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Subject: {ASSM} A Matter of Need (MF, Rom) Segment 1
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A MATTER OF NEED
Segment 1 of 3
Copyright,1998 by the author. This material may not be reproduced or
redistributed in any manner.
Barry Almstead sat at his desk in the Spenser Building. It was
four o'clock, the time he usually began to wrap things up, the time
when he'd start thinking about home, about the kids, about Ellen. In
his mind he could hear her voice, playful and mock-ferocious.
"You'd better get ready to duck!"
"Oh, I think I can handle it."
The old familiar taunts, Ellen threatening to bowl him over with
her passion, Barry thumping his chest with fearless bravado. They'd
climb the stairs, arms around each other's waist. And in the bedroom,
a casual survey of any loose ends.
"Is the dog back in?"
"Did I put those left-overs in the fridge?"
Taking the time to hang their clothes. Dry cleaning cost money. Barry
adjusting the bed covers while Ellen finished a few obligatories in
the bathroom.
Sometimes Ellen sang or hummed an old perfume commercial, "Oh
I've been sweet, and I've been good, I've had a whole darn day of
motherhood, but I'm gonna have an Aviance night . . . ." And she'd try
a come-hither stare, usually with comic results. It was Barry's role
then to fall under her spell, and he did so with eager loyalty.
With accustomed ease they'd slide into bed together, perhaps turn
the bedroom TV on, perhaps not. And if it was one of those nights,
signals given and received, Barry would slide his body up against hers
and caress her shoulder, or perhaps her hair, the rise of her hip.
Their love-making was free and full, leading them to familiar,
easy pleasure, or the playful eroticism of shared fantasy, or even
after so many years, the joy of exploration.
Barry closed and locked his desk. Funny. He'd studied the grace
of Ellen's public and private charms close-up and personal for so many
years, but now as he thought about her, he could picture nothing but
her face. Ellen before the cancer. Smiling, teasing, strong.
He wondered if the blocked images were something protective his
mind had done. It certainly sounded like the sort of thing he'd been
counseled about.
The kids were there in sharp detail. They bounded through his
mind on bicycles, skates and sleds, good report cards and bad, laundry
thrown everywhere but the hamper, and a wide assortment of ointments
and bandages.
They were good kids who missed their mother, grieved for her, but
over the years had worked their way back into life. Barry envied their
single-minded insistence, living a life their mom would be proud of.
He envied the guidance it gave them. Even at the funeral, they'd
behaved better than he. While they spent their tears and took comfort
in the arms of friends and relatives, Barry stood apart, his eyes dull
and dry.
Two years and the routine hadn't changed. He'd adjusted to his
new life. There wasn't much choice. Being a single parent was
challenging and stressful, occupying his full attention at home. The
workday never eased up on its demands. But there were still times
like this, cues from the old habits. Four forty-five on a Friday.
Ellen was waiting at home. They'd talk about her day and his.
* * * * *
The company's HMO benefits had covered counseling. Barry attended
because he knew Ellen had wanted him to.
Most of their time during Ellen's last days had been spent with
Barry reading a book in her hospital room while the drugs eased her
into frequent sleep. One night when he'd returned from a tasteless
dinner in the hospital cafeteria, he'd stood near the bed, looking
down at her face while she slept.
She was a young woman, but months of constant pain had etched
deep lines in her face. Her skin was pale except for a darkened
crescent of fatigue under her eyes. The bed cap she wore to cover her
head had slipped aside, revealing the few remaining wisps of tangled
hair. Radiation and chemotherapy had combined to give her a few months
more of life, but at heavy cost.
Barry leaned close to her, kissing her forehead. Her skin was
cool. He put his hand to her chin and kissed her lips, feeling the
warmth of her breath.
He pulled a chair nearer to her bed, and the scraping sound of
its legs against the tile floor seemed to wake her. She usually woke
quietly, her eyes opening, her strength building slowly until she felt
ready to speak. But on that night she was awake and alert quickly,
almost agitated. She spoke as if continuing a conversation from some
other place.
"I don't trust that Nordic moodiness of yours," she'd said. "If
I'm not around to poke holes in it, you'll mope around and you know
it. The kids'll need better than that, Barry."
