Melting Away, Slowly... Pt. 02

I sat down on a bench in the shade of a pepper tree.

My feelings were so confused at that moment. I tried to get a handle on them.

One part of me was ecstatic; as Pearl had promised, even though all I had gotten was a simple hand-job, it was more satisfying than the sex that I'd received for several years; given by a professional who knew what to do and how to do it. Already, I was greedy for more, wondering what a blow-job from Pearl would be like.

Another part of me, though, was grieving and humiliated again. I was grieving that I had to go outside of my marriage to get the sexual release and satisfaction that I craved, something that I would have never conceived I would ever do. And in its own way, I was humiliated again.

I was having to pay a stranger, a woman with whom I had no emotional ties, for sexual satisfaction. What was so wrong with me that I had to pay someone to please me? In that way, Martha was still having the last laugh, my guilt and shame at furtively sneaking off to have sex, like a teenage boy, masturbating in the bathroom hoping his parents wouldn't walk in and catch him.

And now, after it was over, it occurred to me the risks that I was taking. If I were caught, I would be a public laughingstock, fired from my job, and declared yet another hypocrite for going to church on Sundays, and visiting a whore during the week.

I couldn't even imagine how Martha would respond if I were arrested. Would she feel shame, that everyone, all of our friends, would know that she was inadequate to supply her husband's needs, or would she just rise in a righteous anger and demand that I leave, and divorce me. I personally suspected the latter would be her path.

I could still hear her cutting words from Christmas in my head, "If he can't control his urges, then I wish he'd go find someone else to take care of it... I rationalized it in my mind: I was doing exactly what Martha had wished. She was getting her way.

There was also that little voice whispering into my ear, that voice that speaks to anyone, the shoplifter, the car thief, or the whore monger, the first-time rule breaker, saying: hey, that wasn't so difficult — you got away with it once, why not do it again?

At that point, I knew that I would be back.

Chapter 4.

Mid-January and the Spring semester was starting already. It was time to get back in the saddle and go to work.

I had more-or-less continued to ignore Martha's stream of requests and suggestions for things I could do to make life more comfortable for her.

I recalled with some satisfaction seeing the empty liquid drain cleaner bottle at the bottom of the trash can. Martha had finally gotten tired of waiting for me to clean her sink, and had actually put the chemical cleaning-cocktail down the drain herself. I added a bottle of drain cleaner to my list to replace the one that Martha had finished. After all, I might need it for my drain sometime.

If a task didn't benefit both of us, I stopped doing it. And in fairness, I also stopped expecting Martha to do things for me.

For example, I found a place not far from our house, where for a modest price; they would wash my laundry, and iron my pants and shirts. So I started taking my clothes down to them every week during breaks between classes, instead of leaving it in the hamper for Martha to do on the weekend.

It was actually kind of humorous for me to realize that it took a month before Martha noticed that my clothes weren't in the wash with her's anymore.

On Saturday morning, when Martha was separating the wash into the whites/colored/ and cold water loads, she suddenly got this very odd look on her face, a look of surprise and curiosity. Then she walked into the master bedroom and looked into the virtually empty clothes hamper there. Seeing the hamper empty of all but the clothes I'd been wearing the day before, she went into my walk-in closet, and looked around, seeing my clothes clean and ironed, hanging where they had always been. A complete mystery to her.

About that time, I made myself scarce for the rest of the day, so that I wouldn't have to answer her questions. I called and left a message on the answer-machine telling her I would be eating out with friends at the golf course (which, in fact, I did), and didn't return until after she was asleep.

As far as I could tell, by the next day, she had forgotten about my clothes, not that we talked enough that Sunday to have reminded her.

But that all occurred about two weeks after school started, anyway.

I was cheerful, looking forward to getting back to my office at the J.C. I was teaching classes Mondays through Thursdays, and I was available at my office on Fridays as well, by appointment.

It was a normal day to start the semester. I stopped by the faculty offices early to pick up my mail (mostly the academic version of 'junk mail') and said hello to Dean Wilson, the chairman of the Math & Engineering Department.

Back in my office, a couple of returning students stopped by to say 'hi' and to check on my office hours, and a number of new students came by to try and register for classes.

