THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANEJust before my 9th birthday my godmother and great-aunt Francesbought me a new dark brown suit and new shoes for my Confirmationceremony at St. Mary’s Catholic School. It was a dim, cloudySunday afternoon outside; but inside the ornate, high-ceilingGothic church hundreds of banks of candles cast a warm gloriouslight over everyone in the church. Mom and Aunt Frances and mydeceased father’s mother, Grandma Rose, drove me to the front en-trance and let me out on the sidewalk while Aunt Frances parked theBuick behind the church. I stood there for a moment looking downat myself, all got up in the immaculate suit and the shiny newshoes, my hair slicked with a hefty, odorous portion of WildrootHair Oil. I asked myself if it were really me in this costume.If I bent my arms the sleeves of the suit crinkled and wrinkledstiffly, but when I straightened my arm the cloth fell back into asmooth, neatly creased tube. I wore a tight starchy white shirtwith a flowery bowtie my aunt had chosen. The tie and the thickcollar dug uncomfortably into the front of my throat.I felt out of place, as emotionaly removed from the impendingceremony as I would have been at a funeral for a perfect stranger’sdead dog. I climbed the front marble steps and entered the frontvestibule, an imposing, darkly paneled hall where I lined up witha chatty, squealing assemblage of other suited boys. The girls,fluttering and chirping like sparrows, lined up at the other end ofthe hall in fluffy communion-style dresses and white shoes. Soonthe long-robed nuns in their stiff white bobbing habbits shushed usinto silence. They strode quickly through our ranks to check usout and nod their stern approval.Even the shuffling of feet on the waxed tile floor came to adead stop as my own home-room teacher, Sister Mary Joseph, sternestand most dreaded nun of all, strode into the room. No more than atiny slip of a woman, her imperious expression and long stride gaveher a commanding manner. She stood exactly in the center of thelong and narrow hall, her arms folded firmly before her so thather hands were hidden inside the floppy arms of her robe. As sheslowly passed her glowering eyes from one end of our ranks to theother, her thin lips characteristically pursed and reset them-selves. The hall suddenly echoed as one of the k**s gave a loudsneeze, which was quickly followed by the echo of four nuns givinga sharp and loud “Sh!” In the ensuing silence, Sister Mary Josephbegan her announcement in her usual manner, with a rise of her headand a long deep breath.”c***dren,” she said, “you are about to become soldiers for ourlord Jesus Christ.” Pause. “As you attend the holy ceremony ofConfirmation today, you will receive a scapular with an image ofyour patron saint.” Pause. “Wear your scapular at all times. Itis your protection from the dangers and temptations you encounterin your struggle with Satan. Protect it as you would your immortalsouls. Many holy martyrs of the Church have suffered pain of deathrather than lose possession of the holy image we will give you heretoday.” Pause. “You are fortunate and honored that your holyscapulars will be blessed by none other than Monseignor Kearny fromBlessed Sacrament School. He has honored us by agreeing to deliverthe blessing and the sermon today.” Pause. “Now we will all fileinto our pews.” Pause. “Be silent. And conduct yourselves asc***dren of Christ and as you were taught in the rehearsals. Don’tforget to kneel and to stand at the proper intervals for a High HolyMass. And remember at all times that the Monseignor is watching.I know you will make him proud of each of you, one and all.”She nodded to a nun at the door, who shoved opened the vastcarved walnut panels that led into the interior. The place filledwith the shuffling of new shoes and rustling of clothes as weentered double-file, first the boys and then the girls, and tookour assigned places in a line of wooden pews along the right sideof the church. As I shuffled slowly in line along the narrow aisleI passed my family, Aunt Frances and Mom smiling proudly my way,and my pert grandmother giving me a wink. Their obvious pleasurefailed to improve my humor; the only pleasantness I found in thesituation was the heavy waft of candle smoke and parafin in theair, and the dulcet singing of the choir in the loft above andbehind us. As this would be a High Mass, I knew I would at leasthave the pleasure of hearing Sister Albert’s accomplished choirsinging the Gregorian Chant required by the formality of theceremony.As usual, the Mass progressed in what I always thought was atortuously slow pace. And again as usual, I occupied my wanderingmind by studying the dozens of statuettes that line the walls ofSt. Mary’s. St. Christopher: a rugged, bearded, muscular manleaning heavily on his staff and struggling head-first through someundefined tempest, the c***d Jesus hoisted on his massive shoulders.St. Stephen the Martyr: in the swaddling garb of what I later cameto know as the clothing worn by Roman peasants, lashed at his wristsand ankles to a wooden post, posed with his eyes lifted to heaven,all done with exacting, lurid anatomical detail.My gaze never failed to linger on the carved image of St.Joseph, whose name matched my middle name and who had been chosenas the patron saint of my Confirmation. Not as herculean as St.Christopher, he was a long legged figure with a long beard, seatedat his carpenter’s bench with a tacking hammer in one strong hand,his other arm d****d around the shoulders of the peasant boyJesus, who clung absurdly dependant at his side. I studiedJoseph’s face interminably, striving to imagine what it might belike to have had such a father with strong, chiseled features andcommanding eyes under a heavily furrowed brow. I wondered whathis beard would feel like.And the Virgin Mary, a short, full-hipped woman in a simplewhite flowing robe with a blue shawl d****d about her head andshoulders. Her slim right hand was raised as if conferring on theviewer the two-fingered blessing that I had seen Pope Pius XIIgiving from his balcony in movie newsreels. In her right arm sheheld the half-nude c***d who turned its head to gaze at the viewerwith a frown of divine approbation that seemed blatantly inappro-priate on the infant’s face. Always my eyes fixed themselves onMary’s girl-like oval face. The sculptor had fashioned for hera pair of enchantingly dark, gentle eyes. Her expression wastender, knowing, forgiving. I could not match my mother’s facewith hers, nor my great aunt nor my grandmother nor anyone else.I wondered what it might be like to have such a mother. In manyways her expression reminded me of one I sometimes saw on MarthaJane. My eyes moved down to Mary’s small bosom, and warmly Iremembered the moist swell of Martha Jane’s breasts and the feelof her nipples on my tongue.I asked myself if the woman who lived within that statue wouldbe scandalized at my illicit familiarity with the feel and taste ofreal, warm, responsive titties. Would she, too, offer a nipple tome for sucking?I was fully aware of the blasphemous nature of these thoughts.As Mass moved agonizingly along, we c***dren prepared for communionby attending the rear confessional one by one. Dutifully, I duckedinto the dark curtained booth and spoke into the cloth-shroudedgrating that separated me from the priest, whom I could dimly seeand whom I knew immediately to be the kindly and unflappableFranciscan, Father Edward.Dutifully, I contrived a suitably penitent voice. Dutifully, Irecited the same repertoire of sins I usually confessed and forwhich I was truly sorry: for saying bad things about my fat AuntMary, whom I really didn’t like, even after I confessed not likingher; for talking back to my mother or disobeying and upsetting her;for not making the bed on Saturday; for taking God’s name in vainwhen I got angry at a k** on the playground and wished that Jesuswould tear the little bastard’s tongue out and send him to hell tobe devoured by slimy gnomes; and for falling asleep during morningMass.Brazenly, I made no mention of wondering what the Holy Mother’sbreasts were like. Brazenly, I made no mention of Martha Jane’sbreasts or her thighs or that I had made her cum. Brazenly andstubbornly I refused to connect Martha Jane with evil, and even ifI could I brazenly and stubbornly refused to betray our trust.On the other side of the grating Father Edward leaned back inwhat I could see was a brown leather-backed chair. He gave hisusual sighs and his usual response: “Very well, my c***d, and isthat all you have to confess?””Yes, Father.””You know you must honor your mother and you must not haveunkind feelings for your aunt, for they all love you and care foryou in ways you do not understand. And for your penance I want youto say ten hail marys and ten our fathers.””Yes, Father.””And remember to avoid the temptations and the sins of greed,envy, and lust.””Yes, father.”And then the usual, ritualized dismissal: “Your sins are forgiv-en. Go in peace, and sin no more. “”Thank you, Father.”I left the man with no inkling of Martha Jane. I wondered ifhis benediction forgave me for that as well as for the sins I hadconfessed. I thought the penance was a little out of line for notliking my fat Aunt Mary. Apparently at least half that penancemust have been slated for disobeying my Mom.Returning to my pew, I found the walls of St. Mary’s reverber-ating with the husky, amplified voice of Monseignor Kearny. Fromthe ornate pulpit at the front of the church he inveighed weightilywith his baritone’s voice of doom: “…and be wary, my c***dren,of the evil nature of the sins of the flesh, sins that render ourprecious souls disgusting in the sight of the Lord. For to Jesusand His Holy Mother Mary, the sins of the flesh are truly the mostoffensive sins of all. Because of them we risk the punishment ofbeing cast down to a terrible, burning place in purgatory for tenthousand years, and after that, into the flames of hell for alleternity…”Just ahead of me sat Sister Mary Joseph, nodding slowly inrighteous agreement as the monseignor thundered on. I sighedimpatiently, my eyes wandering until they fell on the statue ofJesus, gruesomely hanging from a crucifix high over the center ofthe altar. I cringed at the sight of the bloody nails…I have no idea how much of this tripe I did or didn’t absorb,but at the time I consciously rejected it as irrelevant to whatMartha Jane and I experienced. At that time I found other aspectsof life to be much more frighteningly evil: evil was the beatingof a boy I knew by some unknown k**s who came to our part of theproject one day from the big apartment buildings on the hill at thetop of Exchange Street. Evil was the Russians wanting to drop atombombs on everyone, and evil was the Nazis and the Japs who hadblown off the arms and legs of soldiers and shot out the eyes ofthe man who lived a few doors down from me. But I could not equateevil with the image