by George Eliot
naked woman I ever saw. They passed Rosie around, running their hands all
over her quivering body. I realized with horror my penis was again swelling.
They put their hands and mouths in places I would like to have put mine.
They did horrible things to her. My miserable erection began to jerk. I was
so ashamed of myself and felt so bad for her. I felt terribly guilty for not
trying to defend her. Yet, I could not take my eyes off her and my erection
continued to bob up and down rhythmically. She looked at my bobbing penis
and me. I will never forget the disappointment in her expression.
I heard her scream behind the gag and saw the painfully contorted expression
on her face as they brutally abused her body. She gave me that look again. I
continued to stand there with my belly hanging out, my hands on my head and
my penis wagging in the cascading water.
It is no exaggeration to say that at least a million times I have wished
that I had died that day trying to defend her � but I didn't.
They drug her to me and forced her to her knees, laughing about how turned
on her fat boyfriend was. They pulled the gag out of her mouth and told her
to have oral sex with me.
She took my penis in her mouth and turned her eyes up at me � the look was
on her face again. I never before felt any sensation so wonderful, but I
could not stand that look. I closed my eyes and, I am ashamed to say,
enjoyed the moment.
I did not open my eyes again until my penis was limp in her mouth. The men
were gone.
The rest of that day is a blur in my mind. I remember sitting in a room at
the police station going through a huge book full of pictures. It did not
take long to pick out the four men who raped Rosie.
Rosie did not come back to school for the rest of the semester. I next saw
her at the trial. I was so embarrassed as I sat in the witness chair and
told what happened. Everyone in the jury knew what a coward I was. I did not
say anything about Rosie having oral sex with me, but when she testified,
she did tell it. And when she did, she looked directly at me with that look
on her face.
I never saw her again. She and her parents moved away.
I took another bite of roast beef. It was now cold and my appetite was gone
anyway. I looked at the sad lady. She was looking at me and, when our eyes
met, she did not turn away.
I did nothing to help Rosie. Maybe I could help this unhappy lady. I picked
up my check and walked to her table. She continued to look at me. For a
second I thought her expression changed from sadness to hatred.
"Hi," I began, looking at my feet. "I'm Dan Taylor. I couldn't help but
notice how sad you seem to be. I know I'm a stranger, but sometimes it helps
to talk about things, and talking to a stranger has its advantages."
When she answered me, her voice seemed familiar. It was dripping with venom.
"You're wasting your time, you fat slob," she hissed. "I'm a lesbian. Even
if you were a decent looking man, you'd never get into my panties."
Her anger caught me off guard. "I didn't deserve that," I barked. "I was
honestly trying to help. For your information, I couldn't have sex with you
even if you wanted it. I have a problem with the old pipes. I haven't had an
erection for twenty years."
I stormed off in the direction of the cashier. My anger erased the self-pity
I experienced after reliving the tragedy with Rosie. "Crazy woman," I
muttered under my breath.
There were three people in the cashier line. The first two paid their bills
quickly, but the guy in front of me wanted to flirt with the attractive
cashier and, like the good employee she probably was, she let the old geezer
go through his repertoire.
Someone touched my shoulder. I turned and saw it was the salt and pepper
lady.
"You're right," she said. "You didn't deserve my outburst. That was a line I
developed years ago to keep guys from hitting on me. I apologize."
I nodded my acceptance, ripped her check from her hand and turned back to
the cashier. The old-timer was leaving. I paid both bills and walked away
with the woman tagging behind. I heard her say, "What did you do that for?"
I turned around and she ran into me � literally. We both laughed. "I don't
know," I said. "I guess I just wanted to prove I'm a decent guy." Her steel
gray eyes seemed to be melting a little.
"I said I was sorry. You were also correct in guessing that I am having
something a bit worse than a bad hair day."
"I'm truly sorry," I replied. I turned, pushed through the revolving door
and found myself in the fresh air, looking directly into a beautiful sunset.
She joined me in admiring the disappearance of the deep orange ball behind
the horizon. "I don't want to talk about it, but I don't want to be alone
tonight either. Is your offer still good?"
"What do you have in mind?"
"A movie maybe."
I followed her some four blocks to her apartment where she parked her
ancient Escort and joined me in my new, red Cavalier convertible. We did not
speak, but listened to the CD's playing on my car stereo, somewhat distorted
by the rushing wind that whistled past our ears.
I knew there was a comedy playing at the Century Complex. Naturally, there
was a long line waiting to purchase tickets to the seven o'clock showing.
As we stood in the slow moving line, she asked how I wound up living in
Myrtle Beach. I prolonged the story as long as possible because, frankly, I
didn't know what to talk about with the lady.
