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Subject: {ASSM} ME AND MARTHA JANE '99 (m/F,teen) MJANE07.TXT
Date: Tue, 8 Feb 2000 22:10:04 -0500
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**** WARNING **** WARNING **** WARNING ****
THIS DOCUMENT IS A SEXUALLY GRAPHIC STORY ABOUT AN INTENSE SEXUAL,
EMOTIONAL AND INTELLECTUAL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A TEENAGE GIRL AND
A YOUNG BOY AND THE COURSE OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP OVER A PERIOD OF
10 YEARS. IT IS A DRAMATIZATION ABOUT REAL PEOPLE AND THEIR CON-
FLICT WITH SOCIAL EXPECTATIONS. IF THIS SUBJECTS OFFENDS YOU OR IF
SEXUAL LANGUAGE UPSETS YOU, OR IF YOU DON'T WANT THIS MATERIAL SEEN
BY UNDER-18 OR OTHERWISE UNQUALIFIED PERSONS, DELETE THIS DOCUMENT.
THIS DOCUMENT IS COPYRIGHTED 1994, 1999 BY SJR. SO--HEY, YOU CAN
COPY IT BUT YOU CAN'T CHANGE IT OR SELL IT UNLESS I SAY SO.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
PART 7A:
My mother scowled as she stood in the doorway of my new bedroom in
our new house in the new suburb on Macon Road. She warned me, "This
room better be straightened up before your daddy gets home."
As she turned to leave I said, "Can you close the door, please?"
Her frown deepened. "Why do you always stay in here with the door
closed?"
"I just do," I replied, sitting on the floor and pouting, sur-
rounded by the artifacts and tools I'd collected during the past few
months in my large room.
She closed the door, sighing angrily. I remained on the floor and
pondered how I might organize the mess around me. I had books and,
comics, magazines, drawing supplies, record albums, newspapers, thea-
ter magazines, brochures, copies of theatrical scripts, research
papers and mementos of plays and movies. Now and then I bought a copy
of the New York Sunday Times at the Union Station newsstand when I
visited my godparents, as I still did almost every weekend. Several
issues of the Times, with all sections intact, stood piled in one
corner of the room. And there were reams of lined loose-leaf paper
filled with schoolwork and drama club notes and the thousands of words
of novels and stories that I had begun writing since the move to the
new house. Unfortunately I had only a single chest of drawers and one
small two-shelf bookcase, my bed, a small table with a record player,
a desk large enough only for a book and small pad, and an eight-inch
knickknack shelf screwed into the wall near one of the two windows.
Knowing my stepdad would be home within the hour, I began stuffing
the loose papers into a couple of cardboard boxes. I found room for
the boxes in my closet, along with many other things. Even more of my
keepsakes and projects were slid under the single bed, and several
books were lined up along the floorboards on either side of my small
desk. Just as I was looking for a place to stow the Black Lady -- my
prized Underwood typewriter, with which I had typed my make-believe
newspapers and my new crop of stories and novels -- I heard the
kitchen door squeak and slam shut. My stepdad Tony had arrived with
the familiar heavy stride that rattled the prefab windows in my
bedroom as he approached.
"You finish cleanin' this up yet?" he asked, his voice as always
noisily and deeply resonant. He looked tired, overworked and im-
patient, his strong and darkly haired arms bulging from the white
short sleeved shirt, his large hands parked on his hips.
Sweaty from working quickly, I was kneeling on the floor, pushing
the old typewriter along the floor. I stopped and looked up at him.
"Almost," I said.
"Still looks like a lot of junk left in here." He strode heavily
into the room and went directly to the closet. Pulling the door open
with a quick swish of air, he grunted unpleasantly at what he saw.
"In the Navy they would have kicked you overboard for a mess like
this. And in the Navy, we don't stuff goods under the bunks..."
Stooping, he saw what I had placed under my bed.
Without pause, he glowered at me and pointed a finger at each
thing he named as he spoke. "Okay, mister...all of this goes. This
goes out in the trash...and this..this...and all that crap piled on
the floor in that closet."
Amazed and shocked, I gulped hard. "Throw it away?"
"This ain't the Lauderdale Courts housing project," he bellowed,
"and it ain't gonna look like it, either. Throw those boxes away,
throw those newspapers away, and get this place straightened up.
*Before* you eat!" Without another word, he stomped out of the room.
Having lived with this intractable man for half a year, I knew
resistance was futile. He had mentioned earlier that my projects were
junk and that sooner or later they'd have to go.
I sat on the floor for five minutes or so, looking at each article
that would soon be gone. I knew I had no choice. While I was think-
ing about it, spending a last few minutes with my belongings, Tony
growled from the doorway, "Let's MOVE it, mister! Get rid of that
crap or you don't eat."
An armful at a time, I carried one load of newspapers out of my
room, through the living room where my stepdad sat watching Bishop
Fulton J. Sheen talk about Communists on tv, past the dining room
table, through the kitchen, out the squeaking aluminum back door, down
the steps and across the narrow driveway, where I dumped the load into
the dark green fifty-gallon garbage drum by the carport. Then back
into the house, past my stepdad who sat engrossed in Bishop Sheen's
warnings about the threat of godless enemies, and into my room. Then
another armload, back through the house and out the back door, without
a word between the two of us, until I had emptied four armloads of my
belongings into the big green can.
He stepped into the doorway to check on me as I gathered another
load. Behind him, my mother peered past his broad shoulder. "All
those damn record albums, too," he said. "They must be twenty years.
The damn seams are falling apart."
"Better keep those, Tony," my mother reminded him. "Most of them
belong to his Aunt Frances."
"Then next time you go to see your Aunt Frances, take them outta
here and give 'em back to her."
"Yessir," I said tonelessly, loading up an armful of brochures and
magazines.
"And all that paper you got in that box over there, if ain't
schoolwork, throw it away!"
I looked up at him. "That's stuff that I drew myself."
"That 'stuff' is foolishness nobody needs, and we don't have room
for it."
The raw sternness of his voice and face told me there would be no
compromises in my bedroom that night.
"Yessir," I said quietly.
"I don't see why you cain't be like any other boy and play ball
with the rest of 'em. It ain't no good for somebody your age to just
come home after school and close yourself up in this room every day.
Put away that art crap away and grow up like everybody else."
"Yessir."
"You have schoolwork to do, and that's what you're supposed to do.
Not all this art crap and newspapers from I-don't-know-where."
I mumbled, "I already have an A average."
"What?"
"...nothin'...sir."
"You don't have no time for backtalk, buster. Just get rid of
this mess and clean this place up."
"Yessir."
They both left for the living room. I passed them with several
more armloads, wordlessly, as they both watched Bishop Sheen and ex-
changed concerned whispers to each other about the Communist threat.
More armsful of my history and my time and my effort tumbled into the
dark green can, which began to look like a great black hole as the sun
fell and the evening turned to night.
Soon I passed them with what I thought was the last armful, which
I soon dumped into the top of the growing heap in the can. I stood
there sweating, looking at the pile, and took a long breath. Well. I
had lived through that, anyway. Perhaps they were right: there was
not much future in the way I'd spent my time. I passed them once more
as I went back to my room and closed my door.
After a moment my stepdad opened the door again and looked around.
He pointed directly at the Black Beauty. "And get rid of that."
I argued feebly, "That's my typewriter."
"It's junk. Get rid of it!"
I said nothing. I looked directly at him, aware that I was ready
to jump at him and rip his throat open. But I stubbornly concealed
everything I thought and felt.
He said threateningly, "You heard me!"
"Yessir," I said. I rose to my feet, pretending that I was tired
rather than reveal that even my own body resisted me. I stooped down.
The Black Beauty came into my arms heavily, reluctantly, and I lifted
it like an overweight child to my chest, and cradled it. I walked
past them into the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, silently
telling myself that I had to be prepared soon for the instant when its
weight and its keys and its words and memories and its secrets that I
had typed out on paper would soon disappear into a barrel of trash. I
banged open the kitchen door with one foot, stumbling and scuffling
under the Black Beauty's heft, and moved into the cool night under the
power of the obedient little boy whom I knew was not really me at all.
And the real Me watched and the sadly drifting lightning bugs watched,
and the angrily flittering moth at the back porch light watched as
another Me let the Black Beauty slip out of my arms and settle with a
dull crunch, half hidden in the paper and drawings and books and
pieces of crayon. Instead of going inside to dinner I walked to our
front yard and leaned on the head high cyclone wire fence that girded
our front and side yards. I listened to the sound of cars swishing
past in the street and watched the automobiles full of people who did
not know what had just happened and who couldn't have done anything
anyway. After a moment I could not see the cars very well through the
liquid gathering in my eyes.
When I felt one eye overflow I brushed the wet from my cheek and
whispered aloud to myself, "You have to be tougher than this."
"....Speedy, every time I call, you aren't home," Martha Jane said
over the phone. "What have you been doing all this time?"
"I called a few times myself," I answered, checking in all direc-
tions to make sure no one was listening -- not because I expected an
embarrassingly intimate conversation with Martha Jane, but because I
had been increasing my isolation from everyone I lived with. "Your
mother keeps giving me different telephone numbers."
"I know," said Martha Jane, and her breathing and sounds of mov-
ement on her side of the line told me she was talking and doing other
things at once. "I am so, sooo damn busy, it's pathetic. Moving
around like a chicken with my head cut off. I moved twice in one
month! I had a roommate that I didn't know hadn't paid the rent for
months and we got kicked out before I was finished moving in, and
now...now I'm moving AGAIN!. I don't believe it. I'm packing books
in a box right now, but...Anyway, how *are* you?"
"I'm...okay," I lied. "When can I see you?"
"Oh my, I don't know, the next couple of weeks are--Oh god I wish
I could just get a day off or something, I -- "
"Need some help moving? I'd be glad to help."
"Oh, Speedy, these books are so heavy, you'd break your back."
"I want to help you."
"If you'd like to spend a day together or something, that would be
fine later on, but -- how are you gonna get all the way into this part
of town from way out there on Macon Road?"
"I'll get there."
"How?"
"Bus," I insisted.
She laughed. "*BUS*? Speedy, that'll take hours. And I can't
come get you, I'm borrowing princess Evelyn's car for just a few
hours."
I repeated, my voice audibly shaky with a need I couldn't subdue,
"I wanna come see you and help."
She paused on the other end, then her voice sweetened with
concern. "What's wrong, hon?"
"I just...I just wanna help you, you never let me help you."
"No, something's wrong."
"You're just so...far away, and I want to know I'm helping you."
"Well...I've been so busy for so long, and I really don't have
anyone to help. I can't ask the guys I know, they think if they help
me move I oughtta let them into my pants."
"Well," I said, making up something quickly, "I'm bored! It's so
boring out here in this neighborhood. I want to do something. And
you shouldn't have to move by yourself."
"Oh, you're sweet...well...you're sure this bus ride won't wear
you out?"
"I can handle it."
She gave me directions. I would have to transfer to two other
city buses. I would meet her after my own classes, on a Friday
afternoon in the student center at the college.
"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked.
"Yes," I lied. "I'm fine."
"OK. Next Friday, then. You know where to meet me."
That Friday seemed a month away and in no great hurry to arrive.
Days in our new prefab home started as they always did. Mom in her
bathrobe and slippers would make hotcakes in the kitchen, then serve
them dripping with Aunt Jemima syrup. I once remarked that such a
breakfast was all empty starch and sugar, at which Mom irritably shot
back, "What do you want? Steak? We have to eat what we can afford."
I didn't mention my misgivings again, realizing that for some reason
she seemed to be growing more irritable by the day with some sort of
ailment. I would spoon away the syrup and eat what remained, watching
my stepdad sit silently across from me and hurriedly sip his coffee
while he tied his shoes and got ready for work. On one morning Mom
had to leave the table, and soon I heard her retching in the bathroom.
I asked my stepdad, "Is Mama sick?"
He dismissed my question testily. "Aw, that female problem stuff
is all in her head." He got up without another word and left for
work. Mom returned shortly after he left, sitting with her coffee and
staring tiredly out the window. No words passed between us until I
said goodbye as I left for school.
One night during that week I awoke from my shrinking universe
nightmare and found myself panting in the dark, standing confused and
shaky in the middle of my room near the bed. The pillow had just
slipped from the bed to the floor, telling me that I must have just
then bolted from bed; my body was poised for a dash into nowhere, but
I had waked almost immediately. I stood deathly still, listening for
signs of anyone else who might be up. Nothing and no one moved. I
crept into the living room and stood near the front window, looking
out at the still and empty street while I settled down. I did not
understand my recurring dream of a crushing, wildly buzzing universe.
We had kept the old Philco radio, which sat on a small table near
the tv. I turned it on, keeping the volume all the way off, and
stared into the bright green tuning eye. What voices might that green
eye be hearing now? What was life like out there, how far away was
the source of the voice? What were the colors and the thoughts and
the lives out there? After a while sleep overtook me again, and I
went back to bed.
On Friday at precisely 2:30 P.M. I left my last grammar school class
and broke into a full run. With my school bag flung around my
shoulder and slapping against my side, I barely made it to a bus three
blocks away that waited for me to dash across the main thoroughfare,
The suburbs to which my family moved lay fourteen miles directly
east of the old housing project. Fourteen miles of long, straight,
unbending, undifferentiated city boulevards. The trip began with four
miles of gas stations, soft serve ice cream drive-ins, barbecue
restaurants, and auto dealerships. Then four miles of look-alike
firebrick school complexes, look-alike shopping centers, look-alike
office towers. And then five miles of look-alike, quickly built,
instantly GI-mortgaged homes. I remember thinking of it as monotony
raised to the level of science, made all the more bland and pointless
by the terrain of this part of Tennessee, which was almost ruler-
flat. Even my own neighborhood, broken at least partly by the vast
open but treeless fields of an unadorned recreation area called
Geisman Park, seemed a universe of its own with long uncurving ave-
nues, no visible beginnings, no visible ends. Across from my new home
the supermarket and the drug store, both of which were contained
within a single, one-story, squared-off, plate-glassed building made
from the same brick of the same colors as all the bricks in all the
look-alike houses around it, looked like the same supermarket and the
same drug store and the same building on mile after mile of other
look-alike streets.
