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Subject: {SJR}"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 4B"( bf mF mF+ )[11/52]
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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 4B:
Two technicalities that didn't particularly plague me at that
time were: whatever happened to Martha Jane's virginity? And what
did she use for birth control?
I assumed that my early sexual equipment had not yet developed to
the size required for breaking hymens. This seemed reasonable, though
I was not that small in those days and from what I had seen and heard
from other boys my age, I was above average in that department. At
the swimming pool in the project and at Malone Pool, a municipal public
swimming pool nearby, plenty of kids showed up who didn't hesitate to
drop drawers in public and hop into their swim trunks. From all I
saw, I was a definite contender. From Martha Jane's testimony, of
course, I was the best in the business.
Birth control was a different matter. I did my own research, at
considerable consternation to the librarian who fetched dozens of
medical references out of the library stacks. The best information
I could gather and decipher led me to conclude that it was medically
possible for me to do some damage--though I doubted I'd find a
urologist who would dare confirm it.
In addition to official references I garnered more information
from every young boy's ultimate source: the first-hand tales of that
worldliest of peers, the local 12-year-old womanizer. I don't
remember this kid's name, but he frequented the big grassy lawn that
stretched before my building. It was a ritual about once a month for
this nice-looking, hefty redheaded kid to pontificate on the handling
and seduction of young girls before a group of enthralled listeners
age 4 to 14 or so. At about that time I decided to hang around for
some of these sessions, during which I heard the usual rumors about
virginity often passing without pain or bloodletting, or via other
means (sports, et al). He had his own lurid stories to relate, and
often did so with amazing clinical detail which, through my experi-
ence with Martha Jane, convinced me that at least some of his reports
seemed authentic.
I decided Martha Jane's hymen had probably been taken by me--
exactly when, I couldn't say--and that its inconvenience had been
masked by ardour and passion.
My scouring about the world was not limited to what I could find
in a boring book. I did consort with peers now and then, especially
on the school playground at lunch and recess. I developed no close
or frequent friends that I recall. The one buddy I did take up with
was Stepper.
I spent about a year kicking around with him. He was a black
boy my own age. We didn't see each other regularly because he lived
on the other side of the downtown area, near my Aunt Frances' home.
I met Stepper on one of my expeditions into the downtown business
district. Having been packed off to my godmother's place for a week-
end, I had spent the morning sitting around their restaurant near
busy Union Station. The usual procedure when I spent weekends with
my godparents or my father's parents was to spent evenings in their
home; but since they had no sitter for me and everyone in the family
manned the business during the day, they would drag me downtown with
them when they opened the Tremont Cafe in the morning. I spent half
my time gobbling down ice cream and Cokes and whatever was on the
menu, and the other half exploring the nearby railroad yards, playing
Army games near the grounds of the mammoth post office building next
door, or poring over comic books and sipping milk shakes. I had
exhausted my supply of comics that day and sat around looking bored,
so my godmother (who was also my great-Aunt Frances) handed me two
bucks for more comics.
Searching the newsstands nearby in Union Station and Central
Station uncovered nothing new. So in my usual (i.e., unpredictable)
way I wandered into the thick of downtown Memphis until I discovered
a new and gigantic supply of comics in a hotel near Beale Street. In
1949 two dollars would buy a sackful of comics, and a sackful is what
I held under my arm as I started back toward Aunt Frances' place.
Just beyond the corner of Beale and Main I heard a jazz band.
Following the sound, I found a small crowd listening to the three-
piece band on a block on Beale Street. This was an event in Memphis,
there being ordinances against such things. All three players in the
band were blacks, with a drummer and a bass player, and a trumpeter in
a straw hat with a bright yellow feather. The fourth member was
Stepper, a gangly black kid in loose clothing who was shuffling and
tap dancing. The kid's style caught my eye. He seemed very smooth
and adept; I had seen enough Fred Astaire flicks at the Suzore's to
recognize fancy footwork.
After he performed a couple of numbers he took a big bow from
the crowd and leaned against the wall of the building for a break
while the band started a number without him. That's when I walked
over to him and, too shy to know how to start a conversation with a
person who seemed so accomplished, I shuffled around without a word
until he happened to notice the corner of a comic book cover that had
crept up over the edge of the paper bag I held.
"Say," he said, pointing to the bag, "you got Plastic Man in
there!"
"Yeah. You know about Plastic Man?"
"Do I? My favorite. Got them funny glasses, and goes stretchin'
his neck all the way around buildin's an' everything. Yeah, it's
funny, it's really weird artwork, the way they draw that guy."