"I've been a fat nerd with bad eyesight all my life," I told her. I majored
in computer science at Texas State and graduated just when the market was
flooded with computer programmers. I knew I was better than most," I
boasted, "but proving that to potential employers was difficult. While at
Texas State I wrote a computerized registration program they are still
using, with some modification, today. The only job offer I received was from
Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. There was little
programming to be done at Wake, but I spent a lot of time learning how to
expand my registration program to meet other needs a university might have,
like finances, grade records, and alumni affairs. I worked on the expansion
of my program at nights and weekends. Four years later my rather complicated
program was ready, right at the time Wake Forest became interested."
"Did they buy it?" she asked.
We moved a few paces closer to the ticket booth. "They did. I took the
contract they offered to a lawyer. He rewrote it. They offered me
twenty-five thousand to buy the program outright. He changed that to a lease
arrangement and added a clause that Wake would demonstrate the program to
> any and all prospective customers in exchange for free upgrades."
"Doesn't sound like the world's greatest deal to me," she said.
"Perhaps not, but it sure paid off. I took the money, had brochures and spec
sheets professionally drawn up and mailed them to every college and
university in the country. By the end of the year I sold ten systems at
seventy-five grand each."
She whistled. "You quit your job at Wake Forest, moved to Myrtle Beach and
lived happily ever after."
I laughed at that as we moved to within sight of the ticket booth. "Close. I
quit my job and worked out of my apartment for a while. The work overwhelmed
me. I was trying to run a software help line, sell and install systems, do
the bookkeeping, and keep an advertising agenda going. I didn't have time
for it all, and certainly did not have time to develop program enhancements.
Every client seemed to come up with one more little thing their institution
would find helpful."
"What did you do?"
I interrupted the story long enough to purchase our tickets. We moved to
another line, waiting for admittance to the theater.
"I had a stroke of luck. I met a sharp young man who owns an Internet
provider service in Dot, a little town just outside of Charlotte, North
Carolina. One thing led to another. I turned the sales, installation and
help line over to him. He hired some people and is doing a fine job. I
turned the advertising and promotion part over to the Holder Advertising
Agency in Dot."
"So now you can devote your full time to program enhancements."
"Close again," I said. "I kept the bookkeeping part also. The checks come to
me and I pay all the bills. I just couldn't bring myself to trust anyone
with the money."
She laughed. "I don't blame you," she said. "I was a bookkeeper once."
"You were? Where?"
The line surged forward and she didn't answer my question. We bought popcorn
and Cokes at the concession stand and then found decent seats.
As the house lights dimmed I leaned over and asked, "Would it be too
invasive for me to ask your name?"
"Oh my God, Dan. I'm sorry. My name is Marie � Marie Jefferson."
For a moment, I felt paralyzed. Not only did she look a little like Rosie;
she had the same last name. I relaxed when I realized it was simply
coincidence.
Allegedly, the movie was a comedy, but I didn't find it funny. Maybe I would
have under other circumstances. It was one R-rated sex scene after another �
the kind where nothing goes right. After thirty minutes I whispered, "I
think I picked the wrong movie."
She replied by making her way to the aisle and heading for the exit. I
followed, of course.
We wound up at her place, sitting on opposite ends of her sofa, sipping
white wine and watching sitcoms on TV. Fortunately, there were some funny
spots in the television shows, which, along with the wine I suppose, eased
her despondency. Yes, I know alcohol is a depressant, but it didn't seem to
be that night. Still, it caught me by surprise when, after filling our
glasses for the third time, she clicked off the TV and said, "I'm ready to
talk about it if you're still willing to listen."
She resumed sitting at the opposite end of the sofa, but she looked straight
at me as she told the story, even when the tears emerged. She said she
engaged in a sexual experience while in high school that brought humiliation
to her family. They moved from North Carolina to Oklahoma, but she continued
to feel her parent's pain. During her senior year in high school, she saved
as much money as she could from her part-time job as a clerk in a drug
store. Immediately after graduation she packed a single suitcase, walked to
the bus station, and took the first bus, which happened to be coming to
Charlotte.
Over the years, she wrote to her parents several times, but they never
responded. She tried calling once, but the number didn't work and the new
one was unlisted. When she arrived in Charlotte she rented a furnished room
and found a job in a drug store, similar to the one she held before. Years
passed. She worked her way into a bookkeeping position at the pharmacy and
graduated to a furnished apartment.
During that entire time, she enjoyed no social life at all. She tried
attending church for a short period, but that just added to her guilt
feelings. She dated a couple of times but, whenever a man touched her, she
felt revulsion.
One day a female customer, about her own age, walked up to her, smiled, and
pressed a folded note in her hand. The note explained that the woman was a
lesbian and that Marie turned her on so strongly that she would do anything
to spend one night with Marie. Never before had Marie considered a sexual
liaison with a woman, but the idea, once planted, became so powerful that
she wet her panties. Marie did not laugh when she made that statement.
