Many of my stories, originate in memories and events in my life. All contain a combination of real and fictional characters with names changed as appropriate to protect the 'guilty.' They are memoirs spiced with a kinky imagination.
I hope you will enjoy my stories and comment on what you liked and perhaps didn't like to help me improve.
'BO FENWAY
Rose had to leave. She knew, even at her young age that there just wasn't enough food for her sister, two younger brothers, her mom, and stepdad if she stayed. Her step father, who had always been kind, had started to become abusive, almost it seemed, in direct proportion to his increasing frustration with not being able to find work and provide for his family. She knew many families at that time that did not have enough to eat. The Great Depression brought out the worst in many and the best in some so she packed what little she thought was hers and joined the thousands of others on the road, searching for work.
My name is 'Bo Becket and I would like to tell you about my friend Rose known by most on the road as 'Bo Fenway. Rose loved the Boston Red Sox and talked often about listening to evening games on the radio with her grandfather before he died. In the first hobo camp, known by the 'Bo's as a jungle, she encountered, she became 'Bo Fenway named for her much loved Red Sox who played at Fenway Park in Boston. She was 'Bo because all hobos called each other 'Bo, just as people in the towns used Mister or Miss. Hobos often chose a name, made up of places, things or even circumstances that were meaningful to them.
She had already been alone on the road for more than a year when I met her. She told me she was eighteen but also told me she felt and sometimes, especially when she was tired, even looked, like she was ten years older. A hobo's nomadic lifestyle is dangerous, and as a woman, she was very much in the minority among those on the road. Alone and in unfamiliar places and situations and being small in stature made her a target for theft and assault. Rose spent all the time she was on the road hiding the fact that she was really a young woman. She was 'Bo Fenway and a young man to almost all other hobos.
On the trains, and in the woods and jungles she always wore a man's cap to cover her very short hair and used soot black on her face and hands to further make herself look like a young man. Unless she was traveling with other hobos who were friends, she was in constant fear that someone would discover she was a woman and take advantage. Only a very few, very good friends knew 'Bo Fenway was really a woman named Rose. I count myself lucky to be one of those she eventually trusted.
Rose's grandmother had long ago taught her the art of "invisible mending." She could actually "re-weave" fabric that had been torn so that the tear was virtually invisible and the area of the repair was sometimes even stronger than before. There was really only one thing of value that hobos owned, besides maybe a little money, and that was clothing. Living in the woods and jungles, sleeping on the ground and climbing in and out of boxcars, made it difficult to keep clothing in good condition. It took a beating every day and in the depths of the depression it was virtually irreplaceable. Her skills were in demand in every jungle and Hobos who knew about her skill bartered with her to repair their clothing and often referred her to other hobos. She was, because of those skills, seldom hungry or cold.
Rose was also in demand by tailors and seamstresses in every town she visited. In addition, in the towns she was often able to travel freely as a young woman without any real fear. She was "Rose" to most she found work with in the towns.
I learned her true identity by accident when in the woods one day foraging for berries and nuts I stumbled on her bathing naked in a remote small pond. I sat on a bluff overlooking the pond and watched someone swimming, not realizing it was a woman, as I ate some of the blueberries and black berries I had found. It appeared to me, and I expected, looking only at her back and butt that it was a young man. My thought was only that it might be someone to walk out of the forest with. I looked at the shore just above the water and saw the clothing pile. I remember thinking for a moment as I watched, "Boy, that guy has a great ass." When I realized I was admiring a man's ass I chased the thought out of my head and refocused across the pond. When Rose turned to start back up out of the water I was surprised. That beautiful butt belonged to a woman. Like all hobos, us, I guess, her body was never exposed to the sun and yet her skin was olive brown. She appeared to be younger than me, perhaps much younger. Her breasts were firm, round and high on her chest. Although at that distance I could not really see her nipples her areola was large and pink, much lighter than her skin color. As she started to climb I saw the forest of dark brown hair between her legs and the now obvious distinct flare of her hips.
She looked up, saw me, and I heard her words, "Oh Fuck!"
She started for her clothing pile and when she looked at me again I said the best words I could think of, "Don't panic, it's ok, I won't hurt you." I didn't move, fearing that would just make the situation worse. She was getting dressed looking at me all the time. As she finished I told her, "I'm Becket. What's your name?"
She saw I was older and seemed to no longer be frantic but still trying to assess what danger she was in. She answered, "Fenway."
I asked, "I've been on the road for two years. You?"
She replied, "Two years. No one knows I'm a girl."
I tried to reassure her, "Well Fenway, it's nice to meet you. No one will find out from me."
We sat on the knoll overlooking the pond and talked and ate berries.
When we started to walk she asked, "Where are you headed?"