I was fairly consistent with admitting students into my classes this late: I had a fixed number of slots in each class, and if there were spaces available, I would sign to allow them into the class. If the class was already full, I would allow up to five additional students sign up (since I knew that a percentage would drop the class when they heard my requirements).

After that, too bad, unless it was a unique situation — someone who absolutely needed the class to graduate or to transfer to one of the four-year engineering schools. Even then, I had to be confident that the student was serious and would be likely to complete the class. Under those circumstances, I would grit my teeth and let them in. I didn't do that very often.

On Monday/Wednesdays I had two Engineering classes, one from 8:00 to 9:50 AM, and the second immediately following at 10:00 to 11:50. Then I was off until 2:00 PM, when I taught a Monday through Thursday class, 'Intro to Math', which was actually a pre-algebra class. Here at the J.C. we were expected to remediate the kids who had somehow been missing during math class for the past four years in high school!

I had just returned to my office from my 10 o'clock class, and was seated sorting thought the mail I'd picked up early that morning, when a mop of red hair became visible at the open door.

"Is this the office of Mark McDonald? Terror of the engineering department, tyrant of his domain, ruler of math classes, and nominee for Professor of the Year?" came the familiar voice.

"Stephanie!" I cried, "Come in and make yourself to home!"

Stephanie came in alright, but she was carrying two cups of hot coffee — and not the stuff that they call coffee from the vending machines. It looked to be the real McCoy!

"Oh Ms. Michaels, that smells like the nectar of the God's! To what do I owe this gift? I'm warning you — all of my classes are already filled!" I lectured my dear friend as she sat in the chair across my desk from where I was sitting.

"This is payback for your buying me coffee at the bookstore the other day. I pay my debts," she said, smiling at me, as she sipped at her cup.

I wasn't sure, but I suspect that cup of coffee was spiked with some secret ingredient. Maybe it was just some special kind of chocolate, but I would almost bet on Kalhua.

"Ummmm...I don't think that the coffee at the bookstore was quite this," I paused, thinking of the right word, "intoxicating!"

Stephanie just smiled in my direction and didn't say a thing.

We sipped and enjoyed our repast for a couple of silent moments, just comfortable being there with each other.

I finally spoke,

"After you mentioned it the other day, I decided to sign up for the 'Beginning Ballroom Dancing' class."

Stephanie was suddenly animated.

"Mark, that's great! Oh, you don't know how happy that makes me. I was afraid that I would be the only older person in the class, and none of the boys would want to dance with me," she exclaimed.

"Hey, 'old lady', I bet all those young guys would line up for a chance to dance with you," I teased, sensing the serious concern beneath her bantering tone.

"Yeah, right!" she replied, but with a little more confidence this time.

We chatted for awhile longer, but then Stephanie had to leave to make her Creative Writing class.

"See you tomorrow evening, Mark," she said as she walked out through the door.

Stephanie didn't know it, and would have been shocked if I'd told her, but she had made my day. Just seeing her lifted my spirits.

***

Tuesdays and Thursdays I didn't come in until late — I had a 12 noon to 1:50 class, and then I was done for the day, until 7:00 PM, when the 'Beginning Ballroom Dancing' class started.

That left my mornings free to do chores and errands before I needed to be a school. I left a note for Martha telling her I wouldn't be home for dinner, she was on her own. No other explanation.

That is how that Tuesday morning found me back at the Oriental massage parlor, with an extra $50 bucks in my pocket, asking to see Pearl.

Like my first visit, I walked up to the front desk, but this time I was already a 'known quantity.' The plump woman at the desk smiled when she saw me walk up, and addressed me as 'Mr. Mark.' I took care of the fees for the massage, and was directed to Pearl's room again.

Pearl seemed delighted to see me.

I had known men who had spent time in the Philippines or Thailand, and referred to the women like Pearl as LBFM — 'little brown fuck machines.' One of the things they all said was that the Asian women would greet you like a long-lost lover, tell you that you were the only man, the best man, their sexual dream, but what it was really about was MONEY! So I kept that in mind.

