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Subject: {ASSM} ME AND MARTHA JANE '99 (m/FF,teen) MJANE16.TXT
Date: Wed,  9 Feb 2000 02:10:02 -0500
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SJR


<1st attachment, "MJANE16.TXT" begin>

             ****  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 16A:


    Twenty teens gathered in the small theater in Anita's building.
They were a very mixed group from all over the metropolitan area, some
of them rich kids that had attended Anita's earlier party, others were
apparently not so rich.  A very democratic crowd.  I was surprised to 
see a couple of black couples, an unlikely presence in Memphis.  Both 
couples appeared to be from overseas.

    Maury sat down front with his coterie of seven or eight admirers,
all of them in suits.  Chris sat in the farthest row back, in a blue,
open-necked shirt and sport coat and loafers.  Anita and I sat next to
him.  Anita was dressed like most of the other girls in the crowd, in
a casual full skirt and loafers, and I seemed to fall right in, 
dressed like Chris and most of the other guys.  The exceptions in the
crowd were Maury's group, who dressed more formerly for reasons that
seemed unclear beyond identifying them as "Maury-ites," as Chris came
to call them.  Chris had with him a very attractive brunette girl. 
He introduced her as Susan and we chatted for a few minutes before the 
meeting began.  She was very poised, reminding me in many ways of 
Martha, Ronnie, and Anita rolled into one -- proving Martha to be 
right again, darn it: you meet one, you meet more through them, and 
you meet more.

    The first order of business was to hold a brief club meeting and
recognize some visitors.  It was a friendly touch, though I blushed
like a ripe pomegranate when I was introduced to the crowd.  The
president of the club presided onstage.  He was a nondescript Jewish
kid from the Bronx, and he seemed by dress and manner to be among the
non-rich.  He led an argumentative discussion about ways to get 
members to pay their club dues on time, reminding them that legally 
the Carreras family was not authorized to let the club use the Mexican
government's facilities for their gathering that night, and Anita
stood to diplomatically tell the crowd, in so many words, to pay up or
shut up if they wanted to keep such gatherings on the schedule.  Even
Maury had something sensible to say in that regard, though he seemed
to enjoy grabbing the spotlight more than making his point.  Everyone
applauded him, an adulation I didn't get and which Chris endured with
a slow wag of his head while he sat with his arms folded, annoyed.

    After covering a few more official matters, the rules for the
readings were announced, along with a glance at the small plaque to be
given to the best reading.

    There were five performances.  A young kid from Brooklyn gave a
rendition of two Robert Burns poems, which had Chris and Anita nodding
approvingly from start to finish.  At the end of the kid's performance
Anita grabbed my arm and whispered, "He was so good.  He's new in the
club, too.  I wish we at least had a second prize for that reading."

    The second reading was a bit embarrassing, based on a speech
delivered by Benjamin Disraeli in the British Parliament.  Great
speech, but the older kid who read it didn't convey the famous prime
minister's deportment, on which the effectiveness of the speech
depended.  But I was impressed that the entire eight minute address
was memorized.  I couldn't have managed that, myself.

    I was third.  I'd assumed that as the only visitor on the schedule
I would be last.  When my name was announced, I sat still for a min-
ute, with Anita beaming at me.

    I looked around.  "Me?"

    Anita said, "You don't even look nervous.  At least you could look
nervous, Steven."

    Actually, I was numb.  I muttered, rising from my seat, "Don't let
the look fool you."

    She said, "You'll be fine."

    I took the stage and held my script in my hand.  My hand shook, as
it always did in Memphis when I first got up.  I raised my head to
speak, but waited a few seconds until the audience was quiet -- a
trick learned from an older guy at the Memphis Little Theater.  "Make
them look up," he had told me, "let them know from minute one that
you're the one who's up there, not them."  I began by telling the
audience briefly that the reading was from 'The Sound and the Fury",
that the principal speaker was Quentin, who was lamenting the faith-
lessness of Caddy, and that my voice would be used for the voices of
three other characters who spoke in Quentin's memory.  I told them
that the passage had been edited, but that it represented the gist of
Quentin's memory of a haunting series of events.

   Then I began, with one of the main characters talking quickly and
anxiously:

    "Father will be dead in a year they say if he doesn't stop drink-
ing and he wont stop he cant stop since I--"

    I slowed it down, after a second's pause, a pause that was not in
the text, because there were no pauses or punctuation in the text
itself.  I had to insert pauses and meanings vocally.  I resumed with
a crack in my voice, "since last summer."  I looked up, and went on,
more anxiously, and faster, each word progressively more perturbed,
"And then they'll send Benjy to Jackson I cant cry I cant even cry one
minute..."

    I went on for ten minutes.  No one was more surprised than I when
I ended without once losing my place or making a mistake in the voices
or mood changes.  At the end of my rehearsals I was tired, but now I 
felt great.  I was vaguely aware of loud applause, and when I looked 
up, Anita was applauding and smiling, and Chris was leaning back in 
his seat, one foot propped on the chair in front of him, and with his 
eyes popped wide he made a big "O" with his mouth and was waving his 
hand at his cheek, as if frantically cooling himself off.  I laughed 
at that.  As I regained my seat people were clapping, some of them 
looking back at me.

    Anita leaned toward me and whispered, "Steven.  I had no idea."
She clapped with the rest of them.  "I know you won."

    I muttered back, "Maury always wins."

    Anita said, "Not this time."

    Maury was fourth.  He did a short reading from the prelude to
Shakespeare's Richard III, coupled with a few lines from later solilo-
quys of Richard.  "Now is the winter of our discontent..."  He was
technically correct with it, but the emotion and the character were
Maury, all Maury, looking out of place with his suit and making a show
of fiddling expertly with the garment and strutting about.  The crowd
gave him quite a hand, especially his entourage down front, and at the
end he took his seat with a disingenuously humble grin of gratitude.

    The fifth reader was an older girl, a very pretty, Irish looking
young woman with long hair and a long, flowing, but simple country
dress that was very appropriate for her reading.  She read two of the
old maid's passages from 'Spoon River Anthology.'  Hers was a heart-
felt rendition that twice put a lump in my throat, and her voice was
exceptionally effective.  When she finished I couldn't resist sitting
up straight in my chair and applauding loudly, whispering to Anita,
"Oh, was she good!  She was terrific."

    Anita said, "You still won, though."

    "Oh, no," I said, clapping away.  "She was really great.  Just
beautiful."

    Maury won, of course.  When the announcement was made there seemed
to be little surprise by those who applauded, some of them responding
mechanically, while the usual admirers went crazy and whooped it up.
Maury put on a suitably modest smile and stood to hold up the little
plaque for all to see.  And he topped it off as he regained his seat
by holding up a cautioning hand, saying "No, no," and when Maury did
that, I saw Chris look at me and make a motion to shove his finger
down his throat.

    Anita just sighed, "Oh, well."  She didn't look at me, but I
glanced past her at Chris and whispered above the sound of the waning
applause, "Maury always wins," and Chris nodded yes.

    Anita said flatly, "I see Chris explained all that."  She bent
down to get her purse.  She said, "You should have won."

    "Thank you, but 'Spoon River' should have won.  She was so good."

    "You should have won," Anita said again.  She hung her purse on
her shoulder and said, "Agree with me, please, and let's go eat."

    "Yes ma'am," I said.

    We had a small buffet snack in one of the reception rooms in
Anita's building.  We sat in a group of chairs, Anita and I, and Chris
and his date. and another teenage couple from Long Island.  They spoke
mostly of the state of careers in the theater.  I told them that show
business wasn't my objective; my eyes were set on teaching.  I said,
"You're at the mercy of the box office when you hit the commercial
theater.  I'd prefer the educational theater, where you're free to do
some real work."

    Anita said, "You'd be wonderful in radio, or voice work.  The way
you manipulate your voice.  And your sense of timing...it's impec-
cable."

    I said, "Only after I've been rehearsing six hours a day for a
week."

    "Face it.  You were impeccable.  And you should have won."

    I told her, "I was satisfied with what I read, that's the main
thing."

    Chris said, "A guy after my own heart."

    And after a while Anita began glancing at her watch, and I saw
Chris watching us over his glass of soda when Anita said quietly,
"Steven, it's getting late.  Come on.  I'll show you around the place."

    Chris waved a bye-bye with his little finger as Anita excused us
and led me out of the reception room.  We walked down the long hall,
across the lobby, down the stairs, up another set of stairs, and
entered her family's quarters.  One of the male housekeepers ap-
proached her and she spoke back politely.  They spoke in Spanish. 
The housekeeper left us alone, and Anita continued leading me through 
the hallways of their residence.

    I said as we walked, "I notice you don't have a Spanish accent."

    "I only speak Spanish to Hispanics."  She glanced at me.  "I
notice you don't have an Italian accent."

    "Southern Italian," I said.

    She laughed softly.  "It's cute."

    "I wish people wouldn't say that."

    "But it is."

    She led me into a large room that appeared to be a library.  A
door led to another room.  The door was closed.

    She said, "That room in there is a guest room.  It should be very
quiet and comfortable.  Do you want anything to drink?  Water or
anything?"

    "Nothing, thanks."

    "Then, here, come with me."

    She led me through the door that led from the library, pausing to
throw the light switch on the wall beside the door.  The room we
entered was a large, well furnished suite.  Directly in front of the
door was a narrow room about six feet wide that appeared to be a small
study, one wall lined with bookshelves and a long desk built into the
wall; the left-hand wall was windowed, overlooking the street.  To our
right was a separating arch that led to a spacious bedroom, every-
thing in it very ornate, mostly white, and very Spanish.  Just as I
stopped in the doorway with a stupid look on my face, she gestured
toward the tall, twin French doors on our left that led into a balcony
overlooking Central Park.

    She said, "Let's go out on the balcony, there.  It's wonderful.
And there's always a cool breeze from the park.  Go ahead.  There's a
small lock near the handle there, just turn it."

    I went to the doors and opened them, stepping into the small
balcony that hung from the building over Fifth Avenue.  It was a beau-
tiful, third floor view of the park.  I turned to look back into the
bedroom.  She turned out the light in the study, leaving on a small
outdoor lamp on one side of the balcony.  She closed the door leading
from the library, and joined me on the balcony.

    She asked, "Isn't it nice out here?"

    "Beautiful."

    "There are no chairs, but I usually sit here, on the ledge.  I
spend a great deal of time here at night, sometimes."  She sat on a
limestone ledge that jutted from the wall on one side of the balcony.
There was a huge concrete urn on the ledge, but there was room for her
to sit with her knees up, her dress covering her legs as she leaned
back against the wall.  "Even with the traffic on Fifth Avenue, it's
very peaceful sometimes.  For Manhattan, anyway."

    We talked for a while.  She told me of her plans.  Social work.
And she asked me about my plans.  I was bound for teaching of some
kind, probably in theater.

    I said, "Not much money in teaching, though."

    "But much life," she said.  "And art.  And ideas.  Not much money
in social work, either.  And not much joy about it from godfathers and
godmothers."

    She said there were new movements afoot in the U.N., sending more
and more social workers and missionaries and medical personnel into
the poor villages of the world, working with the people, living with
them.  It was a hard life.  She had already had a taste of it when she
lived in Mexico City with her godparents for two years in secondary
school, before going to France to complete her college prep.

    She said, "Yet it was my godparents that gave me the idea.  
They're trying to do good work in the world.  But it's so difficult, 
when you have to use language that completely skirts the issues.  I 
suppose they believe they work very hard.  And they do in some ways.  
They have to make wise, responsible decisions.  It's always difficult,
making those decisions.  But they don't see blood on their hands, or
get their backs whipped, or watch their children starve.  They don't
see dead infants along the side of the road, with their mouths and
noses so full of mosquitoes they're black.  But I've seen that.  I've
seen it."

    She looked out at the park across the street.  The third floor of
her building was almost at treetop level.  I could hear the breeze
sift through the leaves.

    She said quietly, "That's why, Steven, you mustn't entertain so
many fantasies about me.  I'm not a princess.  I'll be a social worker
with a degree from UCLA.  A mother in San Diego I never see, and the
godchild of Mexican government servants.  And I'm leaving Tuesday.
We'll never see each other again."

    I looked at her.  "Doesn't matter."

    She smiled, a little smile of impatience and affection at once,
and she let her head rest on her raised knees, and she said, "Oh...
You're even more of an idealist than I am.  You don't know.  You
really don't know.  But, oh, you're so romantic.  You make me feel so
feminine and so...And even younger than I am.  But none of it's true."

    I said, standing beside her.  "I don't care if it's true."

    I started to bend down to kiss her, but she said, "But you must
know who I really am.  I don't want you relating to me through a
fantasy."

    "I see what I see.  Very beautiful in this light.  In any light."

    "And you are very strong, and ambitious, and very stubborn.  I'm
so unaccustomed to you.  So basic, really.  Earthy and uncomplicated,
but so idealistic in certain things.  Tonight when you read I saw how
emotionally intense you are.  So intense.  Just as Martha said."

    "Mmm.  And what else did Martha say?"

    She grinned, looking up at the moon.  "Oh...that's five times you
asked."

    "That's five times I got the same answer."

    She laughed again, her soft, elegant laugh.  Then she said, "I'm
not a virgin, Steven."

    I said, "Neither am I."

    After a pause, she said, "But Steven...I'm leaving Tuesday."

    I said, "I don't care."  I bent to her, and when she didn't move I
moved my lips to her cheek, and her eyes fluttered and closed, and I
moved in front of her and I put my lips on hers, and we kissed softly.
Then she lowered her head, her forehead against her knees.  Her res-
ponse to my kiss wasn't the heavenly, passionate explosion I antici-
pated.  She said, "But...your words tell me you don't really who I am.
I seem so pristine to you."  She said softly, "I've had three lovers,
Steven."

    I bristled a little at that one.  Another illusion bit the dust.
But I held my ground.  I said, "So have I."

    She gave a muted laugh, and blushed and laughed again with her
face hidden between her hands, and she looked up at the park, grinning
again.  She repeated, surprised, "Three?"

    "Yes."

    "Oh god," she grinned wider, her face toward the sky.  She said,
"Three."  She looked down, and she still blushed, and she said, "But
they were nothing, nothing, nothing like you.  They didn't tempt the
way you do, and then move away.  They were more...oh, I don't know,
they were more..."

    "Self controlled?  Cool?"

    "No, no."

    "Aggressive?"

    She stopped laughing, and thought for a second.  "All of those, I
guess.  And they were, well, in a way..."  She went on gently, "A
little more direct, I think.  I mean --"  She eyed me good-naturedly,
but added pointedly, "I mean, for them, there wasn't so much at stake."

    I looked at her, unresponsive.  But I knew what she meant.

    She leaned forward, her chin on her raised knees, and she thought
again.  "It wasn't that I thought they'd hurt me.  It was that I
wasn't afraid of hurting them.  I think, maybe they even deserved to
be left behind.  One of them, certainly."

    I sighed and stepped back, looking at the park.  I was beginning
to think that this fantasy is getting too damn complicated.

    She straightened up, smiling, running a hand across one side of
her long hair, which was swept back and held with a pale blue ribbon.  
She said, "They didn't see me as a princess.  It didn't seem so fatal 
to them.  Or to me, I guess.  Except for one of them.  For one of them,
I think I was a prize.  Someone on their list."

    That was enough for me.  Frustration was welling up.  I looked
away from her, out toward the park.  I said firmly, "I don't keep a
list.  And if I were with you, I wouldn't want one."

    Behind me, she said, "No, you wouldn't.  You're much too nice."

    "Maybe I should clean up my act, and not be nice at all."

    "Well, perhaps, something more toward the middle."

    "Maybe that's not who I am.  Maybe I'm like you, and I don't want
you dealing with someone I'm not."  I turned to her, and said calmly
as I crossed to her and stood beside the ledge, "Look, I don't know
how others do this.  But I already gave one reading tonight.  I don't
have any more lines.  What I have is one night.  And who I am, and
what I feel.  Maybe...maybe we oughtta go back to the party, before I
get out of hand."

    I made a move to leave, to get out of there and go downstairs and
be polite about it but say hasta la vista.  I took a step away from
her, toward the door to the library.  But she quickly reached out with
one hand and grabbed my arm and got to her feet.

    She whispered, "Steven, no."  She stood beside me, one hand on my
arm.  She said candidly, "I knew you'd be angry.  That's what I mean.
You don't understand how selfish I am."  Her grip on my arm relaxed,
and she said earnestly, with an edge of irony in her voice, "You're so
intense.  *So* intense.  And you make it so complicated.  You make it
so difficult for me just to say I want you.  But I want you my way."

    I looked at her, looked at her brown, intent eyes.  She gazed at
me with a heavy lidded look, lips parted.  How the hell could I resist
that?  Greta Garbo couldn't have been more tempting.  But, alas, I
figured it was all over; I figured that her words were a polite adios,
a thanks but no thanks.  So I lowered my lips to hers, expecting the
conversation to end with a kiss.

    And then she mashed her mouth against mine, hard, her hands tight
at each side of my face.  And I kissed her back, wondering what the
hell was going on.  She ended the kiss quickly, her body against
me, her lips near mine, and she said resolutely, "But no illusions
about me, Steven.  I'm not an innocent princess."

    I said, looking straight into her, "I don't care."

    She whispered, looking at my mouth, "Well, then..."

