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Subject: {MKSmith}JDR"Charly the Yard Guy 2"( Mf 1st rom )[2/2]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming
Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week.
These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked
the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a
comment to alt.sex.stories.d. Please don't post it to alt.sex.stories
itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way
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The copyright of this story belongs to the author, and the fact of this
posting should not be construed as limiting or releasing these rights in
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below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as
well.
=====================
[This one's just for fun, total fiction, all a lark -- but if you're
wondering who "Charly" is modeled on, watch Eve Matheson in the BBC series
"May to December" on PBS...!]
[Oh, yeah: If all you're looking for is one-handed sex, you're in the
wrong story. If you enjoy sex-and-romance with actual people instead of
cardboard cut-outs, and an actual plot, then make yourself at home...]
============================
CHARLY THE YARD GUY (Part 2)
by Michael K. Smith
mksmith1@swbell.net
It wasn't all talk between us, though, not by any means. Our
physical relationship also continued to develop, though we took it
slowly at first... just as Charly would have done with another high
school student. I rediscovered the excitement of exploring inch by
inch a willing young body of the opposite sex. And she had the
dubious pleasure (in my opinion) of exploring a male body that had
seen better days, but she seemed to take as much pleasure in being an
explorer as an exploree.
She enjoyed teasing me, wearing a cropped tee-shirt and no bra
with tight short-shorts and thong-style sandals, to show off her
smooth, muscular legs. She was very nearly as strong as I was and a
good deal quicker. More than once, we wrestled playfully, with me
ending up on the floor on my back, arms pinned by Charly's focused
energy. Then she'd grin and brush her bare, swaying breasts against
my lips and let me suck at her firm, resilient nipples.
I loved to stroke that lovely, lithe body, running my hands
slowly up and down her calves and thighs, squeezing her perfect
buttocks, gently testing the tensions in her strong shoulders and
neck. Her eyes would smoulder in shifting verdant shades and her
piercing look of undoubting love would skewer my heart and soul.
Then her jeans would be down, or her skirt up, and my fingers and
thumb would gently probe her pussy, massaging and strumming her clit
while she clung tightly to me, until she collapsed in a shaking,
stammering orgasm.
Nor did my own arousal go unnoticed. When our laughing loveplay
gave me an erection -- which was nearly always -- Charly would
matter-of-factly squeeze and massage my cock through my slacks, then
unzip my fly and carefully extricate the object of her attentions. At
first, methodically and with her usual concentration, she would simply
stroke and pump my willing penis until the climactic moment when her
hands were covered in my oozing semen.
But it didn't take long before she was nuzzling my cock-head with
her face and lips, licking the shaft with long, torturous strokes, and
then sucking avidly on it until my climax ended up on, and then in her
mouth. Less to wipe up, she said, and winked.
Finally, five months into our mutual journey of discovery, when
she'd spent a particularly hot, muggy April day working on the yard
that spring of her junior year, she killed the mower and came up to
meet me on the wooden steps of the screened back porch. And there she
stripped completely, twining her sweaty, somewhat aromatic body around
mine.
It was the first time I'd seen her entirely naked. I glanced
quickly to both sides but the aspens and the fence screened us
completely from my neighbors. She nipped at my ear, then bit me
harder than usual on the neck. "It's been long enough, Tom," she
murmured insistently. "If you don't take off your clothes and make
love to me right now, I'm going to skip-rope down the sidewalk naked
until *someone* pays attention to me...!"
All I was wearing was an old pair of wash pants and she had them
pushed down my legs within seconds. My cock was ascending between us
and she grasped it just below the head and led me down the steps to an
area of newly-clipped, sweet-smelling Bermuda. There we stood and
kissed, tongues dueling, hands moving urgently over trembling bodies.
She was right, as usual: this was the time and the place. God, I
wanted her!
Charly sank slowly to her knees and lay back in the fresh-cut
grass, drawing me down with her. "Do it, Tom," she said quietly.
"Put it in me. I need you to fuck me, Tom." If she was trying to
enhance the old guy's arousal, she was succeeding. She spread her
smooth, very white legs, knees apart, and urged me on. Her rusty
pubic patch shone in the spring sun.
