Message-ID: <23617asstr$955411805@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!edrn From: DrSpin X-Original-Message-ID: <8csgc3$28m7@edrn.newsguy.com> Subject: {ASSM} Why Rose 36 Cried (MF rom slow) PART 1: Make Me Smile Date: Mon, 10 Apr 2000 20:10:05 -0400 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, gill-bates Why Rose 36 Cried (MF rom slow) by DrSpin April 2000 PART 1: Make Me Smile: =========================================================== Standard Disclaimer: I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to it. If any reader is offended, and I would be surprised to hear it, he/she should not have been here in the first place and only has himself/herself to blame. If this story is relocated, please leave my name intact as the author and please include my email address. =========================================================== * The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com * Thanks to Ruthie and especially to Nat, who knows more than he wants. =========================================================== PART 1: Make Me Smile: She turned 36 and, that very day, Rose cried. We were sitting in a bar drinking slow J&B, talking and sharing frustrations, and all of a sudden she looked at me directly and said it was her birthday. "Really?" Maybe I should have known but I didn't. "Remind me. How old are you now?" "I'm 36," she said, and her blue-grey eyes filled with tears so big and heavy they overflowed instantly down both cheeks. She dashed them aside with the flat of her hand, one side then the other, embarrassed near to the point of panic. Astonishing. "Rose?" I queried. Like, is that you? She jumped from the bar stool and threaded the tables in a rush, her face twisted and crumpled and tears flowing copiously. She swept out the door and people turned to look at me. "It's her birthday," I shrugged. "She turned 36." There was a general nodding of heads. Right. Understandable. I'll say this straight about Rose. I am possessed and hopelessly besotted. I can never love a woman other than her. She knows this but only if she remembers. It barely impinges on her. Rose can and does fall in love with all sorts of appalling men at various times but she can never love me. But she adores me because I am her best friend. Her accomplice. Her confidante. The last buddy on earth. I could cry about it myself if I let my guard down. Which I won't, because I'm not here to be me. Around her I'm not me. I'm Jack. Just Rose's pal, Jack. I remember the first time when I tried to be more than that. We were work colleagues, kindred spirits and friends developing from casual to close. I met her for lunch with a careful plan, ready to lay down my case with beautiful logic and my life with devoted abandon. As usual she disarmed me when I had barely started and I was left breathless and witless. "I'm crazy about you," I said to her across the table. I sat back in surprise, amazed I had said such a thing. "I'm amazed I said that," I said. "I knew this would happen," she said, not looking at all flattered. "I can't help it." She dismissed my cause with an impatient gesture. "Nothing's going to come of it. It's hopeless." "Gee, that was quick," I said, impressed despite the crush of disappointment. "My whole life flashed in front of your eyes." "Sorry," she said far too quickly, looking restlessly around the room. "Rose, give me a chance." "Stop it," she said. "I like you well enough, Jack. But you can't do this." "Yes I can, because I'm crazy about you. You're the one who can't do it." She sat there, looking at me with her hands folded on the table, her face failing to register emotion or express opinion. Somewhere big hands and little hands moved on clock faces but on Rose no movement showed. "Rose," I said. "Say something. Give me a signal, for pity's sake." "No, Jack. There's nothing I can do for you." And as though she'd just remembered something important, she rattled around in her handbag and extracted a plastic container. With her hands below the level of the table, she unscrewed the cap and shook out a tablet that she popped in her mouth. "What's that?" I asked, curious about anything that was part of her. "A Christmas goose," she said, "with all the trimmings." "I didn't know you took pills." "Everybody takes pills," she said. "I don't." "You wouldn't." I pressed. "What sort of pills?" "My sort of pills. Now leave it, please. What else do you want to know about me? Shall I turn out my bag on the table?" "Well yes, that would be most interesting." She regarded me steadily. "What did I do to deserve this? I haven't encouraged you one bit. You're