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From: Selena Jardine <selenajardine@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Curtains
Date: Tue,  5 Mar 2002 00:10:05 -0500
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Curtains
by Selena Jardine



	I used to be fat.  And I mean really fat, such a fat man
that people would sometimes turn their heads as I walked
down the street, wondering how I could maintain that kind
of bulk.  The answer, of course, was that I loved food -
not, in the end, more than life, but it was damn close
there for a few years.  

	I blamed it on stress.  I blamed it on genetics.  Really,
though, it was a haunting:  food filled all my waking
thoughts, the way girls had when I was in high school. 
Instead of writing a girl's name on scrap paper or
sketching the curve of her breast, I used to make lists of
food:  sometimes alphabetical (apple pie brioche coq au
vin), sometimes by category (hot fudge caramel marshmallow
sauce whipped cream nuts cherry).  If I'd had a lover, I
doubt I could have spent more time daydreaming about
screwing her than I did fantasizing about food - the food
I'd just had, and when and where I would have my next
chance at some.  It got so that the accepted practice at
our house was that Marianne and the kids would put whatever
they didn't want on my plate at dinner, and I would always
find room for it.  Marianne always had this look, like she
couldn't believe I would really act as the family garbage
disposer, but she didn't say anything after the first few
times it happened.  Needless to say, our sex life wasn't 
as good as it used to be.  I missed it sometimes, the
frequency, the intimacy, but mostly, who cared?  Stress. 
Genetics.  (apple cake banana nut bread cream puffs.)

	It was when Marianne at last nagged me into going to the
doctor that I finally, grudgingly, began to change.  I was
embarrassed to go see anyone but Mark -- he's my
brother-in-law, and I figured he wouldn't laugh, even
behind my back.  He talked to me for a long time after I'd
climbed on the scales and topped out at 362.  At first I
thought Marianne had put him up to it, but as he talked, I
could hear in his voice that he was really upset.

	"It's like seeing someone you love with cancer, Billy," he
said, "and they won't get chemo because they're too
stubborn.  What the fuck is the good of having a doctor in
the family if you can't get your family to listen to the
doctor?"  He looked pretty wretched, poor guy.  I made a
lot of promises like I always did, to get him off my back,
but his unhappy face stayed with me, the way he looked when
he read my chart, my blood pressure, my cholesterol levels.
 The term "morbidly obese" began to haunt me unpleasantly. 


	Mark had said that I had to get some exercise, and once
I'd started thinking about it, I couldn't stop.  So one
Monday in October, I went out to our back yard and started
walking around the pool.  I felt like an idiot, waddling
around and around the empty space where our chlorinated
water was in summer, but it was exercise, right?  And the
next day, my calves were sort of sore, which I figured was
progress, so I did it again that night.  And again the
next.  Sometimes, after it became clear that this was going
to be a habit, one of my sons would come out and talk to me
for awhile, tossing a lacrosse ball in the air, not meeting
my eyes, but there.  Marianne took longer to convince,
probably because she'd known me for longer and had the
clarity marriage can give you if you stay in it long
enough.  She used to stand just outside the sliding glass
door, arms folded, and watch me.  Marianne has a terrific
figure that she keeps in shape by swimming laps every day,
and she has the most beautiful Irish smile I've ever seen. 
I'd smile at her companionably and keep walking.  I must
have walked fifty miles around that pool before she smiled
back.

	It was the boredom that finally got to me, along about
spring.  Shame about my body had started me walking in my
own back yard, but I'd lost fifty pounds or so over the
winter, walking in all weathers around that goddamned pool,
and I never wanted to see either the pounds or the pool
again.  At 310, though, I was still too big to want to show
myself in sweatpants to the whole neighborhood, even if I
was walking faster now.  So I waited until dark, laced on
my shoes, and set out into the cold spring evening.  I can
tell you the date, too, it was March 15, because you don't
forget a day like that, the day your whole life twists in
your grasp like an animal you picked up, thinking it was
dead, only to find it shockingly warm, slightly damp, and
friendlier than you expected.

	But I get ahead of myself.

	I started off in the chilly evening, safely hidden in the
shadows of the trees, trying not to think about walking
straight to the nearest McDonald's for a large, salty order
of fries (cherry pie Big Mac sundae hot fudge oh shut the
hell up, Billy.)  It was a pleasure to see something
besides my own back yard, though, and I started to look
around me.  After I got used to the fresh, cold air and the
occasional set of passing headlights, I made the discovery
that thousands of joggers have undoubtedly made before me: 
a hell of a lot of people don't draw their curtains at
night.  I walked past house after house in the deep
twilight of a March nine o'clock, their windows glowing
gold, watching frozen tableaux or scenes of rapid motion.  

