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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 11C"( bf mF mF+ )[41/52]
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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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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 11C:
Tuesday morning I didn't open my eyes until I heard Martha getting
dressed on the other side of the room. I turned onto my side and saw her
slipping a belt through the loops of her skirt.
She beamed at me, "Hi. Did I wear you out?"
"Yes," I groaned.
"We can rest tonight." She fetched shoes from the closet and sat on
the bed, embracing me and snuggling into my neck. "You certainly have me
in a great mood for doing combat with the bureaucrats this morning. At
least I can escape for a while later today and do some serious tutoring
before I come home. I'd much rather struggle with the kids than with the
grownups."
"Martha," I said into her shoulder.
"Mm-hm?"
"Do you have any idea how good you are in bed?"
She nodded against my cheek.
I said, "Then I don't have to tell you."
"Tell me anyway."
"I just did."
"Tell me anyway."
I kissed her neck. "Martha," I whispered, "you're so good in bed."
She sighed. "It's so nice to hear you speak up for a change."
She finished dressing and gathered her things into her purse and her
briefcase. In my whole life in Memphis, Tennessee, I had never seen a
woman carry a briefcase.
Martha reminded me that I had Fiore at ten, I had to take my vitamins
and the yeast, and I could meet Ronnie for lunch again if I wanted.
Later that night we were due at an Artur Rubenstein concert. "Then we'll
rest," she said. "It's an early day Wednesday. We have to be up at
five-thirty. We can't be late, the Long Island Railroad leaves on time
and it takes Ronnie forever to get ready."
I yawned. "I thought Ronnie worked."
"She does, but not everybody in New York works nine to five. This
isn't Memphis, Steven, people here get time off when they need it."
She blew a kiss as she rushed out the front door, leaving me
standing in my underwear in the living room. I listened to the traffic
bustling outside. I could like New York, I thought. I started laying
out my vitamins on the kitchen table. I could like this hustle and
bustle, this constant stimulation, this variety, this surfeit of possi-
bility.
There was a knock at the door. "Steven?" Ronnie called.
I stood near the door. "Sugar?" I called back. "Coffee?"
She laughed. "No, no. Wanna meet for lunch?"
"Okay."
"Remember where?"
"Same as yesterday."
"Right. 'Byyye, y'aaall....Did I do that right?"
"...We'll work on it."
She laughed again. "All right. See ya!" I heard her clatter down the
stairs in her heels.
I could like this place, I thought. I poured water for a cup of
berry tea. I could even like brewer's yeast.
Fiore worked me to a frazzle. He set up a coordination and aerobics
exercise in which I had to race around a small room and catch handballs
that he kept pitching to me. He began pitching more balls, faster and
farther from wherever I stood -- until, finally, I had enough. Snatching
one ball that he pitched into a corner far from where I stood panting and
recovering from the previous pitch, I squeezed the ball and grimaced and
threw him a hot, angry stare, and then slammed the ball into the wall as
hard I could.
Fiore grinned, his hands on his hips, while the ball bounced away and
I stood gasping and glowering. "Good!" he said, nodding. "Good, my
friend! I was wondering how long it would take you to speak up for
yourself! Iss feel good, hah? Good! Know your limits! Admit them!"
He strode toward me, his grin softening. "If you don' learn your own
limits, THEY control YOU. As you build your body, build your awareness.
As you develop awareness, develop the body. Mind and body, my friend!
They work together! Hah? Good!" He slapped me on the back, and I
managed to stay on my feet. "You rest a minute! Then...More of this!
Hah? Good!"
Later, as I was walking downtown on Lexington Avenue, I thought: I'm
surrounded by geniuses. Surrounded by artists, writers, thinkers, doers,
teachers, seers, makers, strivers. Every store front, every skyscraper,
every crowded street corner offered new possibilities, new freedom -- and
new crises, with little room for the laxity or purposelessness I knew in
Memphis. New York was swift, extreme. People seemed to have a certain
cunning, a toughness, that came from being forced to look deeper and try
harder. I felt intimidated, but that in itself incited me to look more
deeply into myself, to listen to my impressions. As I strolled, I began
observing everything more meticulously. New York struck me at first as
simply a chaotic puzzle, a violent offhandedness. But taken separately,
some pieces seemed studied, calculated, learned and honed to the point
where they leapt out with an ease that seemed spontaneous, innate.
