SHE WAS completely nude, lying on her stomach in the desert sand, her legs spread wide, her long hair flowing in the wind, her head tilted back with her eyes closed. She seemed lost in private thoughts, remote from the world, reclining on this windswept dune in California near the Mexican border, adorned by nothing but her natural beauty. She wore no jewelry, no flowers in her hair; there were no footprints in the sand, nothing dated the day or spoiled the perfection of this photograph except the moist fingers of the seventeen-year-old schoolboy who held it and looked at it with adolescent longing and lust.

The picture was in a photographic art magazine that he had just bought at a newsstand on the corner of Cermak Road in suburban Chicago. It was an early evening in 1957, cold and windy, but Harold Rubin could feel the warmth rising within him as he studied the photograph under the streetlamp near the curb behind the stand, oblivious to the sounds of traffic and the people passing on their way home.

He flipped through the pages to look at the other nude women, seeing to what degree he could respond to them. There had been times in the past when, after buying one of these magazines hastily, because they were sold under the counter and were therefore unavailable for adequate erotic preview, he was greatly disappointed. Either the volleyball-playing nudists in Sunshine & Health, the only magazine showing pubic hair in the 1950s, were too hefty; or the smiling show girls in Modern Man were trying too hard to entice; or the models in Classic Photography were merely objects of the camera, lost in artistic shadows. While Harold Rubin usually could achieve some solitary fulfillment from these, they were soon relegated to the lower levels of the stacks of magazines that he kept at home in the closet of his bedroom. At the top of the pile were the more proven products, those women who projected a certain emotion or posed in a certain way that was immediately stimulating to him; and, more important, their effect was enduring. He could ignore them in the closet for weeks or months as he sought a new discovery elsewhere. But, failing to find it, he knew he could return home and revive a relationship with one of the favorites in his paper harem, achieving gratification that was certainly different from but not incompatible with the sex life he had with a girl he knew from Morton High School. One blended with the other somehow. When he was making love to her on the sofa when her parents were out, he was sometimes thinking of the more

mature women in the magazines. At other times, when alone with his magazines, he might recall moments with his girl friend, remembering what she looked like with her clothes off, what she felt like, what they did together.

Recently, however, perhaps because he was feeling restless and uncertain and was thinking of dropping out of school, leaving his girl, and joining the Air Force, Harold Rubin was more detached than usual from life in Chicago, was more into fantasy, particularly when in the presence of pictures of one special woman who, he had to admit, was becoming an obsession.

It was this woman whose picture he had just seen in the magazine he now held on the sidewalk, the nude on the sand dune. He had first noticed her months ago in a camera quarterly. She also had appeared in several men’s publications, adventure magazines, and a nudist calendar. It was not only her beauty that had attracted him, the classic lines of her body or the wholesome features of her face, but the entire aura that accompanied each picture, a feeling of her being completely free with nature and herself as she walked along the seashore, or stood near a palm tree, or sat on a rocky cliff with waves splashing below. While in some pictures she seemed remote and ethereal, probably unobtainable, there was a pervasive reality about her, and he felt close to her. He also knew her name. It had appeared in a picture caption, and he was confident that it was her real name and not one of those pixie pseudonyms used by some playmates and pinups who concealed their true identity from the men they wished to titillate.

Her name was Diane Webber. Her home was along the beach at Malibu. It was said that she was a ballet dancer, which explained to Harold the disciplined body control she exhibited in several of her positions in front of the camera. In one picture in the magazine he now held, Diane Webber was almost acrobatic as she balanced herself gracefully above the sand on her outstretched arms with a leg extended high over her head, her toes pointed up into a cloudless sky. On the opposite page she was resting on her side, hips fully rounded, one thigh raised slightly and barely covering her pubis, her breasts revealed, the nipples erect.

Harold Rubin quickly closed the magazine. He slipped it between his school books and tucked them under his arm. It was getting late and he was soon due home for dinner. Turning, he noticed that the old cigar-smoking news vendor was looking at him, winking, but Harold ignored him. With his hands deep in the pockets of his black leather coat, Harold Rubin headed home, his long blond hair, worn in the duck’s-ass style of Elvis Presley, brushing against his upraised collar. He decided to walk instead of taking the bus, because he wanted to avoid close contact with people, wanted no one to invade his privacy as he anxiously anticipated the hour at night when, after his parents had gone to sleep, he would be alone in his bedroom with Diane Webber.