of Martha Jane spreading her thighs to allow myhands to please her. To use a more modern phrase: the equationdidn’t compute.However, I was not so brazen nor rebellious as not toappreciate the majesty of the edifice and interior of St. Mary’sand the solemnity of the ceremony. Gregorian Chant had itshypnotic qualities, as did the ritual of the purple-robed mon-seignor moving down a line of piously kneeling c***dren as hed****d a scapular ribbon round their necks.When he came to me I kneeled properly and straightly. Behindme, my mother stood with her hand on my left shoulder as theceremony required.The Monseignor intoned, “What is the c***d’s name?””Steven,” my mother answered.”And who,” the monseignor intoned, “is his patron saint?””Saint Joseph,” my mother answered.The monseignor reached toward an altar boy who fished out ascapular–a thin ribbon with a small, two-inch cloth-framed imageof the indicated patron–and then the monseignor d****d it looselyround my neck.”Steven, I confirm you as a soldier in the army of Christ underthe guidance of your patron, Saint Joseph.”There followed a quickly delivered chant of garbled Latin as hemoved to the next c***d in line. Even I, brazen and rebellioussinner that I was, had to admit that the theatrical power of thispageantry was highly effective. Of course my relatives were in-ordinately pleased and heaped praise onto me incessantly on thedrive back home, which mercifully was only a few blocks away.Mom had arranged for a small dinner with my Aunt Frances andGrandma Rose, who brought ravioli and salad and knotbread for theoccasion. The kitchen being too small, we ate in the living roomon aluminum trays and paper plates. I’d had to fast in order toattend the required communion during the ceremony, and it was wellpast noon; I sat in one corner and ate like a famished cave man.”Don’t spill gravy on your shirt!” my aunt screamed in herusual panic, and Mom removed my coat and stuffed a napkin under mytight collar. The napkin hurt, but I was too hungry to complain.”Don’t eat so fast,” my mother prompted. I replied by stuff-ing ravioli into my mouth until it squeezed out the sides of mylips.”There,” my aunt grunted, throwing up her hands. “See whathe does? Why won’t you listen to your Mama?”My mother warned, “You better not stain that suit. MarthaJane will be here later on. See wants to see you in it.”At that, I didn’t eat more slowly but I ate more carefully,making certain the napkin covered as much of my starchy shirt aspossible.But by the end of the day Martha Jane had not arrived. As itgrew dark I went outside our apartment and looked into theirapartment window next door, but no lights were on. Going back toour apartment I asked my mother what happened to Martha Jane.Mom answered, “I guess she didn’t have time. She probablywent to the hospital with her mother and her Uncle Joe. He getssick all the time with that shot up stomache of his, ever since hecame back from overseas.”Once again before getting ready for bed, I checked Martha Jane’sapartment but no one was there. Reluctantly I went back to ourbedroom and removed my suit, getting into my undies for bed. Mom wasin her nightgown, turning out all the lights. I lay on the bed inthe lighted bedroom near the window and studied the picture of SaintJoseph on my scapular. The portrait had been done in oils, appar-ently in the late Victorian period. The man was heavily bearded,piously looking toward heaven with a conventionally saintly gaze.The scapular itself was a simple device, a black flat rayon ribbonwith the cloth-bound portrait dangling by a similar piece of cloth.The painting was done in the same rich oils as a picture once shownto my class by Sister Mary Joseph, who had found in a book what sheconsidered to be a true representation of the fires of hell. Shebrandished the book before the ogling eyes of the k**s and told uswhat would happen to us if we were sent to hell. It showed a dimlylighted cavern populated by crawling serpents and evil clouds ofsmoke. Snarling, leering, crocodile-toothed hairless dogs ate theirway through the intestines of screaming victims and cruelly tore offtheir arms and legs.Holding my scapular before me, I wondered if its reputed magicpowers could indeed protect me from such a fate. Certainly, ithad done a shabby job of protecting me from temptation. I couldn’timagine how anything could keep me from engaging in future naughtyintimacies with Martha Jane. The image that made me feel a creepyapprehension was that of having to protect the scapular with mylife. Suppose, as Sister Angelica from the fourth grade had pro-posed weeks earlier, the Chinese Communists invaded the countryand arrested all the Catholics and strangled their c***dren? Iwould be found wearing a scapular, certainly a dead giveaway, andwould be sadistically and slowly strangled if I didn’t give it up.This morbid thought haunted me as Mom climbed in the bed andshut the light. When I grew a little older Mom would sleep in theliving room on the sofabed, but in those days she slept with me.My place was at the window side, because I often enjoyed sittingby the window sill and looking out into the dark before fallingasleep. Mom said good night and rolled away from me. For a longtime I lay face up, pondering the magnitude of my reponsibilitiesas a soldier in the army of Christ with an official scapular thatI had to wear at all times to confirm my identity.Late in the night I awoke and found myself totally alone inthe bed. Feeling something moving under me, I rose up on my kneesand looked down. Horrified, I saw dozens and then hundreds ofblack thumb-sized roaches dashing across the white sheets in alldirections. Frantically I pounded the mattress and made widesweeping movements with my outspread hands to wipe them away.They kept coming, multiplying, crawling everywhere, I couldn’tstop them…Suddenly I was awake. I was on my knees in the bed. MyMom slept on her side, next to me. My hands were spread on thesheets in front of me. But there were no roaches. Only theclean white sheets. My heart pounded. I waited for it to stop.The only object on the sheet before me was the tangled, black-stringed scapular.I picked it up and placed it on the window sill. As I didso, my arm was flooded by a narrow beam of moonlight.Stealthily I moved to the edge of the foot of the bed, thenonto the floor. My heart still pounding slightly with the memoryof my terror, I slowly opened the corner chest and took out a newsheet, which I brought with me into the kitchen, carefully lookingback to see my mother still asleep. Wrapping the sheet around me,I opened the back door, wincing as it creaked halfway open. Look-ing behind me again, I saw no one following me. I walked into thedark back yard, barely visible in the light from a streetlampseveral doors away near the corner of the building. A cricketchirped lazily. I moved out near the curb of the access drivewaybehind our building and looked across Martha Jane’s back yard. Isaw no lights. It was too dark for me to see into their bedroomwindow. I wondered where she was. When would she be back?My mother appeared in her nightgown at the back door, frown-ing sleepily into the dark with swollen eyes. “Speedy? Speedy?”Reluctantly, I walked toward her with the tails of my whiteshroud trailing at my feet.”What are you doin’ out here in the middle of the night?” Shebent down and examined me. “Are you walking in your sleep? Huh?Are you asleep?”Seeing that she had furnished me with an excuse as good as anyI might conjure on my own, I nodded yes.”Are you asleep?” she asked again.I nodded. “I’m asleep,” I said plainly, and looked up to seeif there were any possibility that she believed me.”Well, come in the house. Come on, get in here and get back tobed.” She pulled me gently into the kitchen and stroked my hair.”Are you awake now? Answer me, are you awake now?”I nodded yes, and kept walking in my oversized sheet to thebedroom, where I left the sheet on the floor and climbed back intobed. As Mom settled beside me I nestled back into my pillow, faceup, and looked away from her into the shafts of moonlight thatbanded the window sill.Mom asked irritably, “What *were* you dreaming about?””Roaches,” I muttered.”What?””Roaches. The roaches from the scapular.””Roaches?” she repeated, incredulously. “Well, go back tosleep. Are you alright now?”I nodded yes, several times.”Go back to sleep, then.”She turned away from me and drew the top sheet to hershoulders. Soon she was still, breathing deeply. I lay watchingthe moonbeams, listening for echoes of Martha Jane in the room.The resting woman beside me felt like a foreign object that didn’tsound or feel like the Martha Jane I wanted to talk to and explainmy dream to.I searched the moonbeams and thought about her until I fellasleep again.PART 3B:For several weeks I saw Martha Jane only now and then as shewalked across the grounds on her way in or out of the project. Shecaught sight of me once from a couple of blocks away and smiled andwaved and yelled Hi.Meanwhile, it seems my Mom and future step-dad had gone througha brief spat. They started dating again a few weeks later. But mysitter was not Martha Jane. In fact, I had two different sittersat first. The first must not have been very interesting, as I haveabsolutely no recollection of who they were or how they looked. Theidentity of the second sitter is also a blank, but I recall that Ispent the evening not at home but in the sitter’s apartment, acrossthe driveway and at a slight angle from my own building. Throughtheir back kitchen window that night I could see the back door thatled to my own apartment. And just to the left was the apartmentwhere Martha Jane and her family lived. At one point that night Isaw her in her kitchen; there was no mistaking that pretty face andfrizzy auburn hair. I waved to her. Of course, she didn’t see me.I went back later and waited for a while but she didn’t show again.And by the time the sitter walked me back across the driveway backhome, all the lights were out in Martha Jane’s place.When I had not seen her for several more days I bumped into heraccidentally just as I was going out the front door on my way toschool. She came outside at the same time with her schoolbooksunder her arm.”Hey, hon,” she sang as she locked her door. She beamed atme and gave me her best Southern twang. “Where’ve you been,sugar?””where’ve-you-been-too,” I mimicked playfully.”Well,” she went on, making a silly face, “Where YOU been?””Well,” I said in the same way, “Where YOU been?”She laughed and gave a mild go-away wave with her free hand.”Oh, silly!” She shook her head. She was wearing a long plaid,pleated skirt and a white blouse. I very clearly remember thatmorning and how she looked; bright, clean, basic, unpretentious,very very pretty in a simple, uncomplicated way.We walked a few blocks together. I noticed she seemed to begetting thinner. She also looked tired, but cheerful. It turnedout she had been working very hard in school and