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From: Incest Man <incestman@graffiti.net>
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Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 10D
Date: Sun, 13 Aug 2006 00:02:46 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.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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