But as I boarded the third and last bus in the long trip, and as
the gasoline engine roared under the load of passengers, a different
city entered my view. It was the older Memphis, the Memphis of its
heyday in the 1920's, the streets lined with elegant estates and
thick, dark green trees. The Memphis in which my dead father had
grown up, with old bungalows and quaint corner shops and undulating
roadways. The edges of the college campus soon appeared, its magnolia
trees, open pastures and Georgian buildings filling my eyes and
crowding out the memory of the numbing suburbs. I knew Martha Jane
lived somewhere within a block or two of the campus. As the bus
rattled past the streets I wondered how she looked while strolling
down the sidewalk past the cherry trees and the neat old homes on her
way to class. I wondered what it might be like to be surrounded by
ideas, by art, by talkers and teachers and learners. It seemed as
exotic as a vision of a perfect Pacific isle.
The bus squealed to a halt at Patterson Avenue. I jumped out and
walked in long stretching steps down the three blocks toward the
campus center. The walkway soon became crowded with students going in
all directions: yelling, chatting, or alone in a hurry with an armload
of books. Again, I began to feel very, very young and childlike among
these people. I caught myself staring in wonder at a man who crossed
my path a few yards ahead of me, a man with a pipe and two books under
one arm, a man wearing a tweed sport jacket with leathered elbows, a
man frowning in thought. Why his image remained permanently in my
mind, I don't know; but within a few years from that day it would come
to pass that I would be in that very college and I would have several
classes taught by the man that I saw that day. Perhaps, I think now,
I had known that he would be one o f my principal teachers in later
years. Perhaps, I think now, he would have been someone whom I wanted
as the father I didn't have instead of the unyielding and exacting
replacement with whom I was confronted. Or perhaps he embodied an
image of the person I might one day like to be.
Although I knew my way, I felt lost. I was besieged by sights
and sounds from a world that was, on that day, completely unlike
anything in my daily life. The odor of pine and magnolia in the
breeze almost made me feel drugged. Being surrounded by so many
people was disorienting, and all of them were completely foreign to my
experience of others. These were adults who could read and converse
about concepts and events I knew nothing about and couldn't possibly
imagine. I felt completely out of my element, and yet I felt I was in
a world that I was compelled to enter and explore. I slowed my pace
to a normal walk, feeling I would be less conspicuous if I adopted the
ways of those who inhabited this strange new planet. But I averted my
eyes from theirs, looking down at the sidewalk as I moved along.
Then I heard her voice, calling to me from the massive steps of
the Administration Building. I looked up and saw Martha Jane, in a
plain gray ankle length overcoat with her pert face smiling broadly
and one arm waving at me. I waved back. I smiled. I attempted to
seem undaunted and casual. It struck me then, as I observed my own
behavior, how I was beginning to simulate a kind of calm and
unaffected front -- when, in fact, I almost jumped out of my shoes at
the sight of her.
She met me halfway across the driveway to the building and gave me
a hug and a kiss.
"So there you are!" she said. "Right on time, too, I was afraid
you might have trouble on the bus. Come on with me to the student
center, we'll get coffee or something before we start."
I agreed and stayed closely at her side as we walked to the
center. She noticed me staring at the many students passing everywhere.
She laughed. "You look like a tourist."
I blushed. "Martha Jane...I shouldn't be here. I mean--"
"I know what you mean, Speedy, but don't let them intimidate you.
One day you'll be here for classes every day yourself and you'll find
out how dumb most of them really are."
It was late in the afternoon and the crowd in the student center
was a thin one. Martha Jane led me to a long table near the middle of
the vast, resonant room and sat across from me and opened her overcoat.
"What do you want, Speedy? Coffee? A coke? I don't know what
you like anymore."
I deepened my voice into a macho growl. "Coffee!"
"You sure? The coffee here is more like dark brown kerosene. Has
quite a kick. I *need* that kick, but you might not be used to it."
"Coffee," I repeated, and she went into the serving line to bring
back two steaming cups of very dark stuff that didn't look like any
coffee I had ever seen before.
She caught me looking into the cup before I took a drink.
She smirked. "Just take a deep breath, and swallow." She took a
little gulp of it, sighed wearily, and settled back into her chair.
"Speedy, I hope you hurry and grow up faster so you can get into
school here. You'd certainly add a lot of class to the male popula-
tion. Don't look now, but there's a guy behind you, walking toward
us, and he's going to come over here and try to put the make on me.
Watch closely, and learn how the lower classes do it."
PART 7B:
The guy she was talking about soon appeared to my left. He was
tall and brawny, well over six feet, with shoulders to match. He had
a bellowing, gruff voice and wore a blue and white wool athletic
jacket whose padded shoulders made him look gigantic. He approached
our table and called out a hefty, "Hi, Janie, you gorgeous heifer,
you!" He lifted one large thigh and planted a foot on the opposite
side of the table, then lifted the other big leg to stand beside
Martha Jane.
"Hello, Frank," Martha Jane said politely.
With sweeping, commanding, swaggering movements, Frank grabbed a
chair and sat backwards on it, huge legs spread and massive arms
draped across the chair's metal backplate.
"Hiya doin, cutie?" he bantered. He nodded toward me. "Hey,
Janie, who's yer friend?"
"That's Steven," Martha Jane said. I immediately realized that
she had not introduced me as "Speedy." and I gave her a half hidden
Groucho Marx raised eyebrow in return. She winked.
"Steven, huh? Hiya, big guy. You look like you're new here this
year."
Before I could answer, Martha Jane told him that I was her "prize
student" who was checking out the campus. Frank continued to make
small talk with her, his speech as swaggering and masculine as the
rest of him. Finally he asked her, "So, you goin' to the big
Homecomin'? Ain't goin' by yourself are ya?"
Martha Jane told him she was swamped with work.
Frank shook his head. "Damn, Janie, you are the workin'-est
heifer I ever saw. C'mon, now, you ain't accepted my invitation for
three months." He looked directly at me and winked, "Is she always
this hard to get, fella?"
"She's a busy girl," I answered, trying to deepen my young voice
as best I could.
He made another attempt or two at getting a date with Martha Jane,
persisting in calling her Janie, and Martha Jane remained politely
adamant and told him that her Homecoming weekend would be spent trying
to finish her final papers before the semester piled up on her.
Eventually he stood up to leave.
He joked, "You sure you wanna pass up a big Homecomin' date?"
"It's tempting, Frank," she flirted, "and I'm sure I'll regret it
for the rest of my days. But, really, I have a lot of work to do."
"Still doin' that student teaching, huh?"
"Yes, it's a back breaker."
"Well, that's OK, it'll get you a nice job after graduation. But
a gal like you, you won't have to put up with that teachin' racket for
long, some guy'll snatch you right up before you know what happened."
"Yeah right, Frank, happens every day."
"Well, see ya, then. You, too, fella."
After he was out of hearing range Martha Jane heaved a long, re-
lieved sigh. "See what I mean? Pride of the campus, that big ox. We
could sure use all that muscle to help us move...but it's not worth
it."
"He seemed nice enough," I remarked.
"Speedy, he's not nice. He tried to fuck me on the first date,
strictly on the dubious merit of his membership on the football team,
without so much as a word about how I might feel about it. He was so
surprised when I said no! As if it's the first time in his life a
girl didn't undress the minute he walked in!" She shook her head. "I
hate the name Janie. And I don't like being called a 'cutie' or a
'heifer' as a sign of affection, by some good ol' boy from Arkansas
who can't talk about anything but beer, football, and his daddy's
money. I should have known better than to go out with him in the
first place, but somebody fixed me up and I was in desperate need of a
night out." Again, she winked at me. "So don't think you're going to
be some kind of dummy the first day you start taking classes here,
because most of your mental competition is in the form of that big
palooka."
We finished our coffee and headed across the campus toward Martha
Jane's apartment a few blocks away. Martha Jane said there was no big
hurry; she'd spent two weeks packing and she didn't have that much
gear to move. The sun was sinking near the rooftops by then, the late
afternoon sky beginning to deepen in color. We strolled, and she lit
a cigarette and talked. She was in her last undergraduate year now,
and had spent most of it struggling to make it through in three years
and qualifying for an award that might get her a Master's, and the
rest of the time warding off the good ol' boys whom she described as
"so eager to get me in bed you can smell the lust a mile off."
I told her, "It's because you really are very pretty, Martha Jane."
She flicked her cigarette and sent a smooth stream of smoke into
the chilly air. "You have a nice way of saying that, but...in Mem-
phis, being pretty just means you're like prey, you're some kind of
prize that guys just want to show off and get their cookies with. Have
their babies and cook. I don't like being so pretty sometimes. I wish
I were more average...or more cosmopolitan, you know -- chic, I guess,
like my sister Evelyn. She looks so sophisticated, a guy looks at her
and knows he has to take his time. But for some reason they see me as
a sex kitten who's just waiting to get pounced upon, and I'm supposed
to show my thanks by giving up everything I've worked for and sit at
home continually getting pregnant out of love for their 'Prince
Charming' complex...No. No, I sometimes wish I were not as pretty as
they think. I'm being interviewed for teaching jobs, and the men who
interview me -- well, what they're thinking is written all over their
faces, they're so patronizing. They see how I look, that's all. Other
than that, I'm just another new special education major, nothing
special, nothing unique. And not a word about the work I've done and
the research I did, not a minute spent talking about new methods or
the problems with abused or precocious kids or any of that. It's just
'Hi, what a pretty girl.' And it never goes beyond that."
The place she was moving from was in a small two bedroom, typical
modern apartment building with thin carpets and thinner walls. Her
former roommates had been evicted, leaving only a mattress in one of
the bedrooms and a painted wooden chair in the living room. All the
rest of it -- some bundled clothes, an old trunk, and a few dozen
boxes of books -- belonged to Martha Jane.
Puffing and heaving, we began loading Evelyn's borrowed Pontiac.
Martha Jane was right: those boxed books were *really* heavy. But I
was up to the task, exhilarated at finally being able to move and
fling some weight around after so much torpor in the suburbs. It
wasn't long before we had the car filled with a little more than half
of the full load and were on our way in the car to Martha Jane's new
place, several blocks away on the other side of the campus in an older
part of the neighborhood.
Martha Jane drove to an old, well kept dark red two story house
with white shutters. It stood in the middle of a deep lawn amid many
large oak and birch trees. Her apartment was in back, atop the two-
car garage behind the house. As I carried the first boxes up the
creaky wooden stairway at the side of the garage and entered the front
door, I was immediately struck by the serenity and homeliness of the
interior. It had a tiny kitchen, a small but ample bedroom in the
rear, and a spacious living room. The many curtained windows looked
out over the main house, the trees, and the rest of the neighborhood.
"Beautiful!" I whispered as I set the box on the floor and looked
around. "This is cute!"
It was furnished with keepsakes, most of it simple early American
gear having a basic, useful look. One wall had a painted wood book-
shelf, another a long ancient sofa with fairly new, flowered up-
holstery in good shape, a big fluffy easy chair covered with the
same fabric as the sofa, and an ancient writing desk with a rollup
top. The carpet had seen better days and was seamed together from
several smaller pieces; but it did have a certain bohemian character
that fit the circumstances.
Her brow dotted with sweat even though the air was cold, Martha
Jane followed me inside and dropped the box she carried onto the floor
with a thud, and the weight of it pushed her across the room and into
my arms. I caught her, and she stopped to give me a hug.
"Whew! Damn, where did I get all these BOOKS!?!" She stood still
and relaxed against me, catching her breath. "Speedy, you're hardly
out of breath! How do you do it? Whew!"
I held her lightly, wanting to simply crush her against me. She
was wearing a turtleneck sweater and jeans and loafers. The sweater
clung to her light frame and slim shoulders; outwardly she appeared
dainty, but my hands felt the lithe and solid body under her flesh,
and the warmth and feel of her seemed to seep into every pore of my
body. Her sweaty cheek was against mine, my lips near her long and
elegant neck. Embarrassed by a sudden wave of affection and passion,
I pulled back from her and said, "You rest, I'll go get the other
stuff."
"Oh, I will not!" she protested, leaning into me and still looking
for her second wind. "I can carry my own weight in this job, mister.
Whew! As soon as I get my breath!" She kissed my cheek and hugged
me. "I'm so glad you're helping. You've grown an inch taller,
haven't you?"
"I have a long way to go before I can compete with guys like that
Frank fella."
"Don't you *dare* become...whew!...another one of those bull-
necked, overgrown jocks." She moved away from me and collapsed onto
the sofa. "Thank goodness *everybody* isn't like him! Whew! How did
I get so old so fast?"
I headed for the front door. "You stay there and I'll bring up
some more stuff."
"Don't you dare, without me," she said weakly, staring at the
ceiling.
But I was already on my way out the door and down the stairs,
hearing her yell behind me, "Don't you dare!" Grabbing the wooden
banister, I dropped down two steps at a time and was soon into the car
and grabbing another box. I was on my way up the stairs with it when
Martha Jane met me on her way down. "Don't you carry this stuff by
yourself!"
I insisted, "Listen, you rest a minute. I'm all right."
"Oh, you men, you always think you can do it all."
In no time at all we had emptied the car and then collapsed on the
long sofa side by side, staring at the ceiling, our feet dangling
toward the floor.
"Are we finished?" she asked, winded again.
"Just one more carload oughtta do it."
