CHAPTER EIGHT: "Christmastime Lovin'"

I met Denny through his mother, Hell. She was in my bridge class up in Marysville, California around 1966. It was near Xmas. I was in an interlocutory divorce. In Kali Fornication @ that tx, you got an "interlocutory" divorce, which meant that your marriage would be legally ended after one year of court sanctioned seperation. My hub, Jim Murphy was a v.v.v. suck cess fool pharmaceutical salesman, ten years my senior. He'd grabbed me as a 16 year-old Davis, California high school student and impregnated me repeatedly to where we had three young boys. A girl had died a crib death. Probably because Jim and I smoked Marlboro Reds by the bushel basket.

So there I sat in a 5-bedroom house in the gold cunt tree with rowdy dad-missing little guise aged 4, 3 and 1. I suppose I was what you'd call a hot young divorcee. Five feet tall. Brunette (I wore my hair stacked up on top of my head, though it was fairly long when I took it down). Brown eyes, the men ALWAYS got mesmerized by my eyes. I dressed sharp. Tight skirts. Expensive sweaters. European heels. High as I could get 'em. I had a movie star nose, buck teeth, pretty lips. I'm not making this up. This is what the hordes of men who've been mashing me all my life have to say on the subject. They say I look like a hollywood actress. Joan Collins to be exact. I guess I do. The way she looks in "Rally Round the Flag, Boys" w/Paul what's his name. The salad dressing guy.

That was me in December 1966. Betty Murphy. Sounds Irish. Jim was Irish. Black Irish. I'm Italian/German.

I was a wizard at bridge, or anything mathematical. So I taught local housewives contract bridge to help make ends meet. Helen Stacy, Ram's mom, told me her son would be returning from a dangerous secret base over in Afghanistan or some weird-ass place or other. Most of the boys were in Viet Nam having their prix blowed off so the U$ could make munitions deals with Dow and Lockheed. The military-industrial complex or whatever ya call that evil shit.

Anywaze, she showed me his Air Force pix and he looked damn cute. I knew he was some kinda brain cuz he went to Yale to study Chinese or something. So I told Hell to have him call me for a date when he was in town. What the hail? I was horny, lonely and it was the holidaze. A nice, clean cut young guy like that? I'll bite...Besides, we were the same age more or less: I was 24, Rama Lama was 23.

So he did call on the day after Christmas and we had an hilarious hour-long chat by phone. He was the wittiest man I ever met. STILL. We went to a little bar I knew. They played Bossa Nova. That was the big jazz/pop thing of the day. You know, "Girl From Ipanema", "Desafinado", "One Note Samba", "Corcovado". Denny loved jazz. He even sat in on piano. I was smitten.

We danced close. The song was "So Nice". "Someone to hold me tight/that would be very nice...". I'll say! We stood by the small fireplace in the back of the neighborhood bar. Suddenly he kissed me. He stuck his tongue down my throat, actually. I was gagged. My husband didn't kiss like that. Jim was a smoocher, not a frencher like Ram. My head was spinning. We left the bar in two seconds flat and parked his brand new gun metal blue T-Bird (which he got, I guess, from saving his hazardous duty pay and band earnings) in front of my big house where a babysitter was getting $2/hour eating $25 worth of my food. I didn't mind that. Not THAT night. Because R.L. could kiss, girls. You'll wanna understand that. If you wanna know the Lamb. Or "The Oven" as I called him. His body heat was up there.

He came over every night after that, til all his leave he'd saved up with his big foreign duty assignment was used up. About a month or so....

We'd put the boys to bed and retire to the comfy leather couch in the living room. To make out for many, many wunnerful awunnerful hours on end. We were in love. We only wanted our bodies and mouths to be pressed tight. Nothing else. It was heaven on earth.

One night he took my white silk belt from my navy blue suit and lashed my wrists together behind my back and began kissing me more deeply and ardently than even HE usually did. I was raised strict cath-hole-lick so I got extra hot. Its all those pix of Jesus they show ya in parochial school. The stations of the cross.

Then he came back from an errand I sent him on to the hardware store with ten feet of sash cord. He promptly used that to hogtie me, wrists to ankles, on my stomach. On the floor. Plush carpet. Just cleaned. So my off-white new outfit (very high hem, Denny loved it) didn't get dirty. Although my feet were drawn up so tight, I was afraid the polish on my cream pumps would rub off on my butt. Worth it. Worth anything. AnyTHING.

Or he'd leave me tied and gagged in a smallish broom closet off the family-style kitchen with built-in appliances (most expensive floor plan in the development). He told me to pretend I was kidnapped. I was kidnapped. By Cupid. It was what they now call "Love Bondage". You get tied up as a symbol of something. Called love. Like, the "bonds of holy matrimony". Holy is right. I was ALL blissed out, day and night. Or "Night and Day" as Cole Porter had it in one of Rama Lama's fave standards.

Rama Lama liked my legs pulled up, curled up to where my short Sixties skirt hiked higher and higher. Of course, with my hands bound behind my back, it was difficult to adjust my outfit properly like any good catholic girl should. He slathered oil on my legs, baby oil, cocanut oil. Lit candles. Took Poloroids. I wanted him to. I still have them. I cherish them like my kids' shots. If you don't get it, turn the page.

Denny was gone on my legs. Most men were, at that age. Or when I was head cheerleader @ Davis High. I think my gams were ok. Maybe a teenie bit fat. With muscles. Especially my calves. They looked good in heels, from the back, I'm purty sure. Or hogtied.

Having such popped-up legs is probably what got me kidnapped and raped for real by that beast Jim Murphy. There oughta be a law. Well, there is. Jim was in the Air Force too, when he hooked me. He was @ Travis, near Davis. Came to a football game, saw my legs, goodbye life.

One last thing about being tied up by Rama, though. I didn't want him to gag me. You know, stick half a clean diaper in my mouth and bind it in with a blue bandana across my cheeks. I know, I know. Some girls like that part best. Well, he went right ahead and gagged me all the time anyway. I couldn't stop him, with my hands tied. But I wanted him to kiss me. Constantly. Kinda hard with your mouth stuffed with yesterdaze panties. I wanted him to gag me with his fat tongue like he did our first date. I wanted him to kiss me always. Kiss me forever. Dear Denny.....

But he had to report to Vandenberg AFB way down south near Lompoc, Kali. 3 or 4 hundred miles away. He came up weekends. The sex then was even MORE outrageous cuz we both very simply lived to be together. Close together, with our breath in each other's bodies.

I had to go back to my awful husband. The boys needed their dad. I couldn't keep up with the bills for a house like we had. It was my own private hell, as I told Helen, Ram's mom. It didn't really have anything to do with how much I loved Denny. That blew him away. He thought love conquered all. From reading all those plays and seeing all those movies and reading all those books. And listening to all those Bossa Nova songs. Silly boy!

When I told him it was over, he just asked "What about...when I tie you??". I told him "We'll ALWAYS have that....". And we do. I think about him every day of my life. Whether he comes on TV or not.

And I know that Rama Lama thinks about me, too. Every, every day.