Sitting here with my eyes closed, inhaling the scent of the rain on the cool evening air, I realize the need to purge has grown too strong to be ignored.

Time to write. 

This piece of writing is not intended to be erotica. If you are looking for typical mainstream erotica it will not interest you at all. I am posting it here because after writing it, I found the memories it gives me to be erotic to me in many ways. One of the beauties of any truly erotic sensation is how different people can be excited in different ways by different things. Often, if there is a great burden or a terrific strain upon us we find it hard to allow ourselves that necessary release in order to enjoy anything erotic or arousing. This piece of writing has come to be through many long nights of staring up at the ceiling, many thousands of miles of traveling with the stereo too loud and the windows down even when the night air rushing in was too cold. One more sleepless moment wondering why, one more mile behind me thinking maybe, just maybe after the next mile a person or an event that will make a difference in my life is waiting for me to stumble upon.

It occurred to me that writing in such a context about someone now gone may be taken as offensive. Knowing how I feel, I think that is a risk worth taking. After all, no one is making you read this. If you don’t care to know, by all means go to another story. If you do…. Please be my guest. Besides, maybe reading this will help someone find a name for some deep aching pain that has been plaguing them, find a way to touch some alien emotion that has been eluding them, find words to describe a loss they can’t yet understand. Maybe while reading this someone can find the words to bring some feelings to the surface that have been long waiting. Just a little push to bring the words to the surface that can make someone’s hurting go away. We all lose loved ones, through many tears do we realize that we also lose ourselves along the way. Maybe reading this will help someone, if even a solitary person, find some part of themselves they lost when a loved one died. Memories can indeed be comforting, but they have their darker side. With every fond memory we have to come back to the harsh reality that person we made those memories with is now gone. This is written for Bobby, entirely for her. And as I sit here and write these words that come to me so painfully, I know she sits here with me. And for that reason, in its own way – this piece is also for me. 

Learning to breathe again

As to be expected, my life has taken yet another series of turns since I moved to florida. I’ve been here for a little over three months now. I came here with practically no set intentions except to find work and establish myself with some kind of schedule. Something concrete to make myself a part of, then I would go from there. I started work at a restaurant a half hour’s drive from my home. The people there are kind enough, a lot of smiling faces that surprisingly enough go beyond the courtesy it takes to get a decent tip. There are quire a few attractive women working there, and that in itself has helped lead me to write again. As all my constant readers know, I am eternally fascinated by women. I have always loved the inner beauty of detail. Working where I do, I get to indulge in the true art of details. All the women and girls working there have their own prettiness, some more inside than out. And some of them have a genuine beauty I get to enjoy every day. Eyes and ears open and mouth closed, that has been my gospel for many years. Silently I get to enjoy the presence of so many women who are pleasing to the eye. In a vague way it makes me feel at home, in a way it makes me miss home as well. It amazes me how a brief moment spent lingering in their perfume can bless me with such vivid memories. And lately all those memories have been of Bobby. And I can never think of Bobby without thinking of the boys. And Sharron. God how I would have loved to know that child. Some of them remind me of Bobby in ways that make me feel downright awkward. A ringlet of dark chestnut colored hair, a glint of light in their eyes that casts light on an internal brilliance any man would be lucky to see. And lately, for every moment I find myself thinking of tangling my fingers in the hair of peering into those eyes after a long engaging kiss, I realize that memories of Bobby I have been wrestling with for years want to be seen, no longer pushed back and stored away for fear of crying or being angry at their sight. 

Bobby was a server. She was very good at her job, and she attacked it with an enthusiasm that always left me amazed. She was petite, barely five feet tall. She has short curly jet-black hair, her skin was fair, soft to the touch. Her eyes were an infinitely deep glassy shade of black. I can remember always enjoying the comfortable warm feeling of her head against my shoulder. The day we met, her hair was the first thing I noticed about her. She was walking away to the kitchen. I had just been seated at one of her tables. When she came back to my table, our eyes met and there was a spark so brilliant between us that we were both struck for words for a moment or two. The courtship of Bobby came soon afterward. Bobby had three sons from a previous marriage. When I first met them it was an equally awkward situation for all of us. It was obvious the boys didn’t like the idea of sharing their mother’s attention or affection, but I could tell it was more than that. I could tell there was a deep underlying hurt and distrust for men inside those boys. Bobby felt uneasy in her own way, I could tell. Those boys were all a big part of her. I knew she loved them fiercely. We had met several times before she wanted me to meet them. I can respect her for wanting to “ feel me out “ before exposing her children to me. For that I have the utmost of respect. Bobby was always a good mother. And for that I will always ache, for when she died she was also the mother of our child.