He didn't argue. He put his hand on her shoulder, looked in her
eyes and nodded. When he felt the small stinging itch of tears
forming, he put his head on her chest, facing away from her.
Stroking his hair, she said, "And you'll need better than that."
"All I need is you."
"But you can't have me, love." And now her tears began. "I'm so
sorry."
"Sorry?" Barry lifted his head to look at her. "You idiot," he
said, tapping her chin lightly with his knuckle, a smile contradicting
the tears, "you built my heart from the ground up. What have you got
to apologize for!"
Ellen's brief moment of energy began to ebb away.
"And it was a tough job, my friend," she murmured, her eyes
closing, "Not sure I finished."
As Ellen's eyes closed, Barry touched her cheek and began to
whisper her playful song, "You've been sweet, and you've been good . .
. ." but his voice broke. Leaning closer and kissing her ear, he
finished, "I love you. Rest now."
* * * * *
A few days later, Ellen was gone.
Two weeks after that, Barry began the three sessions of grief
counseling provided for in his plan. He progressed through them
easily, showing a clear understanding of the challenges ahead. His
long habits of business problem-solving kicked in.
At the end of the third session, his counselor could find no
basis for recommending continued treatment under the plan's
longer-term provisions.
Nonetheless, he shook Barry's hand on that last day with a
lingering unease. Granted, Barry was the picture of a successful
patient. But was there more than a picture there? With a mental shrug,
the counselor filled in the forms he knew would be welcomed by the HMO
Case Manager's office.
* * * * *
Jeanine Carter's mind wasn't on her work. It was a Sunday in late
July, a little more than two years after her closest friend, Ellen
Almstead, had passed away. Jeanine stood in her kitchen wrapping a
meatloaf and some side dishes in aluminum foil. With practiced
fingers, she crimped the foil around the edges of the meatloaf
platter, then moved on to seal the green beans and potatoes in their
containers.
It was Barry's favorite meal. Ellen had left her a long list of
Barry's favorite things, but it wasn't the food that distracted her.
It was the memory of Ellen the last time Jeanine had seen her.
"Please," Ellen had said, fighting the drugs and fatigue to
speak, "He'll take care of himself. I know he will. But at first, if
you could . . . ."
"Ellen, it's okay," she'd said. "I'll keep an eye on him. I'll
keep in touch with Ted Thorson, too. He sees him every day at work.
If Barry looks thin, Ted'll tell me and I'll throw a ham at him."
"I know you have more to do than this . . . ."
"Honey, it's just me and my cat at home. I have the time, Barry's
a good guy, and I love you to pieces."
"He'll take care of the kids. He's good that way. But . . .
sometimes when he doesn't feel right . . . ."
"Ellen, I know the drill. Men are like my dad's livestock. They
get off their feed . . . that's how dad would say it, anyhow."
"Don't tell him."
"I won't."
"If you tell him, he'll feel wrong about it."
"I know."
Ellen felt herself tiring, but she needed to finish.
"So just do it and look hurt if he won't take it."
"Ellen."
"What?"
"Shut up."
A few moments of silence passed. Ellen closed her eyes to rest,
but then struggled awake again.
"I'm thirty-three, Jeanine. He's thirty-six."
"I know."
"We had a long time coming to us."
"We'll all be there for him. You know that."
Ellen had taken Jeanine's hand, holding it tightly at first but
loosening her grip as fatigue began to take over. She felt herself
beginning to drift, her mind filling with the soft images that came to
her so easily and so often in those days. She saw grass and flowers
bathed in sunlight, beautiful deep detail in every blade of these
living things, and trees, their branches a deep profusion of
wind-blown leaves. But the dreams had to wait. She hadn't finished.
Jeanine had to know the last of it.
She struggled against the sleep, fighting through the images. She
wanted to open her eyes, to find her friend with them, and in her mind
they opened, but the leaves still filled her vision.
Dreaming, she thought to herself. I'm still dreaming.
She fought harder, trying to force her lips to move, not trusting
the sensations, not knowing if she truly felt her tongue sliding
against them, or only dreamt. From deep in the lush, soft leaves she
screamed at her body to wake, to move, to speak. Drawing on all of her
energy, she pushed a single word forward, driving it up from the depth
of her spirit, the intensity of it reverberating in her mind, pushing
it to her lips, shouting it with all of her heart.
