Photographs and Memories
This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
Photographs and memories
All the love you gave to me
Somehow it just can’t be true
That’s all I’ve left of you
– Jim Croce, Photographs and Memories
I stood at the top of Mrs. McBride’s staircase, zipping and snapping my pants. Her son Kenny, standing at the foot of the stairway, hadn’t seen me coming from the bathroom. He was tossing coats and rummaging through women’s purses. He picked up a brown purse. It was mine. He opened my wallet and hesitated, and then looked carefully at a picture, caressing it with the tip of his index finger. He saw himself, and he saw me when we were seventeen. His dark brown hair, nearly black, was cut in the popular bowl cut of the seventies. His light blue eyes sparkled at the photographer in mock annoyance, and his slightly crooked teeth were set in an unembarrassed grin. My image had tucked her long, brown hair behind her ears, had added a touch of light blue eye shadow to her green eyes, and was smiling a successful orthodontia smile. Kenny stared at our faces and was frozen in time, just like I was every time I looked at that picture.
His name was Kenny McBride. He had lived two streets over from me when we were teens, and we had been very close. Kenny would drive past my house in his midnight blue Chevy Nova and turn around at the end of the street. I’d race down from my bedroom and out to the street, and we’d sit in his car and talk, or we’d ride around our small town and talk. Kenny always told me I was easy to talk to. I always thought he was easy to listen to. As we grew older, we drifted apart. I went away to college, and he went on the road behind the wheel of a semi.
He closed my wallet without removing any money from it – a courtesy for old time’s sake, I suppose. He snatched up another purse and, without wavering, plucked out the cash.
I couldn’t bear to watch him any longer. I went down the steps slowly but without making any special effort to be quiet. He jerked with a fear of being caught and looked up at me with his cadet blue eyes filled with panic. Recognition slowly softened his face. He smiled and then remembered his big hand was still buried inside an open purse. He dropped the purse like he’d been burned and then shrugged his shoulders.
His arms stretched out, with palms up pleading. “It’s not what you think, Fannie.”
I stepped down into the room and walked close to Kenny. He towered over me. “I think you’re stealing the cash from these ladies’ purses.”
“No, Fannie, it’s not what you think.”
“What else could it possibly be, except stealing?”
“It’s not what you think ... it’s not what you think ... think ... think, Fannie.”
Kenny’s face began to smear. His words echoed and lost their volume. I tried to look at him, tried to see his eyes, his smile, his hair tossed casually over his forehead. I tried to hear what his lips were saying. It all blurred together. I blinked, trying to keep the erased edges from disappearing, but he was smudging away.
“Fannie? Fannie? Can you hear me?”
“Kenny?” I said. But it wasn’t Kenny. It was a feminine voice I heard.
“Fannie darlin’, what’s wrong!”
I blinked and looked around. The room was hazy. The coats and purses lay undisturbed on the couch.
“Where’s Kenny?” I repeated.
“Fannie, please, you’re being mean.”
“He was just here. I saw him.”
“Stop this Fannie, you know Kenny is dead.”
Her words blazed through the fog that was dulling my brain. Yes, Kenny was dead. He had been dead for three years. He had died of a heart attack, alone in his semi at a truck stop. Someone had found him the next morning. He was dead. He wasn’t in this room. He wasn’t stealing anything. He wasn’t caressing the picture of him and me that I’d kept even after all these years. He wasn’t standing in front of me with his smiling eyes, asking me for something. I shook my head to clear it.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. McBride. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have been dreaming. It felt like Kenny.... Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Daisy McBride gave me one of her face-wrapping grins, patted my shoulder, and then comforted me in her familiar country twang. “Fannie, honey, you haven’t been in this house for a long time. You’re bound to have memories.” Her smile slipped away into the anguish of losing her son. “I do.”
Silence seemed the best response. An easy quiet rose up. Without thinking, I hugged her, and her grief and mine snuggled between us. She sniffled and pulled away.