He walked on Oak Park Avenue, then north to Twenty-first Street, passing bungalows and larger brick houses in this quiet residential community called Berwyn, a thirty-minute drive from downtown Chicago. The people here were conservative, hardworking, and thrifty. A high percentage of them were descendants of parents or grandparents who had immigrated to this area from Central Europe earlier in the century, especially from the western region of Czechoslovakia called Bohemia. They still referred to themselves as Bohemians despite the fact that, much to their chagrin, the name was now more popularly associated in America with carefree, loose-living young people who wore sandals and read beatnik poetry.

Harold’s paternal grandmother, whom he felt closer to than anyone in his family and visited regularly, had been born in Czechoslovakia, but not in the region of Bohemia. She had come from a small village in southern Czechoslovakia near the Danube and the old Hungarian capital of Bratislava. She had told Harold often of how she had arrived in America at fourteen to work as a servant girl in a boardinghouse in one of those grim, teeming industrial towns along Lake Michigan that had attracted thousands of sturdy Slavic men to work in the steel mills, oil refineries, and other factories around East Chicago, Gary, and Hammond, Indiana. Living conditions were so overcrowded in those days, she said, that in the first boardinghouse where she worked there were four men from the day shift renting four beds at night and four other men from the night shift renting those same beds during the day.

These men were treated like animals and lived like animals, she said, and when they were not being exploited by their bosses in the factories they were trying to exploit the few working girls like herself who were unfortunate enough to be living in these towns at that time. The men in the boardinghouse were always grabbing at her, she said, banging on her locked door at night as she tried to sleep. When she related this to Harold during a recent visit, while he sat in the kitchen eating a sandwich she had made, he suddenly had a vision of what his grandmother must have looked like fifty years ago, a shy servant girl with fair complexion and blue eyes like his own, her long hair in a bun, her youthful body moving quickly around the house in a long drab dress, trying to elude the clutching fingers and strong arms of the burly men from the mill.

As Harold Rubin continued to walk home, his school books and the magazine held tightly under his arm, he remembered how sad yet fascinated he had been by his grandmother’s reminiscing, and he understood why she spoke freely with him. He was the only person in the family who was genuinely interested in her, who took the time to be with her in the big brick house in which she was otherwise nearly always alone. Her husband, John Rubin, a former teamster who

made a fortune in the trucking business, spent his days at the garage with his fleet of vehicles and his nights with a secretary who, if referred to at all by Harold’s grandmother, was referred to as “the whore.” The only child in this unhappy marriage, Harold’s father was completely dominated by his father, for whom he worked long hours in the garage; and Harold’s grandmother did not feel sufficiently close to Harold’s mother to share the frustration and bitterness she felt. So it was mainly Harold, sometimes accompanied by his younger brother, who interrupted the prevailing silence and boredom in the house. And as Harold became older and more curious, more remote from his parents and his own surroundings, he gradually became his grandmother’s confidant, her ally in alienation.

From her he learned much about his father’s boyhood, his grandfather’s past, and why she had married such a tyrannical man. John Rubin had been born sixty-six years ago in Russia, the son of a Jewish peddler, and at the age of two he had immigrated with his parents to a city near Lake Michigan called Sobieski, named in honor of a seventeenth-century Polish king. After a minimum of schooling and unrelieved poverty, Rubin and other youths were arrested staging a holdup during which a policeman was shot. Released on probation, and after working at various jobs for a few years, Rubin one day visited his older married sister in Chicago and became attracted to the young Czechoslovakian girl then taking care of the baby.

On a subsequent visit he found her in the house alone, and after she had rejected his advances—as she had previously done with men when she had worked in the boardinghouse—he forced her into her bedroom and raped her. She was then sixteen. It had been her first sexual experience, and it would make her pregnant. Panicked, but having no close relatives or friends nearby to help, she was persuaded by her employers to marry John Rubin, or else he would go off to prison because of his prior criminal offense, and she would be no better off. They were married in October 1912. Six months later they had a son, Harold’s father.

The loveless marriage did not greatly improve with time, Harold’s grandmother said, adding that her husband regularly beat his son, beat her when she interfered, and devoted himself mainly to the maintenance of his trucks. His lucrative career had begun when, after he had worked as a deliveryman on a horse and wagon for Spiegel, Inc., a large mail-order house in Chicago, he convinced management to lend him enough money to invest in a truck and start his own motorized delivery service, thus eliminating Spiegel’s need for several horses whose performance he said could not match his own. After buying one truck and fulfilling his promise, he bought a second truck, then a third. Within a

decade John Rubin had a dozen trucks handling all of Spiegel’s local cartage, as well as that of other companies.