    She went into the study and flicked a switch on the wall that
turned out the light on the balcony.  Then she stepped into the dark
bedroom and kicked off her loafers and glanced at me.  I saw a glint
in her warm eyes from where I stood on the balcony.  She reached
behind her head to undo the ribbon in back, and her hair flowed over
her shoulders.  She said, "Leave the balcony open.  No one can see in
here.  I like the doors open."

    I walked to her, while she started unbuttoning her dress.  I undid
the cloth belt of her dress, and she unbuttoned the buttons down to
her belt and I saw her dark skin and the white slip and bra and the
swell of her breasts.  She pulled off my jacket, hurriedly, and
pitched it onto a chair, and without a word, she looked down at my
belt and unbuckled it.  I could hear her breath quickening and her
hands were everywhere, unbuttoning her own buttons and then quickly
helping me with my shirt buttons, and then my shirt was off and her
dress was off.  She was beautiful, simply beautiful in that slip, and
then the slip went over her head, and she was even more beautiful,
dark-skinned, trim, with taut shoulders and waist and thighs -- 
flawless.  Then I pulled my t-shirt over my head and she unsnapped the
bra and threw it away and she put her fingers on my chest and she bent
down, and I thought she looked as if she wanted to bite, but she
kissed, kissed my collarbone and my chest.  My arms went around her
and her arms went around me, and she shoved her soft, naked, large-
nippled breasts into me and pressed her pussy against me and grabbed
my hair and kissed me, her mouth tender but hungry.  She finished the
kiss and I said, "You're beautiful," and she said, "You're beautiful,
too."  She stepped back and pulled down my zipper and I spread my
pants open and pushed them down and kicked them off one foot and then
the other.  She looked down at my cock swelling in my underwear and
she pulled down the top and ran her palm under the cloth and wrapped
her fingers around my cock and pulled the jocks farther down with her
other hand.  She looked at my cock, touching, caressing, and while I
pushed my jocks down she took her hands away and pulled her panties
down and off and pitched them away quickly.  They landed near the
balcony doors.  I pushed my jocks to my calves and lifted one foot out
of them, and she knelt on one leg and grabbed my jocks and pulled them
to my feet.  I lifted my other foot out and she threw the jocks
hurriedly onto the floor near the bed.  Now clothes lay all over the 
floor.  She knelt on both knees now and ran her palms over the hard 
muscles of my tummy and she wrapped her fingers around my thighs and 
kissed my tummy below my navel and then kissed my pubic hair.  She 
wrapped a hand around my cock and whispered, "Yes."  She looked up at 
my face, her eyes burning, and then she lowered her eyes and pulled my 
cock with a tight fist, pulled again and held, her fist gripping the 
tip.  I thought she might suck me, and there was no way I'd last if 
she started that.  I held her by the shoulders and pulled her up.  She 
stood and melted into me, her pussy moist against my thigh, her bush 
thick and fluffy.  I kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around my 
neck again and she kissed back, hard.  She pulled her head away and 
pressed her face and her whole body against me, so that I had to step 
back, keeping my balance.

    She chuckled against my ear, "Oh...I have to slow down."  For a 
few seconds she caught her breath.  She said, "Your body feels so 
good.  There's no lazy fat on you, not anywhere.  But your skin's 
soft.  You feel like soft skin on a tree.  The skin's soft but so firm."  
She kissed my shoulder and said, "So firm," and I circled her small 
waist with my hands and pulled her closer, closer, unable to get her 
close enough, and she moaned and melted into me again, simply melted.

    I had no idea what it must feel like to be enfolded by a coiling,
pressing, warm skinned serpent, but surely it felt the way Anita's
body felt to mine.  My hands curled around her waist, my fingers
almost meeting front and back.  I whispered, "You have no idea how
good your feel."  She pressed harder, molding herself to me.  My lips
found her neck, her shoulders.  What did they say in the books: 'His
fevered lips found her flesh'?  I used to laugh when I read crap like
that.

    My brain and chest were exploding.  She kissed my neck, and her
healthy young woman's scent rose in the air, my senses going insane
with it.  Over her shoulder I saw the bed behind her, a big, white bed
and huge pillows.  There, I had to get her over there, and I took a
step toward the bed with her against me, but after a couple of steps
she held me still.

    She whispered, "No, wait," and then she relaxed against me and
whispered, "Wait for me here.  I have to go into the other room.  I'm
sorry, I -- I'm getting ahead of myself.  I have to take precautions."

    She took a deep breath and smiled, disconcerted, her hand covering 
her eyes.  "Oh my, you...had me in such a hurry.  I'm sorry.  I'll 
only be a moment."  She hurried to the dressing table.  She reached 
down for her purse on the seat of the dresser chair and pulled out a 
small, cloth pouch a little larger than a wallet.  She closed the 
purse and I watched her, watched her bend over a little, and her body 
was perfect, her waist without a wrinkle as she bent, and her breasts 
hung down, dark nipples swollen, as she placed the purse on the seat 
of the chair.  She balanced nimbly on her long legs with one knee bent 
and one foot arched, and her glistening eyes glanced at me and she 
said, "I'll be back as soon as I can."

    She went to a small white antique chest of drawers against the
wall beside the dressing table.  From the top drawer she retrieved a
floor length, thin silk bathrobe, dark brown with a silvery cloth tie,
and she threw it around her shoulders and tied it shut as she walked
to the library door.  She opened the door a crack and bent her head
toward the bed.  "Wait there for me.  Leave the bed as it is.  I'm
sorry to leave you for a minute, but I have to.  Don't worry.  No
one's in this part of the house."

    She disappeared through the door to the library, her long hair
flowing behind her, and then the library light went out, and I heard
her go out another door.

    I sat on the bed.  Light from the street cast a dim bar across the
floor.  One of the french doors was partially closed, throwing the bed
into shadow.  Cars passed outside on Fifth Avenue, muted and sluggish.
I heard another breeze whip up, and the trees across the street moved,
and a light drizzle began.  I thought: Precautions.  Rubbers.  Damn.

    Then I remembered that I hadn't called Martha.  I looked for a
phone.  There was one on the table by the bed.  I sat on the bed.
Hell, why hadn't I called before?

    I reached for the phone.  I waited for a second.  Behind a nearby
wall I heard a door close.  Someone coming?  No.  In the same spot
behind the far wall I heard water running, and a sound like a wooden
cabinet door slammed shut.  Anita was in a bathroom behind that wall.
I hoped.

    I dialed Martha's number.  Two rings.  Martha picked up.

    "Hello?"

    I said softly, "Martha?  Steven."

    "Well, at last.  So are you all right, or what?"

    "Uhh, yeah.  I'm fine.  Just want you to know I'm fine."

    "Good, well, thanks for letting me know.  Why are you talking so
quietly?  I can hardly hear you."

    "I -- am I?  Sorry, I didn't think I was.  Uh, just calling to let
you know I'm okay.  I'll try not to stay too late."

    "Oh.  Well, tomorrow, you know, we're supposed to go --"

    I said quickly, "Uh, somebody else has to use this phone, so I
should get off."

    "Oh."

    "Anyway, I'm fine, and...I'll, uh, I'll call back if you want.
Later."

    "Okay, just thought you might want -- "

    "Have to go.  Really."  Behind the far wall behind me, I heard the
water stop running.

    "Okay.  I just wanted to know if the reading went well."

    "Oh, yeah.  It was great, really great."

    "So who won?"

    "They, uh, they don't know yet."  I looked at the door into the
library.  I saw a spill of light as the door into the library from the
hall was opened.  "Anyway, I have to go.  Okay?"

    "Okay.  Let me know."

    I whispered, seeing the spill of light shrink as the door into the
library from the hall was closed again, "Okay.  'Bye."

    I hung up, and lay on my side on the bed, and Anita entered the
bedroom.  Carefully, she closed the door.  She placed the small cloth
pouch on the dresser and then untied the robe and let it slip down her
arms and placed the robe in a limp little pile on the dresser.  There,
bathed in the dim glow from the balcony, stood her beautiful, perfect,
young, naked body.  She glanced at the french doors, her left hand
pushing hair from her cheek.  Her right shoulder and breast were
curtained with her long, long hair.  Below her navel, her patch was
dark and thick, and below that the petite hood of flesh over her clit
reflected a sliver of light.  As she crossed to the bed she looked at
me, frowning.  "Were you talking?"

    "Just a line from my reading.  About honeysuckle."

    She settled onto the bed, hands first, then she stretched her
long, lovely legs, and she lay on her side, one hand brushing hair
from her face.  She smiled.  "Honeysuckle."

    "Yes."

    She lay back against one of the giant pillows, her hair draped
around it, framing her face.  And her lissome legs were folded, her
knees toward me, her breasts upright, her arms on the bed palms up.
I could smell the sex of her, faint, humid.

    She said quietly, "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to interrupt.  Not
very romantic."

    "I needed to slow down."

    "Well," she said, "let's not slow down too much."

    I stretched out beside her, and as I embraced and kissed her she
slipped a thigh under mine and then wrapped her legs around my leg and
pressed against me.  For a long time we kissed, the drizzle outside
building to a tranquil rain.  Her mouth was soft, avid, luscious, her
breathing turbulent, and again and again she sighed a sweltering "Ah"
at every touch.  And very soon, the death knell tolled for dozens of
my illusions -- for my sweet, mild mannered, Spanish princessa was a
spitfire, her nails clawing and gripping, her legs spreading and her
neck arching back, her lips smacking and sucking my chest and shoul-
ders, and her hot whispers, "Ah, there!  Ah, your hands!  Put your
fingers in me!  Ssss!  Yes!"

    I wondered if anyone could hear her, hear her heated whispers and
noisy moans.  I tried to hold her back, tried to hold me back, but she
crawled all over me.  Her mouth attacked my dick, ravenous, heating me
up too quickly, and I had to push her onto her back, and she yanked
the top of the white bedspread open and grabbed a pillow and put it
under her hips and raised her knees and pulled me to her, her nails in
my back, and she hissed urgently, her lips at my ear, "Fuck me.  Fuck
me."  I entered, and she was hot butter, drippy, smooth as glass, and
I sighed "Ahhh" as I went deeply in, and my surprised tip nudged
against the hard plastic of the diaphragm.  She knew how to milk me,
churning her hips, a fiery sigh rising from her when I started
screwing, and she grabbed my butt and pressed me into her, her heels
high on my back, and I buried my face in the soft hair spread on the
pillow.  She came quickly.  She climaxed within only a few strokes,
hissing "Harder!" and again "Harder!", and my belly slapped against
hers and I knew my tip banging the diaphragm must be jarring her, but
her body went taut and she moaned loudly while she came, "Nnnn!  NN!
Nnnaaahh!  Ohhh!" and then her head swooned back, and she gasped
furiously while she waited for me with her face against mine, and I
fucked her hard, cumming before I wanted to but unable to stop.  The
damp belly-slapping slowed while I groaned and gushed into the boiling 
pudding of her, and she raked her nails across my butt.  And, yes, she 
already knew to tighten her cunt, to suck until I groaned again, and 
through her teeth she hissed, torrid, demanding, "Give it to me!  Give 
it to me!"

    Ah, well.  So much for images of virginal, slow motion writhing in
gauzy darkness.  There was a hot, mouth-mashing kiss when we finished.
But afterwards, quiet tenderness.  She became solemn as a madonna,
stroking me softly, covering me with unhurried, soft, moist kisses.
We lay like depleted beasts for many minutes, cars swishing past in
the rain outside.

    She donned her robe and took the little pouch with her to the
bathroom, and when she came back she told me where the bathroom was
in the hall.  She let me use her robe for my trip to the little room,
laughing when she saw me in it and joking, "Hope nobody sees you."  I
hopped gingerly across the few steps in the hall between the library
and the bathroom, and when I finished I hopped quickly back into the
library and into the bedroom.  She looked up at me, holding back a
laugh as I slipped off the robe and slid into bed with her.

    We talked.  I told her about Memphis and my family.  Almost an
hour passed.  We stood by the balcony, just inside the doors in the
narrow study, watching the cars go by, listening to the rain.  In the
shadow behind the balcony door she stroked my cock, happy that it was
so long, and she whispered, "This is one thing I can say Martha didn't
mention."  She was wanton, impish.  Standing in front of me she spread
her legs, and she rubbed my tip along her slit, breathing sizzling
Ah's while she bent her knees and nudged her pussy forward to massage
her clit with my tip.  She led me to the bed and sat on the edge and I
stood by the bed in front of her and she pulled me close between her
knees.  She swept her long hair to one side and sucked me, her mouth
soft and slow and wet.  When I was very stiff she rubbed my tip on her
nipples and breathed, "Mm, warm.  Very warm."  She got on all fours on
the bed, her knees on the edge.  I stood by the bed and fucked her
from behind, until my legs began to shake, and she had another quick
orgasm that way, teaching me to reach around her waist and fondle her
clit while I fucked her like that, and her body was so slim and her
waist so narrow that I could easily reach around and make her cum with
one hand and squeeze her large nipples with the other hand, and still
stay deep in her, enjoying the feel of her silken sheath clamping
while she came, came with hissed whispers and long, breathy Ahhh's.
But it was too good for me, too snug and wet.  I was losing control in
her.  And Anita was too hot, too much the she-animal, and always in a
hurry and outpacing me.  The passion was there, the wanting, the
pleasing.  But it wasn't sharing, it wasn't love yet.  She was out of
my control, and I was entirely in hers.

    Then she wanted to rest for a short time.  Soon it was evident
that her idea of resting was giving me a lewd grin while she had me
lie face up on the bed as she climbed on top of me, her head in my
lap.  She sucked me while I mouthed her cunt.  In that position, I had
more control; supine, my blood flowed away from my center.  Tightening
my tummy managed my responses better, though her slithery mouth kept
bringing me close, a mouth good enough for me to keep asking: Where
did she learn to suck like that?  Who taught her that?  But I had
skills, too, and I sucked her clit gently while tonguing it, noticing
a slight bitter taste from her and figuring it had something to do
with that diaphragm and ignoring it because I could see that my mouth
had caught her off guard, and she promptly she began to writhe as the
climax built quickly for her.  And as if in total surprise, as if she
had never felt the sucking and licking together during orgasm, and
just before she came she groaned, "Oh, that's so *good*!"  And she
came again within another half minute, as surprised as before.  Her
orgasms tended to rise quickly.  They were brief but strong, filling
the room with her scent, her healthy scent fringed with something
medicinal that coated her channel and that new-fangled thing inside
her.

    While she rested from the 69 I rolled her onto her back and
entered her, feeling huge inside her, almost too big were it not for
her copious flow, and she wrapped her legs around me and started
churning her hips, milking me.  But I reached under her and held her,
and she felt nearly weightless, a warm, muscled, writhing feather.
Gripping her hips and her sleek behind I guided her, making her think
I wanted something better, when really I kept her still more often
that not.  Now I knew her orgasms were all alike, too easy for her,
never mounting.  And I liked a quickie now and then, but not on the
only night I'd ever have with the princessa.

    I began sliding in and out, deep and then shallow, taking the time 
to see how she liked my cock best, finding an angle that let me avoid 
smashing against the diaphragm.  And I had no trouble finding her 
substantial clit, but I had trouble finding the right pace and 
pressure.  She liked faster, firmer slides, in and all the way back, 
while she worked her hips to firmly scrub her clit against my shaft 
and groin.  That was her catalyst and her signal.  And when I found 
her doing it and her hips speeding up I deflected her, slowing down, 
changing my angle, my face firmly against hers and my hands under her 
hips.  I could read her by her hot breathing near my ear.  And the 
second time I delayed her climax I could feel the nervous shudder in 
her, could hear the anxious whimper, and I would fuck slower and not 
as deep, and then I'd return to her preference of deeper, faster 
strokes, then divert her again when she started holding her breath.  
After the second time she was bewildered, and I knew she knew I was 
being deliberate.  The next time, I let her get closer to the edge, 
hearing the excited tremble in her low, recurring "huhmm...huhmm."  
And then her desperate gasps as it faded for her again, and her nails
clinging, tightening.  And as I brought her back again, giving her 
hips and clit free reign, her arms and hands moved everywhere on me, 
grasping, nails digging in, her breath harsh and fluttering, and she 
gasped, needy, overwhelmed, "Steven!" and then aloud, astonished, 
"Steven!", and then the frantic writhing of her pelvis and hips, her 
clit searching, and then the stiffening everywhere.  And, yes, I had 
her.  I could feel it going through her and I could smell it on her, 
it melted every inch of flesh that covered her, and my shaft slow and 
firm against her clit could feel it coursing, vibrating.  Her face was 
hot against mine, and her cunt clamped and her channel was creamy with 
pleasure, and she moaned a low scream, sharp, helpless, finally giving 
it all up, and she moaned the low scream again, and again.  I damn 
well didn't care if I ever came again that night, for I felt I had 
lifted the princessa onto an orgasmic pedestal she'd never seen. 

    Whether that was true or not, I really didn't care.  Illusion?
What a hell of an illusion.  She made smaller screams on her way down,
after a long, long, arduous climax that seemed to have a little peak
and a groaning scream of its own following the big one.  And while she
was up there I started on her again, tightening my tummy until it
burned.  I grasped her firm round butt in both my hands and hugged her
belly to me and tormented her all over again, trying to bring her over
the top, and when I felt her getting there I surprised the hell out of
myself, rasping against her shoulder, "Cum, Anita.  Ah, Cum.  Cum."
And she did, taut as a cable, her legs jerking off me and falling
widely apart as she lifted her hips off the bed, her pelvis feeding on
mine, wincing hard, and then her open mouth gave a moaned scream, 
sharp and loud, and then again, and then she made smaller, lower 
moans, sounding different now, weakening but strangely bestial and 
derelict.

