I remember the first time the subject arose. We had just completed a lengthy, torrid session of lovemaking. By my count, D had three major orgasms judging from the spasmodic squeezes of her thighs and the sudden attempts to clench a non-existent handle of flesh on my back. And once again her sighs of gratification had involuntarily rolled from the depths of her throat. That was what always brought me to climax, listening to her husky but feminine voice turn to animalistic cries of passion.
Well, we were wrapped in the afterglow of wonderful sex and I wondered how I would recover the energy needed to dress. D dutifully reached down to remove the condom from my penis. She was very neat, and before I would move always responded to concerns about wetting the sheets with a timely concession to tidiness regarding the unfortunate messy details of lovemaking.
“Ever think of getting a vasectomy?”
The subject was thus introduced. She knew I hated condoms. And my distaste became more evident each time the revelry of satisfying sex had to be truncated due to the obligatory disposal of the slippery, semen-filled pouch.
So her timing was exquisite, fully aware that I preferred to remain semi-catatonic, lying next to her over heated, naked body, inhaling the familiar but pleasant aroma of combined perfume and musky feminine arousal rather than dealing with mundane sanitation. But alas, her concerns forced her to gently slide the wet rubber from my flaccid but still excited manhood, pinch off the opening, and trudge to the bathroom. Thus, the seed concerning vasectomy was planted at that particular point in time when the use of a condom seemed most inconvenient.
The retrieval and disposal signaled the end. I knew from countless Friday night dalliances that she would not return to bed, that the toilet would flush, that a fluffily robed D would quietly pad to the kitchen, and that the resulting smell of fresh brewed coffee was really a signal from her to commence my departure.
As I dressed, I called to the kitchen.
“You know I’ve never had children. Rather not close off that option right now.”
My pitched reply sounded more like a futile protest rather than a steadfast ‘no’.
My voice always came across as wimpy when I spoke to D. Not sure why. Probably because of her firm, no nonsense demeanor and the confident manner in which she carried herself. And there was her physical beauty, which also seemed to fill a room and deplete the oxygen required for speech.
I crawled out of bed and began to dress. By habit I always folded and placed my clothing atop the large, curious dog cage in the corner of D’s bedroom. I had known her for over a year and had rarely heard her mention her old pet, nor had I seen pictures of him.
She told me it was a large male mastiff that she had sent to a cousin’s farm, having finally deemed the suburbs too congested.
“Never had him fixed,” she explained. “He was all right with me, but some neighbors moved in with children. I didn’t trust the situation.”
I found it interesting that she never referred to the mastiff by his name.
When I picked up my slacks my fingers touched the strong steel bars. He must have been a very strong dog if it indeed required some two hundred pounds of steel to confine him. And the relatively large spacing between the bars was an ominous indication of his size. I felt relieved that he was sent away.
Each time I saw the cage, memories from childhood began to cascade. At one time my father raised minks. Beautiful but vicious, I was never permitted near the cages as a toddler. When my sister was born two years after me, mother became even more concerned about safety. Father kept at it until one day he commented that the market was soft and feed was expensive. The remaining minks were sold by the time I was four or five. But the cages remained in the yard and became great playhouses for my sister and me.
And for Eve. Yes. Any memories of the cages brought back thoughts about Eve. She was a neighborhood girl of my age. Many afternoons she played with my sister and no matter the activity, Eve and my sister always seemed to gravitate to our back yard where the cages became a fantasyland for childhood play. A castle. A cavalry fort. A large doll house.
Eve was a beautiful little girl. With her bright eyes and infectious smile she easily enticed me into playing along. It was quite a feat for her at that age. Boys didn’t normally participate in ‘girl’s games’ and although she promised not to tell anyone, afterwards she always did.
I was always given some demeaning role to play. The butler serving tea. The groom for the imaginary horses. And then there were the times Eve became the Queen of some feudal land and I became a serf. And most times a naughty serf for whom Eve would find need to punish.
“Take him to the dungeon,” she would roar in the mock authoritative voice of a ten year old. And my sister would lead me to a cage, close the door and report to the Queen with mock gravity, “The prisoner awaits your sentence.”
The first time I played along and just stepped out of the cage when I tired of the game. But the second time the game was proposed, the mischievous Eve, unbeknownst to me, had brought her bicycle lock. My enjoyment quickly turned to anger when I found myself locked away by two girls.
Yes, I suppose I could have torn my way out, the wood and wire mesh having deteriorated over the years. But that meant explaining the damage to my father with the possible result of permanently losing use of our play land.
So I sat while my fate was determined. And Eve could not help calling over more friends to form a jury, giggling away while my anger turned to frustrating embarrassment. Eve’s play always seemed to include some aspect in which she took devilish delight in degrading boys. Most boys would not play with her.
Strange to think back, as angry as I was concerning Eve’s deception, she convinced me to play again. She always wore the prettiest smile when she organized her games...
“When you want to get out, just ask,” was her simple suggestion. I did not realize that her definition of ‘ask’ was making me beg in front of my younger sister.
Yes, she had tricked me again and the bicycle lock was finally released when darkness signaled the end of a long afternoon of play. No one wished to incur the wrath of our parents by being late for dinner and Eve removed the lock and ran off before I could exit the cage.
I think that was the night I first masturbated. But the chronology of events becomes faded over the years.
I put aside old reminiscences and moved toward the kitchen where D awaited, simultaneously slipping into my shoes and walking.
“Do give it some thought, James. I’m as put off by condoms as you are. Consider it as a gift.”
She handed me coffee as she spoke. It really came across more as an ultimatum than a suggestion.
“I have a friend who can do it. We used to go to a winter spa together. It’s possible to combine a vacation along with the procedure. She can do it at the spa.”
She?...D noticed my reaction.
“Don’t be such a male chauvinist. There are many good female doctors. The procedure is more akin to getting a hair cut than a complicated operation.
“And the spa is wonderful. It’s in the Canadian Rockies. Built by the railroad many years ago. The only way in and out of the facility is by train. They never dug any tunnels for roads and in the winter nothing gets over the mountains. The snow accumulates to amazing depths.
“So you’ll get snipped, relax at the spa, and no one will infringe on your privacy.”
D smiled with the thought. When she did so it always highlighted both her beauty and her strength. It was not a silly, mirthful smile. It was instead one of confidence, signifying hidden knowledge and wisdom, somewhat condescending, but in a pleasant way.
We talked over coffee and I promised to give the vasectomy more thought. She hinted that it would make feasible longer, uninterrupted evenings. Afterwards, I again found her timing in making this suggestion to be exquisite. For thoughts of spending the night languishing in her warm bed and pressing against her hot body came to mind as the howling Midwest wind chilled me, while crossing the street and the car’s heater subsequently refused to function on the drive home.