"Oh, God...whew!...We have to hurry, Evelyn will drop by for her
car soon, and we have to get you home."
"No. Don't wanna go home."
"Don't be silly...whew!...You have to go home, Steven."
I stopped thinking for at least half a minute. She had called me
Steven! She had not called me "Speedy." It was the first time she
had used my proper name, and the first time in my memory that anyone
had called me by Steven. I was so surprised I was speechless.
After a minute she sat up, her arms hanging limply at her sides,
and looked over the half filled room. "What a mess. Will this
endless moving ever come to an end? I'm so sick of it."
I lay back into the sofa looking at her. I wondered if she
realized she had called me Steven.
She rose to her feet with a groan, stretched her back and raised
her arms toward the ceiling, then moved slowly and grudgingly toward
the door. "Okay, cowboy. Let's get the last of it."
On the drive back to her old place she told me she was concerned
about how I would get home. "Listen, I have some money. I'll get you
a taxi. It shouldn't be more than ten dollars or so from here. I
hate to ask Miss Evelyn to give you a ride, she's such a put-upon
princess!"
"I can take the bus," I said, unworried.
"Bus! Your mother will have a fit by the time you get home. Oh,
it's my fault, we shouldn't have stopped for coffee, we should have
come straight here."
"Coffee was only ten minutes, that wouldn't have saved much time."
"But it's already *DARK* now!"
"Hey, take it easy, we'll be finished soon and it'll be all right.
Anyway, I'm having fun."
"Yeah, fun!" she pouted. "This is all my fault, trying to do it
in one quick flash like this. God knows I've done it often enough to
know better by now!"
"Martha Jane, it's okay."
"It's not okay!" she came back angrily, keeping her eyes on the
road. "I'll end up getting you in trouble, and it's my fault!"
I didn't reply, as I could see that continuing the conversation
would only get her more riled. We had arrived at her old place
again. She scurried ahead of me out of the car and into the lobby
elevator. As I joined her she smacked the button for floor #3 and
waited impatiently while the machine lurched upward.
"We have to hurry," she muttered nervously.
"It won't take long," I offered. But she just said again, "We
have to hurry."
We did indeed hurry, even though I assured her that it was only a
little after five and that we would likely be finished in less than
half an hour. I talked her into lifting two boxes into my arms at
once, though she protested frantically until she saw that the boxes I
picked out were lighter than the others. We piled everything into the
hallway near the elevator, then shoved everything into the elevator
and then into the building lobby, and carried it all out to the car.
On the way to the new place for the last time, she lit a cigarette
and puffed on it deeply and ran a stop sign. "Sorry," she muttered as
we careened down the street. Then she let out a nervous laugh and
slapped the steering wheel. "God, hon, I hope I'm not having a
nervous breakdown!" She looked at me and at the road and then broke
into a giggle. "Huh? You think I am?"
I muttered, "Wait until we get there, so you can park the car
first and let me out."
"Okay," she laughed. "I'll wait. Then I'll let go." She looked
at me and blushed, and then giggled again. "I've already gone
spastic."
It didn't take long to unload the remaining goods. I again
managed to carry two boxes at a time, while she made several trips
with her clothes. We were on our way up the stairs with the next-to-
last load when someone drove up with Martha Jane's sister Evelyn in
the car. Evelyn thanked the driver, a girlfriend of hers who traded
quick hello's with Martha Jane and me and who drove off when she saw
that all was under way.
Evelyn followed us up the steps and into the new living room. She
was dressed in a neat and expensive looking brown business suit that
seemed to somehow avoid getting a single wrinkle after a full day at
the office. Evelyn herself looked perfectly groomed and unaffected by
any aspect of life that I could determine.
"Well," she sniffed, looking around the place. "It's certainly
homely. Where in the world did they get this rug?"
Martha Jane huffed as she dropped some clothes on the big chair.
"Evelyn, the place only runs $45 a month. What's wrong with the
carpet, anyway?"
"It's a little...thin, honey," Evelyn answered absently. She went
into the kitchen to look it over. "I guess it's enough for one
person, but two would be impossible in here."
Martha Jane rolled her eyes at that and waved at me. "C'mon," she
said, "one more armful and it's over."
"Wait," Evelyn said, strolling to the door. "If you have my keys,
I have to meet some important people for dinner and I'll be late if I
hang around here. I see you're just about finished anyway."
"Yes," Martha Jane agreed, her hands on her hips and her temper
flaring a little, "Yes, we are just about finished. I wouldn't want
you to be late. Your keys are in the Pontiac."
Evelyn stopped at the door. "Speedy, is that you? I didn't rec-
ognize you, you're getting so grown up. Have you been helping Jane
move?"
I nodded. "Yeah, but she did most of the work."
"I'll bet," Evelyn laughed in her dry, mildly scornful, success-
ful lady way. "Jane, I'll come get you Sunday. We're having lunch
with our Mom's boyfriend and future husband."
Martha Jane's mouth fell open. "Husband? Future husband?"
Evelyn smiled broadly. "Yes. It's going to be announced. But
don't say anything yet. All right? Please? He thinks it'll be a
surprise -- as if we hadn't already guessed for more than a year."
Martha Jane stared into space, flabbergasted. "So she's going to
marry him. She's...going...to...marry...him."
"Why not?" Evelyn said merrily, tilting her head with her purpose-
ly sexy little smile. "But don't say anything. Till after. Nice
meeting you again, Speedy."
Evelyn walked out the door, careful not to snag her high heels on
the old plank woodwork, and Martha Jane went to the door and yelled
out, "Well, thanks for the car today, sister. I hope we didn't damage
anything."
"It's all right, Jane," Evelyn called back, careful not to muss
her immaculate shoes as she walked to her car. She looked inside
briefly and, satisfied that the last of the load had been placed on
the ground outside the car, she smiled and waved before backing up and
driving away.
I followed Martha Jane down the steps for the last two boxes and
the last plastic bag of clothing, which sat in a mild cloud of dust
left behind by Evelyn's Pontiac.
"Well!" Martha Jane said. "So mama's gonna marry that guy."
I said, "They've been dating forever, haven't they? Didn't you
tell me about him a long time ago?"
"Well, he's nice, and fairly wealthy, but....Oh, forget it. Let's
get this stuff upstairs. I'm so tired. I'm really just running out
of gas at this point."
I stood and waited while she lifted two boxes into my arms and
then I turned to go up the steps. But then I heard Martha Jane yelp
behind me, followed by a loud thump. She had picked up a heavy bag
that pushed her backward and onto the ground under its weight.
"You all right?" I asked, and she answered with a dull, "Yeah.
Sure."
"Don't pick that up, I'll come back and get it."
"No, I'll get it."
"Martha Jane..." I began impatiently. I stooped to lower the
boxes to the ground, then rushed to her and grabbed the plastic-
wrapped clothing. "You're getting tired, now, don't carry this. I
can get it."
Her face seemed blank and her eyes glazed, her brow sweaty and
smeared with a lock of auburn hair. I asked, "Did you hurt yourself?"
She mumbled, her voice slurry. "Take me up the stairs."
"What?"
"Walk me up the stairs, please."
I held her by one shoulder and we started toward the stairway.
"Are you all right?"
"Oh, I'm just...tired and feel a little silly after falling down
like that. I should have been more careful." Holding my arm with one
hand and the handrail with the other, she started up the stairs with
me.
"Easy, lady."
"I'm all right! Just bumped the hell out of my butt, that's all."
"That's okay."
"It's not okay, I should have taken more time for this...and
Evelyn didn't even offer you a ride."
"She had that important dinner to get to."
"Her and her damn important dinners," Martha Jane muttered.
PART 7C:
We reached the top of the stairs. She stood in the middle of the
living room and looked about. She sighed downheartedly, "I'm so tired
of this." Suddenly she started crying; she frowned and then squinted
hard, and her eyes closed and squeezed out small pearly tears that
tumbled quickly down her cheeks. "I'm so tired of this," she wept,
and covered her face quickly with her hands.
I went to her and held her shoulders, letting her lean against me
with her face in my chest. For a minute she cried as I silently
stroked her hair. Soon she calmed down.
She sniffed loudly and moaned, "I'm so silly."
"You're dead tired," I said. Firmly, I held her away from me and
looked into her reddened, wet, tired, absolutely beautiful face. "You
get right over to that sofa and relax. I'll get the other stuff."
"Oh, independent me, look at how well I'm holding up. I'm sorry,
I guess all this just...hit me all at once."
"Go to that sofa, or I'll carry you over there and nail you to it."
"Oh, all right..." She whimpered like a defeated little girl and
brushed the wet hair from her face and went to the sofa. I moved to
the door, and by the time I turned around to look at her she had
fallen onto her back on the sofa, her head against an armrest and one
foot dangling onto the floor. She sniffled again.
I stood by the door and shook a warning finger at her. "Now,
don't you move until I'm finished."
Three quick trips up and down the stairs, and I finished the job.
I set the last box onto the floor and saw that she seemed asleep with
her head nestled on a cushion against the armrest. Grabbing some
paper towels from one of the boxes, I went to her and knelt on the
floor beside her, and reached up to wipe her forehead.
Her eyes opened and she smiled wearily. "Oh, look at ME! I feel
as if I need a nurse. No, don't--" She took the towel from my hands,
folded it, and gently wiped the sweat from my face. She whispered
sweetly, "Thank you, hon. You've done enough for me already. I'm
sorry I organized this so badly."
"You did fine," I said. "We moved two carloads in a little over
an hour."
"Stop being so nice to me. You've always been too nice to me. I
wonder why you didn't just blow your stack and start yelling when I
was having a stroke in the car coming over here."
"You were tired."
"You're too nice, hon. I wasn't just tired, I was overworked and
disorganized. And just plain mad. This must be the fifth time I've
moved my stuff in a year. I can't depend on anybody, everything I do
goes wrong, I rush into things before I know what I'm doing, I worked
myself to death for god knows what, I took on too many classes this
semester...I'm a mess."
"Just another lady genius working her way through college."
"Stop. Be a Clark Gable and slap me around a little and bring me
to my senses."
"I could never do that."
She blew her nose. "No, I guess you couldn't. I'd probably slap
you back, anyway."
"You probably would. And you're bigger than me."
"Not anymore."
"Well...you're older."
She wiped her nose. "Yeah, but you're catching up." She crumpled
the towel and pitched it on the floor and took the fresh towel that I
had in my hand. "What a big grown up girl *I* am, right? I can't
believe I broke into tears just because I fell on my rear end."
"Stop apologizing for being worn out."
"Listen...how the heck are we gonna get you home?"
"I don't wanna go home."
"I'll call a cab."
"That costs too much."
"I can afford it. Anyway, I owe you something for all this."
"No! I'll take the bus."
"But you won't get home until after ten."
I shrugged. "I wanna stay here for a while."
"And do what? You've already done enough."
"It's nice here. I like it, it's a great apartment. Right now, I
just want -- " I stopped.
"You want?"
I didn't answer. I suddenly became aware of how, over the past
few months or perhaps over the past few years, I'd become so indirect
and timorous. I was thinking about that and about how to reply to
her, when she laughed bashfully and blew her nose again.
"Hon, we can't...uh...I'm so embarrassed to admit this, I have
never admitted this to you, but...well, we can't."
"Can't what?"
"You know. It's...that time of the month. It started today." She
suddenly hid her face with the napkin. "Oh, god, after all we've done
together, why am I so embarrassed? Oh, I'm so messed up."
I said to her flatly, "That's not what I was thinking about."
"What? What do you mean, then?"
"I wasn't thinking about that, that's not what I wanted."
"Oh. I'm sorry." She laughed and rolled her eyes. "Oh, WELL!
We know where Martha Jane's mind is, don't we? Oh, brother! I'm
sorry, hon. What did you want, then?"
I hesitated, only briefly, wondering why I waited and why I could
not be direct with this young woman. I started to say, "Well..." and
rose on my knees so that I looked down at her, and stuttered, "Well, I
just wanted--". I stopped, looked deeply into her questioning face,
and then put my arms around her and placed my head on her chest, just
below her breasts, and hugged her.
She asked, surprised, "This is what you wanted?"
I nodded against her.
I felt her fingers at my temple, stroking my hair. "That's all
you wanted?"
I nodded. "Just for a while."
She stroked my hair for another moment and then said, "Wait a
minute, lemme get my shoes off." I lifted and she reached down to
pull off her loafers and said, "You too, hon." I removed my tennis
shoes as she stretched lengthwise on the sofa and reclined along and
against the backrest. She held her arms up to me. She said, "Come
here. Let's cuddle."
I lay half on top of her, and she curled up closer to me and held
me with my face in her neck as stroked my back and my hair.
She said after a while, "I think I'll like this place. It's so
nice looking out the windows at the trees. It's the first comfortable
dump I've seen since I started school."
"I like the breeze in the leaves," I said.
"Yes."
We talked, not moving, then rested silent for a while. Then we
talked.
I did not tell her much about myself. I was uncertain about what
was happening to me or who I had become. She talked about her mother
and how her mom's health had gradually improved after being courted
and spoiled for years by her boyfriend, Mr. Buchanan. He owned an
office supply house and did well financially and had a beautiful home
in East Memphis. Martha Jane said she didn't like the man very much.
He was nice, very generous with his time and money and his displays of
affection. And patient; he had now spent some years waiting for
Martha Jane's mom to get over her fears of disappointment and her
feelings of inadequacy about her ill health. But Mr. Buchanan was old
fashioned, very "Memphis" and close-minded about women. He adored her
mom, but the only virtues he could see in any female were subservi-
ence and physical beauty. He gently but constantly urged her success-
ful sister Evelyn to quit her job and find a husband. He had respect
for, but meager agreement with, Martha Jane's independence or her
liberal politics. He felt that a woman's place was in the home rear-
ing babies and baking turkeys. He had helped Martha Jane in small
ways financially with her schooling, but he wanted to marry her mom
and he wanted Martha Jane and Evelyn to live in his home and not in
their own apartments; he wanted them to stay in his home until they
were cured of their career ambitions and could get themselves married
and "raise a family in the proper way."
