Of the three nannies, the nighttime nanny was the only one who was friendly to Eddie, but Eddie went out every night. And when he was home, he tended to stay in his room. His guest bedroom and bathroom were at the far end of the long upstairs hall; when Eddie wanted to write letters to his mom and dad, or just write in his notebooks, he was almost always left alone there. In his letters home, he neglected to tell his parents that Ted and Marion were separated for the summer—not to mention that he regularly masturbated to Marion’s scent while clinging to her slinky clothes.
On the morning when Marion caught Eddie in the act of masturbating, Eddie had elaborately arranged upon the bed a veritable reassembly of Marion herself. There was a peach-colored blouse of a thin, summer-weight material—suitable for the stifling carriage house— and a bra of a matching color. Eddie had left the blouse unbuttoned. The bra, which was positioned roughly where one would expect a bra to be, was partially exposed but still caught up in the blouse—as if Marion were in this specific stage of undress. This gave to her clothes the appearance of passion, or at least of haste. Her panties, which were also peach-colored, were placed the right way (waist up, crotch down) and they were the correct distance from the bra—that is, if Marion had actually been wearing the bra and the panties. Eddie, who was naked— and who always masturbated by rubbing his penis with his left hand against the inside of his right thigh—had pressed his face into the open blouse and bra. With his right hand, he stroked the unimaginable silky softness of Marion’s panties.
Marion needed only a fraction of a second to realize that Eddie was naked, and to recognize what he was doing—and with what visual and tactile aids!—but when Eddie first spotted her, she was neither entering nor leaving the bedroom. She was standing as still as an apparition of herself, which Eddie must have hoped she was; also, it was not exactly Marion herself but rather her reflection in the bedroom mirror that Eddie saw first. Marion, who could see Eddie in the mirror and Eddie himself, had been given the unique opportunity of seeing two of him masturbate at once.
She was gone from the doorway as quickly as she’d appeared. Eddie, who had not yet ejaculated, knew not only that she’d seen him, but also that, in a split second, she’d understood everything about him.
“I’m sorry, Eddie,” Marion was saying from the kitchen, as he struggled to put away her clothes. “I should have knocked.”
When he’d dressed himself, he still didn’t dare leave the bedroom. He half-expected to hear her footsteps on the stairs down to the garage—or, more mercifully, to hear her Mercedes driving away. Instead she was waiting for him. And since he hadn’t heard her footsteps come up the stairs from the garage, he knew that he must have been moaning.
“Eddie, it’s my fault,” Marion was saying. “I’m not angry. I’m just embarrassed.” “I’m embarrassed, too,” he mumbled from the bedroom.
“It’s all right—it’s natural, ” Marion said.
“I know boys your age. . . .” Her voice trailed away.
When he finally got up his nerve to go to her, she was sitting on the couch. “Come here—at least look at me!” she said, but he stood frozen, staring at his feet.
“Eddie, it’s funny . Let’s call it funny and leave it at that.”
“It’s funny,” he said miserably.
“Eddie! Come here!” she ordered.
He shuffled slowly in her direction, his eyes still downcast.
“Sit!” she commanded, but the best he could do was perch rigidly at the far end of the couch—away from her. “No, here .” She patted the couch between them. He couldn’t move.
“Eddie, Eddie—I know boys your age,” she said again. “It’s what boys your age do, isn’t it? Can you imagine not doing it?” she asked him.
“No,” he whispered. He started to cry—he couldn’t stop.
======== By John Irving
On the morning when Marion caught Eddie in the act of masturbating, Eddie had elaborately arranged upon the bed a veritable reassembly of Marion herself. There was a peach-colored blouse of a thin, summer-weight material—suitable for the stifling carriage house— and a bra of a matching color. Eddie had left the blouse unbuttoned. The bra, which was positioned roughly where one would expect a bra to be, was partially exposed but still caught up in the blouse—as if Marion were in this specific stage of undress. This gave to her clothes the appearance of passion, or at least of haste. Her panties, which were also peach-colored, were placed the right way (waist up, crotch down) and they were the correct distance from the bra—that is, if Marion had actually been wearing the bra and the panties. Eddie, who was naked— and who always masturbated by rubbing his penis with his left hand against the inside of his right thigh—had pressed his face into the open blouse and bra. With his right hand, he stroked the unimaginable silky softness of Marion’s panties.
Marion needed only a fraction of a second to realize that Eddie was naked, and to recognize what he was doing—and with what visual and tactile aids!—but when Eddie first spotted her, she was neither entering nor leaving the bedroom. She was standing as still as an apparition of herself, which Eddie must have hoped she was; also, it was not exactly Marion herself but rather her reflection in the bedroom mirror that Eddie saw first. Marion, who could see Eddie in the mirror and Eddie himself, had been given the unique opportunity of seeing two of him masturbate at once.
She was gone from the doorway as quickly as she’d appeared. Eddie, who had not yet ejaculated, knew not only that she’d seen him, but also that, in a split second, she’d understood everything about him.
“I’m sorry, Eddie,” Marion was saying from the kitchen, as he struggled to put away her clothes. “I should have knocked.”
When he’d dressed himself, he still didn’t dare leave the bedroom. He half-expected to hear her footsteps on the stairs down to the garage—or, more mercifully, to hear her Mercedes driving away. Instead she was waiting for him. And since he hadn’t heard her footsteps come up the stairs from the garage, he knew that he must have been moaning.
“Eddie, it’s my fault,” Marion was saying. “I’m not angry. I’m just embarrassed.” “I’m embarrassed, too,” he mumbled from the bedroom.
“It’s all right—it’s natural, ” Marion said.
“I know boys your age. . . .” Her voice trailed away.
When he finally got up his nerve to go to her, she was sitting on the couch. “Come here—at least look at me!” she said, but he stood frozen, staring at his feet.
“Eddie, it’s funny . Let’s call it funny and leave it at that.”
“It’s funny,” he said miserably.
“Eddie! Come here!” she ordered.
He shuffled slowly in her direction, his eyes still downcast.
“Sit!” she commanded, but the best he could do was perch rigidly at the far end of the couch—away from her. “No, here .” She patted the couch between them. He couldn’t move.
“Eddie, Eddie—I know boys your age,” she said again. “It’s what boys your age do, isn’t it? Can you imagine not doing it?” she asked him.
“No,” he whispered. He started to cry—he couldn’t stop.
======== By John Irving
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