was overly anxiousto bakırköy escort do well. “You wouldn’t know about that yet,” she said, “you’rebarely in the third grade.””What grade are you in?” I asked.”The umpteenth, feels like.”Umpteenth was our private code that meant something akin toforever or infinity.”I’m coming over Saturday,” she said. She had stopped andseemed serious and looked steadily at me without moving.I said, “Oh. Okay!” and beamed at her. She kept looking atme in the same mysterious way. I didn’t know why she wasn’tsaying anything. She seemed concerned, apprehensive.”Well,” she said after a minute and a short breath, “I am*supposed* to stay with you Saturday night, anyway.”I did not know what she was getting at or what was going on,or why she emphasized the word “supposed”. I do remember themoment clearly. I became very tense; I felt suddenly distant fromher and didn’t know what was wrong.She asked me pointedly, “Are we still friends, hon?””Sure we are,” I said.”I mean…are we still really, really friends?”I blushed. “Your my own special, very only, very umpeenth-degree friend.””And you’re my special little man, hon,” she said, but shewasn’t smiling, except weakly, sympathetically.We talked a little more, I don’t remember what we said. Sheseemed absent-minded. It was not until Saturday night that Idiscovered what she was thinking.It was all quite complicated. At least, it was for MarthaJane. As an adult I now understand, but as a 9-year-old I couldnot fathom it. I viewed things more simplistically.Next Saturday, Martha Jane and I sat and talked after she madedinner and after we cleaned the dishes. Then she studied on thesofa a while. She asked me a series of seemingly unrelatedquestions, none of which I remember. She was not as openlyaffectionate as usual and seemed remote, though not at all cold.Our exchanges were brief and rather formal. She asked me aboutsome uncles of mine who had not returned from the war, and sheasked if I ever saw my Uncle Frank–my father’s brother and one ofthe few male relatives in my family who had survived and returnedhome. I told her that Uncle Frank had not seen me since he fin-ished his last hitch in the Air Corps and decided to come back tothe States and go to college on the GI Bill. I told her about hisgetting wounded in a B-26 in the Pacific a few years ago and how hepulled up his pants leg and showed me the pink scars of the threehealed bullet holes in his lower thigh.She winced, making an “Ugh” face. She said firmly, “I don’twant to hear about it. I’ve heard enough about the war.”So I didn’t say any more. I sat on the floor watching her,trying to figure out how to get through to her.Martha Jane announced, “My Uncle Joe died, you know.””Yeah,” I said, “Mama told me.””He was sick for so long, from his war wounds. He lived longerthan we thought he would, but…It was hard on Mother. That’s twomen the war took from her, her husband and her brother.” Shestared ahead pensively, then blinked awake. “Well. Enough of that.”I said earnestly from across the room, “I’m real sorry, MarthaJane.”She smiled weakly. “Thank you, hon. I know you are. It’ll bealright.” She looked back at her book and began scribbling in hernotepad.For a long time–perhaps for most of the evening, it seems–she pored over her studies and remained unresponsive.Later that night I felt she was still mourning, despite sayingshe would get over it. I had seen a whole neighborhood full ofhurt, tragic people: widows, the disabled and the paralyzed, theshot-up and the abandoned of the War. I had seen my mom’s sister,my young and plain-looking Aunt Martha, when she came to ourapartment once in the middle of the night, pounding on our frontdoor and screaming for help until she woke us. My mom scrambledout of bed and I stood in the hallway watching from the bedroom asMom opened the front door for Aunt Martha, who rushed sobbing intothe living room and collapsed in a wailing heap on the sofa. Herhusband had beaten her again. Mom and Aunt Martha tried to hidethe bloodied bruises from me, but I had already seen them on AuntMartha’s face and arms and I knew what the marks meant withoutbeing told. Seeing her, I wanted to cry and throw my arms aroundher–even though she was, unfortunately, one of those adults Ididn’t trust. She was even more grimly puritanical and prim thanmy Mom, and a fundamentalist who considered everything an occa-sion for sin of some kind. But I understood her pain, bothphysical and emotional, without having it explained to me.That night occurred some years earlier, when I had just turned6. The commotion woke up Martha Jane’s family next door. She andher sister Evelyn came over in their robes and pajamas and MarthaJane went straight over to me because my mother panicked and wasrasping, “Get Speedy out of here, get him out of here!” MarthaJane led me to bedroom, where I looked up at her and whispered sothe others wouldn’t hear, “I already saw it.”She looked down at me. “You did what, hon?”I repeated, looking back to make sure the others couldn’t hearus, “I already saw it, Martha Jane. I saw what happened.”Martha Jane knelt down to me in her rumpled bathrobe andlooked into my eyes with her deep, striking green ones. “Then,”she said eyeing me seriously, “you understand what happened.”I nodded. Then I added, so the others wouldn’t hear, “UncleBobby hurt her again.”We were alone in the room. I could still see in my mind theearlier glimpse of Aunt Martha’s bloody lip and the dark bulgingeye, and the blue-black on one of her arms. I started crying. Icould not stop the tears from falling down my face, despite myattempts at remaining calm.”Oh, honey,” Martha Jane implored, “don’t get scared andstart crying, now.””I’m not scared,” I sniffled. “I know how Aunt Martha hurts.It makes me cry.””You–” Her eyes looking into mine softened and seemed toturn to mush. “Oh, you sweet baby.””Why does he do that to her?””I don’t know, hon. But you are so sweet. So very sweet.”She closed the bedroom door, shutting us off from the sobbingand wailing in the living room, and put me back into bed. She toldme it would all be okay in the morning and she understood myfeelings. She sat on the bed and said I shouldn’t feel bad aboutnot being with the others and she really didn’t want me to feel asthough I were being “locked away” in the room. She said, “I’llstay in here with you for a while if you want, okay? So you won’tbe all by yourself?”I told her, “It’s okay if I stay in here, ’cause I know AuntMartha. I know how she is. She doesn’t want us staring at her,she feels all ugly and everything. I’ll stay here so she won’tfeel ashamed. But…they don’t have to yell at me. They’re alwayshiding everything and acting like I won’t understand.””No, hon. They’re just scared, that’s all. They’re upset.”She stroked my head. She told me she would come back later andthat she would tell my Aunt Martha about my concern for her. But Isaid, “No, don’t tell her that.””But why not, hon.? I know she’d appreciate it.””I don’t want you to.””But, Speedy…honey, why not? What’s wrong?””I don’t…want…you…to.””But, hon…?””‘Cause every time she sees me, she’ll be embarrassed. She’llremember tonight. That’s the way she is.”I don’t know how long Martha Jane sat looking at me, strokingmy hair, with that amazed look on her face. Finally she said, “Ihave to go in there and help. You sure you’ll be alright?””Yes.”She sighed and rose and went to the door, but before going outshe leaned inside and blew me a kiss. “You’re my little man fromnow on, hon,” she said, and closed the door.That night had taken place some years before and was one ofthe very early incidents that had so endeared me to Martha Jane,and her to me. Now it was a few years later. And Martha Jane hadbecome more than just a neighbor. More than a friend. And now Isaw that she was the one who seemed hurt. Or, at best, worriedabout something.I didn’t know what to do about it. I was good at clowning,though, and I wondered how I could make her laugh. At 9 o’clockshe hustled me into the bathroom (no bubble-bath this time. I wasgetting a little “too old” for that) and she stayed in the livingroom while I bathed. I dried off and straightened the room, andpeeked around the door into the living room. She was on the sofa,studying intensely. But I did see a crumpled kleenex in her hand,and her eyes had reddened.An wave of empathy had me almost crying with her. There was acurtain-covered closet in the hallway between the bath and thebedroom. It could not be seen from where Martha Jane sat on thesofa. I got out of the tub, dried off, and went rummaging in thecloset, looking for a funny idea. Martha Jane heard me kickingaround.”Speedy, I thought you were going to bed,” she called.”Just lookin’ for somethin’,” I called back. I found mysix-shooter outfit in there, and a cowboy hat. I put on my mom’sdress with my six-guns and holsters on backward. I had seen enoughJohn Wayne movies to be able to do a fairly acceptable imitation ofthe guy. I donned this outfit and tied toy spurs loosely on myankles. Pulling the brim of the hat down low over my eyes, I walkedinto the living room. I looked ridiculous. I stood there while shehad her face in her book. It was a minute before she realized Iwas there, and when she finally looked up I yelled out in my bestJohn Wayne voice:”Howdy, pil-grum!”She blinked. Her mouth fell wide open and she covered it withthe kleenex. I strutted across the room with big stomping JohnWayne steps. “pardon me, ma-uhm, but…this town ain’t big forthah two of us. One of us has…got tah go.”She laughed in her oh-my-god, head-shaking way, not a big laughbut several breathy intakes. She blurted out, “Do you intend tosleep in that outfit?””Why, yes’m” I said, still John Wayne. With my thumb over myshoulder I indicated an imaginary object behind me. “Just me and…muh horse, over there.””Oh, no,” she said. “You are so cute.” She wiped one eye witha corner of the kleenex, trying to hide her red eyes. I think sheknew I couldn’t possibly have missed the gesture, but she kept upthe effort. She said, “I have something in my eye, hon. You go onand get ready for bed. Go on, now, it’s late.””Well…okay,” I said, disapppointed that I hadn’t accomplishedvery much. I walked back to the closet with one of my aluminum toyspurs dragging uselessly off one foot, and removed my silly gearand stored it back in the closet. As I was doing so, I saw MarthaJane turning back the bedclothes in the bedroom. I undressed downto the underwear that I usually slept in and crawled into bed.Martha Jane fluffed the pillows and turned off the lamp. She stoodby the bed.”You ready to go to sleep now, cowboy?””Right, ma-yum.”She was silent. She looked at the floor. I saw her eyeswater. She was dark against the dim light shedding in from theliving room.”You never met your daddy, did you, hon? You never saw him.He got killed over there before you ever knew who he was.”I didn’t know what to say to that. Every relative I encount-ered–and there were many of them in my huge family–mentioned mydead