Message-ID: <19527eli$9902010428@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: sidney_durham@mydeja-news.com (Sidney Durham) Subject: {ASSM} NEW "Epiphany" (MF, 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: <36b4b6b1.10137083@nntp.ix.netcom.com> NOTICE: This story contains detailed and explicit descriptions of sexual activity. If you are not over 18 years of age, or if you are offended by such material, or if this kind of material is illegal where you live, then DO NOT READ THIS! This story is copyright (c)1999 by the author, all rights reserved. With the exception of USENET distribution and archiving, it may not be reproduced or distributed without express written permission of the author. Comments are welcome at sidney_durham@my-dejanews.com. If you get nasty or otherwise waste my time, I'll ignore you. Epiphany by Sidney Durham There was some young guy sitting next to her on the bench, all hair and beard, talking earnestly. David walked by, surprised that this irked him. "Here I am," came the voice from behind him. He turned. She was walking toward him. It was a nice walk, a natural seductive sway. "You're late," she said loudly, taking his arm. Then a whisper: "That guy is drugged out or something. He scares me, the way he's talking. Would you mind just walking me away from him?" Green eyes. He had seen her several times, seated on the same bench in the little courtyard, but he hadn't yet seen her eyes. Her head had always been down, a thick book her only interest. "Sure," he said. He led her to the sidewalk, around the corner. The creep stayed behind, on the bench, watching them go. "Do you want me to call Security?" They stopped walking. "No, thanks," she said, looking back, probably to see if the creep was following. She faced him. "He's not worth the hassle. He's probably high on something. I'm Molly. Can I buy you a beer? To say thanks?" Her hand was warm, a little damp. She gave his hand one shake and let go. The V-neck of her shirt revealed cleavage, just a shadow, hinting enough to catch a man's eye. He wanted to go with her but it felt wrong. She looked half his age, maybe less. This was mid-life crisis stuff. Well, what the hell. It was Friday; he'd been thinking about leaving early. "I'm David," he said. "A beer would be nice, but you don't need to buy it." She took his arm again, warm palm on his shirtsleeve. "Suit yourself," she said. "Come on. There's a place I like. It's close. We can walk." Walking in silence, she continued to hold his arm. He followed her down the half- flight of concrete steps to the bar entrance. Her hair was straight, not too long. It was either very light brown or very dark blond -- he couldn't decide. She wore it cut just below her ears and straight, parted in the middle. It was as if she wasn't concerned about how her hair looked and managed to end up looking good anyway. She was slender, athletic-looking, wearing modest well-fitting jeans, clogs on her feet. She was supple, descending with graceful, swaying hips, the globes of her buttocks moving easily. Her feet fell softly, silent on the treads. It was ok to do this, he thought. He was rebuilding his life. It wasn't a mid-life thing, although some people would think it was. He didn't need to care what others thought. He remembered what a friend had said. "A woman's a woman. It doesn't matter how old they are. If I'm ever single again, I'll be out there chasing up poon-tang every weekend, the younger the better. I don't care if it's front-life, mid-life or afterlife. The young ones are prime material, if you get my meaning." "Sure I do," he'd told his friend. "But what do you talk to them about after sex?" "Maybe her favorite rock group?" The bar was dark. He had trouble following her and she knew, taking his hand to lead. She knew where she was going and how to get there: it was a booth in the back corner. He wondered what the other patrons were thinking, watching the two of them pass, noticing the age difference. But it didn't matter, right? "I love this place," she said as the beers arrived. "Spunky, the owner, will let you sit and drink the same beer all afternoon without hassling you. And old Spunky doesn't like students, and doesn't want them in here." "Aren't you a student?" he asked. She shook her head. "But you're on faculty, right?" she countered, then looked at his left hand. "No ring. Are you married?" He nodded. "Yes, I teach contract law. And I'm divorced." The lie had gotten easy to tell. "Getting a divorce is rough, isn't it? How long ago?" "Eight months. It's tough, for a while. You get through it." "Marriage wrecks lives," she said. "Well, marriage can be good, it's just some that go bad." "So yours went bad. Whose fault was it? Am I asking too many questions?" "No. And it was nobody's fault. I was unhappy and found out something I should