Chapter Three

The wind from the storm had caused considerable damage to the roof of Clark’s home. The roof was shorn of many shingles, a few strips of light blue aluminum siding were stripped from the front and side of the house, and the marble sized hail with the force of the wind cracked the house’s large living-room picture window. The garage sustained little damage.

Clark gazed out of the picture window, noticed his car in the drive. Clark’s light blue Thunderbird was pocked with indentations caused by the hail. His mind twinged with despair. He had bought the car the night before.

Clark heard barking and turned his head in the direction of the den. In the den Praado and Popeye were bandying their various pleasantries to each other. Clark again faced the window to continue his survey of the storm damage.

Janene was upstairs in the bedroom fixing the bed and cleaning the bathroom.

The telephone rang.

"Clark," Janene yelled from the bedroom upstairs, "will you get that?"

"Okay," Clark said, voice deep and resounding.

"And tell me who it is?"

It was Clark’s former lover of a year earlier, Lori Wentworth.

Lori was a bewitching woman. With brown hair down to her shoulders, eyes of deep brown, and a wan freckled face, she sported an air of playful sensuality. She was a profoundly spiritual person and carried with her a modicum of spiritual pain. She possessed well-developed breasts, a slim waste, and tight hips. Her lips were sexually rounded. Her eyes were ardently pure. Her voice was dulcetly sensual.

Clark had loved this woman with zealous ardor. Their sexual encounters were highlighted with wanton abandon. Clark wanted to marry her, was about to ask this vixen for her hand when she had turned to the arms of a former lover whom she said had treated her like "spit." Ostensibly her idea a spit was pleasing to her taste. She rejected Clark’s love for the pained love of this other man. Clark had learned to loathe this woman. What could this woman want, this vamp from Clark’s past?

"Hello, Clark?" Her voice, mystically mellifluous, brought to his mind memories of warm humid nights walking under the stars, lusty and lustful moments embraced by the alluring atmosphere of her charm, passionate moments of sexual union where nothing existed but the sound of lovers in love echoing plangently in the night. Clark heard her voice and was transported to another time, another place. He knew that time and place now was forbidden to him. To re-enter it would cause more pain. He slammed the receiver into its cradle. A tear coursed down his right cheek.

"Clark, who was that?" Janene said stepping down the stairs that led to the second floor.

"Someone dialed my number by mistake," Clark said with dolor in his voice. He wiped his right cheek with his left hand, forced a smile.

Janene did not notice. She was looking at her feet while striding down the stairs. Praado greeted her at the foot of the stairs with a strident bark.

"Clark," Janene asked coyly, "when are we going to get married? I need to know."

"Janene, I would like to talk to you about that right now. . .

***

Janene stormed out of the house in rampant rage. It was done. Janene was out of his life, if not for good, at least for now.

All the nights of unbridled sex, Clark thought, led to nothing. There is a vapidness in sex without commitment. Why do I indulge in copulation when love--true love--is not present? Am I so afraid of being alone that I sacrifice love for sex and delude myself into thinking that sex can lead to love. Love is never a product of sexual intimacy. For sex to have any meaning love must be its foundation.

Clark eyes moisten as he watched Janene leave, her hips swaying enticingly as she stormed down the front walk, wet from the rain, to her car. Janene’s eyes were also moist. In his heart he did not want to see her go and was about to call out to her when the telephone rang.

Experiencing a burning sensation in his chest, he plodded over to the phone.

"Hello, the Hern residence," Clark said. "Who’s this?"

"Hello, My name is Jeffrey Mortleson and I’m your former wife’s attorney."

"Yes," Clark replied apprehensively, the hackles of his neck bristling. "What do you want, and what does she want?"

"Mr. Hern, my client believes now that you’re financially able you should be able to afford to pay more in the way of--

"Go to hell!!!" He hurled the receiver across the room, thinking, The nerve of that woman. She divorced me and now she wants to receive money from me! Clark’s eyes were glazed with rage, regret, and despair. Why does she want to do me more harm?

