Rosie

Bdsm

Many years later, after taking my virginity, Rosie would tell me that it was what I wrote to her in third grade that initially endeared me to her. A couple mean boys had taunted her about her skin color on the playground and I was a silent observer of the incident. My heart went out to her when I saw her lower lip tremble, followed closely by a steady stream of large tears wetting her dark cheeks. She didn’t run away in spite of the hurt put on her by her young white tormentors. She just stood and took the abuse that was heaped upon her. To my lifelong regret, I stood and watched and did nothing. Rosie was one of only two black girls attending Holy Cross elementary school. The year was 1960. Rosie was a tiny little thing, with thin legs and brightly colored ribbons in her kinky hair. Her parents were immigrants from Kenya who had come to America for a better life. Rosie and her family were true outsiders in the Northwest corner of Indiana we grew up in. On that warm day in May I heard terrible things said to her by our classmates, things that I would never forget, and I was ashamed and angered by what I heard. Even after Rosie was reduced to tears the torrents of insults continued until the recess bell rang and we returned to our classroom. Rosie wiped away her tears and gathered herself, and by the time she was seated in our classroom her bright eyes were clear. I noticed a stoic, defiant expression on her face. Anger that would never leave her had established a place within her. She sat in the next row, one seat up from mine, so I could observe her that year without her being aware of it, or so I thought. It was toward the end of the afternoon that I finally decided to take some sort of action. I had thought about the possible ways I might make her feel better, so I wrote a note to her surreptitiously, because if the nun caught me she would make me stand up and read it to the class. It was a one sentence note, and I quickly folded it up and stuck it in my shirt pocket. When the dismissal bell rang, I managed to get right behind Rosie as the students rushed the door. In the general hubbub of the dash to freedom, I found a moment and quickly tapped her on the shoulder. She looked back at me and smiled when she saw it was me, and I quickly said, “I think you dropped this,” and handed her my note. I then took a turn and walked briskly away from her, putting as much distance between us as I could. “Dear Rosie, I like you,” my note read. I drew a misshapen heart below my name. She would later tell me, as we lay in her bed together, that my note had given her encouragement on a day when she had felt shattered and alone. She saved it and read it whenever she felt low or sad. After telling me that, she would take my head in her hands and give me one deep sensual kiss after another. The years plodded by, and it was two years later that my parents moved out of our small gaziantep escort house in the city into a more rural area a few miles outside of town. We were surrounded on all sides by expansive farm fields. Our new next door neighbors were my grandparents, who had a farm. During those years before we moved, however, Rosie and I hardly ever spoke. She was a girl, after all, and I was much more interested in garter snakes and comic books. Rosie had made some white girlfriends at school and I often observed her sporting a wide smile that showcased her pearly white teeth. Underneath it all I always thought I saw a hint of anger in her face, though. I suppose I had developed a childhood crush on her, although I would certainly have denied it at the time. In the twisted logic of young affection, the more I liked her the less I talked to her. Once we moved to our new house, it would be nine years before I saw her again, when we were both included in the same high school district, each of us riding buses to attend high school. Acne ravaged my face early on when I went through puberty and then ruined it further with each year of junior high school. My mother took me to several different doctors, who would earnestly squeeze and poke me with painful instruments of torture, none of which provided any type of relief. Angry red pustules and hard, subcutaneous cysts made my face look like the surface of the moon, and I hid myself in the back corner of each class I took, feeling deformed and monstrous. All I could think about were the girls that were developing hips and breasts around me, none of whom would ever glance at me, let alone talk to me. I was Quasimodo and Two-Face combined into one hideous outcast. Meanwhile, Rosie had blossomed. When I first saw her in high school our freshman year, I almost didn’t recognize her. She had small, firm-looking breasts, and a slim waist that only made her bubble-shaped butt stand out more, and not a blemish on her smooth, dark chocolate skin. Her lips were large and rose-hued, and her eyes had a slight angle that I did not recall from her youth, almost oriental in effect. Her outward persona had grown into one of confidence and her carriage was proud and still somewhat defiant. I didn’t have her in any of my classes my freshman and sophomore year. I would only catch glimpses of her in the crowded hallways between classes or at the cafeteria. I always looked away when I saw her, for I was monstrous and she was so beautiful. Once I thought she recognized me and tentatively waved a greeting to me, but I averted my eyes and walked hurriedly past her in the hallway, feigning being late for my next class. Time happened as Time will. My sixteenth birthday came and the