12

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “Were you in the Boy Scouts?” Murray asked.

  “Yes, me and my brother, Josh were in the scouts together; we lied about our age to get in, ha.”

  “That’s unusual, isn’t it?” Murray asked.

  “The older boys said we could get away with a little lie and we did, ha,” Billy said with a smirk.

  “Did Lillian have nice boobs?”

  “We were in fourth grade; girls don’t get boobs till, at least, fifth grade, you know.”

  “Aha, so you never saw a naked woman?”

  “Did too, in Boston,” Billy boasted.

  Murray asked, “When?”

  “The gang went to the Old Howard. It’s a burlesque joint, saw lots of naked women.”

  The call came announcing lunch break was over in ten minutes.

  That evening after duty:

  Levy and Barnes were sitting on the front steps of their barracks, chatting.

  “So, Barnes,” Levy questioned, “You going to tell me how you lost your boyhood and became a man?”

  “The deal is, you go first,” Billy said.

  “I had professional help, but my story will be much more appealing, so you start first.”

  “How so?”

  “I got professional help. A widowed schoolteacher taught me everything, and I mean everything, I’d need to know about sex,” Murray said with a smile.

  “Well,” Billy paused, gave him a sideways look and said. “It happened in March after a National Guard meeting one Monday night.”

  “OK, tell me,” Levy said.

  “This girl was hanging around outside The Army National Guard armory, waiting for her boyfriend. When he came out, there was a small argument between them. He told her to get lost, and brought her over to me. Said her name was Judy.”

  “So?”

  “He left her with me, so …” Billy paused.

  “Move this along; it’s lights out in fifteen minutes—was she good looking?”

  “Yeah, kind of pretty with long dark brown hair,” Billy said.

  “Good body?”

  “I couldn’t tell at the time; she wore a long coat.”

  “You’re a walking Book of Knowledge, Billy.”

  “We ended up in the back seat of a friend’s car in a garage with only an army blanket to keep us warm.”

  “Ah, tell me more.”

  “I wasn’t sure what to do, but I learned fast. After we got comfortable, I made my first move, moving my hand slowly in a position to start to feel her up … and … she let me!”

  “Now you’re talkin’, Billy,” Levy said with excitement. “Did you have a rubber?”

  “No!”

  “It’s better to be safe than sorry, Billy.”

  “I wasn’t prepared, but we … I do not want to use the ‘F’ word …,” Billy hesitated.

  “You were making love; ‘intercourse’ is the correct word.”

  “OK. Anyway, I got her skirt up, pulled her underwear to the side and poked her with my …,” Billy paused again.

  “Dick!” Levy exclaimed.

  “This is hard enough to talk about without you making fun of it,” Billy chastised.

  “Sorry, please continue.”

  “I tried again to get it in, was still in the process and finally found the opening—Wow!—what a grand feeling. I started to pump away, she was moaning in pleasure, I think.”

  “Yeah, keep going, Billy boy.”

  “She pushed at me and I pushed back. We had a nice rhythm going; we were in sync until it popped out!”

  “Ha, you’re a pill, Billy,” Murray chuckled.

  “It’s not funny, I didn’t know what to do—I was frustrated, you know.”

  “Billy, did you get back into the groove?”

  “Yeah, she was like a pro at this, I think; she reached down and flicked it into her, um, her …,”

  “I get the picture,” Murray said with a full smile.

  “She put her arms around me and said, ‘Slow down, we have plenty of time.’”

  “Good,” Murray said.

  “Yes, it was much better. We went at it for a few minutes when I let loose—it was like, Wow!, I never felt anything like that in my whole life.”

  “Did she come, too?” Murray asked.

  “Come? I dunno?”

  “You have a lot to learn.”

  “And you’re gonna teach me?” Billy asked.

  After lunch the following day:

  “So, where were we in your story?” Murray asked.

  “Oh, I was still on top of her, panting for a few minutes. We began to French kiss and I squeezed her nice boobs,” Billy said with mild pleasure.

  Murray asked, “How nice?”

  “Well, up to that time in my life, they were the best,” Billy said. “I bet at my age of seventeen, I squeezed more boobs than you did at age seventeen.”

  “Probably so,” Murray sighed and then asked, “What happened next?”

  “She asked me to open the car door for some light. I did and she turned her back to me; she fished some tissues from her coat pocket and told me not to look.”

  “Ha, so you never saw the promised land?” Murray chuckled.

  Billy asked, “the what?”

  Murray exclaimed, “Her vagina!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Murray gibed, “Pussy.”

  “No, not that time.”

  “Well …,” Murray began.

  “She called me several weeks later. I don’t remember giving her my phone number, but we got together on Friday night and went parking up on Gallows Hill in Salem.”

  “Isn’t that where they hanged the witches?” Murray asked.

  “Not sure; there are no trees up there now—it’s just a deserted area near the main road between Lynn and Salem.”

  “Continue,” Murray said. “This is getting interesting.”

  “We parked and started making out—I wasn’t so shy this time—went right after her. I was in the swing of things.”

  “Good boy, Billy,” Murray said and then asked, “You were prepared this time?”