"There is no way for me to talk to him," Martha Jane said, still
stroking my hair. "He agrees in word, and then disagrees in action by
not supporting anything I do or believe. And if he tells me one more
time how pretty I am, I think I might get very angry and do or say
something stupid that I'll regret and that he probably doesn't
deserve. He's been very good to my mother -- and my mother, unfortun-
ately, agrees with him. I wouldn't want to mess it up for her."
We fell silent for several minutes. We listened to the wind
filter listlessly through the trees.
She said, "You haven't talked much."
I shook my head no.
"Is there anything you want to tell me?"
Again, I shook my head no.
"Hon, that light over there on the table is in my eyes. Can you
turn it off?"
I rose and turned off the only lamp in the room. I stood there
until our eyes became accustomed to the dim moonlight and the faint
glow from the light in the kitchen.
From the sofa, she looked up at me with two small points of light
in her dark eyes. "I'm sorry I'm incapacitated."
I shrugged. "I wasn't even thinking about it. I just wanted to
spend an afternoon doing whatever it is you usually do."
She grinned. "Really?"
"Really."
"Come here and lie down."
I went to the sofa expecting to lay with her as before, but she
stood up and motioned for me to lie where she had been. "Go ahead,
hon."
I lay down lengthwise and face up, my head against the end arm-
rest. She knelt on the floor beside me with her head onto my chest.
"It was getting a little cramped the other way."
"I'm sorry, you should have said something."
"No, no. It was nice." She lifted her head and looked at me.
Her voice took on that mesmerizing, throaty quality that meant she had
something particularly intimate to say. "I never told you it was a
bad time of the month. That's the first time I've admitted that to
you. Or to anyone. I don't know why it's so embarrassing. Every
other female I know just gabs and bitches about it every time it comes
around."
"That's okay."
"Are you embarrassed when I mention it?"
"Of course not."
"It's getting late."
"Yeah. Phooey."
She lifted her head off my lap and reached up to gently part the
folds covering the zipper of my jeans. She neatly held the cloth open
with one hand, and with two fingers of the other hand she lifted the
zipper latch. "You'll have to be starting for home soon."
"Yeah," I whispered, my voice getting a little thick. I swal-
lowed. "Yeah, I guess so."
Fiddling with the zipper tag, she continued: "That time a few
months ago, when we had a whole week together and your folks were on
their honeymoon...I had my monthly for four days. They don't usually
last very long. But that's why I disappeared." She slowly pulled the
zipper down. With two fingers she found and parted the slit in my
underwear. "I was afraid to let you see me in my...'female
condition'..."
She used the same two fingers to feel the contours of my expanding
organ and to give it a squeeze. She deftly took hold of my tip,
sending a thought-destroying tickle through my cock and into my spine,
and pulled my flesh free of the clothing. My cock stood straight up,
twitched, and hardened more. I could feel every blood cell in my body
turn on a dime and begin a journey through my loins.
"Such a nice shape," she whispered to herself, and softly curled
her fingers around me. "The skin is so soft, but underneath it's so
hard...so warm in my hand." She tightened her grip at my base
slightly and slid her long fingers slowly up and then enclosed my
tip. A clear bead greeted her fingers. She smiled and breathed,
"Mmm. Yes."
I swallowed again, hearing my loud gulp echo through the room. I
said, "I hadn't expected this."
"That's what makes it so exciting," she said, almost to herself.
She looked at me. "I know you weren't in the mood, but...do you mind?"
I smiled and had to take a deep breath to get enough air into me
to be able to answer her. "You don't expect me to make a big fuss
about protecting my virtue, do you?"
She looked back at my cock and studied it, as if contemplating
where to start and how to go about it. "You have such a nice dick,"
she said sweetly. "It gets bigger every time I see you." She
squeezed it again, starting at the root and working up, and the
pleasure flowed into it and it arched inside her fingers and I closed
my eyes for a brief moment, and I heard her give a soft, "Ahhh." I
let the air whoosh out of me and looked down at her. She was eyeing
me with a gentle smirk.
She asked, "Has it been a long time?"
I nodded yes.
She looked at my cock again. "When you haven't cum in a long
time, it feels really good when you do. It feels--" She gave an
embarrassed little laugh. "Oh, listen to me. It's always so strange
when I'm with you, it's so--" She stopped herself. "Don't mind me.
I'm tired and crazy."
I said, "It felt good when you did that."
"Yes. I could tell. Everything always feels good when you
haven't cum in a while."
"Yes."
She performed the long, firm squeeze again, watching my cock. I
moaned. She grinned at me playfully. "See what you do to me? I'd
never be this brazen with anyone." She looked back and my cock and
said, "He's getting so big." Then she performed the squeeze again,
grinning teasingly as I arched my hips and moaned again, and then
again, and she whispered, "Yes, hon. Mmm, yes." And then again, and
with my eyes closed she whispered again: "He just keeps getting bigger
and bigger." She looked up at me. There was that smoky look in her
eyes again, and that lecherous tone in her hushed whisper. "Starting
to feel good, huh?"
I gulped and croaked, "Yes."
She gave a weird little laugh, a joking smile crossing her face,
and she said impishly, "God, I'm starting to feel so...dirty."
"Me too."
"Isn't that weird? It's so weird how it's so loving sometime, and
sometimes it's so nasty. It's so strange. It's so strange how you do
that to me."
"It does it to me, too."
Still holding my dick, she used her other hand to cradle my balls.
She whispered enigmatically, "I'm a very wicked woman, Speedy. No one
but you knows that."
The next thing I knew she opened her mouth wide and leaned down to
me and, her hand near my root holding me straight up, she lowered.
Slowly, wetly, she took all of me into her mouth, shoved her tongue
against the underside, and lightly sucked me all the way to the tip,
back down, and up again. I think I heard someone gasp and I'm pretty
sure it was me, since Martha Jane's mouth was occupied at the time.
My own breathing sounded far away. She lifted her mouth from me and
wet her lips and scrunched down to make herself more comfortable, and
repeated the move in the same way, once, twice, three times, with
long, lingering suction. By the fourth suck I knew every ridge and
curve and hollow in her tongue. My eyes closed and I floated some-
where else in the room and her mouth floated with me; I heard only
the soft sound of Martha Jane breathing through her nose and the sound
of my own irregular gasps and sighs and the wind in the leaves
outside. She repeated the long lascivious suck, her lips and mouth
and tongue relaxing their grip as she moved downward, then renewing
their molten hug as she sucked upward. And again. And again. My
balls tightened.
I gasped, "I don't think I'm gonna last."
And as soon as I spoke, the hot pleasure of a strong and remark-
ably easy cum obliterated all except her mouth. Her rough little
tongue began making tortuous circles around my immersed tip as her
mouth pulled a long hot squirt from me. Undaunted, she continued and
another hot gush bathed her tongue, then another bounced off it toward
her throat. She swallowed, but she didn't pause. Her sucking strokes
were shallow now, her mouth making slow circles and her lips tighten-
ing on me and her tongue circling lazily, and I felt three warm
cumshots leave me in quick succession and she swallowed them as if
they were one. She siphoned and sucked, working her tongue and rub-
bing her fingers under my balls until my pleasure choked body jerked
once and rose again into her, and her tongue drew one more wildly
eager spurt that bounced against the roof of her mouth; she gulped
with affectionate greed and a surprised little "Hmmm!". The rest
flowed from me in swiftly weakening trickles until her lips and tongue
could find no more. With a last gulp she removed her mouth and closed
her fist on my cock, giving it that last long tug that she liked to
give when I was finished. She drained the last drop onto her tongue
and drank it down. Then she gently fisted me while I shrank.
She grinned and giggled childishly. "I couldn't help myself. Was
it good?"
Still breathless, I told her it was.
She watched my wet cock wither as she calmed it with her strokes.
She licked her lips, blushing and smiling when she saw me watching her.
She chuckled, still stroking. "Look at me, licking my lips like a
German shepherd! You do taste good, y'know, creamy and hot and...just
slightly salty..." She went on, her voice dropping to a sensuous
murmur as she watched her hand stroking me, "but the part I like best
is how wicked I feel when you squirt on my tongue. It's so exciting
when you do that."
It was only then that I realized how iron-rigid my body had been,
and only then that I noticed I had not been breathing during the
entire orgasm. I was still breathless. My body relaxed with a sudden
sag. I took a long deep breath.
Then her incredibly soft, smooth cheek touched mine and she kissed
me on the neck.
She whispered, "I love the way you cum." Uncontrollably I held
her to me as tightly as I could and buried by face in her hair, and
she hugged back with a playful groan.
I wanted to cry: it was not so much the mind-boggling pleasure she
had given me as it was her lovingly erotic nature. But I found I
somehow could not tell her so. I didn't know why.
I refused to waste her money on a taxi. I took the bus home,
luckily meeting every transfer just in time. The lack of passengers
at stops along the way speeded the trip. It was still later than
usual when I arrived home a little after nine thirty, but there was no
argument about the late hour. When I arrived I found the tv was not
on as it usually was. At first it appeared no one was in the house; I
knew that my step-dad would be working late at the grocery store and
that my sister was staying at her godmother's, but it seemed my mom
was gone as well.
It was not until I walked into the hallway leading to the bedrooms
that I found my mother curled up on her bed and vomiting small amounts
of blood ...
PART 7D:
Mom convulsed into a tight ball on her side and retched feebly,
making a small sticky red stain in the kleenex she held to her mouth.
Then she relaxed with a pitiful moan.
"What's wrong?" I asked, going swiftly to her side of the bed.
She licked her lips clean and tried to catch her breath. Not
getting an answer, I raised my voice fearfully. "What's wrong? What
happened?"
"I'm sick, Speedy. It came on...all of a sudden."
"What's wrong? When did it start?"
"Called your daddy...but he said he had to work late."
I was incensed at her words. "Had to work late? Work late? What
does he expect you to do, just stay sick?"
"Well, I don't know...maybe it'll just clear up."
"How long have you been sick?"
She shrugged, taking in a deep breath and wiping her lips again.
"A couple of hours, I guess."
"You've been sick for hours and he just says he has to work
late?" I threw up my hands in anger and walked in a small, confused
circle in the room and looked back down at her with my eyes flaring.
"What can I do?"
She shook her head. She hid her face from me and did not seem to
want to tell me what was happening. "I don't know...Call your daddy,
and see what he says."
I went straight to the kitchen wall phone and telephoned the
grocery store. My stepdad answered the phone with a tired, bored
voice.
"Mama's real sick," I said. "She's throwing up blood."
"Hell, it's one of those female things, she's been sick to her
stomach and throwing up for weeks."
"But she's throwing up blood!" I insisted. "You don't throw up
blood when you're just sick to your stomach."
He said forcefully, "I told you, it's one of those female things."
Then he eased off. "That kind of stuff is all in their minds, anyway."
"Well...what should I do?"
"Don't do anything," he answered, unconcerned. "I'll be home in
about an hour or two. Tell her to drink some water."
"But...she's acting like it hurts really bad."
"You know how she is, she overdoes everything. Tell her to drink
some water or some soda, and I'll be home later."
His indifference told me I was wasting my time. I said I would
look after Mom, said goodbye and ran back into the bedroom where I
stood beside the bed, helpless and frustrated.
"He said drink some water and he'll be home later."
"I can't drink water," Mom said, her breath short and labored. "I
tried that, it came right up." Then she made a retching sound again,
down deep in her throat, and tried to hold back. But another con-
vulsion soon overtook her and she coiled up again, her neck stretching
in a fierce heave outward, and more blood spilled onto the tissue and
onto the bedspread. This time she did not simply moan and come out of
it, but bent herself into a small trembling circle and grasped her
stomach and began to cry and cough.
I touched her shoulder, but did not know what to do. She heaved
again, and groaned, and finally relaxed.
"Mom...What can I do?"
She hid her face but reached out with one hand and grabbed my arm
tightly. Her fingers trembled and her entire form shivered. She
spoke with a breathless rasp, "Go down the street...to your Aunt
Catherine's. I tried to call her, but her line's busy...bring her
here."
My Aunt Catherine was one of my stepdad's sisters. She lived in a
house a few doors down from ours. Quickly, my fear for my Mom's pain
giving me a bloodcurdling case of the shakes, I ran to the front door.
"Put your jacket on!" my mother yelled. "It's cold outside!"
I thought: to hell with the damn jacket! I rushed into the night
and ran up the street as fast as I could. By the time I pounded on
Aunt Catherine's front door I was out of breath. I tried not to
panic. I told Aunt Catherine to get to my house as fast as she could,
that my Mom was deathly sick and it was getting worse.
She stood in the doorway gaping at me. "Why, Speedy, what's
wrong?"
"I don't know. She needs somebody. Hurry!"
"But what's the--?"
"Now! She needs somebody now!"
Quickly she grabbed her overcoat and threw it loosely over her
shoulders. "You stay here," she said, trying to calm both herself and
me. "Watch my baby, Speedy, I can't leave her here alone. I'm goin'
down there right now, don't you worry." And she ran down the sidewalk
with her loose coat flapping in the wind.
I watched Aunt Catherine's sleeping infant for over half an hour.
Several times I peeked out the front door to see what might be happen-
ing down the street at my house. Then an ambulance with flashing
lights pulled into our driveway. I longed to get a closer look but
was afraid to leave the baby alone. Going back to check on the child
I found her still sleeping, and by the time I returned to the front
door, two white-uniformed attendants were shoving a loaded stretcher
into ambulance. I could not see much detail. The lights began
flashing again and the ambulance backed out swiftly, then screeched as
it turned up the street and took off with sirens wailing.