The lesbian's address was on the note and Marie went to her apartment that
night after work. In less than three weeks, Marie moved in with the woman,
whose name was Maggie.
Maggie was a beautician, a stylist, a hairdresser � whatever you call it.
Neither she nor Marie made much money, so when Maggie was offered a better
paying job in Myrtle Beach, they moved. Marie soon found a job in a drug
store at the beach.
I declined a refill on the wine, but Marie filled her own glass to the rim.
She talked for a long time about how much she loved Maggie. That's when the
tears started.
When she came home from work on the day we met, she found a note from Maggie
on the kitchen table. Marie said she should have expected that something was
going on. For the past four weeks, Maggie frequently came home quite late at
night, claiming that she was working overtime. Marie tried to tell me the
contents of the note, but the words just would not come.
She jumped up and went into her bedroom. When she returned she dropped the
note in my lap and sat down next to me � so close our thighs were touching.
I read the note. The long and the short of it was that Maggie was tired of
being broke and was worried about her financial future. She met a rich dude
and ran off with him to be married.
Marie was sobbing. I felt awful and could think of no words of comfort.
Without thinking I put my right arm around her and rested my hand on her
bony right shoulder. Instantly I realized Marie might perceive this as a
sexual gesture, but before I could remove my hand she nestled her head on my
chest and rested her right hand on my protruding belly.
I squeezed her shoulder lightly. She did not object. I stroked her hair with
my left hand. She did not complain. I kissed her hair. She stopp
ed crying
and did not protest my attempts to show compassion.
We sat there in silence a long time. I finally realized she was asleep.
Carefully I slipped out from under her and arranged her in a comfortable
prone position. Her blouse, buttoned at her neck, looked uncomfortable. I
refrained from loosening it, fearing she would interpret it as taking
advantage of her while in an alcohol induced sleep.
I looked for something with which to cover her and found an afghan in her
bedroom. I made a note of her telephone number, turned off the lights, set
the night latch and went home.
I was exhausted, but I could not sleep. My heart was breaking over this poor
girl's misfortune and my total inability to help her through her misery. I
thought of Rosie. Did her parents abandon her also? Was she, too, living in
misery? The sympathetic pain was almost more than I could bear.
The next morning I tried to work but couldn't. I waited until nine to call
her. Her machine answered, announcing that Maggie and Marie were unavailable
and inviting me to leave a message. I mumbled something about how sorry I
was that I could be of so little comfort to her. I said I knew she probably
didn't ever want to see me again, but if I were wrong, I would love to have
dinner with her. I left my number.
I prayed for her and for Rosie the whole day. At five o'clock, she called. I
picked her up and we ate dinner at Mammy's Kitchen. She was different,
somehow. She was still unhappy, of course, but she acted like a woman with a
plan. Of course, I did not know what that plan might be, and I didn't ask. I
did make a fool out of myself, however, by offering her money, which she
coldly declined.
We ate dinner together every night the remainder of the week and watched TV
at her place until the news came on at eleven. She had the weekend off and
wanted to spend it on the beach at my place.
I have a house in Merles Inlet. It is actually on a cliff overlooking one of
the small inlets. There is a beautiful and private sandy beach in front of
my house with easy access down the cliff. I enjoy fishing from my private
pier, but sunbathing is not my thing. I gladly made an exception for Marie,
however.
She wore a skimpy black two piece bathing suit. She was, indeed, very thin,
but if I were physically able I would have suffered with an erection all
day. We baked in the sun all morning, only occasionally wading briefly into
the gentle waves to cool off.
We went back to the house for a bathroom break and a sandwich, but then she
wanted more sun. By the time we settled back down on her blanket, my flabby
flesh was turning pink. Thank God, she did not make fun of my rolls of fat.
She applied suntan lotion to my back and made me use the greasy stuff on the
rest of my body. She coated herself and handed the tube to me.
She lay on her stomach. I gently rubbed the lotion on her back. She purred
like a kitten. I coated the backs of her thighs, being careful not to get
too close to her crotch. As I screwed the top back on the tube, she said,
"Don't stop." At the same time she unhooked her top and bared her back to
me.
I massaged her shoulders, her back, and her lower back. I lifted my hands to
move to her thighs.
"Lower," she said dreamily.
I returned my hands to her lower back and worked with the heels of my hand.
"Lower," she said again.
I was confused. She wanted her bottom rubbed. I considered my options. I
could slip my hands under the waistband of her suit or I could massage the
fabric. I denied my own desires and worked on the black cloth, using only
the heels of my hands. She purred for a while and fell asleep.
I lay in the broiling sun as long as I could stand it. I waded into the
water and pushed my way beyond the breakers. I'm not much of a swimmer, but