“I’m awful glad you decided to join us old folk, Fannie honey.” Mrs. McBride rubbed her arms. Her eyes were still moist with tears. “These Harvest parties get to be a little dull sometimes.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” I hadn’t spoken to Mrs. McBride since Kenny’s funeral. Life had found a way to move on, and our paths were no longer connected. Her invitation had been an unexpected surprise.
“It’s been so good to see you. I hope you won’t make yourself a stranger, Fannie.”
I had always liked Kenny’s mother. I still did.
Later, while driving into town to work the graveyard shift, I was still thinking about seeing Kenny stealing through the purses. Why had he seemed so desperate? It hadn’t seemed like a dream. It was so real. He was so real. I remembered going to the bathroom. When did I go to sleep? This wasn’t the first time I had dreamed of Kenny since his death, but this was the first time it seemed so real. I could hear the little twang in his voice, like his mother’s. I could smell his English Leather. I could see the scar on his eyebrow from an old baseball injury. I expected to think about Kenny while I was in the house he grew up in, but I didn’t expect for his voice to be so crystal clear or for his memory to haunt me.
I was willing to chalk it up to the surroundings, except when I walked into work, Marge, an older woman from Jamaica and our secretary, asked me, “Did you talk to him today?” She could be uncanny sometimes. She knew things and had explanations. She would interpret dreams. Although her explanations were vague, she was very good at prodding you into discovering a meaning for yourself.
“Talk to who, Marge?”
“You know.” Marge talked in a singsong way so that when she said, “You know” it came out in four long, drawn-out syllables and ended with a little giggle.
The hairs stood up on the back of my neck, and my palms felt moist. “What are you talking about Marge?”
She smiled but never looked up from her work. “He’s waiting for you.”
I pressed Marge for more information, but she just repeated what she’d already said. Right after his death, Marge and I had a discussion about Kenny and my dreams. She was a real comfort. She told me when I dreamed of him it was because he had something to tell me. But that was all she would say. That was Marge’s way—she always left you with the impression she knew more, but she refused to tell. Maybe she was afraid of changing an outcome.
I went about my nightly work in the ICU, and by the time morning rolled around and my shift was over, I was too exhausted to think about my conversation with Marge.
I drove home in the murk of consciousness that night shift workers are famous for: making turns you don’t remember, finding yourself home and wondering how you got there. During the drive and through my mental fog, I noticed a big old barn set way off the road, to the left. I had been driving these same roads for five years. I didn’t think it was possible to see anything that I hadn’t seen before. On the side panel was an advertisement for Swallow’s Root Beer. Years of weather had muted the colors. I could barely make out the frosty mug. The company had gone out of business years ago. It was produced locally, and Kenny’s father had driven a truck for them. Truck driving was a family tradition. Kenny always drank a Swallow’s. I remember him holding up a bottle once and asking me, “Do you Swallow?”
It was an eerie coincidence, and I shivered. The wood was worn, but the slats remained intact. Obviously, the barn had stood there for years. How could I have missed it before? Kenny’s words drifted through my mind, “Think Fannie.” But I couldn’t think, I was too tired to think, I was too tired to wonder about the coincidence, I was even too tired to let the trembling in my body concern me.
I zombie-walked my way into my house and dragged off my scrubs. I fell into bed and burrowed my way beneath the covers.
His warm breath washed over my lips, tickling them. His tongue followed, tracing along the outer edge, and then parted my lips to make his way between them. I moaned in pleasure. His mouth was humid. His lips were soft. His tongue wrestled with mine for space. A hand held my head in place with fingers wrapped in my hair. Another hand found its way to my thigh, warming my leg with the contact. The kiss succeeded in clearing my mind of everything, everything except that illicit hand inching its way up my thigh.
My pounding heart battled my lungs for freedom to expand. His kiss lengthened, leaving me breathless and unable to say a thing about his searching hand. Inching up my leg, his fingers toddled their way to my inner thigh, and my muscles tensed. And still he continued, never slowing his kissing, and never hurrying his hand.
