Innocent Milf Ch 07

Chapter 7

I was sitting in the early April warmth, reading over

For Whom the Bell Tolls

again. My Walkman was playing a beat-up old tape of Bela Fleck's

Drive

, and I was nearly oblivious to the outside world until somebody came and tapped me on the shoulder. I pulled my earphones down, and glanced up.

Sascha plopped down at the metal-grate table across from me. The sun shone on her, turning her pale blonde hair a fiery white. Today she was wearing a surprisingly normal T-shirt and long crepey skirt. She placed her violin case in front of me and raised an eyebrow.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Where's my elephant?" she demanded. I smiled, recognizing the reference to last week's Simpson's episode. However, recognizing the quote didn't make her presence any clearer. "Where's my elephant?" she repeated.

I chuckled. "Uh... help. I don't know what you want."

"The same thing I

always

want," she answered firmly. "To know what you're doing for graduation, and to know if you're actually going to be on time for our ballroom dancing lessons. Last one this week, and if you show up late again they'll make us do something hard."

"As long as it's not the Viennese Waltz," I muttered. "That one was kicking my ass."

"No,

you

were kicking my

shins

," Sascha corrected. I nodded ruefully. "Okay, good. My last Young Artists' Orchestra concert is this weekend. You should come. We'll be playing Stravinsky."

"

Rite of Spring

?" I asked, thinking of cartoon dinosaurs in a Disney movie.

"The

Firebird

. Or selections from it." Sascha fiddled with a long necklace, sticking the chain absently in her mouth. It took me a moment to recognize a tiny skull as its pendant.

"Hey," I asked. "I've been meaning to ask you about something."

"I already have plans for Prom," she replied.

"Not that," I laughed. "But I would have been happy to go with you. Who are you going with?"

"Alex Ross," she answered. "He's first cello." The name conjured a vague image of a straw-headed, serious-looking guy.

"Orchestra folks sticking together, huh? Smart." I leaned forward conspiratorially. "You have to present a unified front against the marching band kids. I hear they're utter barbarians."

Sascha snickered. "I heard they eat their dead to gain their powers," she said in a low voice.

"I actually

do

have a question for you, though." I hoped my tone of voice didn't sound nervous.

"Summer Solstice is still a few months away," she replied breezily. "But I'll consider it."

I was pretty sure I flushed, but I shook my head. "Not that either. Well, not exactly that." She raised an eyebrow and fixed me with an intense gaze. "Back in December, you sort of suggested that you knew that none of my prior girlfriends had ever..."

"Given you a blowjob?" Sascha spit her necklace out suggestively.

"Uh... yeah." I took a sip of Coke to cover my discomfort. "How did you know that?"

Sascha flipped her hair back. "Oh! No secret. I just asked them."

"What?!"

"Yeah, I just asked them." Her voice was as level as if she was discussing a potential topic for our AP American History exam. "Ms. Bernham had mentioned to me one day while she was having tea with my mom that she knew a 'nice guy' who played the mandolin and was a real interesting, thoughtful guy, but who was also a zany joker who played with knives." She shrugged. "You sounded interesting. So I asked your name and then started asking around school."

"And Denise and Tamara... they just

told

you?" I wasn't sure if I was outraged or impressed.

"Sure." Sascha shrugged. "It might be different with guys, but girls will check around to see if a guy is safe." She tilted her head. "Or they'll be catty bitches and stab each other in the back and spread rumors about what a slut you are. I thought Tamara might be like that at first--she's pretty popular now. But she was nice enough. I just told each of them that I was thinking about going out with you, and that I had already checked with my psychic and looked up my horoscope, but wanted to get some info about you."

"You visit a psychic?" I asked, genuinely interested.

"Absolutely not," she snorted dismissively. "But I know what people think of me...

if

they think of me. It helps to disarm people if you meet their expectations, so that you can get the answers you need. If you surprise them, it puts them on guard."

"Sneaky," I observed.

"Practical," she corrected firmly. "I have a college friend who gives me very good advice on things like this. We've known each other since Junior High. Anyway, they both said you were safe."

Trying to brush off the wound to my teenage ego inflicted by the word

safe

, I forced a smile. "Good for me, I guess," I answered.

