.5

A Rose by Any Other Name

Memory helps to see ourselves as the hero of our own lives and to turn pain into triumph and impulsive reaction into stoic reply. So, I like to think that after being polled by my editor, Elliot Barr, I calmly walked to my car to sop up the blood, instead of screaming in pain and calling him a motherfucker, THEN walking (very rapidly) to my car to sop up the blood.

While I like to think otherwise, my parting with the Daily News was not really a mutual agreement: John Duncan, the publisher, had been looking for an excuse to get rid of me for months. Duncan, like everyone else in town, including Elliot, knew I was screwing Diane Barr on Wednesdays. But unlike everyone else in town, he knew that the Jack-Doris affair was more fact than rumor. He suspected I had eyes for his young trophy wife, Margaret. I did, but, hey, I'm not THAT stupid. I guess he thought I was and wanted me out. I happened to find another job before he found another reporter.

My disengagement was depressing. Following Elliot's left hook, I avoided local doctors and visits to the emergency room. Instead, I drove to the ER at Lafayette General. After the required two hour wait, a classmate from boarding school cleaned up my face, added a few stitches and bandaged me up. My face looked like the mummy, but I was looking forward to removing the bandages so I could look like Frankenstein's monster with the stitches. Oh, my nose wasn't broken.

So, I got back to town close to midnight, and had a bourbon at The Office, a dirty little bar across from the courthouse. After two more whiskeys I decided on a late-night breakfast at the Dyne-O-Mite Grill before going home.

So, hungry, tired, depressed and a little tipsy, I sat in a corner booth, and ordered eggs and such from the pudgy Cajun waitress in the always stained uniform, whom I have spoken of a couple of times before. Her name was Rose and she been at the Dyne-O-Mite for about a year.

"What happened to you?" she said as she brought me a cup of coffee. "Oh no, you look awful. I don't mean you look awful yourself but your face looks awful. I mean..."

"I know what you mean."

"Were you in a car wreck? Did someone do this to you?"

"Ran into a door." Isn't that what you're supposed to say?

She wasn't sure if she should believe me - the lady was not the brightest light on the tree.

"Does it hurt?" That seemed a safe question.

"Not as much as I thought it would". I replied. "But I have some good dope I can take if it hurts too bad. Therapy calls for pills and ice packs."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"You can start with my eggs, and we can figure out something later." The last line surprised even me. Not the kind of thing I say, and surely not the kind of thing I'd say to a 40-year pudgy Cajun waitress in the always stained uniform.

In five minutes or so she was back with the breakfast and the coffee pot. "We can figure out something later," She smiled and walked away. That may have been the first and only time I ever saw her smile.

Before I had finished my eggs, she came over with a pot of coffee and an extra cup, and sat down in the bench seat across from me. She tried to start a conversation, but as much as I love to talk I was too tired to participate. So I let her carry the load. She seemed very concerned about my injuries, more so than I was. Amid a litany of "poor dears" she kept trying to hold my hand. She was upset about my injuries, convinced I was in agonizing pain, but I think she was even more upset that I was not upset.

I'm sure others in that part of the restaurant thought she was making a fool of herself, snickering in chorus when she offered to come to my apartment to change the ice packs. I was flattered. My ego needed the boost, and my libido needed tending. I had thought she was hitting on me in the past, but I was reluctant to get involved with a pudgy Cajun waitress with an always stained uniform. And, she gave off vibes that she wasn't altogether emotionally either. You can just imagine the claims she could have on me or worse - "Play Misty for Me" comes to mind - whether I left or stayed.

But all good things must come to an end, so I paid my bill, leaving a big, but not too big, tip, and left for the drive home to Berthaud Street, where I could take my pills and apply an ice pack to my busted face. As I was walking out the door, she came over and said in a soft voice - but not a whisper: I get off at two."

I went back to the apartment and tried to sleep. No success whatsoever. My nose didn't hurt all that much, so I took just one pill. But I just was unable to fall asleep, kicking off the blankets, turning over and over, turning the pillows, opening the windows, closing the windows.