  “Only had one rubber.”

  “Good,” Murray said.

  “We were on the front bench seat with me on top—she was prepared, I tell you, no panties to heed my advances—I was so excited, ‘cause I knew what to do this time. She helped me with the rubber, then she squirmed under me and just as it was going in, she screamed, ‘Wrong hole!’”

  “Ha, ha, doing the nasty, Billy?”

  “Not funny, Murray,” Billy said.

  “Sorry,” Murray said.

  “Well, she backed away and did her thing again—she was talented in that routine—really talented, I tell you. When we got going again, it took a little longer. I’m glad because it’s better to start slow, you know.”

  “I’m getting the picture … how many times did you bang her?” Murray asked.

  “Three times—I couldn’t get enough, you know.”

  “Did you see it this time?”

  “What?”

  “Her … ,” the smiling Murray hesitated with raised eyebrows.

  “It was dark that night.”

  “You should have tried daytime sex, Billy.”

  “I know, but the occasion never happened,” Billy gave a slight sigh. “Maybe when basic training is over next month, I’ll call my high school sweetie.”

  “Now you’re talkin’, Billy boy,” Murray said.

  “I guess I should feel guilty about my actions, but I have no regrets, I’m tellin’ you. It feels so good; how could that be wrong?”

  “You Catholics can go to confession—that would free you.”

  “I’m in a pickle, damned if I do and damned if I do not, ha,” Billy chuckled.

  “Tell me about your girlfriend, what’s her name?”

  “Jeanette—January, not sure,�
�� Billy said. “She’s a twin, a skinny twin—can’t tell ‘em apart; it’s exasperating for sure.”

  “Wow, you can’t make this stuff up, it’s funny,” Murray said with a wide smile. “They’re identical?”

  “Yes, the twins always dress the same—no one in our neighborhood could tell them apart.”

  “Awesome.”

  “One time, January tripped in the playground and skinned her knee,” Billy said. “And the next day she had a white bandage over it on her way to school—I’m always keen on the details, you know.”

  “How did you know it was January?”

  “Their mom embroidered their names on all their clothing, but …”

  Murray asked, “Billy, but what?”

  “The first day, January wore the bandage and the next day it was Jeanette with the bandage—I tell you, they were always playing tricks.”

  “Sounds like you folk in Massachusetts are a little crazy,” Murray said.

  “You could say that, and I’ll agree. We’re all nutty,” Billy said. “Those girls had so much fun playing each other that the school separated them into two different classes just to try to keep track of them. But even that didn’t work.”

  “Explain.”

  “Their names were on their blouses, skirts and socks, too,” Billy said. “Four places for identification and they would mix and match the names placed on their clothing … it was madness, you know?”

  “Wow, too confusing.”

  “When I was fifteen, couple years ago, my friend Sonny and me, cornered them in the basement of their tenement house next to the coal bin, trying to feel ‘em up!”

  “Well?”

  “One would and the other would not!”

  Murray asked, “Which one?”

  “Don’t know?”

  “So, you and Sonny were lucky—big boobs?”

  “Not exactly, a bit on the flat-chested side,” Billy sighed.

  “Billy, you know how to pick ‘em,” Murray said.

  “They developed a year later, for sure—that’s when I asked one to go steady.”

  Murray questioned, “Jeanette?”

  Billy replied, “No, January, I think.”

  “Are you sure?” Murray asked.

  “January has a mole on her left hip, I think. I spotted it when she was modeling her two-piece bathing suit for me one afternoon after school.”

  “Wow, you were quite the man—girls modeling for you,” Murray commented. “How far down on her hip was this mole?”

  “Well, she was standing in front of me as I sat on the couch in their living room,” Billy said with a pause. “She was wiggling her hips—very sexy—she tried to dance away when I grabbed her hip, exposing the mole.”

  “Billy, what else did you see?”

  “A glimpse of pubic hair—that’s when her mother came into the room and yelled, ‘What are you two doing?’ and I said, ‘Nothing’, but my red face gave me away. I was embarrassed, for sure.”

  “Pulling a girl’s pants down in front of her mother is a dangerous act, Billy.”

  “I always learn the hard way …”

  Well, to make a long story short, Murray began his story. He took a faded, old black-and-white snapshot of a beautiful woman from his wallet and offered it to Billy, saying, “This is Bonita Marie Bennington, the lady that taught me the ways to manhood. She was a very sexy and erotic woman, a European Latina of French, Portuguese and Spanish origin.

  The photo was of an attractive lady looking over her bare left shoulder; a tight-lipped, impish Mona Lisa smile crossed her tanned lovely face—the smile rose to her radiant dark eyes; eyes of pain and pleasure. Swirling locks of raven hair hung down over her back; an image burned into Billy’s memory ever since 1958. He had dreams of the magnificent woman, hoping that someday, he would meet a Latina just like her.

  Murray, over the next several days, told his adventurous story in detail.

  “I’m not one to brag, but I have the unique gift of a photographic mind—it runs in my family, and that’s why we’re so successful in our pursuits and endeavors,” Murray said with a smirk.