"You," Ellen whispered, her lips barely moving.
* * * * *
Now as Jeanine pulled her coat on and carried the food to her
car, she muttered to herself, Me? Me what, for Christ's sake. Thanks a
lot, Ellen.
Barry had asked for Jeanine's help with the kids now and then. He
was okay with Jimmy, the youngest, but his daughter Kelly was a teen
now and Barry knew his limits.
That and a monthly ham or meatloaf had been Jeanine's
contribution. Two years. It was time to ease off, and she knew it.
Whatever Ellen had expected of her must be over with by now. The kids
were fine. Barry was . . . well, he wasn't fine, but food certainly
wasn't the answer.
So why was there a meatloaf in her lap? From the start she'd felt
superfluous. She knew the kids liked her and Barry enjoyed her
company, but that was it. There wasn't a thing at that house she could
do that Barry couldn't, and didn't, do for himself. For the last six
months, each time she'd stopped over, she'd told herself it would be
the last time. And a month later she'd find herself there again.
Was it loyalty? To what? Ellen hadn't asked for life-long
service. But there was something. Every time Jeanine thought about
easing off, she could see a picture in her mind of Ellen's face, her
eyes soft but watchful, waiting for her to finish.
Enough, she'd told herself. It was time to talk things out with
Barry. And once she'd decided on that, the topic presented itself with
annoying ease. It was Barry's social life. After Ellen's death, he'd
dropped out for the most part. She and Ted Thorson were the only real
friends he had left.
At first it was understandable. Most of Barry's friends had been
couples. Being single herself, Jeanine knew how awkward that could
be. Couples wanted to be with couples.
She and Ted had talked, but neither one of them felt comfortable
talking to Barry about it. Ted kept saying they should wait. Let Barry
work things out on his own. Jeanine agreed, but not because she
thought he was right. It was just a lot easier.
"He's a good guy. People can see that," Ted told her.
Right, she told herself as she drove to Barry's house, he'll find
new people. If they hang around long enough. But who's gonna do that?
If I didn't know him already, would I? He's not your basic barrel of
laughs these days.
* * * * *
She pulled up at Barry's house, walked to the door and pushed the
bell. While she waited, she could feel a growing sense of irritation.
Why wasn't Ted going to be a part of this? Who elected Jeanine
spokesperson?
Barry answered the door, and smiled at her with surprise. "Didn't
expect you," he said, "come on in."
"No one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition," she answered.
Barry was an old Monty Python fan, and the line from one of their
skits seemed appropriate.
His smile was genuine. It always was. But the energy behind it
was distant. Jeanine supposed she'd gotten used to it, seeing him so
often, but now her frustration gave her new eyes. He seemed almost
apologetic, as though he were a servant, informing her with polite
regret Barry Almstead wasn't in today.
"You did it again, didn't you?" he said, looking at the
aluminum-wrapped food she was carrying. "Jeanine, you're a sweetheart,
but you have to stop. It isn't right you do all that work. I'm a big
boy. Honest."
"Well, big boy," she said with a bad Mae West delivery, "there's
more than you that lives here."
The impersonation was bad enough to earn another smile. He led
her into the living room, took the food from her and gestured to a
chair. "Have a seat, Miss West." he said. "The kids are at their
grandmother's for a couple of weeks, so it's just me. I'll put this in
the freezer."
Barry left the room, headed for the kitchen. The living room was
large, nicely furnished and well arranged. Barry hadn't changed
Ellen's decor in the slightest.
And it was clean. And empty. Without the kids there to make their
usual fuss and noise, Jeanine could feel the oppressive vacancy. She
knew this house well. She'd even helped Ellen shop to furnish it.
Upstairs there were three bedrooms. She could see them in her mind's
eye. Empty.
It's the kids, she told herself. Any house seems empty when
you're used to that.
But the house wouldn't let go. Even when Barry returned from the
kitchen, it was still an empty place. He sat across from her on the
sofa, and they talked about work, Jimmy and Kelly, some politics and
anything else Jeanine could think of to postpone the real topic she
had in mind.
Half an hour later, she gave up stalling.
"Barry," she heard herself saying, "There's something I've been
thinking about. Something I want to talk to you about."
