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From: Incest Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
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Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 10D
Date: Sat, 17 Dec 2005 10:58:56 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 10D
Her eyes and her words left me speechless. I cleared my throat and
concealed my state of shock, nodding firmly to signal my acceptance
of what she had said. I shuffled nervously. She waited, staring at
me almost apprehensively. She seemed at once both resolute and
vulnerable.
"I hope," she said softly, "I didn't blow your fuses."
"They're not fuses," I said with a brittle smile, "they're circuit
breakers. They reset after a few minutes."
She smiled sweetly. "Have I...burst all your bubbles, hon? I can't
even tell. You hide your feelings so well. Too well, Steven"
"I'm not as good at expressing those feelings as you are," I said
guiltily. "But, no, I...I won't keep them hidden." I swallowed
hard. "I can't answer right now. But I will."
She walked to me and gave me a quick little hug. "You don't have to
say anything."
"Yes, I do," I said haltingly. "But my circuit breakers need time."
"Okay, hon. Okay. C'mon. Let's get to sleep."
With another fit of yawning, we shut the lights and groaned our way
into bed, lying uncovered and facing each other in the dim wash of
early daylight that filtered through the curtained window.
We lay on our sides, facing each other in the dark. I closed my
eyes. From the window behind me, the city stirred faintly. It was
an unfamiliar sound, one I'd never heard when falling asleep in
Memphis -- a vague, distant but lurking and steady noise, a hint of
the unexpected, an undefined coming and going, a hushed sound of
events moving in all directions.
I shifted, making my shoulder more comfortable. Opening my eyes, I
saw her watching me.
"Are you falling asleep?" she asked.
"I'm thinking."
"Don't think, hon. Sleep." She touched my shoulder, squeezed it
softly. "It'll be all right, Steven. It will."
I closed my eyes. I was far too exhausted to question a looming
future I couldn't see or define. I trusted her. I felt I had no
choice.
That Saturday afternoon shortly before one o'clock, I awoke to my
first weekend in New York, and my first hangover. And Martha's
musical, teasing voice, and her gentle hands rubbing my back and
shoulders.
"Up," she said, "the day's half gone."
There was little time for serious meditation over her words of a few
hours earlier. Martha roused me with scrambled eggs and two cups of
a strong, mint tea that made my mouth and nose tingle, and some
celery juice. We showered and dressed hastily, then scurried
outside into the blinding sunlight before I knew what happened.
"Hurry!" Martha implored as she dragged me by the arm toward Second
Avenue. "I called Fiore while you were sleeping like a slug and he
said he's leaving the health club by three!"
I yelped, "Are you sure he can work with somebody who can't talk or
walk?"
"Snap out of it," she told me as we turned a corner and headed
downtown. "If you're that tired and if you have a couple of bucks,
we can take a taxi."
"Good," I resolved aloud. I stepped into the street as I'd seen
others do and raised my hand for a taxi.
"Slacker," she said.
The meteoric taxi ride helped wake me during the short trip to
Lexington and 47th. Martha loaned me her health club pass and told
me how to find Fiore on the sixth floor of the hotel. "This is only
an evaluation," she told me. "It's free. After that, and because
Fiore's a friend of mine and wants my body, he's agreed to see you
for twenty-five bucks a session. Take my word for it, hon, it's a
bargain. But don't bother if you're not going to work with him."
Martha shopped while I was in Fiore's hands. I was surprised at his
height; who'd guess that a paid trainer would be even shorter than
I! He had phenomenal strength and agility. During the first ten
minutes he learned my every strength and weakness with a few quick
glances over my torso and limbs.
"Off with your clothes!" he snapped curtly, and he handed me a pair
of blue shorts. "Dress!" Before I finished changing he was
chirping, "On the massage table!" Rushed and confused, I fell down
trying to remove my shoes.
Fiore laughed merrily. "Haha! Say, you're allowed to sit on a
chair while you take off your shoes."
"Everybody's in such a hurry," I muttered.