    As I stopped moving on her she relaxed gradually.  She seemed weak
as a baby, breathing hot, feeble, weary Ahh's with a pained smile on
her face.  I began kissing her, softly, wandering toward her lips and
massaging them with my own, and as I kissed her she whimpered, the
first time I heard her make little whimpering sounds without the sexy
rasps or whispers.  Slowly the arms that had fallen from around me
began to caress in return, and she turned her face toward mine and
began to kiss me as I kissed her, babying, loving.  Her legs slid
around my waist again.

    As I kissed and nipped at her throat I began to move again, slow
yearnings in and out, savoring her, feeling her loosen from her
climax, for she had been terribly tight for a long time.  I fucked 
slowly, drawing my tip far back, feeling her outer lips and the ring 
of muscle around her entrance grip at my tingling tip before I plunged 
all the way into the warm, clinging cream, fucked luxuriously with my 
lips on her neck, getting lost inside her.  Her lips found my ear and 
she kissed and sucked the lobes, her breath quivering when she felt me 
begin to tense with my growing pleasure.  After a long minute of slow 
fucking I felt the bliss begin.  I came the way I wanted to, slow and 
deep, and her cunt clamped on me and she stroked my neck and snuggled 
her face against mine sweetly. I moaned.  My cock leapt within warm, 
sucking flesh and my tight balls squirmed and the cum spurted, thin, 
jetting powerfully.  It was a new sensation, ejaculating within a 
channel so smooth and lubricous that she seemed to have little texture 
beyond the oiled velvet within her and the full vulval lips around her 
entrance.  When I finished she sighed, "Ah, Steven," and I kissed her 
neck and lay still.  She rested, her hand floating lazily over my 
back.  Now and then she looked around, or glanced toward the noisy 
rain on the balcony.

    For several minutes she seemed too weak to move.  I held and
kissed her until a wind whipped up outside the balcony.  I rose from
the bed to shut one of the doors.

    Anita said from the bed, "Steven, close them.  The rain's getting
worse.  It's a shame.  I wanted to leave them open."

    I turned to her, going to stand beside the bed.  She sat up,
leaning on one arm, and looked toward the library door and the far
wall to her left, listening.  She swept the long loose hair from one
side of her face and let it fall over her breasts.

    She said, "I never scream."  She listened again, looking at the
wall.  She blushed, her eyes glancing at me, and she said again,
shyly, "I never scream."  She ran her hand through her hair again and
said anxiously, looking toward the library, "I wonder if the house-
keepers heard.   There are only two here tonight.  But not in this 
part of the house."

    I said, gesturing toward the balcony, "It's too noisy to hear
anything outside, at least.  What about your godparents?"

    "Washington."  She looked around the room.  "Did you see my under-
wear?"

    I said, "The very, very delicates are right here," and I bent down
to pick up the panties near the balcony doors.  She held out her hand
and I pitched the panties to her.  She sat on the edge of the bed and
pulled them on quickly, then she went to the dresser and slipped the
robe over her and put the little cloth pouch into a pocket.  And then
it occurred to me that she had kept her diaphragm in her purse all
night: She knew it would happen, she's been through this before.

    Tying the robe, she walked to the library door.  She opened the
door and stuck her head into the room and listened.

    I looked around, and picked my shirt up off the floor.  Anita
closed the library door again.  She said, crossing to me, "Don't
worry.  They wouldn't come in without knocking first.  They probably
didn't hear."  She stood near me, smoothing her hair again, and I put
my shirt on, unbuttoned, and she leaned her head against my chest.  I
had forgot what it was like to hold a girl shorter than I.  I heard
her breath tremble.

    She said softly, sounding vague and nonplussed, "I never scream."
Then she leaned more heavily into me and her hands grasped my arms,
and I put my arms around her shoulders.

    I said, "Are you cold?"

    She shook her head no.

    I said, "You sound shaky."

    She whispered, "I know."  Her hands crept up my arms and she said
again, "I know," and her arms went around my neck and she pressed
against me and said, "It's all right."  Then she hugged me, hugged me
tight, and I heard her swallow hard, and for a moment she held me and
then relaxed, and she pulled away and sighed, running her hands up her
temples and then through her hair, and she said, "I'll use the shower
first, if you don't mind."

    I said, "It's your shower."

    She smiled weakly.  She said, "You can't stay.  I'm sorry.  The
housekeepers are bound to see you.  So I'll take care of myself 
quickly, and you can shower or...But be dressed when you go into the
hall.  I'll come back and dress in here."  She looked at the bed.
"And I'll fix that.  I'll have to check it again in the morning before
the housekeepers get to it."

    I said, buttoning my shirt, "That might be a good idea."

    She smiled again, dimly.  She said, "Well..."  Then she turned and
headed for the library door, stopping to say, "If it were up to me,
Steven, we'd spend the night."

    I said, "I understand that."

    She hurried into the library and out the hallway door.  A moment
later, I heard water in the bathroom behind the bedroom wall.  I took
a peek through the sheer curtains on the balcony doors.  The drizzle
had turned to rain...

    Martha.  I hadn't called back, as I'd promised.  I checked my
watch.  It was a quarter past one I the morning.  I dressed, consider-
ing making a call.  But Martha might be asleep.  Martha.  Damn, how
could I have neglected her?  I had no idea so much time had passed
with Anita.  Looking back, it seemed so brief.  I sat on the bed, and
after a long minute I picked up the phone and dialed.

    Four rings.  Martha said sluggishly, "Hello?"

    "Hello.  I'm on my way home soon."

    "I was asleep."

    "Go back to bed.  I'll be back soon."

    "All right, hon.  Thanks for telling me, but...please stop doing
this.  Don't keep me worrying."

    "Well...I..."

    "Just be careful.  Walk near the curbs.  Stay away from the
doorways."

    "Okay."

    "'Night, hon.  I'm going back to sleep."

    "Okay."

    She hung up clumsily.

    I replaced the handset and rose to stand at the balcony doors.  I
held a curtain aside and looked out.  The rain fell more lightly now.
Taxicabs cruised past.  Martha was out there, by herself, a few blocks
away.  By herself.  Did she know Anita would happen?

    Anita returned a moment later, unsmiling, looking tired, thinking
about something.  She closed the library door and in the dark room she
bent over her purse and put the little pouch inside it, her hair
falling over her face, revealing only her pert nose and her lowered
eyes.  Then she glanced at me, and she closed the purse and walked to
me, looking down, and she stood beside me by the balcony door and
peered out.

    She said, "What's it doing out there?"

    "The rain is slowing down."

    "Good.  I don't want you getting wet."  She looked down again,
seeming ready to say something, but she didn't speak for a moment.
Then she said, "I heard you dialing on the phone."

    I said, "Yeah.  Martha."

    "Oh, yes.  Martha."  She swallowed, looking out the window.  She
said, "I guess you'd better leave soon."

    I said, "When will I see you?"

    "I don't know."

    "Well...how about Tuesday at the airport?"

    She closed her eyes.  "No.  No, Steven.  I wish you wouldn't."

    "Not a date.  Just to wave at the plane.  And I can give you my
address.  You can send me yours."

    "Steven," she said.  She sighed and slid a hand through her hair
again, and she closed her eyes.  She grabbed my hand at her side.  She
said earnestly, "Steven," and she turned to face me, holding my hand
and raising it to her shoulder, and she leaned against my chest, her
forehead at my chin.  She whispered, "Please don't make me love you.
I mustn't.  I won't."  She squeezed my hand hard.  "I can't."

    I said, feeling grown up as hell, feeling like Bogart at the end
of 'Casablanca', "That's not a requirement.  Another list I don't
carry around is a list of requirements."

    "But I know you, Steven."

    "Doesn't change my answer."

    She sighed again, and said, "But I know you."

    I said, "Look, after I use that little room in the hall, why don't
I wait outside by the front door or something?"

    She smiled, turning her face to rest against my chest.  "Because
you don't know your way out."

    "How about if I wait innocently in the library, right there?"

    "Good.  That's a good idea."

    I kissed her forehead.  "See?  I knew we'd work something out."

    She let go of my hand and stepped back.  She whispered, "All
right."

    I turned to go, not wanting to but going anyway, grabbing my sport
coat off the bed, and I went to the library door, smiled at her, saw
her watching me but not smiling, and I went into the library and then
into the hall.

    In the bathroom I could feel the results of Anita's nails on me,
so I opened my shirt and looked at my back in the mirror.  There were
red lines, faint but visible, and a couple of pinch marks that hadn't
smoothed out yet.  I guessed from what I felt under my trousers that
my gluts must look similar.

    Great.  The marks would go away soon, but how to conceal them from
Martha, who knew my body so well?  Martha could be very passionate,
but she was more careful with her nails.  I had brought pajamas with
me to New York, stored in Martha's dresser.  I'd have to wear them
when I got into bed that night.

    I undressed again and showered quickly, wondering if Martha would
be able to detect Anita on me.  It was difficult to ignore the lush
decor of the small room; the walls were light blue mottled tile, the
floors were the same.  Finely turned brass fixtures.  Most of the wall
along the sink side was mirrored, the glass enclosed shower stall
spacious.  It was a far cry from the cramped, metal stall in Martha's
and Ronnie's kitchen, a far cry from the uneven plastered walls in
their tiny bathrooms.

    Hurriedly I dressed again and returned to the library.  Anita was
already there, looking tired, her voice subdued.

    She said, taking my hand, "Let me show you downstairs."

    She said nothing as we walked through the rooms and halls.  She
looked down briefly, and then looked ahead or glanced around at this
or that.  I watched her from the corner of my eye; she glanced once at
me, with a secret smile and muttered, "We're in public now.  We must
behave."

    As we descended into the living room that I was more familiar
with, she spoke in Spanish to a housekeeper who was setting a clock on
the fireplace.  She asked a couple of questions, and the housekeeper
smiled and answered, and on our way out of the room Anita told me,
"The others just left, a little while ago."

    I waited on the front steps while she pulled the door to, and she
stepped onto the porch and stood close to me.  She looked at my face
and put her arms around me, and we kissed, gently.  She hugged me.  I
started to pull back, but she held me.

    "No," she whispered.  Then more softly, "No."  She held onto me,
her face against mine.  After a moment she swallowed hard, and then
she pulled back and smiled, shy and reserved.  "I don't think I need
to tell you I had a wonderful time."

    "But I'll tell you.  It was wonderful."

    "Yes.  It was."  She paused, and I thought she might speak.  But
then she stepped back to the big door and turned to me.  "Good night,
Steven."  She went inside, not looking at me, and she closed the door
quietly.

    The rain had stopped.  There was still a lot of traffic on Park
and Madison Avenues.  86th Street was fairly crowded.  I picked up a
Sunday Times at the newsstand, carrying it under my arm.  I stayed
near the curb, as Martha had told me to do.  I thought that I was
always doing as Martha had told me, except with Anita.  Martha had not
told me what to do about that.  My chest felt full of lead.  I pon-
dered whether to tell her about Anita.  But I knew I would wear my
pajamas that night, to hide Anita's marks.

    I walked up the stairs quietly.  Passing Ronnie's door, I wondered
if she'd returned from her date, or if she was inside with her date.
I took in the musty smell and the creaks of the stairs in the place,
feeling it enclose me again, feeling Anita and her sumptuous world
recede.  I took out my keys and opened the door carefully.

    It was dark, lighted only by the half-opened windows.  I closed
the door and locked it and crept across the living room, and put the
Times on the dining room table, and I went into the narrow hall and
into the bedroom.

    Martha.  She slept curled up in the bed, wearing her pajama top.
The little fan whirred on the window sill.

    Carefully I found my pajamas in one of Martha's dresser drawers.
Standing at my side of the bed, I undressed and put the pajamas on,
feeling they were too warm, realizing that the room was crowded and
sultry and that Anita had space and cool rooms but that Martha had
this hot little place; knowing that I would have told Anita I loved
her, but I was afraid to say it to Martha; knowing that Anita wouldn't
tell me she loved me, but that Martha would.  Martha would tell me.

    I lay down, and she stirred as I got into bed, turning to me
slightly.

    "Steven?"

    "Shh."  I snuggled into her from behind, and I put my head on the
pillow next to her, my lips in her hair, and I put one arm around her
and she took it and cuddled it into her bosom.

    She said, "You must be tired."

    "It's okay," I said, hugging her to me with my captured arm, and I
settled against her.  Yes, I thought, I'm tired.  Tired.  Older.




                                PART 16B:


    Sunday.  I had been in New York six weeks and two days.

    Sunday morning Martha and I went to an Appalachian Arts exhibit at
the Metropolitan, and late Sunday afternoon we went with Ronnie to see
an old Greta Garbo movie at the Museum of Modern Art.  Then we went to
a diner.  For the first time, as we ate, Martha asked me about the
party.

    She said, "It must have been great.  He was out until two 
o'clock."

    Ronnie said, "Two o'clock?  Hey, hey.  And how did Anita hold up?"

    I said flatly, "She held up okay."

    "Mmmm," Ronnie said, chewing.  "Up at two a.m. with the Cisco
Kid's daughter."

    Martha said, "Who won the contest?  You didn't even tell me."

    I said, "Some guy named Maury."

    Martha said, "This Maury must be very good."

    "Not that good," I said, and I swallowed.  "It was political."

    Martha said, "Politics?  In a teenage drama club?"

    I shrugged.  "That's what I'm told."  I was ready for a change of
subject.  I asked Ronnie, "How was your date?"

    She shrugged, too.  "The wheels of the chariots of the gods are
not round, and they move slowly."  She took a sip of her tea.  "So
tell me more about you and Anita."

    I said, "Nothing to tell.  She's leaving town Tuesday."

    "Oh, no," Ronnie said, disappointed.  "Steven, that means you're
still stuck with us two old-timers."

    I said, smiling, "That's not so bad."

    And it wasn't.  They were both undergoing their "dangerous" time 
of the month, and would later be due for periods at about the same 
time.  So we played it safe with a night of oral sex.  I sat up on the 
bed and Ronnie stretched out in front of me, sucking me off as she had 
done the first time, and thanks to Anita the night before I held out a 
long time and made it good for myself, really good, thinking as I 
looked down at Ronnie sucking me that Anita was good, but Ronnie was 
better, much better.  I let the physicality of it flood my brain and 
guts, watching Martha grin as she held me by the root with a couple of 
fingers just before my climax started in Ronnie's mouth.  I came hard 
inside Ronnie's soft sucking, hearing Ronnie swallow the thin, jetting 
squirts, her warm, small mouth absorbing every throb and jerk of my 
pleasured cock.  And I was good to them, both of them, making Ronnie 
cum twice under my mouth, until she couldn't cum any more.  I wanted 
to please sweet Ronnie until she couldn't stand it.  While she still 
gasped and heaved after her orgasm I held her and gave her a long, 
loving kiss.  I was good to Martha, too.  I didn't just please her 
with my mouth, I made love to her with it, watching Ronnie suck 
Martha's nipples while Martha enjoyed a stream of small, intense 
orgasms.  I worked to make it good for her, building her up to a 
final, splendid climax that had her moaning, "My god, Steven!" and 
then gasping "Steven!" again before it was over.

    But my thoughts during that night with Martha and Ronnie went to
prove, I suppose, that Anita still lurked in my head.  Holding Martha
as she felt asleep in my arms, I remembered every minute with Anita.
I held Martha closer, stroking her hair, and the longer I held Martha
and touched her, the less there was of Anita, until there was only
Martha, and I slept peacefully.




    Tuesday afternoon as I was getting ready to meet Ronnie for lunch,
the telephone rang.  I picked up.

    "Hello?"

    There was a pause.  "Steven?"

    "Yes."

    "Anita."

    "I know.  I knew right away."

    "Yes," she said, and paused again, and she began lightly, "I guess 
I didn't --"  She took a deep breath.  I could see her red lips as 
they breathed against her handset.  "Could you meet me at the air- 
port?  I leave at two."  She said quickly, "If you say no, I'll 
understand."

    "Why would I say no?"

    "Well...If you want to."

    "I can be there."

    She gave me the airline and the gate, and I hung up.  Now I had to
call Ronnie about our lunch date.  I dialed quickly.

    Ronnie said boringly, "Hello, this is Veronica."

    "Ronnie, I can't make it for lunch.  I have to be somewhere at
two."

    "Awww.  Shucks.  Hey, I smell the hot blood of Anita."

    "I -- how did you know?"

    "She leaves today.  Right?"

    "Yeah.  At two."

    "Poor Steven.  The little bandita princessa has stolen his heart."

    "Not exactly."

    "Hey, do you know her birthday?"

    "No."

    "See if you can get it.  And don't worry about lunch."

    "I can make up for it and take you to dinner tonight."

    "Don't worry about it."

    "But I don't like standing you up."

    "You're not standing me up.  You stand somebody up when you don't
call and don't apologize.  We can have lunch tomorrow or something."

    "Well, I don't like doing this to y--"

    "Hey.  Do it.  Get it out of your system.  And leave early.  You
might hit traffic."

    The taxi ride to LaGuardia did involve traffic, a lot of it, with 
the driver swearing and swerving all over the place, and I told him to 
take it easy lest his twists and turns fling me out of a window.  The 
drive took just long enough for me to visualize three or four differ- 
ent, poignantly romantic ways that Anita would say goodbye.

