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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 10B"( bf mF mF+ )[35/52]
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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
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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 10B:
I lay on my side with Martha spooned behind me. Gazing out the small
window that overlooked East 87th Street, I gradually returned to earth.
I was startled at how quickly and completely and mindlessly I had fucked
and climaxed. In trying to recall each detail of the past few moments, I
felt I'd lost all control and all awareness; I remembered little of it.
Martha slid a hand down my arm and up again, as if learning anew the
textures her fingers found there.
She breathed, "I missed cumming like that."
"I'm surprised I remembered what to do," I whispered.
"I hate to say this, but...there's no rest for the weary..."
"Oh, no. What next?"
"We have to grab a little snack. Some of that weird tea we bought at
the store should perk us up. Then I'll show you where to put your
clothes and things, and we'll dress and meet Ronnie at the Stage Deli
when she gets off work. We'd better shower -- Ronnie has radar in her
nose and can smell sex a mile away."
Quickly we went about our chores, with Martha going over the schedule
for the weekend and the week ahead. She could not get the entire week
off; she had meetings Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. But she would leave
the office early, by four o'clock. I'd be on my own those three days
until she returned. She told me about her neighbors in the four-story
building so that I'd know who they were and so they wouldn't think I'd
broken into the building if they saw me in the stairway. Then there was
a mind-boggling series of details about her part of town and how to get
around the city. She gave me subway and bus maps, a tourist guide, and a
couple of magazines about New York. She had tickets for "West Side
Story" on Monday Night, reservations for Ronnie and us on another night,
tickets for an off-Broadway play, tickets for a lecture at Columbia...
"And I want to show you places where you can shop for clothes," she
told me as she readied towels and cosmetics for her shower. "And I want
to take you to the United Nations, and to Columbia to meet some of the
people I work with, and the Museum of Modern Art, and Fire Island. The
Museum's a favorite hangout. And Fire Island...well, that'll be very,
very special. And then there's a beatnik joint in the East Village..."
After she completed her toilet in the tiny bathroom, I joined her in
the cramped shower stall in the kitchen. Under the thin warm spray we
stood toe to toe, nipple to nipple, with no room to spare. As if study-
ing a lab specimen, she quickly scanned the face and body she had not
seen in two years. She ran her fingers through my hair. "You have
yellow highlights," she mused. "It looks very good on you. But while
you're here I'll have to teach you how to get the right kind of haircut.
Whoever cuts your hair in Memphis has no idea what they're doing." She
scowled at a mark on my lower cheek. "What's this scar?"
I told her it was a boil that had been lanced a few months ago.
"Wonderful," she muttered dryly. "Any doctor who lances a facial
boil that way would be better off in a butcher shop. Don't ever let
anyone do that to you again."
She held my face and kissed my nose. "You've been having a hard time
down there, haven't you? But you're still you..." She draped her arms
around my shoulders. "If only every guy in New York were so easy to get
along with." She kissed my nose again. She looked at me. I looked at
her. Again, slowly, she kissed my nose. Her hands cradled my face. Her
eyes narrowed as her face tilted and inched closer to mine again. With
water splashing and gurgling around us, we kissed, our lips writhing with
a lovingly gentle hunger.
Abruptly she pulled away. She closed her eyes, leaning against me
with her forehead pressed to my wet chest and her hands loosely atop my
shoulders. She took a deep breath.
"Steven," she said, "I'm not used to this."
"I'm not either," I said, and I stroked her temple and kissed her ear.
She began briskly swabbing my chest. "We *must* control ourselves,
now. We have a lot to do and I want us bright-eyed and bushy-tailed so
you can meet Ronnie."
She looked at me again and seemed ready to say something. Instead,
she planted a loud smack on my forehead and continued bathing. We
finished our shower, Martha growing quiet and subdued, as if preoccu-
pied. We dried and dressed. Just before five, we left for midtown
Manhattan to meet Ronnie at the Stage Deli.
The food at the restaurant was a revelation. I chomped into the corn
beef sandwich as if my life depended on that one dish.
"Good?" she asked, amused.
"Delicious!" I growled, my mouth stuffed.
She flicked her cigarette's tip on the corner of her ash tray. "Bet
you never had corned beef like that in Memphis."
"Memphis?" I asked. "They serve corned beef out of a can."
"Don't eat yourself into a coma. We still haven't ordered the
cheesecake, and Ronnie will be here any minute."
Overcome with gustatory delight, I pushed my plate away so I could
pause and catch my breath. Unconsciously, I reached into my shirt pocket
and withdrew a cigarette, which I lit without even thinking about it.
"What are you doing?" Martha asked, taken aback. "Steven. I don't
believe it. When did you start that?"
"I dunno. Long time ago."
