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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 09B"( bf mF mF+ )[31/52]
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The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
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This particular series is by Santo J. Romeo. That might even be his
real name. The version that I have copied used his initials, and I have
followed suit. It is more a tragic story of coming of age than simply a
sex story, and individual segments might not contain any sex. The entire
story, however, is a hot one.
========
**** WARNING **** WARNING **** WARNING ****
THIS DOCUMENT IS A SEXUALLY GRAPHIC STORY ABOUT AN INTENSE SEXUAL,
EMOTIONAL AND INTELLECTUAL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN A TEENAGE GIRL AND
A YOUNG BOY AND THE COURSE OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP OVER A PERIOD OF
10 YEARS. IT IS A DRAMATIZATION ABOUT REAL PEOPLE AND THEIR CON-
FLICT WITH SOCIAL EXPECTATIONS. IF THIS SUBJECTS OFFENDS YOU OR IF
SEXUAL LANGUAGE UPSETS YOU, OR IF YOU DON'T WANT THIS MATERIAL SEEN
BY UNDER-18 OR OTHERWISE UNQUALIFIED PERSONS, DELETE THIS DOCUMENT.
THIS DOCUMENT IS COPYRIGHTED 1994, 1996 BY SJR. SO--HEY, YOU CAN
COPY IT BUT YOU CAN'T CHANGE IT OR SELL IT UNLESS I SAY SO.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
sjr <73233.1411@CompuServe.COM>
============
PART 9B:
One morning in early October, soon after starting my 8th-grade school
year, I approached Tony at breakfast and told him I needed to draw from
my savings. At first he didn't want to hear about it; the account had
only recently begun to show real progress.
I told him I needed to buy a new bike and a front basket for it.
When he discovered that I needed the bike because I had signed up to be a
morning news carrier for the Commercial Appeal, his eyes lit up. It was
the first time I'd seen him express enthusiasm for anything I'd said or
done.
"What about your Saturday job at the store?" he asked.
"I'm keepin' that one, too," I said firmly.
He smiled broadly at my Mom. "Damn, this kid's gettin' to be a real
worker!"
Under those circumstances, he agreed that I could get an inexpensive
three-speed bike that wouldn't consume my savings but would be good
enough to haul a load of morning newspapers.
Of course I didn't tell him that the money from the paper route would
be used to get me to New York. He was so pleased about my willingness to
work myself to death, I didn't want to spoil the only basis for the slim
rapport that had been established between us.
At my first morning on the carrier job, it soon became apparent that
I'd again taken on a bigger chunk that I'd bargained for. My Mom woke me
at four o'clock in the morning and had hot oatmeal waiting for me when I
was dressed. As I wolfed breakfast she stumbled back into bed, grumbling
that she'd be glad when I would be able to wake myself up and get an
early breakfast without disturbing her.
That first October morning was chilly and dark. I rode my new red
three-speed Schwinn to the loading station several blocks away. The
route manager, a short and muscular middle-aged man with a harried look
and baggy eyes, delivered my initial instructions and showed me how to
check and sign for my newspapers. I learned that my route consisted of
136 customers on seven short suburban streets. I then discovered that
there was no way my three-speed Schwinn could transport 136 newspapers in
a single trip without another backbreaking effort on my part.
The solution was to pile as many papers as I could into the bike's
front basket. This amounted to a little less than one-third of the
papers required. I was given three large canvas shoulder bags with the
official Commercial Appeal logo imprinted on them in dull red. I stuffed
the remaining papers into the three canvas bags. Then I strapped the
bags around my shoulders by their long canvas straps. Thus weighted, I
slowly waddled like a two-ton duck out of the dimly lighted loading sta-
tion and toward my bicycle. Outside, the crowd of other newscarriers
hustled to load their motorcycles and automobiles. I knew none of them
and spoke to no one -- I was too busy trying to figure out how to keep
the weight of the packed bags from pulling me down and flattening me like
a pancake.
Lurching fitfully, I struggled to mount my Schwinn. The next step
was to see if I could possibly move my legs up and down to work the
pedals. I couldn't. The huge canvas bags hanging from my shoulders were
in the way.
