From: mimic117@yahoo.com
Date: Mon, 18 Feb 2002 12:11:28 -0500
Subject: NEW:  Train Up A Man  by mimic117
Source: direct

Title:  NEW  Train Up A Man  1 of 1

Author:  mimic117

Email:  mimic117@yahoo.com

Rating:  NC-17 no doubt, no fooling, no kiddies

Category:  S, MSR implied

Spoilers: none at all

Summary:  "Seeing him again brings it all back to me.  It's been
twenty years since we've laid eyes on each other.  I wonder if he ever
thinks of me."

Keywords:  Pre-XF reminiscing, young M/older O in the past

Archive:  Indubitably.  Just keep all info intact and let me know
where I'm going.  I'll handle Gossamer and Ephemeral myself, but the
rest of you are free to knock yourselves out.

Disclaimer:  Since I *definitely* don't think we'd see this one on the
show, even if it wasn't ending, I'd have to say they belong to me.  
What?  They don't?  Dang.

Author's Notes:  Some people may find this story a bit disturbing
since it deals with an intimate relationship between an older woman
and a younger man just barely out of his teens.  If that type of thing
upsets your delicate sensibilities, please find something else to
read.  There are lots of other stories out there that you'll like
better.  If you do read it and don't like it, please send your flames
to FOX television.  I'm sure they can use them for special effects or
something.

Thanks:  Hugs to Sdani who goaded me into trying this idea.  You wield
a very cold speculum, so it seemed best to at least attempt it rather
than push my luck.  Tons of air kisses for the first strike beta and
immoral support.  Hope this scratches that itch for you.

And to Cindy, for always tender, gentle beta. ~snicker~ You keep me
honest.  You make me a whole person.  I owe you everything, and you
owe me nothing.  I don't know if I can do this alone.  And if I quit
now, I'll drive my family crazy.  I'm sure they appreciate your
efforts to prevent that.

Feedback:  Would you?  Really?!  I'd be so grateful.  All feedback is
printed out, kept in a little shrine, and worshipped daily.  You can
find me at mimic117@yahoo.com.  And then you can find the rest of my
stories at mimic117.freeservers.com/index.html.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Train Up A Man
by mimic117


Seeing him again brings it all back to me.  It's been twenty years
since we've laid eyes on each other, but I know it's him.  He looks
exactly the way I always thought he would as a man.  Slim, graceful,
with an air of confidence and self-assurance he didn't have back then.  
But the eyes are the same, and the mole is still there on his right
jaw, and that one lock of chestnut hair insists on hanging into his
eyes.  I'm glad he's finally grown into his nose.  It gives his face a
commanding presence to offset the spark of mischief lurking in his
eyes.  If a man can be called beautiful, then he certainly is.

I'm close enough to see those twinkling hazel orbs, but I doubt if he
notices me at all.  His attention is centered on the tiny redhead at
his side.  She barely reaches his shoulder, even wearing heels.  
They're talking, and his head is tilted down to hear her over the
traffic noise.  I want to move closer and listen to them.  I wonder if
his voice has matured along with the rest of him.  Twenty years ago,
it was already deep while still retaining the pitch and rhythm of
childhood.  I want to know how his voice sounds now.  But I'm loathe
to intrude into their private world. Anyone watching can see that
nothing exists for them except each other. There is an air of
exclusion that wraps around them like a cloak of invisibility.  It's
as if they can't see the world, so the world can't see or bother them.  
Even on a street corner, waiting at a hot-dog cart, they are a
universe of two.

I wonder if he ever thinks of that time.  Or me.

I'd never expected to be back on Martha's Vineyard that summer twenty
years ago.  Actually, I never figured on returning in this lifetime.  
I left home at the age of seventeen, hitchhiking across the country to
anywhere-but-here.  That turned out to be Las Vegas.  There was
something about the gaudy lights and the hustle-bustle of the casinos
that spoke to me on a basic level.  They said "Here's where the money
and the excitement is. You can be a part of it, too, if you want it
enough."  And I wanted it.  Bad enough to wash dishes, clean rest
rooms, and haul trash while I learned how to dance like a showgirl.  
Until the day I was finally hired to strut the stage dressed in little
more than flash, sparkle, and dreams.

And I loved it.  Everything about it.  The long days of practicing
routines, the constant dieting and exercise to keep in shape, the
almost non-existent costumes that left little to the imagination.  
There wasn't much time for personal relationships, between rehearsing
and working, but I hardly noticed the loneliness, I was so busy.  All
the affection I needed came from the audiences at the nightly shows,
where I could be part of something special that gave enjoyment to the
people watching.  I could have stayed there forever.

Too bad rheumatoid arthritis didn't see it my way.  Dancing is hard
work under the best of health.  Add in pain flare-ups and stiffening
joints already beginning to deform, and it becomes hell on earth.

Which is why I found myself back in North Tisbury that summer -- out
of the only job I'd ever wanted at the ripe old age of thirty.  I
probably should have gone somewhere warmer, just for the sake of my
joints.  But it so happened that my grandmother had passed away that
winter, leaving her house to my mother.  Mom and Dad had enough sense
to leave New England when they retired and head to Arizona.  When they
weren't home, they were too busy traveling to care much about putting
Gram's house on the market.  You never knew where they'd turn up next
with their motor home and their five Yorkshire terriers.  So we worked
out a deal.  I would stay on the Vineyard, getting the house ready to
sell and packing up Gram's things for them to sort through later.  
They would foot the bill for whatever needed to be done, plus room and
board.

That's how I met Fox Mulder.

A house as old as Gram's, surrounded by the salt and spray of the
ocean, is constantly in need of repair.  Only no one had touched it in
years.  Gram was well into her nineties when she died, with a nice
case of paranoid delusions thrown in.  The neighbors often didn't see
her for months at a time.  They didn't think anything of it as long as
the lights were turned on and off at the appropriate time of day.  In
nice weather, she could be seen planting flowers around the house,
which would grow and bloom unweeded, forming a straggly hedge to
screen her from the world.  My parents finally got in-home help when
Gram kept insisting that someone was stealing her food.  Since the
cupboards were jammed with cans and boxes, it seemed like a good idea
to have someone on hand to keep on eye on her.  It's a shame her
duties didn't include things like repairing ripped screens, broken
windows, and repainting.  All of that was left up to me.  And I
decided to delegate.

It was the second week of June before someone answered my notice on
the grocery store bulletin board asking for a seasonal handyman.  
Being summer, most of the young people were busy working in the
tourist trade, I guess. By that time, I'd managed to make some inroads
into Gram's sixty-year accumulation of detritus.  But there was no way
I would be climbing ladders and scraping siding with my joints the way
they were.  My one prayer was that I not end up having to hire a gimpy
retiree in worse shape than me.