father at every visit, every Mass, every picnic, every Bingogame, every damn holiday dinner. Now Martha Jane was doing it.I was not angered by it, but I did find myself unable to understandthis constant lingering over the memory of dead men I never knew.Martha Jane went on quietly. “My daddy was killed in the war,too. He was one of ’em, too, that…died, got killed.” She took adeep, wobbly breath, and sighed. “I guess you’re lucky, Speedy, younever knew your daddy, but I knew mine. I used to…” She stoppedagain, breathed deeply, and when she started again her voice hadcracked and broken up. “I used to see him all the time. Every day.So you don’t know what that is, when some Army sergeant you neversaw before–” and she began talking and crying at the same time–“shows up at the door with a letter–“She suddenly crumpled and fell to her knees, her hands onher head, which was cradled on the edge of the bed. She cried herheart out, not wailing, but heaving in long, wrenching, c***dlikesighs. “I miss him! Oh, I miss him! Why isn’t he here to helpus?”Instantly I went to her, squatting on the bed and holding herhead, the only part of her I could reach. She cried and cried andcried. I didn’t know what to say, but I did know to hold her andstroke her hair. Eventually she calmed down, and returned my hugwith a long tight embrace of her arm around one of mine. With along sigh, she reached up to the night table for another kleenexand sat on the floor, drying her eyes and looking up at me.”You knew I was thinkin’ something, didn’t you cowboy?”I nodded.”You…are one little smart-ass,” she said, blowing her nose.She sniffed loudy. “You know what a smart-ass is?””I think so.””Well you are one sweet smart-ass. Now, c’mon…” She stood upand started tucking things in again. “I’m done now, I got it outtamy system and it’s a-a-all over with. You get yourself to sleep.C’mon, John Wayne.””Martha Jane?” I began. I had not told her what I desperatelywanted to tell her.”Yes, hon?””I..uh…Hmmm.” I scratched my head.She came closer to the bed. “What is it, big boy?””I still never…””Mm-hm, okay, you still never. You still never what?””I never told anybody what we did together.”She stood deadly still and silent, looking toward the floor,hands on her hips. She pursed her lips and made another sniffle.She didn’t say anything. I thought I had offended her.”I mean…,” I went on carefully, “in case you were worriedabout that. I mean, at first I thought that’s what…you wereworried about.”She said, “Oh.” She neither moved nor looked at me. “Oh,”she said again. “That.””I just wanted you to know,” I said, shrinking from her andback into the bed.She shook her head, seemed to ponder deeply. Abruptly sheleft the room. I lay there numb, figuring I had somehow pissedher off in the worst way. Then the living room light went out.The only light in the room was moonlight falling on the bed.I heard Martha Jane walking toward the bedroom. I turned andcould barely see her at first, but soon she appeared in the dimlight of the moon beside the bed.She said sternly, “C’mere, Speedy.”I crawled to the edge of the bed. She was wearing darkclothes, a blue blouse and a ruffled blue skirt. All I couldsee were her eyes.”You are one smart little boy,” she said. “Yes, I was worriedabout that. I wanted my daddy to get me out of trouble, I thoughtI was in trouble about that.” She paused and said something,almost to herself, something I would be able to understand onlyyears later. “I am goin’ to hell. We’re both goin’ to hell.”She then reached out and pulled me to her by one hand, shestanding by the bed with me on my knees near the edge. She lookeddeeply into my eyes briefly, and then hugged me tightly. There wassomething serious and desperate, rather than playful, in the wayshe clasped me to her. So I made no moves on my own. I simply letmyself be held, my arms d****d loosely around her neck. When shemade no response after a moment I gave her a hug and waited. Butshe stood unmoving beside the bed, silent, enfolding me closelywith one arm around my back and the other cradling my head into herneck and shoulder.With my face in her neck I was unable to see hers in the dark,but I could tell that she was looking down at the floor silentlyfor a very, very long time, perhaps for almost two minutes. Duringthat time I very lightly stroked her back and then put my own handon the back of her neck to let her know that I would wait, wait forher to stop thinking or whatever it was she was doing in that longwordless minute in the dark.She moved her lips; faintly I heard them part, and she took ina small breath as if to speak, but she stopped. I waited for herin the darkness around us. Her eyelashes flicked once, and I knewshe was looking past my shoulder, across the bed, out into the moon-lit window behind me. Her lashes flicked again against my cheek,and she looked down once more, breathing. She parted her lips againand they made a mildly dry, sticking sound. And she breathed andwaited and waited, as if something from deep inside her were slowly,slowly struggling to the find a place in her breathing and in hervoice. She looked down. She swallowed. Hard.”Hon?” she began, tentatively, barely audible. Her lips wereso close to my ear I could feel the moisture of her breath on myearlobes. “Do you want to be nasty with me?”My head buried in her neck, I nodded slowly.She paused again, and again I heard her lips part drily nearmy ear. She continued, softly. “Do you mind if I say it’s nastybut I want us to do it anyway?””I don’t mind.””I mean…I mean I know and you know that everybody says it’swrong and we’re not supposed to do it, but…I want to anyway.I want you to understand: I know it’s nasty…but that’s why Ilike it. And I don’t understand it.””But I like it too,” I whispered back.Again she hesitated before she relaxed her arms and held memore loosely. “Good,” she whispered in my ear. “Good.” Shestroked my back for a moment and gave my head in her neck a briefaffectionate hug. Then her fingers were at the front of myunderwear. She tried to find her way into the slit but couldn’t,so she pushed her hand gently under the top band.She whispered, “Your dick, hon…”, and soon her fingers foundme and wrapped around me warmly. “…there he is…” She hugged mycock gently. Then she murmured so softly I could barely hear, eventhough her lips were still against my ear: “I like it too, hon. Ican’t help it. We’re so much alike.”PART 3C:At the time, most of this went right past my very young levelof awareness–but I clearly understood that she was troubled. Iknew that I somehow had to stay with her and believe in her andhelp her in some way. I wanted to bring indescribable pleasure andcomfort to her. She was making me feel loved and tickly now, andI wanted desperately to do the same for her. I found the folds ofher skirt and tried to gather them up, but had a hard time; myhands were too small. She stepped back, not letting go of my cock,and used her free hand to lift her skirt. She spread her feetapart and looked down while I massaged her mound over her panties.”Ah, hon,” she breathed. “You remembered just exactly how Ilike you to do that.”As she had done, I slipped my hand under her waistband andfound her pubic hair and her soft folds. She was not wet yet.But she moved one foot to open her legs more so I could find hercrease.I whispered, “I want to make you feel good.” Now I hoped I waslearning to talk to her as she talked to me. I was beginning tocomprehend the nature of my own very young sensuality, realizing howso much of it was mirrored by Martha Jane, and learning to try andcontact those elements within her. I was not yet very certain aboutany of it. But now I had glimmerings of the giddy adrenal rush gen-erated by the allure of the forbidden that held us and our secretworld together. And I was beginning to understand as well the para-doxical, inexplicable comfort we both experienced by giving in to,rather than resisting, our hunger. In short, I was getting olderand more sexual, and I realized more than ever how complex were theemotional and physical needs that bound us. It was scary. It was alot like rushing blind across the avenue the way I used to, trafficheaded at me in all six lanes, not sure if or how I could make itsafely to the other side–but knowing, from where I stood at thatmoment, I would not and could not run back.Martha Jane moved her head slightly, toward me. Her lipstouched my ear. Her mouth opened and I heard the thin saliva breakas she licked my earlobe. And then my neck. Under one hand I feltthe skin on the back of her neck move and flex as she reachedfarther with her tongue and licked behind my ear, then down, theninto my neck again. Under my other hand, she was getting wet.She pulled her head back, smiling and looking down to watch myhand working between her legs in the dark. She spread her kneesapart a little more. She softly hissed, “Put your finger in me…”I found her hot opening, now growing wetter, and slowly insertedwhat came to me naturally–my longest finger. She urged quietly,”All the way in, hon, deep…” Her eyes closed as she sighed atrembling, breathy “Aaahh…””Like that?””Yes, baby.”I flexed my finger in her. I never ceased to be amazed atthe way the inner Martha Jane could suck on my fingers in her.”Did that feel good?””Bend your finger again, inside…Yes…keep doing that…”We continued for a while, but it soon became uncomfortablestanding up. She broke away and got undressed. Before climbing in-to bed she removed my tshirt and underwear and had me sit up againsta pillow that she placed against the headboard. Then, naked in themoonlight, she lay before me on her tummy with her head in my lapand started sucking me. She sucked gently, wetly, slowly, immersingme in her very hot mouth and holding me there. Then slowly shewithdrew, sucking upward, and came off me with a loud swallow of thewetness she had re-sucked off me, and sighed lasciviously. “Youfeel so good in my mouth. You fit all the way inside.”She licked her lips and sucked me again in the same way, gentlybut fully, flattening her tongue along the underside and pressingslightly, then started bobbing her head slowly and rhythmically.I was amazed and hypnotized. I began to be aware of her physicalbeauty and the depths of the desperate lust that lurked in both ofus, there in the dim shaft of light that fell across her naked backas she licked and sucked.She stopped and asked, “Do you know what I’m doing?”I just stared at her. Of course I knew what she was doing,though she had never done it so gluttonously. But I didn’t knowwhat it was called.”I’m suckin’ you off. Do you like it when I say that?”Once again, her eyes had a strange glint and her voice soundedinordinately wicked.”Yes,” I whispered back, suddenly realizing how breathless Iwas. And I was doing some hard, nervous swallowing of my own.”You know I beşiktaş escort do. Especially the way you do it.” I was trulyflabbergasted that there were so many ways to bring pleasure toeach