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Archive name: warbler.txt (F/mmm-teens)
Authors name: DrSpin (drspin@newsguy.com)
Story title : Red-Shouldered Mangrove Warbler

----------------------------------------------------
DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer:  I write and you read,
if you care to. That's all there is to it. If any
reader is offended, and I would be surprised to hear
it, he/she should not have been here in the first
place and only has himself/herself to blame. If this
story is relocated, please leave my name intact as
the author and please include my email address.
----------------------------------------------------

The Red-Shouldered Mangrove Warbler (F/mmm)
by DrSpin (drspin@newsguy.com)
January 2000


The pretty girl next door was getting married next 
weekend. I knew her but not that well. My two 
buddies had turned up in the 4-wheel-drive and we 
were packing the gear in the front yard when she 
came over to the fence. A camping trip, she asked?

Well, no. My hobby, my passion, was bird watching
and I had converted Ben and Graham, which hadn't
been all that hard because neither had ever really
had a life yet. Nice guys, all of us. You know?
Plain and ordinary. But bird watching? I knew full
well what it sounded like as I talked.

She smiled brilliantly. Carrie. That was her name. 
She was 20 and maybe too young to be getting 
married. But what the hell did I know about it 
anyway. I was only 16 myself and the biggest thing 
in my life was bird watching. Which is what we 
were packing up to do and we wouldn't be back till 
dark and we were really out there looking for the 
red-shouldered mangrove warbler and you never did
know but we might just catch a flash of the rare 
but very pretty little bastard at this time of the
year. If we were careful. Might even get a photo.
Which would be terrific and maybe even important
at this time of the year. The words kept tumbling
out of my mouth and she kept smiling brilliantly.

Well look, she said, it was such a nice day and she 
didn't have anything at all to do but get into 
mischief worrying about next weekend and whether 
she was doing the right thing and all that, and now 
the words were just tumbling out of her lovely 
mouth, and rather nervously too, and the upshot 
was that maybe we could let her tag along. If it 
wasn't too much trouble.

Huh? This beautiful chick? Carrie? She was asking 
to come along with three nerdy younger guys like 
us? Jeez, didn't she have anything better to do? 
Well, as it turned out, she didn't. Except get into 
mischief. Etcetera.

So there we were, bouncing along off-road in Ben's 
father's battered Jeep (Ben was 17 and could drive 
legally) and I was sitting in the back next to Carrie 
looking under lowered eyelids at her long slender 
legs, which were there stretched out beside me at 
some considerable length because she was wearing 
this little short pale yellow summer dress spotted 
with little black or maybe dark blue flowers and 
with buttons down the front. Gosh but she was 
pretty. She was marrying some smooth jerk next 
Saturday somewhere out of town and she was going 
off to live with him someplace somewhere else. 
Lucky stiff. She sure was pretty.

She chattered away about the groom, whose name 
was Jeff, and about the wedding and about what a 
pain in the backside her mother was because she 
horned her way into everything and how they agreed
on nothing and how it was blissful to escape her
for just one day. The Jeep was noisy and she leaned
and swayed towards me, her mouth directed to my
ear. She was sitting close because the bench seat
beside her carried her capacious drawstring bag 
and her wide-brimmed straw hat with its long 
trailing yellow ribbon. I nodded and murmured and 
looked covertly at her long and smooth legs
stretching down to her little canvas shoes. Jesus
but she was pretty. She had perfect knees.

You wouldn't believe, she said into my ear, what 
she had to put up with just to do a simple thing
like get married. Such a huge enormous fuss about 
everything and everybody. And the whole wedding 
thing was turning her into something she definitely 
was not. She hated every single item of clothing
she would be wearing on the day, right down to her 
underwear. All of it had been chosen by her mother. 
Carrie had battled with her all the way and had
lost every skirmish.

I looked at her in mild surprise. "Underwear? You 
had a fight about underwear?"

"Oh yes," she said. "The biggest fight. But I lost
as usual and now I'll be wearing stitched shiny white 
with reinforcing and wires and suspender belts and 
God knows what else. It feels like I'm wearing full 
battle rig. I'll walk down the aisle like a spaceman 
on the moon."

I laughed at the image of her in a huge white wed-
ding gown, legs and arms stiff and stuck out, wob-
bling and waddling to the altar. "Oh dear," I said
sympathetically. "It sounds complicated."

"Well, it's just not me," she said resignedly. "I'm
a simple girl. 

Given a choice, I like to wear things like I'm 
wearing today."