Sometimes prayers are answered.

The voice on the phone was hesitant, not exactly shy -- more like
uncertain of its welcome.  He was wondering if I still needed someone
to do repairs. I couldn't tell if his voice was changing, or if it had
made it half way there and gotten stuck.  He sounded young to my more
mature ears.  But if he felt he was man enough for the job, who was I
to stand in his way?  The work needed to be done and I wasn't in any
shape to do it myself.  So I gave him the address and told him I'd be
home all day.

Watching him unfold his long frame from the beat-up Datsun hatchback
made me smile.  He looked like a spider climbing out of a thimble.  
Dark chestnut locks, gleaming in the sunshine of that late spring day,
fell across his forehead.  I walked out on the porch to meet him,
unable to remove the grin from my face.  When he reached the bottom of
the steps, he gave me a tentative smile in return.

"Fox Mulder," he announced, sticking out his hand.  "I called about
the repairs you need done."

Without the intervening phone lines, his voice was like water over
river rocks, with something thick and sweet flowing under the surface.  
His fingers engulfed my own, warm, dry, and firm to the touch.  He was
older than I'd anticipated -- obviously no longer a teenager, but not
quite a man yet, either.  When I looked into his eyes, I think I knew
even then that I was lost.

Age is such a relative concept.  The difference between forty years
old and fifty is no more than the span of ten years.  But the gap
between twenty and thirty might as well be a century for all the
imbalance in knowledge and experience.  Yet when I returned his gaze,
I saw a soul old beyond its years.  A man-child's face with eyes three
times his age, full of sadness, and regrets, and longing.  I was
struck with an overwhelming desire to soothe the aches and fill the
hollow places in his heart.

It's the only excuse I've ever found for what happened later, poor
though it is.  I only knew at the time that I'd do anything to keep
him with me.

"I'm Sherri," I said, releasing his hand.  "Why don't I give you the
home repair tour, and then you can decide whether or not to run
screaming from the yard?"

A full-fledged smile lit up his face, throwing the shadows from his
eyes. "If I decide to run, I hope I don't embarrass myself with a
girly scream."

"I promise not to tell anybody if you do."

We must have looked like a couple of baboons, standing there with
matching dopey grins on our faces.  I walked down the porch steps to
begin the tour, but somehow I already knew he'd decided to take the
job.

House repairs weren't the only things I needed help with.  Gram's
neighborhood had been built back when houses were spaced a civilized
distance apart, so there was a generous yard to mow.  Because no one
had been living in the house for so long, the grass was going to
require a pass with a scythe before a mower could even touch it.  I
pointed that out to Fox, then continued on with my catalog of repairs.  
He followed right at my heels, nodding his head and asking questions
when necessary, but otherwise silent and attentive while I indicated
drooping gutters, peeling paint, loose shingles, and so on.  By the
time we made it back around to the porch, I was feeling a bit
overwhelmed by everything that needed attention, and very much afraid
I'd just scared off my handyman.  I wanted him to stay so badly, it
was all I could do not to cross my fingers.

"I know it sounds like a lot of work," I hastened to explain, "but
I'll make a list so you can keep track, and then you'll be able to
mark things off as they get done and you'll see just how fast it will
go."

He waved a dismissive hand.  "Don't bother with the list.  I've got a
photographic memory.  I won't forget what needs to be done."

When I commented that it must be very handy being able to remember
everything, he snorted.  "Depends on what you want to forget."

Flustered by the sadness in his voice, I babbled on.  "I'll pay you a
good wage, by the hour, and I'll make you lunch and supper, if you
stay late as the days get longer.  If you ever need a day off to do
something with your friends or go somewhere -- "

Again the dismissive wave.  "No friends.  I've been gone for a while,
and the few I had went off somewhere else.  Throw in a constant supply
of iced tea, and I'm all yours for the summer."

I blew out a relieved breath I didn't know I was holding.

We shook on the deal and made arrangements for him to start work the
following day.  I watched him stride back to his car, long legs eating
up the distance in no time.  He folded himself into the driver's seat,
stuck a hand out the window in farewell, and drove off to the south.  
I attributed my feeling of giddiness to bright sunlight and went back
in the house to call my parents with the good news.

Fox and I fell into a routine very quickly.

He would arrive every morning by 9:00.  While I drank my cup of
coffee, we'd go over what he had planned for that day, creating an
inventory of supplies he would need at the same time.  If I didn't
already have something on hand, I would head out to the hardware store
after breakfast while he gathered the rest of the tools together and
got started.  He never insisted that I buy something unless it was
absolutely vital, often improvising with what was available.  
Eventually, he brought his grandfather's tools to use.  Fox told me
he'd helped with repairs around his grandparents' house from the time
he could hold a hammer, and had inherited the tools when his
grandfather died. I never had any doubt that Fox knew what he was
doing.  If the weather was nice, we would eat lunch outside under a
tree.  If it rained, he would work inside the house, replacing broken
glass, scraping and painting woodwork, and patching holes in the
plaster walls.

Meanwhile, I continued to sort through Gram's life history, packing
what I thought my mother might want and donating the rest to whoever
would haul it away.  Some days were better than others, but I tried to
put in at least a few hours before the fatigue hit.  Since the
arthritis had started in my feet and ankles, being able to sit and
work helped to keep me from aggravating the condition.  I was in the
preliminary stages at that time, but I wasn't anxious to see how far
it would progress.  With any luck, and the right medication, I could
expect to stand on my own two feet for the rest of my life.

Having Fox around the house would have been a welcome distraction at
any time, even without the stimulating conversations. I got the
impression early on that he was the quiet sort, but I found out that
only applied to his personal life.  Everything I knew about his
background I discovered later, when I pumped my parents for
information. Fox never spoke about his family in more than a general
way.  While he wasn't a depressing person to talk to, there was an
aura of sadness that surrounded him.  I sensed there were things he
preferred to forget, so we talked about everything else instead.  
Freud, Jung, Kierkegaard, and Nietzsche.  The laws of physics and the
nature of the universe.  Who was the greatest baseball player of all
time, and whether or not Bigfoot was real. It didn't surprise me to
discover that he was attending Oxford University. No other school
could have hoped to channel his curiosity.  There wasn't any subject
that didn't interest him.