Scott was her oldest son. He was a quiet brooding boy. I could identify with him nigh well. I was raised the youngest of ten kids, all of my nine older siblings were girls. My dad ate a bullet when I was about two years old. I always felt a deep inner pain. It felt like I was shaking uncontrollably inside. So I knew well the pain that Scott felt. He missed his dad, and he felt a deep shame that his dad was no longer there for him and his brothers. Scott was very protective of his mother. I could sense that somewhere within that boy there lie a dark rage for his father that might one day come to light. He was often the subject of ridicule for his quiet manner. He had difficulty concentrating in school, and it was evident he had trouble grasping some things that came easily to other kids. He was enrolled in a special education class in school. This as well made him the center of much unwanted attention. As the relationship between Bobby and I progressed I made some hard fought progress with Scott. I searched long and hard for something that held his interest. I found it in the form of Stephen King movies. I found Scott enthralled in The Shining late one Friday night. So one day I came home from work, told Scott to get in the car, winked at Bobby and gave her a kiss on the forehead. I took Scott to the Montgomery Public Library and gave him an adult library card. He checked The Shining and Skeleton Crew out, and when we got home we sat to read. As time progressed I felt myself living with a sort of pride that was entirely unknown to me. Listening to him blaze across the pages and pronounce words that once left him silent and angry filled me with an overpowering sense of pride. And Bobby always sat in the living room silently. Pretending to be reading her own book. But I knew Bobby well, she was always listening. Every Friday evening Scott and I made our trip to the library, often with his younger brothers in tow, and every Friday night we would sit and attack each new book. Every Friday night Bobby and I would
make love with a heated passion what always left us breathless. With time our reading days increased to twice a week, then three days a week, then every chance we got. As his reading skills improved, I gave him a rule. Every day of the week I expected him to come home from school with a book under his arm. Not just to hold, but to read every word. And that he did. His grades inched steadily upward from the moment we first sat down to read. And I like to think, maybe his pride did too. Scott was such an outwardly sad boy. I can remember every moment that I saw a genuine smile on his face. During those moments he seemed to be bursting with life. I knew with time that the pain we shared together could go away. And when we read, when he conquered a particularly hard word or when he found a chapter that he knew was a scene in a Stephen King movie, I was rewarded with the most beautiful of smiles from that boy. Every time. 

James was Bobby’s second son. He was a very cool tempered, intelligent child. He was also a very outspoken daredevil. He excelled at all things physical. I used to tell him he was “ the master of rough and tumble “. He was always the first to take up for his brothers, the fastest to step in and push the bully away. His eyes were alive with a sparkling interest in anything and everything. I got him a telescope for his birthday once, and he fell deeply in love with the world he could see from afar. He would draw charts of the stars he had discovered, the shapes within the constellations he had read about in books then found with his telescope. James was blessed with a patience that would strain most adults to keep. I can remember many days looking out our kitchen window and watching as he would show his brothers the art of a perfect throw, how to stand with the bat before a pitch, the art of making girls scream with disgust. He always took time and caution to share every ability he had with his brothers. Something inside that boy was a natural born leader. His intelligence was sometimes beyond his years, as when Bobby and I would send them off to bed before a long mutual bath. James would often look at me and smile blissfully. Yes, he was a smart boy indeed. He knew what really went bump in the night.