not my type, Jack. I make it a rule not to fuck my friends because I don't have enough of them. So back off. I don't like being scrutinised. You're like an X-ray machine. You think I'm strong and tough but I'm not. I go to pieces. I fall apart. Please, Jack. Don't do this to me." And I could see she meant it. "So it's back to being pals," I said. "That's all it can ever be," she said. In the two years I'd known her, Rose had crashed her way through several relationships and been screwed by a lot of men, none of them worthy. Mind you, all of them looked good, but in the most obvious and insincere quasi- rebellious way, like lead singers in rock bands. Pretty guys who wouldn't waste a smile on man, woman or beast if there wasn't something to be had from it. Barely a handful were even halfway reasonable people. Her taste in men was simply awful. And I was always there to clean up afterwards. One guy I remember more than others. If ever the chance falls my way I will do him harm. Rose called me and I went around to her place. The guy, tall, thin and good-looking in a dangerous fuck-you-too way he cultivated and made the most of, was just leaving with two suitcases. He'd been around for a month or so. "She fucks like a dead cat," he said to me with smooth malice at the front door. "I hope for your sake that's not why you're here." "Wouldn't know about that," I said. "But I'm smart enough to recognise class in a woman when I see it." He turned back and studied me for a second. "Poor bastard," he said with frank amusement. "She's got you by the balls." From early days I belonged to Rose who did not belong to me. In our own way we had a relationship. I knew a lot about her. I knew she'd left home far too early, of her own accord, leaving behind a desperately-ill mother and a father who could not be talked about. Ice-cold anger on that subject. I tried to find out the reason but she dismissed me with naked and forbidding hostility. The doors were locked and bolted on the matter. Since the age of 17 she'd been making her own way in the world and she gave every appearance of being leaner and meaner than most. She was not easy or quick to please, a no-shit woman with a tongue like a blade of spear grass who gave no quarter. Except for the selfish and shallow pretty boys, that is. I often berated her for it and she accepted the criticism with good grace. No man was a good enough package, she would explain with bitter humour, so she might as well waste her time with empty vessels who at least looked and smelled good in the morning. The pretty boys seemed to serve a purpose of sorts, because when she didn't have one she could fall into black moods. She would retreat from the world, poison herself with alcohol for days at a time and speak to nobody. Not even me. I tried once. She treated me so harshly I learned not to do it again. Rose could be intoxicating to be around. She was sharp and sassy, vibrant and vivacious. Time would fly past at bewildering speed. But she had a dark side and too often a need to hurt people around her when it seemed neither justified nor necessary. Before I came to know her she spent time in clinical treatment for depression. She told me about it one day by way of apology for a bad spot of behaviour. Maybe that was why she took pills. I certainly knew Rose well enough to stay low the day she cried on her 36th birthday. It would not have made her happy to have been seen as vulnerable, as so fragile that she would cry simply because she might be old and past her best. She would tough it out and deal with it in her own way. Or so I thought. I got home late that night and found a message from her on the answering machine. She was sullen. I had failed her in some way. I should have been available and I wasn't and it was about time I showed up. Of course I rang and said I would be around to see her immediately. She merely grunted and disconnected. Rose was, in a word, irrational. She looked awful. She was wearing an old grey bathrobe and her eyes were dull and bruised-looking. Her face looked as though she'd suddenly lost a lot of weight. She stood in the doorway and plainly ached, looking at me without greeting and as though I had caused a lot of bad things. She left the door open, turned her back on me and went inside. In help mode I followed her. "You're ill," I said. "What's wrong?" "Wrong? You are, as usual," she said, openly hostile. She slumped in a chair and I saw the close-to-empty bottle of J&B beside her on a table. "You're drunk," I said, with that hint of ecclesiastical accusation I find hard to avoid. "Wrong again," she snarled. "But I'm gonna