I remember it was a hot summer that year, even for the Vineyard.  
Drought conditions were rampant on the mainland, temperatures soaring
well into the nineties all along the eastern seaboard.  Couple that
with the humidity of being on an island, and it was like living in a
sauna.  But that was fine with me.  The more heat, the better my
joints liked it.  I kept two pitchers of iced tea in the refrigerator,
and when one was gone, I'd refill it right away.  Fox usually had the
first one emptied by lunchtime and the second before supper.  When the
days grew longer, he took to eating both meals with me, and working
until dark.  The turning point in our relationship came on one of the
hottest days.

I'd decided to wash my car.  We hadn't had rain in a couple weeks and
dust coated everything outdoors.  Cleaning my car seemed like an easy
way to brighten up the landscape.  I would have done Fox's car, too,
except it looked like the rust might be the only thing holding it
together.  Any car that isn't in a garage on an island ends up
corroding from the outside in. His was no exception.  We joked about
it as I filled the scrub bucket and gathered my rags.  He'd appeared a
lot happier in the three weeks he'd been working for me, smiling more
often and even chuckling on occasion.  I found out he had a wonderful,
dry sense of humor that tended to catch me unawares. I hadn't laughed
so much in months.

I must have been really absorbed in rinsing off every last speck of
suds, because I never saw Fox climb down the ladder and walk up on the
other side of the car.

The startle reflex is strong when you're thirty.  From the way his
shoulders hunched up to his ears, I knew the water was really cold.  
It was hitting him in the upper chest, spray bouncing into his
scrunched up face.  I was so surprised, I forgot to release the hose
trigger for several seconds. Appalled, I gasped, and automatically
raised a hand to cover my mouth. Unfortunately, the hose was still in
it.  The shock of cold water in my face caused me to finally let go.  
In the silence, you could hear water drops plinking onto the ground
and car.

I could feel a laugh start to bubble out of my throat.  Looking at Fox
through the hair stuck to my face, I was going to share it with him,
maybe get him to join me.  But the laughter evaporated when I saw the
blazing heat in his eyes.  They seemed to glow from within as he raked
me with his gaze. Chatting together day after day, I tended to forget
that he was a male animal, with all the urges and instincts intact.  
I'd never seen him look at me that way.  But then I'd never been
standing in front of him with a soaking wet t-shirt stuck to my
breasts before.  To say that I am well-developed would be the polite
way of putting it.  That was one of the factors in my success in
Vegas.  Large and firm is better than small and saggy when all you're
wearing is pasties with tassels.  And even if your nipples got hard,
the pasties covered them up.  A thin t-shirt doesn't conceal anything.  
The naked desire in his eyes stirred something inside me that totally
ignored our age difference.

My gaze traveled across his body of its own accord, although not
entirely without my permission.  I hadn't seen him without a shirt on,
so the layers of muscle beneath the wet cloth were a pleasant
surprise.  I knew he was a swimmer -- one of the few personal subjects
we'd ever discussed.  It was evident in the breadth of his chest and
shoulders.  My eyes skimmed down his flat abdomen to the waistband of
his jeans.  A firm ridge had developed under the denim to the left of
his zipper -- not a surprise at all.  It took every ounce of my will
power to move my gaze back up his body.  When I returned to his face,
the fire in his eyes was banked, hidden behind a smile.

"That was refreshing."  He chuckled, turning his back to me.  "Want to
do the other side?"

It took me a few seconds to comprehend his meaning.  Fox was giving me
a chance to catch my breath.  The tension in the air wasn't gone; just
toned down for the moment.  In gratitude, I picked up the hose and
sprayed him in the back.

He let out a whoop.  Shaking his head like a dog, he called out
"Thanks!" and went back up the ladder.  I watched the wet denim mold
itself to his ass and thighs as he climbed.  Fox wasn't a child.  He
was a man, albeit a young one, and all of my senses were very aware of
his maleness.  Tearing my gaze away from the clench and pull of his
muscles, I went into the house to make supper.

I knew what was going to happen, as surely as if I'd seen it on a
movie screen. That beautiful man-child was going to screw my brains
out.  Maybe not right now.  Maybe not even this week.  But soon.  And
I didn't mind the idea one bit.  The thought that I was old enough to
be his elder sister never crossed my mind.  He wanted me.  I'd seen it
in his eyes, and in his body's reaction to mine.  Fox was old enough
to know his own mind.  He wasn't a child any longer.  He was old
enough to vote, to drive, and even to die in service to his country if
called to do so.  I didn't think for one minute that he was still a
virgin.  He'd been on his own overseas for two years already.  All of
the girls in Britain couldn't have been blind.  And he'd mentioned a
couple names, in idle conversation, that caused him to blush.  I was
confident that I wasn't his first, nor would I be his last. But he
could be mine for the here and now.  I wanted to experience the fire
I'd witnessed in his eyes, up close and personal.

Looking down at the table, I realized that my hands had managed to put
together a meal without my brain participating.  Two plates sat in
front of me, sandwiches, pickles, and potato chips all neatly laid
out.  Glasses of iced tea sweated onto the place mats.  The odd
scheduling of the late-night entertainment business had kept me from
learning much about cooking.  But I could make a mean sandwich.  
Smiling to myself, I went back outside to call in my hired help.

Fox was standing halfway up the ladder doing an odd little dance.  
First he stuck his right leg out to the side and gave it a shake.  
Then he brought it back to the ladder, did a half-squat while hanging
onto a rung, then stuck the left leg out and repeated the process.  
When he grimaced and wiggled his ass, I had to laugh.

"What on earth are you doing?" I asked.  "Did you get a bug down your
briefs or something?"

I got a sheepish grin in return.  "Boxers tend to chafe when they get
wet. I was trying to rearrange the wrinkles."

"Well, get your wrinkles down here," I instructed.  "Food's on the
table. There's some old sweats of my granddad's still in the dresser
upstairs.  You can change and hang your wet things on the clothesline
while you eat. They'll probably be dry before you finish lunch."

He descended the ladder.  Once on the ground, Fox reached over his
head, grasped the fabric at his shoulders, and hauled his shirt
forward and down his arms.  Just the sight of his smooth skin, with a
mat of fine hairs near his throat, caused a rush of dampness into my
shorts.  He stood there and let me stare.  I knew he was aware of my
scrutiny, because his stomach muscles twitched when my gaze lingered
over the thin line of hair that disappeared into his jeans.  Time
seemed to slow as I mapped the planes and valleys of his firm, young
body.  Manual labor had defined his biceps and forearms.  His jeans
hung low on slim hips, showcasing the crease at the top of each thigh.  
I mentally extended those shadowy paths to their ultimate convergence.  
The ridge next to his zipper was back, thickening as I watched.  
Swallowing was impossible without any moisture in my mouth. Pulling my
gaze back to his face, I found the fire in his eyes blazing as
brightly as before.  I struggled to bring my breathing under control.