Over the futile protests of his wife, his son was summoned as an adolescent into the garage to work as a driver’s helper, and although John Rubin was amassing great personal wealth at this time and was generous with his bribes to local politicians and the police—“If you wanna slide, you gotta grease,” he often said—he was a miser with the family budget, and he frequently accused his wife of stealing coins that he had left around the house. Later he began deliberately to leave money here and there in amounts that he precisely remembered, or he would arrange coins in a certain way on the bureau or elsewhere in the house in the hope that he could prove that his wife took some or at least touched them; but he never could.

These and other remembrances of Harold’s grandmother, and similar observations that he made himself while in his grandfather’s chilly presence, gave Harold considerable insight into his own father, a quiet and humorless man of forty-four resembling not in the slightest the photograph on the piano that was taken during World War II and showed him in a corporal’s uniform looking relaxed and handsome, many miles from home. But the fact that Harold could understand his father did not make living with him any easier, and as Harold now approached East Avenue, the street on which he lived, he could feel the tension and apprehension, and he wondered what his father would choose to complain about today.

In the past, if there had not been complaints about Harold’s schoolwork, then there had been about the length of Harold’s hair, or Harold’s late hours with his girl, or Harold’s nudist magazines that his father had once seen spread out on the bed after Harold’s had carelessly left his door open.

“What’s all this crap?” his father had asked, using a word far more delicate than his grandfather would have used. His grandfather’s vocabulary was peppered with every imaginable profanity, delivered in tones of deep contempt, whereas his father’s words were more restrained, lacking emotion.

“They’re my magazines,” Harold had answered. “Well, get rid of them,” his father had said.

“They’re mine!” Harold suddenly shouted. His father had looked at him curiously, then began to shake his head slowly in disgust and left the room. They had not spoken for weeks after that incident, and tonight Harold did not want to repeat that confrontation. He hoped to get through dinner peacefully and quickly.

Before entering the house, he looked in the garage and saw that his father’s

car was there, a gleaming 1956 Lincoln that his father had bought new a year ago, trading in his pampered 1953 Cadillac. Harold climbed the steps to the back door, quietly entered the house. His mother, a matronly woman with a kindly face, was in the kitchen preparing dinner; he could hear the television on in the living room and saw his father sitting there reading the Chicago American. Smiling at his mother, Harold said hello in a voice loud enough that it would carry into the living room and perhaps count as a double greeting. There was no response from his father.

Harold’s mother informed him that his brother was in bed with a cold and fever and would not be joining them for dinner. Harold, saying nothing, walked into his bedroom and closed the door softly. It was a nicely furnished room with a comfortable chair, a polished dark wood desk, and a large Viking oak bed. Books were neatly arranged on shelves, and hanging from the wall were replicas of Civil War swords and rifles that had been his father’s and also a framed glass case in which were mounted several steel tools that Harold had made last year in a manual-arts class and which had won him a citation in a national contest sponsored by the Ford Motor Company. He had also won an art award from Wieboldt’s department store for his oil painting of a clown, and his skill as a woodcraftsman was most recently demonstrated in his construction of a wooden stand designed to hold a magazine in an open position and thus permit him to look at it with both of his hands free.

Placing his school books on the desk and taking off his coat, Harold opened the magazine to the photographs of the nude Diane Webber. He stood near the bed holding the magazine in his right hand, and, with his eyes half closed, he gently brushed his left hand across the front of his trousers, softly touching his genitals. The response was immediate. He wished that he now had the time before dinner to undress and be fulfilled, or at least to go down the hall to the bathroom for quick relief over the sink, holding her photograph up to the medicine-cabinet mirror to see a reflection of himself exposed to her nude body, pretending a presence with her in the sun and sand, directing her dark lovely lowered eyes toward his tumescent organ, and imagining that his soapy hand was part of her.

He had done this many times before, usually during the afternoons when it might have seemed surreptitious for him to close his bedroom door. But, despite the guaranteed privacy behind the locked door of the bathroom, Harold had to admit that he was never completely comfortable there, partly because he really preferred reclining on his bed to standing, and because there was insufficient room around the sink on which to lay down the magazine if he wished to use both hands. Also, and perhaps more important, if he was not careful the

magazine might be stained by drops of water bouncing up from the sink, since he kept the faucet running to alert the family to his presence in the bathroom, and also because he occasionally needed additional water for lathering when the soap went dry on his fingers. While the water-stained photographs of nude women might not offend the aesthetics of most young men, this was not the case with Harold Rubin.