"Sure," he said, and waited quietly for her to say something.
"About you. And how things are."
"Things are fine, Jeanine. Really."
Jeanine folded her hands in front of her, and leaned forward. "I
know. I hear from Ted things are good at work."
"They're okay, I guess."
"And the kids? Everything okay there? Or anything I could help
with?"
"You do enough already, Jeanine."
"Too much, maybe?"
"No, I didn't mean that. I appreciate your help."
"I've been thinking maybe it was the wrong help. And I wanted to
ask you about that."
Barry watched her quietly, waiting. He didn't need this.
Adjusting to everything was like being a wire walker. Take a step,
balance, take another step. And it looked like Jeanine wanted to
wiggle the wire.
"I guess, right after the funeral, I had this idea you'd need
things, you know, like food."
"I did."
"So I made meatloaf."
"And ham and those green beans with the almond slivers."
Barry smiled at her again. It was all he could think to do. He
felt tired, almost sleepy.
"Yeah. Big deal," she said.
"Big deal to me."
"Barry, come on."
"It was."
Barry's head felt increasingly stuffy. It was a little like a
hang-over, but he hadn't been drinking. He'd felt it before, some
times at work, but mostly at home, a sensation of fatigue that crept
up out of nowhere. It made it hard to focus on what people were
saying. He'd decided he needed a lot more sleep.
"Okay. But I think maybe I should've been doing other things."
"Like what?"
"Like being your friend . . . ."
"You were."
Sleepy or not, he corrected himself, "You are."
Jeanine felt the first tingles of annoyance. "Barry, don't
interrupt me. I'm fumbling around as it is. I was going to say being
your friend and talking about new friends."
"New friends," Barry repeated her words. It was the easiest way
to answer. If he'd had more energy, he'd have told her to ease off.
And maybe some other things. But right now he didn't need an argument.
He needed Jeanine gone. And a nap.
"Yeah. You know, some people to go out with. Talk to." Jeanine's
voice filtered through the fuzz.
"Jeanine?"
"What?"
"I'm fine."
Jeanine let a few moments of silence pass. Mr. 'I'm fine' needed
some confrontation, she thought, and this time she wasn't about to
shove it under the rug.
"Yeah. Well. Sometimes you don't act fine," she said, with an
edge on it that surprised her.
Barry's brow wrinkled a moment, then relaxed. The fog cleared a
little. "So how should I act?"
Jeanine didn't have an answer. She'd barely heard the question.
As soon as she'd spoken, she saw a picture forming in her mind. Ellen
again. Those soft eyes. Jeanine stood and walked to the window. There
was a breeze stirring the leaves of the giant Century Oaks that shaded
the house. The sun was so intense it turned the leaves a pale green,
almost white. Ellen's picture faded in the bright glare. She turned to
face Barry again, an idea forming in her mind.
"How come you're not angry?" she said. "I mean, you've got a
buttinski woman here, tells you you're head's off base and you take it
with a half-assed smile."
"You're a friend, Jeanine," Barry said, trying to de-fuse things.
"I know you don't mean anything by it."
"Maybe I'm not a friend. And maybe I do mean something by it."
Barry tried hard to focus his thoughts. He was still tired, but
the situation was getting out of hand. Jeanine needed to back off.
He'd tell her as much, he thought to himself. But the words wouldn't
form. Jeanine was always so nice before. What was happening?
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"That's what's wrong. You saying what's wrong is wrong. You
should be saying have a good day, Jeanine. There's the door, Jeanine."
"You want me to be angry?"
"Yeah, or something."
"Fine. I'm angry," he said, "are you happy now?"
But it wasn't anger. It was hurt. In the silence between them,
the quiet of the house closed in again, the air conditioner
whispering, the muted stir of the leaves outside, and the sound of
Barry's breathing, open-mouthed and vulnerable. Gentle, quiet Barry
and all this emptiness. She knew it was time to stop. If she kicked
him with anything more, he'd bruise and bleed, but that would be all.
"No," she said. She stepped away from the window and walked over
to him. Standing next to him at the sofa, she said, "I'm sorry,
Barry."
Barry's eyes were focused straight ahead. When she sat next to
him he didn't turn.
"Barry?"
