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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 10B
Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2006 14:19:04 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 10B
I lay on my side with Martha spooned behind me. Gazing out
the small window that overlooked East 87th Street, I
gradually returned to earth. I was startled at how quickly
and completely and mindlessly I had fucked and climaxed.
In trying to recall each detail of the past few moments, I
felt I'd lost all control and all awareness; I remembered
little of it.
Martha slid a hand down my arm and up again, as if learning
anew the textures her fingers found there.
She breathed, "I missed cumming like that."
"I'm surprised I remembered what to do," I whispered.
"I hate to say this, but...there's no rest for the
weary..."
"Oh, no. What next?"
"We have to grab a little snack. Some of that weird tea we
bought at the store should perk us up. Then I'll show you
where to put your clothes and things, and we'll dress and
meet Ronnie at the Stage Deli when she gets off work. We'd
better shower -- Ronnie has radar in her nose and can smell
sex a mile away."
Quickly we went about our chores, with Martha going over
the schedule for the weekend and the week ahead. She could
not get the entire week off; she had meetings Monday,
Tuesday and Thursday. But she would leave the office
early, by four o'clock. I'd be on my own those three days
until she returned. She told me about her neighbors in the
four-story building so that I'd know who they were and so
they wouldn't think I'd broken into the building if they
saw me in the stairway. Then there was a mind-boggling
series of details about her part of town and how to get
around the city. She gave me subway and bus maps, a
tourist guide, and a couple of magazines about New York.
She had tickets for "West Side Story" on Monday Night,
reservations for Ronnie and us on another night, tickets
for an off-Broadway play, tickets for a lecture at
Columbia...
"And I want to show you places where you can shop for
clothes," she told me as she readied towels and cosmetics
for her shower. "And I want to take you to the United
Nations, and to Columbia to meet some of the people I work
with, and the Museum of Modern Art, and Fire Island. The
Museum's a favorite hangout. And Fire Island...well,
that'll be very, very special. And then there's a beatnik
joint in the East Village..."
After she completed her toilet in the tiny bathroom, I
joined her in the cramped shower stall in the kitchen.
Under the thin warm spray we stood toe to toe, nipple to
nipple, with no room to spare. As if studying a lab
specimen, she quickly scanned the face and body she had not
seen in two years. She ran her fingers through my hair.
"You have yellow highlights," she mused. "It looks very
good on you. But while you're here I'll have to teach you
how to get the right kind of haircut. Whoever cuts your
hair in Memphis has no idea what they're doing." She
scowled at a mark on my lower cheek. "What's this scar?"
I told her it was a boil that had been lanced a few months
ago.
"Wonderful," she muttered dryly. "Any doctor who lances a
facial boil that way would be better off in a butcher shop.
Don't ever let anyone do that to you again."
She held my face and kissed my nose. "You've been having a
hard time down there, haven't you? But you're still
you..." She draped her arms around my shoulders. "If only
every guy in New York were so easy to get along with." She
kissed my nose again. She looked at me. I looked at her.
Again, slowly, she kissed my nose. Her hands cradled my
face. Her eyes narrowed as her face tilted and inched
closer to mine again. With water splashing and gurgling
around us, we kissed, our lips writhing with a lovingly
gentle hunger.
Abruptly she pulled away. She closed her eyes, leaning
against me with her forehead pressed to my wet chest and
her hands loosely atop my shoulders. She took a deep
breath.
"Steven," she said, "I'm not used to this."
"I'm not either," I said, and I stroked her temple and
kissed her ear.
She began briskly swabbing my chest. "We *must* control
ourselves, now. We have a lot to do and I want us
bright-eyed and bushy-tailed so you can meet Ronnie."
She looked at me again and seemed ready to say something.
Instead, she planted a loud smack on my forehead and
continued bathing. We finished our shower, Martha growing
quiet and subdued, as if preoccupied. We dried and
dressed. Just before five, we left for midtown Manhattan
to meet Ronnie at the Stage Deli.
The food at the restaurant was a revelation. I chomped
into the corn beef sandwich as if my life depended on that
one dish.
"Good?" she asked, amused.
"Delicious!" I growled, my mouth stuffed.
She flicked her cigarette's tip on the corner of her ash
tray. "Bet you never had corned beef like that in
Memphis."
"Memphis?" I asked. "They serve corned beef out of a
can."
"Don't eat yourself into a coma. We still haven't ordered
the cheesecake, and Ronnie will be here any minute."
Overcome with gustatory delight, I pushed my plate away so
I could pause and catch my breath. Unconsciously, I
reached into my shirt pocket and withdrew a cigarette,
which I lit without even thinking about it.
"What are you doing?" Martha asked, taken aback. "Steven.
I don't believe it. When did you start that?"
"I dunno. Long time ago."
