Humping with Howdy 2.

“Hello, new hire,” I greeted him. “We do know how now, don’t we?” I got that same tiny kiss that I’d felt the night before and let him return his knee against me. I didn’t open my eyes. Then he’d know that I knew that he knew. The fun of love is complex, isn’t it?

We’d have lots of time to perfect the foreplay. Brothers and sisters make a pretty good team at whatever because we know who’s good at figuring out what. Lovemaking would be a piece of cake.

I figured (correctly, fortunately) that this was a safe period for me. Being Catholic, you get an explanation about when in your cycle. It’s not assumed you’re always a good Catholic, I guess, because the information’s left where you’ll find it long before you’re getting married.

We first saw each other naked in the shower next morning, but only the visual aspect was novel. I knew this guy perfectly, just not exactly how he fit together. I’d first felt a penis last night. I first saw one this morning. I told him, no way would I do it in the bathroom, but I was pleased how seeing me made him ready. Same effect beside him in the airplane that afternoon. You can throw a little blanket over you if you’re cold. Coming to Detroit, he’d teased my breast. Leaving, it was only justice.

Do you suppose Howdy and Heidi ever traveled together and maybe got booked into the same room because they were both surnamed “Doody”? Do you suppose that Heidi ever helped Howdy out of his neckerchief and turned out the light? On the plane trip home, at least they’d have been in the same trunk.

“Howdy. It’s dark in here.” “Yeah, Heidi. The Princess’ gown should work, you think?” “She says it slips right off for a quickie.” “For you to lie on, dummy.” “I’m not a dummy, I’m a marionette. Anyway, Flub-a- dub’s in here too.” “Well they forgot animal part number nine.” “It would have been interesting.”

DETROIT, SEPTEMBER 1971

We moved to Motown that summer. So did lots of “Black and Proud” performers.

We’d share an apartment until we found our own places, we told people. We did better than an apartment, though — a duplex between our respective schools. The owners, who lived in the other half, presumed we were married. We didn’t lie; we just didn’t correct. They might have thought us weird, brother and sister shacking up.

We weren’t weird at all. Since our trip, we’d made love pretty much daily and not one time in any uncomfortable or unnatural position. Who wants to stand on your head or whatever when you can rock above him and make him plead for mercy? You want weird sex? Look around your office, maybe.

We handled the DPS paperwork without evasion, but again without clarification. Insurance is the only benefit where having a spouse really matters, but it’s cheaper for two employees to be individually covered. We had one form where we ticked “single”, but it was a mimeographed page related to some forgotten purpose without cross-reference. There’s no cross-checking of DPS files unless they suspect you’re unduly claiming something. We each claim one on our W-2’s and DPS would never see our two returns, truthfully submitted. Don’t fool around with a 1040. Not being legally wed doesn’t deprive any government of a penny.

DPS policy disallows direct spousal supervision, so I can’t be Samuel’s principal and he couldn’t be mine if we’re a unit in their eyes. So what? Years later I heard of a principal who married one of her teachers and to avoid being transferred, never told anyone. It wasn’t against policy for them to just live together. Strange morality.

At the end of the day, people believe what they assume they already know. If you suggest the contrary, they just harden their preconception. We’re married in both the physically intimate sense and the socially apparent sense, but it would be criminal if we had a license. Strange morality.

We try to minimize mistruths. My “maiden” name is my real middle name, Sidney, so my driver’s license is totally legit. The growing-up stories we tell others more or less match reality, just that we were each only children. We just say we’re from Normal, which is true. Our anniversary is the day of our interview when we first made love, better than you can say for many newlyweds. We don’t wear rings, but that sort of formality is optional these days.

VISITING THE FOLKS

As long as they were with us, Mom and Dad thought it prudent, their single children sharing the rent while we pursued Big City careers and found spouses to provide them grandchildren. We must have just seemed slow in the latter. Basically they didn’t visit our way; we visited them, reverting to our childhood rooms and sneaking conjugal moments when the opportunity presented.

Once Mom came upstairs when we were sudsy in the shower. Mom knew that we were both in the bathroom, so I had to insinuate through the door that Samuel was behind the curtain and I’d come because I had to pee really bad. It made more sense to Mom than Samuel scrubbing my shoulders. We made love on the towels, it was so funny. (I guess Samuel did have me in the bathroom, after all.) Everybody has some story about almost getting caught having sex. My friend Stacy almost lost her black plastic sheet at a rainy football game, a much funnier story, but it was just with her boyfriend.