	The first place I passed, there was a man at an upright
piano and a little girl with frizzy black hair playing with
a Dalmatian on the floor.  Next house, I could see a woman
in the kitchen doing the dishes, pushing her hair back from
her face with a damp wrist.  She looked sort of like
Marianne from behind, my favorite figure, with a narrow
waist but wide hips and a perfect round ass, delightful to
look at and lovely to hold.  The next house had the TV on
and everyone was sitting in the blue light watching a
Western - I couldn't tell if it was a movie or an old TV
show like Bonanza.  I was enjoying myself now, and I
stepped up the pace, making my glances more like
photographs than video clips.  A young man, standing
shirtless in the glow of the refrigerator.  A crying boy of
maybe six, pointing into the other room.  Scared?  Telling
on his sister?  I couldn't tell.  A beige striped cat
sleeping, perfectly curved, on the windowsill.  I felt
omniscient, as if I were the narrator of all these stories;
I didn't have any sense of myself as a voyeur.  

	And then, as I stepped into the rectangle of light cast by
a window about two miles from my own house on Summerhill
Drive, I saw her.  I didn't know anything about her, of
course, still don't; all I knew was that I had seen an
achingly beautiful girl of about twenty or so, studying at
a kitchen table.  I stopped in my tracks, breathless from
the quick walk and the cold air, and took in some more
details.  She was blonde, with her hair in a knot at the
nape of her neck, and she was sort of athletic-looking, the
way girls of twenty so often are.  Her arms were tanned,
but not like she'd been on spring break somewhere sunny,
just as if she habitually spent time outdoors when she
could.  She wore a plain white T-shirt and navy running
pants, and she was sitting with a thick textbook of some
kind - biology?  economics?  I couldn't see - on the table
in front of her.

	Now at this point I wasn't thinking what you're thinking: 
fat middle-aged man leering at nubile 20-year-old, will the
real Humbert Humbert please stand up.  All I could think
was how beautiful she was, how absurdly young and
beautiful.  I don't know how long I stood there, but it
wasn't long.  I hadn't really even caught my breath before
she stood up and closed her textbook and stretched, her
eyes disappearing as she yawned like a cat.  Then she
crossed her arms, the way I'd taught my sons to do it when
they were little, grasped the hem of her shirt, and pulled
it off.  My heart, which had been slowing, gave a galvanic
leap in my chest, and I heard the click in my throat as I
swallowed.  The girl took the T-shirt and dropped it in a
washer that was standing open near her.  Then she reached
behind her back, elbows out in that uniquely feminine
posture, and unclasped her jogging bra.  Her breasts fell
free in the golden light from the kitchen lamp, and I swear
as I watched I could see her nipples harden as they came
into contact with the cooler air.  By this time the big
muscles of my thighs were reacting to the workout and the
adrenaline.  "Fight!"  they said, trembling.  "Or flee!" 
And the lizardy back part of my brain muttered, "...or
fuck..." and I noticed that an enormous erection had tented
out the front of my sweatpants.  I leaned against a tree
for support, unable to take my eyes from the window.  

	The girl bent over, her beautiful pale breasts answering
gravity's call and turning slightly pear-shaped from the
perfect apples they had been.  She skinned off her running
pants and underwear in one tangle,  neatly separated them,
and dropped them in the washer with the T-shirt.  I saw one
flash of the powderpuff of blonde hair between her legs,
and then she turned her back to me and began putting
detergent in the washer.  I could see the nape of her neck
where the heavy knot of honey-colored hair was, the sweep
of her spine, the jut of her shoulder blades, the
heartbreakingly lovely curve of her ass, the glitter of
downy hair on the backs of her thighs (she doesn't shave
all the way up, I thought, frantically trying to distract
myself, and then, ah Christ, all the way up...).  

	Standing there at the washer, she was the most beautiful
thing I have ever seen, and according to my brain cortex, I
wanted her more than I'd ever wanted any other woman.  My
erection was monstrous, my usually docile cock alerting me
to its iron presence (and to what it wanted, _now Billy
now_) with every beat of my heart.  I found I was pressing
it with the side of my hand, as if to try to pacify it.  I
wanted to burst through the kitchen window like the
Incredible Hulk, fasten my lips around that small hardened
nipple, and stroke that soft blonde powderpuff until we
both melted into delicious oblivion.  Instead, I squeezed
my eyes shut, still pressing ineffectually at my raging
hard-on, and counted to ten.  