She frowned reprovingly, then she smirked. "Well, I'm not
going to sit here with a cigarette in my hand and preach,
but I see you're still full of surprises. I hope you don't
chain-smoke. Ronnie does now and then, and I can't stand
it."
"I have it under control," I lied.
"Do something for me."
"What?"
"See that sign, the big blue menu sign they have posted on
that big mirror over there? By the restroom door on the
other side of the room?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me what it says."
I squinted at the sign. I could tell from my side of the
room that the hand-lettered writing was oversized, but I
couldn't decipher the first item in the list. "I think it
says, uh...stew. Oyster stew."
"Why aren't you wearing your glasses?" she asked, her face
hardening with mild impatience.
I looked at her. "How'd you know I wore glasses? Did my
mother tell on me?"
"In your suitcase you had a case with your glasses in it.
Why aren't you wearing them?"
"Well...they're just reading glasses."
She took a fast puff off her cigarette and exhaled quickly,
leveling her eyes at me. "The lenses are too thick to be
reading glasses. And you squint at everything, even when
we're just walking down the street. Why don't you wear
your glasses?"
"Oh..." I started casually. Her insistence was
unsettling. I wished she hadn't seen them in my luggage.
Absently, I groped at a pimple on the side of my face.
"Steven, don't do that. Leave your face alone." She
flicked her ashes again. Then she gave an exasperated
little laugh and shook her head. "Oh, listen to me nag.
I'm sorry, Steven, don't let me nag at you like that. But
this is so unlike you."
"I know," I said, shifting uneasily in my seat.
"Steven...are you lying to me about those glasses? Was
that a tiny, itsy-bitsy, teeny white lie?"
"Yes."
"Please don't do that." Her eyes looked past me and she
straightened in her seat and smiled. "Hold onto your hat.
Here comes Ronnie."
Ronnie, entering hurriedly in a gray business suit and
carrying a purse and a pharmacy shopping bag on one arm,
appeared with a loud clicking of high heels and headed for
the chair between Martha and me. "Oh, good!" she said
breathlessly, "A chair! Oh, god! Feet, just a few more
steps, you can make it. Hello, people, hellohellohello.
Oh, please, please let me sit! Let me SIT!" She hastily
flung her suit jacket over the back of the chair and sat
slowly, with a prolonged wince. "Aaaaaaah! Oh, god!
Don't look under the table, Martha. It's just me, slipping
my shoes off." She was a young brunette, about Martha's
size and age, her medium-length, black hair combed back in
loose, fluffy waves. "And this -- this MUST be Steven."
"Ronnie," Martha said, "meet Steven."
"Steven. Yes." She smiled broadly and shyly.
"Yesyesyes." She bent toward me earnestly and placed her
hand on my arm. Small-mouthed and with a slender, somewhat
pointed nose, she had soft, large, sapphire blue eyes.
"Not to worry, Steven, I'm recovering from a week at work
that I would like to forget for the rest of my life.
Ignore. Do what you were doing."
Martha said, "Steven, if you haven't guessed, this is
Ronnie."
"Hi, Steven. Ronnie. It's genetic, nothing helps. Oh,
Where's that waiter I always get in here, what's his name?
Marco? Is he around? I need coffee desperately."
Ronnie waved a waiter to our table. She ordered coffee.
"Black," she said. "And that white wine and vermouth thing
you guys make here, know what I mean, Marco? Just fill the
glass with ice cold wine, and then *lean* near the glass,
you know? With your lips just a few inches away? And
whisper 'Vermouth'. Whisper, now. And a hot pastrami with
cole-slaw. Remember: coffee. Black. If it's left over
from this morning, even better. And remember, just whisper
the vermouth. Please don't make lemonade out of it. I
need the total, mind-altering effect of the juice of one
glass of pure white wine with a mere suggestion of
vermouth. In fact, toots, don't even whisper vermouth,
just look at the wine and *hint*. Y'know? Thanks, Marco.
You're a doll."
We chatted. Ronnie chain-smoked and did most of the
talking. Martha asked Ronnie about Ronnie's date with a
guy named Harvey, whom Ronnie met at a party recently.
"Harvey? Right. I need Harvey like I need breast cancer.
What a jerk. He takes me to this AWFUL movie with Pat
Boone, something called 'Bernadine' or whatever . Steven,
can you imagine Pat Boone and a bunch of forty year old
phonies playing people your age? Oh, Steven, please, don't
get upset, I'm not talking about years, I'm talking about a
case of arrested mental development. And this silly plot
about a sugar-sweet telephone operator? Come on. And
Harvey RAVES about it -- 'Better than Gone With the Wind!'
he says. Then he gets the idea I'm having such a great
time, and he's such an attractive moose, he wants to go
someplace where we can be alo-o-one. Hey, won't he even
let me finish my popcorn? Come on, he says, we're two
adults. I said, no, Harv, we're NOT two adults. We're one
adult named Ronnie, and one JERK!"