But there was something we were forgetting. "Sweetheart, what if
you--" I began, but she interrupted me with a broad leer.
"I started on the Pill months ago. Now, do it! Fuck me!"
So I knelt between her thighs and rubbed my cockhead up and down
at the already moist opening, for lubrication. She jerked in
excitement and laughed at her own reaction. When I slid slowly into
her, she hissed and closed her eyes tightly. Her pelvis arched upward
to meet me.
From what my sweet Charly had said, this was only her second
time -- her first time with someone she really cared about, the extra
dimension -- and I was determined to make it memorable for her. I
took my time, moving slowly, though it was a struggle to maintain that
discipline. On each stroke, I drove into her more deeply and
forcefully and in seconds she was gasping in high excitement and
sliding her hands agitatedly up and down my arms and across my
shoulders. Her legs rose and locked around my ribs and I was aware of
the long muscles tensing and relaxing in rhythm with my movements.
At first, she moaned my name over and over but as we progressed
she became nearly inarticulate. Having that kind of effect on her
wound me up tight, too. I leaned forward over her body to increase
the friction against her clit; looking down, I watched the shallow
mounds of her creamy breasts vibrate seismically. And when she
reached her orgasm after ten minutes or so, her legs squeezed my torso
even harder while her fingers tugged at my hair.
I slowed for a few strokes to allow her to catch her breath and
then increased the tempo. "Oh, do it hard!" she moaned under her
breath and held her knees apart for the deepest possible penetration.
So I let myself go, pounding into her, making her gasp raggedly at
each thrust. When I finally came, my cock pressed against the end of
her hot, clasping cunt, she hung onto my neck so tightly I could
barely breath myself. And with her nose in my ear, she whispered,
"Tom, I love you so much... you're the only guy I'll ever want or ever
need..." Any lingering doubts I'd had about my future with Charly
were gone.
Our circumstances were such that we were only able to have sex
every five or six weeks that spring and summer. Which turned out to
be a good thing, actually, because it kept the suspense and
anticipation high between us and prevented physical boredom. We
always made love at my house, of course, and Charly was never able to
spend the night. I wanted to sleep with her literally as well as
figuratively, to wake in the morning with her head snuggled against my
chest, to watch her yawn and stretch. But I was glad of the time we
were able to spend together.
We planned elaborate scenarios in which Charly would take her
closest friends into her confidence and stage a fake slumber party;
they would cover for her and she would spend the night with me. Or an
overnight campout in the woods -- which she would desert, to meet me
at a fancy motel. In the event, we played it safe. We had all the
rest of our lives and we didn't want to take chances with them now.
The day after Labor Day, Charly began a serious campaign to nail
down as much financial aid as possible for college, only a year away
now. She ranked very high in her class and her SAT scores were
atmospheric, so her chances were far better than average. The fact
that she was a female with an interest in math and science didn't
hurt, either. Softball, field hockey, and women's track coaches from
several state universities also invited her for a visit; she went, but
she was much more interested in academic scholarships. Besides, as
she noted in annoyance, the money available for women's sports was
nothing like the huge allotments for the guys.
Her competence in computer science also had accelerated. Where
I'd had to lead her through beginning database design almost by the
hand only a year before, she was now looking over my shoulder and
making insightful comments and suggestions on the jobs I got paid for.
Her talent was driven home one October evening when I took a
break from a tedious project to play around with one of the
better-known social simulation games. I was surprised when my
previously saved game immediately began to exhibit all sorts of
emergency scenarios -- many more of them and much stranger than the
game itself called for. While struggling to figure out why a
smoothly-functioning city I'd constructed months before was suddenly
stricken with a plague of grass and weeds, a suspicion began to dawn.
Grass and weeds?
"Oh, Char-r-r-l-y-y-y," I warbled while staring at the screen. A
strangled sound made me look back over my shoulder. My little
sweetheart was curled up in the old armchair in the corner, both hands
over her mouth, tears of laughter at the corners of her beautiful,
devilish eyes. When she saw she'd been found out, she gave up any
attempt to smother her glee and broke into a cacophony of giggles,
even drumming her heels on the chair arm in her delight.