other.She returned to her sucking, which she continued for quitesome time, breaking to gently fist my wetted cock. The cloyingsensuality of her motions and words caused me to make what I knowto be a seriously wicked grin as I watched her pump me. “That’sgood,” I whispered.She looked up. “Yeah?” She grinned back.I grinned again too, into her eyes. “Yeah. Keep doin’ it.””Yeah, honey.””Ah…””Feel it, baby…enjoy it…”And once again, her eyes and her words and her voice held memesmerized. She herself seemed hypnotized by my own spellboundreaction. We fell into unalloyed devilishness, as if demons withinus had generated a chain reaction neither of us could not stop. Shewouldn’t let up. The lust in her eyes and her voice met mine, minemet hers, and they fused. We were glued to it, tangled it in. Ikept hearing the nuns and the aunts and relatives warning me, butall their screaming voices together could not drown the tantalizingwhispers of Martha Jane. And the more my eyes lit up with pleasure,the more Martha Jane saw it and gloated on it.She gave a low, dirty chuckle and breathed, “You like it. Youlike being like this with me.” She kept looking into my eyes,directly into them, into my cornea and through the optic nervesand into my brain. As she wetly stroked my twitching cock I heardonly the wet slush of her hand in the hot spit she had left on me,and her endless, libidinous whispers. “You like it just as much asI do, don’t you, I can tell. I like it too. I like watching yourface while I make you feel good. I love your dick. I lovetouching it. I love milking it, and sucking…” She pumped andthen sucked and then pumped me again. I was feeling extremelystrange and giddy and I knew she did too. A dark wicked wave seemedto wash into the room and lick me squarely in the scrotum under myballs, then lick upward along my spine and settle in the back of myhead. I could see the reflection of these new and growing impulsesin her own eyes, I could hear her voice echoing my own risinglechery. We fed it, and fed on it, helpless in the dark and themoonlight. She fisted me loosely now, looking up at me. DistinctlyI felt and saw her own eyes catch the glint of lust in mine, and sheleered and fisted and kept whispering. “I feel you liking it, Ifeel you jumpin’ in my hand. Such a beautiful, hard, sweet littlecock. It gets so big. How does it get so big from being so little?””I like you making it big,” I managed to whisper back, butonly after fighting for the breath to say it. I took a deepbreath and gasped brazenly, “I like watching you watch me.”Her eyes rose, surprised and please that I was joining herin this hypnotic whirl. “I’m so glad you like this. Want meto suck you some more?””Yes, it feels so good.””I want to suck you and I want you to fingerfuck me, likelast time.”Uh-oh! A new term in the ever-expanding lexicon. I was takenby surprise. Another Martha Jane word. At that point I somehowknew there would be an explanation forthcoming. Contented, andlearning for the first time what the word “turn-on” would later cometo mean, I let her suck me and we continued our lurid whispers andglances. Of course, I did not cum. This was fortunate, in a way,since literally I didn’t know what I was missing. But at one pointa pang of sensual tickling shot through the length of my shaft, andI felt an oozing from me that mixed with her spit and slickened it.I wondered if that meant I was cumming.But the feeling passed too quickly for me to stop and askquestions about it. For Martha Jane had risen to a half-sittingposition beside me, her head against the headboard. Her left leglay on the mattress between us, bent at the knee toward me so herinner thigh was spread to expose her slit; and she bent her rightknee upward, keeping her foot on the bed, using her heel to spreadher right leg wide and exposing even more of her nakedness. Sheshoved her hips forward so that I, lying beside her, could fully seeher auburn tuft and the widening, smooth-lipped slit below. Withone hand she spread the silken hair that partly covered her, andwantonly instructed me on how to touch her clit and how to insert myfinger and how to search far up inside her and find a magic bundleof muscle and nerve that made her arch her hips and sigh lustily andmade her nipples swell in my mouth, and she looked down, leeringand watching me please her and holding herself open for me, tellingme this was her cunt, and she said that when she felt really nastyas she did now that she wanted me to call it her cunt, and as Ipulled her clit and stroked the tender place far inside her wetness,her words and her voice and her sighs slid into a barely audiblestream of hissed obscenities.And I remembered doing this to her before and making her cum,but now I knew she wanted me to call it fingerfucking and that sheliked the word and so did I, and she liked me watching her on herside with one leg bent between us and the other with one knee raisedand resting spread away from her so that she could use the leverageof that leg to raise her cunt toward me and we could watch mefingerfuck her, and she liked watching while I did it, and herraised knee soon fell and she dropped back into the pillows andspread herself flat and gave herself over to the long cum thatseemed to be on its way, and for a long while she simply lay andenjoy it and sucked on my finger in her. And finally I gave her thesmashing, paralyzing orgasm she wanted, her head pressed far intothe pillow and her neck straining, her arms and legs stiffenedagainst the white sheets and her nipples jutting upward as shethrew her head back and suffered silently the sweet agony I wasgiving her, taut and stiff for what seemed to me a perilously longtime. Her hips gave a slight jerk, and I expected her to slide intoher swooning relaxed state, but instead her head snapped fartherback into the pillow and her teeth showed in the dark and shewhimpered “Oh!” in sudden surprise, and then “Ah!” and she cameagain, again, again as I moved my fingers in the way I knew was justright for her, never for a moment wanting to lose my way in givingher pleasure, caring for her, protecting her in her utter nakedness,striving to make it perfect and right for her. And finally, with agreat sigh and a whimper that I know could be heard out in the darkstreet beyond our window, she relaxed with a final lurch of herhips, and began breathing in waves, then breathing regularly anddeeply, and she made the same sounds she made when she cried, butnow they were sounds of exhaustion and release.I licked her nipple, my soaked hands now lightly massaging herouter lips and inner thighs, and she put a hand on my arm and cried,”so good!”, and on reaching down to touch my cock she found wetnessthere, a smear from inside me, and she opened her eyes and looked atme and then looked at my cock and reached down and kissed the tip,moaning “oh your cum, your sweet cum!” She licked it off me and ittickled terribly and I felt deep in my balls the oozing of anothersmear, which she milked out of me with a long slow pull upward on mydick, and she licked that off too with tender relish, as if even thesmallest beginnings of my cumming were as precious as water to aparched throat. And then, out of breath and with a final gasp, sheliterally fell into me and hugged me and held on and went straightto sleep.We slept like that for a while, with her splayed over me asif knocked u*********s. She awoke with a start and looked at theclock. “Darn!” she whispered frantically, “they’ll be coming home!”Quickly she dressed. As she did, she caught me smiling at herfrom my pillow and she told me, “Speedy, you are remarkable. Mygod, I wish I could tell someone about this. They’d never believeme…” She looked at me as if she were in shock. “How do you dothis to me? Where did you learn to do this?””Do what?” I asked, truly puzzled.”You know what I’m talkin’ about,” she scolded midly, hoppinga little to get her shoes on. She sat on the floor and tied herlaces. “You made cum in my mouth, too, didn’t you?””I…think so.””Listen,” she said earnestly, finishing her shoes and gettingup to bend over me. “I want you to grow up and cum. I can’t keepdoing this all by myself. Do you have any idea what you just didto me?” She gathered up the wads of kleenex and started straight-ening the place quickly, mumbling, “I didn’t even know anythinglike this was possible. Where in the world did you learn how to doit like that?””You taught me,” I said.She caught herself, pausing as if startled, and went back toher hurried straightening. “I’m just talking, hon. You go tosleep. Your Mama will be home soon.”She returned to the living room and her books. The light inthere snapped on. I rolled over and looked out the window. I didnot understand the significance of this nor the problems it wouldcause later. But I had experienced an unusually intense level oferoticism which I feared and yet didn’t fear, something apparentlyas new and exotic to her as it was to me.PART 3D:That was a sensuous summer. Mom’s relationship apparently ransmoothly for a while and my stepdad-to-be took her out not fre-quently but regularly. Each time, Martha Jane would show up on timeand we’d fix dinner for each other, clean up, do a little homework,and then undress each other in the tiny bedroom. Soon the roomechoed with our sighs, whispers, and moans of pleasure and lust.The only sex we had outside that bedroom was the one time MarthaJane showed up at our place one rare Saturday afternoon when I hadnot been shipped off to relatives for the weekend. Martha Jane hadiced tea with Mom and chatted a short time, and told my mom shewanted me to come next door and help set up a record player hersister Evelyn had given to Martha Jane and her mom.She brought me to her apartment and as soon as we were insideshe took me into her bedroom. I told her I thought she wanted me tohelp her with the new phonograph and she giddily and impatientlyreplied that the machine was set up already and she really justwanted us to be alone. “I don’t know what’s got into me today,” sheexclaimed, almost visibly trembling. “I feel so nasty. God, I hopewe don’t get caught!” She lay on the edge of her bed with her legshanging over the side. Lifting her skirt, she panted, “Fingerfuckme, hon. Hurry. Somebody might show up.” I put my hand inside herwaistband and fingerfucked her inside her panties. She came almostimmediately. Afterwards, nervous and fumbling, she lay me down thesame way and jacked me with my zipper open until I felt that littlebuzz in my cock and she pulled a little drop out of me and licked itoff. Then we straightened our clothes and went into her livingroom, where she settled down. And just in time: about ten minuteslater her sister Evelyn arrived unexpectedly. I talked with herbriefly and while she was in their kitchen making lemonade MarthaJane saw me to her door and whispered as I left, “That was close.But it sure felt good!” Afterward she told me we shouldn’t try thatsort of thing again, as the schedule in her