have known all along. I found out I could be happy if I wanted to." "By getting a divorce." "I -- Well, that's part of it. I needed to make my life over." "So this was one of those mid-life things?" Had she read his mind? "Not really. I call it an epiphany. Some people would think sitting here with you would be a mid-life thing for me." "But it was my idea," she said, flipping a hand to dismiss the thought. "So, tell me. After your epiphany, are you happy now?" "Too soon to tell," he said, not wanting to admit he wasn't sure. Talk stalled. He sipped his beer carefully and looked around the room. "How did you find out?" she asked. "Beg your pardon?" "Your epiphany. What was it? How did you find out you could be happy?" "I was listening to some music." "And? C'mon, give. You have to tell me this secret of yours. It sounds like you have the key to the universe. Tell me about this epiphany." "It's nothing, really. I just realized I could rebuild my life if I wanted to." "Tell. Do I have to beg? You've really got my curiosity up." "Ok. It's one of those moments you can't forget. I was listening to a CD one night, alone in a hotel room. It had been years of travel for me, using the travel to avoid my wife as much as possible. I was depressed, lonely, halfway around the world from home. It was my birthday and I bought a portable CD player -- to give myself something nice, hoping it would make me feel better and hoping the music would relieve my depression. It was that or get drunk. I used to get drunk a lot those days -- like every day." She was watching him intently. "I was lying on the bed, reading a book, listening to a CD. The music was the 1812 Overture, performed by the London Festival Orchestra. I think they must have recorded the music outdoors and it was a spectacular performance. There were real cannons and real church bells. The headset was drilling the sound straight into my brain. When the cannons fired I could almost feel the shells go past, right over my head. It was like being in the middle of a war. I had to put the book down to just listen." "After the cannons, where the music begins to calm, I heard the church bells. And I heard a person playing a triangle, a tiny simple triangle, making single, clear, untarnished notes, such an uncomplicated sound, barely discernible, coming out of the pandemonium." He paused, remembering. "I decided I would have given anything to have been that person, in the middle of all that, with nothing to do but make my own tiny sound." "So that was your epiphany?" "I could have been that person. I could have been the one with the triangle. All it would have taken was to have wanted it badly enough. Suddenly I knew it: I can do anything I want to do. I can be happy if I simply try to be happy. I am responsible for my own happiness, and I can create it." "So... You got divorced." "I -- I started rebuilding my life. It started with the end of my marriage. I'm still working on the rest of it. I'll make it." Suddenly he was having a hard time talking through the tightness in his throat. She seemed somber, and was quiet for a moment, staring into his eyes. He returned the stare, overwhelmed, aware of his tears. He'd never told anyone about this before, and he was surprised by how the telling affected him. She couldn't possibly understand. She was too young. "Neat," she said, finally. "You're a neat guy. I hope you make it." "Not so special. Just another human. And I will make it." Another moment passed. "Let's go to your place," she said, her voice soft. * * * * * By the foot of his bed she faced him and stepped out of her clogs. Quickly, unabashed, she pulled her shirt off over her head and slipped out of her jeans and underpants. She faced him, feet together, a knee bent, hips cocked, hands behind her back. Tree-filtered sunlight trickled through a window and splashed her tawny skin. Her breasts stood on their own, full, rounded and tipped with darker rouge splashes. Her nipples were like buttons, and called for the gentle touch of lips and tongue. Her stomach was flat, a shallow vertical valley lining it, drawing his eyes to her groin, where a narrow splash of light fur covered her. Rounded creamy thighs framed her fleece. She smiled; he drank of her. She granted his inspection, waiting. He pulled off his shirt and slipped out of his slacks, shoes and socks as she waited. He stood for her, hardened and ready, and her eyes moved over him. She held out her hands and he took them. She backed, pulling him onto the bed above her, and her legs opened as he sank between them. Her knees rose, enclosing his hips, soft warm thighs gracing his flanks. Her fingertips danced on his buttocks and pressed him forward as she angled her pelvis to align herself with him, giving him access. Her body submersed him; warm moist flesh surrounding him. He pressed