"And very pretty they are," I said with mock 
gallantry. "Especially the hat."

She beamed at me. "That's nice," she said. "You 
can say it again if you like."

"About the hat?"

"No, the pretty part. I seem to need that at the 
moment."

"Oh well then," I said. "Let's look at you. Pretty 
yellow dress, pretty hat, lovely long and glossy 
dark hair with just a bit of curl and tied loosely at 
the neck, very pretty face, cute nose, clear grey-
blue eyes, terrific slim figure and extremely excel-
lent legs.  Great skin tone. All up, I'd have to 
say you are the prettiest thing on this half of the 
planet."

She even blushed prettily. "Over the top, Michael," 
she said. "But thanks anyway."

"You're welcome. And I think you're perfectly 
right about the clothes and the underwear and all 
that. You should tell them to jam it and wear what 
you want. It's your wedding day, for Christ's sake."

She sighed. "Too late for that. I'm signed, sealed 
and just about delivered."

"You don't sound all that convinced about it, 
Carrie."

She pursed her mouth and studied me for a 
moment. She sighed again. 

"Isn't it awful? I think I'm having a panic attack."

"This Jeff," I said. "You must love him to say 
you'll marry him?"

"I thought I did, right up to yesterday. Now I'm not 
sure I even like him."

"Oh dear. Maybe this is normal."

"Maybe," she agreed, and sighed again. "I just wish 
they'd not take me for granted. Like a good little 
girl. Why do I have to do the good little girl thing 
all the time?" She lapsed into silence, hands folded 
in her lap, and looked out the window.

We arrived at the chosen place, backed up the 
vehicle and started unloading. Carrie wanted to 
know where we were going. Into the mangroves, 
we explained. That's where the warbler was. We 
hoped. She looked at our gumboots unenthusias-
tically. Was it muddy? Well, yes.  Mangroves, you
know. Look, we said, we didn't expect her to come
with us. In fact it would not be ideal if she did,
because the warbler was a timid bird and you had
to be patient, careful and quiet. 

She looked about her at the small and secluded 
clearing. She thought it nice enough. She'd wait
for us, read a book and maybe catch some sun. How 
long would we be? We thought maybe a couple of 
hours, depending on our luck, and we'd be back for 
a spot of lunch.

We had no luck at all. It was a near birdless 
morning, let alone the scarce red-shouldered 
mangrove warbler. We made our way back disap-
pointed, with a full camera and empty stomachs.
Maybe things would improve later in the afternoon.
We stepped into the clearing where we'd left the
car and found Carrie looking awkward and flustered,
which was understandable because she was standing
crouched with a red-and-white striped towel
clutched around her.

"Yikes," she said to us. "You're early. You don't 
know how close that was. I didn't hear you until the 
very last moment."

Replay. Calculation. Deduction. She'd been sun-
bathing on the towel.  She wasn't wearing much.
Maybe nothing. Confirmation. There on the ground
was the drawstring bag, the hat with the ribbon,
the yellow dress with the flowers, a  white bra
and white pants. And a book. And a tube of the 
sun lotion variety.  

She straightened, pulled the towel tight and tucked 
a corner into her cleavage. Her bare shoulders and 
upper chest were smoothly beautiful.  The towel 
finished about halfway between her groin and her 
knees. She was still wearing the canvas shoes. 
Only. And the towel. Just the towel. And the shoes. 
My brain was digesting this in large chunks.  Holy 
smoke. A minute ago this lovely creature was lying 
on the ground buck naked.

"So," she said, apparently recomposed, "did we see 
the pretty little red bird like we hoped? Did we get 
any photographs?"

"No," answered Graham morosely. "No birds, no 
photographs. A washout."

"Maybe we'll get lucky later," I added. My voice 
sounded a little hoarse to me. I think I actually 
croaked.

"Maybe not, either," said Ben pessimistically.

We ate a meagre lunch, a few unglamorous sandwiches
and some pieces of fruit, standing around the back
of the Jeep. Carrie, who remained wrapped in the
towel, was buzzed by an insect. She reached up to
swat at it and in the process the top of the towel
worked loose. It sagged and slipped away, exposing
completely her left breast before she clutched it
to her body. Unhurriedly, looking at my face with
a lack of expression, she readjusted the towel. I
expected at least an `oops' from her but she said
nothing. Ben and Graham were away on the other side
of the vehicle examining a dubious tyre. They had
seen nothing.  But I saw her breast, which was not
big but not small either, perfectly round and per-
fectly shaped, topped with a small brown nipple
which tipped upwards.

