Read Online Forbidden Fruit by Annie Murphy, Peter de Rosa - Free Book Online
Authors: Annie Murphy, Peter de Rosa
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like a child lost in a dark wood. I could see his love for me stirring, coming literally alive in
that part of him till then unshown, the sacred part of him that could not lie about his feelings. I looked on mesmerized as
he hardened below a black fringe of curls.
Since I still did not make a move, was too terrified to, he shuffled over and almost fell across my bed. He whipped my nightdress
over my head, neither gentle nor rough. Then he opened the covers and heaved his overheated body in beside me.
Once he was lying down his thrashing matched the fierce disruptive rhythms of the storm.
I did not mind him sleeping in my bed, it was big enough. I wanted him as near as possible so I could give him solace, help
him get well, but he had only one thing on his mind. What possessed me was my willingness to let him take from me whatever
he needed.
I witnessed a great hunger. This was an Irish Famine of the flesh. Here was a man releasing energies and feelings pent up
for over twenty-five adult years.
Panting heavily, his mouth and lips covered and then explored mine. He fondled and kissed my breasts, and ran hands, strong
in spite of his fever, over every inch of me, hands that had spoken to me so eloquently of the wonders of Ireland, hands that
could calm a runaway horse.
I still hoped that nothing would happen. It would break my heart if he acted under the influence of drugs. I felt like a man
who has taken advantage of a woman.
Besides, he might regret it. He might even blame me as he blamed me when he nearly ran into the Ford van on the road. I did
not want to be the cliff’s edge for his flying feet.
I looked up and stroked him softly with both hands round his bristly cheeks. I murmured sweet words to him, enjoyed the sheer
weight of him and his passionate caresses.
It struck me that, aside from his delight in the smells and smoothness of feminine skin, this all-knowing cleric and completely
inexperienced man did not really have a language of sex. He might have kissed a woman, maybe many. But I was surely the first
woman whose flesh had met the fullness of his naked flesh.
The more than twenty-year difference between us did not matter now. He was a novice lover. He did not begin to understand
the geography of my body and in his hurry to discover it he came too early. I felt the sticky odorous wetness running down
the inside of my thighs. So, while he was old enough to be my father, he seemed, in the end, young enough to be my son.
For a woman, there are many ways to explore a man and express love. I did not need to have him climax inside me to know he
was mine. I did not even want it.
In the past, I had kidded men, my husband included, that I had not taken precautions against pregnancy when I had. It was
a ruse to make them withdraw from me without leaving their seed behind to blend with the juices inside me and leave an odor
and a texture that I could not bear.
The reason for my dislike went back to when I was seventeen. I was in my last year at school. Don, my boyfriend, had a reputation
for being sexy, but I thought it only meant he liked kissing girls. He was the first to arouse me; and when he kissed me I
thought I was on fire.
One spring—mimosa, oleander, lantana in blossom—we were at school when a tornado struck a half mile away. Susan, my closest
buddy, and I went under the desk for shelter. The noise was terrifying, I was shaking violently, convinced my last hour had
come. Susan took out a metal hip flask and introduced me to rum. Rum and I were instant best friends. The tornado passed and,
happy to be alive, we went out to celebrate.
One guy let me drink beer out of his ten-gallon hat and we danced on a picnic table. Don was jealous. He knocked my dance
partner out with one punch to the jaw, grabbed me off the table, and, piling me into his black Pontiac sports car, drove me
to the lake. There we scrambled, as usual, into the backseat. But he had a
that part of him till then unshown, the sacred part of him that could not lie about his feelings. I looked on mesmerized as
he hardened below a black fringe of curls.
Since I still did not make a move, was too terrified to, he shuffled over and almost fell across my bed. He whipped my nightdress
over my head, neither gentle nor rough. Then he opened the covers and heaved his overheated body in beside me.
Once he was lying down his thrashing matched the fierce disruptive rhythms of the storm.
I did not mind him sleeping in my bed, it was big enough. I wanted him as near as possible so I could give him solace, help
him get well, but he had only one thing on his mind. What possessed me was my willingness to let him take from me whatever
he needed.
I witnessed a great hunger. This was an Irish Famine of the flesh. Here was a man releasing energies and feelings pent up
for over twenty-five adult years.
Panting heavily, his mouth and lips covered and then explored mine. He fondled and kissed my breasts, and ran hands, strong
in spite of his fever, over every inch of me, hands that had spoken to me so eloquently of the wonders of Ireland, hands that
could calm a runaway horse.
I still hoped that nothing would happen. It would break my heart if he acted under the influence of drugs. I felt like a man
who has taken advantage of a woman.
Besides, he might regret it. He might even blame me as he blamed me when he nearly ran into the Ford van on the road. I did
not want to be the cliff’s edge for his flying feet.
I looked up and stroked him softly with both hands round his bristly cheeks. I murmured sweet words to him, enjoyed the sheer
weight of him and his passionate caresses.
It struck me that, aside from his delight in the smells and smoothness of feminine skin, this all-knowing cleric and completely
inexperienced man did not really have a language of sex. He might have kissed a woman, maybe many. But I was surely the first
woman whose flesh had met the fullness of his naked flesh.
The more than twenty-year difference between us did not matter now. He was a novice lover. He did not begin to understand
the geography of my body and in his hurry to discover it he came too early. I felt the sticky odorous wetness running down
the inside of my thighs. So, while he was old enough to be my father, he seemed, in the end, young enough to be my son.
For a woman, there are many ways to explore a man and express love. I did not need to have him climax inside me to know he
was mine. I did not even want it.
In the past, I had kidded men, my husband included, that I had not taken precautions against pregnancy when I had. It was
a ruse to make them withdraw from me without leaving their seed behind to blend with the juices inside me and leave an odor
and a texture that I could not bear.
The reason for my dislike went back to when I was seventeen. I was in my last year at school. Don, my boyfriend, had a reputation
for being sexy, but I thought it only meant he liked kissing girls. He was the first to arouse me; and when he kissed me I
thought I was on fire.
One spring—mimosa, oleander, lantana in blossom—we were at school when a tornado struck a half mile away. Susan, my closest
buddy, and I went under the desk for shelter. The noise was terrifying, I was shaking violently, convinced my last hour had
come. Susan took out a metal hip flask and introduced me to rum. Rum and I were instant best friends. The tornado passed and,
happy to be alive, we went out to celebrate.
One guy let me drink beer out of his ten-gallon hat and we danced on a picnic table. Don was jealous. He knocked my dance
partner out with one punch to the jaw, grabbed me off the table, and, piling me into his black Pontiac sports car, drove me
to the lake. There we scrambled, as usual, into the backseat. But he had a
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