He reached the soft outer satin of my panties just as his mouth drew me in deeper. He sweetly sucked on my tongue. My face was on fire. Kenny had never touched me down there before. No one had.
“We shouldn’t.” I moaned, but I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted his fingers inside my panties. I wanted his fingers inside of me. I wanted what Kenny wanted.
But it wasn’t to be. The porch light flipped on. My father signaled for me to come in.
I flopped over to my stomach and sighed. This wasn’t a dream—it was a coveted memory. Kenny McBride had been the first boy to affect me so powerfully. I might have given myself to him, right there in his Chevy, parked in front of my parents’ house, if we hadn’t been interrupted. But I didn’t then, or ever. We got close several times, but something always stopped us. I learned to regret it. When he died, I mourned the missed chance even more. Regret gnawed at my gut even now.
Sleep finally won out over the memories. When I woke, the bed was a disheveled mess. I must have been restless, but I didn’t remember a thing.
I’d slept most of the day away. The sun was dropping past the open window. The house was quiet except for a gentle breeze rustling through the curtains. It was a perfect autumn evening. I stood in front of the window and stretched. Leaves on the huge oak in my backyard were turning yellow and orange. It reminded me of another oak, another time, a picnic. Families gathered, children chasing one another, tables laden with potluck offerings. Kenny and I huddled under the great oak, side by side with our backs to the tree. We sat with our knees up, allowing them to graze each other. Our shoulders touched, and our heads bent together, whispering. Mrs. McBride had hailed our attention and snapped a picture.
I grabbed my purse and pulled out my wallet. The picture was still there. The edges were frayed with age. The colors were fading, but our faces remained, smiling, innocent and slightly annoyed at being disturbed. I had my hair pulled back at the sides and wore a favorite blue peasant blouse. Kenny was in jeans and a flannel shirt. And clasped in his hand that rested on his knee was a bottle of Swallow’s Root Beer.
I was obsessing over my past with Kenny. Haunted by the memories of our young love that had never been consummated. A tear dropped on the worn picture. I quickly wiped it off. Careful Fannie, you’ll ruin it. I slid the picture back in my wallet and wiped at my eyes. The past was the past, and there was nothing I could do to change it.
Nighttime rushed over the sky, driving the sun to set. Clouds moved in, swirling in hazy shapes, blanketing the stars. The moon tried to peek through, but the clouds refused to allow it. As usual, because I had slept all day, I was wide awake. And I didn’t have to work that night. The house was quiet. Too quiet. I was antsy. I wanted to do something, but I didn’t know what. I wanted to go somewhere, but I didn’t know where. I fiddled around the house, making up chores—dusting where there was no dust, scrubbing where there was no dirt. When I’d finally run out of things to do, I decided to get out of the house.
I hopped in my car and drove without a destination in mind. I found myself driving past the McBride house. I half expected to see Kenny’s Nova parked in the driveway. The house was dark, or I might have stopped. What could I say anyway? Mrs. McBride, I know he’s been gone for three years, but for some reason I’m obsessing over your son. I couldn’t tell her what was really going through my mind—the way her son’s lips went soft and hungry when he kissed me, or how I wanted his hand on my thigh again, or how I wanted his body pressed against me, or how I wanted more of him inside of me, just once.
This was silly, and I knew it was silly. Kenny was dead. But knowing it in my head didn’t keep my heart and body from wishing it weren’t true. I turned the car around to go home. The night was as black as sin. The country roads were unlit. The oncoming headlights felt like eyes boring through me, seeing inside of me and exposing my obsession. I wanted the memories of Kenny to go away, and yet I held on to them, nursing them, replaying them over and over in my head. We were in a house, in a car, under a tree, touching, laughing, kissing, exploring. And stopping. Always stopping.