I stood looking at her, perplexed. I had seen her 
breast and she knew it. She was cool so I should be 
cool. I tried. "So," I said, "are you feeling any 
better about your fiance? I mean, have you learned 
to like him again?"

She raised one eyebrow at me. "I haven't given him 
one second's thought," she said. "Or my mother. Or 
the wedding, for that matter.  It's really nice out 
here and I want to thank you guys for letting me 
come along. I just needed to get away from it for a 
day."

Ben and Graham had returned. "No worries," said 
Graham. "I only wish we could find a nice bird or 
two to show you. But there's nothing and I don't 
think there's going to be anything." He sighed. "No 
birds. No photographs. It's been a no result trip."

"Well, we can't have that. Let's make sure we get a 
result," said Carrie. "I'm sort of a type of bird.
Why don't you photograph me?"

We three looked at her, standing there smiling,
and I was thinking ragged and jerky again. Like 
photograph, camera, Carrie, towel, naked, breast. 
All words which wouldn't link up into a proper 
chain.

"Uh, sure thing," said Graham, who was more than 
handy with a camera. 

He even had his own dark room. "Sounds good to 
me."

"I know what you're thinking," she said, still 
smiling. "But I have to tell you I'll be keeping 
certain clothes on." She gestured to me.  "Get my 
nice hat for me." I fetched it and she perched it on 
her head. "The hat stays and so do the shoes," she 
said, and I was thinking her smile was a little
tight and strained. "But if we can strike a deal
I'm prepared to lose the towel."

The other two had their mouths open like fish. I 
hoped I didn't. "A deal?" I asked.

"The photos," she said. "They can't go anywhere. 
I'm outa here next week but my family lives in this 
town."

"Sure thing," said Graham. "I'll give you the negs."

"You can keep them. Just don't show them to anybody.
You have to promise me."

We murmured in promising fashion. Her smile had 
gone. It was difficult to read her face. She looked 
like she was concentrating. A silence developed 
and she appeared to have her mind elsewhere. Graham
coughed. "I'll grab the camera," he said, and ducked
around to the back of the Jeep.

Carrie drew a deep breath. You could hear it plainly.
Suddenly she smiled again, radiantly. "Fuck it," she
said, and it was quite shocking to hear her say it.
"Let's be mad and have some fun for a change."

She moved away from the vehicle and into the 
clearing. She turned and faced us. "I can't believe 
I'm doing this," she said. And again, a hesitation
as if she was thinking about something unrelated. 
Then, in a flash, she whipped the towel away and 
stood there, naked. Except for the straw hat and
the long ribbon. And the canvas shoes.

Maybe this is what happened when people got God. 
A blinding vision thing. An unforgettable exper-
ience. It was an astounding revelation that she 
could look so good. 

I mean, I'd seen two girls naked in the flesh. I'd 
seen photographs in magazines and I'd seen movies.
Carrie-in-the-flesh was so much better. She stood
awkwardly and anxiously, with her head cocked to
the side, looking in turn at each of our faces and
then again. And again. Man, she was so perfect.
Everything was there in exactly the right place
and exactly the right size and exactly the right 
shape.  Her breasts were perfect for the frame of
her body and her waist perfectly narrow and hips 
perfectly wide and legs perfectly long and slender. 
At her centre, like a target, was a perfect vee of 
pubic hair, not too much and not too little, and it 
seemed to be two-toned in colour, like rich choco-
late brown at the outer and black at the inner. 
And all over, everywhere the eye looked, her skin 
was wholly unblemished. Not a mark. Not a blotch. 
Nothing. Sheer perfection.

Absurdly, she burst out laughing. Her body shook 
and she bent over, her breasts hanging and swaying 
until she clamped them together with her arms, 
putting up her hands to hold her face. In a moment 
she stood up straight again and it was obvious her 
nervous moment had passed. She stood relaxed, 
smiling, even confident. "Sorry about that," she 
said. "But you should see your faces. You look 
absolutely terrified." She giggled. "I had this 
nagging worry you might gang up and hurt me but 
now I see that's not going to happen."

I didn't know about Graham or Ben but I wasn't 
terrified. Stupefied, maybe. And even while I stood 
transfixed, a little venomous spider was running 
around my brain, set loose by her words. We were 
three guys. She was just a girl. Easy. Barely any 
effort at all. Push her, pin her, take her. Easy.

