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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
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Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 9D
Date: Sat, 17 Dec 2005 10:55:29 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 9D
Near the end of the summer of 1956, just before I started classes at
Christian Brothers High School, I wrote Martha Jane and told her
that the main reason I worked all summer was to earn money for a
one-week visit to New York. I had saved enough for train fare, and
if she didn't have room for me in her apartment I had money for a
hotel.
Three weeks passed. I'd hoped for a quick reply. I wanted to get
to New York before the summer ended. But as the days passed I
started losing hope. August ended. I made new plans: perhaps I'd
hear from her soon and could at least spend the Labor Day holiday
with her.
Then Labor Day passed. And I thought: all right, then,
Thanksgiving. And if not Thanksgiving, Christmas....
A letter arrived the week after Labor Day. Mom handed it to me when
I came home from Christian Brothers. I pretended it was unimportant
and told Mom I would read it when I got to it. I disappeared in my
room for a while, then hid the letter under my shirt and rode my
bike to Gaisman Park. I sat under one of the skinny, almost
leafless saplings and hastily opened the envelope.
"Dear Steven: Please, please please don't spend so much money so
soon on a trip up here. I don't want you to go broke and spend
everything on me. Wait a little longer."
Disheartened, I read on. She had taken in a roommate, a struggling
fabric designer named Veronica, whom she called Ronnie, to make ends
meet. Martha's deal with Columbia didn't include summers, so she
tutored privately and had other jobs on the side. And the apartment
was far too small for two people, much less for three; and she and
Ronnie had to lay low anyway because her lease included only one
tenant; if Ronnie were found out the rent would go up.
She wrote, "You really haven't saved enough money for a week in a
decent hotel in New York. There is no way I'd have you stay in a
dump. You'd get mugged or even killed in that kind of neighborhood.
New York isn't like Memphis. It's very dangerous here."
I read on. She wanted me to bury myself in work at Christian
Brothers. She wanted me to give up the paper route and return to
drama and to writing. I had sent her some short poems I'd written;
she was so impressed that she wanted me to contact someone at school
who would look at more of my work. She thought my step-dad's
decision to send me to Christian Brothers was wise and that the
Brothers were singular teachers. And if I were going to spend my
money, I should wait until I had more on hand so that I wouldn't be
totally broke, because I would need decent clothes of my own. And I
should buy a new typewriter for school and for developing my writing
instead of struggling with the Black Beauty (I had not yet told her
the story of the Black Beauty's sorry fate). And I didn't belong on
a paper route anyway; I belonged in the theater and on the student
newspaper.
So that was it. I could not refute her. In every way, she was
correct. But I was not content with it.
Two days later, on a Saturday when I knew long-distance rates were
low, I asked Mom if I could make a call to New York and pay for it
with my own money. Mom said yes. I dialed Martha's number. No
answer. Two hours later I dialed again, late in the afternoon.
It was Ronnie who answered, with a youngish voice and a noticeable
New York City accent. "Who's this?" she asked. When I told her
she replied excitedly, "Oh, Steeeeven! Oh, I've heard so much about
you from Martha! So you're really a person? The way she talks
about you, I didn't think you were real! Hold on, I'll get her."
Martha was surprised and happy at my call.
I asked, "What happened to your Memphis accent?"
"Oh, hon, that's gone months ago. I call Mother and she can't
understand a word I say."
We had a long talk. It took a while for me to get accustomed to the
changes in her voice. She talked faster, and she sounded older,
worldlier and more businesslike. She apologized for not letting me
visit her right away. She said I really and truly needed more
money, and she refused to let me stay in a hotel. "I want you to
come up here on an airplane, not a crummy train. I want you to be
patient so you can be comfortable and treat yourself like a mensch.
You know what a mensch is?"
"No."
"A mensch is a PERSON, hon! I don't want you coming up here with
your stuff in a paper bag and looking like a street urchin. And I
want to make plans for it, and have time to spend together. Don't
you think that's better than being so rushed and desperate? Life in
New York is desperate enough without all that."
I didn't want to agree; but she was right, all the way down the
line. She pleaded with me to buy a good typewriter, a nice one that
I'd be happy with and that I would use to write and study instead of
wasting my time and energy with notebook paper.
I refused. I did so nicely, but I refused to spend money on a
typewriter, which in those days was a fairly expensive and exotic
item for a high school kid in Memphis. And I insisted that I'd
rather save the money for New York. Martha yielded on that point
but insisted that I travel to New York when the timing was better.
She said, "I'm glad you called, Steven. Really. But talking about
saving money, do you know we've been on the phone for over an hour?"
Apparently she heard reluctance and disappointment in my voice.
"Steven. Sweetheart. I miss you, and I know you'd love New York.
Will you understand? For me? And treat yourself better, and be
patient?"
"Yes. All right."
