Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
A few years back, there was a popular country song about how songs could trigger memories for people. I remember thinking at the time how true that was, and could rattle off a dozen examples of how a particular song would stimulate a memory, usually involving either a woman or a meal ( I like to eat, so shoot me). I didn’t really appreciate the song’s message until just recently, when I was driving I90 west through New York.
I was headed west, going to visit my wife’s sister in Minneapolis, listening to satellite radio jazz. And there is Nina, singing that damn Irving Berlin song, “You Can Have Him.” If you don’t know the song, it’s about the end of a love affair, and the woman is singing about all the things she wanted to do for her man–fix his favorite breakfast, wash his hair, rub his feet, go out and get the Sunday paper, spend the day in bed, the little things, you know. And suddenly, there was Trish in the car with me.
Right now, I’m a widower on the wrong side of 55 and much too rapidly approaching 60. At the time I was involved with Trish, I was in my late twenties, married to a wonderful, if somewhat unstable, woman, with a five year old daughter.
Trish and I worked for a human service agency serving a not very attractive population–chronically mentally ill adults. The label just meant they had been hospitalized for a diagnosable mental illness for five of the last ten years, or five times in the last seven years.
I was trying to teach them how to keep a job when what they needed was instruction in how to be socially appropriate. Trish, 25 then, was a service coordinator, the person who made sure they were getting all the services available to them in the community. We crossed paths frequently, often serving the same people, and we also shared an office. Us, another service coordinator, and whatever recreation leader was working that day.
Our workday began at 8:30AM and ended at 4:00PM. If we were both in the building at lunch time, we would usually eat together. Three or four times a month, especially during the summer, we’d duck out to a restaurant for some decent food, or brown bag it to the park for a picnic lunch.
She was living with a guy who worked for another agency on the west side of the county, separated, but not divorced from the mother of his eighteen year old son, who was staying with them at the time. She had a permanent case of dyspepsia (heartburn, bloat and gas, both ways). We had been working together about six months when I told her, jokingly, that if she’d sleep with me, I’d tell her how to cure her upset stomach.
In the time we’d been working together, there had not been a day, not a single freaking day, she had not complained about Dick, her lover, or his son, Jeff. It didn’t take a whole lot of brain power to figure out why she was belching and farting all over the place.
When I made my offer, she actually thought about it before she answered. “If I weren’t with Big Dick (as she called him), I’d take you up on that.”
Not smart enough to keep my mouth shut, I shot back, “If you weren’t with Big Prick (as I referred to him), you wouldn’t have to.” Wow, did that start her thinking. She opened her mouth to object, and give me a piece of her mind, but I just put my finger over her mouth to shush her and told her to think about it.
She apparently did, but it took her another six months. During that time we shared a lot of personal stuff, relationship philosophies, relationship problems, favorites (music, food, places to visit, that crap). We found that we had a lot in common, both were from working class sincan escort families, both the first in the family to go to college, we liked the same kind of music (progressive jazz), preferred the King to MickyD, liked our Italian on the spicy side, liked to bowl, drive with the top down, and wanted sex four or more days a week.
For me, that last desire, I shared with Trish, was something my wife and I weren’t anyplace close to, anymore. In fact it was closer to four times a year, and that was a struggle. Lillie, my wife, was going a real rough patch. Since Carrie had been born, her PMS had progressively gotten worse, to the point that the only time she could stand to be touched was the day she started bleeding. I’m not talking just sex. About the only thing she could tolerate was a light kiss on the lips. Anything else, she’d recoil like she’d been burned. Not the kind of reaction to nurture a marriage.
In addition to the physical stuff, she had lost three people who were very important to her–her mom, her gram, and an older woman who had been both mentor and friend, in the past eighteen months. Working in the field, I was not totally surprised to get a call at work one Tuesday from her grief counselor that he had recommended to her that she check herself into the psych wing of the local teaching hospital. He told me that she had called him from home and seemed to be unable to maintain a coherent line of conversation, and, in fact, her speech was rapid, sounding like an auctioneer in full sale mode.
