When
I had used every available envelope in my house to fill with the letters that I
had written on Bull’s behalf, I began the tedious task of addressing each one
by hand to a laundry-list of churches.
In the end I counted ninety-seven envelopes destined for parsonages and
congregations throughout southern Illinois and parts of Indiana. With a giant vase of loose change under my
arm and the rubber-band bundled envelopes in my hand I followed my wife to her
car in our driveway and we made the journey into Ft. Justice to purchase stamps
and relinquish my efforts into the hands of an impatient and frumpy looking
mail clerk.
My
wife, who had offered to help me (which I had regrettably declined) with the
folding of letters and their subsequent insertion into empty envelopes, simply
accompanied me quietly on this journey.
I was gradually becoming aware that she had been watching me at a
distance for some time now, with the vacant curiosity of one cat watching
another cat attempting to satisfy an impossible itch. There was nothing she could do to help me
satisfy this suddenly passionate task that I had involved myself in. The nature of my motive was apparently
confusing to her, and she meant to rectify that confusion on our way down the
stairs in front of the post office.
“Can I ask
what you hope to achieve by mailing that letter off to all those churches?” She
asked quietly, while interlocking her slender, soft fingers within my own
digits, which felt like they were covered in sandpaper to me at the moment.
“Well, I
hope that the good Christian people whom I intend those letters to be read by
will be compelled by their conscious decision to live a life according to the
teachings of the divine Savior Jesus Christ to take pity on Bull Gunville. I hope that the words that I have taken such
care to describe his unfortunate life so far will fall on sympathetic ears.” I found myself happy to be hopeful in this
moment as I felt the last rays of the hot afternoon sun on my malnourished face
and exposed arms.
“How do you
think the sympathy of those people you have written to will help him?” She used her free hand to pull her long, beautiful
hair away from her face while she turned to look up at me. The gesture struck me dumb with a surprising carnal
desire that I couldn’t recall feeling the entire time I had been away from
her. Using dope daily had effectively
rendered my sexual drives into mute submission for a very long time. She dropped the captured hair over her far
shoulder where it fell gently across her pale purple, button-down shirt. It was warm today, so she hadn’t felt the
need to button the shirt completely.
Lengths of her violet-tinted, auburn hair fell inside the purple fabric,
where I saw the stray locks come to rest on the tanned, fleshy curve of her breast. I was suddenly aware that she had chosen not
to wear a bra on our quest into town, and I was grinning at the thought with
aching gratuity.
“Well? Answer me space cadet? How is this going to help him?”
I could
hardly think about an answer to this question, as my attention was completely
focused on catching a glimpse of what I had begun to imagine was a firm nipple
being hidden by the whisps of glimmering hair inside of her shirt. I fumbled for my words like a lust-struck
teenager.
“I hope that
somebody takes pity on him and rattles the states attorney’s cage about her
lack of desire to send him to rehab,” I stammered. I was still grinning wildly, now staring
directly into my wife’s huge brown eyes.
I stopped walking and examined the features of her face. I scanned her small, upturned nose and
brilliant white teeth behind full, long lips.
The sight of her mouth called into my currently overactive memory the
illicit visions and ghost sensations of her tongue escaping from behind her
teeth to offer its moist caress to the most intimate areas of my flesh I had
reserved for her use alone over the course of our marriage. The aching in my inner thighs was fierce and
warm as I greeted these memories. I
resisted my instinctual urge to turn her around right there on the concrete
steps in front of the post office, and lift her flowing black skirt above her
hips where I could only hope I wouldn’t have to negotiate a bothersome piece of
lacy, black fabric covering her perfectly round ass and neatly groomed pubic
hair before I penetrated what I knew to be a delicately moistened crevice that I
had been painfully neglectful of lately.
“Hey there,
mister…” My brief fantasy was called to a halt by my wife’s soft, playful
voice. “What’s on your mind?” It was a rhetorical question, as she
obviously had witnessed the lust swirling around in my eyes as I was examining
her mouth. “Wanna find someplace close
to work this out, or can you make it back home without making a mess of
yourself?” Her hand fell down between my
legs and softly caressed my tightening pants.
“Someplace
close, please…” I mumbled, feeling my face begin to radiate with the heat of an
impending blush. We began walking
towards her waiting car.