We established an immediate rapport. I found it odd that a kid
who performed with such alacrity and precision could have such a
sleepy, lazy manner of speaking. There was much about Stepper that
I found intriguing: he had a flair for dance and a sense for music
that has never been matched by any kid I knew before or since. He
had practical and apparently hard-earned "street smarts" that I
envied. At the same time there was something about him that was
even more childlike than his 8 or 9 years. I kept seeing him as a
youngish Pied Piper.
Before I left that day I offered him my copy of Plastic Man. He
thanked me but said he wouldn't have time to read it on the spot.
But I held the book out to him and said, "No, keep it. It's
yours. I'll get another one."
The kid beamed a big, surprised smile at me and said thanks.
He asked if I hung around there much, and I said I'd try to get
back on a weekend. As I was leaving he said, "Hey, you ever
get back here, look for me. Ask for Stepper. That's me."
A few weeks later I again saw Stepper dancing with the street
band. When I talked with him during his break I was surprised when
he reached into a wrinkled paper sack, pulled out the Plastic Man
comic and handed it to me. He said he hoped it wasn't too damaged,
he had given it to his smaller brother Junior. And even his 5-year-
old sister Truluv had read it.
I asked, "Really? You have a sister named 'True Love'?"
"Yeah, Truluv," he said, and he spelled it for me. "That was my
Aunt Harriet's idea. She got a lot o' goofy ideas."
When Stepper was finished for the day he gave me a brief tour of
Beale Street, which had not changed very much since its heydey at
the turn of the century. This street was "downtown" for blacks who
lived in that area, although many of the businesses had since been
bought out by whites.
Stepper told me his real name was Franklin, which he didn't
like. He insisted on being called by his nickname, Stepper. He was
amused when I told him I had the opposite problem and that I hated
my nickname. Stepper lived in a small house near Beale Street with
his mother, an uncle, his sister Truluv and his baby brother Junior,
and their dog Agnes. It turned out that his home was in the same
neigh- borhood as my Aunt Frances and her next-door neighbor, my
Aunt Josephine Sansone. Stepper said he was familiar with those
names. He told me he had an older uncle, Robert, who was a handyman
and junk collector in the neighborhood. He cruised the area with
his mule and wagon and made part of his living making deliveries or
picking up used tires, refrigerators, sinks, or whatever refuse
could be sold or rebuilt. The local shopping area had a small
supermarket, a liquor store, a cleaners, and a restaurant and beer
hall on the corner of Linden Street. My relatives owned that
property and ran the businesses. The area was a decaying part of
Memphis built in the 1890's. The old two-story houses that were
still standing were populated by whites, many of them either closely
or distantly related to me. The other side of the area was literal-
ly a shantytown populated by poor negro families who lived in houses
little better than shacks.
Stepper became my indispensable guide to many of the dangers I
had somehow avoided downtown. Standing on a street corner one day
he pointed out a very large lady shopper who was crossing the
street, walking in our direction.
"Lookit that lady," he murmured, pointing to her. "See, she got
two shoppin' bags she's holdin' in one arm, and that other bag she
got down at her left side. Lookit dem two bags she's holdin' in her
right arm. See dat? It wouldn't take nothin' to bump up aside her
a little bit, and dem bags come tumblin' down all over the side-
walk. You could grab three or four, maybe five things outta that
bag and run like the devil, she'd wouldn't know it 'till too late to
catch you."
He showed me how several shoppers left themselves vulnerable
and how he could make a getaway unscathed.
I asked him how he knew these tricks.
"My brother, he's 19 years old and he has this friend, name
is Joel. Joel brung me down here one time and showed me all them
tricks. Said he wanted me to do it with him. But I wouldn't do
it."
"Have you ever done anything like that?"
"Nope. Not me. And I'm glad I didn't. 'Cause Joel, he's in
jail for it right now. And I'm not. But I hope I never get to the
point where I have to steal like that."
"Why would you have to steal?"
"'Cause you get hungry. You don't have no home. Then you
got to. Ain't no other way."
Stepper guided me to many of the secret places in unlikely parts
of the city. Like me, he was inveterately curious. We saw each
other every few weeks or so and explored areas that had not been
touched or seen by anyone in years. We crept through the dank,
silent warehouses of the old cotton shipping district, unused at
that time for dozens of years, and found remnants of an entire
railroad network that connected the shipping docks. We followed the
railroad itself through an old part of town, onto the bluffs along
the waterfront, across the Mississippi RIver on the old Harriman
bridge and into Arkansas on other shore. Traversing the old rail-
road bridge was scary: there was no walkway and only a thin metal
cable for a handrail, and therefore there was no escape from oncom-
ing trains, short of diving into the river. The heavily rusted
tracks told us that the bridge had been unused for years. Still, we
played it safe and walked back to town over the DeSoto Bridge, which
had a pedestrian walkway.