Of course, I got up and went and leaped on her, and we wound up
on the floor, mock-wrestling and tickling each other. She'd set me
up, all right -- and I was very impressed at the skill with which
she'd done it. "Sweetheart," I said as we cuddled out of breath, "I
think that little stunt was your graduation project. There's nothing
more that the Weeks Academy of Computer Guru-ism can teach you!"
"You mean I don't get to stay after school any more?" she
laughed.
"Only if you're very nice to your teacher."
"Oh, I'm *always* nice to my poor old teacher!" Of course, I had
to tickle her again for that.
"Do you think my teacher would be willing to write me a letter of
recommendation?" she asked after she had me pinned. "Berkeley's
offering me a really *big* scholarship, plus a waiver on the
out-of-state tuition. I just got the letter today! It goes
term-to-term and I have to keep my grades high to be renewed, of
course, but it *could* cover all four years."
I sat up excitedly and hugged her. "Charly, that's wonderful!
UC is a terrific school for the things you're interested in! And I
know you'd like the Bay Area, too. I lived out there for several
years before my grandfather died and I hated to leave." Then
something occurred to me. "Um, sweetheart, have you told your folks
about this yet? I know they were expecting you to go to college
someplace nearby."
"Yeah, I told them last night. They'd prefer I didn't go to
school so far away, but they realize what an opportunity this is...
and also that they couldn't afford to pay for me to go someplace like
that. And they're proud that I've done it all on my own, so there's
no problem." She twisted around so she could look me in the eye.
"But, Tom, there's something else: I know what you said before, about
leaving here, but Berkeley is so far away, and--"
I held her by the biceps and returned her gaze. "Charly, do you
still want us to be together while you're in school? Be honest with
me; I'll understand, I promise."
"Oh, God, Tom -- I don't *ever* want to be away from you! But I
don't want to mess up your work, either; that wouldn't be fair."
"Charly, wherever you go, I'll go. As long as you want me to be
there. Always." And her face crumpled into happy tears and she
hugged me so tightly around the neck, I nearly strangled. I was so
proud of her, and so unequivocally in love with her, and so in awe of
being the one *she* loved, I would have followed her to the Moon.
Charly graduated third out of 700-some-odd in her senior class --
president of her National Honor Society chapter and winner of an award
from the local IEEE chapter, too. When the principal announced her
scholarship to UC at commencement, she and the two or three others who
had received major financial awards received standing applause from
their friends -- and from me, because I was there, too. There was no
way I was going to miss my sweetheart's latest triumph.
We'd only had one real disagreement that spring, when Charly
mentioned she wasn't planning to go to the Senior Prom. But why? I
wanted to know. She looked at me oddly and declared that if she
couldn't go with me, she didn't want to go. And that was out of the
question, of course. It took me several days of patient talk and
cajoling to convince her to accept an invitation from a boy she'd
dated off-and-on for several years, someone she'd become good friends
with.
She explained to the guy beforehand that her "boyfriend" was in
another town and couldn't make it for the prom -- and then discovered,
quite belatedly, that not only her prospective date but all her
friends were perfectly aware there was *someone* in her life, someone
she was unwilling to talk about. The boys she knew were curious about
the mystery man but respected her privacy in the matter. Her
girlfriends thought it was all "too romantic."
So Charly went to the Prom -- and admitted the next day that
she'd had a wonderful time and was glad she'd let me talk her into it.
When I asked her, with a smile, whether she'd thanked her date with a
kiss or two, she hesitated. Well, yes, she had, actually -- but
they'd been friends for so long and everything... And I laughed and
held her in my arms and assured her that I was not going to be jealous
of anyone she ever dated, then or in college.
I'd already thought it out: I was busy with my work so much of
the time, she was young and full of energy, and for me to smother her
with even psychological monogamy was the quickest way I knew to lose
her love.
Charly spent June throwing out most of eighteen years of
accumulated junk and adapting her wardrobe for the even but temperate
climate of San Francisco and Berkeley. She had to be there for
freshman orientation on August 1st. Chris and Frank, home for
vacation, helped out.