It took a few moments for his mind to return to rationality.

Well, he thought, I’d better call my attorney. The phone wasn’t working, though. The line snapped when in his rage he thrust the receiver across the room into the kitchen. It landed in the sink filled with soap water. "The attorney can wait," he uttered under his breath. "I have to go for a walk."

The sun was shining, the air was fresh, the sky was dappled with blue-gray clouds. Pools of murky water were situated all around Clark’s lawn giving the impression that some lakes of Minnesota had moved and took residence in his front and back yard. The wind was blowing in a westerly direction and seagulls could not be seen nor heard. On the vista of the seascape was the vestige of a ship. The trees bowed encumbered with the moisture from the storm. There were already people on the beach--boys playing and men and women holding hands walking on the sands of the beach as lovers always do. A rainbow present in the western sky greeted Clark’s eyes.

How beautiful nature is, Clark thought as he walked. After a storm things seem to renew themselves.

Not far from his home Clark met his neighbor, Marty Rutherford walking alone on the shore.

Clark had known Marty for more than 15 years. They attended college together, spent some wild bachelor days together. He was of grand stature with brown hair graying at the temples. His nose, aquiline, gave the impression of Roman statuesqueness. His shoulders were broad but his stomach protruded beyond his belt. He wore a grizzled beard, his eyes were raven-black. Strong, brazen, and a little on the heavy side, he was Clark’s best friend. Clark felt secure in his presence.

"Hi, Clark," Marty said in his Texas drawl.

"Hi, Marty," Clark replied. "How goes it with you?"

"Not bad," Marty said, left hand wiping the sweat off his brow.

"How is your wife?" Clark asked nonchalantly.

"She’s pregnant. We’ve been exercising under the sheets."

"Should I congratulate you or commiserate with you, Mart?"

"Why not do a little of both."

"Okay, if you wish." Clark, continuing his conversation with his friend, scanned the beach seeing nothing out of the ordinary. After a short stroll the two men parted company.

Clark continued to walk.

There were several people on the beach doing their thing while Clark scuffed along the sand. Two boys were tossing a frisbee, two girls about the age of twenty-two were strolling along the shore, and there were several older people in their sixties who were taking in the now good weather. The sun was hot and it was humid. Beads of perspiration coursed down Clark’s moist face. The salt air smelled divine, the breeze kissed his cheeks with cool refreshment. Clark espied the woman from whom Praado stole the bottom half of that bikini. She was clothed now in a pink, revealing halter top and a pair of short shorts. She smiled as he passed her.

She stopped.

He stopped, looked into her silvery-gray eyes.

She smiled, said, "Hello."

Clark greeted her and left it at that. She continued her walk. He noticed that the bottom curve of her buttocks ebbed below the hem of her shorts. Smooth, revealing, white-lined tan. Clark, beginning to walk, thought to himself, Who’s that woman, anyway, certainly has nice buns, buns of steel.

Clark walked while thinking of his past affairs with women. There were several: Jane, the brunette; Martha the red-head; Stasha, the sandy blonde with the buxom bosom; Frieda, the barmaid; Alex, the tart and sassy lawyer; and Janene.

All of these women had expressed to Clark their ardent desire to marry. Martha was by far the best in bed. She owned sultry breasts and the glance of a wanton siren. Her lips engulfed his mouth with moist and chili-hot passion.

Frieda was the simpleton. He liked her for her innocence. She was fresh, unassuming, but lacked sexual fire.

Alex was elegance personified. Her sardonic, mesmerizing smile coupled with her loose morals made for a good time.

Jane was the most loving. She treated Clark with tenderness and was complaisant. She gave whatever Clark would ask.

Stasha smothered him with affection. Her breasts hove the overflowing desire of her lustful soul. Of her fantasies Clark wanted nothing.

Janene, the woman who had just exited from his life, was an admixture of all of these women. She possessed all, all that a man would want in a woman--a perfectly formed body, sensuality, sexuality, a brazenness of spirit, and a taint of the divine. But Clark cast her out. He was looking not for sex, not for lust. He was searching for the soul he knew he had lost.