My voice came out in a croak.  "I'll get those sweats."  Turning, I
felt his eyes on my back as I went inside.

Upstairs, I stood in my grandparents' bedroom and regarded my own
reflection in the mirror.  Staring back was a woman I hardly
recognized.  Her face was flushed and shimmering with moisture.  A
long braid of hair hung over one shoulder, and blonde wisps wreathed
her face, creating a halo effect in the early evening light from the
window.  Her breasts heaved with the effort of drawing slow breaths,
nipples tightened into obvious points under thin cotton.  And her eyes
shone with the knowledge that her previous timeline for a certain
event was way off track.

The sound of the porch door closing cut into my self-absorption.  
Pulling a pair of sweat pants out of the dresser, I headed down the
stairs.  Stepping off the bottom tread, I ran into Fox, half naked,
coming around the kitchen door.  He grabbed my upper arms to steady
me.  We stayed like that for several long seconds, just staring at
each other in astonishment.  I saw his chest slowly expand and
compress on a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. The realization hit
me right in the gut -- he was smelling me.  He was pulling the aroma
surrounding us into his lungs: the wet clothes, sweat-damp skin, the
tang of arousal.  His eyes darkened, each iris becoming a thin ring of
hazel around a black pool of desire.  That knowledge sent a fresh wave
of moisture into my shorts.  Now, even I could smell our lust.  Fox
breathed deeply one more time before pulling me to his naked chest and
fusing his lips to mine.  The sweat pants dropped to the floor as my
arms wrapped around his shoulders.

I've never been kissed with such carnality before.  Lips, teeth, and
tongue so out of control I could only hold on and go along for the
ride.  His hands weren't hanging limp at his sides, either.  Long
fingers groped and massaged me everywhere.  One hand burrowed under my
shirt to palm the sides of my breasts where they were pressed against
his chest.  The other ran down my hip and around to cup my aching sex.  
He moaned into my mouth when he discovered the sodden state of my
shorts.

My own hands weren't idle, either. I plucked and kneaded the muscles
in his shoulders as they rippled under my touch.  His skin was damp,
cool, and yet hot at the same time.  Snaking one hand down the slope
of his spine, I plunged my fingers as far as they would go beneath his
waistband.  The muscles of his ass clenched in a rhythmic pattern
beneath my hand.  There was no need to wonder what he wanted -- I
could feel his hard length digging into my lower abdomen as he ground
his hips against me.

I drew back to catch my breath.  We stared into each other's eyes,
probably with the same look of startled awe.  We traded moist puffs of
breath, hands still mapping trails everywhere we could reach.  I felt
his fingers smooth up the backs of my thighs, right under the edge of
my jersey shorts, until they cupped my ass with his warm flesh.  The
circling of his hips ceased, body going still as he gasped.

Ten years of wearing almost nothing during working hours had given me
a dislike of underwear.  They restricted my movements and left my skin
feeling smothered.  I rarely thought about it one way or the other
anymore, unless a particular garment demanded some type of foundation.  
Fox had already seen my bra-less state -- hard to hide under a wet
t-shirt.  He'd now discovered I didn't wear any underwear at all.

That's when carnal turned incendiary.

Planting his hands under my ass, Fox hoisted me off me feet.  My legs
wound around his waist of their own volition.  Turning to one side, he
slammed my back against the wall next to the stairs.  If it hurt, I
didn't notice. Only his fingers registered -- fumbling the crotch of
my shorts to one side, trying to create a point of access.  Reaching
between us, I popped the button on his jeans.  Pulling the zipper down
caused him to growl in my ear. I managed to push his jeans and boxers
down just far enough to liberate him from their confines.  He felt
like heated steel in my hands.  I wanted to look at him, to admire the
strength and beauty of him.  But Fox had finally managed to gain his
desired access.  He pushed into me, sheathing himself with one slow
thrust.

I'd never had sex while fully clothed before.  I could feel the teeth
of his zipper digging into the backs of my thighs; fingers clutching
my ass as his hips drove me up against the wall again and again; the
slick skin of his shoulders under my grasping hands; his gasping moans
and groans that matched my own.  And always, the feel of his hard
length driving in and out of my body.

Fox's keening cry of release sounded much too soon.  Luckily, coupled
with the feeling of him bathing my insides with warmth, it was enough
to send my own wail of bliss flying upward.  The pulsing behind my
eyelids died down as we clung to each other, regaining our breath and
balance.  When I pushed on his chest, Fox lowered my feet to the
floor.  He slipped out as my body reluctantly released its grip on
him.  I could already feel a sticky trail of our combined fluids
dribbling down my thighs.  He backed away from me a step, chest still
heaving, and tucked himself into his jeans.  I could see questions in
his eyes, waiting to be asked.  But when he opened his mouth to speak,
I hushed him with my fingers on his lips.

"I'm feeling a bit sticky," I said.  "How about we clean up in the
shower before we talk?"

Grinning, he allowed me to lead him upstairs by the hand.

The shower would have felt relaxing if we hadn't been in it together.  
There is nothing more erotic than the first time you see a new lover
naked. Exploring the unique landscape of his body with lips, eyes, and
fingers is a sensory experience that can never be accurately
duplicated.  Having the chance to touch and be touched was not a big
inducement toward relaxation. When I'd finally undressed him
completely, I discovered that Fox was still half hard.  It seemed a
shame to waste such a wonderful opportunity, so I lost no time in
demonstrating what other things can be done with soap.  I've always
loved sex in the shower.

One thing you can say for a man under the age of twenty-five: he'll
give you good, hard sex, and plenty of it.  What young men lack in
staying power, they more than make up for in enthusiasm and recovery
time.  I'd met guys in Vegas who would have paid good money for Fox's
ability to regroup in short order.  Still, he reminded me too much of
my first boyfriend when it came to romance.  With him, it was "wham,
bam, thank you ma'am, sorry about the mess."  From our many
conversations, I knew Fox was capable of better.  He was intuitive,
curious, sensitive, with a great sense of humor.  I felt that if I
could slow him down, help him to see how those attributes were best
put to use, the end result would be a man capable of loving a woman
with more than just his body.  It wouldn't be easy without
degenerating into schoolmarm instruction, but I figured I had a whole
summer to try.