Then there’s Samuel’s physical fitness story. We were home for Christmas and Samuel found my Mr. Howdy in a box and put him on the far side of his bed where I’d notice. So I snuck in for a hostage rescue, but as I knew would happen when I crawled over to grab him, it was a trap. I was ready, wearing my nightie that pulls inside-out over my head if I resist with my elbows out. Since he’d tricked me (the clever brother!), he got to have his way which was pretty fun for a cold winter’s night, even with my head trapped inside the flannel while he tormented me.

But I guess beat a little cadence. At breakfast Dad asked what was the banging about? Without missing a beat, Samuel said he did pushups every day, but had forgotten until he was in bed. In truth, he was doing pushdowns. You can’t do real pushups on a mattress, the exercise kind, anyway. My kind you could do, though.

BIRTHDAY PARTIES

The big event of the American Bicentennial was my turning 30! I’d always thought that was so old, so now I had to change the threshold. We had a Howdy party, everyone a character. Samuel was Howdy. He said I had to be Heidi, but I said it was my party and I got to be the Princess. I’d be Heidi afterwards, I promised, and wore an appropriately revealing Indian costume. It revealed under the beaded neckline when I served the grape punch, anyway. Indian Princesses never wear White-man’s goods.

Ralph Brownel, my principal, was Buffalo Bob because he had a great cowboy shirt. He had me refill his punch cup a bunch, the rascal. My friend Ruth Ann was Mr. Bluster. She tried to freeze Howdy with an ice cube so she could fleece his pockets for a magic key. We made Marian who teaches math be Clarabell. She’s the chattiest one at school and we only allowed her to honk her horn. For a little bit, anyway.

Ruth Anne gave me a Howdy silver-plated ice-tea spoon. Jack and Sandra gave me a Welch’s jelly glass with Howdy and Princess in yellow clapping for a trained seal. “Drinking Grape Juice is Seal’s Favorite Act.” This 30-year-old Heidi’s favorite act likewise involves a fluid that stains, but not purple.

Samuel was probably a little miffed about my Indian attire and I was a bit chagrinned how thoroughly Ruth Anne pickpocketed his jeans (and how red my brother got). She really tried out a lot of magic words checking out his right front pocket.

Being such a loyal guy, Samuel felt obliged to confess before I turned out the lights. Ruth Anne had made him hard and squeezed all the time she was investigating. I knew that, of course, from watching. Howdy might have had a special hiding place inside his jeans, I explained, so the villain would need to reach deeply. Or maybe she thought it was a magic key the way it grew when she held it. I think it’s pretty magic, anyway.

And now Ralph couldn’t fire me, I proposed, because then he wouldn’t get invited to my next birthday party. Everybody was just being silly the way a Howdy party should turn out.

I rode Samuel from the top, slipping him in and out until we were both dripping. I floated in the air at the end.

And Ruth Anne is so honest that she told me the same thing on Monday, that probably she shouldn’t have and not to worry; his response was involuntary. I told her that she could keep being Mr. Bluster if it was just at my birthday parties. Don’t make him come or anything, though. He’d die. I owed her big for how he proved himself after everyone left. She was probably the second one to feel him ever, which she couldn’t believe. One more than how many guys ever searched my pockets, I admitted. She said for us to keep it that way. But that her being number two just meant that it shouldn’t get to number three, not that she couldn’t keep being Mr. Bluster. We about cracked up.

We throw Howdy parties still. Mr. Bluster plays tricks on Howdy that stay right in the living room and seem to involve something tactile. One time Ruth Anne had us zigzag boy-girl-boy-girl on our backs on the carpet with our head on the next person’s tummy and say, “Howdy” so many times in sequence. Ruth Anne ended up just a little low on Howdy and Ralph ended up a little high on my Princess outfit. Ralph just happened to be standing by me when we had to get down.

Once Mr. Bluster stole all the light bulbs and Howdy and I had to sing “Happy Trails” without making a mistake. Mr. Bluster was right behind Howdy and I’m sure it was Ralph behind me who made me mess up. I suspected collusion when Mr. Bluster announced that lights would be restored with enough lead-time for Ralph to finish.

