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The Special Theory
I’m not much for family stuff. I never go to reunions – hell, I’m seldom invited to any – and I wouldn’t recognize most of my cousins if we were stuck in an elevator together. So when my sister called to tell me that Uncle Fix had died I never even thought of going to the funeral.
But my little brother – Uncle Fix’s godson – called from Baton Rouge and wanted to go. So here I am at two o’clock on a cold, gray Tuesday afternoon in mid-January among a crowd of unrecognized paternal relations at a funeral home in the suburbs. You know, try as I might, I still don’t know why I’m here.
To help me get through the evening, I have brought along a flask of Maker’s, and with a half hour to go before the funeral Mass, I have secured a spot in a nice corner where I can avoid those relatives I do know, while trying to guess who everybody else is… without having to ask my sister. My sister and my little brother are the only members of my generation I can identify for sure.
“Could I have a taste of that,” an attractive woman about ten or so years my junior says as she steps in my direction, impatiently adding, when I stare in complete incomprehension, “The flask, Jack.”
I unscrew the cap and pass the flask, while going through my mental check list of discrete questions I can ask to figure out which relative this is without having to admit my ignorance.
“I’m your cousin Margaret, Phil’s fifth kid,” she said after a big gulp of Maker’s. “But it’s OK not to recognize me. It’s kind of like a family game: ‘Name all of Phil’s twelve kids. . . in order.’ Sometimes I’m not even sure I could get it right. Are you still editing and writing or whatever it is you do across the River?”
“Yes, that’s what I do and where I do it. And you?”
Soon I am enjoying a comfortable few moments in the company of my cousin Margaret, whom I still can’t remember for the life of me. I vaguely recall a cousin Peg or Meg or Peggy or something and those are all short for Margaret of course, but I still can’t recall what Margaret or Peg or Meg looked like at any stage of life. At this stage of life, though, she looks pretty good. (All of Uncle Phil’s daughters are great looking, and the sons movie star handsome in their jet black hair and blue eyes.)
Margaret, hmmmmmm: five-foot-six or so, trim figure, medium boobs, and of course that raven hair, shoulder length, and those indigo eyes behind expensive eyeglasses. Her makeup is light, and she is wearing a gray suede funeral-home-approved shift, low heels and a sneer. I think I like the sneer best. There is also that rock the size of a Rubic’s Cube on her left hand.
She fills me in on what she is about: Public defender in the suburbs, married, no kids. Husband, a successful personal injury lawyer, pays all the bills. She spends her weekdays trying to keep teenage dopers out of jail – usually without much success. “System’s fucked. ‘All little niggers go to jail.’ That’s the system. I work my ass off to keep these little reprobates out of jail. The police, the politicians, all the white folks hate me for doing too much for the punks, and the punks all hate me for not doing enough. And I can’t blame them, I’d hate me, too. I should have dropped out of high school and kept that job at the car wash when I had the chance.”
After a few more minutes of ruing the fall of the Western World, Margaret returns to suburbia and begins identifying other members of the family for me, complete with bits of gossip about each:
Her gay brother, our ex-con cousin-in-law, the would-be priest, and Uncle Pat’s 23-year-old wife – “the boobs are fake.” I recognize her eldest sister, Lisa, who has just arrived. Still amazingly good looking at 47. Lisa is supposed to have had an affair with my little brother, sixteen years her junior, back when, but I don’t know about that.
“Let’s go outside,” Margaret says. “I need to smoke. And I’ll probably need some more of that liquid you have in your pocket.” Sarcasm is a wonderful Strange trait.
In a few minutes we are sitting on a bench under a canopy, emptying my flash and discussing our siblings. The emphasis seems to be on Lisa and my brother. Margaret says the rumors are bullshit.
“You see,” Margaret went on. “Lisa really wants to sleep with your brother. Always has. But there’s that foolish taboo. That Ursuline thing. Protestant morals and Catholic guilt. They clash from all directions. Your brother never had those hang-ups. He just wanted to fuck my sister. Still does. Why do you think he’s here?”
My turn: “I think Lisa is gorgeous, of course, but I’ve never thought of her in a sexual context. Does Lisa find my brother, her cousin, sexually attractive? Do you?”
“Lisa certainly does. Me, I don’t think so. I like my men a bit more mature, or at least so my cousins.” (Is this a whiskey-inspired hint of some sort or just wishful thinking?)