Pearl might treat me like a king, like her returning hero, but the reality was that I was a walking piggybank that would cough up dollars, in exchange for orgasms.

But fake as her demeanor might be, it was pleasant to have a younger woman greet me as if she had been pining away for me the past two weeks, since I was last here.

The first part of the treatment was a repeat of the first time: a really great, full-body massage. I realized that not only did it relax me, but that just having a woman touch me all over, even in a non-sexual way, was comforting. There was nothing wrong with me that prevented Pearl from touching me.

After the massage, Pearl cleaned the oil from her hands, and approached me again.

"You bring extra $50 dollar for blow-job this time?" she asked, smiling at me expectantly.

I nodded, and got up from the table, went to my wallet, and handed her the $50. Like the first time, the money disappeared into a pocket. I want back to the table and lay down.

Pearl cleaned my penis again, looking at it almost clinically before she started.

Do you remember the first time that a woman took your cock into her mouth? The warmth, the sensations of her lips, the tightness as she sucks. Do you remember how it turned you on, to be able to look down and see her mouth wrapped around your tool, her head moving up and down, as well.

Now imagine that you are a fifty-seven year old man, and that is happening to you for the first time in your life. Pretty heady stuff, almost impossible to believe, isn't it?

Pearl's expertise and experience is the only explanation that I can think of, that I didn't come within two minutes. My basic urge wasn't quite as intense as it had been two-weeks before, when she gave me the hand-job. The sensations from her mouth were so much more sensual, and I was so inexperienced.

She would work me, and then back off. Again, she would bring me to the brink, only to squeeze me in such a way to stop the process, only to start it again. Once again, I reached out and felt her breasts, and tugged and squeezed her nipples, while she serviced me. Her response to my manipulations, I thought, were authentic, since she didn't have to respond to excite me, although her moans did please and encourage me.

After perhaps ten or twelve minutes, a lifetime of pleasure, five times longer than I would have expected to last, she finally let me come, removing her mouth at the last second, and letting me once again explode onto her chest and my belly.

Pearl then repeated her actions of cleaning us up, smiling, comfortably chatting with me, while I dressed.

"So, Mr. Mark, how you like when I deep throat? Very good, yes?" she giggled a little, "I think that I best here at deep throat, because I like suck man's cock. Some girls no like."

I hate to admit my ignorance, but at the time all I could think was: so THAT's deep throating.

"Pearl," I said, with a grin on my face, "I can say without a doubt, that you gave me the best deep throat that I've ever had!" I didn't mention that it was the ONLY deep throat, or even BJ that I'd ever had, but why ruin the moment with details like that!

As I was leaving, there was Pearl in her LBFM mode,

"Mr. Mark, when you come see Pearl again? No too long I hope. I give you best deep throat blow job. You hurry back!"

And I knew I would come back.

***

Not surprisingly, I walked on campus that afternoon with a certain spring in my step.

I'd gotten my sexual satisfaction, granted without the emotional intimacy, just the mechanical, animal lust. This second time, I felt less guilt than two weeks before, and there was almost a kind of, I don't know how to describe it — perhaps 'giddiness' at having had a new sexual experience, one that I would have never gotten within the confines of my marriage.

But I put all thought of my exploit behind me, as I prepared for class.

The first classes of the semester are always so full of hope and promise, when everyone is starting out even, no papers due, no questions from the professor about the readings, and no exams in sight! That was how my classes were that first Tuesday. And I was in a good mood, relaxed and cheerful.

What I was looking forward to most, though, was my first ballroom dancing class, beginning that night.

The hours passed quickly that day, and at about 5 o'clock I ran off-campus and had dinner in one of the many inexpensive eateries that surrounded the campus, catering to students and faculty. When I returned to my office, I still had almost an hour before class, and was able to work on the following day's class materials, as well as checking my emails.

At ten minutes before seven, when class was scheduled to start, I was standing, waiting outside the large room in the P.E. center where the various dance classes were taught. Waiting, I might add, along with several other students — all young women. I was beginning to wonder about my judgment in signing up for this class.

But then, Stephanie walked up.

"Mark!" she exclaimed, "I half-way thought you would chicken out on us!"

All of the young ladies were suddenly looking at me. I may have blushed again.

