By the summer of 1985, most of my new, higher-income friends were conservative, middle-aged women with children, like myself, plus a group of older women who, like me, enjoyed cooking. From cooking, they got me to play cards and eventually dragged me on to a golf course.
It was seventeen years since my Motel 6 honeymoon night, ten since crossing Edward’s threshold, six since walking out on Enrico and three since visiting Darryl’s kiln. At thirty-five I was on the cusp of middle age, an established, happily married woman with kids for all to see, my secret life known only by me.
The golf course, privately owned, was open to the public. Developed in the 1920s, the mature landscaping was stunningly beautiful. It was operated by a grandson of the original developer who was the resident golf pro. The course included a quaint 1920's English style cottage restaurant with pub lounge, a pro shop and above the pro shop the grandson’s private den.
He was forty years old, never married and reputed to be a professional seducer, the golf course his hunting ground, the den his seduction pad. Many women, married and not, were said to have seen the inside of his rendezvous den and become another of his golf trophies.
At thirty-five, I was the much younger “daughter” in our party of four. The oldest was over sixty and the other two near it. For my golf adventure, I rented club from the pro shop but purchased a set of pink golf balls and golf shoes, not wanting to wear shoes worn by others.
At the first tee, the three ladies provided advice, mostly conflicting. Fully advised, I swung hard, missed the ball and made a divot. We laughed as they again vied to proffer advice but the more I tried their suggestions, the worse was my swing.
I was getting ready for my fifth when he strolled over. The girls whispered that the owner was coming. I assumed it was to scold me about my divots at the tee and smiled to disarm him. He smiled back broadly. I was relieved my lecture would be mild. He introduced himself as Elliot, the resident golf pro and asked my name.
He explained he had watched me from above the pro shop and asked if this was my first time on a golf course which was obvious. He didn’t mention my divot trench work on his tee turf.
He had a shock of dark brown hair, like a rooster's comb, flirty blue eyes, a pleasant voice, was six-feet-plus and had a relaxed, regal attitude which can only be acquired from being raised to privilege. His attire was casual but expensive. I looked down at his shoes. They were tan Oxfords with golf cleats! Instead of berating me for my divots, he asked to assist me and without waiting for my consent, stood behind me and informed me he would guide my swing.
He reached around and placed my hands on the taped club grip then moved my fingers about until he was satisfied, I was holding the club correctly. It felt awkward but he assured me it was the correct grip. He was sure of himself, his voice calm and confident, his movement unhurried but deliberate. He placed his cheek against mine, his tanned hands held mine. Controlling me firmly from behind, he slowly swung my arms back and forth in swings against an imaginary ball.
He wore no jewelry. His aftershave smelled good. He was a space invader. He was invading my space without asking permission. I didn't push this trespasser away. The three ladies gawked, envious at the attention I drew.
After the swings against the imaginary ball, he released me from his grip and told me to do a few practice swings. I was still awkward but he assured me it was better than before. He set a tee in the grass and put his personal ball from his pocket on it.
He knelt before me, made me spread my legs to the proper awkward stance, again got behind me and put me into his grip, his cheek unabashedly tightly against mine. He was chewing gum. He snugged his pelvis up against my butt. It reminded me when Darryl and I made pottery. He told me we were going to swing and hit the ball but do it slowly.
We swung in unionism, not quick or jerky fast but sure and steady, his right arm brushing my breasts as he swung the club high after we hit the ball. The ball flew, up, and up and landed further than I thought possible based on the impact of our swing, out on the green, not too far back from the others. He released me. I turned and looked up at him. He was smiling and I suspected aroused. I told him I’d get his ball but he laughed and said it was mine now and to have a fun game.
“You girls have a fun game. I’ll give Elizabeth some more golf tips the next time you play.”
He left us and went to the restaurant.
The four of us hopped into our golf carts and sped to the balls lying on the grass. I swung and after a few ball hops, my ball plopped on the green.
Putting on the first green they teased and warned he was a professional seducer as I putted my ball back and forth past the little hole.
I stumbled through nine holes with divots aplenty and putts innumerable. They didn't keep my score. It was not until the seventh hole they stopped teasing me about my golf pro lesson.