"It means," she clarified, "that they both said you didn't like choking or hitting. And that you weren't the type to go talking around school. Also, that you knew absolutely nothing about oral, and that you were a little... enthusiastic. But nice."

"

Enthusiastic

sounds better than

safe

," I allowed.

"Bad boys can be fun, but they're a short-term investment," Sascha said. "If you had turned out to be a jerk, we would have had our fun releasing some energy back to the Earth Goddess, and you never would have heard from me again."

"Wow."

"Hey," Sascha smirked. "Don't wanna know, don't ask."

"No, it's not that. I just... I sort of thought stuff like that would stay private." I shrugged. "I guess it's good that you girls look out for each other."

"Sometimes," Sascha answered. "Don't boys?"

"Maybe some do. I don't talk about stuff like this a lot," I admitted. "And most of the guys I've heard talk are either bragging or obviously lying. Or at least exaggerating. Jack and I have traded back and forth a couple of things, but nothing super specific. Advice, more like."

"Tell him about that thing you did with your tongue when you were giving me head," Sascha suggested brightly. I almost choked and looked back and forth to see if anybody had heard her.

"Uh... okay."

"Jenna will like it," she said knowingly.

"You know Jenna?" I couldn't keep the surprise from my voice.

"She goes to the same school as my clever friend C did." Sascha said.

"Ah. Well thanks for the advice," I said, wondering what sort of name 'C' was.

"Who are you taking to Prom?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Nobody. I don't really want to go this year." Last year I had gone with my girlfriend at the time, Denise. It had been a memorable time with semi-anxious car sex afterwards. At the time I had envisioned us being together for this year as well. As the season approached this year, I realized that I didn't really think of it as important anymore. Jack was going to Jenna's Prom with her next week, so he wouldn't be going to the one at Union High.

And truth be told, when I tried to imagine going this year, nobody I could think of could quite measure up to how much fun I would have if I just hung out with Jack and Cary. Especially Cary. The pitying glances I got from friends and acquaintances who felt like Prom was a focal point of the year had stopped annoying me, and now I just shrugged it off. I'd be out of here in less than a month, anyway.

"Really? You couldn't find

anybody

?" Sascha was incredulous.

"I didn't

ask

anybody," I corrected her. "It just didn't sound fun this year. I've got other things to do. I feel like graduation is a bigger deal than Prom. Last year's dance was fun, but I think I'm good."

Sascha nodded doubtfully. The conversation lulled. Finally she made a show of stretching. "Anything else you wanted to talk about?" she asked. I shook my head quizzically, wondering if I had missed some cue. Sascha rolled her eyes, confirming my suspicion. "You know, this may be the longest you've gone in one of our conversations without mentioning Ms. Bernham," Sascha said thoughtfully. "In case you're wondering, my mom says she's happier than she's ever seen her. Getting clear of that creep seems to have really worked out for her."

I smiled, thinking of Cary and her paintings and her sexy fake-affair story. Sascha continued to look at me thoughtfully, and then stood abruptly. "Good luck studying. Hemingway is a major chauvinist. See you for our last dance lesson!"

I waved goodbye, and returned to Hemingway.

* * * * *

As it turned out, I didn't have very long to wait for the next episode in the story of Cary's false affairs. Before Christmas the three of us had hit on the idea of a monthly triad of events--playing pool, going bowling, and then hitting up a local arcade. This was usually rounded out by trying out a new place to get lunch or dinner and hiking around one of the parks nearby. It gave some variety to things so that we weren't always doing movie night.

Sometimes Jack and Jenna joined us, and sometimes they didn't. The developing tradition had been established between the Three Musketeers before Jack and Jenna started going out together, and it seemed like sometimes she felt like an afterthought when we got into a groove of joking and talking. The tendency for us to "couple up" didn't bother me at all, and especially since Cary's birthday, she appeared happy with it as well.

This time, Jack said that he and Jenna would meet us just for bowling and pool. So Cary and I decided to get in some games early. After finding her old Atari, I had asked about her video-gaming habits, and discovered that she did indeed still play some, even though her kids had a newer machine. She just kept the Atari in her room and played it to relax or zone out while thinking about things like her newest paintings.