    I arrived in time, just after one o'clock, and found my way to
Anita's departure area.

    To my dismay, we were unable to hold a private conversation.  
There were plenty of people around Anita, including her godmother and 
a handful of Hispanics, some of them relatives, and another young 
couple; and Chris, looking bored as usual.  It was an uncomfortable 
situation with so many well-wishers present, though Anita seemed at 
ease as we all waited in a group of lounge chairs.  And I had hurried- 
ly dressed in a shirt and jeans and sport coat, which would not be an 
acceptable style of dress for another ten years.  But no one seemed to 
mind.  Anita spent most of her time with a woman who looked like a 
doting aunt, talking in Spanish, while I chatted with Chris.

    But Chris' eyes told me he knew something was going on.  Anita 
would glance at me and smile now and then, and I'd smile back, or we 
would exchange a few words, and each time this happened I'd see Chris 
watching us.  And because Chris was around so often but seldom spoke 
with Anita, I wondered what their story was.

    Anita waited for her flight's very last boarding announcement 
before rising to leave.  She kissed her relatives and gave Chris a 
hug, and while Anita's godmother waited for a goodbye, Anita gave me a 
hug.  I thought it would be an affectionate quickie, but she held onto 
me, and she said in my ear, "You very nearly had me thinking I might 
not be on that plane."

    "Then don't get on it."

    She tightened her hug and said against my ear, "Will you kiss me
goodbye?"

    "Sure."

    "A real kiss."

    "But your people don't even know who I am."

    She didn't answer.  She raised her mouth to mine and we kissed, a 
rather chaste kiss, but affectionate.  It lasted long enough for me to 
open my eyes warily to see her relatives standing there, gaping at us, 
and Chris grinning down at the floor, shaking his head.

    Anita clasped me to her again, quickly, and whispered, "Thank you, 
Steven."  Then she pulled back and she took a deep breath and said to 
the group, "Well.  Here I go."  She turned to her godmother, who 
looked at her with an open mouthed frown, and Anita said sweetly, 
"Juanita, don't be so surprised.  I told you he was special."  She 
gave her godmother a long, tight hug.  She said cheerily to everyone, 
"See you Thanksgiving!"

    She grabbed her shoulder bag, and she gave Chris a kiss on the 
cheek and told him, "You watch out for Susan."  He gave her a kiss 
back and said, "You watch out for UCLA."  She kissed him on the cheek 
once more, and she glanced at me, smiling, and said, "Goodbye," and 
she and her godmother walked to the checkout area with her tickets. 
After a moment Anita disappeared through the gate, her godmother 
watching her.

    I turned around to look for the viewing area, observing the stares 
of Anita's relatives and smiling at them apologetically.  I went 
upstairs to the hall of giant panorama windows, and took a seat while 
I waited to watch Anita's plane take off.  The airplane soon taxied 
out, getting lost from my view behind a building, and I knew her plane 
would be somewhere in the parade of similar planes taxiing farther out 
on the runways.  I no longer knew which of the five airplanes was 
hers.  I sat and watched them take off, one by one.

    Chris passed in front of the viewing window and stood looking out, 
his hands in his pockets, and after one plane took off, he 
said, "There she goes.  Gone again.  Never stays in one place very 
long. Probably never will."  He turned toward me.  "Gonna miss that 
gal. She's up there with the best."

    I slumped in the chair, my legs stretched straight out, my elbows 
draped over the armrests.  I said quietly, gazing at the runways, 
"Yeah.  She is."

    He looked outdoors again and mused aloud, "Anita always wins."

    I heard what he said.  What he meant crept into me more slowly.

    Chris walked to me, grinning, and asked if I were still coming to
his birthday party.

    My gaze on the runway, I said, "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
I glanced at him.  "Seriously."

    "Great."

    I asked Chris, "You've been friends with Anita for a while?"

    "Yeah, coupla years."

    "You don't happen to know her birthday, do you?"

    "Huh?  Anita's birthday?  Uhh, September.  September 9th.  Why?"

    "Just curious."

    "Hey, I'll give ya a call this week.  At Martha's, right?  That's
the number Anita gave me."

    "Yeah, I'll be at Martha's."  I figured Chris would probably have 
Anita's address, or her family's address.  But Anita was done with.  
It was over.  And I didn't need the pain of not having her write back.

    Chris said, "Great.  We can get together sooner than my birthday."

    "Sounds good to me."  I looked up at him.  "Thanks."

    "Hey, I'll call ya."  He walked away.

    I watched the runways.  Another plane took off.

    September 9.  A Virgo.  Like Martha.

    Another plane.  And I was resolved.  This wouldn't happen again.
Next time, I'd be the one on my way somewhere to something I wanted.
I'd be the one to do the leaving.




    Tuesday night, Martha and I went to a concert.  I held her hand
during the performance.  Perhaps it was Lizst's piano music that had
me pining and emotional.  Perhaps it was Anita, haunting me.

    I looked down at Martha's hand holding mine.  A lovely hand, the 
fingers delicate but strong.  Hands that had touched every part of me, 
that had said so many things to my body.  She held my hand in her lap, 
atop her cream colored skirt, and under the lap of the skirt were the 
outlines of the smooth tummy and her crossed legs, the shapes of her 
fine, trim thighs that my own hands and lips had known.  High on one 
crossed thigh was the vague outline of the garter, and I knew the 
sight of her removing them and I knew the feel of the flesh inside the 
hosiery.  It came upon me suddenly: I wanted her terribly.  It was the 
kind of want that troubled me, attacking from behind, without warning, 
a wanting more than wanting Anita, more than wanting anyone.  It was 
the kind of needful rush that always left me helpless, desperately 
resisting its emotional power.

    Martha stirred in her seat, glancing down at my hand tightening on 
hers.  She looked at me, smiling, and she squeezed my hand and settled 
in her seat again, watching the stage.

    There, that was Martha.  Caring.  Loving.  Not afraid to handle 
it.  And I felt like a heel.  I had been willing to openly reveal so 
much more of my emotional self to Anita, but not to Martha.

    We strolled home down 57th Street and then up Third Avenue.

    Martha said as we walked, "You're very quiet."

    "Tired," I said.

    "No.  That look on your face isn't just tired."

    "No, really.  Tired."

    She didn't mention it again until we were getting into bed.  I was 
able to sleep nude again.  The marks made by Anita had faded.  Martha 
turned out the lights and settled into bed beside me.  I lay on my 
side, my back to her.

    She spooned against me from behind, her head on my shoulder.

    She said softly, "You want to tell me?"

    "About what?"

    "About Anita."

    I shook my head no.

    She settled closer against me.  She said, "I knew you would like 
each other.  But I didn't think it would get this far."

    I sighed and said, "It didn't.  Didn't have time to get far."

    "Far enough."

    I said quietly, "Yeah."

    She whispered, as if to herself.  "Yes.  I suspected that."  She
said gently, "You knew she was leaving, Steven."

    "Mm, not until later.  Not until it was too late."

    She slipped an arm around my tummy.  "You'll be able to take care
of yourself, hon.  You know that, don't you?"

    I said sullenly, "Doesn't feel very good."

    "No.  I know how it feels.  Believe me.  And Ronnie knows.  And
many, many people know, hon.  Many people.  Anita, too."

    I didn't say anything.

    Martha entreated me gently, "Don't let it push you around, Ste- 
ven."  Martha waited, and when I remained quiet she said, "You want to 
tell me what happened?"

    I shrugged.  "She left.  That's all that happened."

    "Maybe she didn't have a choice."

    I didn't say anything.

    "Loving someone doesn't mean you own them.  Owning just means
wanting.  Loving is something else."

    I still didn't say anything.

    Martha held my shoulder and rolled me onto my back, and looked 
down at me, smiling.  She said sympathetically, "Oh, my.  My Steven 
fell in love.  You loved her a lot, didn't you?  You fell in love with 
a beautiful, smart, independent, very young woman who wasn't ready." 
She caressed my chest with her palm.  "It'll happen again, hon.  Just 
be more careful."

    I said, "I won't let it happen that way again."

    "Oh, it will.  Someday it will.  You loved Anita, but you couldn't 
let her leave.  Do you think she left because she didn't love you 
back, is that what you think?"

    "Yeah.  I guess.  I don't know."

    "Did you tell her you loved her, but she said she didn't love 
you?"

    I thought about it, rubbing my hand over my sleepy face.  I said, 
"I didn't tell her.  Not exactly."

    "Hm?  You didn't tell her?"

    "No."

    "Well, hon..."  She struggled with that thought for a second.  She 
said, "Hon, then what did you expect?  Hm?  How was she supposed to 
know you loved her, if you never told her?"

    "I was afraid to tell her.  I didn't tell her, exactly."

    She was still for a moment, and quiet.  Then she said, "There's 
nothing wrong with loving someone, Steven.  Or telling them, even if 
they say no.  But you mustn't let your feelings shove you around like 
this.  I understand that sometimes you just have to keep those feel- 
ings to yourself.  And when that happens, it's really just best to 
walk away.  Not because you'll hurt them, not even because they could 
easily hurt you, but because you'll hurt yourself even more.  And we 
all get hurt often enough and bad enough, without adding our own names 
to the list of people who can hurt us."  She stopped, and she laid her 
head on my raised side and reached around to rub my tummy affection- 
ately.  "I'm lecturing again.  I don't mean to."

    I held the hand that she rubbed my tummy with and gave it a quick 
squeeze.  I whispered.  "That's okay.  I have a lot to learn."

    "But you are learning, Steven.  You are."  She ran a finger 
through my hair.  "You know I'll help you.  While I can."

    I sighed, and said sarcastically, joking, "Yeah.  Yeah, your 
helping me is gettin' to be like basic training."  I gave her hand on 
my tummy a little squeeze.

    She laughed softly.  "Really?  Have I been that rough on you?"

    "Regular obstacle course."

    "Hon, I'm sorry."

    "You don't know any plain, ugly, normal girls, do you?"

    "I know some plains and uglies.  Normal ones don't exist.  And 
even if they did, you wouldn't like them.  You have too much hot blood 
in you for that."  She rubbed my hand that held hers, and then her 
amused smile faded and she said quietly, "I don't want your life to be 
so rough for you, Steven, but...hon, there's so little time."

    "Yeah I know."

    She brushed my cheek with her hand.  "When you do love someone, 
and you know they love you, too...just tell them sometime.  You can 
show off all you want, but...just let them know.  So many people are 
waiting to hear 'I love you' from someone they love.  You're not the 
only one who's waiting for it.  But sometimes you can't just wait for 
the other side to say it."

    "I know.  I'll be more careful about that.  Next time."

    "Next time, then.  Steven, next time you might want to think about 
opening yourself up a little and just...talk to me?   When it's some- 
thing this important to you?"

    I nodded yes.

    "Well...let's get some sleep, then."

    "Okay."

    She gave me a smack on the forehead and rolled away, and I rolled 
onto my side again, away from her.  I heard her getting settled.  In a 
moment she was still.  I realized that this was no way to treat her 
for being so kind just now, no way to thank her without even a thank- 
you, sleeping with my back to her.  Was I directing my resentment 
about Anita toward other women, including Martha?  Martha wasn't my 
mom or godmother or aunt.  Martha was none of those.  Regardless of 
what had happened with Anita, Martha didn't deserve shoddy treatment 
from me.

    She was lying on her side, toward me.  I turned to her and touched 
her shoulder.  When she opened her eyes I shifted to her and embraced 
her, and she turned onto her back.  I held my face against hers and 
held her and lay still.

    She had one arm around my shoulders, and the other stroked my 
hair.  She asked, "Anything else you wanted to tell me?"

    "No."

    "You sure?"

    "Thanks for helping me."

    "All right, hon."  She held me and relaxed into her pillow.  
"You'll be all right."




                                PART 16C:


    Wednesday, Ronnie's half-day off, Ronnie met me at her apart- 
ment.  I gave her Anita's birthday for a chart.  Ronnie told me that 
she couldn't borrow the calculator from the office, so I'd have to 
help her work out the numbers using manual tables that came with her 
books.  It was a pain in the neck.  I spent more than half an hour 
calculating the figures, and another half hour checking them.

    Ronnie lounged on her sofa, watching me as I bent forward over her 
coffee table, working.  She said, "See what I mean?  You wanna make 
money doing that, you'll have to find a faster way."

    When Anita's chart was finished, Ronnie lit a cigarette and leaned 
into the corner of the sofa, extended lengthwise as she was the 
previous Wednesday when she showed me the other charts.

    "Let's seeeee," she muttered, looking down at my chart and Anita's 
in the lap of her straight skirt.  "Steven, you two didn't understand 
each other very well."

    I sat on the edge of the sofa.  I raised my eyebrows at that 
remark.

    "Really.  I mean, there was this basic, kind of fun, romantic 
thing, but...What I mean is, you didn't see other as each of you 
really are.  You both had so many fantasy images projected onto each 
other.

    I said gloomily, "Oh."

    She said quickly, "But you did love each other."  Then her eyes 
narrowed when she saw something in the charts, and she said, "And, 
wow, did you.  Oh, you two were hot.  Really hot."  She grinned at me, 
then frowned playfully, "Steven, you should've told me."

    I blushed.

    She teased, "Did you and Anita do it?  Huh?"

    I blushed again, waving her off with one hand.

    "C'mon, you can tell me.  I won't snitch."  I didn't answer.  She 
asked in a make-believe, shocked whisper, "Steven, did you and the 
Cisco Kid's daughter really do it?"

    I stayed rigid, looking down at the coffee table.

    She let up on me and said, "Okay.  A gentleman.  I didn't think 
you'd tell.  Good for you."  She looked back at the chart, and went on 
seriously.  "But you did have a strong emotional bond.  That would be 
so nice, Steven, but it was so colored with romanticism, and...signs 
of dishonesty here.  One or both of you wasn't telling the truth, or 
at best, you were both concealing something. But..."  She glanced at 
me.  "It was obviously a love relationship.  Very romantic, with big 
problems.  But you already know that, you knew that while it was 
happening.  I don't know how to tell you what you already know."

    I insisted, "I already know what my feelings were.  But what does 
the chart say about Anita's feelings?"

    "They were comparable to yours.  Why, didn't you think she felt
something?"

    "I dunno.  I thought maybe it was just physical."

    Ronnie's mouth opened in shock and amusement.  "What?  My god, a 
*guy* whose complaining because a *gal* just wants his *body* ?.  Oh, 
holy mother mary and jesus mahogany christ.  Sure, she was physically 
attracted.  I could see that when you met her.  Don't need astrology 
to see that."  She took a drag off her cigarette and reached to flick 
the ashes in the ashtray.  "But you didn't see her as she was.  You 
saw what you wanted to see.  Not that she isn't something to look at. 
And she has brains to match.  But you just didn't want to accept her 
situation."

    "She didn't tell me about that until a couple of days ago."

    "She didn't?  Even I knew that.  She told me at the party she was
going to UCLA."

    I sat on the edge of the sofa, looking out the window, thinking 
aloud and trying to put the sequence of events together.  "She made a 
confession.  She said she purposely didn't tell me about it until the 
last minute."  I sighed.  "Why would she do that?"

    Ronnie blew a thin stream of smoke and looked at Anita's chart.
"Honey, she's just afraid of getting too close."

    "Yeah.  She said that.  In so many words."

    "Well, give her credit for being honest, for godssake.  I told you 
she was independent."  Ronnie took a drag and looked at me, wagging 
her head.  "You told me yourself, you can't make somebody love you. 
Remember telling me that?"

    I kept thinking aloud.  "She told me she didn't want to spoil our
time together."

    "At least she was willing to give you that much.  Couldn't you
just accept it for what it was?"

    I said, looking toward the window,  "I wanted more, I guess.
Needed."

    "Yes," Ronnie said, her voice dropping.  She leaned her head back 
against the armrest and closed her eyes.  "Needed.  I know all about 
needed.  Yeah.  All about that."  She chuckled, and she lifted her 
head and looked at me again.  "Ah, Steven in love.  In love with what 
wasn't there."

    I looked at her.  "Wasn't there?"

    "How could she give you what she didn't have?"

    "Yeah.  Yeah, I guess so."

    Ronnie took a drag.  "But you were with her for a little while.
Was it nice?"

    I shrugged.  "Yeah."

    "Yeah?  Who made the first move?  Was it you, for a change?"

    I shrugged again.  "I asked her if I could kiss her."

    Ronnie laughed.  "Asked her?  Oh, you're even more untrusting than 
I thought.   You're such a case.  No wonder Martha gets so frustrated 
with you."  She leaned on her side and crushed her cigarette in the 
ash tray on the table.  Then she lay back against the armrest again, 
one hand behind her head.  "And very difficult to seduce.  You have to 
have everything under your control, nothing left to chance.  Or else 
you need some sort of hurricane of emotion, or something.  It's like 
Jane having to rip off Tarzan's loincloth and cart him away.  C'mon, 
that oughtta be your job once in a while."

    I sighed, uneasy, knowing she was right.  I said resignedly, "I 
dunno."  I rubbed my face with my hand.  "She sure got me messed up."

    "Eh, I know.  I get messed up too.  Look what happened to me when 
that former mister nice guy stood me up.  He sure caught me by sur- 
prise.  Hey, you're blaming yourself too much."

    "I think, sometimes...if I want love, it won't happen.  If I just 
want sex, they'll dislike me for it."