Michael was Bobby’s youngest boy. He was her baby and her anchor. She watched his every move, hung on his every word. She loved all her boys, but it was evident that her and Michael were somehow closer than any of them. Michael was what I like to call “ all boy “. He was always into something. Mischievous, always laughing. His eyes sparkled with a mischief that was impossible not to love. He was full of questions, wanting to know everything about anything. I always found myself looking forward to the challenge of his next question. ( to which there was no end ) His eyes were as black as his mom’s, and I could tell he had his mother’s determination. There was a small park across the lot from where we lived, and I always watched the boys from our kitchen window as they would play there. One day I looked out to see three teenage boys standing around the only basketball goal. One of them was holding a new basketball I recognized to be Micheal’s, and Michael was standing there empty handed. It looked to me that he was crying. I put on my shoes and stepped outside with the firm intention of sending the boys packing, minus Michael’s basketball. I made it to the bottom step of our porch when I saw Michael walking back across the lot with his basketball under one arm. I asked him ” Who were those boys and why did they have your basketball Michael? “ He just looked at me matter of factly and said “ They live across the park. They thought they were going to take my ball but I showed them “ And with that he went inside, got a drink from the kitchen and went back to the park to play. He was five at the time. That was the kind of boy Michael was. God I miss that boy. I miss all of them. Michael would sometimes curl up in my lap and fall asleep with his head against my chest while we watched a movie. That always left me with the most surreal sense of joy I had ever known. I could feel his little chest rise and fall with every breath. His dark brown hair was soft and warm, comfortable against my skin. And often when he was asleep Bobby would be asleep beside him with her head on my shoulder. Scott and James would be on the floor engulfed in the television. As I sit here writing, my bedroom window open, I can hear the sound of tree frogs chanting and the occasional cry of a crane across the water, I feel every one of them. Somehow, they are still with me. And I miss Sharron with them. 

Looking back on things, I developed a respect for Bobby I didn’t even know I had, a form of respect that was until then alien to me. Before we met, Bobby had been taking a hard beating from life. The boy’s father had left them stranded a week after Michael was born. From what she told me of it, there was no warning, no goodbyes. They had been arguing a lot, very little peaceful moments between them, no time spent together as a family. From all I could gather, he simply left them and disappeared. Bobby worked every possible moment for four long years before we met. Even after we were together she worked like a woman possessed. She never let those boys know a single moment of hunger or fear. Her love for those boys always made me proud. She had a beautiful soul I was proud to be close to. 

Time passed by and I made up my mind that bobby was going to be my bride. I volunteered for an extra shift at work, and for three months straight I worked an eighteen hour day. I had Bobby firmly convinced that no one else was able to fulfill the obligation and I had to do it or else. There was a strong element of truth to that little white lie. I did have to do it. No way in hell was I going to give her a cheap engagement ring. On valentine’s day 1999 I took a knee and gave Bobby a four carat diamond and asked her to marry me. The look on her face is permanently embedded in my memory. She said yes, almost without breath.

Months went by, time was rolling forward in a casual pace that allowed us to enjoy many good moments together. One day late in July came home from work and Bobby greeted me at the door as she always did. There was a sincere yet uneasy smile on her face. I immediately noticed the boys weren’t there. Usually they were home from school and playing in the yard or huddled on the living room floor playing video games by that time. She told me they were at her parents, which was odd given the time of day. I knew something was out of the ordinary, so I told her to sit down with me so we could talk. Before I could ask, she spoke. 

“ I’m pregnant. “

Even now years later I have trouble finding words to grasp the feelings those words gave me. I know she was nervous, scared. Unsure of how I would respond to those words. I held her, kissed her. I told her the only thing I could think to say. “ Baby I love you. I’m so proud “. And I realized that day I was to be a father. I considered myself a father figure to the boys, I prided myself in being able to influence and educate them to every good thing about human nature I could, but now everything was entirely different. Bobby not only gave me herself, now she was blessing me with a part of myself. The words still escape me. We sat down one rainy October day and searched for names. We both had different ideas of course, each of us refusing to simply let the other pick a name of their choice. With some discussion, family history and a lot of thought, we decided on a name. I had already taken Bobby for her ultrasound, and we knew we had a girl on the way. And her name was going to be Sharron Elise. 

Fade to black. The Florida night sky is split by a brilliant flash of heat lightning. My pseudonym, the sole creature on this planet who can find the words that escape me, pushes me aside. What follows is what only he can find the words to write. I close my eyes and breathe deeply as I sit at my keyboard.

And the dark eyed demon picks up a wickedly sharp pencil and begins to write.