It was near dark when we finished. A glance at the pro shop showed it was closed. I drove home and told my husband about my game of golf but left out my "private" lesson. He recommended I take it up as a hobby. I told him I wasn't good at it, never would be and didn't think I'd try it again.
Vixen, however, purred after my lesson and put her paw down. I missed Erica. I could talk to her about what happened. I drove by the course every day commuting but avoided turning into the driveway for two weeks. I skipped the next ladies' golf day. Skipping golf, however, was not avoiding contact. I didn’t want them with me if I went.
Afraid to go by myself, I found another woman to go with. She was attractive and I hoped, indirectly, she would be the space invader's victim, not me. We went in the morning when the grass was still wet with dew. Again, I rented clubs and we played nine holes with me again having an astronomical score. The space invader was nowhere to be seen. I relaxed.
Afterward, we ate lunch at the restaurant. When the bill came, I pulled out my credit card as it was my invite. The waitress came and said the bill was already paid. I looked up and he was standing by the cash register smiling. Anxiety swept me but I was thrilled.
I protested his paying at the counter but he replied it was already done. He said he was afraid my first golf experience was my last and he wanted me to play again. He set up a free appointment lesson the following week and put it on his calendar notebook then wrote the date and time on his personal card and gave it to me.
He said he would show me how to swing as he departed. He was so sure of himself but his boldness attracted me. He didn’t notice my companion. I knew he had his choice of women, younger and prettier than me. The waitresses and maître d’ were young and attractive, obviously criteria for employment. He was the rooster of his henhouse. Why would he be interested in me, a middle-aged woman?
I drove home wet, his card throbbing in my purse, the date and time etched in my mind. It was the first thing I always saw when opening my purse. Periodically I took it out and looked closely to examine his handwriting of long, bold strokes.
I told myself I wasn’t going but Vixen knew better. She directed me to the mall where I bought new underwear and golf clothes. Instead of the pants and tank top I'd worn previously, I got a flared red golf skort a white short-sleeved blouse, a sun visor hat and sunglasses to keep my flitting eyes concealed.
Even with the new attire, I convinced myself I was going to skip the lesson and wear them with the next ladies' golf game. The day of the lesson, I showered and before dressing, announced to hubby, as he left for work
“I’m taking a golf lesson this morning.”
"That's great. I knew you'd like golf. You need a hobby which eats up time."
That was when I knew I was going. I needed him to tell me not to go. Instead, he encouraged me. He, however, took notice when he saw me don my new underwear, purchased in case my panties were exposed due to the short skort.
He looked askance at me as he opened the door and left but made no comment. I took his silence as tactic permission to let the golf ball land on the turf wherever it ended up.
With hubby’s departure for work, I set my hair, filed my nails, applied polish and looked at my reflection as I sat in my underwear before my bedroom vanity mirror but avoided eye contact. I mused which trophy ring to wear but decided to wear only my wedding ring, a gold charm necklace, and earrings.
I went over my makeup and dabbed on my best perfume. Vixen was humming her ditty; “meow, meow, I need affair now, now,” my breasts flushed in chorus. My heart and mind said to stay home but I knew I wouldn't. They were on drone remote with Vixen in control. The excitement of another man had been put off for too long. Hubby had his work mistress, I wanted my master, a human one. As I got up to put on my newly purchased golf attire, I glanced at the mirror and into the windows of my eyes. The devil peered out. I diverted my eyes back to attire.
I left early for my 10 AM lesson. With my husband's golf lesson encouragement, my conscience’s excuse pass, I drove directly to the golf course. The rationale for my atypical early arrival was I needed to buy gloves and rent clubs. I also didn’t want to be rushed. I wanted to contemplate what would occur as I made decisions. I’d not yet decided on which life doors to open.
When I drove up, his personal golf cart was in front of the pro shop. He was within, watching my arrival through the window. There‘d be no contemplation time. It was game time. Pretending to look in the car mirror, I could see him smiling boldly behind the window. He was so assured I couldn’t resist his charm. I’d prove him wrong!
The truth, however, was I couldn’t resist. It wasn’t him. It was me, I missed my secret puppet friend, the euphoric rush of my addiction. My hand shook as I put the car keys in my purse, like an addict before doing the hit. I told myself to calm down, wiped my hands on the seat to dry and got out slowly while looking down at my shoes, as if more worried about their getting dirty than meeting him. Getting out of the car and entering the pro shop was a repeat of driving to Michael’s Restaurant to meet Edward ten years earlier. Each step forward, confirmation of my adultery.
