Two deaths in such a short time were a horrible blow to Rochelle: her husband Ralph, a little over two years ago, and then her only child, Delia, my wife of five years, four months later. Delia was already sick when her father died, and losing him hit her hard; I suspect the loss of her beloved dad had an effect on her immune system and helped take her down. And with Delia's death Rochelle, Delia's sweet mom, had no family left. Her parents were both gone, and although there had been no lack of trying, Delia had never conceived and borne Rochelle a grandchild.
Rochelle and I shared our pain. I had been deeply in love with Delia, and I cared for her mother as family. I saw to it that Rochelle and I stayed connected. I called and texted her regularly, and looked in on her often. I took her out to eat at least twice a month, and she invited me over for home-cooked meals even more often. And, oh man, can she cook. She had taught Delia her kitchen secrets, and it was one of many talents my wife had which I loved. Eating at Rochelle's house was at once a delightful and painful reminder of Delia's skill with a skillet, because Delia's culinary knowledge had all come from her doting mother.
Delia didn't only get her cooking skills from her mom; she also got her dusky African-American good looks there. Both of them were full-figured, well-rounded women to whom the terms voluptuous, Rubenesque, and gorgeous applied. Both had beautiful faces with sparkly greenish-brown eyes, smooth clear dark chocolate skin, and full, sensuous, inviting lips. Their hair was long, thick, billowing, and lustrous. They were delightfully shapely with large breasts, a somewhat smaller waist, and hips that cascaded out and around and down in the most heavenly curved shape, a shape that made a man like me, a lover of curves and substance, want to take a flying leap and dive right into them.
Have you heard of the Golden Ratio? (If not, look it up. I can't describe it here.) Well, the aesthetic beauty of these two asses excels that of any golden ratio and should be ranked right in there with it in the annals of geometric history. One of my favorite acts of foreplay was to have Delia face down, ass up, thrusting that magnificent bottom at me so that I could kiss all over it and bury my face in it, tonguing her honey-sweet labia from behind as those gorgeous hips enclosed my face.
Ralph, Delia's dad and Rochelle's husband, had been a good man: large and imposing, handsome, self-confident (as any large and imposing man would be), and affable. After some initial reservations, and once he was convinced that I was sincere, he accepted my courtship of his daughter with a resignation that never showed any resentment or hostility over the fact that I am a white man; and when we got married he escorted his daughter down the aisle with pride on his face that I could not mistake. That was one of the things that truly endeared him to me, because I had expected resentment at least and violence at worst; but instead he accepted me and took me for his son-in-law, and was willing to believe that I would treat his daughter with the love and respect that she deserved. I like to believe I earned that trust. I surely did love that woman.
Nobody ever admitted it outright, but I was pretty sure that Delia was an unintentional pregnancy that led to marriage. Ralph was in his late 50's when he died, but Rochelle was 41. Given that Delia was 25 then, and doing the math, Rochelle must have been 16 when Delia was born. So if she was 16 and he was, what, in his early thirties... okay, look, it's nobody's business. Let's just leave it alone, okay? None of us needs to know what went on. Besides, I had 11 years on Delia, so who am I to point a finger and cry "cradle-robber"? I can testify that from everything I saw, Ralph and Rochelle had a devoted and loving marriage.
Delia, when I met her, was vibrant and full of life. I was drawn to her immediately and loved basking in her radiant glow, her joie de vivre. She was a multi-talented artist: a painter, sculptor, potter, and street musician who had a booth at a popular local flea market. She had a small sound system through which she sang and played various woodwind and stringed instruments, which drew attention to the products she had made to sell: paintings, small sculptures, pottery, and CDs of her original music. I used to watch and listen, mesmerized, as she played and danced and sang--this large, beautiful, graceful creature so full of the enjoyment of the moment. It took me a while to build up the nerve to ask her out, and I was surprised and thrilled when she accepted my invitation to dinner and a concert. We dated steadily for a year, during which time I met her parents and began working to earn their acceptance and trust.