Before Ruth Anne arrives, Samuel always says he won’t let her goose him again. Afterwards, he sort of confesses she did. She confirms that he succumbs surprisingly readily. When he had to sing “Happy Trails” in the dark, for example, Howdy seemed to know where to stand. Her little flirtations tell him that he’s not a square. We need our little ventures, constrained as we bind them.

Your brother doesn’t need to know both halves always. “I always enjoy coffee with Ruth Anne after the party, hearing about how she goosed you. She must be really good at it, it sounds. Maybe you and Ralph can have a beer over how he felt me up.” Samuel doesn’t know about Ralph’s little tricks, of course, because he might not understand.

Ruth Anne says that maybe they’ll get transformed into a two-headed puppet where they share the same cardboard body tube the whole evening. Howdy’s arms will be outside and hers inside. Head #1 can whisper things to Head #2. Samuel won’t know that I’ll know what’s coming. I’m not sure I should. Yeow!

BEING CATHOLIC

Buffalo Bob and Howdy would tell you to go to church. That’s what they said, not, “place of worship or meditation”. If you were a Jewish kid, you knew they meant synagogue too and didn’t sue.

“Young Marrieds” at our parish in Detroit is a regular part of our week. We’re mostly professionals, came because of jobs, stayed because we’re family. Actually, we’re also ex-marrieds and not-marrieds. Doesn’t matter. Nobody’s suing.

Mom and Dad were so glad that we went to Mass. We’d always refer to “our church friends”, not the other name. All these years later, we’re still the “Young Marrieds” and the younger clusters of congregants have to find names like “Seekers”. Sorry, but we got our name first.

Growing up Catholic is pretty similar wherever it happens — same Mass, same stories. There’s the one about the two nuns who always ride their bicycles to church. One day they take a different route. One of the Sisters remarks, “I never came this way before,” to which her companion replies, “Must be the cobblestones.” Pretty bad, but Catholic boys think it’s clever. You’d have to really be good to get it on while balancing your bicycle.

And we all heard the one about the novitiate masturbating in the nave. Mother Superior enters to pray. “Stop that, Sister! You’ll go blind!” The girl whispers back, “Mother, I’m over here!”

We have our opinions about women being excluded from the Priesthood, but when Caritas needs relief supplies for Africa, we Young Marrieds kick in. It’s called being Christians.

Father Thomas’ (accent on the “mas” because he’s from Mexico) nuptial advice is perfectly sound for couples of whatever bond: Celebrate your commitment and leave space for personal growth. If he’d explicitly ask about our bond, I’d confess and he’d forgive me. He didn’t boot Anne and Paul for living together; he helped them make it for life. All us Young Marrieds went to their wedding. Paul’s family being Czech (East European anyway), we danced and downed lots of toasts. Samuel even did, which was really fun! You need a Czech band? Detroit has them. Great city.

It’s sad that we could never have Father Thomas’ type of blessing, but what follows the aisle march is more important. What priest would imagine two parishioners doing what we do? Maybe Father Thomas would let us live it out. I would be a tough one for him because he’s pretty caring.

BEING AMISH

You can fool some of the people all of the time… You know the rest. Girlfriends figure out pretty quickly that he’s your brother. We talk too much and guys don’t talk enough. Basically my friends waited for me to talk when I felt ready. Nobody says it’s terribly wrong. My friends that are married don’t tell their husbands, which is interesting. Samuel doesn’t even know that they know.

Susan says that she’d have done better with her brother than the ass who ditched her. She needs to get over her bitterness first, though.

Susan’s a biologist and says that sibling mating is genetically OK if your ancestors weren’t siblings too, if you get the meaning. Too many generations running, though, have left the Amish with an abnormal degree of dwarfism. The Amish aren’t as careful about family ties as they are about electricity. Lots of siblings + Candlelight + Comfy feather ticks + Rejection of birth control = More children slipped into the family tree as late arrivals.

“Why, that Esther all but gets her first baby where she’s ’bout old enough to start socializing and the woman goes and has another! Never even looked pregnant this time. ‘Fraid this one’s on the short side, but it’s great there’s that big sister to baby-sit when Esther’s over at her brother’s. Wish I could loose some weight like that girl did. She was getting right hefty. And isn’t it something how Esther’s oldest boy is so sweet to his new baby sis.”