I spent July in preliminary conferences with several real estate
agents. We'd already worked this out, as well. She was going to be
extraordinarily busy for the first few months. Her scholarship
included room and board and it made sense for her to live in one of
the freshman dorms, at least officially. I would wait until mid-fall
to dispose of my property. That would allow me to get the best price
and my departure from town wouldn't follow hers too closely... just in
case someone noticed a connection. Also, I had several contacts
around the Bay Area and I asked them to keep an eye out for a rental
of some kind that wasn't too far from the University but was still
within my modest price range.
The afternoon of the day before Charly was due to leave for
school, I made a point of going around to her house to say goodbye to
my "yard guy" and unofficial student. I gave her a little guidebook
to San Francisco as a going-away present, and she hugged me and kissed
me on the cheek, and thanked me sincerely for two years of extra
income and mentoring. Her father was also sincere when he shook my
hand and thanked me for all I'd done for his daughter. Her mother
added that it was very nice that I'd spent so much of my free time
helping her daughter in her schoolwork; she obviously didn't have a
clue about computers or Charly's proficiency with them. I smiled and
waved cheerfully as I left.
After dark, Charly and I met "by accident" in the farthest corner
of a nearby mall parking lot and I gave her her real present: a small
gold ring with a solitary pearl. (I could hardly give her a diamond
solitaire.) But Charly had a weakness for pearls and this modest bit
of jewelry was symbolic of a much greater depth of feeling than it
appeared to be. So she slipped it on the third finger of her left
hand and stood admiring it while tears flowed down both cheeks. We
kept our parting kiss brief -- it could have lasted until sunrise, had
we let it -- and confirmed that the next time we embraced would be in
California. Then I went home to lose myself in work the rest of the
night and Charly went home to try (unsuccessfully) to sleep.
Charly called a few days later in a state of high exhilaration.
Most of the freshman girls in her dorm, she said, were nervous and
even a little frightened to be there. She, on the other hand, wanted
to learn *everything* there was to learn before Friday at the latest.
She'd made it into several honors courses, which meant smaller classes
without TAs. She *loved* the campus already, she *loved* what she'd
been able to see of Berkeley itself, and she *loved* the Bay and the
view of the city on the other side. Several of the girls were going
on an expedition by BART the next day and the little travel guide I'd
given her was already full of paper clips and dog-eared pages. She
was so ecstatic about everything, I found myself grinning like an
idiot over the handset. I had a feeling I knew where our future home
was going to be.
Two weeks after that, one of the realtors I'd talked to called to
say she had a live one: the general manager of a new company in town
wanted an appropriate home for himself, his wife, and their three
teenagers. They were moving from Boston and the family wanted no more
of brownstones and crowded sidewalks. I shook my head: nouveau
suburbanites, yet. But the guy and his wife came and examined the
house top to bottom, exclaiming over all the bedrooms and closets, the
huge old kitchen... and especially the large and beautifully
maintained yard. Then they had an independent inspector do the same
and he gave the old place a clean bill. The offer my realtor managed
to get from them was considerably larger than I had expected, but a
dollar's worth of housing went a lot farther in that town than in
Boston.
It took me another month to dispose of my own unwanted junk and
to arrange for shipment of computer equipment and books and family
furniture to the large studio a trustworthy friend had found for me
near El Cerrito. It wasn't as close to the campus as I would have
preferred, but it would do for a year or two while I reacquainted
myself with the area. And then I was on my way in my old Corolla
station wagon, loaded with clothes and odds-and-ends, and I never
looked back.
On Halloween, Charly and I took turns going to my redwood door to
pass out candy to trick-or-treaters. And in between doorbells, we
made up for the two months we'd been apart.