He held the door open to greet me and held out his hand in welcome. When I took it, he didn’t shake but instead pulled me brazenly toward him and attempted to kiss my cheek, European style. I stopped him and pushed him back with my free hand. He held on and kept smiling despite his rebuke.
Led inside the shop, I smiled in defense, turned a cheek for him to peck kiss, disengaged my hand and informed him.
“Before we start, I need to buy a pair of gloves. They may help my grip.”
My cheek was aglow where his lips touched. Blocking my path to the counter, he instead asked.
“Are you ready for your lesson?”
“Yes, yes but I need gloves. You better be a good teacher, I’m hopeless.”
“I’m a master, they call me Professor Golf.”
He reached again for my hand which I let him take but leaned back to keep some distance. Instead of gloves, he led me to a display of golf clubs for sale.
I broke my hand free.
“I’m just renting. I don’t know if golf’s my game.”
“Don’t worry. Rental clubs are cheap clubs. Your game will be much better with good clubs. I’ll make you a deal you can’t refuse.”
He pulled out a set endorsed by some woman golfer. The prices in the shop were higher than in a big box sporting goods store but the clubs he put before me were ridiculously priced.
“I’m sorry, even with a discount I can’t afford these.”
“I’m going to let you rent them for free. If you decide to take up golf, I can sell them to you as used.”
I was not going to fall for this ruse and suspected the price was set artificially high to impress someone like me, then sold at a steep discount as used but still at a higher price than elsewhere.
“What’s your special, used price?”
“For the pleasure of your letting me provide you a lesson, the special discount price is free.”
I wasn’t going to be purchased for a set of golf clubs, even signature ones.
“Thanks. Thank you very much. A very respectable offer but I’m comfortable with the ones used before. Just rent me a set at the regular price, Professor Golf. Your generosity is acknowledged. Your time providing a free lesson already overwhelms me in gratitude’s debt.”
He smiled at my little put-downs and acquiesced while looking in my eyes with a merry glint. The glint said there would be a round two.
After paying for rental clubs and purchasing gloves, he told me to go to his cart and he would bring the clubs out. When he came, it was with the expensive ones in their fancy pink bag.
It was apparent our tee time was reserved. Other golfers were standing about, shuttled aside until we teed off. I didn’t like the little audience. He set the ball up, selected a wood, handed it to me and said we needed to do practice swings before attempting to hit the ball. He positioned himself before me, bent down and spread my feet to the stance he wanted while I put on my new gloves. The top-notch of his pomaded hair brushed against the hem of my flared skirt as he moved my feet to his calculations for best swing. Vixen purred.
Satisfied with my stance, he got close behind like before, reached over, held my gloved hands and placed his cheek against the side of my head pressing my right ear down. The aroma of his aftershave entwined with my perfume. He was chewing gum again, Dentine.
At least it’s not Beeman’s.
For a brief diversion from his contact, I thought about my not liking gum. He redirected my attention back to golf by slowly guiding me through practice swings and nudged closer behind after each. My buttocks sensed his arousal. Vixen purred. After three practice swings, I broke free and moved to the tee and announced, “I’m ready to make my divot mark, maybe even hit the ball.”
The little audience waiting to tee off was no longer shifting about impatiently. They avidly watched his performance.
Again, he got behind and pressed against my buttocks. I pulled forward to reduce contact and we swung the club. It was a soft swing but directly connected to the ball which arched up and down the center of the fairway, farther than any I had ever hit before. Our audience gave a little applause.
For the rest of the strokes to the hole, he only guided my stance and let me hit the ball on my own. In six strokes, the ball plopped into the hole while he held the flag smiling. My score was less than half any attempt made before. The second hole was a repeat of the first with the same score. The third tee required the ball to fly over a pond with a view of Mt. Rainier as a backdrop. A party of four golfers, moving at a faster pace, mulled behind, respecting our privacy.
Like before he selected a club and got behind me. Instead of pulling forward I swayed my rear against his pelvis, centered the cleft of my buttocks against him and snuggled up to his hard spot. It got harder.
Our swing arched the ball up high over the water and on the green beyond. We stayed in our embrace until the ball rested. I broke free.