"Of course! Iss New York! If you don' hurry in New York, you
die!", a remark he laughed about until I had the shorts on and was
climbing onto the table. For the next several minutes he threw me
around like a bag of dried peas.
"You hev a nice frame, Steven. Nice! But weak back and hips. What
kind of work you do, hah?" I told him about my newspaper route and
the delivery bike. "No, No!" he warned. "No good, the way you
move! When we finish here, we go to the bicycle to show you how to
move. The way you move now, iss no good!" For an hour he
demonstrated how to manage and build up my weaker body parts. By
that time I was so breathless that I merely grunted at his questions
and stumbled through his instructions. "Bad coordination! I have
exercises for that! Here, here, no! No pushups like that! Here,
THIS iss a pushup! Only halfway, you see? Never all the way!
There! You see? Kapeesh?"
"What kind of food your Italian mother makes for you?" he asked
later as I struggled into my clothes with no air in my lungs and no
strength in my limbs. "Bread? Huh? Pasta?" I told him, yes, a
lot of bread and breaded foods, pasta, salads with oil and vinegar,
cakes and pies, pancakes, cereals. "Aha!" he screamed, "And then
you have pimples, Ha? Listen to me: No white bread! No white
flour! Never! Get vinegar and oil in the health food store! If
anyone makes a salad with Crisco, shoot them! If they give you a
pancake, break their legs! No sugar! Iss garbage, my friend!
Garbage in your body, pimples on your face!"
He wrote a list of several items I should buy. "Today!" he
demanded. There is a place two blocks down on Lexington! Start
today! Come back Monday, ten o'clock!"
He gave my back a slap that sent me reeling. He had a good laugh
while holding me up. "Haha, you'll be all right, my friend! In
only a few days with me, you'll have the strength of -- well, at
least you will be on your way! What's this?...smoke on your breath?
Listen to me -- nicotine iss UGLY! You cannot have good skin if you
smoke! And when you see Martha, tell her thank you for sending you
to me, I give you a special price! How lucky to have such a
beautiful woman on your side!"
As I glanced about on my way out of the health club, I saw that
Martha's was not the only lovely body in New York. There were
several dancers and models around, some of them bearing the most
perfect figures I could imagine. Their accomplishments fired me on
-- though, for the time being, I was too whipped to do anything more
than limp out of the club, into the elevator, and out to the busy
sidewalk. By the time Martha returned from shopping and found me
outside the hotel, I had managed to learn to stand again.
"So," she asked, "What's the verdict?"
"Are you sure Steve Reeves started out this way? I can do it if I
get plenty of rest between sessions."
"Not the way *we* fuck!" she laughed, drawing a startled look from
two or three passersby.
I showed Martha the list of things Fiore told me to buy.
"Can you afford this?" Martha asked. "This is some list."
"What'll it cost me?"
"About thirty or forty dollars, I guess."
"What I was going to spend on junk food, I'll spend for this."
Martha led me through my first trip in a health food store. We
walked out with a bag of bottles and foods and pills I'd never heard
of. Back in her apartment, she surveyed the goods. "I thought so,"
she said, "he gave you a lot of B6. I figured as much, everybody on
your mom's side of the family seems to have signs of a deficiency.
And, uh-oh, Brewer's yeast! Oh, my -- hon, you'll hate me for this,
but I have to find some way to get a tablespoon of brewer's yeast
down your throat three times a day."
Most of the teas and supplements were not seriously upsetting, but
ingesting Brewer's Yeast was torture. By late afternoon I was
filled with vitamins, minerals, teas, juices, the yeast, and herbs.
For a rest, she introduced me to Central Park, where we roamed over
hills and through pine forests and followed a group of bird watchers
until twilight.
On our way out of the park, we passed a hot dog stand. "Hey," she
said, her eyes rolling, "Steven! You have to try a New York hot
dog."
"No," I said firmly, mimicking Fiore. "Hot dogs iss pimples!"
"But you can't see Central Park without having a hot dog."
"No. No. And no."
"Wow, I see you took Fiore to heart. I'm proud of you."