At two o'clock I gave up, got dressed, filled a flask with Bourbon and drove over to the Dyne-O-Mite. Rose was standing at the door, apparently waiting for someone. That someone was me. No one could miss my powder-blue, junkyard-bound TR3. (Elliot had kept me abreast of all the jokes my dear Triumph, had spawned among the various castes and classes in town.)

I had hardly pulled to a stop when she jumped in.

"I was waiting for you," she said.

"No you weren't. You were waiting for a taxi or your sister or somebody," I added sarcastically.

"No, I was waiting for you." And the subject was dropped.

I turned and headed to my apartment. I assumed that was where she wanted to go. I certainly did. She wanted me to fuck her, and I wanted to fuck.

She started chattering about something, but with the top down, the wind provided an excuse for not listening. I was silent, trying to imagine what she might be like in bed. I have always said that all women are beautiful and all women are good in bed. She should be no different.

Rose was about five-foot-two, with dark brown hair that would have come to her shoulders if not for the hairnet, and an olive complexion that would have been golden if she ever went outside in the sun. In her waitress uniform, she was dumpy and frumpy, not really fat, nor slender. A good, solid bra - probably expensive, too - gave her something resembling a shape - almost. Those boobs turned out not to be as dumpy as I had feared.

Her face was round and puffy, and until that night I had never seen her in makeup. At the Grill she wore white stockings, which made the faded pink uniform even frumpier. She had apparently dumped the stockings and hairnet in her suitcase-size purse. The lipstick and rouge seemed to have been put on with a trowel, but it did make her look like a woman. I could spot the improvement when we stopped at the first red light.

I offered her a pull on the flask, then had one myself. May not be so bad. Hell, I was looking forward to her.

Sitting in my car outside my apartment, I had a brief spasm of guilt: "You know I will be leaving soon," I offered. "I can't get involved. I don't want to get involved."

"I may not be as rich as Miss Doris or as smart as Miss Barr or as young as your other women, but I am wise enough to know the score." (Damn it, does everybody know my business here?)

I put my arm around her, pulled her over and kissed her. Her lips were much too soft, and her mouth was nearly closed, as if she were afraid of my tongue. She turned slightly to face me, and I moved my hand to feel her breast. She covered my hand - I thought she was going to bush it away - and squeezed to be sure I stayed in place.

With that we got out of the TR and walked up the stairs to my apartment. I was still not convinced I had made a wise decision.

Seconds after closing the door, Rose convinced me I had made a wise decision after all. She more or less tackled me, or put me in a bear hug. It seemed as if she wanted to just devour me right then and there. And she kissed me, a kiss so wonderfully different from that in the car.

The apartment was quite dark. The only light, sneaking around the edges of the curtains, came from the streetlamp across the street. I saw no reason for more. In fact, it was best that way.

We stumbled onto the couch - or did she toss me there? her monster of a kiss continuing. I grabbed her tit through her bra and found it firmer than I expected. She broke the kiss and sat up, keeping me pinned to the couch with her legs, and easily removed her waitress suit and bra. She then fell over me, her tits caressing my face. Yes, I had made the correct decision. My penis agreed.

As I lay there being smothered by Rose's boobs, she removed my jeans and shorts, though I don't remember her doing so. My growing penis was immersed in the softness of her folds. It may or may not have been an erotic sight, but as I mentioned there was hardly any light in the room. I would enjoy Rose to the max.

I would have been perfectly happy screwing on the couch, but I sensed Rose was not very comfortable, on top or below. So without a word, I eased her off my chest and led the way to my bed, which was still in a mess because of my earlier insomnia. There was even less light in the bedroom.

She pressed her tits and much of her body against me, more or less pushing me on the bed. Being on top seemed to be her preference, and I had no objections.

I really expected her to be the inexperienced, Catholic girl from the bayou. Oh, she did not have an aura of confidence and at times she seemed hesitant and a bit unsure. But, she knew what she wanted and how to get it.