She laughs at her own little joke, and I put my hand on her knee.
Before she can answer, Onwin some cousin or other looks out the door of the funeral home to announce that the priest has arrived, and the funeral Mass for Uncle Fix is about to begin. I finish the flask. Margaret never did light up a cigarette.
Were I sober, I would never have touched my cousin, but with a good half pint of firewater to my credit – plus one more gulp – I steer Margaret aside as we step into the hallway of the mortuary’s business section. I pull her close and kiss, then I wait for her to push me away and slap my face. Instead, she opens her lips so our tongues can come together in long, wet, hard conversation. She puts a hand behind my neck to hold the kiss. I place my hand lightly on her breast and with my body pin her to the wall. She bites my ear lobe and traces the outline of my ear with her tongue.
Then she backs off.
“Not here. Not now,” she whispers as she pushes my hand away, making sure to hold it tightly in her own as she does.
Margaret and I stand in the back of the little chapel listening to some fat Jesuit describe this loving, dedicated family man – strange, not Strange, as he certainly couldn’t be talking about Uncle Fix. Anyway, from time to time throughout the services Margaret grabs my hand and squeezes. But, whenever I try to say anything, she puts her fingers to her lips and shushes me. I think I am beginning to want this woman for true.
You know there are myriad taboos about fucking your cousin, even a cousin as eminently fuckable as Margaret. (Her perfume is intoxicating by the way.) Since I don’t intend to marry her or have deformed children with her the legal and genetic prohibitions are out, leaving what? Sister Christopher and Father Hayes’ admonishments? I don’t care much about scandalizing or embarrassing the family, and I don’t think many of my friends would care much. Margaret may not have the same “fuck what the world thinks” attitude, though I suspect she does. I can press the point and retreat if she isn’t game, I guess.
I give Margaret a ride to the cemetery in the city. The procession, escorted by suburban sheriff’s deputies, takes a while to form along the boulevard in front of the funeral home. My own car, my 28-year-old Porsche, finds its place somewhere in the middle. I leave the engine running so the heater will work, and I keep the radio on so Margaret won’t hear my heavy breathing or the newest rattle from my engine. Sitting in the queue I take a deep breath and cautiously put my hand on her knee again. I don’t know what I am expecting.
No reaction really. Margaret doesn’t say a word, does not push my hand away, nor does she move closer or father away – in the old pigmy 911 there’s only close and closer. Then she opens her knees, just enough for an invitation, an unambiguous signal. If she be game, so be I. My fingers move up the inside of her smooth thigh, which seems to be quivering just a bit. Her thighs open wider when I reach the lacy triangle of her panties, and slip my fingers between the silk and her smoothly shaved skin. She is wet and open and now breathing a little harder herself, as I let my little finger touch her clitoris. She gives a jump and a sigh, but keeps her focus ahead on the line of limos and Fords about to follow Uncle Fix to Greenwood.
The line moves in front of me, and I reach gingerly for the shift knob and follow, pausing just a flicker between third and fourth gears to taste my cousin. “I think you should drive for now,” she says as she straightens her dress and fastens her seatbelt. I don’t say anything. I just drive. It begins raining just a little as we near the cemetery.
Then, as the fat Jebbie sprinkles Uncle Fix with one last spray of holy water before he is pushed into the vault, the clouds open up, and the chilling rain scatters all but the grave tenders and the priest. Margaret and I make a dash to my car, which is locked – Margaret did that, probably out of habit as I never lock anything. My overcoat has protected me some, but Margaret hasn’t fared as well. She is soaked.
Once inside, I turn the engine over and crank up the heater. We shiver just the same. And we wait: for the rain to let up a little and for the other cars to start leaving. Finally, as the darkness grows the limos with family and the empty hearse turn in the direction of the front gates, and we follow, shivering but laughing. Me not so much. I didn’t want to take Margaret home right away, at least not to her home. She lives about a mile from the cemetery, off Metairie Road just outside the city limits.
“Come inside and dry off,” Margaret says as I pull into her driveway. “You can’t stay like that. I think Dennis may have a sweater you can use. Dennis, that’s my husband. But you won’t have to meet him. He’s in Dallas suing somebody.” She runs up the steps to the front porch and quickly disappears inside, leaving the door open indicating that I am expected to follow. And I do. I put my wet top coat on the rack in the foyer and walk inside. I’m really not all that wet, at least compared to her. The living room is huge but dim, lots of expensive furniture and walls filled with art. What you would expect for a pair of childless, married lawyers?