My mother had suffered a miscarriage. I was deeply affected and
spent days shuddering at the thought of how emotionally and physically
painful it must have been for her. But at the same time I was angered
at discovering that not one of my puritanical family or relatives
would mention the details or even the word "miscarriage" in my
presence -- I gathered what had happened from bits and pieces of
conversation that leaked out now and then. During the few days my mom
spent in the hospital I was shipped off to my maternal grandmother's
house a few miles down the road and endured her endless chatter and
bad jokes when she drove me to school each morning in her creaky 1950
Ford. She evaded my questions about what had happened to my mother,
but I figured it out when I overheard her telling a neighbor that
"the baby died."
It was with deep concern that I came from school one day and
Grandma told me she was taking me home because my mother would be out
of the hospital that afternoon. As we drove and my grandma lapsed
into another awful and unmemorable country joke, I felt some hope that
perhaps the unfortunate incident would somehow narrow some of the
distance between my family and myself. Waiting for Mom and my stepdad
to show up, I paced the living room floor restlessly until I saw our
tan Ford arrive shortly before sunset. Mom was in a bathrobe and
overcoat and my stepdad, now treating her with more deference and
attention than I had seen before, opened the car and slowly and
carefully led her to our door.
Mom entered, looking tired but happy to be home again, and looked
down at me and gave me a weak hug. "Well," she said, "I'm back."
"What was wrong with you?' I asked. "Are you all right now?"
She averted my eyes and turned to go to the bedroom. "Well, I was
just real real...sick, Speedy."
My stepdad held her arm as she slowly and haltingly made her way
into the hallway and the bedroom. He completely ignored me, which was
exactly what I would have expected. I watched my mother struggle into
their bedroom, bracing herself against a door or a wall as Tony guided
her past the framed portraits of the Virgin and the Sacred Heart and
Saint Jude in the hallway. I watched her getting farther and farther
away from me. Farther than ever. I sensed her pain. I shared her
loss. And I felt a distance that I had little hope of breaching again.
Later in my room and I heard the two of them talking in hushed
tones. Mom was crying softly.
My stepdad spoke in a consoling manner I'd never heard him use.
"His soul will be protected, I know it will," he said.
"But, Tony, I was unconscious," my mother softly cried. "No one
knew to baptize the child. It'll be in limbo forever."
"There, now," he kept saying.
The incident had changed the way my stepdad generally treated Mom.
But it did nothing to quiet my anger nor smooth the raw feeling I had
of not being part of the household I lived in. I was disgusted with
the way he'd ignored her pain for weeks until the result was disaster
and heartbreak. I was glad he'd had a comeuppance and that he'd
earned it the hard way. And I knew that my mother's rigid religious
fervor meant that I would never be able to share with her my blas-
phemous ideas or my certainty that answers to the mysteries of the
universe did not lie in fairy tales. I could have said that the here-
after didn't exist anyway. I could have fudged and said that surely
their all-merciful God would not forever consign an innocent fetus to
limbo. But there was no way, in that house whose furniture and walls
were dotted with pictures of saintly figures and suffering martyrs and
plastic figurines of Jesus, that I could communicate through their
wall of myth and superstition.
I understood their suffering. But I could not forgive them for
leaving me alone in a world so different and so distant from theirs.
But this time I didn't retreat into a cave. Instead, I lived in
multiple worlds. In each world, I developed a suitable persona.
In the first place, it was difficult to "retreat" from two huge
Italian families. One was the smaller, but heavily populated, clan of
my mother and deceased father. The other was my step-dad's large con-
gregation, more ambitious and lively and numbering in the hundreds.
Young cousins abounded in this new group, and the aunts and uncles
were more than friendly. But I shared few interests with them, so I
formed no strong friendships.
Yet another world was the one of my own making. I dived headlong
into one school project after another. The drama clubs seemed to get
into my blood; I ended up performing in plays at two different Catho-
lic grammar schools, and even landed the part of a young kid in a play
at the prestigious Christian Brothers High School. And I had a brief
stint at our Little League, which fit well into the world of my
parents. But my athletic career was cut short by the long bus rides
to and from rehearsals at Christian Brothers. That trip was necessary
because my stepdad left the supermarket too late for me to hitch a
ride. Nor did my folks help out with bus fare, which was subsidized
by the two or three bucks I received whenever I stayed with my Uncle
Johnny. When I announced to my folks that I was cutting out Little
League practice to work in the plays, I thought they would turn white.
For a time, I suppose, my trips to the Little League must have meant
to them that I was gradually becoming "normal". But the drama club
and the school newspaper and my volunteer work at the school library
put the League to rest forever.
The biggest factor, I suppose, was my relationship with Martha
Jane. It seemed to separate me from everyone I knew, especially from
kids my own age.
The full enjoyment of that relationship seemed forever to be just
beyond our grasp. She was terrifically busy, taking extra classes and
working her way through. Needless to say, not only did I have great
affection and a solid case of the hots for her, but I also had tre-
mendous admiration and respect for her determination and talent. I
saw few of her qualities in either of my families, most of whom were
complacently middle class or better; none strayed far from the norm,
and none seemed to comprehend that there were other worlds and other
ideas outside the Memphis city limits.
It was the world of Martha Jane that made my other worlds seem so
suffocating and schizoid. It was those "other worlds", those "other"
people, so strict and pasteurized, so formulaic and depersonalizing,
that made the world of Martha Jane so necessary, and yet so strangely
colored.
The more time I spent in the world away from Martha Jane, the more
I understood her fanatic drive to succeed and move away. By the time
I was thirteen, I was beginning to develop that same, desperate
ambition. In understanding her need, I was never tempted to hold her
at fault for wanting a way out. I knew she couldn't stand living in
false worlds any more than I. In one way this united us, in other
ways it often kept us apart.
And what a strange world, the world Martha Jane and I had been
building for ourselves. We couldn't see other that often. First of
all, both of us were too busy. We lived on opposite sides of town,
separated by long bus lines. Even if we continued to live next door
to each other, there was only so much social life that could be
expected by a woman in her twenties and a boy just breaking into
teenhood, despite the fact that I took after my Uncle Frank in that
I rapidly began to look older than my years.
Yet our world persisted. Adamantly. Secretly.
We wrote short letters now and then, or sent cards, with Martha
Jane afraid to write anything momentous for fear of my folks getting
their hands on it.
We were apart more often than together. Martha Jane and I were in
school and she worked most weekends. But she attended my thirteenth
birthday, held at my Grandma Rose's home. It was a small gathering of
a dozen or so survivors of my first dad's immediate circle. There was
my Aunt Lucille and her husband, Uncle Jack, a strange pair whose
actual relationship to my father was so convoluted that no one could
explain it. They stubbornly maintained that their one, true, valid
relationship with me was that they were my father's original choice as
my godparents, an honor that Aunt Lucille and Uncle Jack claimed with
an almost violent passion was stolen from them by my Aunt Frances.
And, naturally, at my thirteenth birthday, this aunt and uncle got
into an argument with Aunt Frances over who should be my godparents.
Poor Aunt Frances simply sat with her big, round eyes looking confused
while Aunt Lucille and Uncle Jack repeated their claim again and again
with some other relatives.
The discussion was interrupted by the late arrival of Martha Jane,
who lived at Memphis State in a nearby neighborhood. She entered
looking tired but so beautiful and charming that I was struck by the
fact that she didn't seem to belong to this group of flaccid, listless
people any more than I did. She entered wearing a pale drink dress
and loafers and, despite the horn-rimmed glasses and the dull hairdo,
she seemed as radiant as sunshine next to the others.
She gave my mom a hug. "Hello, Betty. Hi, y'all, hi, everybody!"
Then she came over to me in the living room and hugged me and
kissed my cheek. "Hi, hon. I barely made it. I hope I didn't miss
anything." She stood back and grinned and handed me a small wrapped
present -- it was a book, I could tell by the shape -- and said,
"Well, here ya go! Congratulations, Speedy, you're now a teen!
You're thirTEEN now!"
I said thank you, and blushed and held the present clumsily, and
she ogled me and said, "Well, don't I get a kiss back?"
"Sure," I said, and I stuck out my neck to give her an innocent
smooch, and she held her cheek close for my pursed lips and patted me
on the back and said, "Atta boy." Then she hugged me and said,
"That's my sweetheart!" In that brief moment I was aware of her soft
hair and her sleek face and long neck and upright breasts. Yet I had
to play the innocent. And I knew she, too, was putting on an act,
behaving as if she were a doting aunt or older cousin who hadn't seen
me in ages, though only a few weeks before I had been in her apart-
ment near Memphis State, lying between her legs and making her cum
with my tongue. In an instant I was struck by the absurdity of the
situation.
Then she turned from me and saw my grandma and gave her a cheery,
"Why, hi, Grandma Rose! I haven't seen you in so long. You look
terrific!"
Grandma Rose, who certainly wasn't accustomed to compliments,
blushed crimson, and Martha Jane left me to mix with the others. As
she went from relative to relative, her enthusiasm and open manner
made the room come alive -- for a change. She commanded so much
attention that my Aunt Frances, who sat glued in her little antique
chair with a staring, uncomprehending look on her big face, turned to
my smiling mom and asked, "Betty, who's that?"
My mom said, "Why, you remember Martha Jane."
Aunt Frances' eyes and face drew a blank.
My mother explained jokingly, "That's Speedy's girlfriend!"
"Girlfriend?" Aunt Frances repeated, still at a loss.
Uncle Johnny, sitting in a chair next to her in his usual state
of bored lassitude, said "You remember her, Frances."
Aunt Frances whined defensively, "No I don't."
Uncle Johnny said, "Remember when Speedy went to the hospital?"
Aunt Frances blinked. "Speedy went to the hospital?"
Uncle Johnny sighed. "Forget it, Frances. It'll come back."
I watched as Martha progressed to the dining room and shook hands
with my luscious older cousin, Josephine Louise. They seemed to get
on famously, with Josephine Louise giving Martha Jane her famous,
wide-eyed, lusciously red-mouthed smile. I was getting a tickle in my
gut watching them, these two young women about the same age, both of
them looking like delicious sexual morsels. The two women affected me
differently. Josephine Louise provoked excitement and urgency; Martha
Jane inspired a touching warmth laced with seething eroticism.
I sat in a corner and watched Martha Jane. Frankly, I was en-
vious. She was so accomplished, so poised and skilled with this
humdrum group, and she pulled it off with charm and dignity, never
appearing false or patronizing. It was a far cry from my mute and
petulant way with them. One of my newer relatives, my new Uncle Pete,
who had just married my father's sister Catherine, was quite taken
with Martha Jane. He kept approaching her at the dining room table,
fetching paper cups of punch or crackers and cheese for her, asking
inane questions while hemming and hawing and often melting like warm
butter every time she spoke to him. Pete's marriage to Aunt Catherine
was yet another mistake in the making; a little overweight and
paunchy, he always wore shirts too small and casual slacks far too
baggy -- the oversized slacks being a trademark of sorts, necessary
for storing in the back pocket the small, poorly hidden bottles con-
taining his downfall. Twice he excused himself to sneak into the
bathroom and spike his fruit punch with the Old Yellowstone he kept in
that rear pocket. Each time, he would return with a flesh flush in
his face, a red tinge that was just as obvious as the mix of tooth-
paste and booze on his breath. His excuse was always what happened to
him in the war. And, as usual, that subject came up while he sat with
Martha Jane later at the dining room table, his sweat-glistening face
displaying that pitiful, suffering look that he used on listeners when
talking about the war.
When I saw Uncle Pete relating his maudlin tale I moved quickly to
the dining table and interrupted them with, "Hey, when do I get to
blow out the candles?"
Uncle Pete looked up politely and said, "Well, Speedy, your Aunt
Catherine and Gradma Rose don't have the cake ready yet."
I said, "I'm gettin' kinda hungry for some of that cake."
Uncle Pete rose and said, "You know, I am too. 'Scuze me, folks,
lemme go check with your Aunt Catherine."
When he left, I sat next to Martha Jane. "I'm glad he took the
hint. I'm sorry about Uncle Pete."
"Oh, he's not too bad." She took one of my hands in hers and
said, "You look good, Speedy. You don't look thirteen. Do you feel
thirteen?"
I shrugged. "Eh."
She chuckled and said, "I know what you mean. One day just
doesn't seem to make a difference, does it? You look nice in that
suit. That's the one Aunt Frances got you?"
I looked down at myself. My mom had demanded that I wear the suit
and tie, for Aunt Frances' sake. "Yeah, she got it last week."
"Here, let's fix that tie." She adjusted my tie, saying, "You
look so nice dressed up. You're getting to be a very nice looking
young man. You belong in a suit. You just have that classy look about
you."
I winced. "Come on."
"It's true. Only problem is, you're growing out of these suits
faster than Aunt Frances can buy 'em for you."
"I didn't want to wear this."
"Well, wear it anyway. You look nice in it. And stop pouting.
It doesn't do you justice." She finished with the tie and took my
hand, looking me over. "There." She looked into my eyes. "I hope
you're getting along better with her. She's awfully nice to you."
"I know, I know. But she's hard to put up with, sometimes."
"So are you," she said, mildly reproving. She paused and looked
around, smiling briefly at someone across the room, and lowered her
voice. "I'll be off for a day next Saturday. Want to come over?"
"Your every wish is my command."
"Can you?"
"Sure."
"I have to tell you ahead of time that I have things to do.
There's a big pile of student teacher index cards that I have to go
through and sort. But at least we'll have help from a couple of my
girlfriends. And I want you to meet them."
"Girlfriends?"
"Yes. People you'll like."
I hesitated. "Uh...well..."
"C'mon, now, you have to learn to meet new people, with interests
like yours. People who've accomplished a few things." She took my
hand again. "And we can have a little time to ourselves, too."