At the end of a year of dating, I formally asked her father for her hand in marriage. I know, I know, old-fashioned; but I wanted to do it that way to show my respect. For a long moment he looked at me with a solemn, searching stare that seemed to penetrate to the core of my being, and I began to fear that he was going to order me out of his house. But at length, he said, "Play your hand, Richie. If she'll have you, then so will her mother and I." And he chuckled and clapped me on the shoulder.
So I proposed to her. I was thrilled to the point of goosebumps and curled-up toes when she accepted and I placed an engagement ring on her finger. Lucky man; happy, happy man.
We spent a couple of years of wedded bliss before deciding to have a child. Delia had been on the pill, but she stopped then and our lovemaking was enhanced by the thought that some lucky one of the millions of sperm I was ejaculating into her cervix would wriggle its way to her ovum and join with it to make our child. She would cry, "Fuck me, fuck me, baby, fuck your woman. Make my belly swell, impregnate me, give me your child and I'll give it back to you," wrapping her long thick brown legs around me, pulling her knees up and using her heels to shove my butt toward her willing pussy as I hunched toward and into her. "Gimme that sperm, shoot every one of those wigglers way deep up in me. Knock me up, honey, fertilize my egg, I want to have your child. I want babies, lots of babies, honey. Oh god, gimme all the sperm you have inside you; I want every one of them to find an egg. I want to have sextuplets with you. This is sextuplet sex we're having," as I gasped and twitched and jerked and did exactly as she demanded, shooting all that seed out of me and into her, to swim determinedly toward that egg.
But no baby was forthcoming.
At 24 she was diagnosed with a fast-spreading form of cancer which we learned was already in several of her organs. We began a system of treatment, but the oncologists didn't hold out much hope. And as it turned out, there wasn't any need for hope.
As she grew sicker and weaker, her dad was suddenly taken by a massive heart attack. She went downhill rapidly after that. And suddenly where there had been warmth and hugs and love and laughter and family, Rochelle and I each found ourselves alone with our memories.
And each other. I wasn't going to abandon that sweet woman to steep in her loneliness just because the familial connection we'd had was severed. So we began our pattern of me taking her out and her feeding me at her home.
Time passed. Wounds, if they didn't heal, at least became accepted and less prominent. Rochelle and I drew closer together as we spent time in each other's company. I began to take her to concerts, plays and movies in addition to simple dining out. And gradually, it began to have the feel of dating, although neither of us acknowledged that fact.
One evening Rochelle had invited me over for another of her wonderful home-cooked meals, this one consisting of green salad, pork chops, Mexican corn, mashed potatoes with gravy, string beans with bacon bits, and apple pie. She and I cleared the table and washed, dried, and put up dishes together afterward, smiling comfortably at each other, and she was in the bathroom freshening up as I sorted through her collection of vinyl LPs (gotta love a woman who has a vinyl LP collection) and put on Ella Fitzgerald. Above that, ready to fall next, Frank Sinatra. Ella was just starting to play on the turntable when Rochelle came into the living room.
"Someone To Watch Over Me," she cried. "I love this song!" And she began to twirl around the room on her tiptoes, arms held out and gesturing. She turned and smiled at me, and instinctively I reached out, took her hand in my left, and placed my right around her waist as we began to dance together. The song was over quickly, but we stayed together waiting for the next one. She looked up at me, our eyes met, and we both smiled somewhat sheepishly. "These Foolish Things" began, and we moved together in a slow, comfortable rhythm. At length, she put her arm over my shoulder and pulled herself close, tucking her head up under my chin. Her breasts, full and heavy, pressed against me, reminding me of Delia's. Occasionally her thigh brushed mine, and I liked it. I moved my hand farther around her waist and then allowed it to slide down onto the outward curvature of her ass, pulling her even closer to me. I worried that she might take offense, but she gave no sign of objection. We slow-danced together, taking smaller and smaller steps until we were simply rocking in place, holding each other.