At dessert time, Ronnie warned me that it was illegal to
remain in New York without having a huge slice of the
deli's homemade cheesecake. The three of us indulged in
servings of the cloying stuff, thick with sour cream and
cream cheese on a bed of crunchy vanilla-wafer crust.
Martha ate sparingly, finishing only half her slice, while
Ronnie and I groaned with each bite. I finished Martha's
helping after my own.
By that time, Ronnie's fourth wine had begun its work.
"Get Steven an egg cream, Martha!", Ronnie squealed.
"Steven, you'll LOVE this. Egg creams! I can't even LOOK
at them, I get one after another until I burp foam!" As I
enjoyed an egg cream, Ronnie watched merrily and started
giggling at everything in sight.
"Ronnie," Martha enjoined her delicately, "maybe you should
have egg creams instead of those wine things."
"Martha, don't get me started. They're addictive and
fattening. Steven -- Steven, look at this woman. My
friend Martha. I'd KILL for the dates she turns down! And
she turns down everybody, for gods' sake! Can you believe
this? She has all the gifts, and dates only twice a year.
Look. Isn't she gorgeous? A Georgia peach, right? Or a
Tennessee peach, or whatever. And so-o-o sweet and smart.
I'm so glad I met her, but every time I look at her I say
this little prayer: 'God? Why all to her, and so little to
me?'"
After we had been there nearly three hours, Ronnie went to
the restroom for the second time. While she was gone,
Martha began gathering Ronnie's things and called for the
waiter to empty the ash tray, which Ronnie had twice filled
with crushed Pall Malls.
"Steven," Martha said quietly, "Ronnie isn't always like
this. I think this guy Harvey pushed some buttons. I wish
she'd never met him. I'm sorry I brought him up."
"Maybe she's had too many Harvey's, instead of too many
gins."
"That's very insightful, Steven. You happen to be
correct." She threw a concerned glance toward the lady's
room. "Please help me get her out of here when she comes
back. Don't force it; she hates to be ordered around. But
it's time she had a nice long nap."
After another half hour, Ronnie caught the gist of Martha's
many hints and asked us to walk her home. On the sidewalk
she tottered on her high heels before leaning on Martha for
support. After a couple of blocks, she leaned on me.
"Steven," Ronnie said, patting my back, "you're a nice guy,
y'know? Nice. Quiet. Refined. All that easygoing, down
home politeness...and all that..." She yawned, and leaned
her head on my shoulder. "Oh, Steven. Martha. I'm afraid
I'm tipsy. Helluva way to meet somebody, huh?" She
giggled. "I promise, you met me at what is euphemistically
called a 'bad moment'." Again she leaned her head on my
shoulder, with one arm around my waist and the other around
Martha as we walked down East 87th. "Mmmmm, Martha... no
wonder you two are such buddies. He has such a nice feel
to him, doesn't he? Like, you wouldn't know it to look at
him, but he just seems to...fit. Something warm and comfy
cozy and... so easy to lean on, y'know?"
I blushed. Martha watched warily to ensure that Ronnie
didn't stumble and bring all of us to the ground. I gave
Martha a wink, to let her know I felt I could manage. Even
as she lurched against my shoulder, Ronnie had a lightness
about her physically that matched her delicate laugh and
voice. Her complements had me wondering how much she knew
about me and Martha. Half a block later, Ronnie fell
silent and seemed to drift off with her head on my
shoulder.
"Hey, you," Martha prompted Ronnie dryly as we stopped at
the stairs leading to the front door of her building. "Do
we have to carry you up the stairs?"
Ronnie blinked awake, blushing. "Omigod. I was having
such a nice nap."
Opening the door with her own key, Ronnie apologized and
said she hoped she hadn't embarrassed me. "Martha, you
were right about Steven. He's such a honey. So patient."
She said she could make it upstairs on her own. After a
small battle with the tightly-sprung main door, she started
upstairs with her high-heels in one hand. We watched as
she dragged herself up to the second floor, then we went
back outside.
"It's early," Martha said. "Wanna take a walk? I'll show
you the East River. C'mon, we can talk."
Martha told me that Harvey was one of a long line of
disastrous dates for Ronnie. I asked why Ronnie seemed to
think of herself as unattractive and told her I thought
Ronnie was pretty. Martha Jane said Ronnie had always felt
unattractive. A few years earlier, Ronnie lived with a
heavy drinker who battered her, and the longer they stayed
together the worse the man treated her. That relationship
was followed by a similar, though less violent, one.
Ronnie blamed herself, feeling things would have been
different if she had been more attractive and sexually
appealing.
