Blue Moon by James King Read Free Book Online Page A

had to get home and would take the streetcar. He assented but made me promise to meet him the next day at the same time. I muttered something about not being sure I was what Mr. White wanted, but he assured me I was his darling girl and very much wanted to see me again.
    The next day when I once again did not become wet when his hands caressed me, he said that maybe I was afraid of sex, afraid of having a man in my vagina. Perhaps he could use my “back door,” even though some women found that painful. He would place Vaseline on his penis and an equal amount in my anus. I agreed to this and was soundly buggered that afternoon, even though I am sure the courtly Mr. White did his best not to hurt me. Later that afternoon, I endured vaginal intercourse for the first time. Although I did not become wet, Mr. White assured me I was so tight I had given him the greatest pleasure he had ever experienced in bed. During my last afternoon with Mr. White, we were very much like an old married couple. He placed his organ in my mouth, I sucked it, he then placed a rubber on his erection and then mounted me missionary-style on his way to orgasm.

    Mr. White would be back in Hamilton in a month’s time. We met in this way over and over again, his career in the navy leaping ahead by leaps and bounds until, just before V-J Day, he reached the rank of Admiral. Unfortunately, he was one of the last major casualties of the war in the Pacific. He never saw his daughter, Heather White, his later nameless still-born daughter nor his son, Peter David White.
    There was never a real Mr. White. He is my first fictional creation. He was the person I invented in order to explain the existence of Heather, my first child. Of course, I told the medical and nursing staff at the Hamilton Mountain hospital of my wonderful husband (I doubt they were gullible enough to believe me) and, on the two subsequent occasions when I gave birth there, my husband in the interim had—I proclaimed—earned much-deserved promotions.
    The existence of the man who never was went unchallenged by my few friends from Loretto Academy, and most merchants in the city were sympathetic to the plight of the wife of a naval officer, especially one stranded with a young child while her husband was fighting the Japanese in the Coral Sea. Even my account of the wedding in Cleveland, the Tommy Dorsey orchestra in special attendance at the behest of my wealthy in-laws, passed muster.
    Of course my stories were preposterous. I cannot believe I could ever have been stupid enough to mouth such monumental untruths. Yet, the story has its own ring of authenticity, provided it is read allegorically. From the age of 21, I held a very special position in the city of Hamilton. I was a courtesan, specially trained by my mother to provide services to the upper-crust gentlemen of the city.

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    Habitually clad in a tweed skirt and a plain jumper, her crisply short mouse-brown hair flecked with white, a pince-nez attached to her nose, my mother was a formidable presence. She was also a consummate snob. Outwardly, she looked and conducted herself very much like Ethel Barrymore. She was large and officious and brooked no nonsense. Like the great American actress, she gave the impression that a heart of gold resided underneath a tough exterior. That was the most masterful of her many duplicities.
    By any standard, Mother was a grand character. Even the way she pronounced her name, Alexandra (a name used by the Royals, she frequently pointed out), was theatrical: Al-ex-aaan-draaah. She wouldenunciate her given name slowly—at least five seconds—and then add MacLean quickly (one second). She was what is sometimes called a handsome woman. This is a difficult expression to define, but it usually refers to a woman whose sense of power is so immense that she can summon up a great deal of respect and admiration from others even though her appearance has a slight masculine edge to it.
    My