Read Online Blackstrap Hawco by Kenneth J. Harvey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kenneth J. Harvey
Tags: Historical
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Something she had seen in no other man, but something more than danger. A sturdiness, but with obligingtenderness. She sensed it in the way he handed over her beer. A gracefulness that humanized his hard looks.
She followed him while her girlfriends said âno, donât go, you donât know him,â or laughed and wished her luck. She and Blackstrap had ended up down on the harbour, walking along the long stretch of docks with Blackstrap pulling her onto one of the big boats, up the plank and then down the metal steps, stalking her around the deck, around the huge spools of thick cables and the slippery steel floor with the paint worn off. A wonderful, head-spinning adventure like nothing she had experienced. He had grabbed her while she laughed, and they had kissed up against the side of the boat. No sex, no feeling her up, just that contact, that kiss, slow and meaningful. His fingers on her cheek, his palm flat there, kissing like it meant everything. The way he looked in her eyes made her feel like he would protect her. Like he recognized her absolutely. Everything about her. And then he put her in a taxi, sent her home. Karen didnât see him until a few weeks later in a different bar. The Ship Inn. He was sitting alone, drinking a beer, and she left her friends to sit down with him, wondered why he was in St. Johnâs again, knew where he was from, where he lived. Cutland Junction. An hour away by car. He said he was just looking. Looking for what, she wanted to know. He just watched her. Again, he asked more questions. Where her mother came from, where her father came from. Ireland or England. Her family. Way back. They came from somewhere. And brothers or sisters. This made her feel good. That he was interested, but she would not say much about her father. Mother. He saw why. He knew why. Her family, it had harmed her. He stopped asking. Her family was nothing to her. And too much to her. Both at the same time. Silence for a while as he stared off at a group of people laughing by the door. Then they talked, quietly, in the pub with the low lights. He asked for her phone number, and she gave it to him. He folded it into his pocket and winked at her.
âNice talking,â he said, then stood and left.
Now. The difference. Now, there is a difference. In this room. This house. Alone. Blackstrap never dotes over her. He is kind. And considerate. But he often just takes what he is after. Yanking down her jeans. In the kitchen. And leaning her over the counter. Reaching forward to pull up her T-shirt. Pull her breasts from her bra. So they rolland press against the cool counter top. The quickness and thrust of him. Behind her. Is sometimes crazily arousing. Angry. Sad. Hurt. Excited. Ashamed. Behind shut eyes. Seeing other things. Hating. Him harder. Wishing. Him harder. In her. Harder. Bigger. In her. For once. She would like to lead him on. And just leave him standing without getting his. That kind of thrill. Emptiness. Nothing. Punishment. Every once in a while she has had to teach him. About arousing her. Placing his hands in tender places. Encouraging the gracefulness that she first saw in him. Not, now. When she cries. Because it can be good.
Thinking such thoughts. Memories of that first night, playfully then warmly kissing on the ship in the harbour arouses her, the steel and sea beneath her feet, she encourages the feeling to ward off the boredom.
Now. She feels heavy. Inside. Grey. Weightiness. She sighs. Forcing herself to think: Sex. Away from the perfectly clean living room. Freshly painted. Pushing Blackstrap away from her. Making him do exactly as she tells. Shoving his face into the places she likes best. Or worst. Her body grows warm and loose. That corner in her mind. Corner of tears where she stood. She will not face it. No one is home. She will not stand there. No one to harm her. The void of an empty house. She moves over. Sits on the couch. Closes her eyes. Pornographic images
She followed him while her girlfriends said âno, donât go, you donât know him,â or laughed and wished her luck. She and Blackstrap had ended up down on the harbour, walking along the long stretch of docks with Blackstrap pulling her onto one of the big boats, up the plank and then down the metal steps, stalking her around the deck, around the huge spools of thick cables and the slippery steel floor with the paint worn off. A wonderful, head-spinning adventure like nothing she had experienced. He had grabbed her while she laughed, and they had kissed up against the side of the boat. No sex, no feeling her up, just that contact, that kiss, slow and meaningful. His fingers on her cheek, his palm flat there, kissing like it meant everything. The way he looked in her eyes made her feel like he would protect her. Like he recognized her absolutely. Everything about her. And then he put her in a taxi, sent her home. Karen didnât see him until a few weeks later in a different bar. The Ship Inn. He was sitting alone, drinking a beer, and she left her friends to sit down with him, wondered why he was in St. Johnâs again, knew where he was from, where he lived. Cutland Junction. An hour away by car. He said he was just looking. Looking for what, she wanted to know. He just watched her. Again, he asked more questions. Where her mother came from, where her father came from. Ireland or England. Her family. Way back. They came from somewhere. And brothers or sisters. This made her feel good. That he was interested, but she would not say much about her father. Mother. He saw why. He knew why. Her family, it had harmed her. He stopped asking. Her family was nothing to her. And too much to her. Both at the same time. Silence for a while as he stared off at a group of people laughing by the door. Then they talked, quietly, in the pub with the low lights. He asked for her phone number, and she gave it to him. He folded it into his pocket and winked at her.
âNice talking,â he said, then stood and left.
Now. The difference. Now, there is a difference. In this room. This house. Alone. Blackstrap never dotes over her. He is kind. And considerate. But he often just takes what he is after. Yanking down her jeans. In the kitchen. And leaning her over the counter. Reaching forward to pull up her T-shirt. Pull her breasts from her bra. So they rolland press against the cool counter top. The quickness and thrust of him. Behind her. Is sometimes crazily arousing. Angry. Sad. Hurt. Excited. Ashamed. Behind shut eyes. Seeing other things. Hating. Him harder. Wishing. Him harder. In her. Harder. Bigger. In her. For once. She would like to lead him on. And just leave him standing without getting his. That kind of thrill. Emptiness. Nothing. Punishment. Every once in a while she has had to teach him. About arousing her. Placing his hands in tender places. Encouraging the gracefulness that she first saw in him. Not, now. When she cries. Because it can be good.
Thinking such thoughts. Memories of that first night, playfully then warmly kissing on the ship in the harbour arouses her, the steel and sea beneath her feet, she encourages the feeling to ward off the boredom.
Now. She feels heavy. Inside. Grey. Weightiness. She sighs. Forcing herself to think: Sex. Away from the perfectly clean living room. Freshly painted. Pushing Blackstrap away from her. Making him do exactly as she tells. Shoving his face into the places she likes best. Or worst. Her body grows warm and loose. That corner in her mind. Corner of tears where she stood. She will not face it. No one is home. She will not stand there. No one to harm her. The void of an empty house. She moves over. Sits on the couch. Closes her eyes. Pornographic images
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