The two of us had been so concerned with trying to logically and
rationally plan our future together, we'd forgotten one of the best things
about moving out to the coast: freedom! No one knew us here and we didn't
have to hide. We could hold hands at a show in El Cerrito, or play tourist
in San Francisco, or attend some event on the UC campus, and *nobody
cared*! We knew almost no one yet, so any friendships either of us formed
came ready-made with an acknowledged lover/partner. We still took
precautions against the world in general -- I stayed away from her
classrooms and dorm and she was careful not to be present when I had
clients over -- but the student culture of Berkeley is one of the most
intellectually free places in the country. Not always the most liberal
(this wasn't the '60s any longer), but certainly one of the most tolerant
in terms of people-mixing.
You could see "couples" of every description and definition swarming
in and out of Sather Gate: mostly young people, of course, but also
leftover hippies with gray hair, gay men, gay women, people with jewelry in
unlikely places, people in three-piece suits and ponytails, political
pamphleteers for every cause imaginable, local merchants and street-
sellers, and gawking tourists from the Corn Belt -- they were all there any
afternoon when the weather allowed it. I loved the place, and still do.
Though I didn't mention it to Charly, I'd been concerned about my
ability to earn a living in the computer-industry hothouse of northern
California, but it turned out that talent can always find a home -- and I
knew I had talent. Actually, as I'd explained to Charly, it didn't really
matter much where I lived, as long as I had the means of communication. I
was working not with hardware, which often required one's physical
presence, but with software -- electrons over a wire. Most of my previous
clients stayed with me and I managed to acquire a few new ones. By
Christmas of that first year, I was busier than ever -- and charging for my
work at California rates, too.
Charly ended her first term in a turmoil about her grades: she'd
managed only a 3.8 instead of the 4.0 she expected of herself. I
tried not to laugh (remembering my own struggles and lack of
discipline the first couple of years in college), but I was secretly
very proud of her indeed. And damned if she didn't make all A's the
*second* term.
That first summer, my sweetheart went home for a few weeks to see
her family and friends and to bask in their congratulations at the
quality of work she was doing. She seemed to be heading for a career
in pure math and was already at a level she had difficulty describing
to her parents. Chris had just graduated from Notre Dame with a
degree in accounting and was cramming like mad for his CPA exam, she
said. Frank had finished his second year at Cornell, where he was
near the top of the HRM school academically and was well thought of by
the varsity football and basketball coaches, as well. Whatever else
Mr. and Mrs. Chambers had accomplished in their lives, they'd
certainly raised a trio of overachievers.
Then she pleaded the need to study over the summer and returned
to my waiting arms. I rented a small, sporty car and we indulged
ourselves in a two-week drive up the coast and back, with lengthy
stops at Mt. Shasta, Crater Lake, Portland, Mount St. Helens, Seattle,
and Vancouver. We gaped at the scenery in the Cascades, gaped again
at the Columbia Gorge, used up a dozen rolls of film in Olympic
National Park, and took the ferry over to Vancouver Island to ride the
omnibuses in Victoria. Each of us found a score of places where we
knew we could be happy for a long time.
Charly looked just enough older now, especially when she spent a
little time with her makeup, that we were never cross-examined by
motel managers. And there was something especially romantic about
making love in a different bed almost every night. Coming and going,
I estimated that I had filled up her cunt across 1,500 miles of
wilderness and that she had sucked my cock in a dozen towns and cities
(not counting several scenic overlooks). In fact, I made the run from
Roseburg to Eugene with her copper-topped head in my lap, milking two
separate orgasms from me at 65 mph. Positioned as she was in the
little car, it was a good thing I never had to shift.
The second year was more of the same, only better. We knew our
way around now and we had acquired a small circle of mutual friends --
including two couples whose disparity in ages was nearly as great as
our own. We had found some favorite restaurants in the City, and we
delighted in walking through the crowds along Jefferson Street and the
Embarcadero on a Saturday afternoon.
We were spending much more time in each other's company now, and
I was pleased (and relieved) to find that while we both enjoyed a
rousing argument, we never, ever fought. I believe both of us went to
some trouble to avoid fights because each of us feared the potential
fragility of our relationship. Yes, we were deeply in love, more so
every day, but we both were too aware of the odds against us to take
ourselves anything other than seriously.
But we didn't hold things back, either. Not important things.