	When I opened them, she was gone from the window, the only
sign that she hadn't been a hallucination the econ textbook
still sitting on the table.  I couldn't tell if I was more
disappointed or more relieved.  What I could tell was that
it would be a truly bad idea for a respectable (if hefty)
member of the marketing community to be found standing on a
woman's lawn squeezing his dick, so I turned around and
walked back the way I had come.  My mind was filled with
that glowing picture, her smooth skin, the supple curve of
her breasts.  I'd walked almost a mile before my erection
was completely gone.

	That night, I was in love.  Or maybe in desire.  I lay in
bed as Marianne brushed her teeth and I thought about the
girl, imagined huge changes in my life:  living with her,
sleeping next to her, watching television or listening to
music - Lester Young, maybe - imagined quitting my job,
cooking for her, helping her study, going to her
graduation.  Then, further, imagined that glowing skin
under my fingers, her pliant warmth, imagined teasing her
clit to hardness with my tongue, feeling her guide my head
with one hand as she grasped the sheets with the other,
gasping and stiffening in pleasure.  I embellished for a
moment - I'd be the first man to taste her pussy! she'd be
so grateful she'd stay with me forever! - and then I took a
deep breath.  Get real, I told myself.  Imagine meeting her
parents, the shock and consternation on their faces. 
Imagine introducing her to my sons, only eight years'
difference between them and their new stepmother.  Imagine
Marianne.

	As if on cue, Marianne slipped into bed beside me. 
Instead of setting the alarm clock and turning over to
sleep as she usually did, she propped herself on her right
elbow and threw her left arm over me.  

	"Billy?"

	"Yeah, honey."

	"I want you to know I'm really glad you're doing this
exercise thing.  I - "  She was flushed pink with emotion
or embarrassment, down her neck and onto the tops of her
freckled breasts that I could see at the low neck of her
nightgown.  My cock began to stir.  "I was so cynical all
winter, I thought for sure you'd give up.  Hell, you know. 
You always did before.  But going out of our back yard like
you did tonight?  I guess that said commitment to me
somehow, like it wasn't just your private attempt.  I know
you're doing it for me and Ty and Pete, and honey, I love
you for it."  She leaned over and kissed me, and at the
touch of her generous mouth, my erection sprang to life as
if it had never been away.  Just like riding a bike, I
thought indistinctly.  My hand moved tentatively to the
swell of her hip beneath the covers, and instead of moving
away, she rolled toward me so that the point of her pelvic
bone fit comfortably into my hand.  "Mmmm," she breathed,
and I wasn't going to get - or need - any more
encouragement than that.

	I moved my hand up to the swell of her breast, found the
nipple already hard, and made an involuntary noise in the
back of my throat.  I circled it gently with my fingers,
using the slippery material of her nightgown to glide over
it again and again.  Her hand was roving over my bare
chest, slipping into the waistband of my boxers and out
again, avoiding my cock except for a teasing brush now and
then.  I stopped her for a moment, whispered, "Why don't
you take this off," and watched as she crossed her arms,
grasped the hem of her white nightgown, and pulled it off
over her head.  It was that movement that did it.  In that
moment, my Marianne, with her full breasts and wide hips,
the red hair springing away from her forehead, the fiery
patch of pubic hair, the tip-tilted nose, utterly familiar,
was also a stranger, a slim-hipped honey-blonde athlete
twenty-five years my junior, and I was lost in love and
desire.

	I slipped an arm under Marianne and rolled her onto her
back, then moved on top of her, carefully propping myself
on my palms so as not to hurt her with my weight.  I looked
into her eyes, wanting her to understand something I didn't
even fully grasp.  After a minute, she nodded almost
imperceptibly, and I bent and took her right nipple, the
more sensitive one, into my mouth, sucking and licking and
rolling and tugging it between my lips.  I left it for a
moment, opened my mouth as wide as I could, and enveloped
her left nipple, gently pulling the wide areola into my
mouth and caressing the whole pebbled area with the flat of
my tongue.  My thigh was between her legs, my cock resting
against her right thigh, and I could feel her moving her
hips so we rubbed against each other.  The blood was
beating in my ears.  I went back to her right nipple,
circling the hard nub with my tongue and this time nipping
it slightly.  "Oh!" she said, and her eyes flew open in
pleasure, "Oh, I like that, don't stop," and as I
continued, she slipped her hand down between our bodies and
began a slow expert massage of my cock, squeezing gently at
the head and the base at each sweep.