I made my way in the dark like I was still in the fog of the morning—not quite sure of how I got there—but I was on the road that led home. A faint glitter in the distance caught my eye. It wasn’t a car. It was further off to the left. I tried to focus on it. When I did, I realized it came from the barn I had noticed that morning. Tiny flickers of light shot through the cracks of the wood. It was on fire! My heart raced. I pulled off the side of the road and jumped from the car. Brilliant shards of light flickered from the barn, but there wasn’t any smoke.
There were no houses around it. No cars near it. It was just a solitary building in the middle of a field. Now that I was closer, I could see it wasn’t on fire. The glow was from something else, and I was still drawn to it. I gulped down fear that climbed up the back of my throat. I had a cell phone. I could call for help if I needed it.
I strapped my purse across my shoulder and started the hike across the field. The ground was soft from a recent rain, and my feet stuck in the mud. Sucking sounds echoed with every step. The brush was higher than it appeared from the road. It tore at my shirt and scratched my skin. I swatted at errant bugs that had somehow survived the chilly autumn nights.
The barn was further away than I’d thought. I walked on. My legs hurt from the constant pulling in the mud. My armpits itched with beads of perspiration. My skin stung from the open scratches. This was ridiculous. What was I doing? But I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to see the Swallow’s sign up close. I wanted to touch it. I needed it more than anything I could imagine, though I couldn’t explain why.
The flickering seemed less brilliant as I got nearer. It dulled until it gave just enough light to outline the barn. The ground cleared and turned to soft, mowed grass. I walked to the panel with the aged Swallow’s sign on it. Up close it was difficult to make out the picture. I raised my hand to touch the bottom of the painted mug. I could barely reach it. As my palm stretched out on the dilapidated wood, a tiny sputter of light shot through a crack and hit my hand.
A shockwave rippled through me, and my mouth watered with the sweet syrupy taste of root beer brewed with hops, an unmistakable Swallow’s taste. I yanked my hand back, but swallowed like I had taken a drink. I imagined the carbonation burning my throat and tickling my nose. I closed my eyes and remembered drinking root beer when I was young.
I walked around, looking for a way to get in the barn. Something was pulling me inside, daring me to come in. A doublewide door with broken hinges slumped against the large front opening. There was just enough space to step under it. A glow of light danced against the worn door in broken images. I watched it. It was warm and inviting.
I ducked under the door to squeeze my way inside. My hair caught on a broken hinge, like a finger holding me back, giving me a chance to reconsider. But I easily untangled it and stepped through. I’d made up my mind.
The interior was washed with luminous light, light coming from somewhere that I couldn’t see. There were no bulbs or lamps. Just warm, shimmery light. The space was empty. Solid beams supported the structure, but the planked floor was swept clean.
The walls, however, were jam-packed with photographs. Thousands upon thousands of photographs, lined side-by-side and up-and-down. They formed an enormous mural of images and light.
There were portraits and snapshots, black and white stills, daguerreotypes and miniatures. There were wedding pictures and pictures of casual affairs. There were women and men, children and babies, and couples and families. Emotions of a lifetime. A mother, with an infant on her lap, beamed with pride. A couple stared dreamy-eyed at each other. A soldier stood stiffly with a stolid expression. A bride in white, holding roses, smiled with hope. A family hugged. There were so many I was overwhelmed.
I walked around, trying to see as many as I could, stretching up on my toes, reaching out with my hands. A child with a slobbery grin sat waist high in wrapping paper, holding up a toy train. A woman in black, with tear-stained eyes, cradling a flag. A girl in a cap and gown gripping a diploma. Tears burned the back of my eyes. I didn’t know any of these people, and yet I felt I knew them all. All these lives, connected and remembered through photographs.
On the far right side, close to the front, I noticed an empty space that was dark and stood out against the light. It was the perfect size for a two-by-three picture. The picture of Kenny and me was just that size.
I opened my purse and found it. The edges appeared even more worn. The colors were more faded, and there was graininess to it that I hadn’t remembered. Somehow I knew my picture belonged there next to a sepia-colored print of a gentleman with a handlebar moustache. The picture of Kenny and I symbolized a moment of living, just as all the others did.