    She grinned, shaking her head again.  "Oooh!  Parents, parents 
parents.  And Catholic guilt if I ever saw it.  Written all *over* 
you."

    I said defensively, "Well, I do feel something for the person I'm
with."

    "Of course!  But do they have to give up the rest of their life?"

    "All right.  Okay, Okay."

    "Steven, nobody has 'just sex'.  Not anybody I know.  There's 
always something emotional going on, even with creeps like George." 
She looked down at her skirt and straightened it a little, crossing 
and uncrossing her legs on the sofa, while she said, "You did it with 
me and Martha, didn't you?  But it wasn't 'just sex', I felt very 
strong emotions from all of us.  And you're really sweet, having 'just 
sex'.  I never had that before.  It was always so possessive and so... 
selfish, and rough.  Yuk.  And one sided.

    "But if you know all this, and you have all those charts, how did
you end up with George?"

    "Well, dear, leave it to fools like Ronnie to rush in where wise
men and drunks fear to tread.  Georgie-boy was just the last in a long
line of mistakes, that's all.  It was a case of learn it or live with
it.  And I sure wasn't gonna live with it.  Not with that."

    I didn't say anything.  I was tempted to smoke a cigarette.  I
looked at the pack of cigarettes on the table.  I said, "I think I
need one of those."

    Ronnie laughed, surprised.  "What's the matter?"  She reached for 
the pack, grinning playfully at me.  "Am I making you nervous? 
Steven?  I don't believe you, you act so innocent!"  She handed me a 
cigarette and her lighter, and she leaned back into the armrest again, 
smiling at me.  She watched me light the cigarette.  She said, "You're 
so physical and so open when it's three of us.  But being alone with 
me and talking makes you nervous.  How long's it gonna take you to get 
over that?"

    I inhaled and felt the hot stuff go down, and blew out.  "But this
is different."

    She chuckled. "How?"

    "I don't know."

    She gave a wily half-smile, like a gentle poke in my ribs.  "More
...personal?  More intimate?"

    I nodded yes.  "I guess."

    "Talking?  Talking intimately about yourself?  With me?"  She took
another cigarette out of the pack, eyeing me with that same, curious
smile.  "Are you this way with Martha?"

    I thought about that.  I admitted, "Yeah.  Most of the time.  I
guess."

    "Let me guess: I'll bet you never talk to your parents.  About
anything personal."  She lit her cigarette.

    I admitted quietly, "No."

    "I didn't think so.  Neither did I.  It was Martha I started talk- 
ing to.  And she had to drag it out of me."  She gazed at me for a 
moment. "I take it that you, uh, aren't sleeping on Martha's sofa 
every night."

    I blushed.  "No."

    "Oh, look at that blush.  Steven!  I don't believe you!  After the 
three of us?  After playing doctor with Martha back in Memphis?"  She 
put both arms behind her head and stretched, and relaxed again.  She 
sighed, a little flustered.  "Don't you just get horny sometimes?  I 
don't mean with your first date and strangers, I mean when you're with 
somebody you know, somebody you trust?  Martha?"

    I took a drag.  "Yeah, I guess."

    "Come on, we're friends.  We're more than friends.  When anyone 
tries to get close to you, you're a lot like me.  And Anita."

    I felt anger rising at that.  I knew Ronnie could see my eyes 
narrow and my jaw clench.  I said irritably, "I know that.  Well, I'm 
not sixteen yet, how am I supposed to feel?"

    "Okay, okay, Aunt Ronnie was fifteen once, Martha was too.  But, 
sweetheart, you look older, and when I met you I was really impressed. 
So impressed, I didn't care if you were fifteen or fifty.  Not that I 
was struck by lust at first sight, but -- know what I mean?  Let's 
face it, you've had experience, and it hasn't been typical.  And I 
don't mean just me and Martha.  Your family isn't exactly Ozzie and 
Harriet, any more than mine was.  And I'm guessing you didn't invest 
much time with Howdy Doody and Winky Dink.  You were way ahead of that 
before you got here.  Like me.  I was still a teenager when I came to 
New York, but I felt like sixty."

    I fumed for a moment, settling down and resting my elbows on my 
knees, looking away from her.

    She said softly, "I'm sorry, sweetheart.  I'm one to talk.  I've
been through this, too."

   "Eh.  Okay.  All right."

    She was quiet for a moment.  She said, "It just occurred to me, 
I've never seen you angry.  Never.  The whole time you've been in New 
York.  I didn't think what I was doing would get you so upset."

    "What were you doing?"

    "Don't you know?"

    "No."

    "I was flirting."

    Her answer surprised me.  I turned my head to glance at her,
twisting to the side in my sitting position.  She was unsmiling, re-
clining and looking at me, her eyes gentle.

    She asked, "Why would that make you so angry?"

    I sighed, trying to calm down.  I said, "Because I don't know."

    "Don't know what?"

    "How do you know when they want it?"

    "Well, if they have any brains at all, the girl learns to give
signals."

    "Like what?"

    "Like what I've been doing for the past thirty minutes."

    "Yeah?"  I flicked the cigarette on the ash tray.  "I didn't see 
you doing anything."

    "Well, I'm not ripping my clothes off.  Does somebody have to come 
on like a streetwalker to make their point?  Everyone has their own 
signals."

    "So how do you recognize these signals?"

    "You spend time with someone.  You date.  You take chances.  You 
learn to get close.  Why do you think Martha's having you meet all 
those people, and setting you up?"

    I said vaguely, "I have my own theories about that."

    "Don't you think we were giving you signals that first night, the
three of us together, after the beach?  Martha told me later she
thought we'd have to order out for more Coppertone before you got the
point.  She knew you'd be scared to death.

    I took another puff.  I said sarcastically, "Well, I didn't get
those signals from the girls I met in Memphis."

    She said, "But, sweetheart, we're not in Memphis."

    I glanced at her, and I blushed again, looking down at the floor.

    She said, "I know you, I like you, you're attractive, and you're a 
great lover.  And we've been together, for godssake.  But I was trying 
to get *you* to seduce *me*.  I was in a mood to be seduced, not to 
jump on you or have you jump all over me.  I wanted a quiet, affec- 
tionate seduction.  Alone.  With you.  Or a talk, you know?  Close? 
Revealing?  Just between me and thee?  I had no idea you were so 
afraid of me.  Or so afraid of yourself, or whatever it is.  And I've 
tried it more than once, too, but you don't seem to pick up on it."

    I said, "Oh."  I shrugged. I shrugged again.  I toyed nervously
with the cigarette and then mashed it out in the ashtray.

    Ronnie said resignedly, "Oh, Steven, I'm just flirting.  You know, 
after all we've experienced together..."  She glanced down at her 
shirt, and she saw a cigarette ash on the front and she whisked it 
away with her fingers.  "I don't see why Ronnie should have to work so 
hard to get a kiss or a hug once in a while.  I know it's a physical 
thing, but it doesn't have to mean sex.  You know?"  She looked at me 
again.  "My goodness, you're so unpredictable.  Opening up one day and
closing down shop the next.  Even at fifteen, if you were in Memphis, 
you'd give your Aunt Ronnie a hug.  Anyway --"  She glanced at her 
wrist watch.  "You gotta get outta here.  We both have things to do.  
My boss will expect some sketches tomorrow.  And you've spoiled 
Martha, she'll expect another fancy dinner."  She crushed her half-
smoked cigarette in the ashtray.

    "A hug is all you wanted?  A hug?"

    "Eh, we can work on that later."  She made a motion to rise.

    I leaned toward her.  "You mean, I never just gave you a big hug?"

    She held up a warning hand and turned her face away.  She said
primly, "No, no.  Nope.  Too late.  Moment's gone."

    "That's all you wanted?" I said again, moving toward her on the 
edge of the soda.

    She said more firmly, turning her face farther away.  "Nope.  I 
told you.  Missed your chance.  My insecurities have returned."

    I tried to put my arms around her and leaned down to her.

    She started laughing, covering her face with her arms, protesting 
feebly, "No no.  Nononono."

    I nudged my face past her arms, trying to get my arms under her. 
We started struggling, with Ronnie squealing and laughing, and I 
managed to get my face against hers and one arm around her waist, and 
she squirmed and giggled, and I was surprised at how strong this 
willowy young woman was.

    Then Ronnie did something she probably should not have done.  By 
accident, or on purpose, she tickled my ribs.  Martha had discovered 
long ago that tickling me produced a physically unpredictable react- 
ion, a spontaneous, uncontrollable spasm.  Consequently, tickling me 
was something Martha never did.  But Ronnie had no way of knowing 
that.  And because Ronnie and I had become so entwined, my violent, 
yelping effort to get away from her flung both of us onto the floor, 
knocking the coffee table out of the way.  Ronnie gave a quick scream. 
In an instant, I landed on my back, with Ronnie on her side, face up 
on top of me.

    She was laughing hysterically, surprised.  "Steven, what the hell
did you do?!"

    I said, "You shouldn't tickle me."  I tried to get up.

    She pushed back.  "Nope.  Gotcha now."

    Quickly she scrambled to stay on top of me.  "Uh-uh, no you 
don't!"  She uprighted herself quickly and sat facing me on my chest, 
her skirt hiked up and her knees on each side of me as she held my 
arms.  She grit her teeth playfully, pushing my arms firmly onto the 
floor.  "Gotcha.  I Gotcha now."  She bent over me, her face hovering 
over mine.  She panted, "There!"  She stared at me, pretending to be 
menacing.  "So this is how you get the gal to climb on top.  I seeee."  
She watched my face and held my arms down, but she tried to twist her 
elbows into my ribs, tickling me again.

    I yelped "Oh!" and lurched under her, lifting us a couple of
inches off the floor and bouncing down again.

    She said, "Wow!  Pretty ticklish huh?"

    "Ronnie, don't tickle me.  Don't tickle.  No tickle.  No-no."

    "I promise not to tickle if you promise to give Aunt Veronica a
kiss.  Promise?  Huh?"

    "This is no way to treat your nephew."

    "Sure it is.  I'd love to have a nephew like you.  Promise?"

    "How about if I --"

    "Promise?"

    She watched my face to make sure I meant it and, holding my arms 
down to be sure, she lowered her face and let her lips touch mine 
softly for a second, then she raised up and looked at me, and lowered her 
lips to mine again, staying longer, and then raised and lowered again. 
It became a long kiss, Ronnie working her lips lovingly over mine, and 
her tongue went into my mouth and played, and she ended the kiss with 
a couple of smaller ones.

    She opened her eyes and whispered smugly, "Thatta boy."  She
straightened up and settled onto me and said, "Hey, pay attention.
Get this into your head.  I like you.  Stop being afraid of me and
Martha.  Okay?"

    "Do I have a choice?"

    She said, smiling, "No."




    Ronnie sent me out of her apartment with another hug, saying, "Get
outta here and go make Martha a big dinner.  And hug her and kiss her
and tell her you love her.  Go on."

    I made a huge pot of beef stew for Martha.  I had bought a silly
kitchen apron with a picture of Disneyland on it, and I spent all
afternoon in the kitchen, cutting up potatoes and shelling fresh peas
and cubing the beef.  And feeling ambitious.  Humming.  Telling jokes
to myself.  Being with Ronnie that day had struck a note in me, but I
couldn't define it.

    I turned on Martha's radio and listened to a group discuss the 
Appalachian Arts exhibit Martha and I had seen.  As I listened to the 
erudition displayed by those on the discussion panel, I kept thinking: 
that's what I need, more ideas, more knowledge, doing more, seeing 
more, attempting more.

    I left the program on while I showered in the kitchen.  I looked
at my body and could see what the weeks at Fiore's had accomplished.
I was lean and toned, well muscled.  It was a swimmer's body.  And, I
thought, a body that should start bringing me pleasure without my
being so Catholic about it, as Ronnie had noted.  I'd go to Fiore's
class tomorrow morning, and again Anita wouldn't be there.  Perhaps 
someone else would be there.  And they'd see a good body and find it 
attractive and desirable.  And Martha would be home that night.  I 
wanted to be fresh for her, strong, and affectionate.  And I'd keep 
doing that, for Martha and Ronnie, and soon when I went to Fiore's I 
wouldn't think about Anita.

    I bought an air freshener at the hardware store on Second Avenue 
and hung it in front of the living room window.  I bought a flower and 
put it in a vase on the dining table, and did the same for the little 
coffee table in front of the sofa.  I cleaned the kitchen floor.  I 
dusted the living room and straightened up.

    The memory of Anita lingered.  But following my old habit, which 
certainly wouldn't change in a day, the fantasy of Anita was gradually 
being replaced by one new fantasy after another.

    I called Ronnie and asked her if I could read through her astro- 
logy books.  She said I could, and I could come over any time she was 
home.  I told her I'd come down after dinner.  And while I continued 
working in the apartment I wondered about Ronnie, wondered what it 
would be like, as she had said, to be with her more intimately, alone, 
purely for sex, not as a partner with me and Martha, not as Martha's 
friend, but as Ronnie.  Having entirely physical sex with Martha was 
not often easy; it was impossible for me to separate Martha's body 
from my feelings for her.  But I already had pangs of guilt about 
Anita.  I had the sense of betraying Martha through her, a black mark 
on my conscience that wouldn't allow me to discuss it with anyone, not 
even with Ronnie.  Ronnie may be right, I thought: I was guilty and 
mistrustful to the core.  Yet that problem had to be worked through; 
for Memphis was closer on the horizon.  I felt that Memphis had put 
that problem into me; there had to be a way to keep Memphis from 
keeping it there.

    And Martha.  What about Martha?  Was she setting me up with others
to make me more confident, more sexually proficient with everyone?  or 
just with her?  Or without her?  I had no idea what would happen with 
us.  And even if my desires were fulfilled, how would that work out?
And if they weren't fulfilled, how would *that* work out?

    Chris called me.  He invited me to his home on East 64th for
Sunday afternoon.  We could make plans for his birthday party, which
was Monday.

    Then Martha came home.  I was in the kitchen, wearing my apron.

    She set her briefcase down by the door, holding her mail.  She
said absently, looking through the envelopes, "Hi, hon."

    "Hello!"

    She sniffed and looked up.  "What are you making?"

    "Beef stew."

    "Smells good."  She looked at my apron.  "What's that?"

    "Disneyland," I said, tossing a bowl of salad.

     She looked around.  She saw the flower on the dining room table. 
She saw the living room straightened up, nothing lying around, the 
flower on the coffee table.  She put a hand on her hip and looked at 
me.  "All right, what's going on?"

    I grabbed a dishtowel and I wiped my hands while I walked over to 
her from the kitchen.  She watched me, her green eyes on mine, and the 
light in them and the beauty in them and in her face was already 
sending a charge to my balls.

    I said, "Nothing's going on.  How'd it go today?"  I gave her a
kiss on the cheek and walked back to the kitchen.

    She didn't move for a moment, watching me, looking skeptical.  She 
set the mail on the little table by the door and walked toward the 
bedroom, unbuttoning her blouse.  She mumbled, "Something's up.  I 
don't know what it is, but something's up."  She disappeared into the 
bedroom.

    When she had changed clothes she came into the dining room, look-
ing tired.  I'd poured a steaming bowl of the stew for her and was 
waiting in my chair.  She sat down, sniffing the stew.

    "Mm," she said.  "Well, anyway, it smells great."  She picked up 
her spoon, eyeing me skeptically again.  "Are you going to tell me 
what's going on?"

    "Nothing's going on."

    She eyed me again for a second, and then tasted the stew.  She 
closed her eyes.  "Mmm.  Oh."  She chewed and then wiped her lips. 
"Hon, you're ruining me."

    "Not possible."

    "Oh, yes.  Very possible.  I couldn't cook anything like this, 
even if I knew how.  Where do you find time for this?"  She took 
another bite.

    "I arrange things."  I looked at her.  In jeans and an old shirt, 
a shirt I recognized from Memphis.  Her soft, straight shoulders.  The 
sleeves rolled up, revealing the graceful, finely muscled wrists and 
forearms.  Her elegant neck.  Soft, short, wavy auburn hair.  And 
those captivating eyes.  And her red mouth, chewing.  The mouth that 
could drive me mad.  What fantasy could match the reality of Martha?

    She glanced at me.  "Are you going to eat, or just stare at me?"

    I stirred, coming out of my trance.  "Uh...Well, I thought I'd
start out by just staring for a while."

    She started to laugh, her mouth full of food.  She wiped her lips
again.  "Steven, what are you up to?"

    The telephone rang.

    Martha said, "Oh...just a minute."  She rose from the table and
picked up the phone in the living room.

    It was Howard.  She sounded glad to hear from him.  They spoke for 
just a moment, Martha smiling and joking as she paced in a little 
space by the sofa.  After a moment she said, "Listen, that's a good 
idea, let's plan on it.  But I'm having dinner with Steven right now, 
and he made a really nice table for me, it's delicious.  So...could 
you call later?  About an hour?  We can set it up."

    I sat at the table, thinking: Howard.  Howard.

    She hung up and walked back to the table, smiling to herself, and 
she paused to stand beside me and give me a kiss on the cheek and hug 
her face against mine, and she sat down again.

    She said, "That was Howard.  You remember Howard."

    "Yeah."

    "He invited us to dinner."

    "Me too?"

    "Of course."  She dug into her stew.  "He'll call back."

    I watched her chew another mouthful, listened to her say "Mm" a
couple of times before she swallowed.  She said, "Friday you can
meet Becky."

    I said, "Okay."