against her to complete his entry and she pressed back, a happy sound emerging from deep within her throat. His momentary concern about an abrupt precipitous ending faded as he found comfort in her. He drew back, beginning to caress her depths. She pulled his head to her shoulder and slipped a tongue into his ear, her breath a mixture of sighs and gasps as he continued, stroking more assertively. Her peak arrived quickly and she hooked her feet behind his knees and rocked under him. He pressed deep and rippling convulsions gripped his length as he began his own inexorable seizure. He felt his surges match hers as his thick essence flowed into her, and he found her mouth for the first time and tasted the sweetness of her tongue and lips. She laughed as their spasms ended, a low throaty sound of fulfillment and satisfaction. She stayed overnight. Her approach to sex could best be described as eager, and David surprised himself, finding that he was able to match her enthusiasm. He had a bit of trouble equaling her athleticism, however. It all seemed very natural. His concern about their age difference evaporated. And he was happy to discover there were things they could talk about after sex. * * * * * David awoke with a start. She was in the room, standing by the bed, holding a cup of steaming coffee -- and she was naked and gorgeous. This was working. It wasn't going to be a problem. "Wake up, you laggard," she said. "I've been up for hours. I've read the whole paper. Here, have some coffee." She bent to put the cup on the nightstand and he reached for her, but she dodged out of the way. Naked. Did she go out in the hall to get the paper naked? He took the cup, watched her walk around the bed to join him. She settled next to him, not bothering to pull up the sheet. Her unabashed comfort with the situation disarmed him. He pulled the sheet a little, to cover himself. Propped on an elbow, she traced her finger over the hair on his stomach, following its swirly patterns. "Why me, Molly?" he asked. "Who knows?" she said. "Maybe I like older men. Maybe I was lonely. Maybe I just felt like fucking and you were handy." She was grinning at him, teasing. "You're not that special, just another stud." "And you're really not a student?" he asked. "Nope. I teach." "You're on faculty?" "Well, I teach a course. I teach a course on investing." "Investing?" "My father owned a little investment company. He taught me everything he knew about the stock market. When he died he left me the company. I let it run for a while, but eventually an offer came along that was too good to refuse. I sold the company and ended up with cash and a big stock portfolio. I do a little trading, teach about trading, and watch my expenses. I get by." She was uncommonly mature for her age, maybe due to her experience in business. He imagined introducing her to his two sisters. They would think they were seeing right through him at first, but in time they would see that Molly was not just a plaything for him. Nor he for her, he hoped. Her tracing finger was distracting him. He raised a hand, caressed her breasts with the back of it. She slipped the tip of her tracing finger under the sheet and lifted it, peering underneath. "Holy torpedo, Batman," she said. "I think I'm in heaven." She leaned forward, bringing her mouth close to his, sliding her hand down, under the sheet. "Well, I'm no angel, bub," she said, her breath puffing against his lips. Her hand reached him and enclosed him as her lips touched his, and with efficient movements she completed his hardening. Quickly she turned and knelt beside him. "Nice gadget you've got here, mister," she said, and with her lips and tongue she began to attend to his new urgency. He groaned, not so much from the pleasure of the sensations as from the knowledge that her ministrations were given without reservation. She was letting him know that he could, if he wished, take advantage of her offer. As he came to this realization his heart quickened, his hardness strengthened. He wanted to give back. He reached, grasped her inner thigh and pulled. She moved as he urged, bringing her furred pubis over his face. He reached with his tongue, finding her sweet-salty fold, and then moved to the place where she had hardened, tenderly tracing and pressing the button he found there. She moved her hips in response. As he tended to her with his tongue, she tended to him. She delicately swirled her tongue around his top circumference, following his ridge. He felt a tingle, as if he were experiencing a minor electrical shock, and he expressed his gratitude by pressing with his own tongue, entering her depths. Again she moved her hips in response, and engulfed him with her mouth and tongue. He felt the depths of her throat against his tip, and he immediately began to thrust up, seeking more