Charly once caught me watching an attractive neighbor sunbathing on
the back patio of my building. The woman had very nice tits and she
was wearing only the lower half of a bikini. I know my expression as
I stood by the open window was one of frank admiration. Then Charly
came up behind me and I fell all over myself, apologizing and assuring
her that I was "only looking." My sweetheart took a peek out the
window herself, clucked in apparent disapproval, and turned her back
on me -- and then lost it and broke down in giggles at my guilty
expression. When I assured her I loved only her, she put her tongue
in my ear and whispered "Don't you think I know that, you dummy?" We
spent the rest of the afternoon finding interesting ways to occupy our
bodies.
But then we reached a turning point that neither of us had
expected.
The doorbell rang one May evening as I was working online on a
problem in data transfer and I was annoyed at the interruption.
Charly had her own key, of course, so it was probably a salesman --
or, at this hour, a Jehovah's Witness. But my jaw dropped when I
opened the door.
"Frank?! What are you doing here? Uh, come in, come in..."
Charly's brother was in his third year at Cornell, nearly three
thousand miles to the east. He had no business being here, especially
without warning, and he wasn't smiling as he entered and shook my
hand.
"Hello, Mr. Weeks. Funny seeing you here, too." He looked down
at me appraisingly for a moment and then walked over to my favorite
armchair and sat without waiting to be invited. Mr. Weeks? What had
happened to "Tom?" Also, Frank, like his older brother, was
ordinarily a very polite young man; such rude conduct on his part had
to be calculated and I didn't like the implications.
"Since I was in San Francisco for a UIL debate," he continued, "I
thought I'd surprise Charly ... so I didn't tell her I was coming."
He shot me a faint smile and nodded slowly. "Yep -- she was
surprised, all right. She'd been sitting at her desk in the dorm room
and while we were chatting I happened to glance at the writing pad
she'd left lying there. She was writing a love letter." He watched
me swallow nervously.
"I didn't realize at first who she was writing to -- I assumed it
was some guy she'd met on campus -- and I was reading bits of it out
loud and teasing her a little about this new-found love interest. She
got pretty upset -- which was very strange, you know? I expected a
wise-crack or a zinger from her, not tears. And then I came across a
reference in the letter to lawn-mowing and 'rolling in the hay,' and
how nice it was to be in love with 'a more experienced man'..." He let
it just dangle there and waited silently for me to respond.
Jesus... With a little advance notice to form an explanation of
my relationship with Charly, I was pretty sure I could make Frank
understand. Charly and I had already discussed the unpleasant fact
that we eventually would have to confront not only her two brothers
but her parents as well. But having been caught off-guard and
unprepared like this by a large young man who was physically quite
capable of pounding me into hamburger, I was flustered and dry in the
mouth. Moreover, Frank's unblinking cobra gaze made me feel *guilty*,
and I didn't like that at all. It made me a little reckless.
"Frank, I'm not going to apologize for falling in love with your
sister. It happened despite my efforts *not* to become emotionally
involved -- but it happened. Have you asked Charly how she feels
about me?"
He seemed nonplussed that I'd strayed from the defensive.
"Charly's not old enough or experienced enough to--"
"I could say the same thing about you, Frank. You're only a year
older than she is."
He stood up and glared at me. "The point is that you're *twenty*
years older than my sister! We trusted you, Mr. Weeks, and you--"
And at that point the girl herself charged through my front door
looking both worried and pissed. "Tom, I tried to call, to warn you
that Frank was in town, but your phone's been tied up forever!" Oh,
yeah: my modem was still running and the call-waiting was disabled.
She turned fiercely on her brother; her fears that Frank might have
punched me out had dissipated, to be replaced by rising anger.
"Frank! You have no business harassing him like this! I'm an
adult now, remember? I'll make my own decisions!" Her face was red
with furious determination and when she clenched her small, hard fists
and stepped between her brother and me, Frank actually took a pace
back.
"Charly, this guy's old enough to be your father!"
"Hey, now *that's* really original!" she shot back.
"He's just taking advantage of your youth and inexperience!"
Charly stared back at him and took a couple of deep breaths in a
conscious effort to calm herself down. She visibly set herself and
her voice took on a tone of quiet, serious anger. Hell, she even
scared me.