“There’s some whiskey over on the bar in the corner,” she calls from somewhere beyond. “Make me one, too. Just the whiskey, no ice or anything.”
The bar is a old converted television/radio/phonograph from the 1950s. Uncle Phil had the first TV in the family, a tiny little screen housed in a huge mahogany armoire of sorts: perfect for converting into a bar. I take two of the glasses on top and fill each with a couple of fingers of something resembling whiskey from a crystal decanter. It’s bourbon, though I can’t tell which kind. Probably cheap, otherwise it wouldn’t be in a decanter.
I walk around holding two glasses of booze, looking at the art on the walls and atop end tables, when I am hit by a towel.
“Dry your hair, take off those wet shoes and come let’s enjoy our drinks in the den.” Margaret is wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe that reaches to her bare feet. I don’t think the outfit would be considered very sexy in most situations. But, damn Margaret does look sexy in that robe now. I am getting hard just looking – and thinking.
She takes a sip of her drink and walks through the dining room toward the back of the house. I follow, of course. At the entrance to the den there is step down. Margaret stops at the step. I stand a step above her and look out through the wall of French doors at the rain falling through the branches of the wintering fig tree. I put my hand on a bare spot of her shoulder near at her neck. She turns and offers me her lips.
We hold each other lightly, and let our tongues and lips do the communicating. My being a step above makes it awkward at first, but Margaret embraces my legs to keep me from moving to her level. I push back the collar of her robe and place my hands on her bare shoulders. She shivers.
“I’ve wanted you for a long, long time,” Margaret whispers as the terrycloth robe falls to the floor, revealing this most delicious being. I touch her ever so lightly. I want to see as much of this woman as is but I also want to touch as much at the same time. It’s a nice dilemma to have.
Dilemma seems to be the order of the day. It’s one thing to make love to a woman with a near perfect body – and Margaret’s is such – but when that near perfect body belongs to your own flesh and blood the scruples battle the amorals for preeminence. But, any hesitancy I might have had went out with that kiss at the funeral home. And now, any chance of retreat has fled with her confession… “for a long, long time.”
“I hope I won’t be too, too disappointing.”
“You can’t be.” And she begins unhooking my belt and unfastening my trousers. My cock begins to make its way through my shorts, and Margaret’s fingers give it a little help. She looks up at me and smiles as she rubs my member across her small but firm tits. I step from the dining room level now and cup my hand around one of her breasts, then take a nipple between my fingers and rub until it is long and hard. I move to kiss her breasts, sinking to a knee…
“No,” she breaks in. and steps toward an overstuffed chair and falls in, dragging me by my tie. My pants still above my knees, I trip right over her, apparently the position she intended. As my lips, tongue and teeth tend to her breasts, my hands try to touch every single sensuous part of her creamy body.
Her body seems perfect. The warmth. The softness. The color. I move down, kissing every inch. A heaven right here in my own family that I have overlooked all these years. OK, Margaret would have been too young for me, even if I had known her as a teenager, but she is certainly just the right age now. I descend on her body, feeling her wetness on my cheeks as I pass by her vagina, her pussy, her cunt. I kiss and suck and even bite as I move down her inner thigh, past her knee and to her feet. Damn, even her feet are off-the-charts sensual. I massage her feet and move back up one thigh and down the other, passing teasingly close to her lips. It is a tease even to me. I yearn to taste her, to press my face against her hairless cunt. Her aromas are too, too much. I must taste. And I do.
Her hips move to the edge of the chair as I plunge face first into her vagina, licking all the juices and feeling all the warmth and excitement she has to give. I kiss her clitoris. She jerks, and her legs rise to squeeze my head in a vise. Her clit grows until it is stiff, and I bite it slightly, as Margaret grabs my hair, intending to bring me up from my sensuous cave. The smell, the taste, the touch, the sight and the sound. She pulls me up by my hair, then by my collar, until I am on top of her, and we share our lips and tongues in a sloppy, erotic kiss.
“Jack, we’ll me more comfortable in the other room,” she says.
“I’m quite comfortable right here, Peg.”