I looked at her. She was looking down at my hand pensively, and
she started to open her mouth to say something but I had already
started saying, "You look beautiful."
She blushed, not lifting her eyes. She whispered, "Easy. now.
There are people around. But thank you."
My birthday cake arrived. Everyone gathered around the dining
room table and I blew out the candles. As their sour voices made a
mess of "Happy Birthday To You" I turned to Martha Jane, who stood
singing beside, and muttered from one side of my mouth, "I hate this."
She punched me with her elbow.
Then the cake was sliced and served with a scoop of the ice cream
I liked from the restaurant, and everyone sat around the living room
eating away. I sat in the living room with my mom and Martha Jane on
one side, Aunt Frances and Uncle Johnny on the other. Uncle Johnny
seemed to come alive with that paper dish of ice cream and cake
propped on his knees. He took it in large scoops.
"Hm, this is good! Who made this cake?"
My mother said bashfully, "I did."
Martha Jane said, "Betty, this is wonderful. You're a real
artist. I'd love to be able to bake like this. How do you do this?"
My mother swallowed and put down her spoon, and I knew we were in
for all the boring details. "Well, I have to use a particular kind of
flour. And it's all in how you sift it. Now, most people don't stop
to sift the flour, but you have to use a -- "
I rolled my eyes. I knew it would go on forever. Near me, Aunt
Frances sat with her snack almost untouched, saying to Uncle Johnny,
"When was Speedy in the hospital?"
Uncle Johnny gulped down some cake. "Couple of years ago,
Frances."
Aunt Frances thought. "I remember that."
Uncle Johnny said, eating and unimpressed, "Good."
I rolled my eyes again. Martha Jane, listening to my mother,
sneaked a wink my way.
I got up to get a second serving. When I returned, Mom was going
on with her baking saga, with Martha Jane listening attentively and
saying, "Oh, really? I never knew that."
Uncle Johnny asked, "Any of this stuff left over there, Speedy?"
"Sure," I said.
He held his plate out for me. "Do me a favor, Little Beaver? Get
me some more of that. You can't hog all the seconds around here."
I got up and said "You betchum, Red Ryder," and took his plate,
and he gave me that broad, winking, old buddy smile that he sometimes
gave me. I got a second serving for him and he dug right in. I sat
down. The conversation hadn't changed. I wished it would all end.
Aunt Frances was staring at me. "Speedy? You quit the Little
League?"
I nodded, my mouth full of cake and ice cream.
She frowned. She turned to Uncle Johnny. "Johnny, he quit the
Little League."
"What?"
"Your nephew Speedy quit goin' to the Little League."
"Okay."
"He don't play ball no more."
"Okay."
Getting no response from Johnny, Aunt Frances looked down at her
plate and then at me. "How come you quit the Little League, Speedy?"
I replied. "I had other things to do."
She turned to Uncle Johnny. "Speedy says he quit because he --"
"I heard him, Frances."
"Well, how come he did that? He don't like to play baseball? All
his cousins play baseball. All of 'em do. Every one of them."
Uncle Johnny looked at her, and he swallowed and wiped his mouth.
He leaned forward on his chair and looked at me. "You don't like
baseball, Speedy?"
I said, "I had other things to do."
Uncle Johnny beckoned to me with a finger and said, "Come here a
minute. Come on over a minute."
I walked to his chair and stood in front of him.
He smiled at me, his godfatherly, affectionate smile, and said,
"You'd be good at baseball. What're you doin' that takes up so much
time?"
"Theater. I'm acting in plays and doing work on the scenery."
"Yeah. Well...nothin' wrong with that." He beckoned with a
finger again. "Lemme see those hands a minute."
I held out my hands to him, and he turned them palms up. "Hmm,
lookit that. Broad palms...fingers spaced wide apart. Strong
fingers." He looked up at me. "Those are pitcher's hands, Speedy.
You'd be a great pitcher."
I said, "I wanted to be in the theater, though."
He shrugged, settling the matter with a light slap on one knee and
saying, "Hmp. Well. That's you wanted to do, do it. You never
succeed at things you don't like." He took up his spoon and jabbed at
the cake and said, "You do what you do best. You're a good boy,
Speedy."
"Thanks," I said. I went back to my chair. Good old Uncle
Johnny. Why was he so aged and infirm? It had been years since I had
a Sunday afternoon of leisurely walking and exploring with him. And
poor old Aunt Frances: always confused, always staring but never
quite figuring out what she stared at. She was looking back and forth
between me and Martha Jane.
Aunt Frances fixed her stare on Martha Jane, who was sill talking
about cake with my mother and Josephine Louise. After a long moment
Aunt Frances cleared her throat and said, "Excuse me, excuse me. Are
you Martha Jane?"
Martha Jane looked up and said, "Hi, Aunt Frances! I haven't
talked to you today very much, you've been over there all by yourself."
"You're Martha Jane?"
"Yes. Aunt Frances, Speedy's wearing that suit you bought for
him. He really loves it, it's a beautiful suit. You really have good
taste."
Aunt Frances smiled, a big, toothy smile. Her eyes were still
confused, as usual. After a moment the smile faded, and she looked
just as puzzled as before. She turned to me with a fearful little
frown on her face and said, "Speedy, you're too young to get married."
I looked up at her. "What? I'm not getting married."
"Your daddy would tell you that. Your daddy would say you're too
young to get married."
Uncle Johnny spoke up. "What are you talkin' about, Frances?"
Aunt Frances whined, "He's gonna marry that girl over there.
That's Martha Jane. That's his girlfriend."
Uncle Johnny smiled at me and shook his head ruefully. He
protested patiently, "They ain't gettin' married, Frances."
"But his momma said Martha Jane was Speedy's girlfriend."
"That don't mean they're gettin' married, Frances. They're
just friends. Friends! She was kiddin'!"
Aunt Frances looked away, her eyes shifting around in the room and
looking distant, as if the facts of the matter slowly, slowly regist-
ered. Then she appeared to relax against the back of her chair, and
she said, sounding relieved, "Oh." She gave Martha Jane a quick
once-over again and muttered to herself, "She's too skinny anyway."
PART 7E:
The birthday party went on and on, with no surprises disturbing
the world of my dead father's family, nothing changing, nothing
learned, nothing decided. Soon everyone was hugging and kissing and
saying goodbye. During the party I longed to be anywhere but there.
I spent the whole time waiting for next Saturday to arrive.
This world was a far cry from the world of Martha Jane, an eter-
nity away from our secrets in the dark, of naked flesh reveling in
affection and pleasure, of whispered obscenities and the sounds of
cumming. That difference was so dramatic that it lent even more of
the forbidden to everything Martha Jane and I did alone. A walk down
the street together had something secretive about it; every few weeks
or so I would take the bus to Memphis State and meet her at the
library or the student center, and we would take a leisurely stroll
for seven or eight blocks down the suburban street to her backyard
apartment, all the while watching our words whether others walked with
us or not, chatting as if we were being overheard.
And even when we arrived at her little place we behaved at first
as if we still lived in the Lauderdale Courts with relatives just next
door. I'd fix a snack and we'd eat and talk, and then we'd wash
dishes and straighten up. Then Martha Jane would study in her living
room while I studied at the kitchen table.
Often I would think, as she studied or typed across the room, that
people were strolling past that house or driving down the street,
unaware that now and then in the garage apartment among the trees
there had been two bodies entwined and gasping, the young woman's long
legs opening and trembling while the young boy humped and grunted
above her like an animal.
When that next Saturday finally arrived, people would see Martha
Jane, a young lady who looked serious and studious, exuding an inno-
cent, well mannered beauty. The two girlfriends to whom she intro-
duced me and with whom we conversed for more than two hours over lunch
at Memphis State would see a shy kid wearing plain, plastic eyeglass
frames and talking with faltering, half finished sentences. They
never knew, as we sorted a pile of index cards, that this same poised,
respectable Martha Jane had secretly, only a few weeks before, used
her skilled mouth to get me hard and secretly lay under me, and had
dug her nails into my shoulders when I entered her and had breathed
softly, "Ahhh. Fuck."
For a year or so it went on that way, the occasional weekends dis-
concertingly far apart. Oddly, we seemed so desperate when together,
yet just as desperately we seemed to keep a distance. When Martha
Jane was keeping her distance, in her own, enigmatic way, she would
become clinical. Everything was tightly scheduled, planned in detail.
Seldom did she make any exceptions. Many times she would tell me she
was exhausted or physically ill or even lonesome and horny; but if a
paper had to be finished, it had to be and that was that.
That Saturday afternoon she was in her clinical, teaching mode.
After we met her girlfriends we strolled around the campus. Then we
walked to her apartment, had dinner, and studied for a while like two
close but platonic friends. I studied at the kitchen while she sat at
her tiny desk in the living room. When it was dark outside I rose
from the kitchen table and saw her at the tiny desk, humped over and
scouring through two textbooks.
I walked across the room and stood behind her, gently massaging
her shoulders and upper back. She leaned back in the chair, resting
her head against my tummy, closing her eyes and sighing tiredly. I
reminded her that it was getting late.
She said, "I know. Darn it. Oh, my aching back. Your hands feel
nice."
I leaned into her from behind, lowering my head to snuggle my nose
in her hair, and reached around to cup her breasts over her dress.
With her eyes closed she smiled and pressed her hands into mine. She
sighed again. "Mmm, hon. I guess it's time to wrap this up. Let me
get up and turn the lights off."
She walked across the room and flipped the light switch. "You'll
have to get on that bus before eight thirty."
"I know," I said.
She returned to the desk and started piling the books together.
"They'd kill you and me both if you got home too late."
"They really just want to kill me anyway."
"Now, now."
Sitting in the chair near her sofa, I stretched sleepily. "It
feels that way sometimes. Like they were trying to smother me."
She walked toward the bathroom, which was just inside the bedroom.
"Oh, Speedy, they just want you to be like everyone else. Everyone
wants that" She turned off the light in the bathroom. The apartment
was dark, but for the dim spill from an outdoor lamp in the driveway.
She came into the living room, unbuttoning her dress. "They want
the same thing from me." She spoke casually, undressing. I stood to
undo my belt and zipper and she said, "Here, let's sit on the sofa and
talk a minute."
And that's what we did. She was naked first. She helped me with
the rest of my clothing, all the while talking about family, friends,
problems and pressures. We sat together on the sofa in the dark, the
drapes on the windows beside us swaying lazily in the light breeze
from two half open windows. She sat beside me and we caressed one
another, and she talked. She might as well have been talking about
that cake recipe, were it not that her voice was so weary and somber.
She said, "You're always so shy around people. I do wish I could
teach you to open up. You're being unfair to yourself. You a have a
lot to offer."
I complained that my folks really weren't interested, and I told
her I didn't want to leave myself open for ridicule.
She said, "But you can't live that way forever. Anyway, the two
girls you met today seemed interested. You had fun with them, didn't
you?"
I shrugged. "I didn't do so great. I just hemmed and hawed.
They probably thought I was an idiot."
She shook her impatiently, eyeing me with a mild scold. "I do
wish you could just relax with people. It affects the way you are
with me, too. Don't you think I see it sometimes? I think you're
trying to tell me something, but I can only guess what it is."
I just looked at her and smiled bashfully.
She looked at me silently for a moment and then said, "You know, I
like teaching you. It's probably very evil of me. But I like
teaching you. For a long time, that was one of my fantasies. Do you
ever have fantasies?"
"Not...really."
"Of course you do."
"I live my fantasies in the theater."
With three of her fingers she gave my tip a little squeeze. "I
can understand your being so closed off around your family, but not
around me." She looked down at my cock in her hand. Her voice low-
ered, and she spoke in a dull monotone that seemed removed from what
she was saying. "I had this fantasy about you, you know...About being
the teacher. About just stopping my brain, stopping all the thinking
and judging and...about being totally objective, you know? Concen-
trate exclusively on the sensations of giving pleasure. Receiving it.
And just stop thinking so much." She looked into my eyes. "Do you
know what I'm talking about?"
"I think so."
Again, she looked down thoughtfully at my cock. "Well, that's my
fantasy. One of them."
"One of them? What are the others?"
She said quietly, "I can't tell you yet." She stroked me for a
moment. She gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "That's so funny, I
just realized I can't tell you. Not just yet. I guess it's not that
easy, is it? I've had a lot of the same conditioning, I guess, but--"
She stopped. She whispered, "You're very good with your hands. You
have an excellent sense of the erotic."
I said, "I had a good teacher."
She smirked. "Well, it doesn't help when your teacher suddenly
realizes she has inhibitions, too. I guess we both have something to
learn." She closed her eyes and sighed, and lamented, as if to her-
self, "I'm so tired of all the thinking, the analyzing. So tired of
the...all the conflict." She took a deep, extended breath. Then she
rose from the sofa and stood in front of me and said, "Just stay
there." She moved over me, planting her knees on the sofa on either
side of my hips, and settled onto my legs. She looked down at my
flagpole cock and wrapped her fingers around it. She pulled up, slow,
hugging the tip.
My hips arched upward. "Mmm."
"You like that?"
"Mmm, yeah."
"Nice and slow? Like that?"
"Mmm. Yeah."
She watched me. She watched my reactions. Her face and voice
were expressionless, clinical. She said dispassionately, "I like to
feel your erection grow in my hand." She kept performing the same,
languorous pull on my organ. She paused to shift on her knees,
spreading them a little farther apart. She whispered, "Here, touch my
clit while I do that."
"That way?"
She closed her eyes as if concentrating, measuring. "That's
right. Little circles. Slow, hon. Mmm. That's good."
She remained on my lap, priming my cock, and while I fingered her
I craned my neck forward to suck the breasts suspended invitingly near
my face. She gave a quiet gasp, one hand cradling my head, and whis-
pered, "Just close your lips and suck. Suck steady, now, just--you
know, a steady suck. Mmmm. I like that soft sensation of your mouth
pulling my nipple into it."