"Now, Frank, I want you to listen to me very carefully because I
mean every word I say: you're my brother and I love you very much.
The same for Chris. You guys have always been there for me and I
would never intentionally do anything to hurt you. But I also love
Tom Weeks and I know he loves me." She glanced back, reached for my
hand, and squeezed it.
Frank was a bit bewildered by Charly's blistering attack. "But
he's twen--"
"--he's twenty years older than me! So what, Frank? He's also
seven or eight inches taller than me! So what? And don't forget, he
has brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes..." Frank obviously was at a
loss how to respond to his sister's blunt challenge and she knew it.
Charly shifted gears and her voice softened. "Frank, please
understand. You'll have to trust my judgment on this. I admit it --
I'm so crazy about him, it keeps me awake at night." She gave me a
warm, melting look and squeezed my hand again. "But I've thought this
through, over and over again. I'm not stupid, Frank: I know the
statistics are against us. And there's something else you don't
know." She shot him a wry smile. "I'm the one who started all this,
not Tom! He tried to talk me out of what I said I wanted. He worried
about all the very same things you're worried about. He tried so hard
to convince me it was a bad idea to fall for him." I was the
recipient of another soft smile. "And he did that against his will,
kinda ... because I could see it in him. Poor Tom... It caused him
pain, I realized that later -- but he was doing what he thought he
*ought* to do, what he thought was best for me."
Charly turned to me and linked her wrists around my neck. "You
were wrong, darling. The best thing for me is *you* and it always
will be." Even though I knew this little display was for Frank's
benefit (neither of us was in the habit of calling each other
"darling," for one thing), my emotions were climbing nevertheless.
When she pulled me down into a kiss and wound her fingers in my hair,
I returned it for all I was worth.
As we came out of our clinch, both of us with foolish smiles, I
became aware that Frank was shifting his weight from one foot to the
other, abashed, a little embarrassed, trying not to watch us too
closely... and maybe beginning to be convinced that his kid sister
wasn't crazy.
He groped for a chair and sat, and Charly and I took the sofa
across from him. He studied his hands and the coffee table and a
speck on the arm of his chair. Finally, he visibly squared his
shoulders and looked at his sister's face, then at mine, then back at
her. "Well," he began, "I still don't think I approve of all this --
but you're right, Charly: Tom Weeks has always been an honest,
conscientious guy ... and somehow I can't picture you being seduced
against your will by *anyone*." Charly beamed at him. "So, uh, should
I be expecting a wedding announcement, or what?"
"No, Frank, not yet." Charly interlaced her fingers with mine as
we held hands. "Didn't we just agree that I'm not stupid? If I
*really* wanted to get Tom mad at me, I'd quit school and forget about
a career."
"Damn right," I interjected with a grin. "Frank, I don't think
I'd be bragging to say that I'm pretty good in math and logic and
computer software design. But your sister puts me in the shade! She
has a tremendous talent and she'll pass me by long before she
graduates. To waste a mind like that would be criminal."
Charly picked up the explanation again. "We have each other
already. We spend most of our free time together, naturally, but we
don't even live together, Frank! Tom has more work right now than he
can find time for. He's successful at what he does and that makes
both of us happy, believe me. And *my* work is getting through
school. If we got married right now, it would just complicate our
lives even more and we don't need that. I have another two years
before I get my B.S. After that -- yes, you can expect an invitation.
Also," she added practically, "I'll be twenty-two. Our marriage won't
be so difficult for people to deal with."
Frank shook his head slowly in disbelief. "A two-year
engagement? That's hard to believe, man."
Charly glanced at me and quietly corrected him. "It'll be more
like four years, Frank. Or five. We've been in love for quite a
while now."
Her brother nodded without comment; nothing more could shock or
surprise him now. "Okay -- whatever. I just don't want you being
hurt, Sis." He glanced at me and I saw the warning.
"Frank," I said quietly and seriously, "if I ever do anything to
harm this girl in any way, I hope you'll come and beat me to a soggy
pulp." His slight nod seemed to mean he would take me at my word.
