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Message-ID: <43999asstr$1061284204@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Frank Downey" <fabfour.fan@verizon.net>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 18 Aug 2003 21:35:42 EDT
Subject: {ASSM} Dedication, by Frank Downey (MF rom flash 450 words)
Date: Tue, 19 Aug 2003 05:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

If you're under the legal age for smut in your community, begone. If such
things offend you, begone.

Copyright 2003 Frank Downey. All Rights Reserved.

DEDICATION
by Frank Downey
fabfour.fan@verizon.net


It had lasted for six months. It had ended six months ago. The former flew
by in a flash. The latter seemed to have stretched on for ten years.

We were both stubborn as bulls, and I had a temper. I don't even recall what
started  it. All I remember is ecstatic lovemaking--typical for us--leading,
somehow, to a screaming fight. Which lead to my abrupt, hasty, and--I
shouted--permanent exit. Like I said, stubborn with a temper.

I was miserable. I still loved  him. He was The One. I knew it then, and I
surely knew it now. I'd blown it, and I was too damn stubborn--and, I admit,
ashamed--to go fix it.

And I knew he wouldn't grovel, know when I had made the Grand Furious Exit.

So, six months after my ignominious exit, I was spending a Saturday night
the way I had spent many since him--driving around aimlessly, feeling sorry
for myself, listening to the radio. One of my favorite shows--one of his,
too--all eighties music from eight to midnight, every Saturday.

About 9:30, the DJ took a phone call. "Chris from Woburn, you're on the
air."

Chris from Woburn?

I recognized his voice at once. "Hi, Joe. I'd like to dedicate 'Missing
You', by John Waite, to Eileen, my true love."

I almost drove off the road. Oh God. Then I slammed the quickest U-turn in
the history of driving.

He knew I'd be listening. He knew I loved that song. He knew me as well as I
knew myself. Still.

I broke land speed records getting to his condo. When he opened the door,
he saw me, and got this devastatingly hopeful look on his face. "You heard
it?"

I didn't answer--not with words. I launched myself at him--kissing,
clutching, hugging, sobbing, wailing "I'm sorry!" in between kisses. Then I
was grabbing--at his clothes. I wanted them off.

His front door opened  into his living room. We made it all of five feet
inside--and never made it off the floor. It was the make-up fuck of all
time.

Afterwards, I asked him, "Why? Why now?"

He sighed. "Every day that went by, my wounded pride seemed less and less
important." He smiled. "I actually decided to do this a month ago. I haven't
been able to get through to the station until tonight."

"Why didn't you just call?" I giggled.

"I wasn't sure you wouldn't hang up on me."

I sighed. "I love you. Nothing was the same without you."

"I agree, and I love you, too."

"I hope you do," I grinned, "since you just told the Greater Boston
listening area!"

--The end--

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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