The route manager in his leather bomber jacket passed me on his way
to his station wagon. "Hey," he shouted, "you gonna make it anywhere
like that?"
"Sure," I said, forcing a smile. I was far from sure of it myself.
After twisting and shuffling the load on my shoulders so that one bag
hung over my back and the other two were suspended slightly behind my
hips, I was able to move my legs. I started pumping arduously at the
pedals of my Schwinn, which I locked in its lowest gear.
By the time I devised this clumsy method, almost all the other kids
had left the loading station. I lumbered into the roadway and headed
toward Given Avenue, one long block away. Looking ahead, I was horrified
to find that, despite all the level streets and flat expanses of land in
my neighborhood, I had been given a route that had to be accessed from
the loading station by climbing the only hill in sight. And it was a
steep climb, rising quickly to a least a two-story height in the course
of that one long block of roadway.
As I grunted and puffed my way up the hill at a slug's pace, the
last two newsboys passed me, one on his motorcycle with its sidecar
loaded with newspapers, and the other in a baby blue 1952 Mercury whose
broken muffler roared and spewed a thin gray cloud of oily smoke as he
passed me and disappeared over the hill.
The sun was just rising. The jet black sky had lightened vaguely
with the first gray intimations of daybreak. There was no traffic on the
streets, no sound in the predawn stillness -- just myself, groaning and
huffing under the onus of the fully loaded front basket and the three
bulging canvas bags whose combined size was almost three times my own.
Halfway up the hill, the burning in my thighs told me I had no choice
but to dismount and walk the load to the crest of the upgrade. Cursing
under my hot breath, I stopped my bike. Now I had to find a way to
dismount without hurting myself. I could not get both my feet to touch
the ground in order to balance the Schwinn. Before I knew it, I felt the
bag around my back begin to shift to my side as I leaned to get off the
bike and onto one foot. Suddenly the strap of the bag was choking me. I
reached back to stop the bag's movement, but its weight and that of the
one next to it dragged themselves and me toward the ground. I was yanked
to my left; then the bag at my right hip followed suit with the others,
swinging behind and then beyond me, and all three bags hauled me down.
I fell, face up, my Schwinn toppling away from me. Two of the bags
landed beneath me, their wide straps yanking roughly and garotting me
from behind as they pulled me down. Flat on my back, choking and gag-
ging, I panicked and struggled to raise my head. This only dug the rough
straps into my neck. Finally, I had the good sense to roll onto my side
and off the bags. The straps fell away from my neck. I could breathe
again.
Coughing and gasping, I pulled the other straps away and stood to
survey the damage. The handlebar of my Schwinn had somehow been twisted
starboard, out of line with the center bar. I raised the bike and held it
between my knees while I strained to center the handlebar.
Rasping loudly and still choking a little, I looked around. Not a
car or a person in sight. At least I'd been spared the embarrassment of
having my stupidity and clumsiness witnessed by others. Checking my
wrist watch, I saw that it was nearly six A.M.
Breathlessly I muttered aloud to myself, "You'll have to do better
than this, stupid." My body was still reacting to the sensation of being
strangled by the straps of my own newsbags. Rubbing my neck, I found
that the flesh around my Adam's apple had been burned and scraped; it
stung painfully when I touched it.
Enraged, I hurriedly began strapping up again. Arranging the bags
more methodically, I reloaded the papers that had fallen out of my
Schwinn's basket and began laboriously walking the bike uphill.
Finally at the top, I took a right turn and surveyed the street that
lay before me and that led to the beginning of my route five blocks away.
Whereas the steep grade that led from the paper station to the top of the
hill was sudden and sharp, the street before me was a long sweeping down-
grade as far as I could see.
"Good!" I said aloud, knowing that I could simply coast downhill all
the way to my route. Carefully I mounted my Schwinn. After ensuring
that all was balanced and under control, I shoved off with my feet and
sat with the hard nose of the bicycle seat nudging painfully into my
coccyx under the weight of the carrier bags. But soon I was rolling
swiftly, the bicycle tires hissing loudly along the asphalt street. In
the quiet air I heard the wind whistle faintly past my ears as I picked
up speed. Thus loaded, strapped, upright, and rolling almost merrily
along, I imagined myself as looking absurdly like a giant papier-mache
cauliflower on wheels. About halfway down the hill it suddenly occurred
to me that I had no way whatever of braking quickly under the momentum of
the weight that both surrounded and propelled me. Stoically, I concluded
that in a collision the formless paper hulk would at least cushion the
blow.