Since Amish don’t believe in zippers, imagine brother’s buttons getting undone while sister lifts her apron. “This way we don’t have to wait for Runspringa to learn with our stupid cousins.” Runspringa is when 16-year- olds bed in lieu of worldly dates. We learn such tidbits teaching social studies. Look it up! Supposedly they sleep fully dressed. What that means, I’m sure, is that they slip under the covers fully dressed and arise likewise.

“Hey, Frieda. After such a nice sunset trot, let’s turn this buggy back to your place so we can sleep together. It’ll be weird going to bed in these overalls.”

After evening devotions led by Frieda’s father and all the kids are upstairs, “Be careful, Jacob. I straight- pinned my frock like they teach us in church.”

And after some trouser buttons, “Oh, Jacob! Our moms decided right, thinking we should get to know each other.” “Know'” is a Biblical term, of course.

After protracted rustling, “So’d my sis teach me OK, Frieda? I know another way, even.” Guys, Amish or any kind, aren’t too secure about themselves sometimes.

“Well, my brother always makes sure I get there with him, whichever way we do it. Grossmudder Katie says that shoofly pie helps guys last. You little kids can scoot closer up now so you don’t get cold.”

Maybe Harrison Ford helped the Amish gene pool in “The Witness”. Every guy at the barn-raising probably had Kelly McGillis’ exact chromosomes. I use the Amish as an example of American’s multicultural makeup, but don’t teach about their courting rituals.

Oh my, this is so terrible! But the medical consequences are irrefutable. I’ll tell you this, though. They may not be into light bulbs, but when their Mennonite Central Committee needs a power generator for a refuge camp in Africa, those Plain Folks kick in. It’s called being Christians.

KARLA

My friend Karla has sex with her brother, but they don’t feign matrimony, Karla’s real one being a formidable barrier. I wouldn’t like the duplicity, but Karla’s Karla. She screws a few DPS guys as well. Samuel and I have an open invitation for what Karla calls an “overnight” when her husband’s gone, which is pretty often. As she slyly phrases it, “Brothers can get confused in the dark. It’d be good chance spend time with the one we’ve known the shortest.” At least she’s honest.

If Samuel and I aren’t ready, she concedes, it’d be fun to watch a video and pair up the way we came. It might be, but I suspect she’d want us four together for the duration. I can already hear her line, “Let’s all kick off our shoes and stretch out on our king-size. We have a video player in there too.” I’ll bet she has some interesting videos.

Karla’s frankness has helped me be more straightforward about my own activity, both self-achieved and with my brother. To say that I put Samuel’s erect penis in my vagina, that’s what I say. For a long time I’d have been more circumspect.

She and I agree that the tone of sibling relationship is set early on. Samuel’s come to respect the way a woman honors affection. I taught him what I know, at least.

Karla, on the other hand, came to know sex via her brother’s adolescence. She says she always liked it, but basically he raped her since she was little. He’d give her candy at first. When his friend spent the night, they’d both visit her room. She knows beaucoup more about technique and anatomy than do I, but I know more about the afterwards. No wonder she’s always looking for another partner.

With her blouses, though, she should wear a slip to teach English in.

JOAN

Joan, who teaches Spanish and who’s always been single, had a different reaction. “Lucky to have one, a brother,” she smiled, drumming her fingers on the Teachers Lounge tabletop, Doody-vintage Formica.

“Yeah, but he works too much,” I agreed, drumming my fingers back and humming a few Howdy Doody bars. We both blushed.

“No choice for me,” Joan admitted, “especially watching Robert Redford.” This was when he was still married to his first spouse. Women respect that sort of thing. When they start sleeping around Hollywood, knocking up the 19-year-old aspirants, they’re still sex symbols, but not as special.

(It’s intriguing to imagine the start of Redford’s career. Him the new boy in town. Starlet Judy Tyler just a little older. Both knockdown beautiful. Maybe his first Hollywood party. Her red convertible.)

“Then let’s go see ‘Out of Africa’. Samuel wouldn’t get why what’s-her-name stayed there to grow coffee,” I suggested, still drumming.

She unbuttoned a button so I could see her lace. “It’s hot in Africa, right?” I giggled when she pretended to undo the next.

We caught it at CineMax, splurged for $2 popcorn and sat in the back. “Better for the eyes,” Joan justified.

