I don't think I have ever had a homosexual experience that counted. I was molested twice as a child, once by an older boy, but I don't think that counted. The other time was by an older girl in the same apartment house who pretended to wrestle with me but was really intent on giving me an erection and feeling it bounce against her. That does count because it felt so nice. I was lucky. I was eager to have her do it to me again and lurked around her optimistically.

She didn't. Poor me. It's hard to believe one can experience such acute sensitivity and still be unable to come. How does it end? We can't remember. It peters out. Penny never has to be reminded to put her legs up and keeps them up for the longest time without complaining of aches or strains. She's good. She takes dancing lessons still (which might help), along with her singing lessons and exercise classes. At age thirty-two, she still wants to be Shirley Temple. For a little while last spring I had a nice-looking, slightly nutty, twenty-six-year-old, tall, ex-college kid from Ann Arbor, Michigan, I met at an office Christmas party who would start to come as soon as we began and raise her legs from feet to hips straight up toward the ceiling for as long as it took. I liked that: I liked her quick response and that feel of ass against my knees; it let me think I was getting away with something extra. She made shrill noises and I would have to muffle her mouth. (It was soon very tiresome listening to her. I do not think of it as doing something together and don't believe anyone else really does, either.) She got to be a nuisance and a bore. She had spare time. She's the one that made fun of my garters. I could not brook such churlish insolence to the Slocum name from such a woozy upstart (she did take drugs, which made her even more vapid still), and I began to snub and neglect her. I played on her ignorance and provincialism. (She really knew almost nothing.) She thought it was beautiful.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she would say.

Anyone could please her, and she left me in the warm weather for younger men in beach houses with less money who played volleyball in the sand but had more time to spend with her. I tried to get her back but failed. She jilted me. (I had to face the fact I bored her, too.) She outgrew me, saw through me. There was degradation — oh, boy — turned down by her. She had never seen men's garters before or noticed them in fashion ads, and she had never heard of Camus, Copernicus, or Soren Kierkegaard (the three big K's, ha, ha), either. She found my garters quaint and curious; she never actually ridiculed them, but her amusement was insult enough. I guess men's garters do look funny. I had to employ some technique, though, for keeping my socks up during important business meetings. I've switched to full-length stretch socks now — always dark, except in summer at the country or shore or on weekends at somebody's club. (I won't join a club until I've got the new job and know I can keep it.) They look funny too. Stretch socks choke. I shove them down around my ankles whenever I can in order to release my calves from their abrasive grip. With my dark socks down, my ankles remind me of shifty, slimy men I used to see in dirty movies, the kind of unshaven, evil sneak who'd sidle close and feel my wife or daughter up on crowded trains or come on Penny's pretty skirt and make a mental note (perhaps even jot it down industriously on a small record pad) that his day as a molester was off to a shooting start. I bet these people organize their work week around their sly, depraved perversions. (I've got them ghosting around inside the narrow passageways of my brain also, with this difference. They aren't ghosts. I feel it when they walk about.) They try to take what doesn't belong to them. What do they do on vacations? I wonder how the poor creatures got along before there were buses and subways. What effect will growing investments in mass transportation have upon their activities, particularly in respect to productivity and competition? Will the liberated woman feel back? Will the homosexual liberated woman on crowded buses and trains start feeling my wife and daughter up also? Maybe people will begin riding the subway trains just to be felt up. They could sell tickets, raise the fare. I see a panoramic mural. (My wife thinks I have a dirty mind.) Imagine the trainloads of smiling faces. No one would want a seat. Every hour a rush hour, every rush a crush hour. That could be a partial solution to the energy crisis. (A lot of energy would be discharged.) After all, the opportunities for being felt up in one's own automobile aren't that promising, unless you're my daughter or one of her teen-age friends, or a college kid, although I've done some hearty automobile groping myself from time to time, most recently while being driven home from a party by the heavyset wife of one of our millionaire corporation executives. She wore heavy perfume I didn't like and took me by surprise.

"Do you have to go right home?" she asked unexpectedly. "Or aren't you afraid of your big, mean wifey?"

"No to both," I responded with terse bravado. "What do you have in mind?"

"Lover's lane," she announced, then tittered a moment. "Do you know where lover's lane is?" she asked. "Right here," she answered with another laugh, and touched herself.

She was a millionaire's frolicsome wife with a double chin and acrid perfume I didn't like, and I had always had to respect her (because she was a millionaire's wife. I was afraid of her husband). She was four years older than I was and had a hearty, predatory vivaciousness about her. She made fun of my shy caution and was entertained by my ignorance and naпvete.

"I've got a reputation as big as this whole county, baby. Oh, have you got a lot to learn. Didn't you know that?"

I felt like a yokel. "Does Bill know?"

"A lot I care. I'm a free spirit, puddy poo. I do what I want."

"Will Bill know about me when he finds you dropped me off?"

"Don't be such a worry wart," she chided with a squeaky titter.

My skin prickled, and I thought for a moment she might pinch my cheek or tweak my nose. She tore her stockings at the knees on the floorboard of her car and stuffed them in her purse before she started driving again.

"I can't walk in with these, can I? I'll call you in the city. I come in every Wednesday to see my mother."

"I have an apartment."

"We own a co-op."

"Will Bill know?"

"Don't be such a worry wart."

"Don't use that phrase. It makes my skin prickle."

"Your skin prickles easily, I've noticed."

"It isn't fitting for a woman of your position."

"I'll show you some new ones. Bill and I have an understanding."

"What does that mean?"

"I do what I want. And he can go to hell if he doesn't like it."

"That's some way to talk about a millionaire."

"Puddy poo."

When she called on Wednesday, I didn't want to see her again and told her I had a meeting. (I was afraid of Bill, and I didn't think I ever wanted to see again someone who had called me puddy poo.)

"I'm at the hair dresser," she said on Thursday the week after.

"I was expecting you yesterday," I lied again.

"You'll have to take me when you can get me. Let's have lunch."

"It can't he done."

"I'll pay."

"It's not that."

"You think I'm homely?"

"No. I think you're sexy as hell."

"So does he, puddy poo."

"Who?"

"The guy I'll meet instead. You're not the only fish in the sea, baby. We'll talk about you."

"Does he know me?"

"We'll have a big laugh."

"Who is it?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

(I began to feel she had the whammy on me.) I began to believe she would come up to the office unannounced at any time just to make a fool of me in front of the others there.