Clark continued his strolling along the sand and the sea, amidst the sea spray and the sand dunes thinking about his flirtatious past when the thought came to him about his former wife. Six years had passed since he had seen her. Six years thinking about the mistakes he had made. If he had only been given the opportunity to rectify them. Six years past while praying to his God that somehow she would want to make contact to say that she was doing fine. He wrote letters--no response. He traveled fifteen hundred miles to catch of glimpse of her at a party he knew she would attend. He saw her then, hair like an iridescent halo, face like a resplendent goddess. He longed to say hello but knew that his greeting would be rebuffed by the cold recalcitrance of her heart.

He thought about her as he walked. She had been the woman who could make him happy and the woman who could cause him to drown in the salt of his tears. Whoever said that it was better to love and lose than to never have loved had not known the felt anguish of his heart. When a man loves a woman as Clark loved Shelly, life ends when that love departs. Oh, living continues but it’s a mere similitude.

Tears formed in Clark’s eyes while he walked on the beach, his mind immersed in reminiscence of his wife. He did not espy the beauty of the day through his bleared eyes. He walked along the surf to ease the remorse, the sorrow, and the tribulation of his heart.

Through his pain he heard the sound of laughter that startled him. His lugubrious rumination snapped.

Clark stopped in his stride, turned on his heels and smiled at the saccharine innocence of a young girl with light blonde hair and ecru skin. She was blessed with blue eyes and a markedly retrousse nose and wore a bikini that made her appear quaint. She must have been about seven or eight, possibly ten.

"What’s your name, little one," said Clark with a smile.

"I’m not little. I’m twelve years old," she retorted brusquely.

"Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t notice your maturity."

"Well, okay." She screwed up her eyes to meet Clark’s. "Do you live around here?"

"Yes. I live over there." Clark pointed in the direction where he lived.

"I moved with my mom in a house just a few houses down from your place. My mom is looking for a husband. Are you married?"

The question brought a stinted smile to Clark’s face. He squirmed. "No, I’m not."

"How old are ya?" Her lips parted softly displaying her perfect smile.

"Much older than you." Clark scratched behind his right ear with his right hand while feeling sweat stream down the back of his neck.

"Would you like to talk with my mom? She met you on the beach this morning. Your dog stole her bikini and she ran naked to the back door of our house and I locked the door so she couldn’t get in and she was mad and said that if I didn’t let her in she would be even madder so I let her in but she didn’t spank me. Do you like yogurt ice cream cones?"

"Your mother is that woman?" Clark simpered. "No, I don’t like yogurt."

"I didn't say yogurt. Yes, that’s my mom." Her eyes scintillated. "She thinks she has thunder thighs and she thinks that her breasts are two small. Do you think her breasts are two small? I think her breasts are okay. They are bigger than mine. Do you want to see mine?"

"NO!" Clark exclaimed. "Leave your top on! I don’t want to get arrested here. By the way, what’s your mom’s name?"

"My mom’s name is Marcene." The girl’s bangs dropped. She needed her hair trimmed.

"What’s your name?" Clark asked again.

"My name’s Pamela."

"Pamela?"

"Yea, Pamela."

"Pamela who?"

"Pamela Jane Blackston."

"Well, Pamela Jane Blackston, it’s nice to make your acquaintance."

There was a moment’s silence. Pamela’s stare riveted to the sand and edged back up to Clark’s eyes. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, I suppose so."

"I heard my mom talking over the phone to her girlfriend and she said if she doesn’t find a man to do it with she’ll explode. She said she was horrend--horrendo--horrendously horny. What does that mean?"

Clark’s first thought was, I better find her fast; but in the wink of an eye he said, "Pamela, that’s something you should ask your mom. That subject is for you to discuss with you mom, okay."

"Okay," Pamela said.

"Goodbye, Pamela," Clark said imperiously.

"Goodbye. I’ll tell my mom that I found a man for her."

