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 secrets know only by me.
The golf course, privately owned, was open to the public. Developed in the 1920's, 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 my swing.
I was getting ready for my fifth when he strolled over. The girls whispered the owner was coming. I assumed it was to scold me about my divots at the tee and smiled to disarm him. He smiled broadly back. 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, flirting 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 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. It landed 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 wore 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.
Author Notes: Despite seeking her husband's disapproval the wife already knows she has again crossed the threshold of adultery.