"And buy yourself a typewriter?"
"No."
"Oh...stubborn! Hon, please write me. And please take it easy."
Halloween passed. Thanksgiving. Three more letters and then
Christmas cards passed between us. Then Christmas. 1957 began.
Then Ronnie found a better job and moved into a vacancy in the same
building. Then Martha found another teaching job on the side to
supplement her scholarship. Easter passed. No word from Martha.
April passed, and still no letter.
One hot Friday afternoon in late spring, Charlie and I spent a
harried day working one huge delivery after another. I was sullen
and was taking my anger out on the orders, asking for the biggest
ones and for the most distant customers. Finally, by late
afternoon, the two of us cleared the backlog and the flow of
customers thinned for a while. Soaked with sweat, I took a break in
the restroom and soaked my head with cold water.
As I returned to the front of the store, Charlie called to me from
the front door. "Hey, Speedy!" He motioned toward the outside with
his head. "C'mon out here, let's take a break. C'mon."
"I just had one," I said crankily.
"What the hell, c'mon."
I met him out front and he mounted his bike. "Get on your bike," he
said. "Let's take a ride." He lit a cigarette and handed me one.
I took it and lit up.
"Where to?" I asked.
"Let's take a little ride up on High Street while it cools down.
Get the hell away from this store for a spell."
Wordlessly, I followed him on my squeaky bike and we rode up a short
rise for several blocks. We took a right onto High Street, a narrow
avenue of dilapidated tenements that had changed little since the
turn of the century. A few of the buildings were abandoned; one of
them had a condemnation notice on the front door. Abruptly, Charlie
turned into a narrow driveway overgrown with weeds beside a
four-story building of old, oily, dull red brick.
"What's up?" I asked, crushing out my cigarette.
"C'mon and meet a coupla girls I know," he said laconically. He
shoved down the kickstand and flipped his cigarette toward the
street.
"Girls," I said apprehensively. Quickly, I removed my glasses.
Charlie smirked. "Hell, Chrissie and Karen don't care 'bout that."
"I do," I said.
The wooden front stairs and porch creaked loudly under our feet.
Charlie pounded on the screen door and hummed and waited. Presently
two teenaged girls opened the heavy front door. Charlie introduced
them with a few lines of friendly banter. Chrissie, the busty one
with curly blonde hair and a mischievous smile, said hi. Karen was
the slim, quiet one with long black hair and an expressionless face.
"What's up?" Charlie asked.
"C'mon," Chrissie said to him playfully, "I'll show ya. Karen, you
and Steven...talk." She giggled.
Charlie and Chrissie disappeared into the massive dark hallway
beyond the door. Karen leaned in the doorway and looked me over
shyly, still with no expression on her face, her hands folded behind
her. She was attractive in a lazy, slutty way, with a pale narrow
face and a thin, wide mouth, black hair that draped around her small
shoulders, and dark, ambiguous eyes.
"Charlie says you're a real hard worker," she said, her voice soft
and hesitant and dripping with a heavy drawl that I recognized as
belonging to northern Mississippi sharecroppers.
"I do my share," I said. Unaccustomed to talking with girls my age,
I said lamely, "So you're Karen."
"Yeah. I'm Karen. Uh, Chrissie and me been friends for a long
time."
It had been so long since I'd stood face to face with a girl, I had
no idea what to do next. I looked around to see if Charlie and
Chrissie were doing anything that might give me a clue as to what
was going on, but they had disappeared inside the building.
Karen eyed me with an inscrutable stare. A clumsy silence passed.
Then she motioned with her eyes to her right, toward the hallway. I
wondered if she meant what I thought she meant.
She hesitated, and moved lazily into the hallway, where she stopped
with one foot on the stairway and a hand on the dusty wooden
banister. She turned toward me momentarily, her face still dull and
unchanged, her dark eyes questioning. I stepped inside the screen
door and let it close softly behind me. She headed slowly up the
stairs, quickly glancing at me about halfway up. I waited at the
door. Then at the top step her gaze again met mine, directly but
very briefly, as she turned and started up the second level.
I told myself: hey, idiot, she wants you to follow her. I moved to
the stairway. It was all too unexpected and unfamiliar. There had
been girls who told me they thought I was cute, but none who made or
accepted my advances. What the hell -- it had been almost two years
for me. Martha was in no hurry to see me. Probably New York would
never happen. But was Karen serious?
Halfway up the first flight I paused and listened. The floor above
creaked softly. I continued. When I reached the second floor all I
saw were dusty shafts of sunlight, warped and faded walls, and
several halfopen doorways. Then, behind the second door on my
right, I heard what sounded like the squeak of an old metal bed. I
moved forward and stood in the doorway; the odor of grease and
rotted plaster bled from the room.