Her breathing was getting more ragged. Soon she said, "Here,
hon," and she rose on her knees, looking down to hold my cock straight
up. With her mouth set tight and her breath exhaling brokenly through
her nose, she slithered my tip up and down the length of her wet slit.
I groaned.
She asked, "Feel good?"
"Mmm. Yeah."
"I like it too...Mmm...Ahh...I think he's ready now." She looked
down and put her fingers around me. "You have a very big penis for
your age, Speedy. I'm always so surprised by how big you get." She
placed me just inside her and put her hands on my shoulders. She
seemed to be trying to sound detached, the slight tremble in her voice
giving her away. "Now, just relax while I get you inside me. Let me
know if you think you might cum. Okay?"
"Okay."
She watched my face carefully as she settled halfway down onto my
shaft. She stopped and asked, "You all right?"
"Yes."
"Sure?"
"Yeah, it feels good, but...I'm not gonna cum yet."
"Okay." She closed her eyes, and then she drifted all the way
down, half an inch at a time, talking with a hushed monotone, "Slow,
now. Feel the sensations as I take you inside...There's that
resistance, there, right there. Feel that? A little more, now..."
She swallowed and then wet her lips. "And right here, I start feeling
the fullness of you go in, and I have to relax a little, to let
it--Mmmm..." She stopped and glanced quickly at my face. "Think
you'll cum?"
I shook my head no, holding my breath.
She said, "Good," and closed her eyes and concentrated again.
"Try to hold back, now, so we can feel all of it..." She moved down,
another half inch, rising a bit as if savoring a particular part of
me, and she was right: it was, indeed, almost impossible to let
conscious thought enter my mind while this was happening. When she
had me all the way inside her she said, "There." She paused for
another breath and looked down at me. "Feel good?"
"Mm. Wow." I let my head drift backward and exhaled the air I'd
been holding in my lungs, breathing out with a soft, "Whhhh."
"Now just be still a minute, and--" she swallowed hard and brushed
hair from her eyes. "--and we can just learn to enjoy the feel of your
penis in me." She sat unmoving. The word "penis" sounded strangely
formal at that particular moment. She sat with me embedded in her,
catching her breath. "Try to control your orgasm, now. Remember how
we did that before? You can cum if you really want, but try to just
feel it for as long as you can."
I heard myself gulp. I sighed and breathed back out with a
another "Whhhh."
"Can you do that for a while? Just feel it?"
"Okay."
She closed her eyes and sighed, relaxing her grip on my shoulders.
For a moment we said nothing. She sat still. What she was
teaching me soon became clear. The sensations of being wetly en-
closed grew sharper, the details of her inner shape and texture
engraving itself onto my brain. But there was little chance of con-
trolling ourselves completely; my hard shaft gave an involuntary
throb, and she responded with a contraction of her cunt. She told me
"Just be still, now. Try to be still."
I did. But my cock insisted on arching now and then, soaking in
the pleasure of the pressure of her inner walls. With her eyes still
closed she chuckled and said, "Not that easy, huh?"
I shook my head no and said, "Feels good, though."
"Yes, baby. It does. It feels very good." Still holding my
shoulders, she let her face rest against mine. She whispered against
my ear, "So nice to just feel it. No thinking. The more you concen-
trate on just the physical pleasure, the less your brain gets in the
way."
She seemed to relax for a moment. I heard a manual clock ticking
on her desk. I concentrated on that. As the clock ticked, her breath
near my ear was an easy, soothing lyric, interrupted occasionally by
her soft swallowing and a quiet "Ahhh" when she her cunt to grip me
affectionately. My cock would helplessly answer with a weak throb.
After a while she shifted a little on me, adjusting her hips in my
lap, and I became aware of her swollen clit against the root of my
shaft. Next to my ear she gave a pleased "Hm!" and she pressed her
cunt into me a little and whispered, "That was nice." The occasional
shift gradually became a slow, brief grind, and before long the grind
became more frequent, more regular, and her breathing near my ear was
broken with soft gasps.
Soon she whispered nervously, "Hon, I think it's...starting to
feel a little nasty."
I whispered back, my lips against her neck, "Me too."
Then she shifted her weight again and she said, "Don't move, now.
Just stay inside me." She began to nudge her cunt against my tummy,
her clit shifting wetly against the skin of my shaft where I entered
her. She moved gently for a while, but soon her breathing would catch
now and then, giving a little jerk of air inward and then out.
She said, "Now, just--" She stopped to clear her throat -- "just
try not to cum," and I said okay, and she began moving her clit again,
sometimes in a small, tight circle, and after a while she whispered in
my ear urgently, "Try to hold on for me," and I said "I will," and she
swallowed hard and whispered, her voice now shaking uncontrollably,
"It's so good...Just concentrate on the...feeling...Mmph...Feel how
wet I'm getting?" I nodded yes against her cheek and said "Yeah,
feels good," and she whispered, starting to pant, "Hold on for me,
now...hold on, I think I'm...let me cum..." and her voice trailed off,
and without another word she began a gradually accelerating cycle of
hip churning, saying nothing while she lent herself entirely to her
body. Her breathing near my ear became more labored, its pace matched
by the quickening churn of her hips. I felt an early stirring of my
own orgasm, so I concentrated on the sound of the tick tick tick of
the nearby clock, and as the clock ticked monotonously the circles her
clit made against my cock became smaller and smaller, and then she
began to interrupt her steady gasps by holding her breath and the
pressure of her crotch on mine was more demanding, and I knew, then,
that she was near the edge, and for a moment I felt a surge of relief:
I didn't know how I could hold off much longer. Then her face
stiffened against mine and her fingers grasped my shoulders and she
held her breath and her cunt contracted. While she came her clit
scrubbed roughly and jerkily against me, making the old sofa creak a
little. I whispered, "I feel you cummin'," and her face against mine
slowly nodded yes. Just for the hell of it I arched my cock inside
her; she whimpered and kept cumming for several seconds more.
She moaned and heaved a loud sigh of gratification and stopped
moving. She relaxed against me, panting wearily. I stroked her
shoulders and breasts while she rested.
Soon she whispered, "Beautiful. Thank you, Speedy. I haven't
climaxed that way in a long time. You made it really good for me."
She took a long breath and raised her head and looked down at me.
"Your turn."
"You're not too tired?"
Still a little breathless, she reminded me, "Lesson's not over
yet." She took a deep breath and braced her hands on my shoulders and
said, as she might lecture one of her students, "Now, I want you to
have a full and complete orgasm. Okay? I want you get used to
concentrating on the physical sensation of totally emptying yourself
inside me. I want every drop, now. All right?" I said okay, and she
took another breath and explained patiently, "Okay, now, I won't do it
too fast. And I'll do it slower when you cum, so I can feel it too. I
don't feel the spurts, really, but I feel you pulse when you climax,
and I feel the--well, it's like warm, little waves way up inside."
I smiled nervously. "You'll feel it soon. I'm pretty close."
She smiled down at me, a mother's sweet smile. "Feels good,
doesn't it? When you're so nice and close? I like feeling that."
I nodded. I gulped. I was more than ready.
She braced her hips and got a grip on my shoulders and said,
"Don't worry about me, now."
"Okay."
Then she moved slowly up and down, her cunt sliding up until only
my tip was inside and then sliding down. She tried this a couple of
times and then she paused and said "Okay. hon," and then she began
moving up and down that way, watching my face.
After a couple of strokes, she asked, "Good?" I said it was, but
I asked her not to move her hips so far up, so she got me deeper into
her and moved her cunt only halfway up once or twice and asked, "Is
that better?" and I said it was, and she said, "You like it better
when I just go up about half the way and keep your penis deeper inside
me?" I said yes, wondering how she could possibly remain so scien-
tific about it but finding it insanely erotic. She resumed her
motion, keeping me deep, and asked, "Is that the way?" and I said
yes, and she gave a little laugh and said, "Hope my knees don't give
out."
But her knees worked beautifully. I watched her moving on me, her
long legs flexing beside me, the muscles of her curvy, supple hips
strong and sleek under my hands. Within a mere four or five strokes I
felt my cock lurch and felt the pleasure wave approach and she said,
"Yes, baby," and she watched my eyes and I gasped excitedly "Almost,"
and she whispered soothingly, "Shh. I can tell." Then she stopped,
pressing down hard on me.
She said, "Slow down a minute. You're still thinking too much."
I blinked at her, gasping, my cock sticking straight up inside
her. "I am?"
"It's in your eyes. You're rushing it, but you're not there yet."
"Whew! Feels pretty close to me! How can you tell?"
"I told you, it's in your eyes. Let's slow down. Relax."
She watched me, unsmiling, the observant scientist. She stroked
my cheek and gave me a kiss on the forehead, and looked at me again.
"Settle down, now. We can get there." She took an extended breath,
her breasts rising high, then she let it out. "You ready?"
I nodded.
"Okay, then." She moved up, then down. And up. "Slow, now." And
down. "Look at me. I have to see your face and eyes." Her hips
began a new rhythm, much slower this time, as she instructed me, "Sex
isn't just a penis in a vagina, sweetheart. It's everything. It's
going past the edges of mind and body. It's going places you can't go
any other way. Watch my face, now. Watch me. Your eyes will tell
me when you're ready."
Her sliding flesh sucked and she watched me and fucked me and I
kept my eyes on hers. Within a few strokes I felt the tickle growing
in my cock again, and I groaned and closed my eyes, but she whispered,
"Keep watching me, hon." I opened my eyes again. She looked deeply
into me, unsmiling -- not watching me sternly, but carefully, as if
reading every move and breath I made. "I know you're close. I feel
your penis moving in me, but you're not ready yet. You're still
thinking too much. Stop thinking." She paused, watching me,
watching, and lifted her cunt halfway up, and paused, and went down
slow, and whispered quietly, quietly, "Stop thinking." She moved up
and down twice, and then stopped halfway up again and whispered, "Stop
thinking."
She did it again, and again, whispering a seductive litany. "Don't
hide from me...There's so much aggression and need and...anger in you
...and fear in your eyes...I see it the minute you start to cum." She
stopped, paused at the top of my cock, and she slid down slowly,
continuing, "I don't want to see fear. I don't want to see that
embarrassed little boy..." She started upward, slowly, slowly, the
ring of her slit tightening. "I want to see pleasure. I want to see
you."
She held still with me all the way inside her and she watched my
eyes intently while her cunt squeezed me, and squeezed, and squeezed,
and my fell mouth open and my hips rose, and she let a little smile
cross her face, and she stopped long enough for me to settle down.
Then she did it again. I moaned, but this time I watched her eyes as
she studied mine. She squeezed and squeezed and I uttered "Yes," and
she smiled back, pleased. She whispered, "Look at me. Don't take
your eyes off me."
She squeezed and squeezed. Then she rose to my tip, paused again,
and whispered, "Watch my eyes while you feel my vagina going around
you." Her cunt drifted down, slowly, and she kept watching my face,
and then she started the slow fucking again, steady and wet. Just
slow enough to keep me from blowing it all away. Just barely slow
enough. But within a few strokes she saw me steadily watching her;
and I began to see that it was true, that if I did nothing but watch
her eyes and feel her cunt, my fear of letting my orgasm threaten my
self control began to slip, to crumble piece by piece. And within
another stroke or two the universe was nothing but her and her eyes
and her slow fucking. Without my controlling it I felt a smile steal
its way onto my taut face. The rest of the world went out of focus.
The pleasure was becoming unbearable. I had never held it back
long enough to let the pleasure get so intense. I realized what she
was trying to teach me; with each slide up and each slide down the
sensations were more mesmerizing.
I licked my lips. Dry as sawdust. I kept my gaze united with
hers and whispered, "Slower."
Her eyebrows rose a bit, and her smile softened sensually. She
paused and lifted her hips halfway up, and paused, and I saw her eyes
watch mine as she started down, slow, slow, and my eyes didn't leave
hers, and her soft smile curled on one side as she rose and settled
again, slowly, her smile more knowing, more telling, her eyes moving
as they searched mine. She settled deeply on me, all the way down,
and sucked on the way up, and she heard my long sigh and her smile
curled a little wider with a hint of growing lechery. Her smile and
her eyes sucked thought from my brain as her cunt sucked pleasure into
her. Each slow, sticky slide of her cunt's warm mouth became an act
in itself. She increased her rhythm, watching me carefully, and my
cock arched stiffly, and I saw in the subtle movement of her eyes that
she felt it, and her eyes widened, seeming to question.
I whispered, "Not yet."
She smirked, a pleased, dirty little half smile, and she
whispered, "Good," and the brief exchange made me realize her purpose,
that we could fuck and talk with our eyes. And I saw how truly
pleasurable fucking could be: Martha Jane was teaching me to nourish
pleasure, master it, stir it while it boiled. My enclosed cock
lurched again, and I felt my eyebrows spring upward. And she grinned
at me, a sweet grin of recognition and acceptance, her answer to my
own movements and motions. Together we were sharing the ultimate
intimacy, one of us feeling and the other feeling by knowing,
watching, each knowing what the other knew. We had crossed another
barrier. This was truly erotic, a new, shared sense of our sexuality.