be." "I don't know why you need to be like this," I said. "So you turned 36. No big deal, Rose. You don't look a day older than yesterday." "You don't know shit, old buddy. You think you do but you don't. All the studies say a woman is in her prime at age 35." She laughed bitterly. "But nothing happened. Looks like I just blew it away." I sat down opposite her. She lifted a glass and drank from it, looking at me challengingly over the rim. "So you showed up at last," she said acidly. "Where have you been? Slipping it to that pallid little Barbie doll, I suppose." Barbara was a girl I took out occasionally. She was a nice ordinary girl who did not deserve scorn from anybody, but for some reason Rose disliked her intensely. "I haven't been fucking anybody," I said, which was true. She splashed more whisky into the glass and held it in front of her, continuing to look at me in accusatory fashion. "How come you fuck Barbie doll and you don't fuck me?" I shook my head at her slowly. "You can't be serious," I said gently. But she was spoiling for a fight. "Tell me the truth," she said. "Why don't you want to fuck me?" "I do. I have always wanted to, from the moment I saw you." "You never said so," she said, sneering aggressively. "You never even asked." "You never offered." "What do I have to do, Jack?" she asked mockingly. "Beg? Are you that useless?" "Why are you doing this to me?" She glowered at me. "Because you'll sit there and take it. You're so pathetic." I sat there and took it, now acutely aware this was a matter beyond mere alcoholic aggression. "I can do anything to you," she said nastily. "You'll just sit there and wobble your head at me like a golliwog." She flung the contents of her glass at me and the spirit soaked into my trousers. "You'll take that," she said. "No problem. Like water off a duck's back." I sat there and took it, wobbling my head and hoping to make her laugh. Instead she became enraged. She jumped to her feet and cracked me hard with her hand across the left side of my head. "You bastard!" she screamed at me. "You prick!" She hit me again, and again, and a few more times after that. She rained blows at my head and face but they became weaker and lost force as she sobbed and cried. I sat there and took it. She snatched up the glass from the floor and lifted it high, ready to crash it against my face. Instead she paused and then threw it aside. She slumped to the floor, sitting loosely cross-legged and bending her head over into her body, shielding her face with her arms. I sat there for some time, my ears tender and my left cheekbone aching dully, watching her in her desolation as the crying subsided. Eventually she lifted her head. Her eyes were red and rimmed with tears. Her nose was running and she wiped it carelessly with the sleeve of her bathrobe. "I'm sorry," she said raggedly. "I asked you here tonight because I was going to fuck you. Then I was going to tell you to fuck off." She smiled at me wanly, like a little girl. "I'm full to bursting with anger. I hate myself when I get like this and I need to take it out on somebody. And, Jack, you're always close by." "You're a bit of a mess, all right," I agreed. "But I'm crazy about you, remember? I was crazy about you yesterday when you were 35 and I'm still crazy about you today when you're 36." I shrugged. "There's no accounting for taste." She put her head down on the arm of the chair and began to sob again. I didn't know why; for herself, most likely. Because she'd turned 36. She stayed way-down-low unhappy. I could see there was no quick and easy path out of it. She also got badly drunk and I didn't try to restrain her. For several hours she swung rapidly between bouts of reckless animation and mute melancholy. I sat in the chair and tried to come to terms with the real Rose. I didn't know enough to know the extent of her problem. She'd said herself she was clinical and I thought it likely she was manic-depressive. Whatever the condition, she sure didn't make a happy drunk. At times she taunted me mercilessly. She stripped and danced naked before me in exaggerated lewdness, mocking me with extravagant invitations. She questioned my virility and then my sexuality. She told highly improbable stories about her experiences with mysterious and shadowy lovers. Then, with apologies, she would fall limply to the floor and mutter to herself for a time. I waited for her to sleep but, even after extended periods of silence, I found her awake. Eventually she vomited, her flat stomach heaving convulsively long after anything in it had been expelled. She became rubber-legged and incoherent, and