Fortunately, sudden stops weren't needed. But as I approached the
far end of Given Avenue, where the first house on my route nestled upon
its own little mound of grassy lot, I noticed for the first time that
this part of Given sloped toward another upgrade. Thankfully it was not
the virtual mountain that lay behind me; but my rolling began to slow,
and soon I was straining and pedaling again in low gear.
Out of breath and grunting fiercely under the three canvas bags, I
finally rolled to a stop at the curb in front of the first house. Too
tired to resist, I allowed myself and my bike to lean, and then to slide
into a slow fall, toward my right. All of me and my load settled with a
soft lurch into the grass that lined the curb.
I lay there for several minutes on my back, gazing at the
brightening, dull overcast above. Gradually I gained my breath, though
for a minute or so I seemed to have fallen into a shallow doze. Opening
my eyes, I extracted myself from the long shoulder straps and sat up,
feeling the chilly October air on my face and hands. I craned my aching
neck to my left and looked at the sweep of roadway which I had just
traveled. There stood the hill at the top of Given Avenue, where I'd
fallen and nearly choked. I knew there was no way to get from the paper
station to my route without fighting that hill. I'd have to battle that
hill every morning, seven days a week, for as long as I kept the paper
route. And this was only a Monday -- the Sunday edition would be three
times the size and weight of the dailies. Well, I thought, I'd worry
about that when Sunday arrived.
Standing creakily, I stretched and found that my shoulders ached and
had also been burned by the iron grip of one of the straps. My neck
ached, my back ached, my thighs and shins burned and throbbed.
I looked again toward the hill, which stood silent and mocking five
or six blocks away. "I'll beat you," I said aloud. "I'll beat you yet,
dammit." I straightened my jacket and my twisted shirt, and then dragged
my load of papers onto the customer's lawn. Sitting in the dew-damp
grass, I spent several minutes resting while folding and tucking each
newspaper into a hard, flat, four-cornered package that would be easy to
pitch onto the 136 front porches that lay ahead.
A few minutes later the route manager, Mr. Williams, cruised by in
his brown station wagon and rolled to a stop near me. "Hey," he scolded
from the car window, "you better get movin'. It's almost six-thirty."
"I'm folding all the papers first," I called back, without getting
up. "It'll go faster that way."
"It's your route, you handle it the way you like. But if you don't
finish by seven o'clock when people wake up, I start getting calls from
folks who climb the walls because they don't have their mornin' paper."
"Don't worry," I said wearily. "Just running a little slow on my
first day."
Mr. Williams frowned and lit a cigarette. "Don't let this get to be
a habit," he cautioned sternly. He stepped on the gas and drove off in
a hurry.
"Up yours," I muttered as he roared away.
It was impractical to walk my entire route carrying all three bags
loaded with folded newspapers. I decided that I could leave two bags
in the shrubs of the first house, and use the third bag to service the
first part of my route, which circled back to where I started. The
second bag could handle the next two streets, and I could circle back
again to pick up the last bag and finish the route.
By the end of the week I was showing up at a quarter to five in the
morning, walking my papers up that first hill, and completing the route
just after six. Then I'd cruise home on my Schwinn and catch an hour's
nap before showering and boarding the bus to St. Michael's School. When
school let out that afternoon, I was so tired that I fell asleep on the
school bus; the driver knew my stop and woke me up every day. But I knew
I couldn't depend on his wakeup forever. I had to shape up.
Managing my first Sunday edition was a nightmare. The Sunday sub-
scriber list was larger than the daily, totaling 165 papers instead of
136. The bulk was not my estimated three times that of the dailies, but
four or five times the weekday load. Although I'd learned a lot about
handling the carrier bags and my Schwinn, I was discouraged to find that
I had to make three trips back and forth before I could transport the
entire load to my route. By the time I finally slipped thick rubber
bands around each paper, a heavy and sloppy rainfall began. Many papers
got soaked before I could move them into shelter on a nearby front porch.