place was truly unpre-dictable and so many of her mother’s friends always popped in. Andshe said she never, never wanted to risk having my Mom find out.Had sex been the only aspect of our relationship I have littledoubt that both of us would have soon tired of this sitting routineand sought more varied pleasures elsewhere or with someone else. Butwe had a life outside the bedroom that was also special for us andthat only added to our feelings of intimacy, devotion, and pleasurein the bedroom.My back yard was a small patch of lawn about the size of amodern suburban carport. It lay along the curb of the access drive-way that fed into the project from the street and led to a parkinglot around the corner of our building. Near the curb was a largeblack oak. We spent several evenings there on weekdays at dusk,just after dinner, as the long summer days ended and the stulti-fyingly humid Southern air turned breezy and cool, the sky glowingpurple and orange. It was there under the heavy, leafy old oak treethat I told her about my strange dream with the roaches. She saidshe had no idea why I would dream such a thing, but she suspectedthe nuns had scared the hell out of me.Martha Jane and I discussed our dreams frequently during thosewaning summer days under the tree. She often dreamed of her fathercoming to her in the night, but he was reduced to the size of a boy,a very small boy almost as small as an infant. His head wasbloodied and disfigured (he had died in combat on Okinawa from headwounds). He would plead for help, but when she rose to go to himshe saw the rest of the house was filled with more like him, thou-sands of them, moaning and reaching for her. In the dream hermother made tea, oblivious to it all and apparently deaf and unableto hear, but as she sipped her tea she said she didn’t want to hearand appeared to have gone quietly insane. Overcome with helplesnessand rage, she would wake up sweating.She said she once had a dream about me. I was standing in adark room smiling at her. She said my eyes were very large andvery dark, almost gigantic, and they glowed in the dark room. Asshe stepped toward me she became very small and felt faint, andsuddenly I was very large and very much older and went to her witha glass of wine, gently cradling her head in one arm while holdingthe wine for her to sip. The wine was warm and was in a smallsilver chalice. She said the most striking part of the dream wasmy remarkably dark eyes that seemed to fill the room. They werekind and endearing, but there was something frightening and ruth-less about them as well.Across the access driveways were the small back yards of thebuilding directly behind ours. I never knew our backdoor neighborspersonally. Occasionally I’d look out our kitchen door and see oneof the neighbor ladies standing in her kitchen and talking withMartha Jane across the driveway.One of those neighbors, a Mrs. Johnson, would open her back dooreach evening just before dark and carefully slip her bathrobed,paraplegic husband in his wheelchair down the three or four concretesteps into their back yard. She would make him comfortable there ontheir little patch of grass, read the newspapers to him, or tune astation on their small brown GE portable that rested on the groundbetween his wheelchair and her aluminum lawn chair. Many after-noons, Martha Jane and I sat on the curb and watched this ritual.We would say hello to Mrs. Johnson and to Mr. Johnson, and Mrs.Johnson would smile and wave hello and bend down to Mr. Johnson andtell him we were out there with them. Mr. Johnson was unable torespond. Nor could he move his legs or arms or his neck or hiseyes. He slumped limply in his wheelchair, wearing striped pajamasand a brown bathrobe, his eyes ogling blindly ahead, a thin droolforever flowing down one side of his slack and expressionless face.Mr. Johnson had been almost blown to pieces on Taiwan. Even at myage I realized without being told that the man would never move ortalk or lift a spoon of soup to his face.Martha Jane would watch quietly as they performed this almost-nightly ritual for a brief stay in the open air. I would look up at herand see her swallow, for a different reason now, and she would murmur,”God grant the poor woman patience.” I told her about Taiwan, andGuadalcanal. And she told me how my father had died. He was flightengineer in a B-17 on his 21st mission when the plane was badly shot up.They barely made it back to England, where they discovered that the frontwheels would not remain extended for a landing. As engineer in thisemergency, my father ordered everyone but the pilot into the rear of theaircraft, where most of them lay wounded and unable to parachute out.With the pilot bringing the plane in, my father stationed himself nearthe landing gear handcrank, literally jamming the left wheel straight andsteady with a hand-held crowbar. The wheel held up just long enough forthe plane to land and start to slow. Then the gear collapsed, crushinghim. All the other crewmen were saved.”You’re a lot like him,” Martha Jane told me at the end of thatstory. “You’ll try anything, just to see what happens. You’re sucha little outlaw.”We would sit there until the sky grew dark, seeing before us whereso many others had gone, talking vaguely about how far there was to go.”Sometimes I think we’re the only ones who are still in one piece,”she sighed, her chin propped on her knees. “Sometimes I think we wereput here so we could know how much there is to lose. So we can savewhatever’s left.” She shook her head. “And sometimes I think: there’sso little left to be saved.”On July 4th she took me to a movie at the neighborhood theatre,the Suzore’s–a seedy, well-used, crowded, and sticky-floored moviehouse if ever there was one. The place was a fallen relic of the1920’s, but it had a kind of homey who-cares air about it and thebest popcorn in town. We held hands and shared the popcorn bag,laughing at the Bowery Boys and hiding our eyes when Charlie Chancrept through the hidden corridors of a haunted house. The walkback home was about seven blocks, down the steep, landscaped, four-block-long hill that led from the top of the project to our buildingat the other end. It was one of those hot Southerm nights, humidbut cooling down, the air so still that the voices of people walkingnearby hung in space long after the people had gone. In thosedays, before pollution clouded the view, we could see a multitude ofstars overhead. As we walked I pointed out Orion to her, and AlphaCentauri. I showed her where the Weeping Sisters usually appearedand told her that the faint red dot near the steeple of St. Mary’sChurch was Mars. We were standing in the dark of the open lawn nearthe project’s administration building. She listened as I pointedout the constellations, and after a minute I stopped and watched asshe looked up. I was very nearly her own height, then. A half-moonfloated just in front of her, outlining her face. Unable to resist,I softly cupped my hand over one breast.She looked down at my hand on her bosom. She didn’t pull away,but she whispered mischievously, “Somebody’s gonna see us.””I don’t care,” I said.She laughed and said, “Yes, but I do.””Okay,” I said, and withdrew my hand.She held my hand at her side as we strolled the rest of the wayhome. “It’s not that I don’t want you to,” she said. “It’s justthat…I don’t ever want anyone catching us and trying to stop usfrom doing it.”That summer gave us several nights together, nights of holdingeach other warmly and softly, naked, with Martha Jane under me orhovering over me and whispering her secret needs and pleasures,showing me something new. I learned to keep her on a dreamysensuous edge for a longer and longer time, and then to make her cumseveral times, rapidly and intensely. She would almost always fallsleep or faint afterward, and I had to struggle to stay awake so Icould rouse her in time to straighten up before my Mom returned.Martha Jane had her 17th birthday in September, 1950. There wasprecious little money to spend, but she invited a few close friendsand had a small celebration in her mother’s apartment. I was there,indulging heavily in ice cream and homemade cake.Martha Jane found it necessary to introduce me personally toeveryone in the place. I was surprised to learn that so many of herfriends were not classmates but older adults. This left me edgy,especially when she kept introducing me as “my boyfriend, Speedy.”And every older lady in the joint had to say something like, “Oh,he’s such a cute boy!” My discomfort was obvious. At one point Iretreated to a corner and sat unsmiling by myself for a long period.Martha Jane came over to me and asked what was wrong.I sat petulantly bumping my heels on the legs of the chair andaverting her eyes.She leaned down to me. “Speedy, you’re too smart and too well-liked by everyone here to act like this. What’s wrong with you,don’t you like these people?””They all think I’m cute,” I pouted. “And I hate the nameSpeedy.”She chuckled and said, “Speedy, let ’em think what they wantto think. It doesn’t hurt to cooperate a little bit. And whatdifference does it make?”I adamantly folded my arms.She stood up and said, “Hmp,” with her hands on her hips.”Face it, hon–you ARE cute!”I said back, “Hmp!””How am I gonna get you to have more experience being aroundpeople other than that fussy family of yours? Hm?”I said nothing, but kicked away with my heels.”Okay, sourpuss,” she said. Shaking her head impatiently, shereturned to the group. I spent the rest of the day mostly ignoringeveryone until I felt it was time to go home. As I left her apart-ment I saw her notice me from the corner of her eyes while she spokewith the others. For the rest of the day I stayed in my living roomand pretty much had the place to myself, my Mom being at MarthaJane’s all afternoon. I listened to the Philco for a while, andtyped on the Underwood. And by dusk I was totally bored.I went to our back yard, out by the curb near the big oak. Fora while I sat on the curb under the tree, listening to its heavy,leafy limbs rustle in the breeze. It was dusk, and the early fallsky had turned red.Before long I heard the slap of the screen door behind me atMartha Jane’s place. I looked behind me. Sure enough, it was she.She saw me and walked toward me, her head lowered and her armsbehind her back. I sat with my legs extended from the curb, myheels on the surface of the driveway. She sat beside me.”What’s the matter, hon?””Nothin’,” I said.”Look at me.””No.”She lowered her voice and said, hurtfully, “Speedy, why areyou doing this to me?”I sighed deeply and leaned forward, propping my chin on myraised knees. I muttered, “I dunno.” And I didn’t.”I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time. I thought you would.”I beylikdüzü escort shrugged, as if to say it didn’t matter.”Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?””I dunno.””Try, Speedy.”I shrugged.”Try, hon. Talk to me. You haven’t been nice to me all day.I have a perfect right not to speak to you at all. Do you realizethat? Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”I struggled a bit, and finally managed to say, “I don’t…like it when people expect me to be cute all the time.””Speedy, they don’t ‘expect’ you to be cute. You ‘are’ cute.You really are. You’re an unusual person–you don’t look like otherboys your age. You have a strong, intelligent, different look andpersonality altogether. And that’s what people notice about you.””But…I don’t know what to say to people.””You just say hello, hon. And ‘how are you’. You don’t haveto say anything special.””Well…” I stopped. I shrugged helplessly. “People alwaysexpect me to do certain things. And act a certain way.”Martha Jane sighed. “You mean,” she said knowingly, “youmean ‘certain’ people, don’t you? Like Aunt Frances and the restof them? And your mother?”I nodded.For a while Martha Jane looked at the ground silently. she ex-tended her bluejeaned legs into the driveway and leaned back on herarms. “Speedy, do you know what I’m going to do when I go tocollege?”I shook my head.”I’m going to study to be a teacher. A special kind of teacher.I’m going to teach c***dren who are…who are different from otherc***dren. Someone like you could be one of those c***dren some day.But you’ll be grown up by the time I get started. You’ll be in highschool yourself by then, or nearly there. But you know–? Look atme, Hon. Look at me.”I did as she asked.She continued, “There’s an awful lot I could learn from you.You’re a really tough case.””Tough case?” I said. “What’s a tough case?”She raised her eyes, looking up at the sky. “Ah, you’re soooohard-headed. That’s what a tough case is.”I shrugged. “Oh.””You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?””Movies?” I frowned. “I don’t have any money.””I’ll pay.””But that’s not fair.””Yes, it is. I asked you first.””Well, if you’re askin’ me, then I’m not takin’ you, you’retakin’ me.””Oh, darn it, why do you have to be so exacting? Listen. Let’sstart over again. Now, I’m going to ask you if *you* want to take*me* to the movies. And you’re supposed to say yes.””Okay.””Now–you wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?”I paused. I still didn’t agree with the “politics” of thisgame. “But if you’re the one who has the money–“She prompted, impatiently, “Answer yes, darn it.””Start over,” I said. “This time I’ll do it right.””Oh, alright…You wanna take me to the movies for my birthday?””Yes.” I reached up very quickly and kissed her cheek. “Yes,”I said again, kissing her again. And a third time, “Yes,” andkissed her.She laughed. “What *are* you doing?””I’m kissing you and saying yes.””Three times?””To make up for the times I didn’t do it right.” One more time,I gave her cheek a loud, lingering kiss. “…And that’s for mebeing so snotty on your birthday. I won’t do that any more.””You little heartbreaker.”Martha Jane was looking less like a teenager and more like ayoung woman. Her neck, arms, and legs had developed slimmer andmore graceful lines, and she was losing the baby fat in her faceand neck, getting more slender overall. I was nearing my 9thyear and was somewhat muscular and slightly tall for my size, butcertainly not as hefty as many fast-growing boys my age. I wasnow only an inch or so shorter than Martha Jane. Like my fatherand his brother, there was still something delicate about me frommy paternal grandmother’s side of the family.I mentioned this because at that time I was becoming more andmore aware of my own physical dimension and of the physical sideof this passionate relationship. I noticed this change in both ourappearances a few days after Martha Jane’s birthday. She stayedwith me while my Mom’s future fiance took her to a Halloween party.Outside my apartment the k**s strolled the Halloween trail for candyand trick-r-treats, their noisemakers and their giggles echoing inthe night. At that time, however, Martha Jane and I were nakedtogether in that tiny bedroom. We were giggly and giddy because wewere totaly nude but lying on the bed just below the window sill sothat anyone looking in would see only our faces and elbows. For awhile we talked and watched the goings-on outside.Then we went into the bathroom so we could make up in Halloweenfaces of our own and laugh and point at each other. This was one ofthe few times I had seen her naked outside of a bed. Watching herstand before the bathroom mirror or tiptoe across the living room, Isaw how slim and tight her waist, back, neck and legs had become. Itold her this and she stood in front of me sizing me up. She saidmy chest was starting to expand now, my shoulders broadened andwould probably look like my Uncle Frank’s one day, and my legs werelonger and leaner and already had fuzz on them.I told her, “You’re getting prettier and prettier all the time,Martha Jane.””Oh, stop it.””But you are,” I insisted. “Your eyes are. They’re bigger thanthey used to be. Yes, they are, I know they are. They have moreblue in ’em than they used to.””Phooey, hon. Let me see you.” She held me at arm’s lengthand looked me up and down. “Look. You’re perfectly proportioned.Not too big, not too small.” She put her hands on her waist andcontinued her assessment of my nudity, muttering absently, “I’ve seena lot of pictures of a lot of statues in the art books at the library,so I know what I’m talkin’ about. Look at you. Just perfect. Likea little Greek statue. The only thing missing is a fig leaf.””And you look perfect too,” I breathed, slowly taking in hernaked form, the graceful slope of her breasts, her slightly partedthighs and her slender ankles.”Guess what?” I asked.”What?””Looking at you like this is makin’ me excited.”She winked. “C’mon.”PART 3E:We got into bed and she lay with her head in my lap, sucking melanguidly until the increasingly familiar twinge in my cock sent a dripof pre-cum to my tip. I sat breathlessly enjoying her now expert lipsand hands on me.”I can taste it,” she said, tentatively slurping as she raisedher mouth off me. “I taste more of you, hon. Are you starting tocum?”Well, I guess…I’m not sure.””Poor baby. You still don’t know what I’m talking about, doyou?”I told her I wasn’t quite sure, and she tried to explain aboutmale orgasms and ejaculation. I got the general idea, but wasamazed to find out even more about babies and how much of the truthhad been concealed by the adults around me.Martha Jane told me how women kept from getting pregnant bymaking the guy use a rubber (she never used the word condom orcontraceptive. She told me she didn’t like those words becausethey were turn-offs. “Rubber” sounded dirtier, and that’s theword she liked to use). I remarked that if I ever had a real cum,we’d have to use a rubber on me.She frowned and said, resolutely, “No. I’d never make you usea rubber.””But wouldn’t you get in trouble if I didn’t wear a rubber?”She didn’t answer me. She was stroking my cock, now limp afterso much prolonged stimulation. She looked at me, and then shelooked out the dark window. I asked, “what’s the matter?”She said simply, “Wait a minute, hon,” and she looked out thewindow and seemed to be thinking deeply about it. After a while shesat up and smoothed back some stray hair from her face and scowled.”No. No rubbers.”I looked puzzled.”Because…” she continued, pulling a bobby pin from her hairand holding it in her teeth while she bundled back some of herhair. “Because, uh…” she went on, securing the bundle behind herwith the bobby pin. Then she abruptly concluded, “Because.”The look on my face told her that I knew she hadn’t answered me,but I also knew by her voice that she didn’t want to talk about it.She lay beside me and I put my head on her breast and we held eachother, and for a while she simply stroked my hair and neck andreached down to lick my ear. We grew quiet and listened to thesqueals and giggles of the k**s outside. After a while she lickedher hand and wet my cock with it and fondled me while I sucked hernipples.With her face resting on my head as I suckled her, I couldfeel her smiling. She asked sweetly, “You really like sucking mytitties, don’t you, hon?””Yes. You feel so good in my mouth.””I’m glad you like it. It feels good to me too. It’s soloving. I like holding you like this and letting you suck. Ilike it because I like the way you enjoy it.””It’s fun,” I joked, moving to another nipple.She laughed. “You funny boy. Yes, it’s fun, it really is fun,isn’t it? I don’t know…I guess I wouldn’t do this if you were mysame age.” For a long time she said nothing, but stroked my cockplayfully and watched me enjoy her breasts. She murmured, “It’sso hard to imagine people wanting to hurt us for this. This doesn’thappen for most people. I don’t think you understand that.” Sheheld my chin and pulled my head up so she could give me a playfulsmack on the lips. She searched my eyes and my face for a moment.”I hope no one ever hurts you. But it’s going to be very, veryhard to find a woman who understands someone like you.”I asked her what she meant by that, but she didn’t answer.Instead she brushed it off and played with my pubic fuzz. “Youhave such a nice shape,” she mused. “I hope you don’t grow toomuch hair on yourself.” She uncoupled from me and scooted downto suck me again. Holding my shaft and licking my tip she sighedcontentedly, “You’re so suckable.”After wetting me she started pumping again, holding me veryloosely so her hands could slide along my shaft and brush my tipin a way she knew felt good and would make me hard quickly. Shegrinned and said, “It’s good, huh? Yeah? It’s good, I can tellyou like it. I want to make it so good for you…”It didn’t take long for her to propel me to a breathless stateagain. I have to admit, orgasm or no, I have never been sophysically pleased by a woman’s hands as I was by the way MarthaJane had learned to please. It wasn’t long before my rockhard youngcock seemed to develop a life of its own. My legs grew stiff and Ican verify that toes really do curl, for I could look down pastMartha Jane and see them doing so before my very eyes. Another oneof those strange waves of pure pleasure shot into my cock and Iseemed to melt under it. After several seconds of this tension, Ifelt fluid leak to my tip. Martha Jane stopped and looked up at mein awe.”Honey, did you cum?”I struggled to say, “I don’t…know. It sure…felt good allof a sudden.”She studied me. Sure enough, I had leaked again. I would nothave called it an orgasm, at least not a proper adult orgasm, butshe had propelled me toward an awesome pleasure, both physical andemotional. I felt drained and tired.She rose to stroke my face. “Did I hurt you, hon? I didn’thurt it, did I?”I shook my head no. I found it to difficult to speak, my mouthwas so dry. “No, but it…it just felt so good.”She hugged me. “Oh you almost, you *almost*! Oh, that’sso nice!”I felt very good and deliciously wicked anyway, which wasenough for me at the time. I don’t remember at what point thatnight I was inspired to take my next