at last I was able to take over. I cleaned up and tidied everything, Rose included, then sat back in the chair and waited for something to happen. Morning arrived and I remained sitting there, unasleep. I don't remember giving any consideration to anything. I made myself bitter coffee and waited for the next event. Rose emerged in the late morning, wearing the bathrobe, holding on to the doorway and looking at me sitting in the chair. "You're still here," she said, and she shuffled into the kitchen and drank a long glass of water and then another. She went back to her bedroom. "Go home," she said. Two hours or so later I heard the toilet flush and she wandered out again. "Still here," she said. "Why don't you go home?" Half an hour later she came out more purposefully. "I can't sleep because I know you're sitting there," she said. "I feel like an invalid." "You are an invalid," I said. She stood with her hands on the back of a chair, across from me. Her mouth turned down, very Rose-like. "At least you're not full of care and concern," she said. "I hate that." "I remember. You hate being scrutinised." "With justification. Why are you still here? I don't need you. Wait, I need you to pour me a drink." I got up from the chair and walked to the sideboard where I'd put the bottle. "You'd get me a drink?" she asked. "Sure, if you want." "Then I don't want one." She trudged back to her bedroom. "I feel like shit," she said. "You can stay if you want." At nightfall I put the lights on and made more bitter coffee. When I returned to the chair she was sitting in her usual place. "I feel better," she said. She made a face. "I mean, the hangover's gone away." I gave her my coffee and she sipped at it. "You don't say much, do you," she said. "What happened to the wisecracks?" "You beat me up last time I tried to be funny. I must be learning at last." She drank more coffee. "I don't know how long I'm going to be like this," she said. "It's been a while since it last happened. I feel so tired." "So sleep. I'll hang about. I've got nowhere else to go and nothing better to do." She looked like an abandoned lover. "Sometimes you can be funny," she said. "Come on, Jack, make me smile." I thought about a few gags but they died. "I can't," I said. "Then I'll just have another drink or two," she said. I let her do it. There was no point in stopping her, even if I could. I had no ownership rights. In any case, one of life's more futile exercises is trying to stop people who want to drink from drinking. She drank and she relaxed; she was friendly and talkative. She drank and she laughed as she recounted experiences. She drank and she talked about her disappointments. She drank and told me she had no friends. She drank and she cried over her lost opportunities. She drank and grew angry with me because I wouldn't drink with her. So I did. We drank together, drink for drink, for three more hours or so and she got big drunk and I got little drunk. She got big depressed and I got little depressed. Then she got angry and I thought about getting angry too, but in the end I just stayed depressed. I'm definitely no fun when I get like that. I don't know whether I'm much fun when I'm not but I'm definitely no fun when I am. I sat there drinking morosely, staring at the floor, while she performed solo angry scenes. I barely listened to her in my lost and wandering mood. I sat there drinking, replaying my life and wondering why I went on with it. It was a brilliant ploy, or it would have been if it had been a ploy, because she stopped drinking and went to bed. I didn't know she had until I reached out to pour another drink and found she was gone. I looked in on her and she was asleep, so I threw off my clothes and went to bed myself in her spare room. I didn't sleep because I often don't, and I particularly don't when I've been drinking, which is one of the reasons I almost never drink. On my back, I looked at nothing and felt bad about it as the night edged onwards. At some point Rose got into bed, muttering drunkenly and incoherently. I didn't understand what she said and couldn't muster the concentration to query it. She threw an arm loosely across my chest, placed her body in its bathrobe against me, pushed her head against my shoulder and instantly fell asleep. Eyes open, I looked at the dark near the ceiling. As it turned out I did sleep. I must have done so because I was having an erotic dream and Rose woke me out of it. It was near four in the morning. I remember turning my head and looking at the clock. Rose was moving her body up and down against me. The bathrobe was loose and open, her