Message-ID: <11209eli$9805121339@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {SJR}JDR"The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane 14A"( bf mF mF+ )[51/52] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6j8s80$hqs$1@sparky.wolfe.net> The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other matters that you find distasteful. Caveat lector; you read at your own risk. These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a comment to alt.sex.stories.d. Please don't post it to alt.sex.stories itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way to encourage them to continue entertaining you. The copyright of this story belong to the author, and the fact of this posting should not be construed as limiting or releasing these rights in any way. In most cases, the author will have further notices of copyright below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as well. This particular series is by Santo J. Romeo. That might even be his real name. The version that I have copied used his initials, and I have followed suit. It is more a tragic story of coming of age than simply a sex story, and individual segments might not contain any sex. The entire 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 14A: In Memphis I was, on purpose, the last one off the plane. I lugged my carry-on at my side and then flung it over my shoulder as I entered the damp, hot daylight. The wrenching familiarity of everything I saw had me thinking: fifteen years to get somewhere, and in three and a half hours I was fifteen years behind. My mother, Aunt Frances, my sister Ann, and my great-aunt Mary met me at the arrival gate. I hugged each of them perfunctorily. My Aunt Frances, as usual, seemed confused and was not quite certain where I'd been for ten days. I was not smiling and I knew it and I didn't want to. My sister asked, "Did you see the Empire State Buildin'?" "No," I answered. "Never got there. I saw it from the street." Great Aunt Mary shrieked, "Did you buy anything at Saks Fifth Avenue? They always have a sale". "No," I said, "I never made it to Saks." As we drove down Airways Boulevard we passed a newly constructed Holiday Inn. Great, I thought: every building and every street in this town is going to remind me of Martha. I gazed out the window. The sameness. The boredom. The torpor. The bleaching sun. The enervating, choking humidity. The empty sidewalks. The empty stores. The churches, churches, churches, and the revival camps. Signs directing traffic to Elvis Presley's house. "Did you see the Statue of Liberty?" my sister wanted to know. "Yes," I said. "Well, what was it like?" "It's a big, tall statue sitting in the middle of New York Harbor on a tiny island." My mother said, "Well, didn't you have a good time?" "Yeah," I said, weakly feigning enthusiasm. Mom said, driving at twenty-five miles per hour in a forty-five-mile zone with both hands clutching the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles were white, "Well, it don't sound like it. I guess you did, look at him. You can tell he did, 'cause he won't say so. I guess that means you had a good time. Well, let's see, what happened while you were gone? I had a corn removed, the thing was killin' me so bad, I went to Doctor Stabnik's and told him 'cut it off before it drives me crazy.' And it was hot down here, I mean really really hot! And your daddy's been working at the store, of course, so nothin' new there. And your aunt Margaret's gonna have another baby. And, let's see, what else happened?" Aunt Frances shrieked from the back seat, "You were in New York, Speedy? Is that where you went?" I sighed, "Yes, Aunt Frances." My Great Aunt Mary shrieked from the other side of the back seat, "Speedy, I hear they have a lotta niggers in New York. Is that true? Did you see a lotta niggers up there?" I thought: god damn, I've got to get out of here. At least I would finish the day with a call to Martha to let her know I arrived home safely. For two days no one noticed that I wore new glasses. September, 1957. I started my sophomore year at Christian Brothers High School. And I kept the paper route and the Saturday delivery job. Those would be, I vowed, my future tickets back to New York. I started a diary. After two weeks I had nothing to remember, so I threw it away. Instead, I typed fifteen- and twenty-page letters to Martha and mailed both within a week. I spent a week searching for a birthday card for her, and on the inside of the card I wrote "I Love You." But then I thought better of it, and tried to erase the "I" to tame it. I couldn't erase the ballpoint letter without damaging the card, so I made a special trip to buy another card like it and wrote instead, "Love you. Steven." She answered both letters with one. As usual, she handwrote only two or three pages. I had grown to expect as much, especially in light of her workload. Her letter ended with, "P.S.: Ronnie sends her love. She wants you to come back. And Marilyn thought you were cute. And, honest, we all miss you. Especially Ronnie. Hon, did you make an impression on her! (wink)." Her letters had never been markedly intimate. I suppose she thought (and I agreed) that my parents might read them. I saved all of Martha's letters in a shoe box, along with a few incidental papers and other scraps to throw my parents off. And I thought little of the relative brevity of her writing; had she typed them, I supposed, they might have been longer. Between September and Christmas I wrote several long, plaintive letters asking Martha to suggest some way to get me to New York, or at least out of Memphis