She lay on the sands of Alameda sunning herself, her back to the behemoth of the Naval Air Station, attempting to ignore its overwhelming presence in her life in that late summer of 1972.
Perspiration glistened on her twenty-five year young body, and a sip of beer refreshed her as it slid coolly down her throat. Stephanie tried to think about something, anything other than the loneliness and frustration of the separation from her husband. He adored her and would eagerly do anything for her. But how could he give her what she needed when he was at sea? The immense aircraft carrier wouldn't be back from practice runs for another week. She'd be there, waiting on the huge docks as the gray warrior slowly approached the pier. Glenn would be peering from the flight deck, attempting to catch a glimpse of her, and a half-hour later he'd come flying down the gangplank. They'd go to the apartment halfway up the Oakland hills, walk down to the Baskin-Robbins for a hot fudge sundae, and perhaps make love that night.
Stephanie had plenty of practice being a sailor's wife. Two years at Mare Island began to teach patience when he didn't come home every fourth night, standing guard over school buildings and barracks that no one would ever bother to attack. During the first VietNamese cruise she'd gone back to the Midwest to live with her mother, a frustrating experience during which she realized, for the first time, that she was a girl no longer, but a woman with mature needs and desires. During Glenn's second cruise she stayed out in California, living in an old apartment building near Lake Merritt next to another wife. Lenore was fun, and they'd assuaged the temptations of being alone by constantly checking up on each other. But then her friend's husband was discharged, and Stephanie lost her girlfriend, confidant and chaperone. Now Stephanie lived in a much more modern place, but the lack of company was driving her nuts.
She looked around the beach in hopes of finding a diversion. Women like her sunning themselves. Were they also waiting for their husbands to return from the sea? A volleyball game played by bronzed youths. A frisbee landing in the tiny waves of the Bay retrieved by a Labrador. A solitary youth in cut-offs, patrolling the beach, long brown hair tumbling down his back. Would Glenn look good in long hair? Even if the Navy would allow him to go unshorn, would he let it grow to please her? The man, or was he a boy, checked her out and then moved on down the beach. She didn't mind, the ritual was part of the beach scene, and she knew the yellow bikini showed off her best feature, long legs on a five foot ten frame. She had full breasts, not too large, and some men's glances lingered there, pondering the flesh beneath the bra. Most men never got up as far as the face framed by long brunette hair, a little stringy, with a long and pointed nose that she hated. If they bothered to talk to her, most of the time she just flashed her ring finger at them, and they'd move on.
Damn, the next year was going to be hard. Glenn would be back for a few weeks, but then he'd be gone again for nine months as the ship voyaged 7,000 miles across the Pacific to launch bomb-laden airplanes over the jungles of Southeast Asia. Would this war ever be over? But soon after the deployment, Glenn's term of service would be finished. After four and a half years, she could hold out another seventeen months, couldn't she?
The guy in cut-offs, now a hundred yards away, turned and started back. She enjoyed his trim silhouette against the glint of sunlight. He was really young, she could tell now. Stephanie remembered how Glenn treated her when they had first started making love in the summer after she graduated. When they got the chance, they did it over and over again, sometimes three or four times in a single hour. She didn't have the experience to appreciate the attention then. Now, it was all changed. Didn't they say that a woman's sexual peak was in her mid-twenties? Just because her husband wasn't around didn't mean she didn't have desires. Quite the opposite, in fact. She recalled with shame how just last month she had sampled illicit relief.
What had she been thinking? A Friday night, and isolation had driven her to a bar a few blocks away. A good-looking guy bought her a second rum and coke, and then a third. Dancing to the beat of the jukebox, he tried to hold her intimately. She knew she had, unintentionally she was sure, given him some hope. After the fourth drink, she told him she had to go home, and when he insisted on driving her, she didn't resist very hard. She let him kiss her in the car, and then she took his hand and led him up the stairs to the apartment. Somehow, she was a little surprised when she was naked and lying on her back, the first time she'd been with a man other than Glenn. She wasn't even sure she had an orgasm, but that wasn't extraordinary. Most of the time with Glenn she didn't come either. After the guy drank a beer, he escaped into the night, clutching her phone number, but of course he never called. Just as well, she lamented. For a few days, she tried to tell herself that she was drunk, that she'd been raped, but she knew it was a lie. She'd had, deep inside her that night, a need to get laid, and she'd walked to the bar subconsciously wishing for it. In the following days, remorse made her ill. For the first time in months she fled to the confessional, promising the hidden priest she wouldn't ever do it again, and returning the next day for Mass. She dreaded her husband's return, sure that with one glance he'd detect her adultery. In the end, she'd been able to act naturally, showering him with consideration, baking his favorite cake, letting him choose the movie, and even giving him the unusual treat of a blowjob.
Still, she remembered the sensation of the other man's attentions, how he kissed her, undressed her, gently laid her on the bed, fondled her breasts, and then covered her with himself, thrusting his member into the dark gully of her sex. In some indiscernible way his lovemaking had been different. Perhaps it was that his tool was a novel size, or that there were exotic scents, or that his movements inside her touched unexplored regions. When he spurted, she remembered pushing her groin firmly against his, wanting to secure all of his juice deep in her innards, almost as an animal instinct. Lying here on the beach, she was certain that the reminiscence of the strange body on top and inside of her was causing her to blush. She wanted to put her hands between her legs, to bring herself off as she often did in her bed at night, to pretend he was still fucking her.
Suddenly she heard a voice say "Hi," shocking her out of daydream. It was the good looking kid, returning from his inspection of the seashore. Damn, he probably caught her staring at him. "Hi yourself," she smiled, and he sat down in the warm sand beside her.
"My name's Chuck."
"Stephanie. My friends call me Steph." His pick up lines were naïve, and she figured he was a senior in High School. She decided not to blow him off, to let him stay. Just someone to talk to. He watched her as she raised the beer to her lips and took a long swallow.
"That looks good."
"It is," she responded. She got the last two bottles of Olympia out of the cooler, pried the caps off, and handed one to him. She could tell from his tentative manner of swigging the beer that he wasn't used to drinking, at least not in public. Despite his youth, he was likeable, and Stephanie appreciated the company. He really was handsome, and the firmness of his young body aroused her. The John Lennon glasses were pretty sexy, too. If he were a few years older, and she was single, what would happen, she wondered? Chuck guzzled his beer while Steph sipped hers. By the time she was done, the late afternoon wind through the Golden Gate was beginning to chill the sweat on their bodies. It was time to leave, but the idea of another lonely night spent by herself depressed her.
"Want another beer?" she asked.
"Sure."
"We'll have to go to my place. It's about five miles away. Do you mind?" Nothing was going to happen, she was sure. He was just going to be company.
"Okay. I've got nothing going."
Chuck gathered the beach towel, cooler, and romance paperback while Steph slipped into her cover-up. On the way to the car, Chuck picked up a T-shirt and a pair of tennis shoes. Stephanie unlocked the red VW bug, got behind the wheel, and leaned over to let Chuck into the passenger seat. She realized, too late, that he had gotten a pretty good view down her bra. The idea that he might have even seen a nipple sort of thrilled her. Oh, well, no harm done. A U turn, and they were soon passing through the Webster Tunnels and up into the McArthur district.
"How old are you, Chuck?" she asked.
"Nineteen," he responded without hesitation. Six years younger than she, and at their ages, six years was a lifetime. She wondered if it was true, if he was even younger.
"Still in High School?" she challenged.
"No, graduated in June. I'm going to the College of Alameda now."
"Still living at home?"