Tears blurred my eyes and washed down my cheeks as I fit my picture in the empty space. A burst of light filtered through the picture, its colors turned bright, the edges mended. Suddenly, the room went completely black. The air filled with the smell of barbecue. Children were laughing. I was shivering even though it was warm.
“Fannie! Fannie! C’mon, what are you doing?”
“C’mon Fannie, geez, it’s hotter than hell in this barn. What are you doing in here?”
“I came in here to ... to ... ” I looked around, flustered. “I don’t know why I came in here.”
“Well let’s get out of here.”
Kenny grabbed my hand and pulled me along with him. His hands were big. They wrapped around mine like a blanket. I could always smell his cologne on my hand later, after he let go. I would sniff and sniff until I could almost taste it in the back of my throat.
When we left the barn, I squinted at the bright sun. The church picnic was in full swing. The elders sat in lawn chairs discussing sports with the younger men. Clouds of smoke from the open barbecue pit puffed above their heads. The women were preparing the tables and ooh-ing and ahh-ing over favorite recipes. And kids were everywhere playing make-believe games of cops and robbers.
“Let’s sit under that tree while we wait, Fannie. You know they’ll make us be the last ones to eat. They always do.”
“Shh, someone will hear you, and they won’t let us eat at all.”
We both laughed. Kenny grabbed a root beer and then plopped down under the huge oak that provided the only shade. I eased myself down along side him. Our shoulders touched, and he leaned even closer.
“I like that top you’re wearing Fannie,” he whispered. “I can see your cleavage.”
“You can’t either.” I smacked him on the arm and looked down at the front of my top.
“Yes I can. I can see the lace on your bra.”
I flushed with embarrassment and itched with excitement. I wanted Kenny to look at me, but I wasn’t supposed to let him. Out of habit, I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Won’t do you any good now, Fannie, I done seen it. Besides with your arms crossed like that, it just shows it off more.”
He was right. I jerked my arms down to my sides. Kenny took my hand, placed it on his thigh, and covered it with his.
“Hey, you two! Smile!”
“Geez, Mom. Another picture?”
Mrs. McBride took snapshots at every occasion. Kenny stuck his tongue out at his mother then reeled it back in when she gave him her motherly look. “I’ll cut that tongue out of your mouth, boy.”
Kenny relented. “You might as well smile, Fannie. She won’t leave us alone otherwise.” He said it loud enough for his mother to hear, and then he cocked a mischievous grin.
She snapped the picture and turned to leave, adding over her shoulder, “I can be a pest too when I put my mind to it. Where do you think you learned it, Kenny?” With that, she was off. There were other unsuspecting subjects waiting everywhere.
“I like your mom, Kenny. She’s so nice.”
“Yeah, I do too, but don’t tell her I said so. I like being the thorn in her side, as she calls me.”
He rubbed his thumb along the side of my palm. Tracing along the lines—heart, head, and life. I squeezed his leg and the muscle of his thigh bunched up under my fingers. He scooted closer. Our hips met. We sat perfectly still, afraid to move, afraid to let loose of the connection.
The crowds at the food tables slowly thinned. Kenny looked at me with hound dog eyes. I could feel him to my core. It was almost too much. I had to do something, before I couldn’t do anything but drown in him.
“I’ll race ya to the food,” I said.
I jumped up and ran to the first table before he could answer. He followed close behind, hugging me from the back when he caught up to me. He pulled me to him, and his bulge pressed into my backside. I blushed and quickly looked around to see if anyone was watching us. Luckily, we’d gone unnoticed, but I was too scared to risk it again, so I eased away and began to fill my plate.
The eating tables were nearly full, so we had to sit across from one another and squeeze in. People were talking all around us. I glanced over at Kenny. He smirked when someone told a corny joke, and people laughed as if it were the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Even when he was rolling his eyes in mock disgust, he was the cutest thing in the world.
The sun was setting by the time the meal was finally over. Kenny winked at me and tilted his head, motioning me to leave. I couldn’t wait to be alone with him. I hurried to tell my parents I was leaving.