and into the northeast. She answered the letters with one, again, asking me to be patient and make my grades at Christian Brothers so that I could get a scholarship to an Eastern school as she had done. But graduation from high school seemed eons away. I knew her suggestion was sensible and was, in the long run, probably my best option. Each day I grew more temperamental, pouring out my frustrations into longer and longer letters. I sent a shorter letter to Ronnie, whose last name I couldn't recall, and enclosed it with a letter to Martha for delivery. I received Christmas cards from both of them. On New Year's Day, Martha called me long distance. "Steven," she said, "you sound so miserable. Please try to cheer up. You're in a great high school, and you can win scholarships through them. It's really a feather in your cap, and it's a very prestigious name." I breathed into the telephone, "Martha. Martha, I hate this. I hate all of it." "Remember what I told you about feeling sorry for yourself. Remember what I told you about being yourself. You'd be so much happier if you were in the theater and doing other things at school." "But if I don't work, I can get back to New York." "Steven, you're crazy. It would take you at least six more months to save that much money again." "Okay, then six months from now is June. So I could come up this summer." "Well, if you want to, but...Hon, that won't get you up here perma- nently, though, will it? That only gets you here for a few days. If you won a scholarship up here, and with your theater work adding to your aca- demic record, why...if you did it that way, you'd be here forever. Not just a few days. Doesn't that make sense?" I didn't answer. "Doesn't that make sense?" "Yes," I said, "it does. You always make sense. I never seem to make any sense." "Oh, Steven. There you go again. Good lord, a few months home and you're right back where you started. Well, hon...I guess you better save and come up here before they make you a total wreck down there, and... maybe we can figure out something else in the meantime." "Next summer then?" "Just keep working, and we'll set up something later. Summer's a long way off, kiddo." I told her I had received a Christmas card from Ronnie. "Really? She told me she would send you one. She has a boyfriend, you know. A steady. She met him Thanksgiving. I guess she must have finally taken our advice, because he's a far cry from the idiots she used to hang around with. And how about you, Steven?" I stuttered and paused and told her, "Oh, I get around. A little." "Steee-ven?" she said skeptically. "A little?" "Well, I'm -- y'know, I'm busy doing a, uh, a play at school in a few weeks." "I thought you were still working on your paper route?" "Well, just for a few weeks, I'm doing both, but...I'll be off the paper route soon. It's just until they find someone else to take the job." "Oh, hon, that's good. I'm glad you're back into it. I'm so glad for you. Hasn't it made you feel a lot happier?" "Yeah. Of course it has." I finished the conversation with such bothersome pangs of guilt that I wondered if I could ever speak comfortably with her again. I began keeping copies of the letters I sent to her so that I could track any white lies I wrote. I didn't say that I was working madly, exactly the way I'd worked before. I didn't say that I was on the lookout for better-paying jobs that would get me to New York earlier. I tamed the complaining tone of my letters and mailed them less frequently. The next letter arrived in mid-February. Another arrived in April. Then, a birthday card. I had a few disastrous flirtations. The Brothers held a sophomore class prom. Those who couldn't find a date could get one through Brother Lawrence's contacts with the Catholic girls' schools in town. At first, my sister was going to fix me up with a blind date. After meeting several of her girlfriends I decided I'd be better off with pot luck through Brother Lawrence. How bad could it be, I told myself; after all, my date with Marilyn in New York had not been such a trying experience. But trying it was. Being driven to and from the dance by my mother helped little. The girl had been in plays at Saint Agnes Academmy for Girls -- apparently, this was her sole qualification for being picked by Brother Lawrence. Other than her drama interests, we had nothing in common. She was, I discovered later, a local glamour girl from a rela- tively wealthy family whose major social interests were football players and other class heroes. I spent the evening introducing her to my class- mates, and she spent the evening traipsing about the dance hall floor with them. It actually made little difference to me. Beyond a basic sexual titillation, I had no interest in her or any other girls. My sole interest was to save money and, hopefully, leave home. And, definitely, make it to New York. At the Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23, Charlie himself couldn't fire my interest in his numerous female contacts. On my sixteenth birthday I received a driver's permit. My stepdad refused to allow me to drive the family car, but to me the permit meant I was one step closer to independence. I began planning the next step, which would be to buy my own used car. Of course, that wouldn't be legally possible until I was eighteen. But for severaI nights for weeks I stayed up late, calculating the possibilities: the time required to save a little more for trips to New York; saving for a future car of my own; perhaps getting someone else to let me use their car for a larger, more lucrative paper route; or using someone else's