Joan elbowed me during Redford and Meryl Streep’s torrid coupling. I’d been damp since “I had a farm in Africa,” just thinking about where the two were heading. Sydney Pollack foreplays with his audience and I love it. Joan and I giggled and (not with each other, mind you, just side by side) touched ourselves.

Flying solo (sorry Joan, “sola”) in a theater can’t be broadcast, but still works. At home I can sit in my favorite chair, roll my clitoris and pull back on its hood. It’s really quick because I can watch. It’s never Meg Ryan’s “When Harry Met Sally” achievement, a wonderful enactment (a contended point in drama vs. reality debate) of sitting up, though.

It was neat, having a friend there, feeling her rhythm through the armrest. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Joan whispered before she tensed and leaned back, one hand still busy below, the other on her mouth, just in case.

“Just you and me and Howdy Do,” I replied, myself a minute behind. “Don’t need no mouse or kangaroo.” She held my elbow, which I though was sweet. Afterwards we bought each other banana splits, not realizing the phallicness until we got our tray. Did we laugh some more about that!

The lesbians sit in the back for the same reason boy- girl couples do, but this is about just regular girlfriends who retain their panties. Look for us next time you’re in at CineMax. We won’t stare back daring you to watch like the butch ones will. If it’s Robert Redford, the dykes are somewhere else and all of us are in love with Robert.

Keeping our response appropriate to the film pace is part of the fun. When Robert takes off his shirt, you can hear our symphony’s opening bars. If he’s in front of her and the camera shows her nude back, our seats sing. Sometimes another couple will sneak a wave at us afterwards. It’s sort of neat, girls guessing about us, us guessing about them.

These days if there’s a girlie movie, I call Joan and we wear our jogging pants and fancy bras. We laughed so much when we realized how we’d dressed the same. When it’s safe sometimes, we take our bras off during the first scene, just to be sexy. We check inside the other’s top so she doesn’t cheat. Her little nipples are so cute! She lets me come back later if the movie’s romantic. Leaving, I can tell that we’re not the only pair with underwear in our purses.

I really like Joan. I’m her “dulce hermanita.”

JANICE

Most of my girlfriends know how Howdy helped me discover my body, come to think of it. Guys exaggerate about cosmic orgasms with centerfold strippers. Girls talk about good orgasms however they get them.

The few years that Janice (Art and Chorus) is my junior made her a Musketeer. Too bad. Remember pretty Annette Funicello who went on to give us “The Name Game”? Don’t sing it. “My Boyfriend’s Back” is OK, though. The Afterbeats were her band and Annette later got MS, which is really sad.

But what I discovered about myself watching a puppet, Janice figured out watching a rodent. The stories our sofas could tell! If you see an old couch at a garage sale, check for wear on the armrest. If it seems threadbare, have a seat and casually run your hand across it. If the woman running the sale smiles, you can ask her how’s business and how long she’s lived there, stuff like that. Maybe she’s a teacher too, even.

I’ve never sat by Janice like I do with Joan at CineMax. It’s just not always easy to ask.

ELLIE

Ellie from church knows me well enough. If I don’t buy her a coffee, she’ll have to tell the Pope, she warns. Masturbation’s a sin for guys because they “spill their seed,” she learned in parochial school. We’re not exactly sure how that applies to our eggs, so we goad each other to ask Father Thomas for clarification. Fat chance of grownup women asking that! Ellie’s own habit is much more grievous, I point out, because I’ll bet she always dresses in her plaid skirt like a schoolgirl. So she has to buy me a coffee. Caffeine blackmail, we call it.

Using the word “habit” reminds me of those tiresome jokes about nuns’ habits inside their habits. They can still be celibate (their choice), so what’s the deal? You don’t hear jokes about Fathers masturbating, so it’s sexist. Who wants your priest confessing to you? Not me and Ellie.

Most jokes about Priests and Nuns and sex are stupid. This one’s good, though.

The Mother Superior wants to know why Sister Rose is leaving the convent. “I want to be a prostitute.” Mother Superior’s eyes grow wide, “Blessed Mary! What did you say?” “A prostitute,” Rose repeats. Her superior breathes a sigh of relief, “Thanks be to God! I thought you said a Protestant”

Ellie knows about Samuel too. She’s glad I use birth control (sin number three, I guess, but now optional) because the kids would find out. She’s right. Ours was the generation where women could choose, at least. And teaching gives you lots of kids.