Merged, everything appeared merely disordered. People seemed to know
where they were going and how to get there; those who didn't wandered
vaguely. The few who stopped to read a street sign were shoved by unpaus-
ing others, honked at by speeding and careening traffic, glowered at by
those who suddenly found a lost soul impeding their own progress.
I somehow managed to express this to Ronnie during her lunch hour as
we sat looking out the window in a Chinese restaurant on Seventh Avenue.
"Jeez, Steven," she said, staring at me, "you do need to live here.
Did you really come from Memphis, Tennessee? I wish I had such a brain.
I have such a hard time getting down to the guts of life. I guess I'm
too busy trying to remember where I put my laundry ticket. But it's
true: in Manhattan, if you don't learn life well, you either get stepped
on or you miss out on everything. In my case, both."
She told me about the small Michigan town where she grew up. "It
seemed so nice when I was very young. Very serene. But then I made a
terrible mistake: I became twelve years old. And the land wasn't serene
anymore, it was just flat. And the trees didn't seem to grow. People
just walked in and out of my life as if I weren't there, while I wasn't
going anywhere or doing anything. I kept saying, hey, there has to be a
next moment somewhere. Y'know? There has to be a rest of me. So what
do I do? I move to Manhattan and get stepped on and honked at like
everybody else."
"But it doesn't stop you," I said, smiling at her.
She blushed. "Steven, there really aren't that many thinkers around
here. Most people think you're supposed to be clever and slick...like,
there's this formula they get down pat -- and they're good at it, too.
But it's another thing to want to be knower. A seeker." She flicked her
cigarette against the ashtray and leaned forward on her elbows. "You're
a seeker, aren't you? You don't want to know the formula, you want to
know where the formula came from. You don't want to find the ocean, you
want to find out how it got there, and why, and what's under it."
"I guess that's me, yes."
"What the hell are you living in Memphis for? You need to move up
here and start looking for life -- like the rest of us, who haven't found
it yet." She gazed out the window, her chin in her hand. "It's out
there somewhere. I know it is. It steps on my feet every day, so I know
it's there. I keep thinking, if I'm in the right place at the right
time, I can just -- " She motioned quickly, as if to snatch a mosquito
in midair "-- catch it. Like that."
I asked, "That's a little chancy, isn't it? Like trying all the
formulas until you get the right one?"
"But isn't that what everybody does?"
I thought for a second. "I don't trust formulas. I don't trust them
because...so far, the formula isn't the answer, it's a replacement for
answers. It's like self-help books. You read somebody else's answers
and they work for a while, but you never look deeper for your own."
She gave me her crinkly grin. "No wonder Martha likes you so much.
I always told her she was too picky sometimes. Maybe she just has good
taste."
Soon, after leaving another peck on my cheek, she left for work. I
watched her until she waved at me and turned a corner and went out of
sight. I turned to walk back to Martha's, thinking again that I'd have
little trouble mustering the effort to survive in a town where people
talked with me instead of at me.
That evening Martha took me to a delicatessen on Sixth Avenue where I
stuffed myself with more new, mouth-watering goodies: matzo ball soup,
and cheese blintzes with sour cream and strawberry jam. I attacked it so
voraciously I was almost embarrassed in front of Martha, who sat smoking
a cigarette and watching me enviously. She said, "You act as if you
haven't eaten for a year. If I ate like that, my nineteen inch waist
would be fifty inches before I walked out of here. If I *could* walk."
Later we went to a concert hall somewhere on the West Side, where
Artur Rubenstein perfomed Rachmaninoff's "Rhapsody on a Theme of Pagan-
ini." In the dark we held hands, an act that seemed as natural as eating
or talking. It was unlike the giddy, conniving hand-groping of teenagers
that I observed in the movies and at dances back home. It was simple,
comfortable, expected, accepted. When the lights lowered, our hands
coupled automatically, immediately finding the correct angle and pressure.