Karen sat on a half-made metal bed, holding a single deflated pillow
to her chest, her long legs folded under her dark blue dress. Her
eyes looked at me from her dull face. "What took y' so long?" she
joked. A slight smile creased her thin lips; the smile disappeared
instantly as I moved into the room and looked around. The space
consisted of four walls, a cracked ceiling, a closed closet, an
undraped open window, the bed, and her.
I stood in the middle of the room, hands on my aproned hips.
"What's up?" I wondered if, at any moment, an axe murderer might
dash from the closet, empty my pockets of the tips I'd earned that
day, and kill me.
She seemed confused. Then hesitantly she raised a slender, long
fingered hand to her dress and touched the top button. "Wont me t'
take this off?"
I don't know how many seconds she waited for me as her words slowly
sank into my brain. Soon she began undoing her buttons.
"It's okay to do it in here. Ain't nobody else home today, they all
went downtown." As she spoke she allowed her dress to fall open and
reveal one breast and its flat, cocoa-brown nipple. "Won't nobody
come in." She motioned toward the window. "Cain't see nothin'
through the winder, either, they tore down the buildin's back
there."
I started undressing. As I got down to my underwear and prepared to
strip them off, I heard a noise from the hallway.
"Never mind them," she urged. "They're too busy doin' it to worry
'bout us." In one motion she slid under the sheet, pulled her dress
over her head and off, and held a corner of the bed sheet aside for
me, carefully keeping herself covered below the waist.
"C'mon," she said. "Git in."
Nude, I slipped under the sheet. She covered us and turned to me.
I turned to her, but hastily she pulled herself to me as if she
didn't want me to see all of her, and curled her legs around mine.
Against my right knee I felt her crotch and was amazed that she had
become sopping wet so quickly. Like a sudden wind from under the
sheet her girl's scent rose, stringent and sharp. It was
disconcerting; heady because of its sheer lusty power, uninviting
because it seemed so alien to her otherwise alluring, slim, white
body.
Her face was uncommunicative, but her eyes were intent, waiting,
deeply focussed into mine. Her arms went around me and she tried
pulling herself closer to me, and me to her. I reached under the
sheet and down, touching her dripping mound. Instantly, her hand
shot down to hold mine away from her.
"No, don't. I don't usually like bein' touched there. It's
embarrassin' sometimes."
Surprised and disappointed, I looked at her confusedly. Her eyes
softened and gently she placed my hand on one of her pliant little
breasts.
"I don't need much touchin' anyway," she said apologetically. "I'm
ready. Can you tell? How 'bout you? You ready?" Her eyes on
mine, her hand found my cock as if by radar, without searching. She
gave me a quick, fleeting, sensuous grin -- another of her rare
facial expressions that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared.
"Yeah...it's gettin' there." Without removing her eyes from mine
she reached under the edge of the mattress on her side and retrieved
a rubber, quickly stripped open the wrapper, and reached under the
sheet. Chewing her lip, she held my cock with one hand and with the
other unrolled the cold rubber over my length. "There," she
whispered, lying back. "C'mon. 'S been a long time. I need it in
me."
Well, I thought, if that's the way she likes it...I covered her and
then settled on her, and with one whispering slide of her trim torso
she raised her knees and spread her thighs. Before I knew it she
grabbed me again, her light touch and long fingers warm and tickly,
stimulating me briefly until I realized she was maneuvering me into
her while I was only mildly excited and barely at half-mast.
Nevertheless, she was so wet and slippery that I slid inside; she
had only to nudge her hips slightly upward, and I was fully
sheathed.
Through the confining rubber I felt she was warm, almost steamy--
-but so soft and lubricous that I felt I were copulating into a
small glass of warm water. I tried to raise on my arms and look
down at her, but immediately she pulled me close and pulled herself
up so that we were tightly joined with my face in her neck.
She wasted little time. Gasping, "Yeah. Feels good," she began
squirming her sex against me with a nimble precision that belied her
sluggish manner. I humped slowly but steadily, stretching a bit so
that my nearly flaccid shaft could gain some feeling of her inner
shape and texture. But to my disappointment I felt little, save for
the pleasant tickle of her pubic hair bristling near the unrubbered
part of my root. The sensation was paltry, and a great deal more of
what I had been accustomed to was altogether absent, but it did
generate a mild erotic twinge that helped stiffen me a little.
"Yeah," she panted. "Gettin' harder. Yeah. Hmm. You move good."
Soon I knew I could not maintain this semi-erection. It wasn't just
the lack of sensation or the sense of being rushed: we were clumsy
and unsynchronized. There was nothing about us physically or
emotionally or mentally that spoke in the same terms, much less in
the same language. Not being able to touch her, not being stroked
or primed myself, I became merely a cooperative observer. Staring
ahead at a sight no more scintillating than a patch of pillow, her
earlobes, and part of her tensing neck, I grew more and more
distant.