HOWDY’S 40TH, NOVEMBER 1987

Thanksgiving weekend, Howdy celebrated his 40th anniversary on two-hour special. I’d forgotten lots of the show detail, but it all came back. Buffalo Bob still looked like Buffalo Bob. In his 30’s or his 70’s, a hero’s a hero. Afterwards Samuel and I humped the old way, sister in her PJ’s, brother on top. Sexually it was pretty rudimentary, but it was absolutely the right way to culminate the reunion.

Samuel’s so sweet, letting me make him shoot in his boxers after drilling me a thousand times. Afterwards when I got him erect again, I goaded him to more or less rape me, the dominant male sort of conquest. He didn’t have to force me, of course; I wanted him to.

GOODBYE, BOB, JULY 1998

Born in the Teddy Roosevelt Presidency, Buffalo Bob died of cancer in North Carolina. Detroit Free Press says he’s survived by Millie. Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys, died the same month. It wasn’t a good July, but then, it was pretty great how they’d carried on. It’s pretty precious what they gave my generation. I was sad, but I was happy too.

I didn’t have any sort of sex for several days. It seemed right to leave my carnal side unsatiated.

HERE COMES ‘DA JUDGE, JANUARY 2001

What a time for the Detroit Peanut Gallery! After the show’s demise, NBC loaned the Howdy marionette to his creator Rufus Rose who promised to give Howdy to Detroit Institute of the Arts. Then Buffalo Bob persuaded Rose to lend him the puppet for his reunion tours. Rose died in 1975 and when Bob returned Howdy, the Rose family was going to auction him off in New York, maybe for $1,000,000.

DIA sued and Howdy got locked in a vault. The estate argued that while Rose thought about leaving the marionette to DIA, he’d left no such provision in his will. In any case, the Howdy in question wasn’t even the original, lost in a fire. Another Howdy at the Smithsonian was for the public anyway. Samuel and I had seen it.

A jury didn’t vote the outcome because both parties rejected the Peanut Gallery option. In January, District Court Judge Christopher Droney ruled that DIA was the rightful owner of this Howdy, “original” enough.

I was so excited! It would be a while before they got his museum home set up, but that was fine. Samuel and I drank champagne and he humped me silly. That Howdy story has a happy ending!

BANQUET, MAY 2001

So now we’re back to the retirement dinner. I started with “It’s Howdy Doody Time” because my love of music began with the show. I thought they wrote the Nutcracker Suite for it.

But I didn’t give my music tirade, harbingering the for-certain decline of civilization, where a noble retired woodenhead becomes a defenseless target for those of inadequate talent. No, I didn’t whine about the Dickies’ “Howdy Doody in the Woodshed”. I simply quote,

His hair is red his eyes are green. He’s like a person that you’ve never seen. He’ll sing and dance he’s been to France But he doesn’t seem to stand a chance

That’s when I saw Howdy Doody in the woodshed going down on Buffalo Bob.

A smarter man would never plan To have so many splinters in his hand. And Clarabell would never tell, ‘Cuz he’s afraid that he might go to jail.

Talent-sparse, these losers are poor taste set to loud guitar. Cheap shots at heroes get notice. Remember the Dead Kennedys? The Dickies “discovered” by an L.A. scene-maker? Breaking an ankle jumping off the sound scaffolding and letting your midget roadie wheelchair you around the stage takes talent?

So fuck ’em. Howdy will be remembered and they won’t.

Nor was the banquet the venue to put Bush’s Desert Storm into a Howdy context where it belongs.

It’s Saudi duty time. It’s Saudi duty time. I need a piece of tail. She winks behind her veil.

I’ll stop there, as you get the idea. I’m not the only one for whom the puppet evokes erotic thoughts, am I now?

So now we’re back to my retirement dinner. (Stories are nonlinear.) I ceremoniously cut into large deeply frosted item. The Deputy Superintendent for Information Technology presented a nicely framed certificate and a big kiss.

You know who the Deputy Superintendent for Information Technology is, I’ll bet — in Howdy code, my very own “Leumas”!

That’s Mrs. Thornton’s Mr. Thornton to everybody there, except he’s Dr. Thornton, the “Dr.” being an EdD earned in summer school. (Here’s how to identify a pompous ass. DPS has a bunch. “Hi, my name’s Dr. Wolman.” Like his name’s “Doctor”, not Robert or whatever? Samuel doesn’t pull that one, I assure you.)