It was not a long concert -- chosen deliberately by Martha so that we
could return home early and prepare for our trip to Fire Island. I had a
list of things to prepare and was packing them into a shopping bag while
Martha sat in her pajamas on the sofa, sewing a small tear in the seam of
her yellow swimsuit. She worked wearing her reading glasses. She ex-
plained that Fire Island was a long, narrow lick of land off the south
shore of Long Island that stretched from Brooklyn eastward to Montauk
Point. The island was only a few blocks wide. It was dotted with small
villages. The well-off built homes there, but it was fast becoming a
mecca for tourists during the summer. No vehicles were allowed; people
moved on foot or bicycle. The villages were not connected by roads or
sidewalks, although there were wood plank walkways within most of the
towns.
"You sure it's okay if I just wear shorts?" I asked, "They're
cutoffs I made myself from old Levi's. I forgot to bring trunks and we
don't have time to buy any."
"It's fine," she said, drawing her sewing needle into the air. "No
one worries, Steven. It's very casual out there. We're going on a
weekday, when it isn't such a hassle. There aren't any bath houses for
changing, but some of the villages have showers to get the sand off you.
People wear their swimsuit under their clothes and change on the beach.
Anyway, you probably won't even need your shorts."
"People swim in their clothes?"
Martha smiled slyly as she searched the seam she worked on. "Some of
them swim with no clothes."
I gulped.
"What's the matter?"
"Fire Island's a nudist colony?"
She gave a low, amused little laugh. "Hon. I'm surprised at you.
We're going to a part of Fire Island that's Federal land, about four or
five blocks along the beach. It's secluded, and sometimes it's even
guarded. And most of the people you'll find there are fat old lawyers
and their tubby wives who wouldn't be worth looking at anyway." She
winked. "Think you can handle it?"
I shrugged. My face felt hot. "I won't mind if you and Ronnie don't
mind."
"Ronnie and I go there all the time. But when we went in June, the
Christians had closed the place down. They do that every once in a
while, but it doesn't last long because the local township has no juris-
diction out there. Just in case they're up in arms again, though, bring
your shorts."
"I will," I said nervously, hoping the Christians were active.
"You've never seen the ocean. You'll love it. It's nothing like
Rainbow Lake swimming pool in Memphis. Nothing like it at all." She
looked at me as I sat on the floor folding beach towels and shoving them
into the bag. "Is all this paganistic New York stuff giving you the
heebie-jeebies?"
I shrugged. "I'm holding up."
"How about the date I told you about for Friday? You never told me
what you want to do, and I really ought to tell Marilyn now if you want
to call it off."
"No. I'll go."
"Hm. You don't look like you're ready to explode with enthusiasm."
"I still say Marilyn might not think I'm all that great."
"Well, the opposite might be true. She might like you but you won't
like her. Although I doubt that either will be the case." She cut the
thread and held up her swimsuit to check the work. "Marilyn's a very
sweet, very bright young lady. I'll introduce you to her at lunch, and
hang around a while, and then you two can go to the Metropolitan Museum
together for the afternoon, and then Marilyn will go home. It's that
simple. No crisis, no big thing."
"Well...okay."
"It's just somebody who wants to meet you," she said easily. "Every
time you meet someone, it doesn't have to be a major event." She glanced
at me from the corner of her eye as she removed her glasses. "Maybe
you'd like something a little more familiar." She grinned. "Want me to
fix you up with Ronnie?"
"Of course not."
"Come on. You two get along pretty well." She walked to the re-
finished corner desk and put her glasses in a drawer, wearing the same
teasing smile on her face.
"No. She's too old."
"Oh, re-e-eally? At twenty-two? Now I've heard everything."
I rose, blushing, and settled onto a chair on the other side of the
living room. "I just wouldn't want to." I watched, sulking a little, as
she returned to her swimsuit on the sofa. "What is this, a test to see
if I can fly on my own?"
Martha smirked. "Well, I'm teasing. Oh, look at you. Don't be so
defensive. You've wanted other girls, haven't you?"
"No," I lied.
"Oh, come on!", she exclaimed skeptically. She folded her swimsuit.
"You can't tell me you don't think about other girls."
"Sometimes."
"Well...At least I've opened you up enough to admit it."
I sighed wearily. "Okay, Ronnie is cute. She's a lot like you, too."