Bobby was immediately attractive to me. From a young age I was aware that I had specific likes about girls. While the other young boys were spitting through their teeth at the girls, I was secretly admiring their hair, their skin, the way they smelled when close and the way they moved. Women move with an internal balance and grace that is absent in men. Bobby was very petite. Not fragile at all, she reminded me much of a silent jungle cat. Her skin was firm and fair, her eyes were always alert. Her hair had a natural sheen to it. Her stomach, which always excited and fascinated me to no end, was smooth and solid. Her legs were supple and muscular. Not manly but not weak at all. Her breasts were small, the skin there was warm and firm, her nipples were pert and always upright. They were the color of dark coral. I can remember many nights with her on top me, my left hand raking the small of her back and my right locked in her hair as we made feverish love, ringlets of her hair falling about my fingers as she rocked forcefully on top of me. One of the beauties of a long relationship, you learn one another. With time we knew just how to make the other climax so intensely that we would often fall into a heap after sex and lie there shivering and gasping for breath. Bobby was sexy in a number of ways, and she also enjoyed sex. There were many nights when we would take long lingering baths together, lying in the tub till the water was almost cold. We would lock the door and turn off the lights, writhe on the wet tile floor and madly fuck until we were both unable to climax any more. Then we would take a quick shower, crawl under warm blankets and make slow love again before sliding off to a warm oblivious sleep. I remember so vividly how she would clamp her hands around me, pull me down to her and against her as hard as she could, always surprising me with her strength, and grinding against me with a delirious slippery friction, a great inhalation of breath and a deep animal sigh as she came. And when I would come she always held me equally as strong, as close. Many nights we fell asleep that way. We always joked that if we slept in separate beds there would be practically no laundry to clean. That was just like Bobby, though. She was true to everything she did. We had our little rituals we observed, ways and times to be together that we never compromised. When she worked night shifts, I would wait up for her. She would come home and I would greet her at the door. I would sit her down, take her shoes off and rub her feet. I would sit on the couch and she would sit on the floor cross-legged in front of me. I would brush her hair for sometimes an hour as she told me about her day. What her customers or managers did to piss her off, what some few people did to make her smile. I always listened to every word she told me, hung on every word and kept it with me. Since then I have made the habit of always being polite to servers who are obviously worth their merit. It seems I have developed a soft spot in my heart for the working girls who feed and entertain us and give a pleasant face and a nice body to enjoy along with our meal. Some people think I’m sexist and being arrogant when I overtip. Me, I can live with that. I have my reasons. If a server gives me good service, male or female, when I leave I am going to leave them the tip of the day. Over time I have made it a moral imperative to be a good tipper, and a very polite customer. And I know Bobby would be proud. Working where I do I get to indulge in that quite often. I have discovered though, sometimes I find myself feeling awkward and struck for words around some of the more attractive women at work. When I don’t know what to say, I just say nothing at all. 

Bobby was the happiest woman alive when she was pregnant. I had heard tales and adages of pregnant women glowing, and with her I found much truth in those stories. Her skin took on a warm soft tone. She was fortunate in her ways. When she was at her biggest during her pregnancy, she was all belly. Her behind didn’t get bigger, her legs and calves didn’t swell. Her fingers and toes never swelled up like little sausages. Hey breasts got a little bigger, but other than her belly and her skin she looked practically the same. And she worked hard still. She worked less hours after she was into the second trimester, but she still worked the same. It used to tickle me to see her dancing in between the tables and other servers as she worked, with her belly stuck out in front of her. I gave her a bath on many occasions when she got home from work, and one night she was crying over something that one of the boys had said. I knew it was the hormones speaking, and Bobby knew as well what was an innocent question from a child was not intended to hurt her feelings. But still yet, the smallest things can make a pregnant woman cry. So to cheer her up, as I sat there beside the tub lathering her hair with chamomile shampoo, I told her not just any woman could have a belly so big it made her look like a human forklift and still be so sexy. She started laughing, and we both laughed sitting there in the bathroom until we were both crying. After that night I used to pick at her and tell her I was going to catch her asleep and tattoo NIS across one cheek of her behind and SAN across the other. ( Nissan makes forklifts ) 

The dark eyed demon pauses, takes the tip of the pencil from the paper momentarily, closes his insanely black eyes, opens them again and begins to write again. Yeah I know man, this is going to hurt like hell. 