Samuel figured out pretty early that Industrial Arts was heading south (literally true in the rust belt). Computers looked promising, so he tooted the Apple horn into Ed Admin. Popular Science makes you a visionary in that Reader’s Digest realm. He never supervised me in the DPS organizational chart, so it’s kosher. I was a good teacher and he became a decent pontificator.

Father Thomas said never discuss work at home. Imagine our dinner table if we ignored Father’s advice. “So it’s really true that we’re going to implement on benchmark basis an assessment of participatory multicultural goal achievements celebrating different enablements?” We had lives.

It was great, that big retirement dinner kiss! He’s retiring too. How will we ever dispose of two cakes? Until now could just take one and some napkins to my classroom for a “reward”. Thirty seconds, not a crumb!

Speaking of Industrial Arts heading south, what about the other arts?

Why hush my mouth, I’m heading south. A journey sweet to dally. A beckoned stroll, From grassy knoll, Into yon shady valley.

I’ll amble down, To hidden mound, Yet unseen from the north. My garden art, The petals part, A bloom to be brought forth.

Where touch so slight, Draws fond delight, From Venus ever new. To thus unfurl, My Dixie pearl, Now bathed in morning dew.

I writhe. I lift. Myself, my gift, Supine without defenses. In clover field, Myself I yield, Succumbed to sultry senses.

For common need, Implanted seed, The give and take is fun. But embers burn, For each return, To flames fanned white by one.

As doe, as mare, (Sans Noah’s pair), And lioness and vixen. We join to be, Sorority, Below the Mason-Dixon.

‘Neath cotton dress, My sweet caress, Those porch-swing bayou rumors. So y’all take note, ‘Neath petticoat, I’ve gone without my bloomers.

Detroit people love the south.

AFTERTHOUGHTS

The obvious question is, why did Samuel and I end up as a unit?

The easy story is that we fell into cohabitation and didn’t find reason to confuse a settled perception. Convenience is compelling. It just worked out. Most couples start off living together these days, so we just started off really early. Enough years shacked up and the license question becomes moot anyway. DPS stays hands off homelife if it doesn’t impact our performance. Those are the easy answers.

Another answer, pretty simple as well, is that it’s sexual. Maybe genetically-matched preferences drove us together. We don’t need to handcuff each other or trade underwear of anything. It’s an absolute fact that from the very start we could climax together, so I think there’s something.

Maybe it wasn’t sex per se that drove us together, but it sure helped us stick. We make love with everyone’s blessing. No cheap motels for us, thank you.

Neither of us dated much at home and even in college didn’t have serious relationships. Maybe I seemed too studious. Samuel was a pre-geek. It’s OK to be a geek today because you might become a Bill Gates. Back then the term was just “square”. Anyway, we could go to social things together and people thought how we got along was cool.

For a short period in Detroit even, we even dated around, casual dates surprisingly understanding of siblings thrown together by economic necessity. The city was big enough to socialize outside our normal circles. Had either of us gotten serious, we’d have had to end some things, but neither of us found a better partner. I’ve never slept around on Samuel and he’s never slept around on me. I’d know.

A deeper reason is that we’re a good emotional match, better than most marrieds, I’d argue. We enjoy life together, especially music. Remember Farrante and Teicher, the easy listening piano duo? OK, they went to Julliard and we took lessons from Mrs. McKee, but Thornton and Thornton can still play most of their hits. Our friends like the tightness of our timing. Of course we blend; so did the Carpenters. Karen Carpenter dead from anorexia at 32! The way she’d sing “Close to you” to her brother at the piano. Princess Summerfall Winterspring dead on the highway at 22! Annette getting MS! Oh, my!

And like Father Thomas advises, we enjoy our own lives as well. Samuel golfs, sort of an Ed Admin requirement. They probably actually say, “So we’re going to implement on benchmark basis an assessment of participatory multicultural goal achievements celebrating different enablements,” while they tee off.

I play tennis and garden and tell my flowers they’re especially pretty today. Joan’s my doubles partner. (Could have been Womens Century contenders, except for our serves.) If we’re the only ones in the dressing room shower, we’ll soap each other’s backs. Sometimes she’ll reach around to be silly. When she does, her front slides against my skin, soapy slick. I don’t move so it won’t seem like I’m noticing.