The hectic session with Fiore and the walk through the Park did me
in. For dinner Martha made "nekkid" hamburgers (ground sirloin
baked slowly under a blanket of cheese and mushrooms), a salad
dressed with the special vinegar and oils Fiore prescribed, plus
another handful of pills. Martha informed me, "Gourmets never eat
beef as-is. It's always ground, Steven." Dinner was prefaced with
a spoonful of dreaded yeast, which I managed to swallow in small
amounts with the help of some dark, berry-flavored tea.
After dinner I sat listlessly at the table, feeling I'd soon faint.
"What's next?"
"To the bathroom. I'll show you how to wash your face."
"Wash my face? You think I don't know how to wash my face?"
"I'm gonna to show you how professionals do it." She gathered a can
of scouring powder and a bottle of the new vegetable oil and led me
to the bathroom.
I yelped with alarm, "I'm gonna wash my face with that?"
"No, silly. First we have to clean the sink. Watch and learn."
Again, it was a New York revelation. In her tiny bathroom Martha
taught me how to prepare my face with a thin coat of vegetable oil
before using special soap and steaming hot water.
I frowned at the sink of smoking water, and then at my oiled face in
the mirror, with growing skepticism. "Now, who would go through all
this just to wash their face?"
"People who don't accept the usual way of doing things," she said,
adamant. "People who don't listen to fairy tales. Do it, Steven.
Open up and try something different."
I followed the procedure reluctantly but exactly, counting aloud to
make certain I splashed the nearly stinging hot water onto my face
as she directed, twenty-five times. Afterwards, she made me look at
myself in the mirror.
"Feel your skin," she prompted, her voice losing its stiffness.
"Look at your face. Smooth, right? And the skin's tight? Look at
your cheeks glow, hon. Your skin's acid-balanced now, and the pores
are clear. And those damn pimples were opened up and they're
already disappearing."
I looked carefully, flabbergasted. She was right. I wouldn't have
believed it without seeing it.
"Trust me?" she taunted. "Was I right? Is not the wicked witch
really your friend in disguise?"
I surrendered. "Yes," I mumbled.
"Feel better about yourself?"
"Yes."
She hugged me. "I've got to get you out of the 'Memphis mode', hon.
Stop letting those foamin' Romans tell you how to think. I want you
to find out for yourself, try something new, trust yourself. All it
takes is some work and a little nerve. Okay?"
I hugged her back.
"Love you," she said. "You know that now, don't you?"
"Yes."
She hurried into the kitchen and started cleaning up.
"What next?" I called from the bathroom, still looking at myself in
amazement.
"Movie, if you want."
"Doesn't anybody in New York ever rest?"
"Occasionally, but they don't admit it in public. It's bad p-r.
But after last night, I guess we could both use a quick nap."
After cleaning the kitchen we lay flat on our backs in bed for a
brief nap. I fell asleep immediately. When I awoke, Martha was
sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling at me.
"Looks like you're beat," she said.
"Martha -- I'm sorry, I guess so."
"That's okay, hon. I can hardly believe you've only been here a
little more than 24 hours."
I sighed drowsily. "Is that all? Seems like a week already. But
you're right...this is only my second night in New York."
"I saw you so sleeping so hard, I let you nap over an hour. What do
you say we skip the movie, go over to Second Avenue and eat out?
Ronnie called, and she'd like to treat you for being so patient with
her last night. Would that be better?"
"Deal," I said, relieved.
I started to rise, but Martha held me down with a hand on my arm.
"I have to tell you something."
"Oh, no. More revelations."
"Yes," she said, and she made her voice very small and paused for a
long time while she played bashfully with my shirt collar, hiding
her eyes from mine. "Stephen...Ronnie is my very best, very close,
very only girlfriend..."
"Go ahead," I said warily. "Go ahead, hit me with it."
"Well...Steven...hon...she knows about us." She felt me tense up
and then go limp. "Not everything," she added quickly, "not...hon,
not the fucking part. I could never quite bring myself to tell her
about that, but I did say that we, you know, fooled around a while
back. I didn't want her to be totaled."