We didn't talk that day until much later.  After our shower, we fell
onto the bed, exhausted.  Naked bodies tangled together, I cradled his
head on my breasts as we both succumbed to the sleep of the sexually
sated.  Twilight was painting purples and oranges across the room when
we finally woke up.  I found Fox nuzzling the underside of my right
breast, making little growling noises, when I came back to
consciousness.  I might have been tempted to pick up where we left
off, if his stomach hadn't chosen that moment to let out a growl of
its own.  I burst out laughing.

"We'd better feed that thing before it hurts someone."  I chuckled,
and walked over to the dresser.  Opening the drawer, I pulled out
another pair of sweat pants, since the first pair was now lying on the
floor somewhere downstairs.  I tossed the pants at the bed, where Fox
reached out a long arm to catch them without diverting his gaze from
my naked body.  The blatant admiration in his eyes made me feel
suddenly shy -- something I'd never felt in my entire life.

"You're so beautiful, Sherri," he murmured.  "I just want to lay here
and look at you all night."

"That's really sweet," I replied, "but you're going to need to eat at
some point if you don't want to pass out from hunger."

A predatory grin turned up the corners of his mouth.  "Supper isn't
what I'm hungry for right now."

I was powerless to stop the blush that heated my face.  Looking at him
stretched out on the bed, gloriously nude, it was obvious to me what
he wanted.  I would have liked nothing better than to satisfy his
craving.  But if I planned to turn him into a more sensitive lover,
patience was a necessary first lesson.  For both of us.

"The libido can't keep up its strength if the body is weak.  I think
we're going to need as much energy as we can get."  Grasping his hand,
I pulled Fox into a standing position next to me.  His arms wrapped
around my waist before I could step away, crushing our bodies
together.

"Promise we can do this again, or I'll go on a hunger strike."  His
voice was mock-ferocious, but I could see the pleading in his eyes.  
When I gave him my own feral grin, Fox let out a deep sigh of relief.

"I have no intention of letting you get away from me now," I growled.  
"Good in bed and can hang gutters, too?  Your ass is mine for the
whole summer. Remember?"

After one scorching kiss, which I reluctantly ended, we got dressed
and headed downstairs for a late supper.  Of course, the food I'd
already prepared wasn't edible any longer.  The sandwiches were dried
out, the pickles limp, and the chips had gone stale in the hot, humid
air.  I considered the loss to be an equitable trade for what I'd
gained in return. We prepared a fresh meal together, including extra
sandwiches to offset the usual post-sex hunger pangs.

Fox didn't have much to say until he was halfway through his second
helping. I knew what was going to come out of his mouth even before he
opened it.

"Sherri, today was absolutely amazing.  I just wanted you to know that
I love -- "

"No, Fox," I interrupted.

"No what?"

"You don't love me," I replied in a firm voice.  "Any more than I love
you. We both know that."

Fox chewed his lower lip for a few minutes, indecision wrinkling his
forehead.  "What makes you think I don't?"

"Because we haven't known each other long enough for what we feel to
be love. You need to know the one you love almost as well as you know
yourself. And that can't happen in three weeks.  That doesn't mean
what we feel isn't important, though."

I could see the confusion still painting his face.  He was chewing his
lip so hard I worried he'd do permanent damage.  And I had lots of
plans for that lip.  It wasn't going to be easy to explain my meaning,
considering that I wasn't convinced of my own reasoning yet.

"Look, I don't believe in love at first sight.  Mutual attraction and
desire, yes.  I was attracted to you from the first time I saw you.  
But love takes longer than a few weeks.  You're still young enough to
believe society's rule that if you're attracted to someone, you must
love them.  But that isn't always true, is it?  Haven't you ever
thought you were deeply in love, only to have that feeling grow less
strong over time, until it disappeared altogether?"

Fox nodded, the doubt in his eyes lessening as he listened.

"Just because we're not 'in love,' that doesn't mean we can't derive
pleasure from each other," I continued.  "I care for you very much.  
Not just because you're a beautiful man, but for all the wondrous
things you reveal to me with your mind.  I'd like to spend the rest of
this summer getting to know you better in every way I can.  But if you
don't think you can do this without the commitment of 'being in love,'
then we have to stop right now.  Because I refuse to hurt either of us
for something as selfish as sex."

Fox sighed, but at least he stopped mangling his lip.  "I really
wasn't planning for something like this to happen," he said.  "I feel
like I should apologize for letting my hormones get the better of my
judgment.  But I can't say I'm sorry without lying.  And it sure
seemed to me that you were enjoying yourself, so I guess I don't have
to feel guilty.  I just can't seem to get past this need to tie it all
up with a bow of happily-ever-after-forever.  Maybe I'm looking for a
good excuse to want you without coming across like a sex-crazed
maniac."

His rueful grin made me laugh, which caused the grin to bloom into a
full-fledged smile.  Reaching across the table, I folded his hand
between mine and stared earnestly into his trusting eyes.

"I won't promise you forever.  You're too young to be thinking in
those terms with a woman my age.  When you find yourself attracted to
a girl closer to your own, you'll feel bound to me for all the wrong
reasons.  I don't want you to pass up a chance to experience more of
life while you're still young.  So I won't promise you anything beyond
right now, though I will promise to be your friend."  Bringing his
hand to my lips, I kissed the backs of his fingers one by one, never
breaking eye contact.  "I didn't plan for this to happen, either.  My
to-do list didn't have 'screw the handyman' at the top.  But if I
could go back to yesterday, I still wouldn't change anything.  I've
been alone for a long time.  I think you have, too.  What is wrong
with a friend easing some of that loneliness?"

We sat without moving for a few moments.  When Fox finally stood, I
assumed he was getting ready to go home.  Instead, he tugged on my
hands until I was standing as well.  Then he led me back up the stairs
in silence, the warmth of his gaze promising passion to still be
discovered.

We took our time undressing each other, but I could tell that Fox's
goal was to pound me into the mattress.  I had to keep slowing him
down, forcing him to savor the moment.  It was a losing battle.  To
forestall his enthusiastic attack, I took the upper hand.  Literally.  
Pushing him backwards onto the bed, I proceeded to touch and kiss him
everywhere but the one place he wanted it most.  Starting with his
face, I pecked my lips on his eyes, nose, cheek, jaw, and mouth --
never stopping in one spot for long.  By the time I reached his chin,
he was already moaning. Still sprinkling kisses, I moved to his neck,
shoulders, biceps, elbow creases... even his underarms.  There are
more erogenous zones on a person's body than most of us use over a
lifetime.  I wanted Fox to see that even the most unlikely places can
produce pleasure with the right stimulation.  I suspected that he'd
never given his girlfriends a chance to show any interest in his
nipples, so I paid them special attention.  His loud gasp as I rasped
my teeth over the first one was very gratifying.  He tensed when I
switched to the second, so I suckled that one instead.  Fox really had
the sexiest groan.  I was determined to make him repeat that sound as
many times as I could.