Nah. She was way too nice. Besides, I was thinking 
about standing there and watching her until I grew 
old. I heard the click of the camera and Graham 
was crouching, snapping her. She smiled readily for 
him and bent her head. Nah. She was way too cute.

She struck poses effortlessly and gracefully. "You 
know," she said, "I've always secretly wanted to do 
this." She flirted beautifully with the camera. 
Holding her hat on her head and looking into the 
distance, a wistful smile on her pretty face. Lean-
ing gracefully back against a tree. Perched on the 
bonnet of the big square 4-wheel-drive. For 20 
minutes or so she breezed her way around the clear-
ing, towing all three of us on an invisible rope. 
Graham took the photos.  Me and Ben did nothing 
but watch. She was glorious. She was also, you 
could see it clearly, happy. And when it wound 
down of its own accord, she insisted we conclude 
with pictures of us with her. Silly pictures after 
what had gone on, like holiday snaps. We each took 
a turn with the camera while she stood between the 
remaining two, us clothed and her naked. They 
were, she said, the photos she would remember 
best.

She rewrapped herself in the towel, sat on the 
bonnet of the car and looked directly at me. 
"You're less amazed than they are about this," she 
said. "Tell them why I did it."

I thought for a moment. "I guess," I began 
hesitantly, "it's an act of rebellion." She smiled
her wonderful smile. "I guess," I continued, "it's 
probably the last thing your mother would expect 
you to do. You're getting married next weekend 
and this has been a show of defiance to all of them. 
Your mother. Your fiance. Even though you won't 
tell them, you'll still know what you did. How am I 
going?"

"Not bad," she said. "It's also been great fun. I've 
never felt so free to do what I want. You know," 
she cocked her head, "it's true what I said in the 
car. I really have been pretty much a good girl all 
my life. I've only had sex with three guys, includ-
ing Jeff, and that's not much for a girl getting 
married." She grinned widely suddenly. "I was 
about to say I've done it less than you guys but
then this funny idea popped into my head. You guys 
haven't done it at all. I just look at you and know 
it's true."

Silence. I knew Ben and Graham certainly hadn't 
and they thought I hadn't but actually I had, two 
years ago with a plump and aggressive distant 
cousin and it had been an awkward, clumsy and 
very forgettable experience. Never mind. Now was 
not the time for recrimination.         

Carrie laughed and clapped her hands. "Priceless," 
she said. Then she stopped laughing all of a sudden. 
After a moment she jumped down from the car and 
rummaged through her bag. "Look at that," she said.
"I think somebody is trying to tell me something.
Just three condoms left and I won't be seeing Jeff
again until my wedding day." She shaded her eyes
from the sun with a hand and looked at us. "Maybe
it's a fair trade. I get to double my head count
before I get married and you guys get to lose your
cherries."

She'd gone stark staring mad. Too much sun or 
something. No way did this make any sense. The 
naked thing, maybe. It was mad enough but she was 
really just sticking it up her mother and we three 
were ancillary. But now? Way-pretty imminent blush-
ing bride Carrie getting it on with three awkward,
sweating, nervous and somewhat less than average
standard package guys who were junior in every
possible way?  Face it. We were about as exciting
as a handbook on superannuation.

"Maybe you want to think about this," I suggested, 
trying for her sake.

"I did already," she said. "Let's go alphabetical. 
That means you." She pointed at Ben, reached out 
and took his hand. Wearing her towel and carrying 
three wrapped condoms, she scooped up her clothing
and led him away into the scrub, Ben looking back
at us twice over his shoulder. You'd have thought
he was about to face a firing squad.

"Shee-it," said Graham with pronounced feeling 
after they disappeared.

"Right," I agreed. "Amazing stuff."

He nodded. "Amazing."

"Guess what? You're next."

"Shee-it," he said.

After a time which scarcely seemed long enough 
Ben re-emerged, tucking in his shirt. He stopped 
before us and looked at Graham. "She wants you 
now," he said. "About 20 yards in, veering right."

Graham sucked in his breath. "Shee-it," he said, 
almost absently, and set off.

"Don't say a word," I said to Ben. "I'm worried it's 
a dream and you might smash it."

He rolled his eyes. "Fuck my brown dog," he said. 
From Ben it was a big statement.

I put up my hand like a traffic cop. "Uh. Not a 
word." He hovered for a moment, thought about it, 
nodded and moved away to the Jeep to pack away 
the gear.