The orgasm threatened again. I grit my teeth, holding back the
final release, and my hands trembled gripping her hips. She saw me
holding back, and her smile and her eyes became eerily knowing, teas-
ing, hypnotic. My neck tightened, taut from restraining a new wave of
pleasure, and when she saw I wasn't going to give in just yet, her
eyes glowed, and her eyes seemed to get crazy and I responded to the
craziness mindlessly, unthinking, with a lewd grin of my own, and my
eyes saw in hers a dark, leering lust that mirrored the dark lust in
me, and I felt a wildness connect between us. I sucked my tummy in,
tight, holding on; my cock arched, stiff and strong with pleasure, and
she grinned with me, her grin telling me she felt the hard shaft lift
in her, her teeth showing in the dark, and in that instant I knew the
scary secret she was teaching me about her and about myself, and she
saw the secret in my eyes, and our eyes and smiles led us deeper into
forbidden, mutual debauchery. Her cunt fucked and fucked, up and down
the bloated stalk, and I sighed a seething "Ahh," and with a sly,
knowing whisper she asked me, "Nasty?" I nodded yes and gulped hard
and whispered, "You, too?" and she nodded yes and whispered, "Filthy."
The greedy, copulating demons in us grinned at one another, each
acknowledging our secret, devilish gluttony. Our bodies merged as
totally as did our salacious eyes and grins as we threw open the
final door. She watched me and she grit her teeth with me and the
gleeming devil-mother in her eyes told me she felt my dick yearn
straight up in her, bigger, harder. Then I grunted and started
spurting and she fucked slower, and then both of us were panting, eyes
locked, her eyes watching mine, and in the aching, emptying bliss I
watched as she smiled at me with her sweetly ruthless, knowing smile
and I watched her eyes darken while her pussy filled with cum. Then
my peak threw everything out of focus and my eyelids drooped and then
closed and she milked the finishing spurts. Finally I slumped, not a
drop left in me, not a bone in my body, not a single thought in my
brain.
As I rode on the long bus route home, the interlude burnt itself
into my memory as one of the strangest sexual encounters of my young
life, one I could not have imagined in my dreamy, highly idealized
teenage fantasies. It was raw, animalistic lust. While it was not
unemotional by any means, it had me gazing dumbfounded out the bus
window at the scene passing by in the dark. The surviving Catholic in
me, the part of me that persisted in seeing love and sex in a dream-
like, romantic haze of kissey-lovey, Hollywood sop, was a aghast at
what had happened. I kept remembering Martha Jane's almost apologetic
statement of a while back: "I'm a very wicked woman, hon."
I, then, was equally wicked. For I had cooperated fully. I en-
joyed it immensely. It occurred to me that I was still attending the
confessional at Sunday Mass, if only because my parents saw to it that
I did and were watching me from their pew. In the solemn quiet of the
confessional I'd recite the sins that I felt the priest expected of
someone my age. I hated the whole, phony business. But it occurred
to me that night on the way home that if I did make an honest, com-
plete confession of what Martha Jane and I had done that night, I'd
have to interrupt the Mass to summon aid -- the poor priest would have
a stroke!
That night I lay in bed, long after my parents had gone to sleep.
I remembered every moment of the evening's debauchery. It seems odd
to say it now, after so many years and so much sex, but at that moment
I felt I had truly, truly committed the sin of lust. The problem was,
the whole idea left me more giddy than frightened. Every detail,
every movement, every whisper, played again and again in my head.
Sin? How about that Old Yellowstone in Uncle Pete's back pocket?
How about that sour breath, that oily, self serving tone of his lame
excuses for drinking and for constantly being a pain in the ass? What
of Aunt Lucille and Uncle Jack and their tacky, senseless arguing at
my birthday party? One side of me labored under my own loss of inno-
cence, the other scoffed at it and defined real sin as something else
entirely.
I rustled about in bed, closing my eyes. Inside my eyelids I saw
Martha Jane's lurid smile and the sultry glint in her eyes when she
felt me spurt inside her. I heard her whispers, felt her wet slush
moving on me as I came. And for the first time, while I committed our
sin over and over and over, I masturbated.
PART 7F:
Just before Easter, Martha Jane called and said that Mr.
Buchanan's Easter present to her and her sister Evelyn would be to
marry their mom soon after Easter and move all of them into his big
East Memphis home. Martha Jane had mixed feelings about it.
"I'm glad for mother," she told me over the phone. "But I don't
know if I can live in that house. He's nice. But he's still a
redneck and I just can't seem to work past that fact."
"At least you won't have to spend the rest of your college career
moving from place to place."
"True, but...one more move, actually."
"Oh no, not again!"
"Yes, but it's just a move *out* of where I am, and into that big
house. Oh, well, at least this time I'm his future daughter, so he's
hiring some movers."
I offered, "Being his daughter does have its advantages."
"Wanna come over and help me pack?"
"When?"
"I have two weekends when I can do it, the first and second Satur-
days in April. Which one would you like?"
"Both," I said.
"Which one?"
"Both," I repeated.
Her voice on the other end of the line almost sounded as if she
were winking at me. "Okay," she said. "This time we'll have longer
to play. And I'll be able to use a car. Not Evelyn's, this time.
My daddy-to-be is buying me one."
On a Saturday a few weeks later, Martha Jane showed up in a bright
blue and white Chevrolet. But she didn't look happy behind the wheel.
I said after I got into the seat beside her and we were on our way
to her place, "Wow, what a car!"
"It's not me!" she moaned. "This huge gas burner is NOT ME!
Speedy, I'm scared. Really. I should love this, but I hate it. I
feel like one of those East Memphis debutantes. I feel as if I'm
selling out. And it takes me an hour to park it."
"Well...you can always give it back."
"But this is terrible! I feel so dishonest. I dread to think of
how I'm going to be punished for this...this terrible sin! I've
invested so much in claiming I was on my own and had my own ideas, and
now I'm selling out."
I spent the afternoon with her and helped her pack books and
clothes. She was cranky the whole time. I tried to joke around and
make light of Mr. Buchanan and to convince her that at least her life
would be settled for a while.
"I don't know what's going to happen to me," she said at one
point. "I had finally got the feeling that I was in control of my
life and I could honestly be myself. Now I have to spend every day in
that house pretending that I agree with everybody, when I really and
truly don't."
"I know," I said ruefully. "How well I know!"
"Hon, can I say something?" She was sitting on the floor with her
legs under her and a pile of books in her lap.
"You can say anything you want, Miss Scarlett."
"Something's...wrong inside you, isn't it?"
"Wrong? What you mean, Red Ryder?"
"Because you're trying too hard to be cute. You never talk about
what you think or feel anymore. You're being nice to me about any-
thing and everything, to the exclusion of yourself."
I laughed. "You don't like me paying attention to you? I'm
having a good time, just helping you today. Really. Honest."
"How are things with your mom and your stepdad? You never mention
them. I don't have the slightest idea what's up with you and them."
I didn't know what to say. My own feelings about the way I'd been
living and how powerless I felt were thoroughly confused. And I
didn't want to spoil my time with Martha Jane by getting into it.
I mumbled something, a careless "Nothing much going on about
that," and she was quiet behind me for a while. For sometime after-
wards we didn't talk much except to say that another box was packed or
to ask which box to pack next. At around six o'clock she decided we
should stop for the day so she could make salads for dinner.
"You sure got quiet," she said after I had been eating wordlessly
in front of her at the table for five minutes.
I shrugged. "Burned out from all this packing, I guess."
"I guess," she said. She sighed. "Me too."
I tried to change the subject. "So...you'll be living the life of
a cool little East Memphis socialite from now on."
"Please. Don't talk about it while I eat."
I sat and chewed and tried to think of something else to say. But
the only thing I could think about was that Martha Jane would not be
in that college forever. She would be teaching one day, perhaps far
away. I knew better than to bring up that subject. In fact, every-
thing that I could think of as material for discussion somehow led to
the fact that the one person in whom I could place any trust was
surely going to be out of the picture sooner or later. And on that
particular day I wanted very much to undress her and touch her, but I
had grown fearful of even saying anything or making a move in that
direction.
I blinked and looked up. She stared questioningly at me.
She asked, "Were you in a trance?"
"No," I said. She eyed me skeptically. I shrugged and confessed,
"Yes."
"I asked you if you have any girlfriends at school."
The question sent a chill up my spine. "No," I said.
"Someone as active as you are, and you don't have some girl after
you?"
I shook my head no.
"Why not, hon?"
I shrugged--a big, on-purpose, don't-give-a-damn shrug. "I'm not
interested in anybody."
"I see..." She got up and poured some soda into her half empty
glass. Wordlessly she returned to the table and sat.
After a moment she looked into her glass and said slowly, "I
wonder...Speedy...oh, never mind."
I did not know what she was hinting at. I looked up to find her
staring at me again. I had just taken a big bite of salad. Desper-
ately reaching for something to talk about that had nothing to do with
my thoughts or with anything else, I pointed at my face and said with
a full mouth, "Nice salad. Good."
She gave me a sad little smirk. "Speedy, you're not talking to
me. You're just throwing words across the table."
"I'm eating," I said, and tried to grin with lettuce sticking out
one side of my lips.
"You're a miserable failure as a liar, you know that?"
"What am I lying about, Miss District Attorney?"
"The same thing I'm lying about."
"You? What are you lying about?"
She hesitated. She opened her lips to speak, but didn't.
I repeated, "What are you hiding, and why?"
She took a deep breath and looked me right in the eye. "I'm not
lying, really. It's just that there's something I'm not talking
about."
I joked, "Well, gee, thanks for telling me that there's something
you're not telling me about."
"You're doing it, too. But you won't even tell me that you're not
telling me about it."
I shook my head and moved uneasily in the chair. "Miss Graham,
this sounds so complicated."
"Speedy, what do I have to do to keep you from going inside
yourself like that? You're so clever about it, but you're so distant
when you do that, and it's something you do again and again and --"
"No," I said quickly. I gave her a tired, strained smile. "No,
Martha Jane, it's...things I don't know how to talk about yet."
"Oh, goodie, I think I hit the target! What? What things?"
"No."
"What things?"
"No!" I insisted, verging on defensive anger. I'm sure I turned a
little red, but I let it go no further than that. I was getting
better at holding it all in, because I was sure that a tear would
show, or I'd let slip some desperate motion or remark. But all I let
out was a quiet and definite no.
"Well," she said reluctantly, "all right, then. I won't nag."
"Let's pack some more stuff," I said, brightening up.
"No."
"Martha Jane...I'm -- I guess I'm just bored and tired."
"You sure?"
"Mm-hmm."
The look on her face told me she didn't believe me. But all she
said was, "Will you promise not to run away while I take a shower?
I'm all dusty from this work."
"Can I shower first? You really had me sweating today. What a
slave-driver."
"Okay. You, then me."
I showered first, very quickly--not that I was so grungy, but I
wanted to prepare a surprise for her while she washed. After I dried
off, she followed. While she showered I remained undressed, cleaned
up the kitchen, turned down all the lights, readied the bed, and lay
naked in the bedroom face up with my hands behind my head and my cock
standing straight up in the air.
She came out of the bath toweling her hair. She stopped short in
the doorway when she saw me. Her eyes widened and she laughed.
"Well, well! Am I to gather from this that you are making the moves
this time?"
"Isn't it my turn?"
She smirked. "Let me clean up the kitchen."
"I already did it."
"Oh," she said, impressed. "Really! My--All this, and he does
dishes, too." She threw the towel aside and climbed on the bed and
crawled stealthily toward me. "C'mere, you..."
Almost an hour later she lay naked under me with her knees raised
while I fucked her rapidly in the soft bed in her dark bedroom. She
had cum twice, once under my mouth and once with me inside her.
"Slower," she taunted, her eyes fixed on mine. "Let it build up."
"...it's so good, it's close now..."
"Let it feel good longer, honey. Look at me." She held my face
gently but firmly. "Let me see your eyes."
I trained my eyes on hers, think: here we go again. I would
definitely have to learn to use this on her sometime.
Her hazel orbs searched mine knowingly. She stroked my face as I
moved in her. I was physically close to climax, but emotionally
distant -- and Martha Jane had uncanny ways of sensing it.
She said, "You've been hiding something from me for a long time."
Trying to evade her, I stared back intently. "No."
"You don't have to tell me what it is. But I don't want it
holding you back from me when we fuck. Let go of it. Let it go so
you can really enjoy fucking me."
Her offer melted my resistance, and I could not prevent my face
and eyes from softening with gratitude -- a reaction she acknowledged
with a little grin of recognition.
I stopped moving. I tried telling her, "I keep thinking...I don't
know how to say it..."
"Shh. No thinking. It's so seldom that we can be together like
this. I wanted so much to make it easier for you to let go with me
when you need it. But sometimes I need it for me, for myself. I'm
being very selfish: I want to give you a wonderful cum. I want you to
stop thinking and I want to feel you putting a lot of cum in me."
I began moving in her again, but she cradled my face once more and
said, "Slow, hon. Make it last until you can stop thinking so much."
I slowed my pace and lengthened my strokes so that I withdrew
almost all the way out before going even deeper in her.
"Good," she said. "Yes. Take your time. Go deep."
I dreaded she would make it so good that I would forget myself
completely, that my fears and anger would have me crying or screaming
when I came. But her eyes and voice enticed me out of myself despite
all my recent conditioning to the contrary. I felt my emotions
welling up to match the intense pleasure I felt inside her.
She urged me on with lusty whispers and an ingenious knack for
holding me on the edge and delaying my release until the defenses that
imprisoned my pleasure behind a wall of rage and isolation had been
obliterated. For a long time she would not let me cum until I was so
overpowered with lust that, with a helpless sob, I relinquished all
control to my back and hips and allowed them to pump my cock into a
mindless state of raw pleasure. Below me, she received my surrender
with a sweet smile.
Everything disappeared. I yelled. I slowed and spurted.
She hissed, "Yessss...yes, hon...MMM! So MUCH!...yes, baby!...such
a good cum..." When she felt my orgasm waning she rolled her hips in
a slow arc, drawing my last remnants into her clutching warmth.
As usual, she thoroughly destroyed and drained me. I fell asleep
in her arms until she woke me up to drive me home. On the way she
asked if I felt better. I answered, yes, I felt better. But what I
did not say was that nothing had changed.
Continued. . .
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