car to get me to a better job after school. For the time being, the driver's permit allowed me to drive my Aunt Frances' or my Daddy Joe's car. Durng my weekend stays with them I began taking them to work and picking them up at night now and then, or making short drives to cafe supply houses. When Aunt Frances gave me three or four dollars for gas, I'd secretly pocket some of the money. The first few times I did this I remember saying to myself, "There ya go, Steven. on your way to a life of crime." That, and lying to Martha about my jobs and my long-range plans, often kept me up at night. By the end of July, I had received no letter for nearly four months. I was so busy working that summer -- the paper route in the mornings and the delivery bikes all day during the week -- that I had little time or energy for the long letters I'd written earlier. On the last Sunday in July, 1958, I was spending the day at the Tremont Cafe when I received a telephone call just after dinner. I stood behind the service counter talking to one of Uncle johnny's old railroad buddies when Mama Rose answered the telephone. "Butch, honey?" she called from the front corner of the store, near the cash register. "You got a phone call, Butch." "Who is it?" I asked. "I dunno, Butch, but it's for you." This could only be Martha, I thought, and I rushed to the phone. "Hello?" "Steven? It's Martha." "Oh, Martha! Hello. I thought you were dead!" "Well, not yet, hon." "Your Southern accent has totally disappeared." "Has it? Do I sound like one of those enraged New Yorkers?" "No, no, you sound just fine." "What's all that noise in the background?" "That's the juke box in this place. Is it awful, or what? Here, hold on, I'm moving the telephone into the corner behind the cigar counter, maybe that'll help. There. Is that better?" "Yes, a little. It's a little better. Steven, I had to call all over town to find you. Doesn't anybody know where you hang out? I called your mother, and she had me call your Aunt Frances, and nobody answered, and then...well, anyway, I finally got through to you." "Yeah, well, they don't pay very much attention to me, whether I tell them where I am or not." "Yes, I found that out. Well...how's school? How'd your play turn out? Have you started anything for the summer?" "Oh, it was, uh, really great. You know, no big deal, these things come and go. I'll be in something else soon." "You never wrote me about it." "No, I...I've been really busy with all that, y'know." "Please write me, Steven, and let me know how you're doing. You have me so worried sometime. I'm sorry I never come home, I'd be able to keep track if I did, but...you know, I don't feel any better about Memphis than you do." "I understand that. It's no problem, Martha, really, uh...Listen, I'll write and let you know everything. I'll write this week." "Oh, good, I know you'll have lots of juicy news about your plays and things you're working on, and let me know if you need any information on colleges up here. I can get all you need." "Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that." "Steven...Listen, I...I had to reach you tonight, this has been on my mind for a while now, and...Steven...hon, are you there? Are you still there?" "Yes, I'm here. Still here." "Oh, I heard weird noises." "I was moving the telephone set, Martha, it's so noisy in here." "Oh, that's what it was. Well...Steven, I...Well, you remember I told you, none of us knew what might be happening, and my own jobs were so irregular and everything, and...Well, I might be moving to Connecti- cut. To Riverside, Connecticut. It's about an hour north of New York on the commuter train." "Oh, I see. But you can still get to New York?" "Oh, yes, that's no problem. And I still work in Manhattan for the time being, but...Steven, I..." "Yeah? I'm still here." "I know you are...Steven...I..." Over the line, I heard her swallow hard. "Promise me, now, you won't get upset or anything. I'm not really sure how you feel about this, I'm not...I..." Again, she swallowed hard. "Steven, I've met someone." The juke box blared. The restaurant was crowded at the tail end of the dinner hour. The music and the customers and the clanking pots receded into nowhere. All I could hear was the telephone in my ear. "I met him a long time ago, actually, but nothing ever really happened, you know, and then...several months ago...Steven, promise me that you won't...Oh, darn" "I promise. Why do you want me to promise something? You've met people before." "Steven...I want to move in with him. For a few months. And try... I want...Oh, Steven, I...I think I'm...I'm pretty sure we're going to get married. Before the end of the summer." "...Oh...I see, well, that's..." "That's why I had to reach you. I didn't want you to get this in the mail or anything like that, and I'm packing now. Can you believe this, all the packing I've done, and I'm packing again! But I'm...moving in a few days to stay with him in Connecticut, and I thought if you called I wouldn't have the phone here anymore in Manhattan, and I...Well, I just decided this weekend to say yes. And I couldn't do it without telling you, Steven...Steven? Hon?" "Yeah, I'm here, it's okay." "Steven...Do you understand what I mean? I'm trying to say...Hon, it was...Well, I didn't expect it. I just didn't expect it." "Well, sure, you...uh...you really like this guy. Right?" "Yes, I do, Steven. I do. Not like with you, in many ways, but... well, it's just very different. I don't know how to explain it, and I won't even try, but...Steven...sweetheart, I hope this doesn't...You know how much I care about you. I've