I must have spent a good twenty minutes exploring every inch of his
skin without ever touching his penis, even though it pleaded for my
attention. Once I was done with his torso, I skirted around his groin
and went straight for the inner thighs.  Then I worked my way down one
leg, paying special attention to his long feet, and back up the other
leg.  By that time, Fox was becoming frantic.  His fists clutched
handfuls of the sheets while his hips gyrated in a desperate dance,
begging for any contact at all.  The wild look in his eyes told me
that he wouldn't last long if I so much as touched his straining
erection.  So I took him in my mouth, instead.

He sucked in a huge gulp of air and thrust his hips toward me.  I
didn't bother engulfing his whole length, concentrating instead on the
nerves directly under the head of his penis.  I'd only managed to
swirl my tongue twice before I felt him swell against my lips.  His
gulp of air expelled in a howl as his back arched off the bed.  Head
thrashing from side to side, eyes squeezed shut, Fox poured everything
he had into my waiting mouth.  I swallowed as much as I could manage,
but young men are quantity producers. I doubt if he minded what
dribbled back onto his stomach because I don't think he ever noticed.

As his groans quieted down, I retrieved a washcloth from the bathroom
and wiped up his leftovers, delighting in the shudders that still
wracked his body.  When I climbed back onto the bed, he rolled onto
his side, wrapping shaky arms around me.  We stayed that way for a
long while, sweat-slick skin twined together as his breathing calmed.  
I could feel irregular puffs of air where his lips rested against my
neck.  The little breaths formed into words until I could hear him
repeating "oh my god" over and over again.  I don't think any of his
girlfriends had ever done *that* to him, either.

Fox fell asleep in a few minutes, so I held him and let him rest.  
Some part of me questioned if I was doing the right thing.  While I'd
had my share of casual encounters, I'd never set out to seduce anyone
before, least of all an almost-child ten years my junior.  Even though
that hadn't been my intention when I'd hired Fox, a small tickle at
the back of my mind condemned me for my wanton behavior -- calling me
slut, harlot, whore, taking advantage of someone less experienced.  I
let another part of my mind shout it down with the rationale that we
needed each other.  That I would take special care not to hurt him.  
That we would both be happier for having this time together.  I've
wondered for years if I should have listened to the smaller,
puritanical voice instead.

When he woke up, it was obvious Fox had every intention of repaying
the enjoyment he'd experienced.  I gently deflected all his attempts,
wanting him to see that it was all right to give without receiving.  
Instead, I got his dry clothes off the line and sent him home.  I know
he was disappointed, but waking up in someone's arms implies a
permanent commitment to that person -- something we agreed had no
place in our relationship at this time. I would always insist that he
go home to sleep, no matter how late it was.

That night marked the beginning of Fox's secret apprenticeship in how
to pleasure a woman. And every lesson was a delight.

We fell into a new routine after that day.

Fox continued to arrive at 9:00 every morning.  Instead of discussing
the day's work over a cup of coffee, I was more likely to get the legs
kissed out from underneath me before a single word was said.  
Sometimes I would let him persuade me to abandon home repairs for an
hour or so.  Other times he'd just lay me on the kitchen table and
take me, hard and fast.  I didn't mind either way.  There were even
days when we did nothing but talk and work. Those were good, too.  I
always enjoyed spending time with Fox, no matter what we were doing.  
Of course, if it rained, we had a perfect excuse to lie in bed and
drive each other wild with lust.  It didn't rain nearly enough that
summer, as far as I was concerned.

During the day, there was still work to be done.  Most of the time we
were able to keep our hands off each other, but Fox delighted in
ambushing me when I least expected it.  He took advantage of my
panty-less state on a regular basis; pouncing on me at unexpected
moments, shifting our clothing just enough so he could impale himself
in my waiting heat.  Once, he caught me in one of the bedrooms, bent
over an open drawer in the low triple-dresser.  When I stood up and
looked in the mirror, he was right behind me, eyes glittering like
smooth onyx.  I found myself bent over again -- this time on top of
the long dresser, facing the mirror.  It only took Fox a few seconds
before he was sliding into me from behind, head thrown back, eyes
closed in ecstasy.  I watched him in the mirror, savoring the feeling
of being filled by him as his hips pumped languidly.  When his eyes
drifted open, our gazes caught in the mirror.  This was different from
sex face to face.  As though I was watching two strangers from a
distance. It was sensual, forbidden, and sexy as hell.  Grabbing a
fistful of hair, he pulled my head back as his thrusts picked up
speed, a feral grin spread across his face.  I couldn't avoid watching
our reflection, even if I'd wanted to.  Fox growled as he slammed me
against the dresser again and again.  I remember thinking that it was
a good thing Granddad fastened the mirror to the wall as it vibrated
with every surge of Fox's hips.  For the first time, we climaxed
together, gazes still locked.  After that, I made certain we played
naked in front of the mirror on a regular basis.

After a couple of weeks, I realized that I wasn't the only one sans
undies. The first clue was the button-fly jeans.  There is something
very erotic about knowing there's nothing but a single layer of cloth
between you and the man you're talking to.  I never told Fox that I'd
noticed, but I made sure he knew I appreciated it.  My favorite form
of thanks was to stand very close while we discussed something serious
-- like which shingles needed replacing -- and unbutton the middle of
his fly so I could wiggle my hand inside.  I would wrap my fingers
around his width, firmly massaging his stiffening flesh.  Watching his
eyes roll back into his head in the middle of a sentence was a
wonderful reward.

In the evenings, Fox would work for a few hours after supper, but once
the sun started to set, he'd wash up and join me on the sofa in front
of the television.  Often, I would join him in the shower first.  He
was so vigorous in his enjoyment of sex in the bath, I decided to
replace the old tub before it collapsed from the abuse.  Other than
sex, subjects like politics, the military, and crime held the most
fascination for him, so we usually ended up watching news programs
unless there was an old science fiction movie on.  He didn't have much
patience with situation comedies, and the running commentary he'd
produce for the news was more entertaining than any sitcom showing.  
I'd never discussed my arthritis with him to any great extent, but Fox
seemed to know when I was having a pain flare-up.  He would pull my
feet onto his lap, without comment, and wrap his big hands around my
aching bones.  The heat from his skin was enough to ease the pain,
while his droll sense of humor produced healing laughter that helped
me to forget my aches for a while.