The only thing keeping me involved was the surprisingly rapid
approach of her orgasm. "Don't cum yet!" she panted. "Keep
dickin' me!" I pumped her steadily, keeping my shaft near what I
thought was her clit and flexing my cock to make it seem stiffer. I
wanted at least the pleasure of getting her there. The old bed
jiggled. Soon she was gasping and groaned "Yeah..." and her head
fell back. Her ankles slid around mine. Seconds later, she
trembled and hissed "Yeah," and her head snapped stiffly forward.
She whimpered a few times and her nails dug into my back while she
rapidly ground her pubis against me for several seconds. Somewhere
beyond the rubber I dimly felt her inner spasms. Then with a
shudder and a sigh she sank back like a limp string.
I stopped. Propping on my elbows, I watched her: she lay
openmouthed, eyes shut, breathing deeply and exhaling in long tired
sighs. Her arms relaxed and fell from me, one flopping to her side
and the other draping itself around her head.
"Hey," she panted, "yer good...Y' know just how to do it."
"Glad you liked it."
"Yeah. Liked it a lot...I'm glad you waited. I ain't cum good 'n
hard like that in a long time." She opened her yes. "You cum
okay?"
"Sure," I lied.
"I couldn't tell. You must a cum when I did."
"Mm-hm." For a moment I held her and stroked her cheek, neck and
dark nipples, planting little kisses on her throat and her slim,
oddly touchable shoulders. Her flesh was soft and seemed to melt
against my lips. It wasn't that I liked her so much; it was
sympathy for a soft girl whose life was so barren that she could
think of what we had just done as being great sex. And more: I
needed someone to please, hold, and kiss.
Soon she squirmed nervously, her eyes filled with surprise and mild
reproach. "Hey, you could make somebody fall in luv, doin' stuff
like that. Holdin' an' kissin'...'n stuff."
I moved off her. Swinging my legs out of the bed, I sat up with my
feet on the floor and my back to her. "Just felt like doin' it," I
muttered, defeated, looking down and seeing the empty rubber on me.
Out of her sight, I pulled it off and pitched it out the open
window. I started dressing. I didn't want to be there anymore.
She rolled onto her stomach, still clasping the sheet about her.
"Hey. You live 'round here?"
"No."
"Oh. Thought maybe I'd...see you around sometime."
"It's...possible."
She started to speak again, but stopped. Her face had changed; it
had a look of quiet contentment and a girlish almost-smile. I was
stooping to tie my shoes when she spoke again.
"Maybe I wouldn't be so shy, next time. 'Specially with you. I
always been kinda shy."
"Why? There's nothing wrong with you. You're pretty."
"Yeah, well...but shy anyway...You look better'n I thought you
would."
I walked to the door and looked out. There was no one in the
hallway.
"How old 're you?' she taunted, rocking shyly on her hips.
"Sev'nteen? Eighteen? I'm sev'nteen, come July."
I looked back at her. Should I tell her I was barely fifteen? I
lied: "Eighteen." I noticed I was lying more often lately.
"You don't talk much," she said.
I smiled weakly. "I'm shy too."
"Yeah. You fuck real good, though." She blushed. "You ever hear
that song, 'Sweet 'n' Gentle'?" She smiled devilishly. Her teeth
were yellow, a couple of them chipped.
>From downstairs I heard a door slam and then Charlie's heavy
footsteps heading for the door. "Hey, Speedy! You up there?
C'mon, we gotta go!"
"I have to get back to work," I told Karen, and I started
downstairs.
Behind me I heard her call out, "You know where t' find me. Right?"
Charlie and I mounted our bikes. He lit a cigarette and started
forward. "Damn," he said, "that was a LOAD off my MIND!"
We rolled down the street.
Charlie said, "You ain't said nothin'. How was Karen?"
I shrugged. "It was okay."
"Okay? Damn. Just a little quickie, wha'd you expect?"
"It was okay. Nice."
"Never done her myself. Chrissie always tells me Karen's real hot."
"Yeah," I said, trying to forget the whole thing, "she is."
Charlie wagged his head. "Damn, Speedy. I cain't figure you out."
That night I arrived home around ten o'clock, as usual for a Friday.
Mom was asleep. I showered. Then I remembered Karen and showered
again. It might have been possible for me to like her. She struck
me as pretty, an oddly delicate but kinky combination. I wondered
if she had any diseases.
Two days before my fifteenth birthday, I arrived home from school
and found a large, brown-paper Parcel Post package on my bed. The
return address was East 87th Street in New York. Quickly, I
unwrapped and opened the heavy box.
It was a brand new Underwood typewriter.
Taped to the instruction manual was a birthday card. Martha had
signed it. Under her name were three or four x's and a message:
"Call me 'Collect' on your birthday."
Continued...
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