Cindy Ventures Out |
Issue 13
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I am Lucinda Lowenstein the only child of a middle-aged man who practices law and a mousy female engineering graduate who freelances as a technical writer.
I have an undergraduate degree and live with my parents in a luxury apartment building. My father, Ben, a lawyer, appreciates that I am not disingenuous, and do not want to practice law. My mom Clarice takes solace in her work, performed in a home office. She writes owner’s manuals for manufacturers. She calls me Cindy. I am obsessive-compulsive and fussy. Armed with an ensemble of administrative skills from Katharine Gibbs, I am marketable as an executive secretary. I want to have my own apartment in Greenwich Village. An affordable studio with a wall bed. When I was twelve, for the first time I physically fondled my body and pleasured myself in the shower stall. I used a portable handheld shower head which I adjusted for moderate expulsion and heat to stimulate my erogenous zones. I went over the moon, able to suppress a brief primal scream. I tried self-stimulation in bed only once. surprisingly I released a gush of pee when I orgasmed. The intensity of the release was overwhelming. My mother discovered the drying stain. “Honey don’t worry, you’ll outgrow wetting your bed. I did.” Clarice suggested. I did it twice more in the shower stall to verify that my squirting went unnoticed by me on my maiden voyage. The shower seat eliminated my worry about weak legs. My alabaster face is curtained by curly dense ebony hair. Wet, I could be mistaken for Medusa. My lipstick crimson. Soft gray eyes. My business casual clothes are styled to conceal my full breasts. Styled beehive straight hair with a side bow. I feel well wrapped. A speech therapist helped me to produce more moderate promising sounds and lose what she described as a dumb blond voice. I still felt purposeless with nothing meaningful to do. Max Stern is far from stern. Wearing a khaki and orange double-breasted flannel suit. His refurbished office in an apartment building. He runs human resources at an adjoining hospital complex with twelve hundred beds and five thousand employees. Yet he looks ready for a stroll. I am mesmerized by his wrappings. I fix my eyes on a framed photo of his family on the desk, a wife, two younger sons, and one older daughter. He is not in the picture. Max highlights his personal and professional information and his occupational agenda, nods for me to begin the interview. “I live with my parents in Forest Hills. I want to work in Manhattan, rent a modest studio preferably in the Village, even with a wall bed, and immerse myself in offbeat culture.” “Inspired by a new board chairman,” he reports, “We are modernizing our facilities, reorganizing, introducing new technology, expanding research and building a new medical school. Upward-thinking employees and advanced project management skills are needed.” Does he have me in mind for a job or is he going to counsel me and send me packing? “I am confident you will like the remuneration. You may be pleased with an upward mobility plan I have in mind for you, if you are willing to take courses. Enrollment at the NYU Business School is available near your new apartment. I deliver guest lectures on management topics. In five years, I hope to be a senior executive in a hospital system. Enough about me. My previous departmental hires have moved on to bigger, better, more lucrative roles, here and in other organizations.” Six weeks later Max approaches me with a suggestion. “Compensation Management is a complex field. It takes vision, detailed observation, analysis, evaluation skills, market research savvy. I’m sure you can do it. There are night courses at NYU or Cornell. I perform secretarial duties and keep him updated. Max is the project manager of the Medical School Data Base Management Team, which requires committed attendance to ensure continuity. He adds me to it. Max likes astrology. “We are entering a lax period on the calendar, when Sirius the dog star rises and stirs unrelenting heat. From early July to early August, during the dog days of summer, there is a permeating boredom. He is masterful in defining a critical path and making copacetic suggestions to unblock obstacles. He frequently acknowledges my contributions. He agrees to let me troll a medical interns and residents’ computerized database for marriageable prospects. Max acts like a big brother. He frequently wants to know how he may help me go about meeting my goals. The rush of things for us to do wanes to a trickle. On a drop-dead boring Monday late in July, Max’s ‘dog-day’s face’ takes on a serious look. He lights his pipe. “We goofed. We could have taken turns and gone on vacation. Why don’t we find a place where we can make love, unless you have a better idea of how to make time pass.” I didn’t drop anything. “Max. I’d like to think about that.” By asking me to sleep with him, he put me in control. I hope he prioritizes my needs during intimacy. I plan to make it about him. I accept. The shower together is amazing. He moves like an Olympic rower. Our second coupling begins in the shower but irrevocably ends on my soaked, rumpled waterproof bed. He thinks the puddle is all sweat. He didn’t notice me wickedly peeing on his leg in the shower. We share a deep sense of connection. We are having an affair with a tacit understanding that I will alert him when I meet someone else. I meet a charming man at a seminar. Young and handsome. After dinner he drives me home and I invite him in. I enjoy vigorous sex with him in the shower. Like Max does without exception, the rapist insists on holding back both times until I come. A few days later, I open the Daily News, and find an article featuring his name and photograph, detailing the apprehension of a serial rapist. Max is bewildered. “Oh my God. You dated this guy, had consensual sex with him?” Max, without asking, forwards my resume to a search firm as a perfect candidate for an outstanding senior compensation professional vacancy at the Federal Reserve Bank, in another city, giving me a faultless reference. I was there when Max, to protect a married colleague, relocated a competent woman who was having an affair with the cheater. Although I am thrilled with the outcome, I am surprised that my panicked revelation caused him to view me as a personal liability. I wish that I had been less in need of reassurance and simply informed him that I met someone else. When I submitted my notice letter, he looked at me, and we both sighed. "Cindy, this is your dream job. I will miss you.” |
MEL EINHORN is an octogenarian neophyte writer is determined to portray protagonists of either sex, who are impaired by physical and moral deficiencies and handle classic crises in heterosexual relationships, in an unreasonable and ludicrous manner.
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