When he didn't answer, she put her hand on his shoulder.
"Barry?"
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's okay. I just feel kind of quiet right
now."
"Please look at me."
Barry turned his head to her. She wondered if there'd be tears,
but there weren't any. And then he smiled again, a small quiet smile.
"I know you're my friend. I know you didn't mean anything."
He turned his head again, staring vacantly at the room. Jeanine
watched his profile, his mouth still open slightly, his breathing
quieter now.
He was wrong. She knew that. It did mean something. Someone . . .
had to be there. Had to stop all this. Better than she'd done. A true
friend. Move him. Take him. Tear him away from the quiet. A friend.
Ellen knew it, Jeanine thought. Ellen knew what might happen. She told
me and, oh Christ, she said . . . .
"You," Jeanine spoke aloud, though it seemed only to be in her
mind.
Still looking away from her, Barry waited for her to continue.
When she didn't, he asked, "You, what?"
Jeanine found her fingers playing at the buttons on her blouse.
"Move him," she heard herself whisper. And then, feeling foolish but
determined, her face flushing deeply, she began to open the buttons.
"Barry," she said, "I want you to look at me now."
As he turned his eyes to her, she finished the lower buttons. She
sat quietly for a moment, watching his eyes, and then unclasped the
front of her bra.
Barry watched in silence as Jeanine moved the bra cups aside. The
open blouse still covered a portion of each breast.
Barry watched as her movements exposed the inner swell of her
breasts. He looked up at her eyes for a moment, waiting for her to
speak, but she said nothing. His eyes returned to the soft flesh she
offered him. With a tentative hand he reached to pull the blouse
aside, exposing each breast completely.
"Jeanine," he said, "you're so beautiful."
He could think of nothing else to say. The sight of her naked
breasts emptied his mind. Time passed with neither of them speaking.
And then slowly he became aware of his arousal.
He looked up at her, and then down at his trousers. The effect
she'd had on him was easy to see. When he looked up again, he saw
that her eyes had followed his to the center of his trousers, and
remained there.
For a moment his stomach churned, and then something angry and
deeply heavy began to grow in his chest, seeming to spread and fill
him completely. And as the pressure thickened, his arousal faded.
He turned away again, standing as he did so.
"Jeanine," he said, "I . . . this can't happen."
"Barry, it's all right," she said.
"No."
"We can be warm together . . . that's all."
Barry drew in a deep breath. "Please. Button yourself."
"Barry?"
"Have a good day, Jeanine."
"Barry, stop it."
"There's the door, Jeanine."
"How can you do this!"
"How can you?"
"You don't understand."
There were no more words she knew to say. Jeanine reclasped her
bra and buttoned the blouse.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm saying cruel things and I don't want
to. I want . . . I don't know."
"I'm not gonna say anything, Barry. Because I don't know what I'd
say. I'm embarrassed and I'm angry and I'm sad and . . . ."
"You don't have to say anything. I hope I don't either. Except
I'm sorry."
Barry walked to the door, holding it open for her. She stepped
through it and walked to her car, determined not to look back at him.
Sitting in the car, she glanced back as she turned the ignition, but
the door was already closed.
* * * * *
The stage was long and narrow. It stood in the center of the room,
elevated three feet from the floor. Steel poles painted white ran from
the stage to the ceiling at either end. Two rows of chairs surrounded
the stage, hugging its edge. The rest of the room, lit only by light
reflecting from the stage, held small circular tables with two or
three chairs at each.
The rowdiest patrons filled the two rows closest to the stage.
They cheered each new girl as she climbed up for her set. Most had a
ready supply of dollar bills in their hands. Heavy pounding music
filled the room, controlled by a combination side show barker and
master of ceremonies who sat in a plexiglass booth above the stage
near its center.
Barry and Ted sat at one of the tables farthest from the stage.
The music was less deafening there, and they could hear each other
without shouting. It was Barry's first visit to Elmo's Center For
Performance Art, and Ted was explaining the name.
"They used to just call it Elmo's, but the aldermen kept trying
to close it down. So now they call it Performance Art. So far, so
good. The clowns down at city hall would have to shut down a lot of
museums, live theaters and other stuff to get Elmo's closed."
