If you're from anywhere around here, you've seen those ball caps that say, "American by birth, Southern by the Grace of God." That's me. I'm Southern through and through.
One of the things I love best about Southerners is the way we speak. For example, as winter starts to approach, the weather isn't "cool" but "airish." I have some fraternity brothers from Johnston County, North Carolina who, instead of saying "It wasn't me...," say "It won't me..." Consider it to be "local color," if you will. I know some people from Stokes County, North Carolina who describe an intense pain by saying, "It hurt a right smart." Stuff like that. Then, there's the Southern take on the way children swear by saying "cross my heart and hope to die." In the South, it takes the form of "If I'm lying, I'm dying."
I think it was Jeff Foxworthy who pointed out that, for Southerners, a fairy tale doesn't begin with "Once upon a time..." Instead, we start that type of story with, "Y'all ain't going to believe this..." What I'm getting ready to tell you, you can believe or not. I promise you: It's not a fairy tale. It actually happened a long time ago so, while I might not have not included a lot of the dialogue that took place (memories do fade, you know,) the essence of my tale is truthful. The names have been changed (slightly) to kind of protect the less-than-innocent.
To the best of my recollection, the following occurred in the spring of 1978. I was in my early-to-mid-20s and had recently moved back to my home to pursue a career in selling real estate. At the time, I used to tell people I knew those were liberated times as I was following in my mother's footsteps, not my father's. My mom had become quite successful in the local real estate market and, since the company for whom she worked proudly boasted an all-female staff, she helped me secure a job with a firm that was one of her "friendly competitors" that would hire male real estate agents.
That was the summer of 1977 About eight or nine months after I started in the business, a new girl was introduced to the sales staff. Well, I say "girl." She was in her early-to-mid-30s making her older than I was. As those of us in the office got to know Rosie, we learned that she was a fairly recent widow with a 6-year old son, Joseph. She explained to us that her late husband had been running his family's business in a nearby city when he had been shot and killed while making a late-night bank deposit.
Rosie was probably 5' 5" tall with curly brunette hair and what appeared to be a nice set of 34 Cs. She was reasonably attractive but, physically, there was nothing particularly distinctive about her one way or another. She wasn't built like the proverbial brick shithouse. She wasn't skinny like some fashion model but neither was she a BBW. She was just a normal, attractive woman. Fortunately, she had quite a vivacious personality which meant that, even though she wasn't "Oh, my God" beautiful, on the whole, I found her to be quite appealing. (I'm of the belief that a good personality makes anyone better looking.)
However, while her looks might not have been distinctive, her mode of transportation was. When I started selling real estate, I had purchased a new 1977 Ford Granada. The color was what Ford called "Dove Gray" with a matching leather interior. (Back then, I thought that Dove Gray was Ford's prettiest car color. It was fresh that year and was available throughout all 3 of Ford's divisions.) Based on my mom's experience, I knew having a 4-door car was important for hauling clients hither and yon while showing property. While my vehicle was practical, Rosie showed up at our office driving an orange 1974 Chevrolet Corvette. Not exactly the chariot of choice for successful real estate agents.
Rosie was in the process of putting her life back together after the tragedy of her husband's death and, subsequently, selling the family business. The new career was part of her recovery process. Also, now that a suitable period of time had passed since that unfortunate incident, she had taken up with a fellow named Ronald. Ronald was maybe in his early 40s and, as I recall, he was divorced. For employment, he sold equipment that would have been used by quite a number of manufacturers in the Southeast and, apparently, he was very good at his job. Not only did he have a home in her former city, but he also owned a lake house at the largest lake in North Carolina.
From everything we could tell, theirs was a serious relationship. In fact, Ronald had even given Rosie a key to his lake house. Bad mistake on his part.
One day, Rosie came into the office and was rather upset. I finally got out of her that, the night before, she had let herself into the lake house expecting to find Ronald there. She did. What she hadn't expected to find was him, drunk as a skunk, in bed fucking another woman. Not surprisingly, Rosie hauled ass out of there and went to her home.
Now, my mama didn't raise no fools. I saw an opportunity here and I took it.
I don't remember exactly what I said but I realized Rosie needed to have her mind distracted from dwelling on Ronald's betrayal. I somehow convinced her that we should get together at her place that evening and have some fun. And, that's exactly what we did.
I showed up that evening at Rosie's condo which was located on the golf course of one of our local country clubs. As we started to indulge in some adult beverages, she introduced me to Joseph who I found to be a typical 6-year old. After a little while, we went up to the club's tennis courts and the three of us hit tennis balls over the net. We created a little game that was kind of a tennis version of four-square using the four service courts. He was 6, after all. I didn't have kids at the time but I knew enough to keep it simple and fun for him.
Eventually, it was time for Joseph to go to bed. We returned to Rosie's condo and—in my best Andy Griffith voice—I read him a bedtime story. Andy has always been a North Carolina hero and
The Andy Griffith Show
plays everyday on one of our local TV stations—still. It's never gone off the air here some 50 years after it was on CBS. His hometown is located 35 miles or so from us and, that evening, I had drunk enough alcohol to think that using Andy's way of speaking to read aloud the bedtime story was a good idea. I don't know if I scored any points with Rosie for having done it that way but I sure didn't lose any.
Once he was asleep, Rosie and I played backgammon and consumed several more gin and tonics. Eventually, we moved to the living room sofa where one thing led to another—if you know what I mean. The kisses got hotter and hotter. Hands started to roam. Well, at least, mine did. Rosie started to call a halt to the proceedings but, apparently, I was enough of a salesman to persuade her to do what I wanted. Then again, I didn't have to do a lot of persuading. The alcohol must have done its job and lowered her inhibitions sufficiently for me to realize my goal that evening. I stripped off her clothes and mine. I played with those very nice boobs. She stroked my dick. I ate her. She sucked me. Then, we fucked. I guess you could say, "A good time was had by all."