"WAIT, WAIT, DON’T RUN OFF."

She scampered away, giggling as she ran. Clark watched her scurry off, thinking to himself that this little girl could become his daughter if he was not careful. He knew the wiles of a woman who wanted a man. He knew their tricks and stratagems and began at that moment to ready himself for the charms of this Marcene. Now, however, he wanted to walk on the beach and enjoy the time before he must go to his job. He worked from noon to eight in the evening.

The water of the sea coruscated in the brightness of the sun while he walked with his thoughts returning to his former wife: She’s now going to take me to court after years of separation and divorce, why does Shelly now want to do this? why is she still so inimical? after all, she wanted the divorce, why must I now continue to pay and pay and pay and pay? enough already! does she desire to see me again by way of using the court system?

The sound of a seagull awakened him from his musing. The white bird circled overhead and wanted to land on his right shoulder. Clark raised his arms and waved the bird away. It landed on a patch of dark-colored sand about two feet to his right and looked up at Clark with pleading eyes. The bird was hungry.

Clark felt a cringe of pity so, perfunctorily, he reached into his left pocket and pulled out some bread (he always carried a few crumbs for the gulls when he walked on the shore) and broke the bread into pieces by rubbing his hands together and threw to this un- fortunate creature of God’s creation some food.

The gull devoured these morsels of charity, looked at Clark with appreciative eyes as if to say "thank you" and flew off out to the sea from whence it came. Clark thought to himself as the bird took flight, All of God’s creatures are in the same predicament. All are searching for something from someone to fill them with what they need, including me. I am not much different from that bird. The difference is, I’m searching for something intangible.

Clark shook his head to release the hold of his mental meandering then peered around at the seascape. The air was cool from the storm that had passed but the sand under his feet, cool because of the rain, was drying from the heat of the sun. It felt good. The waves greeting the shore gleamed from the sun’s reflection. The water sparkled as if it contained all the stars in heaven. The sound of the waves seemed like nature’s music, so mellifluous and canorous. It was a beautiful, irenic ambiance of shore and sea, of life’s ebbing and flowing.

For a moment Clark felt as he thought he would feel if he had been in heaven. The sea can create such a feeling. There is death coincident with life on the sea. There is that instance when time does not exist and life has no meaning; there is no awareness of life separate from the whole of existence. Can there be life when one is oblivious to living? Does living begin in oblivescence?

He walked. The sky above had a few clouds, no longer tenebrous but white like balls of stretched cotton, scudding along via the puissance of the wind. The sun was playing peek-a-boo with Clark but he wasn’t paying much attention to the sun’s playfulness. As he ambled along the shore, water lapping at his toes and feet, he mused about his life, how he arrived at this, his crossroads, and wondered desultorily about his future.

Planning, he thought, does not always effectuate the desired result. To choose an avenue to guide one’s life does not indicate that the goal will be realized. I planned to be married for eternity to the same woman; however, that plan faded into oblivion. People come and go and go and come. Nothing remains forever.

He paused while directing his thought to the meaning of life. Why, he mused, do people live to die? what’s the reason for it all? there’s not one thing on earth that isn’t always changing, there’s absolutely nothing to cling to, not one thing! And yet people cling giving birth to tears and sorrow! What’s the meaning of it all? is everything empty? is life a game to be played where winners and losers make the best of things? no man lives on earth forever.

Are these questions answerable? Philosophers from time immemorial have tried to answer them yet the questions come without exception to any thoughtful man and woman, and try to answer them they do, from where do the questions arise? is there a God? a God who created all things both good and evil? if God is omnipotent then he must have created evil or at least allowed it free expression, could something all-good allow evil to even materialize? if that is the case then God would not be Good, He’d have a trace of malevolence in Him, if so, should man worship something that’s less than perfection? if the mind of man can visualize something more perfect than what is, then is not man God? can goodness and balefulness coexist in harmony? who worships whom? does God exist? some say yes, some say no, and I’m not sure, some say what difference does it make, there is still greed, hatred, and ignorance to beard.