One of the things I had loved about her from the start was how playful and adventurous she was--at least as soon as she forgot that her husband existed. Even though she was weirdly shy and naïve about sex stuff in a way I found amusing and adorable, those reservations didn't appear to extend to many other arenas. At thirty-four, she had no misgivings about just leaping into something new like knife fighting. Or in this case, Street Fighter II.

She loved playing as Chun-Li and Blanka, because she always won--a new version of the game had come to our arcade in November, and I was still learning all the tricks. But she especially liked Cammy. It didn't matter who won when we played--it was just fun having our colorful cartoon characters kick, punch, and electrocute each other into oblivion while talking smack. Cary would sometimes try to body-check me when she was losing to knock me off the controls. I didn't mind since it was an excuse to have her close to me.

"I have an update," she said with a smirk that I was getting to know fairly well. It meant that she was up to mischief. "I'll tell you about it while we're out walking."

I mashed a few buttons, hoping to take her by surprise with a tornado-kick. It only partially succeeded. "Is this about your naughty pictures?"

"Ssshh," she scolded. "There are people here."

I laughed. "If that ten-year-old playing NBA Jam is a spy from your ex, the next three lunches are on me."

She was blushing. "Just... I'd rather keep that private. Anyway, it's a good update. I think things are coming to a head."

"Well now I'm curious," I answered.

"Are... is this okay?" she asked, her tone suddenly more serious.

"Looks the same as always to me," I remarked, scrutinizing the 16-bit characters. "Why?"

"Not the game.

This

," she said. "I mean, I normally wouldn't tell anybody but my girlfriends about this sort of thing. This is talking about some pretty personal topics that we haven't really broached before, and I'm concerned that it's changing our friendship."

I took advantage of her distraction to have Guile beat the stuffing out of Cammy on-screen. "That's what you get for letting your attention wander," I chuckled. "But seriously, I think what you're describing is just... a developing friendship. I talk about things with Jack now that I never would have talked about two years ago, let alone five. And you and I..." I trailed off, looking for the right words. "We're friends in a different way than Jack and I are friends. Different but good."

Cary thought about it while she took her digital revenge via a crouching fierce uppercut against my jump. "Okay. I can see that. I mean, you've been so relaxed about this whole thing, but... is this making you uncomfortable?"

Only in my boxers

, I wanted to answer. But instead, I shook my head, trying to appear cool and casual. "This is barely 'rated R' stuff. And I want to hear how this whole Countess of Monte Cristo scheme of yours works out. Eric's a piece of shit, and he gets everything and anything that's coming to him." My voice had gotten more heated than I intended.

Cary absently put a hand on the back of my arm. "Easy, killer. He's not here, and he'll be out of my life forever soon." I silently relished her touch.

We played a few more rounds of Street Fighter II in contemplative silence, and then cheered each other on at Donkey Kong until Jack and Jenna arrived. Reconvening to the pool table a half level lower, we were all hustled once again by Jenna. Her family apparently owned a pool table and her father was some sort of minor celebrity in the local billiards scene.

Bowling wasn't much better--I've never been consistent at it. Either I get a strike, or I get one or two pins per frame. There doesn't seem to be much in-between. Cary had been improving bit by bit after overcoming her initial distaste for the game. Jack wiped the floor with everybody else. After stopping at a taco place we'd never been and pronouncing its smothered nachos as "rad" we split back into pairs. Jack and Jenna left--probably to make a mess of her bedroom and each other again to judge by the urgency of their departure.

That suited me fine; Jack was as happy as I'd ever seen him since we were in elementary school, and besides, it meant more time to hang out with Cary and hear about her arousing tales of not-even-a-real-affair. Once we arrived at Chiricahua Park, Cary pulled off her light flannel--too warm in the sunlight. Her T-shirt hem briefly flapped up in the wind revealing her flat belly, and I couldn't help but recall the image of her pulling her dress over her head in the bathroom at her birthday party.

Once we had gotten several minutes' worth of hiking up into the hills, I turned to her expectantly. "Okay, spill it. What's the update? Did Mr. Hyde say something?"

"Not yet," Cary answered, carefully poking her walking stick into a clump of brush that had drifted across the trail--a hiker's trick to make sure there weren't any hidden snakes. "But he

has

been dropping hints that he knows something. I've been acting completely oblivious. No, remember that I said Sami and I were working on a believable story?"