"Wow, that's nice. I'm impressed. It feels good to hit the ball like that."
I glanced with my sunglass shaded eyes to his pants. He was unabashedly aroused. I finished the hole with a par four, my first par.
At the fourth tee, I boldly pressed my buttocks against his pelvis and pushed hard when we swung. I could feel his penis throbbing. His excitement overcame his concentration. The ball landed in a sand trap. I finished four over par.
On the fifth tee, I announced I was ready to swing on my own. He was disappointed but acted not and gave me tips on my posture stance and corrected my practice swings. At the tee, I looked away, swung hard and made an intended divot with the ball slicing off the fairway. I tried twice more with similar results. He was pleased I needed another swing lesson. Instead, I tried once more and put my eye on the ball and landed in the fairway.
I continued to swing on my own until the ninth hole. The banter got more suggestive at each hole.
“Can you help once more for my final tee off? My posture’s getting worse. It needs firm guidance again.”
“My pleasure, let’s see if we can make it to the hole in a single stroke, a hole in one.”
He nestled in close behind, my buttocks tight against his pelvis. I raised and lowered my rear cleft against his aroused penis, pushed in hard then out for practice swings then connected with the ball. He pushed his pelvis forward and I leaned back as the ball rose in the air. It was the best drive of the day but not a hole in one.
We hurried the pace until the ball fell into the ninth hole about 1:30 PM. He suggested a late lunch, I agreed. He drove the cart to my car and insisted on putting the clubs in the back. At the golf course cottage restaurant, the matron greeted us with a knowing crocodile smile and rushed us to a private booth in the back.
The waitress was right behind. He asked if he could order wine. I surprised him by requesting a local vintage bottle without looking at the menu.
He stared at the polished nails on my folded hands atop the table. The large diamond of my wedding ring glittered, challenging him. He brushed his leg against mine under the table but I got up and told him I needed to use the restroom. When I sat to pee, the panties gusset was wet. Vixen was out of control. I dried off.
In front of the mirror, I saw my hair matted and my lipstick smeared. I straightened up, unbuttoned the top button on my blouse so the small flower on my bra showed and walked back to our booth. As I walked through the restaurant my mind overruled Vixen and told her.
Not today.
The smug smile of the waitress as I passed her ensured mine were not going to be trophy panties on his bachelor pad wall. He assumed otherwise as I sat before him eating a shrimp salad and dithering over the wine until it was gone. He knew better than to talk about golf or ask about my family. We talked about wine, music, and movies. He drank most of the wine and asked if I wanted another bottle as I drained my glass and shook my head.
This was his cue to ask me to see his loft above the pro shop. He did
“I’d like to show you some of my golf trophies garnered when young and photos of the course when started by my granddad. They’re above the pro shop in my office. Care to take a minute to see them?”
I stunned his expectation.
“I’d love to but can’t. I have another commitment. I’m sorry, I’m already late.”
“Will you golf again?”
“Let’s see how our schedules work. I’ll call when ready for another swing lesson. I learned a lot on this one.”
Getting up, I brushed my leg against his to give him confidence in my calling. He rose and led me to my car, perplexed a sure thing slipped out of his grasp. A glance back revealed the matron and waitress whispering as I turned to the car instead of the pro shop. He leaned on the open window jamb when I put the key in the ignition as if to stop me, then attempted to lean in for a cheek kiss.
"Don't be cheeky. I'll call. Why wouldn't I?"
Assured he still had the knack he let go, smiled and retorted.
"I may have to charge for the next lesson."
"I'm sure you'll be worth it."
There it is, male versus female, their male ego, like their appendage, must dominate. They don’t understand it’s the woman who has the key to the love box, not them. That little snippy insult means I’m going to make him plead before I take another lesson.
At home, I parked in the garage, closed the door, ran up to the master bedroom, locked its door, undressed, got in the shower and experienced a soapy shower as the warm water flowed over me. Finished and towel dried, I fell asleep, naked on the bed.
At night, I positioned hubby to come at me from behind. As directed, he splayed me face down on the bed, gripped my hips and bounced hard against my buttocks until we finished. Separated, we fell asleep, cuddling spoon-shaped, he behind.
It was another betrayal, he was unknowingly bidden to perform for my fantasy of another.