She frowned reprovingly, then she smirked. "Well, I'm not going to
sit here with a cigarette in my hand and preach, but I see you're still
full of surprises. I hope you don't chain-smoke. Ronnie does now and
then, and I can't stand it."
"I have it under control," I lied.
"Do something for me."
"What?"
"See that sign, the big blue menu sign they have posted on that big
mirror over there? By the restroom door on the other side of the room?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me what it says."
I squinted at the sign. I could tell from my side of the room that
the hand-lettered writing was oversized, but I couldn't decipher the
first item in the list. "I think it says, uh...stew. Oyster stew."
"Why aren't you wearing your glasses?" she asked, her face hardening
with mild impatience.
I looked at her. "How'd you know I wore glasses? Did my mother tell
on me?"
"In your suitcase you had a case with your glasses in it. Why aren't
you wearing them?"
"Well...they're just reading glasses."
She took a fast puff off her cigarette and exhaled quickly, leveling
her eyes at me. "The lenses are too thick to be reading glasses. And
you squint at everything, even when we're just walking down the street.
Why don't you wear your glasses?"
"Oh..." I started casually. Her insistence was unsettling. I wished
she hadn't seen them in my luggage. Absently, I groped at a pimple on
the side of my face.
"Steven, don't do that. Leave your face alone." She flicked her
ashes again. Then she gave an axasperated little laugh and shook her
head. "Oh, listen to me nag. I'm sorry, Steven, don't let me nag at you
like that. But this is so unlike you."
"I know," I said, shifting uneasily in my seat.
"Steven...are you lying to me about those glasses? Was that a tiny,
itsy-bitsy, teeny white lie?"
"Yes."
"Please don't do that." Her eyes looked past me and she straightened
in her seat and smiled. "Hold onto your hat. Here comes Ronnie."
Ronnie, entering hurriedly in a gray business suit and carrying a
purse and a pharmacy shopping bag on one arm, appeared with a loud click-
ing of high heels and headed for the chair between Martha and me. "Oh,
good!" she said breathlessly, "A chair! Oh, god! Feet, just a few more
steps, you can make it. Hello, people, hellohellohello. Oh, please,
please let me sit! Let me SIT!" She hastily flung her suit jacket over
the back of the chair and sat slowly, with a prolonged wince. "Aaaaaaah!
Oh, god! Don't look under the table, Martha. It's just me, slipping my
shoes off." She was a young brunette, about Martha's size and age, her
medium-length, black hair combed back in loose, fluffy waves. "And
this -- this MUST be Steven."
"Ronnie," Martha said, "meet Steven."
"Steven. Yes." She smiled broadly and shyly. "Yesyesyes." She
bent toward me earnestly and placed her hand on my arm. Small-mouthed
and with a slender, somewhat pointed nose, she had soft, large, sapphire-
blue eyes. "Not to worry, Steven, I'm recovering from a week at work
that I would like to forget for the rest of my life. Ignore. Do what
you were doing."
Martha said, "Steven, if you haven't guessed, this is Ronnie."
"Hi, Steven. Ronnie. It's genetic, nothing helps. Oh, Where's that
waiter I always get in here, what's his name? Marco? Is he around? I
need coffee desperately."
Ronnie waved a waiter to our table. She ordered coffee. "Black,"
she said. "And that white wine and vermouth thing you guys make here,
know what I mean, Marco? Just fill the glass with ice cold wine, and
then *lean* near the glass, you know? With your lips just a few inches
away? And whisper 'Vermouth'. Whisper, now. And a hot pastrami with
cole slaw. Remember: coffee. Black. If it's left over from this morn-
ing, even better. And remember, just whisper the vermouth. Please don't
make lemonade out of it. I need the total, mind-altering effect of the
juice of one glass of pure white wine with a mere suggestion of ver-
mouth. In fact, toots, don't even whisper vermouth, just look at the
wine and *hint*. Y'know? Thanks, Marco. You're a doll."
We chatted. Ronnie chain-smoked and did most of the talking. Martha
asked Ronnie about Ronnie's date with a guy named Harvey, whom Ronnie met
at a party recently. "Harvey? Right. I need Harvey like I need breast
cancer. What a jerk. He takes me to this AWFUL movie with Pat Boone,
something called 'Bernadine' or whatever . Steven, can you imagine Pat
Boone and a bunch of forty year old phonies playing people your age? Oh,
Steven, please, don't get upset, I'm not talking about years, I'm talking
about a case of arrested mental development. And this silly plot about a
sugar-sweet telephone operator? Come on. And Harvey RAVES about it --
'Better than Gone With the Wind!' he says. Then he gets the idea I'm
having such a great time, and he's such an attractive moose, he wants to
go someplace where we can be alo-o-one. Hey, won't he even let me finish
my popcorn? Come on, he says, we're two adults. I said, no, Harv, we're
NOT two adults. We're one adult named Ronnie, and one JERK!"