	My arms were tiring rapidly, and I rolled onto my back,
bringing Marianne on top of me.  As she settled, trapping
my hard penis between her pussy and my belly, I could feel
how wet she was.  Leaning forward over me, breasts swinging
tantalizingly close to my mouth, she rocked back and forth
the length of my cock, the underside of the head rubbing
against her clit at the top of each sweep.  My palms were
holding that marvelous ass.  Her eyes were closed, mouth
slightly open, and her whole pale skin was flushed pink. 
God, she was beautiful.  Her rocking speeded up, the big
muscles of her strong thighs bunching, and now her pussy
was slipping up and down the surface of my cock with a
delicious wet noise like a long kiss.  I could feel the
beginnings of my orgasm building, but Marianne was almost
there; she was shaking and I could feel the pulse of her
pussy in the thin skin there.  I fought it, but the desire
of the day welled up in me and I knew I wouldn't last long.
 I reached up and rubbed my thumbs across her sensitive
nipples, twice, three times.  That did it.  She threw her
head back in what looked like joy and pain and triumph, and
I could feel the gorgeous contractions of her orgasm in her
belly and along the whole length of my cock.  As soon as I
felt that, I let go.  I gave a long, low groan as I came,
watching Marianne's eyes, the first jet striking me on the
chest, the others flooding my lower belly.  Marianne kept
rocking gently, squeezing me with her pussy lips until I
was drained and limp.  Then she rolled off.  Her eyes
glinted sleepily in the darkness and she smiled.  "Mmmm,"
she said again.

	"Mmmm," I agreed, "pass the Kleenex, would you, hon?"  We
cleaned ourselves up and went to sleep nestled together for
the first time in a long time, maybe in years.

	In the days and months that followed, I couldn't stop
thinking about that blonde girl.  She attended
excruciatingly dull meetings with me, sat at dinner (where
my desire for food had substantially diminished, nudged out
of the way somehow), curled up on the couch as I watched
PBS or baseball.  I tried to stay away from her house on my
nightly walks.  Leaving the house, I'd tell myself firmly
that I was going the opposite direction, and I'd start
boldly away from that particular glowing window.  But
desire, like the lodestone, drew me without my even knowing
it, and almost every evening I found myself in front of
that house.  I never saw her naked again, though she was
often there.  I saw that beautiful chiseled face intent in
study, or laughing on the phone with someone; I saw her
making stir-fry, crying over a novel (it looked like it
might have been _Wuthering Heights_, but I can't be sure),
stretching after a run, and once painting her toenails in
that curious doubled-over posture that only women can seem
to achieve.  I don't know how many times I thought I'd go
knock on her door, imagined her reaction, different every
time - polite surprise, hostile rejection, immediate
reciprocal lust - and walked or jogged on past.  

	Those nightly workouts were surreal, set apart from the
rest of my life.  I'd come home, sluice off the sweat in
the shower, and climb into bed.  More and more often,
Marianne was there waiting for me, and as the pounds came
off, our sex life improved, and with it the intimacy that
had begun to slide away.  Marianne thought I was losing
weight for her sake, and I didn't tell her anything
different, any more than I explained that occasionally, as
I buried my face in her fragrant pussy or my prick in her
mouth, I was half with her and half with a girl I'd known
for a year without knowing her name.  Besides, like
anything you practice from the outside in, it was becoming
true.  I loved Marianne, and held her, and began,
hesitantly at first, to talk to her about the things I
really wanted, things I hadn't known I wanted until
recently.  I didn't want to stay in marketing, in those
long dull meetings only a blonde fantasy could make
bearable.  I wanted to go back to school and be a chef. 
"Put all this food experience into something useful," I
said, and laughed nervously, glancing down at what remained
of my belly.  I weighed 230 then.  

	But Marianne didn't laugh.  She nodded sharply, twice, and
said, "Go on and apply.  I'll get a job wherever we move
for school.  The boys'll love having that kind of a food
source in the family; they're at the age where they never
stop eating."  I could feel the tears pricking the back of
my eyes, and Marianne leaned over and kissed me.  I reached
for her, and never thought of the blonde girl at all.

	It was about six months after that that we moved to
Poughkeepsie so I could become a chef.  I was down to
fighting weight, 190 pounds.  The night before we left, I
went for my evening run, but instead of jogging, I walked
slowly.  I had a package in my hands.  In a couple of
familiar miles, I stood before the girl's house.  Even now,
I didn't want to knock, or frighten her at all.  I could
see her in the window, shining blonde hair falling around
her face, beautiful as a summer day.  It seemed that with
my desire for her, all my other desires had unearthed
themselves, too:  ambition, love, hunger.  I left the
package on her porch, turned, and walked away.  Imagined
her opening it, curiosity turning to surprise on that
lovely face as she shook out the soft folds of material,
the slow realization of what someone had left her. 
Curtains.  And I went home to my own glowing window.


*****
Acknowledgements to Uther Pendragon for the title to the
story. --SJ




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