Many times, the news couldn't hold our attention for very long, and we
would make our way upstairs.  Those were the nights when I continued
my special tutoring.  We experimented with a little of everything
together.  He was eager for any new experience, so I tried to give him
as much variety as possible.  But always, the emphasis was on drawing
out the enjoyment before seeking release.  Every suggestion I made, no
matter how small, he followed and remembered the next time.  It amazed
me how quickly he realized the benefits of going slowly, giving your
lover as much pleasure as possible. My breasts held an endless
fascination for him -- as soon as my shirt came off, his hands would
gravitate to them as though magnetized.  Most men seem to consider a
breast in the same light as a dog's rag toy -- something to be bitten,
shaken, growled over, and mangled.  Fox learned very early that the
reward for slow, gentle, and sensual far outweighed any delay in
gratification.  During the day, he would revert back to caveman mode,
but that was okay.  Slow and sensual is a wonderful thing, but who
wouldn't also enjoy being rammed from behind while bent over a
vibrating washing machine? That was one of my favorite sneak attacks.

Fox was a very tactile person.  It wasn't long before I saw a definite
increase in his need to touch me, not just during sex, but all the
time.  He would touch my face, hand, or shoulder whenever I was within
arm's reach. He especially liked to play with my waist-length hair.  
If it was braided, he would tug it as he walked by, or pretend it was
a leash to lead me around.  When I let it hang loose, his fingers
would tangle the strands together, then unsnarl them again.  It
happened so often, I didn't think anything of it when he stopped
behind my chair while passing through the kitchen one day.  While I
read aloud a news story out of the paper, he stood there and gathered
my hair up by the handful, let it trickle through his fingers, then
gathered it together again.  The article was a lengthy one about a
plane that had disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle.  I was nearly
finished reading when I realized that Fox was bumping my chair,
moaning and panting, rather than listening with his usual interest.  
Reaching behind my head, I encountered the familiar length of his
hard, naked flesh, sliding through his hair-filled fist as he butted
his thighs against my chair.  The noises he was producing told me he
wasn't far from oblivion.  Rather than suffer the consequences of his
personal creme rinse, I turned around, disentangled my hair from his
skin, and deep-throated him.  I didn't have to worry about gagging --
he only lasted for a few thrusts, shooting into my mouth with a hoarse
shout.  Rubbing my hair all over his body became a special feature of
several evenings.

One of my few vices, nurtured in spite of a need to maintain my weight
while dancing, was sunflower seeds in the shell.  Even now, I always
have some on hand.  Fox had often seen me chewing on them.  His first
lesson in giving head was triggered by sunflower seeds and a simple
question.

"How do you do that, Sherri?"

Spitting a seed shell into my hand, I looked at him over the box of
books I was packing.  "Do what?"

"I just saw you put several sunflower seeds into your mouth with the
shells still intact.  But now you're spitting out the empty shells one
at a time, and you didn't crack them open first.  What is your tongue
doing in there?"

"Gymnastics," I replied.  Taking one seed, I held it up for his
scrutiny. When he nodded, I popped it into my mouth, mumbling around
the tiny husk as I tried to talk and shell the seed at the same time.  
It took a bit longer than usual, but I finally spit the empty husk
into my palm, to the sound of appreciative applause.

"Can you teach me to do that?" Fox asked.

I handed him a few seeds and provided another demonstration.  It was
hard not to choke on my own seeds while he made exaggerated faces in
an attempt to mimic me.  He caught on to it just as quickly as
everything else I'd shown him.  It only took a small handful of seeds
before he was spitting out shells faster than me.  This time, I
furnished the applause.

"That's a very handy skill, you know," I teased.  "I'll bet your
girlfriends loved having such a nimble tongue between their legs."

I was surprised to see a dark blush crawl up his face.  It had been
many weeks since I'd caused that reaction.  Usually, he flushed from
arousal, not embarrassment.  But this time he stared down at his feet,
chewed on his lip, and was clearly uncomfortable.  When I asked what
was bothering him, Fox shrugged.

"I've never done... that... before," he mumbled.  "The only girl I
ever tried it with totally freaked.  She said it was gross and nasty.  
We never had sex except in the missionary position in the dark.  I
thought all girls felt the same way."

He was stripped of that idea just as soon as I could drag him up the
stairs. The first step was into the shower.  Knowing how teenagers are
about personal hygiene, I thought maybe that's why Fox's girlfriend
was turned off by the idea.  We washed each other, as usual, but this
time he seemed to really concentrate on the area between my legs.  He
was ready to go down on me right there in the shower spray, and I
would have let him if I'd been sure he wouldn't drown in his
enthusiasm.  Instead, we dried each other off, again being very
thorough in certain areas, and retreated to the bedroom.

For a lot of men, oral sex consists of a couple swipes up the labia, a
desperate "Are you wet yet?" and then the plunge.  I was determined to
teach this man differently.  When it looked like he was going to dive
into me as though I were a swimming pool, I insisted we sit and touch
first.  While the feeling of my fingers on his body ratcheted up the
level of arousal, it also calmed both of us in other ways.  From
touching we moved to gentle kissing, then lying down and holding each
other.  After about ten minutes, we were able to continue.  I decided
to have Fox lay on his back, while I faced his feet with my knees on
either side of his head.  It could become a tricky position if I
didn't control my own reactions.  But I felt it would give him a
better command of the situation, as well as leaving me free to touch
him. The first few licks were tentative, but by paying attention to my
responses, he soon got the hang of it.  I loved the way he alternated
between licking and flicking, sometimes using the flat of his tongue
like a brush, other times snapping me with just the tip.  He hummed
and moaned, letting me know that he was deriving as much enjoyment
from his actions as I was.  The turgid hard-on in front of me would
have been proof enough.  I hadn't been idle, either, running my hands
over his chest and stomach, pinching his nipples, petting and stroking
his rigid flesh.  When Fox brought his long fingers into play, I knew
I was going to come and decided to take him with me.  Bending at the
hips, breasts brushing his stomach, I engulfed his shaft.  He let out
one wail, then clamped his lips over my throbbing bundle of nerves as
he came.  My body pulsed in time to the jets of salty, hot liquid
filling my mouth.  I could hear someone whimpering, but I didn't know
if it was me or him.  When I came back to awareness, I was lying
upside-down on Fox's sweaty body and he was half asleep.

We tried other positions at different times, but I think that first
one remained his favorite.