    She glanced at me again.  "I don't get an argument?"

    I shook my head no.

    She said, "You gonna tell me why?"

    I said, "I thought you said you didn't want an argument."

    She just smiled, and took another bite.

    While I was cleaning up in the kitchen, Howard called back.  
Martha sat on the sofa, talking to him.  Whenever I glanced at her she 
looked like a teenager again, sitting with one foot on the floor and 
the other on the sofa, absently ruffling her hair, fiddling with her 
nails, chuckling now and then, but mostly listening.  I heard her say 
it had been several weeks since she had heard from him.  She asked him 
about the work for the coming semester at the school where he taught.

    I prepared a bowl of the stew to take to Ronnie.  I also got the 
sudden idea of looking through Ronnie's astrology books.  Before I 
left I stood at the door, using sign language to tell Martha I was 
going to take the bowl of stew downstairs.  She nodded okay and blew 
me a kiss.  She had been on the phone for fifteen minutes.

    I knocked on Ronnie's door and she let me in.  She was wearing a
dark blue cotton robe and smelled as if she had just come from the
shower.  She was surprised to see the bowl of stew.

    Handing the bowl to her, I said, "I hope you don't mind leftovers.
Martha and I wouldn't be able to eat this in a week."

    "But I love leftovers," she said, taking the bowl and heading for
her kitchen.  "Leftovers have all the flavors blended.  And they get
soft and gushy."  She removed the aluminum foil.  "Mm.  Smells good."
She took a small pot out of the dish drainer beside her sink.  "Want
some?"

    "But I made it for you."

    "You can still have some."

    "You didn't eat yet?"

    She poured the entire bowl of stew into the pot.  "I was drawing.
I was...recovering."

    "Recovering?"

    "From trying to talk some sense into you."  She grinned, making me 
blush, and she said as she placed the pot on her two-burner stove, 
"Steven, you wear me out sometimes.  And I did some chores and stuff, 
so I was too tired to fix dinner.  Now I'm famished."

    While she heated the stew I asked her about having a look at her 
astrology books.  She showed me where she kept them, about fifteen 
books in a small bookshelf near the front door in the living room.

    She asked me, "Looking for anything special?"

    I said, "Where do I start?"

    She gave me a book she thought would be a good starter on how
charts are made, and another short book with summaries of planetary
meanings.

    I sat on the floor in front of the bookshelf, paging through the 
first book while Ronnie set up her dinner in her little dining room 
that was exactly like Martha's.  She had the bowl of stew and a draw- 
ing pad on the table in front of her.  After I'd been reading for a 
while I glanced at her and saw that she was drawing and eating at the 
same time.

    I said, "Hey, I can take this out on the front steps and read."

    "No, no.  You're fine."

    "But I'm in your way.  You're working on something."

    "Yeah.  I'm drawing you.  Stay there."

    "Oh.  I thought maybe you were drawing your dinner."

    She grinned, working at her pad.  "I don't draw stew."  She worked
for a minute and then asked, "What's Martha up to?"

    "She's talking to a guy on the phone named Howard."

    "Oh."  She didn't say anything else.

    I said, "He's some theater guy."

    "Howard?  Yeah, I know Howard.  Very nice guy.  He and Martha are 
old buddies."  She drew a couple of lines and said, "They go out every 
once in a while.  Martha set me up with him once.  Twice, actually."

    She kept working, and she looked up again and saw me looking at
her.  She smirked at me and said, "No, Steven.  Not me and Howard."

    "That's not what I meant."

    Her smirk evaporated while she kept working.  "Martha and Howard 
are buddies.  From way, way back.  They're in the education business 
together."

    I returned to the book.  Okay, Martha and Howard were buddies.

    Ronnie kept working and I kept burrowing through the books, fasci- 
nated.  I skimmed through the book Ronnie gave me and started another.

    After a while I asked her, "What's your birthday?"

    She said, "No, no.  I never show anyone my chart."

    "That's...a little strange."

    She said quietly as she worked, "It's a secret.  I'm sure you know 
all about secrets, Steven."  She straightened up in her chair and 
said, "But I'm Pisces, if that helps."

    Within an hour I had three books opened on the floor before me.  I 
had to admit, much of it was more arcane and complex than I expected. 
The more I read, the more I was confused.

    Ronnie stood over me.  "Three books at once?"

    "I'm just skimming."

    "Not a good subject for skimming."

    "Yeah, I see that."

    "Looking for anything special?  Maybe I can tell you where it is."

    I said, "Answers.  All the answers."

    She chuckled softly.  "There's no such thing, honey.  These are 
clues, not answers.  And it's all theory, anyway.  A lot of the an- 
swers, you can figure out by yourself."

    I looked up at her.  She was in her robe, looking down at me.  I 
closed the book I was reading and got to my feet.  "Say, you have to 
get some sleep.  It's getting late."  I started returning the books to 
their shelves.  "I'll have to look up more clues later."

    She watched me replace the books, not saying anything, her arms 
folded across her chest, a sleepy smile on her face.

    As I replaced the last book I kept fiddling with it, getting it 
absolutely lined up with the others on the shelf, and finally I got up 
my nerve and asked Ronnie, "Say, you...uh, okay if I come along to 
watch birdies with you Sunday morning?"

    "You sure?  I mean, a lot of strong, silent types like you would
think that was sissy stuff."

    "Well...maybe I can kill something for dinner."

    "Yeah, right.  Don't try that with the Audubon people."

    I had the book in place, but I kept fiddling.  "Well, if you
think I shouldn't..."

    "Of course you can!  Think you can get up at seven a.m.?"

    "Sure."

    "Okay, I'll tell you more later.  But it's a date.  Don't leave
town."

    I said thanks and told her goodnight, and started for the front
door.  On my way, Ronnie said, "Hold on a minute."

    I turned at the door and she walked up to me.  She said sarcastic- 
ally, her arms still folded in front of her, "You know, you have a 
very short memory since this afternoon.  Is there something you might 
have forgot?"

    I blushed.  I said, "Ronnie..." and I stopped, not knowing what 
else to say.  I gave her a lingering kiss on the cheek.

    She still stood with her arms folded in front of her.  She made a 
mock, mean face and frown, and wagged her finger at me.  She said, "Do 
you know how lucky you are?"

    "I think so."

    She kept her eyes on mine for a second, then she grabbed me by the 
shoulders and she hugged me, hugged tight, growling playfully, and 
holding me she swayed me back and forth gently.  "Why is it so hard 
for you to do this when you have your clothes on?"

    "I don't know," I said.  And I didn't.

    "Don't you know Martha and I are family?"

    I hugged her back.  "I'm getting used to knowing that."

    She pulled back from me and said, "Your beef stew was fantastic."
She let me out the door and closed it.

    I walked upstairs to Martha's.  She was at the dining room table,
working again.  When I came in, she told me Howard would be taking us
to dinner tomorrow night, so I shouldn't set up anything fancy for
Martha after work.

    After she told me, I stood near the dining room table watching 
her.  I kept hearing Ronnie say to tell Martha I loved her.  I wanted 
to.  I felt I would mean it.  But the old terror still paralyzed me. 
She mustn't know that I wanted her forever.  She mustn't know that I 
loved her in that way, and I couldn't dare lie to her and make that 
statement lightly, meaning a different kind of love altogether.  And 
that could make her life and mine tense and complicated for the few 
days that remained with her in New York.  It would mean her either 
holding back her own life for my sake, or leaving me behind.  I was 
stuck, as the saying goes, between a rock and a very hard place.

    Of course, those were my conflicting explanations.  I didn't
yet know how deeply lay the real reasons.

    Martha looked up.  "Something wrong?"

    "No.  I was thinking, we ought to get to sleep."

    "Mm.  Yes.  I guess you're right."

    As we were preparing for bed, Martha took her pajamas into the 
bathroom.  The tops and the bottoms.  I knew that meant her period had 
started.  She came back to the bedroom wearing her full pajamas.  She 
stood at her little dressing table.  It was a cute little thing, but 
small and rickety, inexpensive, and she was always having trouble with 
the drawers.

    She jiggled one of the drawers, swearing, "Damn it," and I stopped
to help her.

    I said, "Here, it has to go in perfectly straight.  See?"

    "Yes, all right.  I hate this thing.  It'll do for now, I guess." 
She stood in front of the mirror, combing out her hair.  "That, and a 
winter coat.  I don't have a coat this winter.  I'll have to do some- 
thing soon, though, but lord knows what.  The coat I have, I had in 
Memphis.  Now the cuffs are frayed, the collar has a stain on it...it 
gets cold up here.  There's nothing worse than having an old, worn-out 
coat in New York in January."

    I looked at her.  I said, "Martha."

    "What, hon?"

    I stood there.  Damn it.  I couldn't open my mouth.

    She glanced at me, her brush slowing in her hair.  "What?"

    I walked to her and put my arms around her.  I put my lips on her 
cheek, I held them there, didn't want my lips to leave that smooth 
cheek, but I let them slide to her neck and kissed her there, and I 
held her.

    She whispered, "Hon?  You know, it's that time of the month."

    I said, "No, this is just...Just to say...it's just for you,
that's all."

    She gave a soft laugh and hugged me back.  She kissed my cheek.
She whispered, "I love you, Steven."

    I hugged her hard, my eyes getting hot.

    She said, "Oh.  Hon!  I can tell you're still working out at
Fiore's."

    I loosened up, not realizing I held her so tightly.  "Sorry."

    She said, "No, it was sweet.  But I'm a little sore up here.  I
guess I started a day early."




    I had been lying on my side, facing her, nearly asleep, when I 
felt her hand on my hip.  I opened my eyes and found her lying beside 
me, looking at me.

    She whispered.  "That was a nice hug."

    I smiled.

    She said, "Did you want me to make you cum?"

    I shook my head no.  "That's okay."

    "My, my.  Another unexpected event.  You've been surprising me
since I came home tonight."

    "Just doing my learning assignments."

    She grinned.  She said, "Are you sure?  It's been a couple of days 
for you."

    "I'll be okay."

    "Well...but what if I'm feeling very wicked, and I want you to 
feel wicked with me?  I can still feel wicked, you know.  Even when 
I'm...in the shop."

    I started to giggle.  "In the shop?"

    She grinned and blushed.  Then she laughed, blushing again.

    I asked, "That's what you call it?"

    "Yes."  She settled down, both of us smiling at her joke, and her 
hand slipped from my hip and onto my cock.  She held my tip with two 
fingers.  She glanced at my cock and said, "I'm feeling so nasty.  The 
beef stew did it.  What did you put in it?"

    "Beef."

    She chuckled, and looked at me.  "Sit up for me.  I know you like
it better sitting up."

    She sucked me as only she could, sucked me as neither Anita nor
anyone could, making me hysterical with pleasure.  Just as I started
cumming she began sucking with rapid, shallow, noisy mini-sucks, and
with the first big squirt she took me in deep, letting the copious
flow hurl against her palate and then swallowing all of it.  And while
I came I thought: Ahhh, there!  There, Anita.  You can't be Martha.
You could never be Martha.

    Later I lay cuddling next to her while she fell asleep.  I looked
down at her face, at her delicate mouth slightly parted in sleep, and
I remembered the feel of her inner lips caressing my tip in the way
that only her lips could.  And I thought: Martha, what the fuck am I
going to do without you?




                                PART 16D:


    It was very early Thursday morning and a woman on the airplane who 
sat next to me and looked like my mother was smiling at me and asking, 
"You're going back?"   I smiled at her politely and said "Yes."  She 
said, "Oh, you'll love it in Memphis," and I smiled politely and shook 
my head and said, "No, New York."   She said "But we're going to Mem- 
phis."  I said "No.  New York."  I rested my head against the padded 
headrest.  I closed my eyes, and it was just as it was when I was on 
the plane to New York, weeks before when I left Memphis.  I opened my 
eyes and looked past the lady, who was also looking out the window, 
and through the window I saw the airplane wing that I'd looked at all 
the way from Memphis to New York.  I realized that the lady sitting 
beside me was not the lady who sat beside me when I left Memphis for 
New York.  I said to myself I thought I was sitting beside the window 
when I got on this plane to New York.  How did that passenger who 
looked like my mother switch seats with me?  Suddenly a voice in my 
head said This airplane is going to Memphis and I said No New York and 
the voice said Not New York, Everyone in New York is Gone.  And 
quickly I looked for a piece of paper in my pocket, a small slip of 
paper like one of those white half sheets of paper that come with 
stationery, the piece of paper with something Martha had written on 
it, and the paper was gone.  My mouth dropped open as a terror went 
through me, and I realized I could never get the piece of paper back.

    When I opened my eyes I was sitting up in Martha's bed.  Martha 
slept beside me, unmoving.  I was not panting or trembling, but I felt 
creepy.  There was a loud rush of blood in my brain.  My heart was not 
beating fast; but my pulse in my chest was like a hard thud.

    I lay back.  But after a few minutes I knew I wouldn't fall asleep 
again.  I got out of bed and saw the clock on Martha's night table as 
I walked from the room.  2:48 a.m.  I took a cold glass bottle of milk 
from the refrigerator and drank from it, and held the bottle against 
my forehead.  I stood in the archway between the kitchen and the 
dining and living room.  I looked at the calendar on the wall behind 
the dining table.

    Seventeen days remaining.

    I crept into the bedroom and lay down again for several minutes, 
still unable to sleep.  Cautiously I dug my workout clothes from the 
chest in Martha's bedroom.  Martha never stirred.  I went into the 
living room to dress, then I went downstairs and stood on the front 
steps of the building.  The streets were lifeless.

    Walking down the block to Second Avenue, I looked around.  What 
had been so new was now familiar, unsurprising, fully assimilated into 
my feeling and thinking: the smell of concrete and iron, of asphalt 
and gasoline, and the odd odor like old peanuts.  A single taxi 
cruised toward me on Second Avenue at a few miles per hour, thumping 
over potholes, lumbering past me and heading downtown, wobbling as it 
crossed the path of the trolley tracks the city no longer used. 
Looking beyond the taxi I saw the Empire State building far down- 
town, forty blocks away, looking like a massive ghost in the hazy 
night.  What I had been told about New York sleeping only between 
three and four in the morning was apparently true; the city seemed 
deserted.  I wanted to start a run but thought better of it, having 
heard too many stories about midnight muggings on empty streets.  I 
saw an all-night deli open near 86th Street and walked there and 
bought a pack of cigarettes and a coffee.  Then I went back to 
Martha's apartment.

    Now I wished I'd borrowed one of Ronnie's astrology books.  I 
wanted answers.  Answers.  What I did find was my copy of the previous 
Sunday's Times.  I retrieved it from the shelf under the coffee table 
and began paging through it randomly by the light of a small table 
lamp.  I kept thinking: Memphis Martha Ronnie Memphis Martha Ronnie 
Memphis Memphis Memphis.

    I turned on Martha's radio at very low volume and sat on the floor 
with my head near the speaker.  An announcer was introducing the sub- 
ject of a discussion program.  The Defense Department discovered signs 
of testing by the Soviet Union on the R7 Semiorka rocket, suspected to 
be undergoing flight tests in Kazachstan.  It would be the first suc- 
cessful nuclear ICBM, able to bomb targets anywhere in the United 
States.  The Eisenhower administration reported that the massive 
multi-stage rocket could be capable of launching the first space 
satellites, and might even be capable of traveling to the moon before 
the United States could develop similar craft.

    Wonderful news.  Nuclear holocaust.  Life was being shortened at 
every turn.  Governments spent trillions learning to blow continents 
to pieces.  But no one was spending a dime to keep me from Memphis.

    At a quarter to five, Martha appeared in the living room doorway.
"You're up?" she mumbled, her eyes not quite open.

    I said, "Go back to bed."  I got up and led her by the shoulders 
into the bed, where she plopped down on her face.  I kissed her and 
she smiled and blew me a smooch and snuggled into her pillow.  I 
waited for her to settle, my face next to hers.  My nose imbibed the 
sugar and nut fragrance of her hair, and the nighttime sweat of her 
that smelled of earth and plants and herbs instead of sour sweat.  And 
I wished I could hold her tight without waking her.

    Within a few moments traffic began to stir outside, doors slammed, 
cars started, trucks pounded along the streets.  All of Manhattan 
seemed to wake up at once.

    I went outside again, where the sky quickly grew light but over- 
cast.  I jogged into the gray, into the dull thick green of summer in 
Central Park.  The August humidity mounted quickly, and the mist along 
the clearings in the park seemed more like thin steam.  When my 
breathing faltered I slowed to a walk until it returned, then I took 
up the jog again.  I stayed on the main roads, the reservoir and other 
areas seeming too deserted.  Then I ran all the way back to Martha's, 
and I felt it was still not good enough.  The anxious pressure in my 
chest was still there.

    Martha was sitting at her dressing table, almost fully dressed and 
putting on makeup.  I hurried in and bent down and kissed her.

    She pulled my arm.  "Hey, you're out of breath.  You've been
running forever."

    "Yeah.  I have to fix your coffee."

    "C'mere.  Kiss me first."

    I gave her a smooch on the lips and she pulled me down for a hug.
"Don't," I said, but it was too late.  I dripped sweat on her blouse.

    She said, "Oops, you're all sweaty.  Isn't it too hot for all that
exercise?"

    "No," I said.  I stripped to my shorts and went to the kitchen and 
plugged in the percolator.  While the coffee was brewing I took a 
shower in the kitchen stall.  As I stepped out and dried with a towel, 
Martha was stirring her coffee in the dining room and taking a sip.