"What do they care?" asked Barry. "This place is so far out of
town it's not going to bother anybody."
"They say it's a crime magnet. That's why Elmo put extra bouncers
out in the parking lot. Nothin' goes down here anymore. Inside or out.
But the city guys still aren't happy."
On the stage, a girl named Kim was finishing her last slithering
moves against one of the poles as her music ended. The Emcee announced
it was time for a volunteer, and dozens of the regulars who knew what
was coming waved their hands and shouted.
"Any birthday boys out there?" the Emcee asked.
"Hey," someone shouted from the crowd, "it's Phil's anniversary!
Does that count?" The men seated near the man named Phil began
laughing hoarsely, punching and prodding him toward the stage.
"Close enough," the Emcee shouted, "Get the chair up there,
girls. Tie him up!"
Phil climbed up onto the stage and three of the dancers sat him
down in a chair at one of the poles. They circled him with heavy rope,
pinning his arms against his sides, and then looped the rope around
the pole.
"All right, gentlemen. For the next two songs, Carrie, Susie and
Kim are gonna harass the livin' hell out of Phil. Happy anniversary,
Phil!"
As the music started, the girls shed their tops and moved in on
Phil. Each took a turn shaking her naked breasts in his face, and
sitting on his lap, gyrating against him. While one was on his lap,
the others hung on to the pole and slid up against him, rubbing their
hips against his head and sliding their legs up and down his arms.
"How about a beer?" Ted asked.
"Okay, sure," Barry said.
"I gotta get it next door. This place goes bottomless after ten
o'clock. That means they can't have a liquor license. Be right back."
Ted left Barry at the table and wove his way through the tables
to the exit. He was glad to get away for a minute. Keeping up a
conversation with Barry wasn't easy. So far the whole thing had been a
flop. Barry hardly noticed the girls. He spent more time watching the
crowd than the stage, even when the girls started spreading their legs
for the guys stuffing money in their costume panties.
* * * * *
"Your turn, Ted," Jeanine had told him.
It had taken her a week to settle down after her last visit to
Barry's house. At first she felt foolish. And, she had to admit to
herself, her ego was bruised. She hadn't had a lot of encounters in
her life, but in that limited number, she'd certainly never been
turned down. Toward the end of the week she'd begun to get angry with
Barry, but it didn't last long.
By Friday she was on the phone with Ted, talking about Barry, and
not inclined to put up with any more stalling on Ted's part.
"Okay," he'd said, "but what do I do?"
"That's your problem. I tried from my side of things, but all I
did was probably make it worse."
"What'd you do?"
"Never mind that. Just trust me. It's time for you to do some guy
stuff with him. Get him out of that shell."
"Maybe we could go out together? All three of us?"
"I don't think so. Not for a while. Maybe a long while."
"What the hell did you do?"
"Something stupid."
"Jeanine?"
"So now it's time for you to do something stupid."
"You really sound down. What happened?"
"It's not about what happened. It's . . . I just don't know if
anything's gonna work."
"It might help if I knew what you tried. I don't want to do the
same thing."
For the first time in a week, Jeanine laughed. "Don't worry about
it. You won't."
"Jeanine, you've got to be kidding. Tell me you didn't hit on
Barry."
"Shut up, Ted."
"And it didn't work? What are you, out of practice?"
"We're not talking about me. We're talking about you and Barry."
"Jeanine, my dear, you can practice on me any day. We'll get you
back in shape. Don't you worry about it."
"Damn it, Ted. Cut the crap. Are you gonna help or not?"
"Okay. All right. Easy. I'll think of something to shake him up."
After they hung up, Ted gave it another few minutes of thought,
came up blank and then got too busy to think about anything but
contracts and margins.
It wasn't until late in the afternoon when he saw Barry in the
parking lot that he started thinking again. That was when Elmo's came
into his mind. He knew Barry'd never been there, and it seemed like it
might be worth a shot.
He didn't tell Barry what the plan was. He just told him that
he'd pick him up at nine that night for a few beers. When Barry
started to find reasons why he might not be able to go, Ted cut the
conversation short.
"Bullshit. See you at nine," he said.
Ignoring anything else Barry had to say, Ted got in his car and
drove out of the lot.
* * * * *
(End of segment 1)
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| <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> |
| Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>