action, but Martha Jane waslying on her back quietly enjoying having her nipples sucked whileI fingerfucked her, when I was inspired to please her orally as shehad pleased me. As I trailed kisses down to her thighs, I relishedthe feel and the taste and texture of her smooth thighs and lickedthe tight juncture at her crotch below her cunt, and nipped at thesmooth tendons that stood out when she spread her thighs widely tolet me get close to her cunt. She liked tiny nipping kisses on theinsides of her thighs. Once she figured out what I was up to, shelooked amazed and her eyes lit up.”Are you doin’ what I THINK you’re doin’? My god,” she ex-claimed, and let her head fall back on the pillow. She smiledat the ceiling while I searched with my tongue for the motions andactions that would please her. As far as I can recall, she had noscent except for a faint musk that was something like freshlywarmed milk. She did have a subtle and indescribable taste,similar to unsweetened whipped cream. She had never mentionedgoing down on her–and this was, after all, the early 1950’s, anera that had yet to indulge in the oral freedoms of later decades.Immediately, I could tell she was pleasantly surprised; I couldhear it in her sudden and joyful whimpers and could feel it in thetightening of her tummy and her gasp as my tongue probed herwetness and found her clit.It wasn’t long before I found what she liked. Apparently shehad never considered this act before, so she probably couldn’tthink of specific instructions. Afterward, she would always referto this as “licking.” I don’t recall all the details after allthese years, but she was mightily pleased and delighted by mycomplete willingness to lick her and my obvious enjoyment in doingit. The intensity of her reactions surprised even me, who shouldhave been used to it by then. Knowing that her sucking of my owntip was very pleasing to me, I learned quickly to suck her clitgently just as it seemed she might be cumming. I found I could keepher close but not quite there for a very long time. After almost ahalf hour of this, I was ready to suck and lick her steadily untilshe came.Instead she, too, introduced the unexpected. She reacheddown and pulled me up to her. “C’mere, hon,” she whispered underher breath. There was a new urgency, a queezy tension in hervoice that I hadn’t heard before. “Come up here,” she said again,pulling me forward until I lay on top of her, and she widened herthighs with her knees extended at each side of me to let me liecompletely nestled between them. I propped myself on my elbows tosee what she wanted. Her face was taut and intent. She fixed herdetermined gaze on mine and moaned, “Lift up a little,” and stillkeeping her eyes on me and biting her lower lip she felt down,between us, and found my dick. I felt a very strange, wet tickleand realized she was rubbing my cock in her slit, wetting me. Shesaw the surprise in my face and her own face became more intentand deliberate.”Feel that?” she asked breathlessly.”Yeah. Wet. Ah. Tickly.”She fumbled urgently for a few more seconds. “Move up alittle,” she whispered. Now her voice was shaky, trembling in away it never had. And then I felt my dick enter her.”Yes, hon,” she breathed. Her intense face softened, and shesmiled deliriously, but there was still a great urgency in hervoice. “Move on me. Move up here, toward me.”I did so. Her eyes were locked on mine. I saw and heard andfelt her swallow hard as my cock slid deeply in. The feeling wasmarvelous. I was enthralled.Knowing that she enjoyed my finger moving in and out of her,I naturally assumed that my cock moving in her would feel evenbetter, if not just as good. I pulled back slightly and then movedas far as I could into her. She contracted around me snugly, andI moved out and in, then did it again. I was not moving up anddown, but back and forth, careful to move only an inch or so, notwanting to lose that wonderful new feeling of being totally sheathedinside her. I kept my tummy and the upper shaft of my cock ridingin her groove, knowing intuitively that she wouldn’t want me to losecontact with her clit.I was amazed and afraid, and her eyes saw it in mine and minesaw it in hers. Her eyes narrowd and glistened, and she gulped.”It’s okay, hon. Don’t stop. It’s okay, you can do it to me. Iwant you to.”She swallowed again. One hand gripped my shoulder and trembled,and my legs shook. Her eyes kept searching mine. And I searchedfor guidance in hers, as I vaguely but fearfully realized what wewere doing. Most of all I was overcome by the unthinkable, by thefact that I was totally inside her, in her darkest and most secretplace. She could see the disorientation and suddenness of it in myface, she could feel it in my unsure movements.I managed to utter, “I’m…I’m in you. I’m inside you.”She released a pent up half-laugh, half-cry. “Yes! Yes, You’rein me, hon. Stay in me. I want you in me.””It’s so good!””Keep moving your dick in me…deep and slow, just like that…..baby, it’s so good and you do it so…exactly…right!…oh howdo you know to do it…I knew it would happen sooner or later but Inever knew it would be like this, I didn’t know it would be so*good*…it’s…oh your dick’s in me and we’re fucking…We’reFUCKin’, hon, and I want you to FEEL it I want you to like it withme I don’t want any rubbers because I want you to feel your DICK inme, I want to watch your eyes while you feel your first fuck and Idon’t want you to stop…oh god I don’t want you to stop…””I won’t stop,” I panted, working steadily on her. “I can’t.”Her eyes jerked swiftly, searching mine and in every corner ofmy face, as if to record with her eyes every detail of the moment,every move I made and every twitch of my face. One hand grippedthe back of my neck, the other below held my wet sliding shaftbetween two fingers as she felt me fuck her steadily and wetly andshe kept talking in a low whisper that became lower and lower andmore breathless.”…it’s so good and so…nasty and…I can’t believe how goodyou feel! I can’t believe what a beautiful loving good fuck youare, you do it just right…””Martha Jane…it feels so good in you.””Yes, baby, in me, *in* me!…I never thought I’d be this good..oh…I want it to last, I’m…Im trying to wait but you feelso…you’re making me cum…you want to stop, hon? Huh? You wantto stop and rest so you can feel it longer?””No. I don’t want to stop.””Oh baby…””I want you to cum.””So sweet you want me to cum…I didn’t think it would belike this I didn’t think you’d make me cum so soon…” Her eyeswidened, startled, and her chant grew more urgent, then frenzied.”Oh hon I’m…oh it’s gonna be so good!…it’s gonna be so good!it’s GonnaBeSoGood…!”As I continued her eyes lost focus. She appeared to see nothingat all, though she stared directly at me. Her eyes fluttered andclosed, her head swooned back and to one side, one hand came up toher lips. She could no longer speak–and neither could I. I hadnot moved on her very long before her trembling began, and then thestiffening. This time she seemed totally lost, afraid but unable todo anything about it except to keep doing it. Her motions andreactions seemed different, as if she had suddenly and somehow lostall control and had turned her body and cunt and destiny entirelyover to me. I saw her lie below me and totally abandon herself towhat I would or wouldn’t do. She lay utterly helpless. She movedlittle, but her movements were centered in a very small area fromher upper thighs to her navel, and she seemed to have somehow founda way to hold her cunt poised at the exact height and angle for mycock to slide snugly in her exactly the way she wanted, with herswollen clit barely brushing my shaft– either she planned itprecisely so, or I had precisely found the very spot and the verymotions she precisely wanted, or else it just happened that waybecause everything we did when we were naked somehow and unavoidablyhappened that way. Her cunt sucked exactly at the center of my tipand her hips subtley rotated her clit precisely along the ridge ofmy cock that rode and fit exactly in her crease as we firmly andsilently locked and greasily ground our bellies together.Then she stiffened terribly, trembled, stiffened and liftedher her hips a bare inch off the bed, trembled and whimpered, andthen stiffened for one last, prolonged period. I knew then that shewas in a different world. If I didn’t yet know what an orgasm was,I had the perfect example lying under me, sucking pleasure from mycock with a quiet madness from an unseen place inside her. The to-tality of her surrender and the sight of her elegant neck stretchedback as if in sweet death filled me with the knowledge of thatecstasy which only a complete surrender to lust could achieve.Without thinking I settled deeply into her and, feeling her clitnudging the edge of my shaft, I ground my hips into her in slow,rhythmic circles, which her cunt returned in exactly the oppositedirection at exactly the same time, and I clenched my young teethat the insane tickle of her inner muscles rolling around my glansand the oily sucking ring of her outer lips caressing me near theroot of my cock, and I knew by the tension in her cunt and in herthighs on either side of me that she was more deeply immersed inpleasure than she had ever been. She remained like that for whatseemed to be a large portion of eternity as I grunted above her inmy first conscious wallowing in the pure a****listic pleasure ofwhat I was doing to her. The whole time she came, I looked down ather. I have never forgotten the sight of her below me in the moon-light as I hovered on my elbows and for the first time used mypenis, my cock, my dick to make her cum.It all happened so quickly. I didn’t yet know all the implica-tions of the word that described what we were doing (she would getto that later, in her own inimitable way). My entry and our screw-ing and her cumming seemed to have happened by accident, an acci-dent that overtook us completely and swiftly and absolutely. Shehad cum so quickly and deeply that we both lay stone quiet for awhile as if stunned.Afterwards she said, “You and I certainly are full of surprises,aren’t we, hon?” She leaned over me. “You gave me so muchpleasure, I…How do you know just what do? Oh my, I can’t eventhink straight.”Once again she tried masturbating me. I enjoyed it, and shedid get another buzz of some kind out of me a second time. I toldher not to worry, that whatever I felt it was really a very goodand wickedly satisfying sensation. Then we had to dress.She left that night as if in a daze.And I slept like a sack of bones in the moonlight falling onthe part of the bed where I had experienced the unbelievablethrill of entering her secret core and probing the very source ofher with my cock. In the morning my flesh remembered her and itseemed her wetness still clung to me, I could feel her on my cockfor days. And if memory serves me correctly I still cannot say,after all these years, whether I wandered all day in a dream, orin shock, or both.