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o o
o The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories. o
o They have been submitted by people from all over the world. Also o
o from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no particular order o
o other than offering them to you in alphabetical directories. o
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o All works are copyrighted to the author and may not be used for o
o profit without obtaining the author's permission in advance. o
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o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult entertainment o
o and should not be read by minors. o
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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Charly the Yard Guy 2 (Mf, rom, affair)
by Michael K. Smith (c) 1994
**
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.
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Copyright 1994 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere
for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.
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Michael K. Smith mksmith@metronet.com
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It doesn't TAKE all kinds, we just HAVE all kinds