She moved up my body and planted her thinning bush right on my face. Cunnilingus, as you know, is one of my favorite sports, even now with those bandages on my head. This was exciting, knowing that the frumpy waitress from the Dyne-O-Mite Grill was so great in the sack... and, of course, she tasted as great as any woman. She obviously found it exciting, too. I could hear her short, rapid breaths and the shivers of her body.

She turned herself around, bent over and began licking my cock and balls, while my face was still soaking up her essence. Sixty-nine is my lucky number. She swallowed my prick without any preliminaries, swallowing deep and intense, and rising to do it again. Her juices began to flow, seeping through the tape and gauze and providing a stinging sensation around the cuts. My own juices were about to do the same thing.

Rose moved off of me and went down. As I exploded, she grabbed me with both hands, and proceeded to "milk" me for every drop she could get on her tongue, on her face and in her hair.

She lay on top of me and returned my cum. "You taste so good, I must share it with you." she said. I'm not sure I could or did taste anything, but the thought was exciting.

That was an awful lot of Rose on my chest, but at the same time it was both uncomfortable and arousing. She rubbed herself against me until I began my return, and rolled off onto her back and spread her legs. I went down on her, eager to taste what I had sampled before. It was great. It always is. I planted my face in her muff and fondled her clit with my lips, using my tongue to softly part her rose.

As I began moving to mount her, she grabbed my shoulders, and as was her preference, climbed on top. Hard as the first time, I easily found my spot. She was surprisingly tight, quite tight really. She bounced to greet me and flexed her love muscles as best she could.

I put my hands on her breasts, squeezing them together. I took her hands and pulled her down on me, where we kissed long and passionately, something we had not done since first coming into the apartment. I grabbed her ass, but did nothing to interrupt her rhythm. This was utterly fantastic.

"I'm coming, Jack." Despite my best efforts, this was about to be her first orgasm of the night.

"I am, too."

And she began to shake, moan and arch her back, and quicken the pace of her gripping and relaxing. She muffled a scream, as I too began to shake and moan.

She fell atop me, exhausted.

Now the 160 pounds of Rose was too much for my skinny frame, and I rolled us on our side. I held her tightly. I was ecstatic, not just relieved, that my decision to fuck Rose had been the right one.

Holding her and passing my hands over her body was now a pleasure rather than a duty. We lay in bed holding on to each other and trying to set the building on fire with cigarette ashes.

She said she from Church Point and had been divorced for 10 years now. The husband had custody of her two sons. She confessed that she hadn't made love in 10 years, a confession I never did believe. After the divorce, she said, she worked as a go-go girl for two years, another claim I questioned. She was then a bartender at the same club until she put on 25 pounds and was sent home. The Dyne-O-Mite had been her first waitress job.

Before the dawn, we got up and made love in the shower - Rosa said she had never done that before. I gave Rose a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans to wear, mostly for me rather than her. That waitress costume was unbearable to see in the daylight. And, with her bra in place and a few buttons on the shirt undone, she looked good. The jeans were a bit tight, but that wasn't all bad.

"You will come back and visit from time to time?" she said as we turned the TR onto Market Street.

"If I can see you."

"The decision is all yours."

The wind breezing through the topless car brought our conversation to a halt until we pulled up in front of the house she shared with her sister.

"Can I do anything for you?" I asked.

"Pull in the driveway for a second. We can figure something out later."

So I pulled into the drive, where she gave me a final long, passionate, wet kiss.

"Until next time," she said as she opened the car door.

"We can figure out something then."

EPILOGUE: The first visit three weeks later was wonderful, though we did have to go to a hotel in Lafayette. Her sister was trying to be was more Catholic than the pope. On the second trip, she wasn't there. Nobody knew where she had gone. If she had wanted me to follow, she would let me know somehow. She never did.

Before the last piece of the Interstate was finished, I often passed by the Dyne-O-Mite on my way to Alexandria or Shreveport, and each time I would get hard thinking of that night with Rose.