Clark glanced at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. He happened to glance up to look at his house and saw a woman in a purple sarong waving to him as she stood in his front yard. She was the woman on the beach whom he had met that morning before the storm and before Praado stripped her of her bikini. She was Pamela Blackston’s mother. She was smiling. Clark wanted to continue his walk yet a force, attribute it to sexual energy, impelled him in the direction of this woman--that and the fact that he had to go to his office.

Marcene Blackston had been divorced for several years. Though she had numerous liaisons with men she never found that one man to replace her former husband. She was, however, ardently pursuing her love interest with the aid of her attractive body and her alluring charm.

Marcene’s hair was wind-swept blonde and rested delicately on her supple shoulders when the wind was not kissing it with its zephyr-like buss. Her eyes were metallic gray; they glistered in the sunlight. Her eyebrows were penciled a light brown and her eyelashes were long. They cast a mysterious shade to her large rounded eyes. Her nose was thin and of a sensual shape and her lips were thin and purpled around the edges. She had a small wizened oval-shaped mole on her right cheek. Her neck was sunburned yet the rest of her face, arms, and upper torso were tan. Her body was handsomely curved with a suspicion of lustful sexuality and her skin, tanned, was moderately dark. Clark thought to himself, This tan is probably salon bought. Her breasts are probably as brown as the buttocks I would have liked to have seen earlier.

In her sarong Marcene appeared sensually vivacious. Clark felt a flow of warmth wax over his entire body as he walked steadily, not hurriedly, to greet her. His palms were sweaty cool. His heart was racing. His eyes rested on her nippled breasts, but his mind was circumspect. How many times in the past has a woman lured me and later on hurt me? he thought. I will not be lured to the abyss of romance so easily any more.

"Hi there, my name is Marcene," she said unabashedly with the wind tousling her hair as she spoke, her eyes shimmering. "What’s your name?"

"My name is Clark," he said reservedly. "Are you Pamala’s mother?"

"You’ve met Pamela?"

"Yes, she’s a sweet girl. Do you live around here?"

"Yes, we do." A gust of wind blew her hair from right to left into her eyes. She brushed her hair from her eyes with her left hand.

Clark did not know what to say. He imbibed the presence of her form and was satisfied. However, social decorum dictated that he say something to continue the conversation. He fudged for a moment, then said: "You have beautiful breasts."

The words just ejaculated. After he had broadcast them his face turned beet red and his eyes darted to the ground. Marcene smiled coquettishly. A seagull at that instant landed a foot away from them and started its dance.

"I was walking along the beach this morning and noticed you walking with your dog," Marcene said, her eyes smiling. "Do you always walk alone? Are you single, engaged?"

"Yes, I am." Clark peered into her eyes, said, "I saw you this morning, too. I must say, you have buns of steel."

Clark’s eyes perused Marcene’s face in order to read her thoughts. She did not blench nor blush. She smiled and with a brush of light humor replied: "Yes, my buns are steely and hot and so are my breasts, but the part that you may most be interested in is warm and moist as I speak."

Was she referring to her mouth or. . .?

Pamela, who had been playing with her dog on the front porch of her house, ran up to her mom as Clark was about to make a salacious comment in repartee. "Hi Clark," she said, "I see you met my mom." Pamela graveled at Clark’s facial expression.

Clark checked his loaded riposte, said, "Nice talking with you, Marcene, but I have things I have to do." He flexed his biceps.

Clark’s muscled biceps intrigued Marcene, so did his broad shoulders and Greek statue-like calves. She fantasized him subduing her.

"That’s too bad. I’ll see more of you, I hope." Marcene winked.

Clark answered with a squinch of his brow, glanced down at his watch and hurried toward his door. He was going to be late for work.

Clark entered his front door speedily, and made a bee-line to his bedroom where his suits were closeted. He did not expect to see what he saw.

Janene had returned while he was on his walk and was waiting for him.