My attention wandered as I strolled in small circles 
in the warm sun of the afternoon. I put off thinking 
about Carrie because if I started to think about her 
my guts turned liquid. It was such a nice day. The 
sky was fiercely blue, the breeze gentle, and birds 
were peeping and cheeping in the branches of a dark
green tree festooned with small orange berries. Such
a pleasant chirruping and whirring sound.

My head snapped up. I knew that sound. I peered 
into the tree. And there it was: The red-shouldered 
mangrove warbler. And another. And another. Amazed,
I watched as four flashy warblers hopped and flitted
around the tree pecking at and swallowing the little
orange berries.

I swivelled and looked for Ben. He was nowhere to 
be seen. Out of the bush, stumbling over a fallen 
branch, came Graham. He almost fell, straightened, 
picked up the branch, swung it around and threw it 
mightily in the air. It whistled over my head and 
crashed into the dark green tree. He was grinning 
hugely. He punched the air like a victorious prize 
fighter and pointed the way back into the scrub.

I swung back to look for the warblers. They'd 
vanished, frightened by Graham's big stick. He 
clapped a hand on my shoulder, still grinning.  
Then he saw the expression on my face. "What's 
the matter with you?" he asked. "You look like 
your grandmother just died."

I looked at him and back at the tree. Fuck the red-
shouldered mangrove warbler. There was a job to 
do. "Nothing," I said cheerfully. "I think I might 
just go and rendezvous with somebody over there 
in the bushes."

"Mad if you don't," he advised.

Carrie was sitting nakedly but neatly on the striped 
beach towel, knees drawn up and her arms wrapped 
around them. "Well," she said, "if it isn't the kid 
who lives next door."

"Yes," I said. "I'm going to miss you."

She smiled, just a little sadly. "I wish I'd known 
you better," she said. "You're a really nice guy to 
talk to, Michael. You could have been a good friend 
when I needed one."

"The age difference, though," I pointed out.

"Probably right," she agreed, stretching out her legs 
in a vee and revealing herself unambiguously. "Maybe
we should begin the catch up process."

"You're sure?" I hesitated, still not truly believing.

"Positive," she said. "This has been the most reward-
ing sex of my life."

Now I was astounded and instantly intimidated. 
"You're kidding. You must be kidding. Ben and 
Graham? They were good?"

"They were terrible. But don't tell them. We're all 
terrible when we start and everybody improves in 
great leaps forward. I'm just saying I felt good 
about it."

"You mean the giving thing," I ventured. "Like a 
nurse comforting the lost and the lame and the 
hopeless."

She laughed. Then: "Take off those jeans, Mikey. 
The day is growing older."

I stood before her wearing only my tee shirt and she 
rolled the final condom into place and smoothed it 
out with both hands. I'd have given her my life 
savings for that experience alone.

"You're certainly ready, willing and able," she said. 
"You got a steel pin in there or something? I had to 
use some encouragement on one of your pals."

I clapped my hands to my ears. "Tell me no more. It's
bad for me to know that."

She smiled. "It's time," she said, pulling me down 
to her.

Carrie was so beautiful. It didn't go away no matter 
how close you got to her. No upclose and personal 
imperfections. She was a star, and I was lucky 
enough to be allowed to put something of myself 
inside her body. She studied my face and watched 
my eyes, never not smiling to some degree. She 
looked and appeared serenely comfortable. And 
nothing more than that. There was no passion. How 
could there be? But certainly there was an easy and 
warm and pleasant accommodation and I didn't 
doubt for a second the sincerity of her gift.

I completed my task and for the first time I think in 
a couple of hours felt myself go soft. I eased out of 
her and placed my head gently on her breasts. A 
nipple poked insistently into the softest part of my 
cheek and she stroked my hair gently. The breeze 
was stiffening, the sun sliding and slanting away 
and all the birds were talking about it.

"I have a favour to ask," I murmured.

"What?"

"Can I kiss you?"

She chuckled and I felt it vibrate against my cheek. 
"Sure," she said. 

"Of course you can."

I cradled her face gently in both hands and kissed 
her. I started it by saying thanks but it kept going 
and growing. She was so beautiful.  She was 
glorious.

I pulled back and she raised an eyebrow in that cute 
way she had about her. "Well," she said. "If you 
kiss me like that again I warn you I'm going to 
have to kiss you back."

