Message-ID: <21888asstr$945573001@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: Margie Donnadieu Subject: {ASSM} Paper Angels (MF rom mast oral anal) by Margie Donnadieu Lines: 233 X-Original-Message-ID: <83gk8r$rra$1@nnrp1.deja.com> X-Article-Creation-Date: Sat Dec 18 18:37:15 1999 GMT Date: Sat, 18 Dec 1999 22:10:01 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, newsman, apuleius Paper Angels I first saw her on a street corner in San Francisco selling flowers and giving away copies of the Bhagavad Gita. I saw her next coming out of a dance studio, her tie-dye t-shirt torn and sweaty. She had a purple tattoo of an angel on her left shoulder. I saw her in a poet's cafe, drinking a double expresso while reading Sylvia Plath. I saw her naked on the stage. "Experimental Theater," the flyers read. "Five bucks, sliding scale." I saw her sleeping on the sidewalk in Haight-Ashbury. Nobody knew her real name or where she came from. Rumors said she stayed in a flophouse for a few days, then shacked up with some guy, and then ran off with another guy. And then she disappeared. # Over lamb chops and cabernet, my wife and I argued about refinancing our house. The little chains on her earrings swung back and forth as she shook her head. No. # All through the day, I kept thinking about the girl. What if she was murdered? In trouble with the law? Pregnant? I decided to look for her. To help her. # One of her acquaintances, an actor, told me she volunteered at a domestic violence shelter. The woman who ran the shelter was suspicious of me. "I can't tell you anything about the women here or the volunteers. It would put them at risk. I'm sorry." Her eyes narrowed to points. # "She's visiting her father," a boy said. "He's in prison." The boy, no older than thirteen, asked if I wanted to buy some pot. "I'm a cop," I said. "Yeah, right." The boy took off on his skateboard. He jumped, and somehow the skateboard clung to his feet. # My wife asked if I liked her new dress. I told her she'd look prettier without the dress. It was an old joke between us. She no longer laughs. # Later that night, while my wife and I were making love, I noticed she was distracted. I wondered what was on her mind. The medical bills, her mother's visit next week, her new manager. I came. Afterwards, I thought about the girl. The room was silent save for my wife's slow breathing. # I saw her again in Haight Ashbury. She was riding a skateboard. It looked like the one the boy rode. Our eyes met. "Do you know what time it is?" she asked. # I paid her. There, in the alley, she knelt on the concrete and took me in her mouth. I thought about the holes in the knees of her jeans. # When I was close, I grabbed her by the hair. Her neck tensed, then relaxed. I came in her mouth. # I couldn't sleep that night. I got out of bed and found some paper and a pair of scissors. I folded the paper and cut out the design of an angel. Long ago, when I was a boy, I gave my first love a garland of paper angels. # I saw her again in an African restaurant. She was a waitress now, and I saw her almost every day during lunch. Her name was Angelique, and as the days and weeks passed, she told me her story. # Angelique's mother married when she was seventeen and pregnant. She went from city to city, from one man to the next, never staying more than a few months in one place. She moved like an autumn leaf, drifting. Sometimes, the men fell in love with her, and that caused her pain. "Don't fall in love with me," she said to them, but they never listened. "Don't fall in love with me," Angelique said to me. She stared at her water glass. I said nothing. Slowly, the faintest trace of a smile appeared on her face. I reached across the table and touched her hand. # In the hotel room, I watched her masturbate. Her left hand moved beneath the sheets. She clenched her teeth, held her breath. She cried out, pulled me to her. Afterwards, I traced my finger along the line between her scalp and her forehead. I licked my finger. She took my hand and placed it between her legs. # My wife mashed her string beans with her spoon. "Do you love her?" she asked. # At the beach, together for the last time, my wife and I listened to the wind and the crying of the gulls. # "Paris," Angelique said. On her ring finger: a diamond. # In our new apartment, I taught Angelique how to cook. Every time I added an ingredient, she took off one piece of clothing. # I entered her anus slowly. She gasped, keened, tore at the sheets with her nails. I sank in all the way. # "That was excruciating," she said. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not," she said. I took her that way again. She started crying, but told me not to stop. # Sometimes, she stared out of the window for hours. # I made love to her while she watched television. The comedian told a joke, and she laughed. I felt her anal muscles contract around me. She didn't come. # The spaghetti was overcooked. Again. "It's great," I said. She smiled, kissed me. She got spaghetti sauce on her nose. # When our daughter was five, I taught her how to make a garland of paper angels. -- margie_donnadieu@yahoo.com -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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