That morning, I didn't complete the route until after seven-thirty.
When I finally stumbled into my parents' home I found that five customers
had already called in their complaints.
My step-dad was awake and sipping his coffee as he dressed for Mass.
"Why are you so late?" he grumbled. "Didn't you go to your route this
morning? Your manager called and said he had five complaints."
I collapsed onto our sofa and wearily explained that the Sunday
papers were so heavy that it took over an hour to get them to my route,
and then the rain made me even later.
"Hmp. Cain't be THAT many papers on Sunday," he grumbled.
"It's not the number," I said, "it's the size."
"The other boys get their papers up there, don't they? Why can't
you?"
Holding back a fit of anger, I answered patiently, "The other boys
have cars or motorcycles."
"You have to be sixteen to drive a car," he retorted.
I retorted back, "They have cars. That's all I know."
He thought about it for a minute. "Well, we have to wake up early to
get to Sunday Mass anyway, so...I'll get up with you on Sundays, and we
can load your papers in the car."
I was relieved by the idea. Relieved, surprised, and disappointed
all at once. Surprised that he would offer help, much less that he'd
even considered that my situation might require it. Relieved, that the
worst of the Sunday nightmare would be alleviated, although that big hill
on Given Avenue would still be there the other six days of the week. And
disappointed: not only did I feel old enough and intelligent enough to
drive our Ford each morning, but I also could complete my work long be-
fore it was time for my stepdad to drive to work. I was envious of many
of the other boys, most of whom were not yet sixteen but who nevertheless
appeared to have dads who let them use a car for work.
But I was not willing to tempt fate by complaining about the offer.
I thanked him, though I did so in such a subdued manner that I wondered
if he believed I was truly grateful. I did not trust Tony enough to
communicate with him frankly. I seldom shared words with him, much less
my thoughts and feelings. Anyway, this little package of help did not
satisfy my need for someone whom I felt could be the father I wanted or
needed.
The other barb was that I wanted to be able to do everything on my
own. I did not trust people or like them enough to be able to ask for
help, which I accepted only when I saw no other choice.
So I accepted his ride. Each Sunday, the two of us traded brief,
dull, impersonal shreds of conversation during the predawn half-hour or
so as we rode to the paper station, loaded the papers, and then unloaded
them onto a front porch where I could keep out of the weather. Tony
would drive off, leaving me to rubber-band the big Sunday editions or
slide them into plastic covers when it rained or snowed.
It's possible that this Sunday routine might have aided in bringing
me closer to Mr. Tony Lobianco, and through him perhaps to my Mom. After
the first few weeks I had faint hopes that this might happen.
Those hopes were dashed a few days before Thanksgiving when my mother
came into my bedroom one night and caught me masturbating. Apparently
she had been on her way to the bathroom in our dark house and must have
seen my hand movements under the bed covers. She rushed into the room
and pulled back the blankets to reveal my erection, as I tried in vain to
pull my pajamas back up.
"Speedy!" she shrieked. "How disgusting!" She threw the covers back
over me and I saw her flinch and grimace with revulsion. "You should be
ashamed of yourself!" She left the room, muttering, "I hope you tell the
priest about this in confession! That's just...awful!"
For a while I lay silent and shaky with the suddenness of it all,
humiliated at being caught, mortified by her reaction. After many
minutes of darkness and quiet, I was simply angry. I waited almost an
hour before renewing my vision of a girl my age, a girl very much like
Martha Jane, arching her hips to receive me, and finished as stealthily
as I could.
The next morning at breakfast, Tony waited until my Mom left the
breakfast table for a moment before saying in a subdued but reproving
voice, "You'll be goin' to confession when you're in school today...
Right?"
"Yessir," I replied, appearing suitably ashamed and penitent.
Of course, I didn't confess. The incident succeeded in making me
feel ashamed, but it also resulted in my being angrily rebellious rather
than penitent. I adopted a strict policy of never revealing my sexual
self to anyone, not even to other boys.
That night and that morning had been the most personal and intimate
moment I had ever experienced with either of them. Any hopes I had about
bridging gaps between myself and my parents bit the dust. I never again
trusted them with any aspect of my inner life.
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 9B
-30-
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