I met Kenny at his car, breathless from running. He opened the door for me, and I scooted into the middle. He got in after me and, before turning the key, kissed me quickly on the mouth. I slumped down in the seat and lay my head on his shoulder. His hair swept over my nose. I could smell his shampoo and his cologne. It smelled like heaven.
Kenny drove through town and went past the turn-off to my street. I didn’t ask him where he was going. I wanted to be with him, so it didn’t matter. When he pulled off into a hidden drive on the side of a cornfield, my nerves began to prickle. Before turning the engine off, he revved it loudly. My heart accelerated with it.
He didn’t say a word. He just turned his head and pressed his full lips to mine. At first, we kissed closed-mouthed, letting our lips slip and slide together, and then his tongue wedged in between and parted my lips. My stomach lurched. His kisses made me jittery and hungry. His hand dropped to my thigh and I gasped.
“Kenny ... ” My words were muffled between our mouths. He kept kissing me, licking my mouth. I kissed him back. His fingers began to move up my leg, beneath my skirt. I breathed deeper, and my chest expanded enough to cause my nipples to graze his chest.
“Mmm. Breathe like that again Fannie!”
I couldn’t breathe any other way. His fingers were touching the inside of my thigh, and they were climbing higher.
“Kenny, you ... shouldn’t. I... shouldn’t.”
“Yes Fannie, this time we should. Let me Fannie. This time let me.”
His words were soft and pleading. But his mouth was demanding and cut off any objection I might have made. He slipped his hand up to my panties. I shuddered and pulled my mouth away to bury my face into his shoulder. His middle finger dug beneath the elastic and furled its way through my pubic hair. I should have made him stop, but I didn’t want him to. And he didn’t. His finger traced up my slit and then poked between.
“Geez Fannie, you’re so wet.”
I was too embarrassed to lift my head up off his shoulder. “Is that bad?”
“Hell no, Fannie! It’s the best thing I ever touched. Let me touch more, Fannie. Please. Take off your skirt.”
“I don’t know, Kenny. I’m scared.”
“Don’t be scared Fannie. I won’t ever take nothing from you that you don’t offer me.”
I pulled back away from him and shakily undid the button at the back. I couldn’t look at Kenny when I slipped off my skirt. I couldn’t believe I was doing it. We had never gone this far before. He cupped his hand between my legs over the cotton panel of my underwear.
“God Fannie, you’re so warm. I can feel heat all over my hand.”
Then I looked at him, his eyes were glossy, even in the dim light of evening. He was excited, I could see it on his face. He held his hand motionless for a second, and then grabbed the edges of my panties in his fist. His knuckles slid over the ridge of my groin. Cool air rushed over my bare pussy. I trembled and fell forward against his chest, burying my face again. It felt so terrifyingly good.
“I want these Fannie, can I have them?”
“Yeah, can I?”
“Uh ... ”
“Say I can, Fannie.”
“All right. You can.”
He grabbed the top edge of my panties and drew them downward. I closed my eyes, feeling but not looking.
“Lift your hips.”
I did as he asked, and the fabric slipped along my thighs and stuck momentarily between my legs. He tugged a little and it popped free. He hung them on his rearview mirror. I was naked from the waist down and shivered with the thought of it. I closed my legs in a feeble attempt to conceal my nakedness.
“Don’t hide from me, Fannie, let me see you. I want to see you so bad.”
His big hands gently touched my legs and persuaded them open.
“Damn Fannie, I can see you. I can see you and I can touch you and I can smell you.”
As he spoke his fingers slipped beyond the pubic hair and into my core. He petted me up and down in feathery strokes. I could hear how slippery I was. His fingertips found my pearl and pinched it lightly. It burned in an exciting way. “Oh,” I moaned. “What was that? It feels so good. Do that.” I lay back on the car seat. My hand hit the door above my head and I grabbed hold of the window seal. He ran his finger down and around the rim of my pussy before sliding up and pinching me lightly again. I wanted to beg.