“I was
starting to wonder if you were ever gonna fuck me again...” she stated as she
let my hand go and stepped quickly to the driver’s side of the car. I opened the passenger door and slid hastily
into the seat, slamming the door behind me.
She turned the keys in the ignition and the car came to life.
While she
was navigating the parking spot in reverse and maneuvering our position onto
the street, I pulled the long, flowing skirt above her knees and ran my hand
along her inner thigh. I was pleasantly surprised
to find no troublesome fabric to keep my fingers from locating the sweet, moist
nub of her clitoris. As my fingers
negotiated the slender vertical lips hiding this hyper-sensitive bulb of skin,
my wife stiffened momentarily before she released a stifled moan from behind
the teeth she was using to bite down on her full bottom lip. She released one hand from the steering
wheel, never glancing away from the road.
With her free hand she pushed my fingers from where they had found sweet
satisfaction further down and into the soft wet crevice. I slid a solitary finger into the
inviting, tight, wet cavity at her hands request. I was quickly corrected by my wife’s
instructive hand as she pushed two more fingers from my hand into her trembling
vagina. She gently pushed and pulled on
my wrist to establish a rhythm while she negotiated a sharp turn into the city
park. Her hand slid away from mine to
find her exposed clitoris, where she began to massage it gently while I fucked
her obediently with the three fingers of my right hand. Moments later I felt the increasingly fluid
response of her orgasm building as she pulled into the far side of the park
behind a large dumpster, underneath the shade of an enormous oak tree. Before she could put the car in park her body
stiffened and she finally closed her eyes and screamed joyfully as she found
satisfaction and the release of the first orgasm I had provided for her in
seven long months.
We made love
three times that afternoon on top of her car, parked underneath the shade of
the oak tree and behind the cover of the large city dumpster. When we had
finally exhausted ourselves, she turned towards me while adjusting her tossed
clothing and picking a bright green oak leaf from her hair.
“I’ve missed
you…” she reached for my hands and placed them on her hips, wrapping her own
arms around my neck and locking her fingers under my shoulder-length hair. “Any words I offer will never be able to
satisfy the depth of that simple statement, so I’ll just leave it at
that.” She was smiling carefully, and
her eyes were glistening with the unyielding promise of tears that had become
commonplace in our rare moments of intimate conversations since she had
retrieved me from jail.
“I love you…
and I missed you too… even if I didn’t recognize it while I was knee-deep in
meth and dope-sick,” I offered softly, “I hope you want to believe that I
realize it now. I want you to know how
sorry I am that I let this go on as long as it has.” My spontaneous apology was instantly haunted
by the words I had shared with Bull the previous day.
…If you say you’re sorry, then you
intend to do that same shit again someday that you’re apologizing for…
But I felt sorry… and apologetic. I didn’t retract the apology I had offered to
my wife, but I began to silently examine the wisdom of Bull’s theory on
apologizing in my head. I truly loved my
wife, but I began to doubt the sincerity of my apology, and along with it the
validity of my concerns for the emotional roller-coaster my wife had endured as
the result of my addictions. At that
moment I began to feel like my ability to feel regret for anything other than
Bull’s current position was next to impossible.
My
wife didn’t notice my wandering thoughts, as she was apparently still floating
on the cloud of endorphins we had created in this remote corner of the city
park. She closed the distance between us
and embraced my impoverished body and the baggy clothes hanging from it.
“I
love you too,” as she spoke, I felt her lips moving on the flesh of the arm I
was using to return her embrace, “and it makes me happy to hear you say those
things. I prayed really hard that I
would have a moment like this with you again… even if it was only one more time. I forgave you a long time ago when I
realized just how hopelessly tangled-up you were with meth.
Don’t apologize anymore… okay?”
“Thank
you…” I whispered into the sweet smell of her hair.
She groaned
playfully and pulled away from me. She
began to spin happily in several circles as she wandered towards the driver’s
side of her waiting vehicle. “Are you
gonna tell me that meth feels better than what we just did?”
“No… meth
cannot make you feel like that,” I replied walking to my side of the car, although I was thinking to myself…
But it does make you forget that feeling that good is possible.
This work is the intellectual property of Jerome J. Panozzo.
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