"What did she say?"
"Nothing."
I blinked. "Nothing?"
"No, she didn't say anything at all. I was so surprised. She asked
me again about it, later, and I did tell her that a long time ago
you gave me my first orgasm. She thought it was so sweet that we
were good to each other. I even think she was a little envious.
She grew up in Michigan in much the same way we did. But she had no
friends at all, Steven. No one. She went through three fathers and
a screwed-up mother and two really crappy brothers before she was
sent off to a college she truly hated. She walked out of class one
day and never returned, never went home again. She gave up
everything and moved here with a college boyfriend and lived with
him...until he kicked her out because he said she wasn't good enough
for him. She ended up on the street, and got picked up by a guy in
a bar. He asked her to stay with him, and she was so desperate for
a place...He was the guy I told you about, who ended up being so
abusive. She endured it until she finished school and got her first
job. When she answered my ad for a roommate, she'd been sleeping in
the bus station for two days."
I shook my head and winced.
"Plenty of people had it tougher than we did, hon. Many who aren't
as sensitive as Ronnie would've turned cold and mean. But Ronnie
still tries. Like you and I, she knows she doesn't fit. But she
can't live in a shell, either. So don't think she gets loaded and
always acts the way she did last night. She's disorganized and
she's searching. But she's affectionate and understanding. I
sometimes think...people like Ronnie, who've been hit hard and who
are so different, are the only people I can get close to. She tries
so hard to please. And like you, she can be very hard on herself
when it doesn't work. And she has fits of despair. But she's
really very nice. Now, please -- don't mention any of this. I'm
sure she'll know that I would have told you something about her, but
don't get into this with her. She gets very depressed about it.
Okay?"
"Okay."
"Are you sorry you came here and got mixed up in all this? I know
so much is hitting you at once -- "
"No. No, I like it."
"You *what* ?"
I said earnestly, "I mean...I mean it's life, it's real. I can
understand it. It's not a Tupperware party. It's not I Love Lucy
or shopping at the A&P. It's like the things I really think about
and feel, but never talk about. I mean-- -" I sighed in
exasperation, searching for better words.
She ruffled my hair. "I got the idea." She smiled with admiration
and surprise. "I don't think you'll have too much trouble getting
the hang of things around here."
"Ronnie's no problem," I said, trying to stand. I ached everywhere
and needed to stretch. And I was starving. "It's Fiore that's
gonna kill me!"
Again, with ruthless practicality and adherence to method, Martha
forced a spoonful of bitter yeast down my throat. A cup of berry
tea and a shower later, I was awake enough to force my sore muscles
to carry me down the stairs and onto the sidewalk.
"C'mon," she said ahead of me.
"All right, all right. Let me wake up. Always in a hurry."
We met Ronnie a few blocks away on Second Avenue. She blushed when
she saw me, but she gave me her catchy, sweet, girlish smile that
made her dark blue eyes light up playfully.
"Remember me?" she joked, extending her hand. Blushing as well, I
accepted her handshake. Like her face, her hand was small and
delicate. She had short, slender, very warm fingers. Without her
spiked heels she was Martha's height, and she looked slimmer in a
simple skirt than she did in her business suit.
Ronnie took us to a crowded neighborhood diner where she and Martha
stormily debated the use and purposes of psychology. Ronnie didn't
agree with any of it. "Science is the bane of life," she groaned,
slicing away at a pork chop. "Putting people's feelings on charts
and graphs!"
"It has its uses," Martha insisted.
"So does cyanide," Ronnie said.
"And like anything else," Martha went on hotly, "it can be used or
MIS-used, Ronnie. I don't agree with the way it's used. It's used
to plot norms, and the norms are considered not only normal and
desirable, but required for everyone. And, you're right, that's the
part that's sheer nonsense."
"Careful, Martha, you're on the verge of agreeing with me." Ronnie
grinned insolently and popped a chunk of meat into her mouth.