"I've tried again and again to tell her that her focus is
only on her imagined shortcomings, and that she deserves
better," Martha said, as we strolled downtown to the East
70's and then along a promenade beside the East River. The
night was clear and starry. A strong breeze ruffled our
hair as we walked along the whispering river, the muffled
roar of the city blocked by buildings bounding the
promenade.
Martha asked about Memphis, sending us both into a long
reminiscence of how we had grown up. We recalled the
housing project and the people she'd known and how they had
changed or dropped out of sight. She mentioned her
memories and her longings and how her work had replaced
what had been missing in her early years.
"I could never explain to myself how I grew up to be so
disciplined and so proper," she said, "and yet there was
such a wicked side to me. So wicked. You're the only one
who knows about that. Do you realize that? Not even my
few boyfriends knew about that. You're the only one who
knows that about me."
She had talked openly and frankly for over an hour. Now
she stopped and looked at me, saying plaintively, "Steven,
you haven't told me anything about yourself."
"Nothing to tell," I replied, looking out at the swift,
gurgling river.
She said flatly, "I won't accept that."
I shrugged, a gesture that made her frown. She gave a long
sigh and placed a hand on my arm and squeezed. "Steven,
you spent almost three hours with me and Ronnie and didn't
say a thing. What's wrong?"
I dodged her question with an apologetic grin. "I was just
trying to get used to all this. Everything's so new, so
different. And I'm...shy."
"No. There's a difference between being a shy young man
and simply hiding out. I saw it and felt it. You were
tense and wouldn't even let yourself laugh with Ronnie and
me. I meet shy people your age all the time...the ones who
hide and hold back the way you do are the frightened ones.
The depressed and the angry."
I didn't respond. For one thing, I didn't even know where
to begin. All I could do was shrug, and wince, and shuffle
my feet uncomfortably.
Martha straightened up and said firmly, "I'm not gonna let
you get away with that. Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Let's go get some goodies."
We walked to a liquor store a few blocks away on East 86th.
Inside the store, Martha tapped into my interest in detail
by giving me a quick education in wines and the basic wine
types and varieties. The change of subject lightened my
mood and made me feel, for the time being, that I'd
successfully avoided her interrogation of me. Martha was
shocked to hear that few members of my huge Italian family
served wine at meals when youngsters were present. I told
her I didn't even know about Italian foods like canoles or
gnocchi; the menus posted on the doors of New York
restaurants we passed listed Italian dishes I never heard
of. She told me, "You're going to learn so much in New
York. I can't wait to see your reaction when we go to
Little Italy." She suggested that, if I could afford it,
we could buy four representative wines and sample each
during the week ahead.
"Most of this stuff is never imported into Memphis. And on
the way home we can stop at this fabulous cheese place. An
entire store filled with cheese."
When I told her I liked the idea, she bent close to my ear
and said in a hushed whisper, "Give me the money for the
wine, and wait outside. I forgot, you're not old enough to
be in here, but I don't think anyone noticed yet. You look
older in your coat and tie and they probably won't even
check, but we shouldn't push it."
While she made the purchase I waited outside, smoking a
cigarette and watching the human theater that passed on
busy 86th Street. New Yorkers impressed me as being
energetic, assertive, streetwise -- totally different from
the languorous, dawdling people I knew in Memphis. Even
the teens I saw seemed to possess a savvy and a worldliness
that I knew was far ahead of me. Watching them, I felt
like the consummate bumpkin, pimpled, awkward, and
slow-witted. And Martha, whom I'd always seen as
self-assured and knowledgeable, seemed to have caught up
and merged with the best of them. I wanted to shrink into
a doorway and disappear. Surely my ignorance and
clumsiness and all my other failings must be evident to
everyone, including Martha.
On our way back to Martha's we stopped at the cheese shop.
"So how do you like this place?" Martha asked as we
entered.
Before me was a wide room that looked like a solid yellow
wall of cheese. Cheese in wrappers, in boxes, on shelves
and in roped chunks hanging from the ceiling. My mouth
fell open. "I never saw so much cheese in my life!"
After leaving the store with a sack of cheeses I never
dreamed existed, I felt giddy and overwhelmed. I stayed
close to Martha, following her steps and learning how to
dodge oncoming traffic along the sidewalk.
Beside me, Martha chuckled. "Steven, don't look so
intimidated! You'll get the hang of walking in New York.
Just forge ahead."
I gulped. "It's not see easy to see where I'm going when
my eyeballs are falling out of my head."
She pulled me close to her and clasped my arm firmly. She
said earnestly as we hurried toward her block, "You have to
get yourself out of the 'Memphis mode' if you expect to be
hanging around with me for the next nine days. You have a
lot to learn, hon, but I'll help. Starting right now..."
Continued...
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