been -- Oh, hon, I've been so worried! I sat up late with Ronnie, and then sat up all night by myself. I didn't know what to do. I tried to write, but...That wouldn't do, and I knew I had to call you. And now I...I still don't know what to do." "Oh, but I'm...glad you found somebody. Really." "...You're not just saying that? Steven, I'll make him buy me a ticket down there and I'll beat your little behind if you're just saying that. You know how I feel about you." "No, really. Really, I'm happy, and I...Well, I hope it works. I hope it's better than the treatment Ronnie ended up with." "Oh, Ronnie, well...Ronnie's okay, I guess, I haven't heard anything tragic lately, but...Hon, this isn't about Ronnie. This is about you. I sat by this phone for three hours before I could call you, and I spent another hour trying to figure out where you were. I had to find you and tell you, and...I will write. I'm moving this week, but as soon as I'm settled in Riverside, I'll write you a nice long letter, and give you my new address and everything." "Well, when I come to New York I'll be within train distance of you, won't I?" "When you come to New York?" "Well, I...I'll be visiting up there, sooner or later. Hopefully sooner, and...well...When would you and I be able to...you know, to get together again?" There was a long pause on the line. I knew she was still there. The low, unchanging hum from her end of the line told me I was still connect- ed. A couple of seconds passed. Only a couple of seconds. At the time, it seemed like several minutes. She said, gently, "Never, Steven." I spoke quickly. "...Oh, well, *sure*, I mean...You know what I mean, I mean...if I ever came up there, or...You know, I could visit, and take the train up and, you know..." "Steven...I'm going to marry him." "Of course, of coure you are, I didn't...I didn't mean the question to sound the way it did, I meant...you know, if I'm ever in New York, we could meet for lunch or something, or...You know what I mean." "If we marry, it'll be by the end of the summer. And we'll probably come to Memphis. He can sure afford it, so I'd drop by and see your folks. And I'd see you, of course. I'd love to see you again, sweet- heart. Maybe you'll be doing a play, and I can see you. I'd love to see you doing something you like, I wouldn't miss that for the world." "Well, I'll let you know if I'm gonna be...doing anything." "Hon, are you all right?" "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine." "Oh, honey, I...Steven, if you want to say anything...Go ahead." "...Don't be ridiculous." "Steven." "You deserve somebody. You need a home. You can't...you can't shower in the kitchen forever. Anyway...why should things just stay the way they are? You know? I know how you feel about me." "Do you? Do you, sweetheart? Do you really?" "Sure I do. You know that. And I have a...I have a girlfriend I've seen a little of, you know. I mean..." "Steven...you know I love you, hon. You know that, don't you? Please, don't...Please, don't lie to me Steven." "Well, we...we grew up together, and...y'know...but things change. Things happen." "Hon, my feelings about you have never changed. I told you how I felt. I do love you, Steven. And I'm glad you're doing better down there. And when we come to Memphis, you'll be around, right? In late August or early September? That's when we plan to come down. I'd love to see you, hon. Is that okay? Could I see you then? You won't end up in the movies and go to Hollywood by then, will you?" "I seriously doubt it." "Haha, oh, hon. Oh, I do love you. I was so afraid that...Listen, I'll write to you next week, and you'll get a letter soon. Okay? A long one, this time." "Yeah...okay." "I have to go and call my mom, for what it's worth, and tell her I'm moving, and...Hon, you're still my favorite. You're my one and only, Steven, in so many ways. You know that, don't you?" "Of course I do. And you're...You're my one and -- " "Hon? What's wrong? Steven?" "...It's okay, I, uh......almost dropped the phone." "Listen, this is your Aunt Frances' business phone, and I know how she is, and we don't want her to throw a fit. But I'll write. And I'll give you my new phone number." "...Yeah...Right. That's good." "Steven, please don't...Well...Goodbye, hon." "...Yeah." "Write to me!" "Of course I will. Goodbye, Martha." "Okay, I...Goodbye, hon. You'll hear from me, don't worry...and I ...There's never enough time, is there?...well...Goodbye, Steven." A click. Two clicks. A dial tone. "Goodbye, Martha." I listened to the dial tone for about half a minute. What was left of her was out there in that dial tone, somewhere. I hung up the phone and placed it near the cash register where it belonged. The juke box hammered, "You Ain't Nothin' But A Hounddog". People ate and talked and read their newspapers. I put my hands in my pockets and walked behind the counter and into the kitchen. Mama Rose asked me, "Who was that on the phone, Butch?" "Nobody," I said. I walked through the back room where a waitress was taking her coffee break. I headed for the back door. "Where you off to, sport?" she asked. "Takin' a walk." "Don't get lost, hon." I went outside into the rear parking lot. It was dark. Hot. Humid. Still. I opened the door to the ten-by-ten foot, firebrick, food storage bin that was built onto the rear of the Tremont Cafe. I shuffled among the bushels of carrots and the potato sacks and tomatos. In the dark, I sat on a crate of cabbage. I cried for a long time. ==================================== THE ADVENTURES OF ME AND MARTHA JANE by S.J.R. 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