"It's very convenient. We wear a lot of each other's clothes."
"But I still wouldn't." I grinned and added, "Even if she wore your
clothes."
"Well...but you have tried, haven't you? You've been with other
girls?"
My eyes kept shifting to avoid hers. "Yeah, well..."
"Well what?"
"Have you?"
"...Eh. Yeah."
"And?"
"It didn't work so well."
"What does that mean?"
"I mean it didn't work."
"Steven, what do you mean, it didn't work?"
"I mean it didn't work."
"...Well, that happens, Steven. But I'm glad you were honest with
me. And I'm glad you tried. I tried, too, hon, and you know I did.
Everybody tries. I didn't try often, but I did and it didn't work so
well for me, either. But that's the way it goes, Stephen. Stop thinking
it's always your fault."
"Okay," I pouted, sighing.
She came over to me and leaned against the chair, her arm around my
shoulder as she stood beside me. "You wanna tell me about it?"
I shook my head no.
She knelt down beside me. "Don't think you were doing something
behind my back," she said, gentle but frank. "You were lonely and you
needed somebody, and you're young and healthy, and neither of us knew
what was going to happen next. We still don't. And I don't think you
needed it just because you wanted to get laid. I know you, Steven,
you're too sensitive. You need more than that. Don't be ashamed of your
needs, Steven. Please. You're allowed to be yourself and you're allowed
to be selfish once in a while if no one's giving back to you."
I sighed, avoiding her gaze. "Okay."
"Look at me."
"No."
"Steven look at me."
I looked at her.
"You're quiet, hon, but you're so intense. I know you are. I can
feel it in you. Take my word for it, buster, nobody ever made love to me
the way you do. Nobody makes me cum the way you do, because you always
think of my pleasure, you get your pleasure from mine. Don't you think I
know that? There aren't many men who have sex that way, and I don't ever
want you to be ashamed of it. Remember, not everyone's like your mom. A
lot of women are, but not me. And there are others who aren't like her,
either." She rose and walked to the dining table, where she started
packing cosmetics and sun lotion into the shopping bag. "And whether you
ever knew me or not, whether you ever had real parents or not, hon,
you'd still have to know how to fly on your own. Not under their power,
under your own."
I looked away, and then back her. I wiped my sleepy face. "Well...
before I leave New York, would you write me an official letter of
recommendation?"
She grinned. "Sure. Want it notarized?"
"Hmp. You need more than that in Memphis."
"You won't be in Memphis forever. And you're not in Memphis now,
except maybe in your cute little your head." She stood up and went about
the room, turning off the lights. "All I'm saying about Ronnie is that
she'd spend time with you. Stop thinking everyone's going to put you
down. Plenty of people will, but Ronnie isn't one of them. She really
likes you. Maybe not sexually, but she likes you. She might not go
romping in the hay, but that's something else. Too bad...I can imagine
the orgasm you'd give her. All those sorry characters she ends up with,
so many dates, and always the same results. Anyway, don't avoid the few
people you can connect with, hon. There aren't many around like that,
not for any of us. And for most of us, having something like we do is
Very rare. Very rare indeed."
Later, I lay in bed while Martha placed a small fan in the bedroom
window to help cool the room. It was a hot August night. She donned her
pajamas, giving me another peak at her luscious body before sliding into
bed and giving me a hug.
"Five-thirty gets here pretty early tomorrow," she sighed.
"Do New Yorkers always go through this just to get out of town?"
"Always, Steven. It's all they think about. And once they get away
they spend the whole time complaining about all the New York things they
miss. It's simple to explain and simple to understand: New Yorkers are
nuts."
She curled up. I blew her a friendly goodnight smooch. She blew one
back. I settled onto my side, gazing out the window, listening to the
the whirr of the little fan. All I could think was: What the hell was I
going to do on that beach with two naked women if I had a hard-on, and
how could I hide it if I'd be as naked as they were? I didn't see any
problem handling myself around Ronnie, but Martha's body was irresist-
ible. On the other hand, the ladies could go nude and I could stay in my
cutoffs. That would be pointless, of course: why go in the first place?
But why avoid it? And what made me so fearful?
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
============
PART 11C
-30-
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