"Yeah." I thought about it. "Sami. She's the blonde lady who liked Emily Bronte, right? Held your hair back when you puked? Helped to move into your apartment?"

Cary's eyebrow lifted. "I'm surprised you remember."

"Why wouldn't I remember? I've seen her a few times now. She's your friend."

Cary smiled. "I guess I had gotten so used to Eric thinking that the world revolved around him that I forgot that men can be thoughtful. It's nice that you remember my friends."

I felt myself warming up in embarrassment. "It's no big deal," I mumbled.

"They like you, you know," Cary said earnestly. "Even Lori, although she still thinks most men are some sort of slime mold. I told them what you did for me--what you always do for me--and they think you're pretty great. You made a good impression on them when you helped me to move. Samantha even said--" Cary stopped abruptly, coloring slightly.

"Said what?"

"Never mind. But my other friends notice that my life is better with you as a part of it." Her smile was prettier than usual, and I couldn't help but sneak a peek at her when she turned to survey a little gulley in front of us.

I cleared my throat. "I'm glad we met, too. Things are more fun with you. But your life is better because you've broken up with the worst mistake you ever made," I replied.

"Boy, that's more obvious every day," she agreed. "But here, let me tell you about this while there's nobody else on the trail."

Looking back and forth like a kid who's afraid they're about to get caught raiding the cookie jar, she told me all about it.

======

"Sami is a reader--I'm sure you've guessed that by now. She and I used to be in a book group together before Eric threw a fit and said it was taking too much time away from "us." Of course now I know that he really just wanted me to stay with the kids while he ran around with his girlfriends on the side. And he wanted to make sure that I didn't have much of a life outside of home.

Anyway. Sami. Having read so much has made her a good judge of story as well. What's believable, what's not. She works as a research librarian. By the way, you impressed her by having read Longfellow. Oh, shush, just take the compliment. The point is that she knows a good story when she hears one, and she has the background to help make something sound plausible, which is just what I needed.

So, she helped me to come up with this story. Do you know, she said she must have read a hundred or so pages of those

Letters to Penthouse

collection books? She even suggested that I read some. Yes, so what if I'm blushing? It's embarrassing! The point is that Eric would be able to spot something fake because he's read a bunch of those sorts of things.

It was... eye-opening to say the least. I learned some things about what a man like Eric thinks the world is like. I'll never forgive him, but if he thinks that everybody operates according to the rules of

Penthouse

and

Hustler

, maybe he really doesn't think he's doing anything wrong by sending a bunch of his friends... well, you know what I mean.

We set it during an exhibition I went to for work last year. He'll remember the one--he was

really

angry that I was leaving for an entire weekend. In retrospect, I bet it was because he had something planned with his paramour. Now shush, let me get into character. I'm going to tell the story as if I was talking to him. Here's the story that I'll tell him if he ever asks:

It was the weekend of my exhibition in Flagstaff last year. Remember how pushy you were? You called me a bad mother! You go on business trips all the time, but I know that some of them were actually 'romantic' getaways with your mistresses. And here you were trying to make me feel like dirt for going on a legitimate work trip.

Well, it backfired. I don't know what you expected, but I got there angry. Two hours driving while stewing about how unfair you were being was plenty enough to get riled up. So, on Friday instead of ordering room service and watching a movie like I had planned, I decided to go out to dinner.

I had enough cash on hand--I know you always check the bank statements and go digging through my purse for receipts. I could go anywhere I wanted and

you

wouldn't know anything about it. I called up and made a reservation at Gables, and they were able to put me in the old Cameo Room. It was nice and quiet.

Since I was going out anyway, I decided to get dressed up. You know the dress--it's the red one you always try to get me to wear. I wore it that night, put on some ruby lipstick, and those glittery heels that you always call "ridiculous." I could barely walk in them, but my reflection in the mirrored elevator doors looked fabulous.

The businessmen at the hotel bar certainly thought so. They were there for the exhibition too, as it turned out. While I waited for my taxi, we talked art, and they listened to me. They actually

listened

to me, Eric. Without falling asleep or changing the subject or insinuating that I didn't have any real talent. They asked if I was there alone--a pretty, talented lady like me--and you know what I said?