  “If you’re so successful, how’d you end up here as a buck private?” Billy asked and then said, “I’m an E2 and you’re only an E1, ha, a couple of privates.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but I graduated top of my class from New York University. Was in R.O.T.C., and I took military deferrals to finish school. So, to avoid the draft, I had two choices: enter the service as an officer for two years and then finish my obligation in the reserves or …,” Murray hesitated.

  Billy asked, “Or what?”

  “Do six months in the Army as a private, same as you, and then go into the reserves.”

  The next day Murray started his coming-of-age story. It began in Bennington, a small town in New Jersey.

  Murray’s father tried to reach an agreement to educate his son in the ways of the world, so his father asked his younger brother, Robert, who lived in Bennington, New Jersey to help educate Murray with the old Birds and the Bees talk. Murray was a naïve young man of eighteen years, heading to college in the fall of 1952.

  March, 1952

  Bonita Maria Bennington, thirty-nine-year-old, widowed high school teacher in the Bennington school district, stepped up to the podium before the local school board meeting.

  She began, “Ladies, gentlemen, board members and guests, I come before you to make a case for the addition of sex education in our fine schools.”

  “Objection!” the schoolboard president exclaimed. “This is a subject that should only be discussed in closed session!”

  “I beg to differ. There’s an epidemic before us in our local school—I—”

  “Silence!” he shouted, cutting her off.

  Mrs. Bennington took a deep breath and exclaimed, “Four teen girls in the eighth grade are pregnant!”

  The audience went into an uproar, some clapping, some with boos of displeasure.

  The board president brought the gavel down with a series of thundering blows, shouting, “This meeting is adjourned!”

  Two reporters, a man and a woman, from the local newspaper rushed to Mrs. Bennington’s side with a rapid-fire supply of pointed questions.

  It was impossible for her to hear above all the crowd noise as the board members made a hasty retreat from their chairs to the back chamber of the hall, where they exited.

  Robert Levy and his wife, Sandra, left the hall during all the commotion.

  Sandra asked after they reached the parking lot, “What do you think about sex education?”

  “I know, I had no clue about sex when I was in eighth grade,” Robert said.

  “Yes, it would have been better, if our parents had given us more information. Thank God, Grammy was there for me,” Sandra said, as Robert held the car door open for her.

  Robert came around the car, got in, started the motor and they drove off toward home.

  “They wouldn’t even let the poor woman speak,” Sandra said.

  “No respect, I tell you,” Robert began. “You’d think we’re still in the dark ages.”

  “I assume equal rights for women are years away, too bad.”

  The following day, Sally, Robert Levy’s receptionist, picked up the phone five minutes after closing time, “Levy and Sons, Heating Contractors.”

  “I’m Mrs. Bennington, my house is filled with smoke!” the frightened woman exclaimed.

  “One moment, Mrs. Bennington,” Sally said, putting her hand over the mouthpiece as she handed the phone to her boss, “Mr. Levy,” Sally said, “a woman is in trouble with a house full of smoke.”

  Robert took the phone and said, “Hello, what’s going on?”

  “I tried to get the furnace going and when I got upstairs, smoke was filling my house!”

  “Did you call the fire department?” he asked.

  She exclaimed, “Yes, but it’s been fifteen minutes and they’re n
ot here!”

  “Address?”

  “One four one Apple Orchard Lane.”

  “Go outside and wait, I’ll be there shortly,” he said and hung up. “Sally, lock up, this is an emergency—call the fire department, give them the address, one four one Apple Orchard Lane and then call my wife for me, OK?”

  The house was at the back of the property about one hundred yards from the street. Robert traveled down the dirt road; he spotted the flashing lights on the fire engine and pulled to the side of the road. He got out and approached the house. He recognized the frightened woman from several nights earlier as the schoolteacher from the school board meeting, standing out in the cold, shivering.

  “Mrs. Bennington,” he called, taking off his jacket. He draped it over her shoulders to protect her from the evening chill as a fireman walked over to them.

  “Bruce, how’s it going?” Robert asked.

  “Good, Robert,” Bruce said, “Don’t worry, no fire, just an outdated old furnace—I think it’s seen better days.”

  “Oh dear,” she sniffed, “what am I going to do?”

  “Is there somewhere you can stay tonight?” Bruce asked. “There’s too much smoke.”

  “No, I’ll have to be here,” she said, tears dripping down her face. “I have a student coming at seven for a piano lesson.”

  “I do not think that is wise, we’re trying to blow the smoke out now—the air will not be safe tonight.”

  “Oh,” she sniffed, turned to Robert and said, “What am I to do?”

  “Where’s your phone? I’ll call my wife.”

  “Just inside the back door in the kitchen,” she said.

  “Bruce, is it safe to go into the kitchen?”

  The fireman nodded.

  “Sir,” Mrs. Bennington said, “it has a long cord.”

  Robert pulled his car up onto his driveway with Mrs. Bennington beside him on the bench seat. They got out of the car and headed to the front door.

  She turned to him and said, “I don’t know how to thank you. You’re so kind to offer me shelter.”

  “Believe me, it’s no trouble—I’ll look at your furnace in the morning after all that smoke clears.”