I explained to my director what was going on. She told me to take whatever time I needed, and not to worry about losing the time from my various time banks.
I called Lillie at home to be sure she was all right, told her Dave had called me and described her call to him. She was a little pissed, but understood when I said he was concerned. When I told her I was on my way home, she just said “Thank you.” She did not object when I got her into the car and started for the hospital. “Do you think he’s right?” she wanted to know.
“I think we need to get a second opinion,” I told her. She accepted that, and, later, the recommendation by the psychiatrist that she be admitted for evaluation and treatment, if needed. It was the longest, hardest two-week separation we ever had, before or since, including my coronary bypass a few years ago.
I had run into Trish on the way out and told her what was happening. She was waiting in my driveway when I got home. When I asked her in for a drink, she refused saying she couldn’t come in when Lillie wasn’t home. Instead, she invited me to her place. I called the babysitter and asked if they could keep Carrie overnight. They agreed.
At Trish’s, she disappeared for a few minutes to change from her work clothes. She came back in one of those super long tees that covered her from shoulder to knee. We talked for a couple of hours as I brought her up to date on what was going on with Lillie. She kept the drinks coming, not so fast we got shit faced or anything, but enough to keep the tongues wagging. That was the night she told me she had broken up with Dick.
It had happened a couple of weeks earlier. She hadn’t told me because she was afraid I’d say “told you so’ when her stomach calmed down overnight. I just laughed at her and pulled her down the couch for a hug. Mistake! Huge! Huger than huge! Hug merged into kiss into foreplay into full on fucking.
When I pulled to me for the hug, I pulled her on to my lap, my arms around her waist. Her arms went around my neck, and somehow, we were kissing. The first kiss ankara escort was hardly more than a lip to lip peck, but they continued, and kept getting longer until it became the battle of tongues. As it usually happens in these cases, my hands found their way under the tee shirt, and discovered she had come back without any underwear.
It didn’t take long until she was sitting on my lap sans shirt, my fingers busy exploring her wetness. Her first orgasm was quick–quick to happen, quick to pass. She pulled my hand away from her crotch, and, with her head buried in my shoulder, said, “Fuck me now, Greg. Take me, use me, anyway you want.”
I don’t remember how many orgasms she had, but I came three times that night before I was able to pull away from her and leave. As I was leaving, at the door, she gave me another hug. “Don’t regret this. I know we shouldn’t have, but please don’t regret it. I don’t,” she whispered.
I gave her a light kiss on the lips. “My only regret is that we can’t repeat it,” I told her.
By this time we had been working together for over a year, and folks were used to seeing a certain level of banter between us, including some out and out suggestive flirting. When that changed, they began to ask questions, some very pointed questions. I blamed my change in behavior on the situation with Lillie. Trish, on her change with Dick.
I saw Lillie at the hospital that weekend for the first time since she had been admitted, although we had spoken on the phone every night. She looked good, better than I expected, based on what I was used to dealing with. I had a chance to talk with her Doctor and learned she would probably be in for the whole two weeks, but would be okay for a short visit home in the middle of the week.
After I saw Lillie, I couldn’t help it. I needed Trish. I needed to hold her, kiss her, to be held and kissed. To love and be loved.
I called her to see if she was busy that night. “Not any more. When will you be here?”
“I need to arrange for Carrie. As soon after that as you can be available.”
“How long can you stay?”
“Dunno. How long can I stay?”
“Come as soon as you can.”
She met me at the door with, as they say, nothing but the radio on. That first night, we hadn’t made it out of the living room. That Saturday evening, she led me to her bedroom. As she unbuttoned my shirt, she reached up and kissed me, giving me her tongue, accepting mine then reclaiming the offensive in that universal battle. By the time I was naked, it felt like my cock was a friggin’ two by four.
She laid down on the bed, her legs splayed open, her arms lifted to accept me. “Come to me, now.” she invited.