pelvis was scraping against my hipbone and her hand was fluttering on my stiff penis. I lay still, collecting my thoughts. I was awake and it was not a dream. I turned my head towards her and it looked like her eyes were closed. She seemed to be asleep. I put my arm across her and down her back, nudging her gently across her buttocks. "Hey," I said softly. "Hey, Rose." She moaned and spoke indistinctly. I could see her eyes were still closed. Then she said it again, this time more clearly. "It's all right," she said, slurring her words and running them together. I nudged her once more. "Rose, are you awake?" Her eyes snapped open. "It's all right," she said fiercely. "I want you to do it." Her eyes closed again and she kept moving her body and her hands. I was confused. The message was unequivocal but instinct told me all was not well. I nudged her again. "Rose, let's talk about this." Immediately she rolled on top of me and thrust herself on the erect penis she held. It was done in an instant and I was enclosed by her, warm and wet. "No talk," she said, gliding smoothly. "I hate talking. Don't talk. Let's just do it." Oh shit, I thought. I did not know whether she was awake, asleep, half-awake or half-asleep, or just plain dead drunk, and I did not know what to do. So I did nothing as she rode her way onwards. I lay flat on my back, hands by my sides and watched her. She had her hands planted on the bed beside my chest for balance, her head was thrown back and her breasts were bobbing and swaying. She powered on with athletic intensity, thrusting efficiently with her long and lean thighs. I was not even close to letting myself go when she quickened her pace in short, sharp movements. She shuddered from side to side, clenched her hands around my ribcage and sank her head slowly to my chest. My penis remained hard and firmly enclosed. "Oh daddy," she whispered. "That was a really good one." My heart jumped mightily in my chest and I was seized with desire. I rolled her over, still strong inside her, and began to pump furiously. "Yes, daddy, do it again," she said savagely. "Do it again." She appeared to reach orgasm swiftly and then again before I found release. I sighed and held myself above her with my arms outstretched, shrinking within her, and my eyes found her eyes. "Jack," she said in a clear and different voice. "What have you done?" I could feel the weight of a great accusation. I was still affected by alcohol and still shrouded with the melancholy it had brought to me. I was not in shape to accommodate the question. "You did it, Rose," I replied. "I didn't do it. You did." "Bullshit," she snapped, ejecting me with a quick pull and twist of her hips and throwing me off. "No," I said, lying on my side and looking into her face. "You did it. I tried to stop you." "Liar!" She rolled away and off the bed, closing the bathrobe and belting it tight with angry hands. She strode out of the room and flicked on lights in the living room and the kitchen. I heard the clink of glasses and the tap running. The problem was growing and taking shape like a rampant virus. I was lacking mental agility and I knew I would soon be needing it. In the meantime my only choice was to go with the truth. "You woke me," I insisted, sitting up in the bed and calling to her. "You were all over me. You were on fire." "Liar!" she said again, shouting. "I wouldn't lie to you, Rose. Think about it. Maybe you were half-asleep. Maybe you thought you were dreaming. Maybe you were so drunk you didn't know who I was. I don't know. But I'm telling you what happened." She returned to stand in the doorway, a dark figure against the light behind. "You treacherous bastard," she said bitterly. "What happened is that I woke up and you were inside me." She pressed the bathrobe against her thigh. "Ugh," she said unpleasantly. "Your stuff is running down my leg." "No," I said. "You came into my bed, remember? What happened is that I woke up with you crawling all over me. What happened is that you coaxed me out of my sleep and climbed on top of me and fucked me. That's what happened. You only want to remember the end of the story, not the beginning and the middle." "I didn't do anything like that," she said. "I couldn't have. You're inventing it." I tried a different tack. "What were you dreaming about before you woke? Can you remember?" "No." But she turned her head away suddenly. "Maybe you were dreaming about your father." "Filthy bastard." "Who? Him or me?" "You. That's a vile thing to say." I sighed heavily. "Rose, do you want to go on with this? Perhaps we should call it a night and be done with it. Perhaps