And finally there was a practical consideration involved in his desire to protect his magazines from damage: Having read in newspapers this year about the more zealous antipornography drives around the nation, he could not be sure that he would always be able to buy new magazines featuring nudes, not even under the counter. Even Sunshine & Health, which had been in circulation for two decades and populated its pages with family pictures including grandparents and children, had been described as obscene this year at a California judiciary hearing. Art-camera magazines had also been cited as “smut” by some politicians and church groups, even though these publications had attempted to disassociate themselves from girlie magazines by including under each nude picture such instructive captions as Taken with 2? × 3? Crown Graphic fitted with 101 mm Ektar, f:11, at 1/100 sec. Harold had read that President Eisenhower’s Postmaster General, Arthur Summerfield, was intent on keeping sexual literature and magazines out of the mails, and a New York publisher, Samuel Roth, had just been sentenced to five years in prison and a fine of $5,000 for violating the federal mail statute. Roth had previously been convicted for disseminating copies of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and his first arrest, in 1928, came after the police had raided his publishing company and seized the printing plates of Ulysses, which had been smuggled in from Paris.

Harold had read that a Brigitte Bardot film had been interfered with in Los Angeles, and he could only assume that in a city like Chicago, a workingman’s town with a tough police force and considerable moral influence from the Catholic Church, sexual expression would be repressed even more, particularly during the administration of the new Irish-Catholic mayor, Richard J. Daley. Already Harold had noticed that the burlesque house on Wabash Avenue had been closed down, as had the one on State Street. If the trend continued, it might mean that his favorite newsstand on Cermak Road would be reduced to selling such magazines as Good Housekeeping and The Saturday Evening Post, a happenstance that he knew would provoke no protest from his parents.

In all the years that he had lived at home he had never heard his parents express a sexual thought, had never seen either of them in the nude, had never

heard their bed creaking at night with love sounds. He assumed that they still did make love, but he could not be certain. While he did not know how active his grandfather was in his sixties with his mistress, his grandmother had recently confided in a typically bitter moment that they had not made love since 1936. He had been an unskilled lover anyway, his grandmother had quickly added, and as Harold had pondered the statement he wondered for the first time if his grandmother had secret lovers. He seriously doubted it, never having observed men visiting her home, or her often leaving it; but he did recall discovering to his surprise a year ago in her library a romantic sex novel. It had been covered in brown paper, and on the copyright page was the name of a French publishing house and, under it, the date, 1909. While his grandmother had been taking a nap, Harold sat on the floor reading once, then twice, the 103-page novel, enthralled by the tale and amazed by the explicit language. The story described the unhappy sex lives of several young women in Europe and the East who, after leaving their small towns and villages in despair, wandered into Morocco and became captives of a pasha who secluded them in a seraglio. One day, when the pasha was away, one of the women noticed through the window a handsome sea captain below and, luring him upstairs, made passionate love to him, as did the others in turn, pausing between acts to reveal to the captain the sordid details of their past that had eventually led them to this place. Harold had read the book during subsequent visits so often that he could practically recite certain passages….

Her soft arms were wound around me in response, and our lips met in a delicious and prolonged kiss, during which my shaft was imprisoned against her warm smooth belly. Then she raised herself on tiptoes, which brought its crest among the short thick hair where the belly terminated. With one hand I guided my shaft to the entrance, which welcomed it; with my other I held her plump buttocks toward me….

Harold heard his mother calling him from the kitchen. It was time for dinner. He put the magazine with its photographs of Diane Webber under his pillow. He replied to his mother, waiting momentarily as his erection subsided. Then he opened his door and walked casually toward the kitchen.

His father was already seated at the table with a bowl of soup in front of him, reading the paper, while his mother stood at the stove talking airily, unaware of the minimal attention she was receiving. She was saying that while shopping in

town today she had met one of her old friends from the Cook County tax assessor’s office, which is where she had once worked, operating a Comptometer. Harold, who knew that she had left that job shortly before his birth seventeen years ago, never to work again outside the house, commented to his mother on the fine aroma of the cooking, and his father looked up from his paper and nodded without a smile.