"Not me," I replied, trying to laugh off my embarrassment, "You know how I am, stubborn as a mule. Mostly I worry that I've got two left feet."

Steph stepped up beside me, and put her arm possessively around mine, standing there next to me, looking up at me and smiling.

"I'm sure that you will be just fine, Mark!" she said to reassure me.

The teacher walked up just then, accompanied by another young woman, and unlocked the classroom, saving me from further embarrassment, at least for the time being as we filed in behind him.

Bob Williamson, the ballroom dance instructor, had us sit in chairs temporarily, while he took roll. The class was made up of fourteen women and three men (including me) and the teacher. I guess it isn't that unusual, but it seemed a little one-sided to me.

Bob took roll, and when he got to my name, he paused,

"Dr. McDonald?" he asked politely.

"No, just Mr., and for this class, just Mark," I explained, letting him know that despite my status as a professor, that for this class, we would be on an informal basis.

"OK, that's great. And one other question: are you and Ms. Michaels here as a 'couple'?" he wanted to know.

Steph spoke up before I could reply,

"First, it's Steph or Stephanie, not Mrs. Michaels, and no, Mark and I are just old friends."

"Oh good. Because with only four men in the class, we'll have to rotate with all of the young ladies," his arms encompassing all of the class, "and it will be easier if there isn't an expectation of particular couples pairing-up exclusively," was his explanation.

Bob had us all stand up and walk onto the wooden floor of the classroom, where he introduced us to his assistant for the night, a private student from his studio, who would help demonstrating and teaching for the evening.

"The first step that we will be learning is known as the 'East Coast Swing,'" he started by demonstrating with his advanced student, showing us the details of the step slowly, and with that we began learning to dance.

I certainly didn't become any sort of great shakes as a dancer that evening, but I had a lot of fun trying.

***

When I arrived home at about 10:30 that evening, I was surprised that Martha was still awake.

"Hello," I said as I walked into the living room and saw Martha sitting there, "I didn't expect that you would still be up."

"I was just curious," Martha replied, "your note didn't say much. What were you up to?"

I nodded my head in agreement about the note,

"I decided to take a class this semester on Tuesday and Thursday nights, from 7:00 to 9:00 in the evenings. It's one of the perks of teaching there, that I can take free classes, although I've never done it before."

"I see. Well, that should work out well, because my Bridge Club is meeting on Thursday evenings, too," she said.

"Good, I guess we'll both stay busy," I responded, as I turned and walked towards the master bedroom, leaving her sitting in the living room. I'm sure that she expected me to give her some detailed explanation, but I simply didn't feel the obligation to explain myself to her anymore.

I continued on my way into the master bedroom, where if Martha wanted to continue talking to me she would have to follow. Not that I really expected her to come into the bedroom. After all, that might imply that she was still available or something.

Instead, I got cleaned up and got into bed. I had an early morning class tomorrow. I slept well that evening, remembering a day that included getting my first blow-job, and basking in the glow of spending a couple of hours learning to dance in class with Stephanie.

***

The rest of that first week went fine for me, and the Spring semester was off to a credible start. On Thursday night, I was back in dance class, with Steph. To tell the truth, I was having a pretty good time of it.

I found that I could remember the steps that we were learning, better than the other two younger men in the class, and it was kind of fun for an old geezer like me to be in demand with the ladies. Nothing romantic, of course, but aside from Bob, our instructor, the women were eager to practice with me.

According to Bob, my tall and lanky build also worked to my advantage with ballroom dancing. I 'looked right' doing the routines.

With my more cheerful and positive attitude from dance class, plus the fact that I had finally figured out an easy way to get my sexual needs met, I was able to be friendlier towards Martha than I'd been since Christmas, when she'd kneed me in the groin, at least figuratively, with her rejection.

Not that it meant that much. When we were both working, we had conflicting schedules during the week, even more than normal since I'd started the dance class, so we didn't have that much overlapping time. The weekends were, of necessity, when we did chores around the house, and most of the shopping, which by-and-large we did separately. I would usually do some outdoor activity on the weekend as well, golf or shooting trap and skeet, or even taking hikes in the local mountains.