“More, I want more Kenny, please, I want to feel you inside of me.”
“Are you sure, Fannie? Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m sure ... I’m really sure, please just do it.”
Kenny fumbled with his jeans and then his briefs. I didn’t watch. He propped himself over me and leaned his face down to mine.
“Are you really sure, Fannie?”
“I promise I am, Kenny. I promise. I want more. I want it. I want you.”
Kenny eased further down on me and pushed my leg off the car seat. His hand reached down, and I knew he had grabbed his penis. He ran the tip of it along me, and I nearly bucked him off when it touched my clitoris. He groped around for my hole and finally found it. He shoved against it and I felt the head of his cock pop just inside. His hips pitched forward. I felt the tearing and the burning so quickly it was too late to stop it from happening. I screamed without meaning to. He stopped immediately and held still.
“Oh, god Fannie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t mean to.”
I forced back the tears. “I’m okay, Kenny. I’m okay”
“You want me to stop?”
“No, don’t stop, just wait a second.”
Kenny held himself perfectly still. His arms wobbled and sweat beaded on his face. I moved a little. The pain had lessened. I raised my hips up to him, allowing his penis deeper inside of me. I felt so full. He slowly moved his hips away and then towards me again. His cock slipped down and back. He repeated it. Again. Then again. And still again. I could feel the ripples and contours of him, slipping in and out. The pain dulled to nothing. Then nothing turned to yearning. Each forward thrust caressed me. Teased me. I had the urge to spread my legs as far apart as they would go. I wanted to be open. I wanted him to be in me as far as he could go. And he was. He was buried in me, swashing my pussy.
I tried to savor every detail. The way his penis expanded and touched deeper inside of me. The way his face contorted in concentration. The way his skin gleamed with sweat. And the way his shirt flapped between us. The way my body shook with climax. The way it quivered to my toes. The way my orgasm strengthened with his thrusts. And the way it deepened when he was all the way inside of me.
“Fannie, I’m going to come Fannie, I’m going to come.” And he did. Warm flushes of sticky cum coated me, and then trickled out around his shaft, between us. He sank onto me, sucking in air.
“Man! Think Fannie, think, we finally fucked.”
I couldn’t help but think. Feelings rushed through my head with sparkling speed. We had fucked and it felt so right. It hurt but it wasn’t too bad. There was a smell to fucking that I hadn’t expected. I was a slippery mess. I never knew I could get this excited. I wouldn’t get pregnant this close to my period. Oh my god, Kenny and I had finally fucked.
“We did it Kenny, we did it and I’m so happy we did.”
He didn’t answer right away. The weight of him shifted. I no longer felt cocooned.
“I have to go, Fannie.”
“No.” I tried to see his face, tried to smell him, tried to hear his breathing. “Please don’t go.”
“It’s not what you think, Fannie.”
He was gone.
“Fannie? Fannie, can you hear me?”
“Kenny?” But it wasn’t Kenny, it was a feminine voice speaking.
“What’s wrong with you, Fannie?”
“Kenny, where’s Kenny?”
“Fannie honey, don’t be mean.”
“He was here, I was with him. He was just here.”
“Fannie honey, you know Kenny’s dead.”
I looked around the room. Purses and coats lay undisturbed, on the couch. I could hear murmured voices from another room. I looked at Mrs. McBride hunkered over from the passage of years. Her features tightened, and her eyes misted over. I could see her suffering in the way her mouth twitched at the corners.
“I’m so sorry.” I touched her hand, and she grasped on to mine, squeezing it gently. Our eyes locked. Memories of Kenny hung between us. The moment passed, and her features softened. She cleared her throat and released my hand.
“It’s okay Fannie, you must have been dreaming.”
I responded easily, “No Mrs. McBride, I wasn’t dreaming ... ”
I could still feel Kenny inside of me, a part of me. Forever.
“... I was remembering.”
Copyright © 2000, 2003 by Desdmona.