of her. She accommodated him and he was overwhelmed with gratitude as he began to surge once again, into her throat. As he began, so did she. Her hips pressed down and his mouth and nose and chin were covered by her humid heat, and on his tongue he felt her own surges. In a resonance that seemed impossible, their mutual spasms strengthened until he thought he would faint from the power of the exquisite harmony they had created. * * * * * Jerry was already in their shared office Monday when David arrived. "Good weekend?" he asked. "Average, I guess," David replied, trying for casual. He didn't like Jerry. The guy was just a burned-out lawyer who somehow got a teaching job. "Yeah, sure," said Jerry, leering at him. "I saw you at the Chinese restaurant Saturday night, buddy. I go in to pick up my carryout and there you are, bigger than life, with a student. Did you nail her?" "She's not a student. And it's none of your fucking business." "You did. I can always tell. Way to go, buddy!" He held his hand up, waiting for a high five, a leering look on his face. "Fuck you, Jerry." "How was it?" "Fuck you." "Man, you sure get testy, pal. Anyway, I'm happy for you." "Thanks, I guess." "Look, we're having some faculty people over for a little get-together next Saturday. Why don't you bring her?" "We'll see," David replied. He didn't think he wanted to do that. She was so young... He was fifty, she was thirty. Sixty percent. Exactly. So? By the time she was his age, the difference would be trivial. She was certainly more mature, more worldly than thousands, even millions of people of her age, so the difference was meaningless, even now. She was not a child; she was a woman. He, at his age, was certainly not stodgy, and he was no longer locked into dreary patterns in his life. To be sure, he didn't enjoy bars, nightclubs and loud music, but he thought Molly probably had the same predisposition. He couldn't imagine her enjoying an environment of shrill music, watery drinks, oafish flirtation and artless sexual innuendo. So what was a mid-life crisis all about? Wasn't it usually something that happened to a man when he turned forty? If a man reaches his fiftieth year without being accused of having a crisis, has he succeeded or has he failed? Was a mid-life crisis good or bad? Hadn't he just shaken off the harness, the bindings, all those things that had blinded him, obscured his true preferences, diverted his choices? Hadn't he simply spent four decades or so finding the gut of himself, locating his true bearing? Why call it a crisis? He had seized control; taking up management of his own life, ripping away the ponderous inertia that had stifled him: inertia that had encased him in years of depression, engulfing him so fully that he hadn't known, even, that he was depressed. Now, freed of his wife, living in a new city, embarking on a new career, he had taken command, he had conceived a new self. His life now had focus. He was at last in charge of himself. It was all good. This was not a crisis; it was a catharsis, a purification. She was not a part of it. She could have been any woman; she could have been any age. Falling into the arms of a woman twenty years his junior had been a simple accident, a convergence of souls. It had nothing to do with his decision to change his life. In her life she alone had made the choices that ultimately brought her into that sun-dappled courtyard on a Friday afternoon, and he, through a thread of decisions of his own, had come there at the same moment. Finding Molly was providence. Going to bed together had been her idea. The week inched by. David spent a lot of time thinking about her. Something real could happen between them. This wasn't simply an infatuation he was having. His attraction to her was legitimate, not part of a mid-life crisis he wasn't even having to begin with. But he knew he should have told her the truth all along. He shouldn't have misled her. Molly had said she'd be out of town all week, but she called Friday, midmorning. "I thought we'd go to my place in the country this weekend. I've had a terrific week in the market and I'm feeling randy." "Feeling who?" "Not who, what. I'm feeling horny. Randy. Do you think maybe you should take some vitamins?" "Very funny." "Well, I think I'll stop by an auto parts store this afternoon," she said. "What for?" "To get you a seat belt. You're gonna need it, mister. You're in for the ride of your life." * * * * * She hadn't mentioned a place in the country. Another of her mysteries. He followed her directions carefully, but as he drove up the long asphalt driveway he was certain he'd missed a turn somewhere. This wasn't simply a "place." It was an architectural memorial, a soaring monument of a house that had to have cost in the high six-figure range. He rang the doorbell, fully expecting to