As Harold sat down and began sipping the soup, his mother continued to talk, while slicing beef on a sideboard before bringing it to the table. She wore a housedress, little makeup, and smoked a filter-tipped cigarette. Both of Harold’s parents were heavy smokers, smoking being their only pleasure insofar as he knew. Neither of them was fond of drinking whiskey, beer, or wine, and dinner was served with cream soda or root beer, purchased weekly by the case.

After his mother had seated herself, the telephone rang. His father, who always kept the phone within reach at the dinner table, frowned as he grabbed it. Someone was calling from the garage. It happened almost every night during dinner, and from his father’s expression it might be assumed that he was receiving unwelcome news—perhaps a truck had broken down before making its delivery or the Teamsters’ union was going on strike; but Harold knew from living in the house that the grim, tight-lipped look of his father did not necessarily reflect what was being said on the telephone. It was an inextricable part of his father’s nature to look sullenly upon the world, and Harold knew that even if this phone call had come from a television game show announcing that his father had just won a prize, his father would react with a frown.

Still, despite whatever genuine aggravation was inherent in managing the Rubin trucking business, his father got up diligently at five-thirty each morning to be the first on the job, and he spent his days dealing with problems ranging from the maintenance of 142 trucks to the occasional pilferage of cargo, and he had to deal as well with the irascible old man, John Rubin, who personally wanted to control everything, even though the operation was now too big for him to do so.

Harold had recently heard that several of Rubin’s drivers had been stopped by the police for driving without license plates, which had infuriated the old man, who ignored the fact that his stinginess had caused this: Trying to save money, he had purchased only 32 sets of license plates for his 142 trucks, requiring that the men in the garage keep switching the plates from vehicle to vehicle or risk making deliveries without plates. Harold knew that sooner or later this scheme would result in a court case, and then his grandfather would try to bribe his way out of it, and, even if he was lucky enough to do so, it would probably cost him more than if he had paid for the proper number of plates in the beginning.

Harold vowed that he would never work full-time in the garage. He had tried working there during the summer but had soon quit because he could not tolerate the verbal abuse from his grandfather, who had often called him a “little bum,” and also that of his father, who had remarked sourly one day, “You’ll never amount to anything.” This prediction had not bothered Harold because he knew that the price of appeasing these men was total subjugation, and he was determined that he would not repeat the mistake of his father in becoming subservient to an old man who had sired a son he had not wanted with a woman he had not loved.

After his father had hung up the telephone, he resumed eating, revealing nothing of what had been said. A cup of coffee was placed in front of him, heavy with cream as he liked it, and he lit up an Old Gold. Harold’s mother mentioned not having seen their neighbors from across the street in several days, and Harold suggested that they might be away on vacation. She stood to clear the table, then went to check the fever of her younger son, who was still sleeping. Harold’s father went into the living room, turned on the television set. Harold later joined him, sitting on the other side of the room. Harold could hear his mother doing the dishes in the kitchen and his father yawning as he listlessly watched television and completed the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. He then stood, yawned again, and said he was going to bed. It was shortly after nine o’clock. Within a half hour, Harold’s mother had come into the living room to say good night, and soon Harold turned off the television and the house was soundless and still. He walked to his bedroom and closed the door, feeling a quiet exuberance and relief. He was finally alone.

He removed his clothes, hung them in the closet. He reached for the small bottle of hand lotion, Italian Balm, that he kept on the upper shelf of his closet, and he placed it on the bedside table next to a box of Kleenex. He turned on the bedside lamp of low wattage, turned off the overhead light, and the room was bathed in a soft glow.

He could hear the wind whipping against the storm windows on this freezing Chicago night, and he shivered as he slipped between the cool sheets and pulled the blankets over him. He lay back for a few moments, getting warm, and then he reached for the magazine under his pillow and began to flip through it in a cursory way—he did not want to focus yet on the object of his obsession, Diane Webber, who awaited him on the sand dune, but preferred instead to make an initial pass through the entire fifty-two-page issue, which contained thirty-nine nude pictures of eleven different women, a visual aphrodisiac of blondes and

brunets, preliminary stimulants before the main event.

A lean, dark-eyed woman attracted Harold, but the photographer had posed her awkwardly on the gnarled branch of a tree, and he felt her discomfort. The nude, sitting cross-legged on a studio floor next to an easel, had fine breasts but a bland expression on her face. Harold, still on his back with his knees slightly raised under the blankets, continued to turn the pages past various legs and breasts, hips and buttocks and hair, female fingers and arms reaching out, eyes looking away from him, eyes looking at him as he occasionally paused to lightly stroke his genitals with his left hand, tilting the magazine in his right hand to eliminate the slight glare on the glossy pages.

Proceeding through the magazine page after page, he came to the exquisite pictures of Diane Webber, but he quickly skipped over them, not wanting to tempt himself now. He moved on to the Mexican girl who sat demurely with a fisherman’s net spread across her thighs; and then to the heavy-breasted blonde reclining on the floor next to a small marble statue of “Venus di Milo” and on to a lithe, lovely blonde standing in the shadows 1/25 sec. at f:22 of what appeared to be an empty stage of a theater, her arms crossed under her chin and above her upturned breasts, which were gracefully revealed, and, in the very subtle stage lighting, Harold was quite certain that he could see her pubic hair, and he felt himself for the first time becoming aroused.

If he were not so enamored of Diane Webber, he knew he could be satisfied by this willowy young blonde, satisfied perhaps more than once, which to him was the true test of an erotic picture. In the stacks of magazines in his closet were dozens of nudes who had aroused him in the past to solitary peaks, some having done so three or four times; and some were capable of doing it again in the future as long as they remained unseen for a while, thereby regaining their sense of mystery.

And then there were those extremely rare pictures, those of Diane Webber, that could fulfill him constantly. He estimated that his collection contained fifty photographs of her, and within a moment he could locate every one of them in the two hundred magazines that he kept. He would merely have to glance at the cover and would know exactly where she was within, how she was standing, what was in the background, what her attitude seemed to be during that special split second when the camera had clicked. He could remember, too, first seeing these pictures, could reconstruct where and when he had bought them; he could practically mark a moment in his life from each of her poses, each being so real that he believed he knew her personally, she was part of him, and through her he had become more in touch with himself in several ways, not merely through acts which Victorian moralists had defined as self-abuse, but rather through self-

acceptance, his understanding the naturalness of his desires, and of asserting his right to an idealized woman.

Not able to resist any longer, Harold turned the page to Diane Webber on the dune. He looked at her, lying on her stomach, her head held up into the wind, her eyes closed, the nipple of her left breast erect, her legs spread wide, the late- afternoon sun casting an exaggerated shadow of her curvaceous body along the smooth white sand. Beyond her body was nothing but a sprawling empty desert

—she seemed so alone, so approachable and available; Harold had merely to desire her, and she was his.

He pushed the blankets off his body, warm with excitement and anticipation. He reached under his bed for the wooden stand he had made in school, knowing that his manual-arts teacher would be astonished to learn what use would be made of it tonight. He placed the magazine on the stand in front of him, between his widely spread legs. Raising his head, supporting it on two pillows, he reached for the bottle of Italian Balm, poured lotion into his palms and rubbed it between his hands momentarily to warm it. Then, softly, he began to touch his penis and testicles, feeling the quick growth to full erection. With his eyes half closed, he lay back and gazed at his glistening organ towering in front of the picture, casting a shadow across the desert.

Continuing to massage himself up and down, up and down, back and forth across his testicles, he focused sharply on Diane Webber’s arched back, her rising buttocks, her full hips, the warm, moist place between her legs; and he now imagined himself approaching her, bending down to her, and determinedly penetrating her from the rear without a word of protest from her as he thrust upward, faster faster, and upward, faster, and suddenly he could feel her buttocks pounding back against his thighs, her hips moving from side to side, he could hear her sighs of pleasure as he tightened his grip around her hips, faster, and then her loud cries as she came in a series of quick convulsions that he could feel as fully as he now felt her hand reaching back to hold his tight testicles exactly as he liked to have them held, softly, then more firmly as she sensed the throbbing, shuttering start of sperm flowing upward and gushing out in great spurts that he grabbed in both hands as he closed his eyes and felt it squirt through his fingers. He lay very quietly in bed for a few moments, letting his muscles relax and his legs go limp. Then he opened his eyes and saw her there, as lovely and desirable as ever.

Finally he sat up, wiped himself with two pieces of Kleenex, then two more because his hands were still sticky with sperm and lotion. He rolled the tissue into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket, not concerned that his mother might recognize it in the morning when she emptied the baskets. His days at

home were numbered. In a matter of a few weeks, he would be in the Air Force, and beyond that he had no plans.

He closed the magazine and placed it on the top of the pile in his closet. He put the wooden stand back under the bed. Then he climbed under the covers, feeling tired but calm, and turned out the light. If he was lucky, he thought, the Air Force might send him to a base in Southern California. And then, somehow, he would find her.