It took over an hour to return to Memphis. Along the way,
Stepper entertained me by forming his fingers tightly around his
lips and showing me how to "trumpet" a blues number with his hands.
When it came to adventuring with people, however, we didn't
fare so well.
One hot, sticky June day I brought Stepper into my back yard and
told him to wait while I went inside to get us some lemonade. Mom
was making a pitcher of it when she noticed Stepper waiting out
there near the edge of the access driveway.
"That little boy out there..is he with you, Speedy?"
"Yeah, that's Stepper. Can he have some, too?"
"Well," she began, looking at him irritably. She turned and
pulled two tall glasses down from the pantry on the wall, and
started clunking ice cubes into them. "All right, but listen to
me..." She bent down close to my face and in a stern whisper, so
Stepper wouldn't hear, she warned me, "...I'll give him some this
time, because I don't think I ever mentioned this to you before.
But don't you bring any black boys around again. Hear?"
Confused, I looked out through the rear screen door at
Stepper, who stood unknowing with his back to us and looked about
at the goings on around him. I turned back to Mom and asked,
"Why not?"
"Because we don't socialize with them."
"But why not?"
"Because he's--" she lowered her whisper to a barely audible
level--"black."
"But why don't we--?"
"Because we just don't. Now you mind yourself, Speedy, and
don't ask me why not, just don't do it anymore."
She gave me two glasses of lemonade and went about cleaning
up, doing little to hide her displeasure.
Perplexed at the harshness of such rules and her unflinching
insistence, I walked outside and handed Stepper the lemonade. He
took a quick drink and yelled toward my mother in the kitchen,
"Thank you, ma'am. This is real good. You make it really good!"
My mother brought her face to the screen door and smiled with
stiff politeness. "I'm glad you like it." Then she went back to
work.
Stepper drank the lemonade in one long, noisy series of gulps
and wiped his lips. Without changing his casual manner he said
quietly to me, "Hurry up and finish yours, and let's go."
"Where we goin'?" I asked.
"You in trouble about this, I can tell. Ain't you?"
I shrugged and sipped my lemonade.
"You in trouble, huh?" he asked again.
I drank deeply and paused. "What makes you think so?"
"I can tell," he said.
Conspiratorially, we both behaved offhandedly as I finished my
lemonade and returned the glasses to the kitchen. "Thanks, ma," I
said nonchalantly as I walked out.
"You be back here at six," she warned.
"Yes, ma'am."
Stepper and I decided that from then on we would meet in a part
of the project where my mother wouldn't see us--which would be any-
where except in my tiny back yard.
Shortly thereafter I was similarly approached by my Aunt Frances.
One Sunday morning as she was cleaning up the breakfast dishes be-
fore leaving to work at the restaurant, she called me inside. I had
been playing in the her back yard with Stepper and his little sister
Truluv, throwing a ball for their dog Agnes to fetch.
Aunt Frances stood in her kitchen with her hands on her very
wide hips, her big face frowning. "You don't let any of them kids
come in this house when we leave you alone here, do you?"
"No, ma'am," I said--lying, of course, since Stepper and I had
already explored the unlived-in, unfurnished second floor of their
big old Victorian house.
"Hm-hm," she muttered to herself, displaying her usual distrust.
"You watch out who you play with around here. Those kids belong in
niggertown, over there on Linden Street. They don't have no
business around here."
"Yes, ma'am, " I said dutifully.
Naturally, I disobeyed. On weekends when I stayed with Aunt
Frances and they were home, I met Stepper behind their house. Their
back yard had a wooden one-car garage, and a vine-covered wire fence
that ran along the gravel alleyway separating shantytown from the
homes on Aunt Frances' block. Right behind the garage was our
favorite spot.
I was waiting there one day eating a cookie out of a big batch
Aunt Frances was making for the restaurant. Stepper came around the
corner of the alley before I finished.
"That looks good, " he said. "What kinda cookie?"
"Oatmeal," I said. "Wait. I'll get you one."
"That's okay, I don't want one that bad. Don't get in no
trouble."
"I won't," I said. "Just wait." I went through the yard and
paused at the rear door, quickly swallowing the last cookie bite,
and walked into the kitchen. Aunt Frances stood in a white chef's
apron at the big center table, rolling out cookie dough. I asked for
another cookie.
"I just gave you one. You ate that already?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well...all right, but this is the last one. Don't you spoil
your lunch."
"Thank you," I said obediently, and once outside I dashed behind
the garage. Stepper's little sister TruLuv stood shyly beside him.
I gave the cookie to Stepper and said, "Now she doesn't have one."