    She said, "Damn, I have such a headache."

    "Don't you ever take time off?"

    "I took a day for the beach, remember?  And I get the second half
of next week off."

    "Yeah, but what if you're sick?"

    She quickly swallowed, leaning on the table to step into her high 
heels.  "Being in the shop isn't sick, Steven."  She had one shoe on, 
and she picked up the coffee cup and upended it, gulping the rest.  
She got her foot into the second shoe, saying, "That coffee is so 
good."  She walked to her briefcase near the front door in the living 
room.  Picking up her briefcase, she asked, "What were you doing up so 
early?"

    "I couldn't sleep."

    "Is something wrong?"

    I walked to her, saying, "Well, I'll tell you what was wrong."  I
secured the towel around my waist and said, "I was waiting to give you
a kiss on your way to work."  I held her shoulders and kissed her on
the cheek.

    She smiled, but she was obviously skeptical.  "I wish I knew what 
was up with you."  She opened the door and said on the way out, "Don't 
forget, we have dinner with Howard and his friends tonight."

    "Yes."  The door closed.  Yes, I thought, Howard and his friends. 
I walked into the kitchen, re-tightening the towel around my waist.  I 
poured a coffee and doctored it and sat at the dining room table.  The 
long night was starting to get to me.  Most of the details of my dream 
were fading.  I recalled looking for a piece of paper from Martha. 
What could that symbolize?  I recalled no such note from her, ever.

    A few minutes later there was a soft knock on the front door.  I
walked to the door, tightening the towel around me again, and asked,
"Ronnie?"

    "Yes."

    I opened the door, and stood aside.  I asked, "Coffee?  Milk?
Sugar?  Half 'n Half?"

    "No."  She entered wordlessly, her hair and the edges of her
bathrobe fluffing in the breeze as she passed and headed for the
bathroom.  "'Scuse me."

    I said, "Aspirin?  Q-tips?  Cotton balls?"

    She muttered, looking inside the small cabinet under the bathroom 
sink, "None of the above.  Oh, god.  Where does Martha keep 'em?  Why 
do people insist on keeping things where they belong?"

    "What are you looking for?"

    "I told you.  None of the above.  Oh.  Thank god, here they are." 
She closed the door to the undersink cabinet and stood up, holding 
something packaged in blue paper.  "What a day to end up in the shop."

    I shook my head in wonder as Ronnie came into the living room. 
"That's what you call it?  In the shop?"

    "Sure.  That's what my mother called it."  Ronnie stood in front 
of me.  "Why?"

    "That's what Martha calls it."

    "Yeah.  She got that from me.  She's too embarrassed to use words 
like 'menstruation.'  It's too hard to say anyway.  It's a guy word.  
I know it is.  It's an ugly, stupid word.  It's like 'testicles'.  I 
bet the same guy thought up both words."  She sniffed.  "Coffee."

    "You want coffee?"

    She looked at me through the tangle of black hair over her eyes, 
then at the sanitary pad in her hand, then she put the pad in her robe 
pocket.  "Sorry.  Yes.  That smells so good."

    I walked into the kitchen and got a cup from the cabinet.  I said, 
"What do you want in it?"

    "Half n' half and a sugar.  And excuse me, let me go to Martha's 
bathroom."

    She went into the bathroom.  When she returned a couple of minutes 
later, I had her coffee waiting on the dining room table.

    She stood by the table and lifted the coffee, tasting it and 
brushing hair from her face.  She closed her eyes.  "Oh, god.  Why 
doesn't mine taste like this?"

    "I don't know.  What do you use to measure the coffee and water?"

    She took another sip and swallowed.  "Measure?"

    "That's why," I said.  I stood up, clasping the towel around my
waist.  "I better get my clothes on."

    "No, no.  No need for that," she said as I went into the living 
room.  "I'm leaving anyway."  She took the cup with her and headed for 
the front door.  "I'll bring the cup back, but I have to get to work. 
But listen..."  She looked at me.  "Is this what Martha wakes up to 
every morning?"

    "Well, more or less.  Usually less."

    "Okay, listen..." She took another sip.  "Gimme about four or five 
days, okay?  Early next week, or before you leave New York.  Wake up 
in the morning, looking just like that, with the towel, just like 
that.  And come down to my place --"  She grinned and blushed, her 
hand on the doorknob.

    I said, "Yeah, right."

    "Before you leave New York?  Bet Martha won't mind.  Really."

    "Right.  Before I leave New York."

    She mumbled, opening the door.  "He doesn't think I'm serious."
She went into the hall, peering at me through the crack in the door.
"God, if I weren't in the shop right now..."  She closed the door.

    I might have been amused.  But I kept hearing Ronnie's words, 
"Before you leave New York."  I locked the door behind Ronnie and went 
into the bedroom and lay down.  I tried to get some sleep before my 
appointment with Fiore.  I'd doze for ten minutes at a time and then 
wake up again.  Damn that coffee.

    Finally I set Martha's alarm clock for a one-hour nap ending at 
nine fifteen a.m., which would get me to Fiore's on time.  I finally 
drifted off, hearing "Before you leave New York Before you leave New 
York."

    Instead of taking a taxi or subway the forty blocks to Fiore's, I 
jogged and walked.  I was still posing a few days a week and earning 
extra money.  But it wasn't enough for what I wanted to do in seven- 
teen days.  I arrived at Fiore's a few minutes early and found him in 
his office.  I asked him if I could get into a class with heavier 
workouts.

    He said, "More?  You want more?"  He chuckled, looking me over
with that manic grin.  "Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday?  Or Monday,
Wednesday, Friday?"

    "Tuesday, Thursday, Sat --"

    "Good!  Then do this.  No coffee, no tea, eat a big breakfast two
hours before class!  You can do this?"

    "No coffee?"

    "Coffee, poison!  Tea, poison!"

    "Okay, okay."

    Fiore walked around me, checking me out again, his hands on his 
hips.  "This class uses weights.  But you are not to perform the 
squats.  Listen to me!  No squats!  You are overdeveloping your upper 
legs!"

    "All right."

    "See my friend Julio.  The class begins at ten!  You will not be
able to walk home today, my friend."

    Fiore was very nearly correct.  The class worked around calisthen- 
ics with weights, most of which I couldn't handle yet.  By the time it 
was over I was a sweating, heaving heap on the floor of the gym.  The 
instructor, a brawny, good looking, slick-haired Hispanic guy in his 
twenties, stood looking down at me.

    He asked, concerned, "Hey.  You sure you can handle this class?"

    I panted, "I have to."

    "Don't work so hard, then.  If a weight's too heavy for you, use 
something lighter until you build up.  Use just enough weight to allow 
you to perform the movement perfectly.  Trying too hard with too much 
weight will not build mass.  Go lighter, if you have to."

    Use something lighter, he said.  The words gnawed at me as I pain- 
fully made my way back to Martha's.  It seemed I was forever behind 
everyone else.  Perhaps a fitful sleep affected my performance.  I 
took a brief nap at Martha's and got dressed to meet Ronnie for lunch.

    At lunch Ronnie said across our table, "What happened to you?
You look like you have a hangover or something."

    "Memphis got to me," I said.  I pushed away the cup of tea I'd
ordered.  "I don't know why I ordered this.  No more tea.  I can't
drink coffee or tea."

    "For godssake.  Why are you so hard on yourself?"

    I gazed out the window, two tables away.  I didn't have an answer 
for that one.  All I knew was that I had to do more, be more.  I had 
seventeen days, and one of the days was half gone.

    Ronnie said, "Hey, I have the whole week off next week, and Martha 
has Wednesday through Friday.  I hope you don't wear yourself so thin 
that you walk around looking like that all week.  I was hoping I could 
show you some more of New York, but I don't know if I can handle a 
cripple."

    During my posing assignment that day I was drowsy and clumsy.  The 
artist was a frowsy middle-aged woman who was good natured about it 
and made several jokes about my partying too much.  None of it struck 
me as either humorous or comforting.  I went home late in the after- 
noon, lying in bed in a stupor for more than an hour before Martha was 
due home.  I took another shower.  That revived me slightly.

    Later, as Martha walked with me to an Italian restaurant on Lex-
ington Avenue in the East 50's she looked me over.  "Are you sure you
want to do this?  You're just dragging along behind me."

    "I'll be okay."

    Surprisingly, I did well.  I went easy on the Italian food, order-
ing a light salad instead of heavy meat or pasta.  And there were some
older friends of Howard's there with whom I struck a lively conversa-
tion about my huge Italian family back home.  I had them laughing out
loud with some of my stories.

    Martha told me during the evening, "Looks as if you're at your
best under pressure, cowboy."

    She seemed quite pleased with my lively behavior that night.  But 
I was, in fact, very nearly in a disoriented fog.  I watched Martha 
being the adult that she was, poised and charming, laughing with 
Howard and speaking with him almost intimately, and enchanting the 
five other people who were at our table.  I envied Howard's way with 
her; easy and confidential, often affectionate, and it was readily 
apparent that they were close friends.  Somehow my familiarity and 
easy communication with Ronnie didn't occur to me; I saw only that the 
way Martha behaved with Howard and the other adults was lighter, less 
fraught with concern than when she was with me.

    Howard joked with me at one point, "Hey, Steven, can't I talk you
into letting me borrow Martha for just one evening, tomorrow night?"

    I said, feeling somewhat entrapped, "I guess I could fend for
myself for one night.  I'm too old for a baby sitter."

    I was aiming for a little light humor, but Martha's quick, hard
glance at me told me it wasn't the right thing to say.

    Howard said, "How about it, Martha?  Steven's willing to let you 
out of his sight for a few minutes.  It's been months since you came 
out for a visit.  Laura would love to see you, too."

    Martha said hesitantly, "Howard, it takes so long to get to
Queens.  I couldn't stay very late, Steven would have to wait up half
the night for me to get back."

    "Ah, c'mon.  I'll get you home early.  Queens isn't that far, I
make the trip every day."

    Martha hesitated, saying she had to work until five at Columbia, 
and Howard offered, "Tell you what, I'll be at Columbia tomorrow 
afternoon, we can meet and stop for a bite up there somewhere tomorrow 
after work.  And we can set up a visit with me and Laura for later. 
Next week, maybe.  You'll have that break next week, won't you?"

    Martha conceded that it would be nice to see Howard's three-year- 
old daughter Laura.  But she eyed me warily when she set up the date 
to meet Howard after work Friday and take the train with him to Queens 
to have dinner with another couple in Kew Gardens.  And I sat feeling 
like an idiot for having given Howard the chance to wheedle two dates 
out of Martha.

    We left the restaurant shortly after nine o'clock and walked back 
toward Martha's, up Third Avenue.

    Martha said, a little miffed, "What was that crack about a baby
sitter?"

    "Oh, I was just trying to be good humored.  It was just something
to say."

    "Is that what you think I've been doing for the past few weeks?"

    "Of course not."

    "Well..."  She walked along fuming mildly for a moment.  "I hope
you didn't mean it that way."

    "I didn't."  I wondered if I did, though.

    "I'll see if Ronnie can go with you to meet Becky."

    "Ronnie has a date."

    "Oh, that's right!"  She sighed irritably.  She glanced at me,
frowning.  "Did you do this with Howard just so you could get out of
meeting Becky?"

    "Of course not."

    "Well...maybe we can postpone Becky, then.  Otherwise, I don't
know how we can work this out."

    "I'll meet her by myself."

    We stopped at a corner for a red light, and she looked at me 
suspiciously.  "You don't know what Becky looks like."

    I insisted, "Look, tell me all about her and I'll meet her."

    She smirked. "Getting a little sure of yourself, aren't you?"

    "Maybe," I said, looking ahead.

    "Yes.  Maybe you are."  She looked ahead and sighed again, and 
began, "Well, maybe it's time you --"  She stopped, looking aimlessly 
into the street.

    I asked, "Maybe it's time I what?"

    "Oh, nothing.  Here's the light."

    We started across the street.  I said, "Maybe it's time I did
what?"

    "Maybe it's time you did start acting on your own a little more.
You've learned a few things, and you handled yourself quite well
tonight.  So maybe it is time."  She didn't sound happy about it.

    She stopped at a drug store and looked inside, through the window. 
She turned to me and said, "And how about Jessica?  You're still going 
out with her Saturday?"

    "That's the deal," I said, wondering what she was getting at.

    "Well, since you're developing all these friends out there, on 
your own, and doing that well...Come on inside with me, I have to get 
a few things."

    I followed her around the drug store while she picked out a few 
cosmetics and toiletries.  Then she said, "Wait up front, hon, I'll 
get these checked out and we'll go home."

    She headed for the prescription counter in the rear of the store, 
and I waited outside on the street.  There was a record shop next 
door, the outdoor speaker blaring Jerry Lee Lewis' "Whole Lotta 
Shakin' Goin' On."  I knew about Jerry Lee.  I could see the little 
Sun Record building on poplar Avenue in Memphis.  Memphis again.  I 
just couldn't get away from Memphis.

    She came outside after a few minutes and as we started walking
again she handed me a small, brown paper sack folded around a small,
hard package inside it.

    "Here," she said, "I don't know if you have any of these, but...
you may as well learn to be prepared."

    "What is it?"

    "Just put them in your pocket and wait 'til we get home."

    I put the package into my coat pocket.  When we arrived home we 
were both undressing in the bedroom when I took the package out of my 
coat pocket and opened the paper sack.  Inside was a package of three 
Trojans.

    I asked her, "What are these?"

    "You know what they are."  She reached to the side of her skirt to
undo the zipper.  "I know I'm contributing to the delinquency of a
minor, legally.  As if I hadn't contributed already."

    "What do I need these for?"

    She said frankly, on her way to the bathroom, "I know you don't 
like them.  I don't, either.  But...I don't want you losing your 
head.  I don't know what happened with Anita, but I know Jessica.  And 
I want you to take better care of yourself this time."

    I finished undressing, heatedly mulling over the possible implica-
tions of what she was saying.  Helping me learn to be a more sociable
person was one thing, but apparently she remained bent on hitching me
up with every nubile young thing in town.  Prepping me for those times
when she wouldn't be around?  Prepping me for the when she wouldn't be
around, period?

    I lay in bed nude, as usual.  She returned from the bathroom, un- 
smiling, her makeup removed, muttering, "Oh, this headache.  I hate 
this every month."  She removed her slip and undid the garter hooks 
and lifted one leg at a time onto the bed to remove her hose.  There 
was little that could be as erotic as Martha undressing, even when she 
was in a bad mood.

    I asked sullenly, "You don't think I run around New York all day
looking to get laid, do you?"

    "I don't know, Steven.  I won't pry into your sex life, any more 
than you'd pry into mine.  But you're not nearly as shy as you were 
when you came here, and you are learning to make contacts.  You've 
never done that before.  Not that I know about, anyway.  And girls in 
New York are more sophisticated about this than those little cheer- 
leaders in Memphis are."  She pulled her slip overhead and reached 
into her dresser drawer for her pajamas.  She said on the way to the 
bathroom again, "I just want you to learn to be careful."

    "So what do you expect to happen?"

    "I don't know," she said, pausing at the bedroom door to glance at
me.  "I didn't expect Anita to happen, either."

    A few minutes later she returned in her pajamas, still unsmiling 
and looking cranky.  She turned out the light and got into bed, on her 
side facing me.

    She said, "Think you'll get to sleep tonight?"

    I said petulantly, "I guess."

    "Well...want me to help you get to sleep?"

    I said firmly, "Not like this."

    For a moment she didn't say anything.  She turned onto her back 
and closed her eyes, and seemed to be thinking.  She said, "I'm 
sorry.  I'm...I'm in the shop, and I hate being in the shop and I know 
I'm unbearable.  I -- "  She stopped again, and she put one arm over 
her forehead and sighed.  She said, "And you're growing up.  You're 
growing up and you're starting to look and act like a young man, and 
young girls want you.  I think I'm jealous."

    I was flabbergasted by that remark.  I started to say "Holy shit,"
but I kept it to myself, saying nothing, trying to think of something
else to say in reply.

    But she went on, rising onto an elbow and looking down at me. 
"You're used to Ronnie and me.  Everything's not going to be like 
that, hon.  Nothing may ever be like that again.  Sometimes I'm so 
terribly afraid that when you get back home and I'm not around, you'll 
hate me for what's happened.  And you'll fall in love, the way you did 
with Anita.  You'll go out there looking for your life, and you'll 
find it.  And you should look, and you should find it for yourself. 
And I may as well face it: I'll miss you, but until that happens, I 
have my own selfishness to contend with, my own need to have you all 
grown up, grown up more than you should be, because I can't leave you 
to the wolves in Memphis, I can't just -- I don't know what else to 
do.  I don't know what --"  She stopped, swallowing hard, and she lay 
on her back again, and she put one hand over her eyes.  "Oh, I just 
don't know what will happen.  I just -- you don't need any more hurt. 
I don't, Ronnie doesn't.  I wish I could --"  She rubbed her forehead, 
wincing. "Oh...I don't know, I don't know."

    I sat up, leaning over her.  Her torso swelled with a loud sigh.
I gathered her to me, sitting up against the headboard, cradling her
to my chest.  She snuggled against me.

    She whispered, "I'm sorry.  I'm rambling.  Fussing."

    "No," I said, stroking her hair.  I held her for a long while, not 
knowing what the hell to do or say.  She sighed again and hugged me, 
her face tight against my chest and her arms around my waist.  She 
rested calmly against me.

