Chapter 3A
My adventure of spending several days in a Cajun home in southern Louisiana, enjoying great food and a hospitality that included having sex with the wife, was something I never expected, and it is thrilling even now to recall it.
But I wish to pause just a bit in my narrative to talk about Sherri, her beauty and her way of life.
In bed, she was a wild and uninhibited sexual creature. She was wonderfully responsive, vocal, and completely free and open about how much she loved sex.
But even though we had wonderful sex often, it did not occupy ever moment.
Sherri was much shorter then me. I remember asking her height, and she said she did not know, but it was about 5 feet or a little more.
"My Mom is just a little shorter than me, and she is five feet," she said.
She was built like an alabaster statue. The greatest sculptor in the world could not have fashioned a more beautiful, more beguiling creature.
Sherri was perfectly proportioned, with breasts that were firm and pointed just slightly upward at the nipples. They looked almost as if they were shouting, "Look at me."
Her dark black hair was worn long, cascading in waves and curls down her back. Equally black were her eyes, which flashed with fire when she was aroused.
Just moving across the room, in a simple summer dress, was like watching a ballerina. Her movements were unabashedly sensual. It was not that she put on airs, or even attempted to be sexy; it was that she was naturally a woman, and moved like one.
She blushed when I told her she was beautiful.
"Now Sherri," I said. "Certainly other men have told you that?"
"Yes," she replied, "But usually just before getting their way with me. I take it as just something a man says to a woman he's gonna play with."
She paused. "I guess I ain't bad looking, exactly. But I sure ain't something special around here."
But she very much one.
In one corner of the living room, the largest room in the simple wood frame house, stood a loom.
Sherri said she made almost all the clothes she and Herb wore. "Something store bought is kinda unusual."
She pointed to some brightly colored cloth partly finished on the loom.
"That's cotton and wool together," she said. "I'm making some jeture de laine for a coat for Herb."
She pointed to a nest of woven baskets in one corner.
"I wove those, too, 'cept by hand. I used grass, let it dry first."
Sherri also made the sheets, blankets and tablecloths in the house, using natural dyes made from indigo or berries,
At other times, when not tending to our mutual passion for each other, she would spend hours ironing. She was always singing, but in that French Creole lingo that no Frenchman would have understood, and certainly not me.
One song she sang over and over she told me was called "I always do my collars first." She had learned it as a girl, and it was a lesson in verse on how to iron properly.
Another song she sang she translated for me. It cautioned a married woman at a dance on being labeled wild because she danced too close to a man not her husband.
But there was one song I remember to this day.