So I did and she did, and with it I felt and absorbed 
the first real stirrings of passion in her. Odd, isn't
it. Sometimes you can fuck a girl and she'll just lie 
there. And sometimes you can kiss the same girl 
deeply and meaningfully and she'll purr and growl 
like a hungry leopard licking at her prey before 
devouring it. But that's a diversion. Back to the 
story.

She broke the kiss eventually and I could tell the 
episode was concluded. Even though I was getting-
there-hard-again there would be no encore. We 
dressed and rejoined Ben and Graham and it was all 
very pleasant and relaxed; even polite. We drove 
back to town with Carrie leaning against me in the 
back seat and dozing on my shoulder.

"Well," she said to us as we stopped outside her 
house, "it's been fun. Just don't tell anybody and 
we'll all live happily ever after."

Ben and Graham never saw her again. But I lived 
next door, remember, and there's still the final 
chapter of a story to tell. Three days after Red 
Warbler Sunday I was passing her house around 
dusk when she hailed me from her front steps. She 
was leaving on a jet plane on the morrow and that 
evening she was having the final fitting of the 
celebrated wedding dress. The dressmaker would 
be gone by eight and her mother had to be at a 
meeting at 8.30 so if I liked I could drop by after 
then and see her in the dress.

Sure I liked. It was Carrie. I went home and on the 
spur of the moment I manufactured a suitable wed-
ding gift. I sliced out carefully from my big bird
book a full-page colour plate artist's rendition 
of the red-shouldered mangrove warbler, took down 
from the wall my prized autographed photograph of 
G.S.Chappell walking through the player's gate at 
the Gabba, relegated the great batsman to a drawer 
and replaced him in the mounted and carved frame 
with the dashing red warbler. It looked good.

It still looked good at 8.35 and Carrie liked it 
tremendously well.  She was right about the 
wedding dress. Six children could have used it 
effectively as a backyard tent. She looked like 
Queen Elizabeth I.  But she was cheerful about it 
now and optimistic she could get through the
entire ordeal well enough. Being bad for a day
had helped, she said. She'd needed to let off
steam.

"Pity," I said. "I was hoping maybe you still had 
some steam to let off."

She looked at me speculatively, amused. "Here and 
now? In my wedding dress? That's bad, Mikey."

"Very bad," I agreed. "Can't think of anything 
worse."

"Anyway," she said, "I used up my supply of condoms.
Unless you have one?"

"No."

"Then that's that, because I'm perilously close to 
peak fertility.  It's a conspiracy. I'm sure Jeff
and my mother want me to be impregnated on my 
wedding night."

"So," I said. "It appears there is actually something 
worse than doing it in your wedding dress."

She'd been wandering around the room and now she
turned and stood stock still. "You have silver 
tongue, boy," she said. "You'll be a devil when you 
grow up."

I fucked Carrie in her wedding dress that night 
between 8.50 and 9.15.  It was not an easy ac-
complishment. Practical matters determined that
I had to lie on my back on the floor while she 
lowered herself to the task. I was completely 
covered in masses of white material and could see 
nothing and hear not much more. I knew she was 
nervously excited, though. I could feel it in the 
gripping action of her vagina as she stabbed her-
self quickly and repeatedly, and I could hear her 
muttering and talking vaguely about how nasty and 
awful she was being and how there was no excuse 
for it. When I spurted long and deep into her she 
shouted something I didn't catch and dropped her 
weight on my pelvis and wriggled furiously.

Afterwards, and not long afterwards, she cooled 
down quickly. "Get the hell out of here," she said to 
me, meaning it but not harshly. "I never want to see 
you again."

She did not. The next day she went away and two 
days later she married. A few weeks later I received 
a letter from her thanking me for my wedding present.
It was pretty much the formal response, except that
she made a point of saying she would treasure the
warbler and hang it always in a place close by. It
would remind her, she wrote, of good and bad times
back home.

I heard she had a baby but it was very much later 
and not in contention. Over time I lost my photos
of Carrie somewhere. All bar one. It shows Ben and 
me, and a beautiful naked girl in absolutely prime 
condition between us, smiling and squinting into 
the sun. I have it beside me as I write.

Ben and Graham continued bird watching but I gave it
up there and then. I'd seen the red-shouldered
mangrove warbler and what else was there? As well,
I couldn't talk about it and nobody would believe me
anyway, and that was a promise I kept. Until now.
Years and years later.

Oh well. I'll just be putting Carrie's photo away in 
a safe place. 

Just as soon as I look at it one more time.

ENDS

(drspin@newsguy.com)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
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Kristen's collection - Directory 11