As I lay on top of her, Little Charley found her rabbit hole and made himself at home. For a long while, we just lay there, my arms around her, supporting myself on my elbows, kissing, in the missionary position, pubes to pubes, not room for a sheet of toilet paper between us. Soon, biology and need started us moving, beginning the rhythm slowly, then increasing in tempo and urgency, like that ballet, Bolero, by Ravel.
Our first mutual climax didn’t take long. I stayed hard, and instead of immediately withdrawing, I rolled to the side, taking her with me. We lay there face to face, joined as only a man and woman can be.
“Thank you,” I told her. “I needed you tonight. Not this, you.”
“Shhh,” she said, “You don’t need to explain. How was she?”
“She looks fine. Surprisingly so. They’re still working out medication, say it’ll be a few days before they can be sure. They’ll be sending her home etimegut escort for a half day mid week. That’ll be a bit rough on Carrie, but it can’t be helped. Part of the reason for the visit is to see Lillie’s reaction to her.”
“How about you? How are you doing? We haven’t really had any time to talk since the other night. I understand why, but I miss our talks. More I think than I miss the sex with Big Dick. Don’t get me wrong, you were absolutely right about him, but he could fuck at the drop of a hat. After a year of that, you miss it when it doesn’t happen.”
“You know that if I could replace him…how can I put this, because I can replace him with something better for you, but circumstances won’t permit it. I hope you understand all of that.”
She smiled and kissed me, lightly. “Why do you think you would be better for me than Dick?”
“Because I love you, because I want you to be as happy and content with your life as you can be.”
Tears began to well up in eyes. She started to pull away as she said, “Damn you! Didn’t you ever learn not to say that sort of thing unless you can follow up on it?”
I pulled her back into my arms. “Love, I know I don’t have any right to call you that, but it’s true. If I were free, or if I could see where I would be within a reasonable timeframe…”
“Shh. I know. And I’d say yes. But in this case, life sucks large. I think I’ve loved you since we met. It’s because of you I left Dick, somehow hoping for this, and that we’d be able to be together. Part of why I love you is the reason we can’t. What was it you said to me, we don’t throw away people just because they have problems. We also can’t get rid of them just because they are a problem. Not if you love them. And you still do love Lillie, don’t you?” I nodded.
“Is she expecting you tomorrow?”
“No,” I shook my head. “There are a bunch of radiography exams they have scheduled. She won’t be free until late evening. And Carrie has been invited to go to the museum with her best friend. That’s where she’s spending the night. I just have to call her around noon tomorrow.”
“We have tonight and tomorrow. I’m going to steal you for a day, to remember when I’m too old to screw anymore. You’re a better lover than Dick would ever be. I hope you’re as good at plain fucking.”
“Probably not. I can’t separate the two. If i didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be here.” She pulled me into a kiss, then separated from me. I heard her futzing around her stereo (remember those?), and I heard the piano sounds of Nina Simone’s concert at Town Hall. Her rendition of “You can Have Him” came on during one of our interludes.
When it started, Trish threw her leg over me and settled on my staff. “When ever you hear this song, I want you to remember tonight, and me.” And she began what was to be the most memorable fuck of my life, and, I hope, hers. Before we were done, she had a half dozen orgasms, each bigger than the one before, and I had come three times, each time more intense than the previous time, but with less volume of ejaculate.
We played out the lyrics of the song–the cuddling, caressing, kissing, the breakfast in bed, the papers and the long Sunday afternoon lovemaking. I called Carrie, told her everything was going to be okay and I would pick her up after supper. I called the hospital and left word for Lil that I would see her tomorrow after work, and that I loved her.
As I was getting ready to leave, Trish dropped her bombshell. She had found another job, within the same umbrella agency, but with another program. She was starting tomorrow.
It was the last time we were ever alone together. The next, and last, time I saw her, she was engaged to businessman she had met through her new job. Later I heard she was married and had moved to California.
Damn that song.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32