She waited lying enticingly on his bed, her legs curled up to her waist, her shapely hips protruding out from under the sheet. Her back was bare, the sheet covering her breasts and right arm. Clark stopped and stared. He ogled her shape, her beautiful buttocks, and her wanton smile. He hesitated.

"What are you doing here? I’m not about to make love to you: I sent you packing just an hour ago. Get out of my life!" Clark was turning livid with rage and consternation. He wanted her to go yet a part of him wanted to be cloyed with sex.

She moved her left leg. Her shapely thigh beckoned Clark.

Clark’s thought turned to how she entered his home, where did she park her car?

She rose from the bed effortlessly. The sheet that draped her breasts glided down to her waist. Both of her breasts were exposed to Clark’s eyes and pulsating mind. Her breasts jiggled with her every movement. Janene’s eyes blazed with the fire of passion. She wanted him now, how she wanted him.

"Come to me Clark, you know you want me. Come to me and I’ll give . . ."

Her eyes broadcast lubricity.

Clark felt his heart melting. The sheet that had draped her suppleness now lay on the floor. Her breathing was delicate, slow, deliberate. Clark glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes.

She came closer, placed both hands behind her head and arched her back. Her breasts protruded with engulfing exuberance. She cast an earthy smile. Her body purveyed the allurement of sex--sex, unadulterated sex.

Although Clark stood five feet from her he felt her warmth and the seduction of her body. She placed her hands on her thighs and spread her legs wide.

Clark’s soul turned to fire. He wanted her, how now her wanted her. Her breasts, her thighs, her slim waist, her lubricious smile, her magnetic eyes--he wanted them all!

The telephone rang. The hypnotic spell was broken. Clark jumped to the phone. Janene stood serenely nude, her heart telegraphing silently her message to Clark’s mind and heart.

It was a client of his. He wanted Clark to show him some property at a time a little earlier than was scheduled. He assented to this request. He placed the receiver on the hook and abruptly turned to Janene.

"Get out of my house and do not come back, and take your clothes with you. You have a beautiful body; but, I don’t love you, Janene. So leave."

Janene smiled. She was not to relent so readily. She turned around, her back and buttocks facing him, widely spread her legs while bending forward, touched the floor with the palm of her hands, and with head between her legs and breasts elongated by gravity and with her long blonde hair touching the floor, undulated her hips from left to right.

She whispered in a resounding sibilance, "Come to me, Clark; feel me, Clark; love me Clark. My body is yours, Clark. Open the door to my love, Clark. Penetrate my erogenous zone, Clark. Make love to me, Clark. You know you want me. I know you want to purchase my breasts next to your chest. Look at them, Clark, how they dangle and sway. Look at my hips. See how they charm. Look at my inner thighs. Oh, my body wants yours. Come to me. Touch my passion. Touch and arouse me, Clark."

The scent of this woman reached him. His nostrils dilated; he felt his resolve ebbing.

He charged over to Janene and placed his left palm on her right undulating hip. Her hip was hot. He placed both of his hands on her hips and pulled her closer to him.

Clark’s hands seized her hips. . .she wriggled with delight. . . her arms, bent at the elbows, now rested on the chest of drawers and . . .

***

Clark glanced out the bedroom window. The tree’s branches swayed in the breeze. A pink figurine with fluttering wings was perched on the outside window sill peering in. He took another darted glance but the figurine had disappeared. Am I seeing things?

Clark turned his eyes back to Janene’s inner thighs glistening with moisture. She was as a good wine been savored.

His body was at peace but his mind was at war. I must leave, he thought, though now I do not want to, I do not wish to.

Clark hesitated then ran to the closet, retrieved his blue suit, a red tie, and panting, darted to the door. He looked around and absorbed with his eyes Janene's nude body, her breasts moving with her every step, saw her shapely thighs waving a seductive goodbye as she walked deliberately to the bed.

"I can’t go on doing this," Clark whispered, and he passed noiselessly through the bedroom doorway closing the door behind him but regretting having to leave.

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Copyright � 1997 Ronald Coleman
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"