"She can have some o' mine," Stepper said.
"No," I said. "Wait here." I dashed again to the back door,
paused to settle down, and strolled casually into the kitchen.
"Can I have another one?"
My Aunt Frances looked down at me in disbelief. "What? I just
gave you another one!"
"I ate it."
"You ate that big cookie already? Don't you chew?"
My Uncle Johnny sat in the living room reading the paper. He
called out in his soft, wheezy voice. "What's the matter, Francis?"
Aunt Frances called back in her shrill voice, "Your nephew eats
cookies faster than I can make 'em."
"Well, give 'im another one."
"He's had two already."
"He's a kid, they eat all day. Won't hurt anything."
Aunt Frances gave me another cookie, with a strong warning: "Now
this is the last one. Don't eat so many cookies, they're not good
for you when you eat so many."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."
I ran outside. Behind the garage, Stepper and Truluv had been
joined by their baby brother Junior and Agnes the dog.
I handed Truluv the cookie. "Wait," I said.
Back to the kitchen door. I paused a longer time, hoping it
was enough to cover the consumption of another cookie. Then I
went into the kitchen.
Aunt Frances balked and scowled. "Don't tell me you want
another one!"
"Yeah."
"How do you eat so fast?"
My Uncle Johnny called, "What's the matter now, Frances?"
"Your nephew already ate that other cookie!"
Uncle Johnny gave his usual laugh, an ironic, tired little
wheeze. "Hell, I'm not surprised. What's he want now?"
"What do you think he wants? He wants another one."
"Give him one, Frances, what the hell..."
"Here!" Aunt Frances said, posing another big cookie in my face.
"Now, that's the last one!"
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."
I ran back to the garage and behind it, and gave Junior his
cookie.
"What about you?" Stepper said, munching. "Now you ain't got
one."
"Aw," I said, "I get cookies outta her all the time."
Stepper grinned, his teeth covered with crumbs. "You some-
thin' else, boy."
This resulted in my being introduced to Stepper's Uncle Robert,
the junk man, a tall, portly, silver-haired elder who reminded me
of cheerful Uncle Remus, whose Walt Disney movie I'd recently seen.
Along with Stepper and Truluv, we went riding on Uncle Robert's
junk wagon up and down Linden and Lauderdale Streets all that week-
end. I spent one Sunday at Robert's own shanty, where he made a
batch of the warmest, crunchiest, greasiest, tastiest Southern
fried chicken I ever ate. He called me "Mister Speedy, suh" and
showed me how he collected the junk and cleaned it up.
It was a few weeks following the February cookie incident that
I was on Robert's mule-powered junkwagon with Stepper and Truluv
and Agnes. We sang and joked our way merrily down Lauderdale in
front of my Aunt Frances' home when we passed my beautiful cousin
Josephine Louise, who was walking toward her mother's home next door
to my Aunt Frances.
We kids waved and screamed hello. Josephine Louise at first
didn't hear, but when she did she turned to us and her face lit up.
Josephine Louise was a creature of magical beauty. Her wide red
sensuous mouth and huge doe-like eyes were almost as hypnotic to me
as Martha Jane's basic, tender charm. She smiled and waved.
"Hi, Speedy. Y'all havin' a good time?"
"Yep," I yelled back, proud of myself as a veteran rider of
wagons and expert on the back end of mules.
"Stay outta trouble now," she called, and winked her sexy wink.
As the wagon clattered by with its tin cans rattling and its
mule clopping along, I watched Josephine Louise's sultry slinkiness
turn and walk up the front path to her home. If ever I had been
crudely horny as a very young boy, Josephine Louise was the cause
of it.
It was on that day that the proverbial excrement first hit the
proverbial fan concerning Stepper...
The following day, a Sunday, I snuck around the garage behind
Aunt Frances' house and met Stepper in the alley. We began walking
through the shantytown toward his house when we were met by his
Uncle Robert. We both expected his usual, toothy grin and good
cheer. Instead, he had a long and serious face.
"Stepper, you come hyah," he called somberly from a few yards
away. He stopped to wait for Stepper to go to him. Both of us
could tell by his cheerless tone that something unpleasant was
brewing.
Stepper looked back at me as he went to his uncle. "Wait here,
Speedy, Uncle Robert's got somethin' to tell me. I'll be back."
But as soon as Stepper joined his uncle, Robert took the boy's
hand and held him still. He straightened up and looked down at
Stepper sternly. "Stepper, child, I got somethin' ta tell ya. This
is serious, now. You got to pay attention and you got to mind what
I say."
"What is it, Uncle Robert?"
====================================
THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE
by S.J.R.
PART 4B:
-30-
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