Naked Aggression

Susan and I would take in occasional services at the Temple, which is blocks from my home and adjacent to Nashville's most famous plantation, the Belle Meade Mansion, and is Nashville's wealthiest Jewish congregation and which was undergoing extensive and expensive renovation at that time. I felt uncomfortable attending but not belonging to the congregation there. I also was no fan of the uber liberal politics there. Susan would always be off to some alleged class or another or on an errand. We spent little time together and she drove to West Virginia to be with her family on any extended break from work where she had scheduled four days on, three days off to facilitate the trips home. We would split the times we were together, which were to me gallingly infrequent, between my parents' home where I was still helping with physical care, mostly of my dad, and upkeep and her condo. We would have sex almost invariably when we were together with me complying with her demand to pull out and her lack of concern if I had any pleasure. I ended up with prostatitis to go along with a varicocele that I had been battling since my late teens which was torqued into excruciating pain by not being allowed to ejaculate. Susan enrolled in yet another series of classes, this one at the Watkins Institute of Art downtown which has subsequently moved and become a college. Susan had showed me raku pots that she said she had thrown in pottery class at Marshall and also said she had studied printmaking there, so I presumed she had an interest in art and a modicum of ability. Susan also began to express an interest in modelling which like beginning dance classes at her age, I found rather odd for a professional woman approaching thirty. On nights I would stay at the condo, Susan would read after our coital adventure, generally Dolly Parton's biography which she kept at the bedside but occasionally a tome called Skinny Legs and All, a book from one or another of her classes, or very rarely from her Bible. If I fell asleep under the glaring light and awoke, I would often find her sleeping with the light on either not having progressed at all in the text or evidently reading the same page or passages over and over again. I was permitted to stay at the condo and sometimes left the keys. I would not answer her phone but let the messages go through to the machine when I would stay there. Some seemed normal and family or work related but about half a dozen of them came from people, generally male and sometimes the same man asking her to pose. I would ask her when she would return home and play her messages off, what that was about but she assured me that her modelling was above board for fashion or products-for instance being "a hand model for products", she said, asking me if I had any idea the kind of big money a good hand model could make. I was really disturbed by one call from a gruff-sounding redneck of about fifty I would guess from the voice, saying he was coming in from Huntington and would take her out for "cocktails". This one I could not let pass and confronted her on. "Who in the hell is that?" I asked as she played his message off the answering machine. She replied, as seemed to be her pat answer about any male she was acquainted with in her "virgin" past, "that he was a 'gay' older man she knew back home. He didn't sound the least bit gay to me and if he were, why did he want to go out with her? She said she would not go out with him to reassure me but with her always bound for some class or errand, I have no idea whether she saw him. We were in a neighboring community one day called Franklin, dining and antiquing when she left the antique mall and was going to pick something up at a Big Lots in the same strip of shops. After a while, I became bored with the old stuff and followed her into Big Lots to find her talking to a mid-twenties construction worker/ farmer type in the coveralls and work boots, seemingly with great familiarity. I stole up from behind and inquired, " Who is your friend?" The young man was between our heights, about 5-8, probably 160 but all muscle and probably could have broken me in two or cut me to pieces, but Susan who seemed really miffed by my stealthy approach and the question said "nobody", and we left without further incident. Susan had given me professionally made photos of herself on my birthday our first year together. They were framed nicely and she was nicely dressed. One afternoon at the condo, Susan said she had a surprise to show me and came out with a bound portfolio behind her back. She showed me photos which she said were taken at the same session as the birthday gifts where she wore different outfits down to lingerie photos. She said they were all part of the same glamour package she had given herself as a gift in her early twenties to record her youthful beauty. She looked good in most of them but fat in the face in others. She held pages down to conceal certain photos from me-"What are those? The nudies?" I joked. Susan was still pursuing an aspiration to model and I started to notice she would walk around the condo, frequently nude or topless with the curtains opened. I would rush to close the drapes as traffic rushed by on West End Avenue or a field full of Nashville's most affluent boys would play football or lacrosse across the way at their prep school with me fearing everyone could get a gander at her immodesty. Susan also started to completely shave her pudenda at this point, coming out to surprise me one night, asking me, "Who is Daddy's little girl again?" I let her know that wasn't my deal-I liked some hair there, from natural to nicely trimmed to a landing strip or Mohawk, but none of that Daddy's little girl shit for me. Susan seemed to agree and let the black curls start to grow back out. But she would alarmingly be at her window or patio door naked and would want to make love in public places, on the large campus near her home, on the little side streets off West End in her tiny Toyota, once in my car in my late grandmother's driveway with my dad pulling in in his Lincoln as Susan deftly leaped with her naked ass over the backseat into the hatch of my Blazer to retrieve her clothes and dress, with me simply zipping up my fly. I asked my dad if he saw anything later, and perhaps just being cool, he said he did not. I am not particularly modest or an exhibitionist either, for that matter, just a guy who like most others will take a piece of pussy any chance and any way he can get it under most circumstances. I used to hate the "give me a piece" expression but Susan would use it frequently-"Come get you a piece", "break you off a piece", "lick my clitty and take you a piece of this pussy" were her crude ways of offering up some loving. I always obliged though-I guess I had a strong libido. One night I arrived at the condo and was greeted with her in a teddy and burning candles, but unlike other episodes, Susan had the lights on as well. She had something to show me. She produced a charcoal female nude and asked me if I "know who this is?" "Sophia Loren," I retorted, guessing from the perfect proportions which looked nothing like Susan ever had, particularly at this point where she had starved, vomited, and exercised herself down to an A-cup breast and incidentally into amenorrhea. Susan said curtly, "No-that's me." The picture may have been herself idealized but looked nothing at all like her. She began to blow out candles or extinguish them with a dome or her hand and said "leave". I immediately regretted the Sophia remark as Susan was angry and asked her who did the drawing. She said, "I did." And I tried to deflect the conflict by saying how nice the charcoal was as "a work of art." That did not seem to placate her and she yelled, "Now, take your little dick and get." As a point of information and clarification, my penis is slightly longer than average and of average girth as Susan had earlier measured it. I was angry at her assault on my manhood and told Susan if there were a hundred girls our age in a room, by looks alone, she would be about the sixtieth I'd try to pick up. She was deeply hurt by this and jibed back, "Well if you just had about two inches more dick , you could satisfy a woman"-keep in mind that I never permitted myself to cum until she had orgasmed and was not faking at this point and until the last months of our relationship. I would always willingly eat her pussy until my jaw ached and my face and hair were soaked in her juices. She called her mother who I heard tell her to "Come on back home-baby," without Susan having shared the details of the argument. For the first and only time to Susan, I mimicked her mother's drawl and told her "Now, you get along home, ya hear," as I kicked the cinder block wall by the elevators as she followed me out in a bathrobe to continue the argument. Note: I have occasionally battered walls or doors in my lifetime after seeing one of the Bridges brothers in a movie where he was taught you can fix things if you break them but not people. Susan went home to mother.