At dessert time, Ronnie warned me that it was illegal to remain in
New York without having a huge slice of the deli's homemade cheesecake.
The three of us indulged in servings of the cloying stuff, thick with
sour cream and cream cheese on a bed of crunchy vanilla-wafer crust.
Martha ate sparingly, finishing only half her slice, while Ronnie and I
groaned with each bite. I finished Martha's helping after my own.
By that time, Ronnie's fourth wine had begun its work. "Get Steven
an egg cream, Martha!", Ronnie squealed. "Steven, you'll LOVE this. Egg
creams! I can't even LOOK at them, I get one after another until I burp
foam!" As I enjoyed an egg cream, Ronnie watched merrily and started
giggling at everything in sight.
"Ronnie," Martha enjoined her delicately, "maybe you should have egg
creams instead of those wine things."
"Martha, don't get me started. They're addictive and fattening.
Steven -- Steven, look at this woman. My friend Martha. I'd KILL for
the dates she turns down! And she turns down everybody, for godssake!
Can you believe this? She has all the gifts, and dates only twice a
year. Look. Isn't she gorgeous? A Georgia peach, right? Or a Tenn-
essee peach, or whatever. And so-o-o sweet and smart. I'm so glad I met
her, but every time I look at her I say this little prayer: 'God? Why
all to her, and so little to me?'"
After we had been there nearly three hours, Ronnie went to the rest-
room for the second time. While she was gone, Martha began gathering
Ronnie's things and called for the waiter to empty the ash tray, which
Ronnie had twice filled with crushed Pall Malls.
"Steven," Martha said quietly, "Ronnie isn't always like this. I
think this guy Harvey pushed some buttons. I wish she'd never met him.
I'm sorry I brought him up."
"Maybe she's had too many Harvey's, instead of too many gins."
"That's very insightful, Steven. You happen to be correct." She
threw a concerned glance toward the lady's room. "Please help me get her
out of here when she comes back. Don't force it; she hates to be ordered
around. But it's time she had a nice long nap."
After another half hour, Ronnie caught the gist of Martha's many
hints and asked us to walk her home. On the sidewalk she tottered on her
high heels before leaning on Martha for support. After a couple of
blocks, she leaned on me.
"Steven," Ronnie said, patting my back, "you're a nice guy, y'know?
Nice. Quiet. Refined. All that easygoing, down home politeness...and
all that..." She yawned, and leaned her head on my shoulder. "Oh,
Steven. Martha. I'm afraid I'm tipsy. Helluva way to meet somebody,
huh?" She giggled. "I promise, you met me at what is euphemistically
called a 'bad moment'." Again she leaned her head on my shoulder, with
one arm around my waist and the other around Martha as we walked down
East 87th. "Mmmmm, Martha... no wonder you two are such buddies. He has
such a nice feel to him, doesn't he? Like, you wouldn't know it to look
at him, but he just seems to...fit. Something warm and comfy cozy and...
so easy to lean on, y'know?"
I blushed. Martha watched warily to ensure that Ronnie didn't
stumble and bring all of us to the ground. I gave Martha a wink, to let
her know I felt I could manage. Even as she lurched against my shoulder,
Ronnie had a lightness about her physically that matched her delicate
laugh and voice. Her complements had me wondering how much she knew
about me and Martha. Half a block later, Ronnie fell silent and seemed
to drift off with her head on my shoulder.
"Hey, you," Martha prompted Ronnie dryly as we stopped at the stairs
leading to the front door of her building. "Do we have to carry you up
the stairs?"
Ronnie blinked awake, blushing. "Omigod. I was having such a nice
nap."
Opening the door with her own key, Ronnie apologized and said she
hoped she hadn't embarrassed me. "Martha, you were right about Steven.
He's such a honey. So patient." She said she could make it upstairs on
her own. After a small battle with the tightly-sprung main door, she
started upstairs with her high-heels in one hand. We watched as she
dragged herself up to the second floor, then we went back outside.
"It's early," Martha said. "Wanna take a walk? I'll show you the
East River. C'mon, we can talk."
Martha told me that Harvey was one of a long line of disastrous dates
for Ronnie. I asked why Ronnie seemed to think of herself as un-
attractive and told her I thought Ronnie was pretty. Martha said Ronnie
had always felt unattractive. A few years earlier, Ronnie lived with a
heavy drinker who battered her, and the longer they stayed together the
worse the man treated her. That relationship was followed by a similar,
though less violent, one. Ronnie blamed herself, feeling things would
have been different if she had been more attractive and sexually
appealing.