it's better for you to believe you were drunk and I took advantage of you. I'll play it your way." She came into the room and sat on the bed. On the very edge, at the bottom corner, as far away as she could get. "No, Jack," she said. "Let's have it out. Then I can decide if I'm ever going to talk you again." My heart sank. "I don't think this is a good idea," I said warily. "As it stands now, you're out of my life," she said. "You've got nothing to lose, so tell me the truth. You never know, I might just forgive you." It was tempting because I knew she might. I could tell her she was a victim of my drunken lust and she would accept it. But I feared it would alter our circumstances irretrievably. I feared losing her trust so I went the way of the truth. "For me to come clean you have to come clean," I said. "You told me once you don't have orgasms from fucking." "I don't." "You just did," I said. "More than one, I'm pretty sure." "Bullshit." "Are you telling me you've never had an orgasm?" "I told you, I don't." "But have you never?" "What is this? An inquisition? I'm telling you, I don't." "Let's leave that for the moment," I said. "Now you have to concede you were dreaming about your father." "I'm not sure. I might have been having some sort of nightmare. Why?" "You called me daddy." She twisted and rolled towards me, close enough to look directly into my eyes. "What?" "A couple of times. You called me daddy." "I called you daddy in my sleep?" "Rose, you called me daddy when you straddled me. You called me daddy when you reached orgasm. I didn't imagine it. It was very clear what you were doing and saying, and it was very clear who you thought you were doing and saying it to. It certainly wasn't Jack Blake." She put her hands to her face. "I didn't," she said. "I couldn't have." "You did." "Tell me what happened," she said softly, putting her head back to the pillow and drawing the blanket tightly around her. "Leave nothing out. Tell me everything." I told her, simply and plainly. She was silent for a long time. "You must despise me," she said finally, hollow with dread and despair. "Why should I despise you?" "Because you know the truth. You know what I did all those years ago. And it's true, God help me. That's what I did. Jesus, that's exactly what I did." "Tell me, what did you do?" "He called me his baby wife. I was 15. Mother was sick for a long time. I had to do it and I tried to tell her but she didn't say anything, and she didn't say it in such a way that I knew I had to do it. At first I hated it. I was miserable and scared. Then after a time I learned the power of it. I took control, I stopped being scared and I learned to like it. I knew it was bad but it was exciting. Christ, I got right off on it. But I shocked myself as well, and after a time I finished it. I left and ran away. You know that. I told you." "Jesus, Rose. Is that the truth?" "Why would I lie about it? Everything I told you is true." "Except about the orgasms," I said. "I don't have orgasms," she said. "I did back then but I don't now." "It seems you do," I said. "I was there." "That's so disgusting." "Don't be absurd." "Jesus, it doesn't bear thinking about. If it only happens when I'm fucking my father or I think I'm fucking my father, that's not only disgusting, it's obscene." "You're blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault. You were just a 15-year-old kid. Give yourself a break. Your father took advantage of your first sexual awakenings. No blame can be attached to you. You're clean, Rose. You've been badly fucked up, but you're clean." "I don't feel clean. I've never felt clean and I never will." "Well, you're clean with me," I said. "I'll make you an undying pledge." "Jack, I can't handle anything emotional at the moment. I'm humiliated and terrified. I feel like dying." "Rose, I love you." She placed a finger vertically across my lips. "Never say that," she said. "Never say I love you. It brings bad luck." She rolled away. "I feel wretched and tired and I don't want to talk about it any more." "What did your father do?" I asked her. "For a job, I mean." "Why? What does that have to do with anything?" "I was just curious." "He was a minister of the church," she said quietly. "Jesus." "Hardly." She had silenced me. She snuggled a little closer and threw an arm over me. "I'll go to sleep now," she said. And she did. I looked at the side wall for a few hours, cramped and unable to turn or move. ( -- continued in PART 2: Scars and Bruises: ) * The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from) comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+