Over the course of the summer, we toyed with blindfolds (but not
bondage); painted each other with chocolate sauce and took our time
licking it off; traded massages with scented body oils I'd ordered
through the mail.  Those strong hands could work wonders on aching
muscles.  I also introduced Fox to the magic of anal sex.  His
enjoyment of that particular activity surprised me.  I'd never met a
man who liked being touched anywhere behind his balls. But Fox reveled
in it.  Fingers or tongue, anal stimulation was guaranteed to produce
an explosive orgasm in no time.  I think the first time I inserted a
finger into his ass while he was inside me was a total shock to him.  
He liked having me on top -- the better to see and touch my breasts.
That day, I asked him to raise his knees and put his feet flat on the
bed. Not only did that drive him deeper, but I was able to reach back
and caress his thighs and balls, something that always made his
movements speed up.  I was also able to slick one finger with our
combined fluids before I slid it into his ass up to the first knuckle.  
His mouth dropped open, his eyes glazed over, and he came immediately,
too stunned to do more than gasp.  I never allowed him to penetrate me
anally.  Not because he was too big -- he was just too enthusiastic.  
Painless anal sex takes preparation and a patience he didn't possess
yet.  Still, I loved to have him take me from behind, penis thrusting
into one opening, a long finger sliding in and out of the other.  Fox
wasn't the only one having explosive orgasms.

When you're twenty years old, summer lasts forever.  There's more than
enough time to do everything you want, until the day before the real
world rushes back in.  Once you've reached thirty, you know how finite
time really is.  Still, I became an expert at ignoring any and all
signs that the summer was drawing to a close.  My brain refused to
accept Fox's weekly countdown. I would nod and promptly forget how
long we had left.  It was nearly the end of September, with
temperatures twenty to thirty degrees colder than when we'd first met,
that Fox informed me in hushed tones of his imminent departure.  His
work for me was finished, and so was the summer.  Tomorrow he would
pack and then return to England the next day.  The words hit me like a
physical blow.  He was really leaving.  It seemed like such a short
time ago that I watched him untangle his long limbs from his car and
stride up to my porch.  Now it was time for my constant companion, my
delight and my solace to go away.  I knew in my heart that I didn't
really love him -- so why did it hurt so much to say goodbye?

Long fingers brushed my cheek, wiping away tears I hadn't known were
there.

"Don't cry, Sherri," Fox whispered.  "It's not like I won't be back.  
I'll send you my address when I get settled in, and I'll come to see
you next time I'm home."

I nodded and tried to smile.  "I'll watch the newspapers for your
name.  If I ever see a headline screaming 'Bigfoot Captured!' I'll
know it was you."

He gave me a wavery grin in return.  "You do that, because I'll find
him one day.  I just know I will."

Brushing the tears from his face as well, I wrapped my arms around his
waist and breathed in his familiar, comforting scent.  That night was
the last time we made love.  Not raw, primal fornication, but the
sweet, gentle conjoining of two people who care deeply for each other.  
Afterward, I held him in my arms as he slept, dreading the moment when
he would awake and have to leave.

Of course, he never did contact me again.  I tried to keep in touch,
but when I mailed him a card for his twenty-first birthday the
following month, it was returned as undeliverable.  He never sent me
his address when he returned to England, so "c/o Oxford University,
Great Britain" must have been too little information.  I comforted
myself with the fact that I didn't love him.  Still, I missed him very
much for several months.  I would read something in the newspaper and
think "I have to tell Fox that."  Or I'd watch the news and wonder
what comments he would make.  The feeling of bereavement was much
stronger than I'd expected.  It took me a long time to stop missing
him.

Fox didn't come home the following summer.  If he tried to contact me
at some point after that, I didn't know about it because I'd moved on
after Gram's house finally sold.  I liked to reassure myself that he
didn't need me anymore by then.

I ended up down in Florida, where the moist heat soothed my twisted
joints. I was luckier than most -- the arthritis stabilized after a
few years and never got much worse.  I found a good orthopedic doctor
-- and married him. He was a sweet, sensitive man who thought the
world of me.  The fact that he was tall and slender, with dark hair,
was just a happy coincidence.  I loved him very much for the thirteen
years we had together.  I've always been glad I didn't tell him about
Fox.

Since I'd never made close friends on the Vineyard, I heard nothing
more about my beautiful Fox.  I thought about him every now and then
over the years, hoping that he was happy and prosperous, perhaps with
a wife and family to make up for some of his early loss.

And then without any warning, one day, there he is.  A whim that
brought me to a city I'd never visited before, just a quick stop while
passing through, gave me the answer to a question I'd been asking for
a long time.  The serendipity of it is mind-boggling.  It makes me
wonder if there really is a higher power directing our lives.  If not,
then the odds that allowed me to be in this particular spot on this
particular day at this particular time must have been astronomical in
proportion.  I don't think fate is usually quite that accurate or
generous with us insignificant human specks.

I've been standing to one side of them for quite some time now,
pretending that I'm waiting for my turn at the hot-dog cart.  
Actually, I'm drinking in the sight of someone I never thought I'd see
again.  He looks well.  Even happy, if his frequent grins at his
companion are any indication.  I wonder what type of work he does.  A
suit and tie in a place like Washington DC are as common as overalls
in Wisconsin or parkas in Alaska.  Or spangles in Las Vegas.  Maybe
they're partners in a law firm.  Perhaps he got that psychology degree
and has his own practice.  She might be his receptionist, although she
doesn't really look like one in her stylish power suit.  Or maybe they
were just passing through, too.  I guess I'll never know for sure.  
All I do know, is that he seems to have lost the cloud of sadness that
was part of him all those years ago.

I wonder if he ever thinks of me.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE END


Author's babbling again:  This was surprisingly difficult to write.  
Part of the problem may have been caused by having a 20-year-old son
of my own.  I just couldn't bring myself to make Fox any younger.  
And making him much older would have defeated the point of the story.  
If this story can be said to have any point at all.

I'd just like to quickly mention that I had a whole paragraph written
about why they never practiced safe sex or worried about pregnancy.  
But it sounded preachy and inappropriate to the situation, so I took
it out.  Let's just assume, since the time she's remembering takes
place in the early 1980's, that AIDS was only just becoming generally
known, she was on birth control, and it was a more naive time
altogether.  I don't want to hear from anyone who thinks I'm promoting
promiscuity or irresponsibility.  This is just a story -- I'm plenty
responsible enough in real life.

If you made it all the way to the end and are actually reading this, I
thank you.  Let me know what you think, if it can be phrased in a
constructive, non-confrontational manner.  Outright flames will be
ignored and used to top up the furnace, which could really stand the
help at this point.

Feedback:  mimic117@yahoo.com