"I've tried again and again to tell her that her focus is only on her
imagined shortcomings, and that she deserves better," Martha said, as we
strolled downtown to the East 70's and then along a promenade beside the
East River. The night was clear and starry. A strong breeze ruffled our
hair as we walked along the whispering river, the muffled roar of the
city blocked by buildings bounding the promenade.
Martha asked about Memphis, sending us both into a long reminiscence
of how we had grown up. We recalled the housing project and the people
she'd known and how they had changed or dropped out of sight. She
mentioned her memories and her longings and how her work had replaced
what had been missing in her early years.
"I could never explain to myself how I grew up to be so disciplined
and so proper," she said, "and yet there was such a wicked side to me.
So wicked. You're the only one who knows about that. Do you realize
that? Not even my few boyfriends knew about that. You're the only one
who knows that about me."
She had talked openly and frankly for over an hour. Now she stopped
and looked at me, saying plaintively, "Steven, you haven't told me any-
thing about yourself."
"Nothing to tell," I replied, looking out at the swift, gurgling
river.
She said flatly, "I won't accept that."
I shrugged, a gesture that made her frown. She gave a long sigh and
placed a hand on my arm and squeezed. "Steven, you spent almost three
hours with me and Ronnie and didn't say a thing. What's wrong?"
I dodged her question with an apologetic grin. "I was just trying to
get used to all this. Everything's so new, so different. And I'm...shy."
"No. There's a difference between being a shy young man and simply
hiding out. I saw it and felt it. You were tense and wouldn't even let
yourself laugh with Ronnie and me. I meet shy people your age all the
time...the ones who hide and hold back the way you do are the frightened
ones. The depressed and the angry."
I didn't respond. For one thing, I didn't even know where to begin.
All I could do was shrug, and wince, and shuffle my feet uncomfortably.
Martha straightened up and said firmly, "I'm not gonna let you get
away with that. Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Let's go get some goodies."
We walked to a liquor store a few blocks away on East 86th. Inside
the store, Martha tapped into my interest in detail by giving me a quick
education in wines and the basic wine types and varieties. The change of
subject lightened my mood and made me feel, for the time being, that I'd
successfully avoided her interrogation of me. Martha was shocked to hear
that few members of my huge Italian family served wine at meals when
youngsters were present. I told her I didn't even know about Italian
foods like canoles or gnocchi; the menus posted on the doors of New York
restaurants we passed listed Italian dishes I never heard of. She told
me, "You're going to learn so much in New York. I can't wait to see your
reaction when we go to Little Italy." She suggested that, if I could
afford it, we could buy four representative wines and sample each during
the week ahead.
"Most of this stuff is never imported into Memphis. And on the way
home we can stop at this fabulous cheese place. An entire store filled
with cheese."
When I told her I liked the idea, she bent close to my ear and said
in a hushed whisper, "Give me the money for the wine, and wait outside. I
forgot, you're not old enough to be in here, but I don't think anyone
noticed yet. You look older in your coat and tie and they probably won't
even check, but we shouldn't push it."
While she made the purchase I waited outside, smoking a cigarette and
watching the human theater that passed on busy 86th Street. New Yorkers
impressed me as being energetic, assertive, streetwise -- totally differ-
ent from the languorous, dawdling people I knew in Memphis. Even the
teens I saw seemed to possess a savvy and a wordliness that I knew was
far ahead of me. Watching them, I felt like the consummate bumpkin,
pimpled, awkward, and slow-witted. And Martha, whom I'd always seen as
self-assured and knowledgeable, seemed to have caught up and merged with
the best of them. I wanted to shrink into a doorway and disappear.
Surely my ignorance and clumsiness and all my other failings must be
evident to everyone, including Martha.
On our way back to Martha's we stopped at the cheese shop.
"So how do you like this place?" Martha asked as we entered.
Before me was a wide room that looked like a solid yellow wall of
cheese. Cheese in wrappers, in boxes, on shelves and in roped chunks
hanging from the ceiling. My mouth fell open. "I never saw so much
cheese in my life!"
After leaving the store with a sack of cheeses I never dreamed
existed, I felt giddy and overwhelmed. I stayed close to Martha, fol-
lowing her steps and learning how to dodge oncoming traffic along the
sidewalk.
Beside me, Martha chuckled. "Steven, don't look so intimidated!
You'll get the hang of walking in New York. Just forge ahead."
I gulped. "It's not see easy to see where I'm going when my eyeballs
are falling out of my head."
She pulled me close to her and clasped my arm firmly. She said
earnestly as we hurried toward her block, "You have to get yourself out
of the 'Memphis mode' if you expect to be hanging around with me for the
next nine days. You have a lot to learn, hon, but I'll help. Starting
right now..."
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 10B
-30-
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