YOU WANT THESE DON'T YOU

It was one of those nights, not just a dark and stormy night, but another night – alone. As I sat in my apartment, the neon sign outside the window casting soft shadows across my dilapidated furniture, wall-papered walls, and thread-bare imitation Persian carpet, the cell phone resting on my crotch almost gave me a thrill when it vibrated. The caller was my dead friend’s wife. What did she want I wondered?

“Hello Clara,” I answered as I rubbed my stubbly chin, which was not a fashion statement but because sometimes I shave and sometimes I don’t. Being an artist, I tend to forget about things like that.

“Hi Sam,” she said.

After the usual how are you and I’m fine bullshit, knowing there was a point to her calling, she finally got around to it and said, “I know you’re probably busy but me and my two girls are moving to another place. I was hoping you might help out.”

There was a lengthy pause as I ran my fingers through my long disheveled hair and began scratching my head thinking about how I could get out of this gracefully when she continued, “Since I can’t afford to pay you, I’d be happy to cook you supper after you help dismantle some of the furniture and pack things up.”

To a guy that often eats right out of a can and washes it back with a cold glass of water, her offer was tempting.

Most likely not getting the response she was hoping she added, “I’ve got a big bottle of merlot with your name on it.”

Now, we’re getting somewhere I thought. Wine, actually alcohol of any kind, has always been a highpoint in my life. Then, realizing she was my dead best friend’s wife, I’d even been the best man at their wedding about eight years ago, I said, “Sure. I’d be happy to give you a hand.”

I hadn’t seen her since my friend, her husband, had been killed about a year and a half ago in a car accident. Although I’d been to quite a few of their family functions, birthdays, home parties and such over the years, I didn’t really know Clara, just thought of her as my friend’s wife. She seemed nice enough.

Around ten o’ clock the next morning, I turned the key in my dented up, scratched up, front seat ripped up old half-ton truck and stepped on the gas. I didn’t have to see it to know that I’d left my parking spot in a cloud of fumes and smoke.

When I arrived at Clara’s house, she greeted me with a warm smile that almost stretched from ear to ear. Actually, if she didn’t have ears, the smile most likely would have wrapped all the way around her head. She was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans that had seen better days and a large creamy blouse, that as loose as it was, couldn’t conceal her enormous breasts.

Clara was her usual bubbly self as we packed her belongings into various sized cardboard boxes. She was always cheerful, seemed to have a permanent smile, even when she found out her husband had been cheating on her. For the longest time, like me, I thought he was just having a good time as we drank ourselves into blissful oblivion and danced our skinny white legs off with many different women. It’s odd when I think back, because I never left with any of the women I had a good time with, but he did and would sometimes tell me how good they had been in the sack, even rated them from one to ten. It’s not that I was much different than my friend because I had cheated on my first wife but after that, because of so many hurt feelings, promised myself I wouldn’t do that again if I ever remarried or even on a girlfriend.

The afternoon was going by quickly, even her two girls, Ginger and Beth, were a pretty good help sorting through their stuff and putting it into boxes. But I did see some tears, when they put away a photo of their dad that had been sitting on the dresser – punched me right in the heart.

When supper time arrived, since I’d recently sold a painting for quite a few bucks, instead of Clara cooking something and although she insisted on living up to her promise, I ordered a couple of pizza’s: one the girls liked and one for us. When it arrived piping hot after a thank you and a substantial tip to the delivery guy, we dug in with big smiles on her faces.

Clara said, “Don’t even dare say no to the wine Sam,” and soon returned with a bottle and two wine glasses.

I had to tip my hat to the person that skinned those red, juicy grapes and then pounded them with their big bare feet because that was one of the best wines I ever tasted. As we sipped one glass of merlot after another, before we knew it, we’d drained the bottle dry. As I licked my lips wishing there was more, Clara smiled and then cheerfully said, “Not to worry. I have another bottle once we finish up for the evening.”

When the girls grew tired and I had to hand it to them for working so hard, Clara put them to bed. After about another hour passed by and while I was loading a bunch of books into a box, Clara tapped me on the shoulder and told me it was time to quit. We could finish the job tomorrow, then load everything into my truck and haul it to her new place on the other side of town.

Seemed like every seat in the house, including the long couch, had something sitting on it. While she went to get the other bottle of merlot and put together a few snacks, I cleared the couch and sat down. As soon as she popped the cork and filled two glasses with wine she said, “I don’t know about you Sam but I’m bloody beat.”

When she stretched out on the couch, I put her feet on my lap. As we sipped our merlot, as crimson but thankfully not as thick as blood she said, “How’s your girlfriend Angela?”

“It’s not Angela anymore.”

“Well, who’s the lucky girl now Sam?”

“There isn’t one. I had another two since then, but it seems as soon as the relationship is supposed to go to the next level, I get cold feet.”

“And speaking of feet,” Clara said, “Would you mind giving mine a little massage. They feel oh so tired and sore.”

Not giving her request the slightest thought, I reached down and started rubbing them with my hands and gently pulling the toes. When I heard her sigh deeply, I looked up and she said, “Ahh. That feels wonderful; soooo good.”

Now, I’m just a normal guy and as I massaged her feet, my hands just seemed as if they had a mind of their own. Before I knew it, they were up to her knees and slowly climbing higher as Clara moaned with pleasure. Her legs were long and slender and because her jeans were very tight fitting, if I closed my eyes, they almost felt naked. Suddenly realizing what I was doing, I stopped and reached for the glass of merlot, my face probably as red as the wine.

I was almost embarrassed to look at Clara but when I did, she was smiling, and her vivid blue eyes were sparkling. Her feet were still on my lap and I didn’t know where to put my hands until she said, “You don’t have to stop unless you want to.”

Do bears poop in the woods, is the Pope catholic and other rhetorical questions were coursing through my mind like the merlot wine flowing through my veins as I reached for her shapely legs and let my hands go higher and higher. When they reached the most important Y in all of history including when our knuckles dragged on the ground Clara said, “I’ll be right back.”

While she was gone, I stretched out on the couch and took another sip of merlot. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Not with my dead friend’s wife. Just because I was best man at their wedding and had caught her garter, I thought this was going a bit too far for the best man’s duties but when she returned wearing a nightgown with a plunging neckline, she took my breath away.

When she sat astride me, I said, “Are you sure?”

And to my utter amazement, I was in total shock when she leaned forward and suddenly pushed her huge bare tits in my face saying, “You want these, don’t you?”

What’s a guy to do? I said nothing. Just began wrapping my lips around her large hardening nipples. Whoever said more than a handful was a waste didn’t know what they were talking about. I could hardly get my hands around one voluptuous breast and it felt heavenly.

When we were total satisfied, the mutual climax astounding, I panted, “Is this our first date or is it a onetime thing?”

“What would you like it to be,” she softly asked.

As I gazed into her sea-blue eyes, sipping my red, red wine I wondered how all of this happened. I knew the two bottles of merlot had a lot to do with it because it lightened her sadness and took away my loneliness. But still, more than ten years after we married, I sometimes ask that same question.