Eventually they exhausted themselves and changed the subject, moving
on to the latest ladies' fashions. I sat beside Martha and opposite
Ronnie, saying nothing. I listened, my elbow on the table and my
chin propped in my hand, eyeing them with an amused smile as their
new conversation progressed from frolicsome chatting to sarcastic
debate.
"Ronnie," Martha argued, "that's what I don't understand about your
business. What right has some cafe society designer to decide what
I will or won't be able to buy in a store next year? He knows
nothing about me!"
"Oh, Martha it doesn't work that way!"
"Yes, it does! That's exactly how it works!"
"So boycott Bloomingdale's. All I do is design what I'm told, don't
point fingers at *me*."
"What you just said," Martha emphasized slowly, "is exactly what I
mean. The business is structured for the very few who tell everyone
else how to fall into line. Your own creativity and my freedom of
choice never enter the picture. Because marketers know that most
people are sheep. Madison Avenue denies people information that
lets them decide for themselves."
Ronnie winked at me, unwhithered by Martha's polemic. "Steven,
isn't this fun? Have you learned anything from this conversation?"
I shrugged and ventured, "Eat dinner with the boys, and don't wear
ladies' clothes?"
"Great, toots. Martha, I *knew* Steven was a cool guy. Steven, are
we boring you with this?"
I answered, "Actually, yes."
"Ha!" Ronnie yelped. "Good answer! Come on, let's stop all this
philosophical garbage and talk about something totally mindless.
Steve, has this friend of mine taught you anything about New York
that you couldn't have learned in Memphis?"
I told Ronnie about learning to wash my face. Her eyes narrowed
with serious interest in what I was saying. She wanted more
information.
"Martha," she said, "why didn't you ever tell me about this trick
with washing the face? All this time, and you never told me."
Martha threw up her hands, "Oh, you're just avoiding my point! Just
for that, I'm going to the restroom. Please don't make Steven cry
while I'm gone."
"Okay, hon, okay," Ronnie said absently, returning to me. "Steven,
I meet Martha, next thing you know I'm calling her 'hon'. Can you
believe it? But tell me...what's this about washing? Seriously.
See, I have this blemish right here under my ear, and I have these
pores, see? Over here...?"
Minutes later, Martha returned from the restroom and found us
engrossed in a serious exchange.
"I can't believe," Martha said sarcastically, "that you two are
talking about cosmetics!"
"You know, Martha, this guy's fascinating. I never saw anybody go
into things so thoroughly. You do everything that way, Steven?"
The talk went from skin care to the relation between mind and body
and how an individual's acceptance of their faults affects their
willingness to either change the situation or simply resign to it
and remain a victim.
Soon Martha was yawning again.
"You already worn out?" Ronnie grumbled. "Just when it was gettin'
good!"
"It's been a rough two days," Martha said. "We're calling it a
night soon."
"Steven," Ronnie said, cupping her hand around her mouth in a mock
whisper, "Martha always does this when she's losing an argument with
me."
We left the diner. Ronnie strolled with us along First Avenue. On
the way, we passed a pet store. The store was closed for the day,
but we stopped to look at the giant green and white parrots and the
toucans in the darkened window.
"Fascinating," I murmured, my mouth so close to the window that my
breath left a small circle of fog on the glass. "What huge birds.
I never saw anything like this back home."
"It's depressing, though," Martha said sadly. "The ones who aren't
in cages have their wings clipped. What a mean thing to do to such
gorgeous creatures. C'mon, Steven. Ronnie. Please. I can't stand
seeing this."
Back in our building, Ronnie stopped at her apartment to thank us.
"Steven, what a nice evening. Does this make up for my stupidity of
last night?"
I pretended ignorance. "What stupidity?"
"You're sweet," Ronnie said, loading the comment with overplayed
mushiness. She kissed me quickly on the cheek. "Mm. You Rhett
Butlers are all alike."
After Ronnie said goodnight and closed her door, I turned to see
Martha smiling at me. "One more chore. Let's cap off the night
with one more New York experience. Come on."
Continued...
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