Christmas time came around, and the boys were home from school for the holidays. And boys being as they are, they were loud, anxious, and full of energy. Boys will be boys, and Scott James and Michael were no exception. They tied up and fought at every chance. Bobby was very pregnant, her belly protruding like a medicine ball. I was sick with the flu. I had to work a full day in the rain the week before, and I came down with the flu bug hard and heavy. Bobby was off work til the baby was born. I was patently miserable. The last thing we needed was a house full of sick people with a baby on the way, so Bobby and I kept our safe distances while I was sick. I had a blistering fever at the time, so it was safe to assume I could easily pass it on to any of them. Bobby decided that the boys had been cooped up inside long enough, and she wanted to take them out and let them do something to burn off some energy. She gathered them up, packed them in her Chevy Celebrity and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. They went to see a movie and I went solidly asleep. The date was Dec. 20th 1999.

About three hours later the phone rang. It was the Montgomery Police Dept. On their way home from the movies Bobby and the boys were hit by a drunk driver as they passed through the intersection of the eastern bypass and Monticello drive. The driver ran the light at the intersection and hit her car broadside. The police later estimated his speed at around seventy miles per hour. They were all wearing their seat belts, yet none of them survived. I can see Michael sitting in the middle of the bench seat next to his mom, talking wide-eyed and excitedly about the movie. I can see James sitting next to him daydreaming about being the hero who blasts the bad guys and saves the day, riding away into some sunset on a black motorcycle. And I can see Scott sitting there silently, secretly wishing he could be the guy kissing the pretty girl at the end of the movie. And I can see Bobby sitting there behind the wheel, one hand on the wheel and the other across her stomach. Anxious to be home. Glad to be with her boys and blissful to be pregnant. That woman loved life so much. And then she was gone. They all were.

The front bench seat in Bobby’s Celebrity was torn loose and Bobby was ejected from the driver’s side window, the car hit her and rolled over her. The boys were crushed between the passenger side and the driver’s side of the interior of Bobby’s car. The steering wheel took Michael’s life. Scott was killed instantly by the impact, he was sitting closest to the passenger door. And James was helplessly in between them. The intersection sat facing a row of stores. A retired police officer was working at one of the stores as a security guard. He saw the accident as it happened. I’ve always felt that there was some pagan saint who looked after drunk drivers. They can cause the most terrible of accidents, and they typically walk away without even a scratch. But not this time. The old cop told me that he saw the drunk’s car run the light, clear the right hand lane of the intersection barely touching the asphalt and slamming into Bobby’s car. After the cars screeched to a halt, after the smoke cleared and the squeal of tires had faded, the drunk opened the door of his Buick and stepped out. He took two steps toward Bobby’s car and fell dead on the asphalt. 

I can’t count the times I have wanted to see his dead body lying there, run up to him and kick him until I couldn’t kick any more. 

The day after Christmas I watched five caskets lowered slowly into the ground. Now that some time has passed I have no trouble admitting that I came apart at the seams that day. That it took me almost a year to stitch myself back together. During that time I was sometimes barely self-sufficient. And when I came home that day I had to face the hardest blow of all. When I walked through my front door and saw their Christmas presents staring back at me, the gravity of my situation struck home. The loss hit me harder than it had even at their funeral. And at that moment I decided I was going to get the hell out of Alabama. 

And that is why I am now living in florida and working in a restaurant full of pretty girls and a few genuinely beautiful women. 

Sometimes I find myself feeling nervous in situations that normally wouldn’t make me feel so. Sometimes I feel awkward in situations that I would normally breeze through. Yet still I make progress every day. I have dated a few people since, and I can say with absolute clarity that the few women I have dated and been with are all decent people who Bobby would have approved of, despite her natural female pride. If she were still her I would naturally never give another woman a second glance. But the truth is, she’s not. So I have start over my entire life here in florida. And with time that is exactly what I intend to do.

Have you ever met someone, thought you knew them, then realized you didn’t know them all? Maybe you have.

Never mistake silence for disinterest.

And the dark eyed demon puts his pencil down. Lowers his head, closes his eyes, and the dark eyed demon sleeps as a tear burns its way down his cheek