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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 10C"( bf mF mF+ )[36/52]
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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 10C:
By ten-fifteen that night we returned to Martha's place and set the
tiny dining table with a bottle of wine, three cheeses, and two boxes of
imported crackers. We kicked off our shoes. Martha struggled with the
corkscrew while I fetched two glasses.
"Begin," she said.
Almost two hours later I was slurring my words and pacing the living
room with a cigarette in one hand and a wine glass in the other. I
wasn't drunk, but I was "loose" for the first time in my brief life.
Little did I suspect that a small amount of wine would extract from me
such a detailed two-year autobiography. Defenseless, and listening to my
own long, rambling sentences, I felt almost removed from myself, as if I
were some one sitting beside Martha, who remained perfectly sober and
attentive as she curled lazily on the sofa with her glass and crackers.
I told her everything, starting with the dumping of the Black Beauty; my
three jobs, undertaken solely to get me to New York while sacrificing
everything else; my isolation from my parents and my lack of friends, my
efforts and adventures on the delivery bike and the paper route; my with-
drawal from activities at school, my distrust of everyone; my refusal to
accept my faults, my dislike of my own appearance and even of my way of
speaking; my inability to live tolerably with my parents -- all of it
tumbled out of me in stolid, dry detail, as if talking about it under the
influence of the wine-induced fog made everything seem galaxies away from
Memphis and from me. I was so mildly but pleasantly boozed, I felt as if
I were describing someone else.
Martha listened calmly and solemnly, asking an occasional question
to keep me on track. Just before one o'clock in the morning, I became
drowsy and ended my story, settling with a sardonic laugh into a chair
across the room from Martha, who smiled sleepily and sympathetically and
brushed a stray hair from her forehead.
"It seems so far away," I sighed, looking out the window at the roofs
of the sleeping city. "I'm so far away from it now, I wonder if it real-
ly happened."
"Maybe you had to physically get away from it," Martha said, "before
you could tell me about it."
"No," I said sarcastically, "first you had to get me two thousand
miles from home and put a bottle of zinfandel in front of me."
She smiled indulgently. "You're not that drunk. Not on zinfandel.
But, yes, I did ply you with liquor, hon. I'm sorry. No -- I'm not
sorry. I haven't seen this much of you in a very long time."
We both yawned. Martha suggested, "Let's get our jammies." We did,
Martha slipping into a pair of pale blue pajamas while I donned a thin
sweatshirt and jockey shorts, in which I usually slept. But as we were
putting away the leftovers, Martha said she wouldn't be able to sleep.
"I'll make coffee," she said.
I said, "Coffee? At one A.M.?"
"Yes," she said frankly. "I wanna talk to you. Do me a favor while
I make the coffee: go put your glasses on."
"Oh, Martha, I hate those damn--"
"Hon, go put your glasses on."
I did, reluctantly. In the kitchen she looked me over and decided
that it wasn't the fault of the eyeglasses themselves. I protested,
refusing to wear them any longer. She made me promise that I'd go with
her to a shop where I could replace the cheap plastic frames with some-
thing more attractive. She urged me, "Don't passively accept the bad
taste others force onto you, Steven. Your face is fine, you just need
decent frames." But she wouldn't force me to would wear them publicly
until I accepted myself with glasses.
While we sat at the dining table sipping French coffee, she took
control of the conversation. She said:
We grew up without parents. In her case, she had a mother who was
willing to be close to her in at least a minimal way, though they had
never shared the same values and never would. Martha had at least the
memory of a father, whom she described as tall, lean, intelligent,
affectionate and independent; he was never very successful, but he was
very much a man. He was close to his two daughters and encouraged them
to think for themselves. He was killed overseas when Martha was eight.
But in my case, she said, things took a different course. Martha saw my
mother as a good, conscientious, likeable woman. Martha cautioned me
that I should not think my Mom didn't love me; but I should accept the
fact that Mom might never be the mother I needed. Nor did I have even
the memory of a father, mine having died when I was barely two. In my
family circle there were few competent male figures; those that remained
were simply worn out, resigned to life as dictated by others. My over-
bearing stepdad typified the opposite extreme of heedless masculinity and
intolerance. I'd apparently been living in an emotional and intellectual
vacuum; I lived surreptitiously, letting others see only those parts of
me that I could twist into a mere copy of what they expected.
"I hate all of them," I said glumly, agreeing with her. "I distrust
and dislike every one of them."
"No,!" Martha said forcefully. She pounded the table once with a
clenched fist. "No, Steven! Don't hate. Understand. They did what
they could. They did what they knew to do. It wasn't much, in my humble
opinion, but it was the best they could do. And you do owe them respect.
But nobody ever said you had to love them. Anyway, I don't think you can
--
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