    After a moment I kissed her forehead and caressed her back.  I
whispered, "Hey, when you go into the shop, you don't fool around."

    She laughed softly, "Oh, it's a great excuse.  It's a curse, but
it's a great excuse for just about everything."

    I continued holding her, half sitting against the headboard and 
caressing her, leaning my head back and feeling tired but not wanting 
to fall asleep until she was completely rested.

    She said sleepily, not moving, "Are you sure it's okay?  You'll 
stop worrying about Memphis and get to sleep?"

    I said, "Shh.  I will if you will," and she gave an embarrassed 
chuckle and squeezed my hand.  I said, "We'll have plenty of time to 
worry about that later."

    "Oh, I wish we did, sweetheart.  I wish we had all the time we
wanted."

    Oh, I thought, and so do I!  I kept asking: Now?  Is now the time? 
Tell her now?  God knows she was worried enough as it was.  And I was 
a big liar, feigning composure so she could get to sleep.

    A couple of minutes passed and Martha didn't move, but I knew she
wasn't asleep.  I could feel her eyelashes flick against my chest now
and then.  But after several minutes more she was dead weight on me,
breathing easily.

    Inch by inch I let her slip from me, onto her side, and she 
stirred a little but remained asleep as I let her go.  I lay in bed 
trying to go to sleep.  I couldn't.  I got up and went into the living 
room and knelt by the window and looked out over the street.

    God, what a week!  What a goddamn week!  Anita becoming a lusty 
whirlwind instead of a movie princess.  Anita leaving.  Ronnie eroding 
my defenses, eating her way into my heart.  Martha worried sick about 
hurting me.  The market for my posing services starting to dry up, 
Ronnie running out of names.  Memphis still ahead.  An unknown Becky 
around the corner, a known but not too promising Jessica on the next 
corner.  And Howard waiting in the wings.

    And it was only Thursday!

    Somehow everything seemed to devolve onto me.  I showed up in New 
York helpless as a lamb, looking to others for all the answers.  Now 
everyone, myself included, seemed lost and unfocussed, or on the verge 
of slipping into something unknown.  I wondered if trying to become 
more, do more, feel more, was just asking for more trouble.  I sat up 
late into the night, trying to sort it out.  It seemed, from Martha 
and Ronnie and the others I'd met, that growing up didn't solve any 
more problems than being fifteen did.




                                PART 16E:


    Friday.

    Martha woke with a start at a quarter to seven.  "Damn!  The alarm
didn't go off!"  She ran into the bathroom.

    I shook my head and rubbed my eyes.  It occurred to me that I had
not changed Martha's alarm back to its regular wake-up time after
setting the alarm for Fiore's appointment the day before.  Crap!  As
if I hadn't already disrupted Martha's existence!

    I ran into the kitchen and got the coffee started and made toast.
In the bathroom, Martha was on the rampage, dropping bottles and jars,
swearing like a sailor.  She rushed into the kitchen, shedding parts
of her pajamas along the way, and jumped into the shower.  As soon as
the water started she gave a loud yelp, and jumped out of the stall,
wet and shivering.  "Uhh!  There's no hot water!  Dammit!"

    I rushed to her with a towel.  Her eyes were burning with rage. 
She grabbed the towel from me.  "I *hate* this place!  A dozen times a 
year, there's no hot water!"  She stomped toward the bedroom, mutter- 
ing angrily, "Oh, I don't have time anyway..."  While I gathered her 
pajamas off the floor I heard her saying from the bedroom, "I can't 
believe I'm going to work like this!  In the *shop*!"

    I stepped into the shower and turned on the hot tap.  After a few
seconds it became a little warmer, though not hot.

    I called into the bedroom.  "Martha?  The water warmed up."

    "It was freezing."

    I walked to the bedroom door and said patiently, "Listen, if
you'll just try it.  It's warmed up a little."

    She looked at me, glaring, putting her bra on.  "Oh, it's too
late."

    "Come on, you can't meet Howard like this tonight.  Hurry before
the warm water's used up."

    "Oh, all right."  She stomped into the kitchen and stuck her hand
inside the shower.  "Well...at least it's not like ice."

    She had her shower and dressed quickly in the bedroom, then she
came into the dining room and drank her coffee and chewed toast while
she took care of the rest of her buttons.  Hurriedly she told me where
to meet Becky and what she looked like.  She said she'd give Becky a
call and let her know that I'd be there to meet her alone.  Finally
she shoved her feet into her heels and grabbed her briefcase by the
door, then she rushed over to me.

    "Thank you for helping, hon.  I've been such a bitch."  She gave
me a quick kiss and headed for the door.  "I won't be too late to-
night.  And you'll be a hit with Becky.  Okay?"

    "Okay."

    She blew me another kiss and was gone.

    I stood in a bath towel in the middle of the living room, think- 
ing: Ahhh, what further pleasantries awaited me the rest of the 
week?  I lazed around the place for a while, waiting to see if Ronnie 
would show up again.  I reset Martha's alarm clock, muttering to 
myself, "Okay, Einstein, let's see what else you can screw up today."

    There would be no class with Fiore until Saturday, so I had a 
long, leisurely run in Central Park.  It left me exhausted and indo- 
lent.  I returned to Martha's and tried to sleep again, but couldn't. 
I kept thinking about Howard, and how Martha behaved with him.  Had 
she slept with Howard?  Perhaps I was too tired and had too many 
concerns to agonize about it.  Anyway, nothing would happen between 
Martha and Howard while Martha was in the shop.  Meantime, I spent 
most of the day frittering, accomplishing nothing more than giving the 
big kitchen window fan the thorough cleaning it desperately needed.

    I was due to meet Becky near East 28th Street at six o'clock.  I
wondered what terrors awaited me there.  I cleaned up and dressed in a
nice coat and walked down Madison Avenue, window shopping all the way
to 28th  Street, about sixty blocks south.  The walk burned up the
entire afternoon.  I found an astrological book store and browsed
around, but realized that I didn't have the money to spare to buy any
books.  I continued strolling, all the way downtown, taking my coat
off to relieve the August heat.  The Manhattan rush hour roared all
around me, but I seemed to wander, hearing none of it.

    I couldn't believe it: I was in New York City, and I was bored!




    Friday, 5:50 P.M.

    I made my way to the small park on the corner of 27th Street and
Broadway, where there was a sign on the street for the uptown Sixth
Avenue bus.  Becky was only two minutes late.

    The problem with Becky was this: she was sixteen, lively and short 
and playful and blonde, cute as a bug, sweet as candy, funny as hell, 
and a first-class little sex pot.  Where in the world did Martha find 
these young women?  With some reservations about Jessica, there was no 
question about Martha's judgement and taste in girls.  Within fifteen 
minutes she had me so horny I was beside myself.

    Becky lived and attended school in the Chelsea area and she led me 
all over the neighborhood.  She was full of truly funny one-line jokes 
that she had heard by being a fan of Henny Youngman.  Her interest was 
journalism.  At first I felt this would leave us with little to talk 
about, but I managed to get her talking about her field.

    The other problem with Becky was that she was a lightning-fast,
nonstop conversationalist.  I had problems keeping with up her; and
that was not so bad, as it gave me time to sit staring enchanted into
her bright blue eyes, a blue that glowed like a blue traffic signal.

    I finally got up the nerve to ask her out for next Saturday night.

    She said, "Oh, I'd *love* to!  That would be great.  I never met
anybody from the South before, and I just love that slow Southern
accent.  It's so cute."

    I said, "Please don't say that."

    "Oh, but it's so soothing.  My brain goes so fast all the time,
and I listen to you and it just seems to relax.  You oughtta go into
radio."

    When we said goodbye, I watched her walking jauntily away, her 
blonde pony tail bouncing with each step and her hips swinging on her 
short, muscular legs.  When she was a block away she turned to cross 
the street, looking back at me with a big smile and a wave of her arm.

    Sweet kid.  Entertaining.  Fun.  She sent a visceral horniness
flowing to my balls.  But the comfy personal warmth I knew with Martha
and Ronnie, and even Anita, was missing entirely.

    By eight-thirty I returned to Martha's.  She wasn't home.  I 
brought a cup of tea and a pack of cigarettes with me to the front 
steps of the building.  I lit up and sat and waited.  I said aloud, 
as if Fiore were there watching me, "Yes, I know: exactly what I'm not 
supposed to be doing."  I finished the tea and brought the cup up-
stairs and went down to the steps again.  The damn cigarette smoke was 
sticking in my throat, so I threw them away.  I did a little pacing as 
time wore on.  At a quarter after nine I saw Martha turn the corner at 
Second Avenue and start walking toward me.

    When she was halfway down the block she waved at me.  I walked to
her, and when I joined her on the sidewalk she put her arm through
mine and gave me a kiss.

    "What are you doing out here?  Are you out here waiting for me?"

    "Yes."

    "Well, hon, if I'd known you were so worried..."

    I lied, "Naw, I was just bored."

    "Bored?  Becky didn't go well?"

    "I made a date with her for next Saturday."

    She grinned at me and gave me another kiss.  "See there?  Steven
strikes again.  Good work!  And you did it all by your little self.
So what do you think of her?"

    "I'll have to stay on my toes."

    "Why?"

    "Well...she talks so fast.  I mean, she's so mentally quick.  And
she had me kinda horny."

    She stopped dead in her tracks in front of her building and gaped
at me, pleasantly shocked.  "What did you just say?"

    I shrugged, blushing.  "Well, she did, she made me...you know."

    "I can't believe it, you actually said you were horny!"

    "Not really, I just --"

    "No.  I heard you, mister.  You admitted it."  She raised her eyes
to the sky and shook her head.  "Lord, all the work I've done for all
these years, and it takes little Becky one afternoon!"




    Friday, 9:45 P.M.

    I was sitting on Martha's living room sofa when she walked into 
the room and stooped to take a slim photo scrapbook out of the book- 
shelf against the wall her front door.  Then she walked toward the 
sofa, carrying the scrapbook and a loose news clipping.

    She said, "Howard cut this out of a school paper last year and 
saved it for me.  Wasn't that nice of him?"  She sat beside me on the 
sofa.  "I guess this little scrapbook is the only place I can keep it."

    I roused myself from staring out the nearby window in a
trance.  "What's the article?"

    She handed it to me.  "See?  Do I photograph well?'

    It was an article from a decently printed college newspaper that 
announced Martha as a new member of the Special Education Project.  
The article had been around for a while and was slightly yellowed. 
Above the headline was a small, formally posed portrait of Martha.  
She looked gorgeous, of course.  Those eyes seemed to leap off the 
page.

    She said, "Not earth shaking news, but it does have a decent
picture."

    I kept looking at it.  "Yes, it does.  You're beautiful."

    "No lies."

    I said again, "You're beautiful."

    She opened a small envelope of photo mounts that was stuck between 
the scrapbook pages.  "I had that picture taken at Columbia almost two 
years ago.  I don't know if you can tell, but I was in a bad mood.  
The photographer kept trying to ask me out.  He claimed he was in 
love."

    I gave a tired laugh.  "I'll bet plenty of guys have told you
that."  I handed her the article.

    She flipped to an empty page in the scrapbook, "Of course they 
have.  That's not what they mean, though.  What they mean is that they 
want me to open my legs."

    I said, mildly scornful, "That's pretty cynical."  I handed her 
the article.  "Couldn't they really love you both ways?"

    "Well, yes, if that's what they really meant.  But they don't mean 
they love me, they mean they want me."  She glued the last photo mount 
onto the page and tucked the article into all four corners.  "There. I 
don't get much publicity.  Hope this isn't printed on paper that just 
evaporates in a couple of years."

    I said, "I've never seen a picture of you."

    "Sure you did.  I showed you my picture in the Memphis State 
yearbook."  She glanced at me.  "You never saw these old pictures of 
me?"

    "No."

    She flipped back to the first page in the scrapbook.  "Wanna see? 
Wanna see how ugly I used to be?"

    "You were never ugly."

    She shook her head no and said with a sing-song, "The camera 
doesn't lie."  She skipped past the first three or four pages.  "These 
are just relatives, you wouldn't know about them.  Most of our family 
stuff is at my sister Evelyn's.  But look at this...Martha at two."

    I looked at the picture.  I scoffed, "You never looked like that."

    She laughed.  "Sure I did!  That's me in the flesh -- Well, in a 
big overcoat in 1936.  That's me under all that clothing."

    We looked at pictures and Martha reminisced and joked and laughed. 
The pictures of her father in uniform slowed her down for a moment, 
but as we browsed the scrapbook she seemed as relaxed and lighthearted 
as she did with Howard.

    "There's your mom and mine, in front of our building at the Laud- 
erdale Courts.  See those wide shoulders women wore during the war?  I 
think it must have been right after the war, because mother didn't own 
that dress until the war was over.  See, I'm in the background, there. 
That's me.  That foot!  That's my foot.  But here I am in the next 
picture, with both our moms.  Your mom had such a sweet face, I think 
it was her eyes.  And mother...she looked so haggard then.  But that's 
me.  I must have been twelve."

    I kidded her, "That can't be you, she's too fat."

    "No, not fat.  But I was a little chubby then, I was very muscular 
for a girl.  And, see, here's Evelyn on the same day, with mother. 
Evelyn was always pretty.  She must have been sixteen then.  Oh, look! 
This is you and your uncle Frank Ricci, your father's brother.  Evelyn 
took this picture.  It must have been right after the war, because 
he's still using that cane.  See?  That's you, age three."

    "My god."

    "But you were cute!"

    "Oh, nooo!"

    "Oh, stop.  And you didn't even know my name then, you used to 
call me Mahbah Jee.  I didn't know you well, either.  I was so busy at 
Christine School and taking care of mom.

    She turned the page.  In the upper left was a larger monochrome
photo, about 5x7.  It was a picture with Martha on the left, standing
beside me and holding my hand, and I stood beside her in a boy's suit.

    She said cheerily, "Look, you and me.  I think it's the only one I
have of us together.  Look at me in that hair, isn't that awful?  To
think I kept my hair like that."

    "It was curly," I said, already feeling something welling up
inside me,

    She said, "No, frizzy.  Very dry.  And darker then, too.  I'm 
almost a blonde now.  And look -- here's you.  Lord, you were so cute. 
That's the suit your Aunt Francis bought you for Easter at Oak Hall's 
in Memphis.  You look so sharp.  And look at those eyes, they just 
draw you right in.  You were eight years old, that was your eighth 
birthday.  And I was seventeen."

    The image ate right into me.  Martha.  Martha Jane at seventeen. 
That part was gone, gone forever.  The water welled up in my eyes and 
I had to turn my head.  I stood up, feeling a sob catch in my throat, 
and my nose ran, and I walked to the window, my back to Martha.

    "Hon, what's the matter?"

    I heard her clothes rustle as she stood up and walked to me.  I
had managed to halt the crying, point-blank.  But my eyes were loaded
with tears.

    She touched my back, and she looked over my shoulder.  "Why are
you so upset?"

    I was going to tell her, I was going to say it, it was going to
slip out.  But then I wiped my eyes with my fingers and found there
was too much water and my nose was running.  Quickly I jerked my
handkerchief out of my jeans pocket, the handkerchief still damp with
sweat that I wiped from my face earlier in the day.  With my palms I
held the handkerchief to my face, feeling everything calm down
quickly.

    She said, smiling, concerned, leaning closer to me, "I don't be-
lieve this, what's the matter?"

    I blew my nose into the hanky.  Thank god I had gained control.
I shook my head no.  I said, embarrassed and angry, "I'm too old for
this crap."  I thought about Howard.  Howard didn't blubber like an
infant, and neither would I.

    "Oh, nobody's ever too old to --"

    "No.  I'm not a sniveling little kid any more.  I won't be.  I
won't act that way."

    "All right, all right.  Don't be angry with yourself for feeling
something."

    I stepped away from her, not wanting to be babied.  "No.  I can't
act this way any more."

    She said, "Steven, being grown up doesn't mean not having
feelings."

    "No, but growing up means learning how to handle it."

    "Well, the cat's already out of the bag.  You don't want to tell
me what made you so upset?"

    I shook my head no, folding the handkerchief into smaller and
smaller squares.

    "Well, that's not very grown up."

    I turned to her and smiled but said insistently, "I wasn't upset."

    "Looked like it to me."

    "Look, I -- Just...I was remembering.  Y'know?"

    "Oh."  She lowered her head and smiled, walking to me.  "Yes.  I
know.  I was remembering, too."  She placed her hands on my shoulders
and I put my hands on her hands.

    I said, "Hey, you're a nice looking lady.  Wanna cuddle up and go
to sleep with me tonight?"

    "I'm in the shop."

    "But you can cuddle and sleep."

    "Yes.  That I can do."




    Friday.  11:00 PM, or thereabouts.

    I had dozed off in the dark bedroom for about ten minutes, maybe 
less, maybe more, when I felt Martha place a hand on my hair.  She 
slowly ran her palm down my neck, along my shoulder, and down my arm. 
Then I heard her fiddling with her pajamas, and the next thing I knew 
a bare breast and her warm torso were against my back.  I felt her 
lips on my shoulder blade.  They dallied for a second or two, and then 
she rested her head near mine on my pillow, and in less than a minute 
she was asleep again.

    End of the long, long week that began with Anita.  It seemed like
a year.  I didn't know whether I was any smarter, but I was older.
And closer to Memphis.


                              Continued. . .


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