Then he smiled, a bit wearily.
"Well... anything I can do to help, let me know. I'm always on
your side, Charly. Both your sides, now, I guess."
He stood and Charly jumped up and hugged him aggressively. "We
were going to tell everyone, you know. Just not yet and not like
this. So Chris doesn't know about us, either. Or the folks."
Frank grinned ruefully. "Well, I think I can smooth the way a
little with ol' Chris. I'll be seeing him at a Knicks exhibition game
in a few weeks and we're planning to get together for a pizza
afterward, before I go back to Ithaca. I'll break the news to him and
get him to think about it before he gets angry. He always said I was
the emotional one, anyway." He touched his finger to his sister's
nose. "But *you* have to handle the folks, kiddo. And I don't even
want to be in the county when you tell 'em!"
"Yeah, that'll be interesting, all right," Charly admitted.
"We'll have it planned out by then -- I hope." She didn't ask Frank
not to say anything to anyone else because it wasn't necessary.
As it turned out, when we went to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Chambers
the afternoon their daughter graduated from the University of
California with High Honors, I discovered they were much more astute
than either Charly or I had given them credit for. (Well, Charly and
her brothers had to have inherited their brains from someone, after
all.) They'd heard from a mutual acquaintance that Charly seemed to
have a steady romantic interest. They knew she was still living in
the dorm and they trusted her uncommon common sense, so they made a
conscious decision not to worry.
Then something or other that Frank or Chris had said that winter
caused them to think back, and to wonder about my departure from town
two months after Charly's. That had alarmed them, so they'd bluntly
asked their sons what was going on with their sister. The guys had
broken down and explained to them, as best they could, that Charly
really was in love with an older man. Serious, twenty-one-year-old
love. The man in question was just as much in love with her. And the
two of them were being as cautious and forethoughtful as they could
think to be.
Well, at least Charly's folks knew me and had -- at least to that
point -- a good opinion of me, so they decided, after much late-night
discussion, to reserve judgment and not to say anything to their
daughter. I was frankly amazed at their level of confidence in their
progeny.
So, as they sat on a bench in a hillside grove of redwoods that
afternoon, and Charly was tense and I was nearly sick to my stomach
with apprehension, her parents just looked at each other and smiled.
I think they actually enjoyed our discomfort -- in justified
retribution for their nights of worry, I have to admit.
And when Charly carefully explained to them her feelings for me --
omitting the age at which she had first felt those feelings -- the now-
elderly couple nodded in unsurprised satisfaction. Her father looked up at
me with a rather piercing gaze.
"And do you feel the same way about Charlene, young man?" It was
so long since anyone had called me that, I was too startled to reply
for a moment.
When I replied that I was very much in love with their daughter,
he smiled and said, "I'm glad you both had the sense not to do
anything precipitous. Charlene's mother and I were married in
college, you know. Neither of us would change that now, but it did
make things a bit more difficult for awhile." And he shook my hand
and hugged his daughter, and my relief was so profound I nearly
fainted.
It was a very small ceremony in a Unitarian Church in Berkeley:
just Chris and Frank (as ushers, at their own insistence) and Charly's
parents, and a few of our own close friends. The bride didn't go in
for lavish bridal gowns, considering them a pointless extravagance,
but she was heartbreakingly beautiful in a white lace cocktail-style
dress and a veil. I could barely get through the vows, the lump in my
throat was so large. Frank said afterward that the expression on my
face resolved any lingering doubts about my sincerity.
But I think I proved my sincerity to Charly that night. Beyond
question.
We have a small, comfortable place near campus now, since Charly
is well into a Ph.D. program in an area of mathematics I don't even
pretend to understand more than superficially. I have a couple of
comp sci grad students working for me part-time and several
independent software contractors, and business is... well, perhaps not
"booming," but certainly very adequate, and extremely satisfying.
We've also begun browsing around the Bay Area for a house. One
with a small yard.
END
========================================================================
Copyright 1994 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted
elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.
========================================================================
============================
CHARLY THE YARD GUY (Part 2)
by Michael K. Smith
-30-
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