And I still check my undercarriage, an auto town sort of expression. It’s fine for Samuel to think that humping him is my sole remaining girlhood fondness. Humping your brother is really a good way, of course, but he’s sometimes golfing.

Why would a grown woman masturbate? “Let me count the ways,” as begins Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

It’s pleasurable and relaxing. It cures insomnia. It’s without side effects, disease or pregnancy. As much gratification as you want, when you want it, and at your own speed. No inhibition when you’re your own partner. The wags like to note that the price is right. With Joan, it’s even social.

So why wouldn’t I?

(Here’s a thought about Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “Let me count the ways” love checklist for the Victorian Age. The wealthy Barrett children weren’t allowed to go out and associate with the riff-raff, but Elizabeth had her 11 younger siblings. The boys were kept in long hair and even dresses until about 10. The drowning of her favorite brother made Elizabeth a virtual recluse until 40 when she finally married. Between childhood and 40, to whom was she writing and how did she sustain her fragile sensibilities? Maybe her poem is about a secret playhouse in the Barrett attic.)

Being older, we’re better at taking care of ourselves, even. Rhythmically squeezing my thighs is my best art form. Start off with however your hand likes, but press your thighs together for the association. Then pull your hand away when you’re almost there and let your inner thighs indirectly pressure your bud. If nobody can see, I’ll grind my hips, but I don’t have to. Press your thighs together when you climax. With the association, you’ll be able to use only your legs from earlier and earlier. Eventually you won’t need the manual startup.

Try it. If you find yourself horny in public, just take care of it with no one the wiser, except maybe those of us who know how. If you noticed me with legs crossed and kicking my foot at a faculty meeting, what was I really doing? Intently listening to the dress-code exception for Sikh boys’ turbans?

Another thought: The only Sikh family name seems to be Singh, so it’s simple for Sikh siblings to tell the Michigan marriage license office they’re not related. The Amish and the Sikhs both have distinctive dress. They’re both shrewd in business. I’ll bet they’re pretty similar on the homefront, too. So we’ll say that Samuel and I are likewise cross-cultural.

Here’s a better knock-knock joke than Cheech and Chong’s. Sister Heidi Doody is smiling ear to ear. (Look at any picture of her. This is why.) Howdy is looking a bit scuffed. Princess Summerfall Winterspring sends him off to see a rocket ship and makes sure that nobody from Doodyville is eavesdropping.

The Princess: Knock knock. Heidi: Who’s there? The Princess: Howdy Doody. Heidi: Howdy Doody who? The Princess: Howdy Doody act to you 17 times last night? My acting coach can hardly do three. Heidi: It’s the one advantage of your brother being whittled.

AND ONWARD

I’m retired and 54 with a life ahead and that’s my tale.

Thirty years later and I still get the little kiss and the knee against me afterwards in the middle of the night. Brothers don’t need explanation. Sometimes a woman needs both.

Joan’s treating me to “Havana” on Friday while my brother drives up to Lansing for an early Saturday tee- time for some educational cause. Guys have such lame excuses for going to a strip club or whatever they do together the night before tournaments. It’s good for my Samuel.

Robert Redford makes love to a Swedish girl, Joan promises. We touch knees. I hold Joan’s elbow now, or even her wrist when she guides me to it. She says she likes how I show her the right pace. When I wrap my fingers around, the tips even brush against her hair, just a little. It’s so springy. I shouldn’t think she could tell, though. Sometimes I move my fingers up between her knuckles.

I don’t even mind if she cradles my breast at my moment. I kind of like that she knows. I’ll initiate some kisses if nobody up front’s turned around. Sometimes while we smooch, her hand flops over the armrest and slips into my pocket. She saw Ruth Anne’s Mr. Bluster at my birthday parties. I don’t mind if the other girls there in the back notice. They kiss too.

After the movie, Joan says just to sleep at her apartment so we can claim a tennis court early next morning. It’s cooler then. We can curl up on her sofa in our PJ’s and watch our favorite Redford scenes as late as we like. She’ll make Welch’s wine coolers, as she calls them.

Just thinking of watching Robert Redford gets me in the mood to hump Howdy Doody. Which PJ’s would Joan think were pretty?