Message-ID: <6856eli$9803112138@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: tcarvett@earthlink.net Subject: Greensleeves (Mf inc cons) * Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6e4vcu$jn0$1@nnrp1.dejanews.com> Greensleeves (Mf inc cons) In the months that followed after my father's death, I could not bring myself to remember a single act of his love towards me. I did not shed a single tear at his funeral. All I could remember was how he allowed me six hours every week to enjoy myself when I was still a child; the rest of the time I was to study and practice and work. In a psychology class I heard about parents who wanted their children to become prodigies, and so they played Bach and Mozart to them before they were born. I ran from the classroom seething with hatred. Books about incest became my obsession. I started getting nightmares I couldn't remember and I'd wake up sweating and terrified. I'd turn on the light and take out those books and I read and re-read them endlessly with a box of tissues nearby and my vibrator between my legs. I felt rage and shame and a terrible arousal as I read the stories of these women. I cried as I read each one, but my body betrayed me and I came again and again until finally I was exhausted and fell asleep. I went out to bars and slept with men I'd spoken less than a hundred words to. On the nights I slept alone I masturbated while remembering their taut buttocks and how they groaned when they came in my mouth, but I could never remember their faces. The always left me in the middle of the night. On the way home from work yesterday afternoon, I heard a song played on the radio that I hadn't heard since his death last year -- it was Greensleeves. I couldn't sleep last night. I needed a drink, or mindless sex. I could hear the music, Greensleeves, playing in my mind, over and over. In the middle of the night I got up and ransacked my shelves of books looking for the lyrics of the song and the history behind it. I threw each book I found to the ground until I found what I was looking for. I believed with all my soul that this knowledge would somehow save my life. Greensleeves is a song about a man who had great wealth and power, and yet he was betrayed by the one he loved most and would do anything for. Legend has it that Greensleeves was written by King Henry VIII, a man who executed two of his six wives... Last night, I cried for my father. * * * My father told me once that he started playing for me before I was born, while I was still in my mother's womb, and that he hoped that even before I saw the world for the very first time I would hear music and be inspired by it. The first song he ever played for me was Greensleeves. When I was five my father let me sit with him as he played our piano. Watch my fingers, he said as he began the gentle, familiar melody. Now you try, he said. Slowly, haltingly, my fingers moved over the keys for the first time and I learned how to play while my father watched patiently by my side. "One day," he said, "you will do the things I wish I could do." Years later I imagined that my father and I were in a great concert hall playing the piano side by side as we always did, and when we finished our final piece, Greensleeves, the audience would be moved to tears by the music that came from our love. My father never fully developed his talent for music. He told me one night about the vow he made when he turned thirteen in Indonesia. That week, his father had gambled away all their money and they went for four days without food. On his thirteenth birthday he was already tired of this world. He thought about running away and joining a Buddhist monestary, and he asked a priest for guidance. The priest told him that he had a responsibility to his family that he needed to fulfill, and that he would die by the age of fifty. He quit playing his uncle's piano; he worked hard and became a doctor, then escaped to America. My father was never a superstitious man and he was always in good health, and I always wondered why it seemed that he took that prophesy half-seriously. Perhaps he believed, or perhaps he wished, deep down, that he would work himself to death. He left for work early in the morning and he usually returned late at night. The inside of our house looked like a library: rooms filled with rows of cases of shelves of books. My mother felt trapped in that house filled with books she never read, isolated from her friends and family who lived so far away. She often spent the entire day cleaning, making mistakes so that simple tasks stretched out to fill the entire day. More than once I saw her bump into a doorjamb when she wasn't paying attention. It was as if the house, and my father's life, sought to erase her soul little by little until there was nothing left of her. One day, when I was twelve, she was gone. She fell ill and died quietly without ever complaining. After my mother's death I was often alone in the house and I started reading my father's books. I learned about sex from them; I stole the ones he kept in dusty corners of the house -- the ones I hoped he would never notice missing -- and hid them underneath my mattress. I took them out when he wasn't home and masturbated as I read stories about sex. As I read lying face-down in bed, my fingers making furious circles on my clit, the hard, tense knot in my stomach melted away. Sometimes when I climaxed, the man in the story had my father's face. Every afternoon I cried out orgasm after orgasm into the empty hallways of that house. To please him I studied hard at school, but like my mother I started to make mistakes while doing even the simplest things. I forgot about assignments, or I did them and then lost them. On tests, I got the hard questions right and the easy questions wrong. When I was sixteen I became sick with a progressively deteriorating illness. The doctors said there was a fifty-fifty chance that in ten years time I would live my life connected to a machine. The day we learned of my illness my father came to my bed and turned off the lights. Close your eyes and take off your clothes, he said. A few minutes later I covered my mouth with my own hand to stifle a scream. The darkness was silent save for the sound of my own frightened breathing. My sweet girl, he whispered, his voice ragged. We slept in the same bed for years. Sometimes when he slept at night he'd dream about me and call out my name. I'd slip under the covers, take his penis in my mouth and suckle him and swallow his come, and when he woke he'd kiss me on the mouth and hold me in his arms and watch me while I masturbated for him. My precious, precious girl, he'd whisper as I brought myself to orgasm. Sometimes at night I'd dream about him making love to me, and I'd wake up with his gentle fingers already inside me, his eyes liquid and beseeching and I rolled my hips to meet his caresses. He wanted me to pretend I was his new wife. In the morning I got up before he awoke and make him breakfast. At night he returned to our bed. In between I made love to myself, or did school work whenever I could concentrate. I worked as hard as I could, left home as soon as possible, and once I became financially independent I never spoke to him again. He died last year at the age of fifty-four. His iron health had deteriorated and he had diabetes. In the months preceding his death, he worked from the time he got up to the time he went to sleep. He died in an accident -- he slipped and struck his head. * * * It's nighttime now, and I am snuggled in a warm bed under a thick patchwork quilt. My CD player is running, playing the same song over and over, but the words I'd heard so often now seem meaningless as I drift, slowly, into a deep sleep. Greensleeves Alas my love you do me wrong To cast me off discourteously; And I have loved you oh so long Delighting in your company. Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves my heart of gold Greensleeves was my heart of joy And who but my Lady Greensleeves. I have been ready at your hand To grant whatever thou would'st crave; I have waged both life and land Your love and goodwill for to have. Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold Greensleeves was my heart of joy And who but my Lady Greensleeves. Thy petticoat of sendle white With gold embroidered gorgeously; Thy petticoat of silk and white And these I bought thee gladly. Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold Greensleeves was my heart of joy And who but my Lady Greensleeves. Copyright (C) 1998 by Thomas M. Carvett Comments, constructive criticism, and hellos welcomed. :) tcarvett@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~tcarvett greensleeves.txt@3.4 -----== Posted via Deja News, The Leader in Internet Discussion ==----- http://www.dejanews.com/ Now offering spam-free web-based newsreading -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |