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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.hetero,alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 10B
Date: Sat, 17 Dec 2005 10:56:57 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.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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