be greeted by a stranger. He wasn't. Molly greeted him with a huge smile and threw her arms around him, giving him a hug that caught him off guard, pinning his arms to his sides. "Is that a bottle of vitamins in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?" she asked. He was going to tell her the truth, but the instant he saw her in the doorway, his plans were quickly displaced. She was wearing running shorts and a cut off T-shirt, making an image that immediately drew his hands to her. "I'll show you vitamins," he said. "Steady buster," she said, pushing him away. "We've got plenty of time." He groaned, masking relief. Telling her the truth, getting rid of the lie, was more important. He looked around. "This can't be your place," he said, awestruck. "Sure is. I told you, my dad left me his business and I sold it. I did quite well." "Quite well? Molly, you're fucking rich." She gave him a brief tour, highlights only, leading him past doorways, pointing out the location of essentials such as the bathrooms and the kitchen. "I don't enjoy giving tours," she said. "You can explore it yourself later if you like." "This place must have cost a fortune," he said, peering into a bathroom that had a large shower, flanked by floor to ceiling windows, with a view that seemed to extend for thousands of miles, giving the feeling that a person could shower in full view of at least a third of the world's population. She had fixed brunch. They ate on a patio in back, beside the pool. There was white wine in a bucket. He refilled his glass twice as they ate, knowing he shouldn't, knowing the danger. But he needed fortification. They made simple conversation. He permitted himself to delay telling the things he was compelled to tell. When the food was gone he refilled his glass, ignoring the risk again. Talk ebbed: It was time. "I have to tell you," he said. "I'm not really divorced." Suddenly blurting had not been his plan; it was awkward. Her eyebrows raised themselves slowly, growing a look of surprise. "Not divorced?" she asked. "She actually died. I lied about it." "She died? That's terrible. I'm sorry." "No. I mean, thanks. I mean, she didn't die, actually. It was an accident. It was a boating accident. We had a boat, and I suggested we go out one weekend. I thought it would be a good place for us to talk. I was going to tell her about the divorce, we would be able to plan, work things out. She was drunk, got mad, and fell..." "I think we should change the subject," she said. "Ok, thanks." She became quiet, gazing, seeming sympathetic. "She wouldn't let go of the bottle," he said. "She was drunk." He studied his hands. They looked old, twisted. "She fell, hit her head. They called it a closed head injury. She drowned -- when she fell in the water she drowned. It was dark by then. I couldn't find her in the water. They said there was nothing I could have done..." Her eyes blinked slowly. "David," she said, speaking softly, drawing out his name, "you don't have to talk about this." "I was going to ask her, tell her. It would have been a good time to talk it out, on the lake. Then she got drunk." He filled his glass again. He was babbling. Drinking too much, talking too much. She was silent; her eyes were closed. "I told her I wanted to be happy, that I wanted a divorce. I told her about my epiphany. She laughed at... She said she wouldn't agree to... to a divorce," He could hear his droning, slurring. "I told her about my epiphany. She said I was a hopeless... a delusional alcoholic in a mid fucking life crisis. She was making fun of me. I told her I wanted to change... I wanted to be happy... and I knew I could do it. She laughed at me. She said marriage was supposed to be the way ours was. That bitch. That cunt." The words were spitting out of his mouth. Better stop talking. Something's wrong. "She tried to take the bottle away from... I jerked it back and she stumbled and I... I was trying to catch her and hit her with my fist -- no, with my hand. In the chest. It was an accident. She fell on the deck... No, she fell and hit her head when she fell and I put her... She hit her head and fell out of the... It was an accident... I put her... I thought the water... I thought she would be more comfortable... Then it was dark, I couldn't find her..." His vision was doubled. He closed his eyes. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. So sleepy... He found Molly in an upstairs back bedroom. She had changed: jeans, shirt and clogs replaced running clothes. She was using the telephone. He listened a moment, hovering outside the door. She was talking to the police. He sagged against the doorframe. END Epiphany, copyright (c) 1999, Sidney Durham, all rights reserved. Comments welcome! sidney_durham@my-dejanews.com -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----