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 a golf course for a late afternoon game.
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 teenage kids for all to see, my secret shadow unknown, except 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 above the pro shop, his seduction pad. Many women, married and single, were said to have seen the inside of his rendezvous den and become another of his golf trophies.
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 purchased golf shoes, not wanting to wear shoes worn by others, wore a modest skirt and a conservative white blouse. At the pro shop, I rented clubs, bought a set of pink golf balls, and was ready to play.
The three ladies provided advice, mostly conflicting, at the first tee. Fully confused, I swung hard, missed the ball, and made a divot. We laughed as they again vied to proffer advice. The more I tried their suggestions, the worse became my swing.
I was getting ready to swing again when the girls whispered the owner was coming. He strolled directly over until in front of me. I assumed it was to scold me about my divots and smiled to disarm him. He broadly returned my smile. Relieved my lecture would be mild, he introduced himself as Elliot, the resident golf pro and asked my name.
After our informal introduction, he didn’t mention my divot trench work on his tee turf. He explained he’d watched me from above the pro shop and asked if it was my first time on a golf course, which was obvious.
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 privileged. 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 if he could assist me. Without waiting for my consent, he 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 way to grip the club.
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, perhaps English Leather. He was a professional space invader. invading my space without asking permission. I didn't push the trespasser away. The three elderly ladies gawked, envious at the attention I drew. After the practice swings against an imaginary ball, he released me from his grip and told me to do a few practice swings on my own. My swings felt awkward, but he assured me they were better than before.
He retrieved a tee and one of his personal golf balls from a pocket, knelt before me, set the tee in the grass and the ball on it. He glanced up at my legs, reached over, grabbed an ankle, moved it where he wanted it and then the other to spread my legs in what he said were their proper positions.
After another glance up at my legs with thighs concealed in my modest skirt, he rose, got behind me, and again put me into his grip with his cheek unabashedly tight against mine. He was chewing gum. He snugged his pelvis up against my butt. It reminded me of when Darryl and I made a little vase on the pottery wheel. He whispered provocatively in my ear me we were going to swing together and hit the ball but 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. He released me. I turned and looked up at him. He was smiling and aroused. I told him I’d get his ball, but he laughed.
“The ball’s yours now. 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 swung until my new golf ball plopped on the green.
Putting on the first green the girls 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.
Cobra, however, coiled up after my lesson and hissed. I missed Erica. I could talk to her about what happened. I skipped the next ladies' golf day. Skipping golf with them, however, was not skipping another golf lesson. I didn’t want them with me if I went.
I drove by the course daily commuting to and from work, always turned my head to look at the driveway to the course but avoided turning the car for two weeks.
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, a time the elderly ladies avoided. 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 an early 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.
At the counter, I protested his paying, but he replied it was already done.
“I was afraid your first golf experience was your last. I’m pleased you’ve tried again. I’m here to help beginners. I’d love to give you a free lesson and improve your swing until you too like golf.”
He opened his calendar notebook, set up an appointment lesson for the following week, then wrote the date and time on his personal card and gave it to me. He didn’t ask if his appointment time fit my schedule. I didn’t point out his bold assumption as he departed by saying.
“I’ll show you how to grip and swing a club.”
He was so sure of himself, yet his oldness 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 Cobra knew better. She directed me to the mall where I bought new underwear and golf clothes. Instead of the modest skirt and blouse 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, did take 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.
Author Notes: Despite seeking her husband's disapproval the wife already knows she has again crossed the threshold of adultery.