“Well sit up before you crush me.” I stand and step back as she deftly removes my pants and shorts while sitting on the edge of the chair. And she stands: “Call me Peg again.”
“Of course, Peg.”
She seems to swoon as she kneels in front me and massages my member, my penis, my dick, my cock. She lifts a drop on the tip and tastes it before licking my shaft and covering the head. I am shaking, getting afraid of coming too soon. Margaret senses as much and backs off, She stretches out supine on the silk oriental rug in the room. Her heels on the floor, she opens her knees and reaches her arms toward me.
I am on my knees, leaning over her, my hands on each side of her shoulders. I hang there frozen, staring into those indigo eyes. She is indeed beautiful, maybe the most beautiful. At this moment she is most beautiful, the most beautiful, the most beautiful woman in the world.
And I let myself enter her.
She is warm and taut and small and sinful. And a soft moan from deep inside her and a light smile on her face tell me all I needed to know: that she is as glad to have me inside her as I am to be there. I let out a moan of my own, with the smile. I pause to catch my breath and to keep from exploding right away. Margaret raises her legs around my hips and I pin her wrists to the floor as I move, slowly, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker, stroking, driving, enjoying my cousin in ways I never thought possible. Her smile is one of joy, of relief, of satisfaction. The smile of a woman who enjoys sex on her own terms. I certainly agree with those terms. As I make a strong, deep plunge inside her, she flexes her vaginal muscles about me and I try to push deeper and deeper. I am now going absolutely nuts.
Her hips rise to meet mine in rhythm with her vaginal muscles’ massaging of my cock. I bend my elbows to fall atop her and wrap her body in my arms. She is moaning louder, sounding almost angry, maybe she is.
She digs her fingernails into my back, eliciting blood and painful pleasures. Her spine arches and she calls, “Yes, Yes, Yes, Now, Now. Call me Peggy. Call me Peggy, the way you used to.”
I answer in a gasp, “Come, Peggy, come.”And she erupts in a fit of shaking and tossing and “Now, Jack, now.” I come in torrents, and we roll over and over, around and around on the silk rug until every drop is spent. And it is great. Forbidden fruit always is.
We quickly get up from the floor. She reaches to the overstuffed chair to grab her robe, and wraps her delicious body in its folds. “I must shower and get ready if you’re taking me to Chez Denise tonight.” (I am?)
She turns and begins walking toward the back of the house. I pause, uncertain whether or not I have been invited to follow. I follow anyway, across the room and into a hallway that ends in an open door to a huge bedroom filled with mahogany and dominated by a king-size bed. I stop to take it all in, the paintings, the furniture, the mirrors. I hear the shower in the adjoining bathroom. The door is ajar, as is the door to the marble shower. Without stopping to remove my shirt, I step inside. I have been expected.
She is facing the shower head, letting the hot water stream down her neck. The warm sprays of the shower have already added a rose glow to Margaret’s skin and the ribbons of water run down her shoulders and back and on to her ass. I grab the soap and begin to wash her rich body, her back, her ass. I reach around to wash each tit as I kiss her neck and run my tongue up behind each ear. The bar of Ivory in my hand, I wash her belly and descend to her pussy, where I let my fingers explore her folds of her petal.
I press close to feel her skin next to mine, and I am hard again, suddenly wanting – hell, in need of – her again. I press my penis against her ass, between her firm cheeks, while my hand reaches inside her for a drop of her juices to ease the way. I rub that juice on her rose and then I let my cock enter. She gasps. But before I can react, she murmurs “No, don’t stop. Oh, my god, don’t stop.” And I push in slowly – as her tightness allows no other way – until I can enter no more. And I stay there, my cock trembling and growing, my body shivering and my mind exploding. Margaret shakes and her moans turn to sobs. She is crying, whispering words I cannot understand even if I could hear them clearly.
I explode inside of her, jets of hot juices up that divine ass, and I hold her hips as I slowly and carefully pump her rectum before slipping out, spent. I take hold of her shoulders and turn her to face me, and we kiss, a kiss at once passionate, lustful and loving.
We wash each other gently before exiting the shower.
“Go grab yourself another drink,” Margaret says as I return to the bedroom after a brief expedition to locate my clothes. “You call Denise and make a reservation, give us an hour. It’s not too important for a Tuesday, but Denise likes it when people make reservations. It may take me a little while to get ready, too, and besides I need a little break from you.” She smiles.
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