worst days of my acne slowly faded away. I only had one or two huge cysts to despair over at any one time. I wore my hair over my ears and shirt collars. I wrote page after page of lonely, awful poetry. I listened to angry rock and angry R whipping, bone-chilling gusts and blinding blankets of snow. The P.A. announcement came at noon announcing that due to the weather the school was closing early. Raucous cheers rang out from every classroom. I took my time getting to the parking lot, as there was just going to be a jam of cars and school buses trying to be the first to get out. The snow was already so deep that I thought I would let everyone else create a path through the mess for me. I started my truck and let its heater slowly defrost the windows while I smoked a cigarette, waiting for the idiots to clear out of the lot. The wind and the snow had already made driving a white-knuckled adventure, with visibility near zero. Sensing that the lot was nearly empty, I put the Studebaker into first gear and eased out of the parking space, steering toward the exit more out of memory than by sight. I was on her just as soon as I saw her appear out of the blinding white curtain of snow. She was shielding her face from the elements with a scarf and didn’t see my truck. I hit the brakes too hard and skidded sickeningly toward her. Those new tires saved her; they stubbornly gripped and grabbed through the deepening snow and I stopped just inches from her. Her face was looking at me with terrified eyes and a silent scream in her throat. It was Rosie. I threw the truck into park and opened my door and got out into the cold and the wind-blown white. I was so shaken I didn’t have any words ready to say to her and she was the same way. We just stared at each other for a second and then I yelled at her, “Get in, Rosie, I’ll take you home!” Without a word, she slipped and slid through the snow to the passenger door and got in. She was wearing a short, bulky winter coat and a heavy scarf and a huge knit cap and mittens. She had on winter boots but her legs were exposed. As I got in the truck, I couldn’t help notice the snow melting on her knees, the huge white flakes contrasting with her lovely dark skin. I stammered out an apology and she did the same for not watching where she was going. “Do you know where I live, Billy?” she said, taking off her scarf and brushing off the snow. “You still live on Brookfield, right?” “You remember? How nice.” And then she gave me that smile that I had admired throughout the years, the one that exposed her perfect white teeth and animated her face. I felt my pulse quicken. “Settle down,” I thought to myself. “She’s way out of your league.” I took a deep breath to relieve the anxiety of nearly hitting Rosie and navigated the Studebaker through the snow. I didn’t look at her, concentrating on driving through the mess outside. She did something I didn’t expect. She started talking to me as though we were the oldest of friends who were catching up after not seeing each other for a while. It was the first time I’d talked to her in over nine years, but she seemed at ease with me. I felt comfortable in no time, not at all as nervous as I thought I would be. When we got to her house, she insisted I come in for some hot cocoa. Her parents weren’t home, she said, as they both worked and it was a weekday. I knocked the snow off my boots outside on the porch while she opened the door with her key. Inside, the house was chilly. She took me into the dining room that adjoined the neatly kept kitchen and sat me at a large formal dinner table while she started making hot chocolate with marshmallows. She kept chattering, asking me my opinion on this or that teacher at school. I didn’t realize it at the time, but she later told me she was nervous about me being with her. Bringing our hot chocolate, she set herself down beside me, scooting a chair out from under the table in order to face me. Her afro-styled hair was wild, frazzled from her large knit cap. I searched for a topic, anything, to keep her talking and to keep me in her house. I was in awe that I was there and alone with her, and wanted it to go on and on, if it could. “So…,” she said suddenly, with a tone that indicated seriousness. “I want to know something, Billy. Why don’t you ever talk to me at school?” Then she took a sip of her drink and watched me fidget, her eyes burning into mine over the brim of the cup. “I….uh…..what?” I knew exactly what she meant. I just didn’t have an answer for her. I really had no idea why I never spoke to her. “You …know… what… I…mean, Billy.” The evenly spaced words cut right through my bullshit, leaving no option but to address her question directly. “Tell me, Billy….I want to know.” What could I say? How could I tell her that I had withdrawn from her after that day so long ago because… I liked her? I suddenly started thinking of some excuse to leave, to return to the storm outside where it would be safer. I stared at her legs, her muscular dark legs that were anything but skinny now. Long seconds went by and I heard the ticking of a clock from the living room. My cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. Then she got up and left the room, leaving me alone and totally panic-stricken. I heard her open a door and I assumed that it was time to leave. I heard her yell loudly at me to stay put and she’d be right out, she had to find something. Long seconds ticked away from the increasingly loud clock. I was just about ready to make a break for the front door when she re-appeared in front of me. She stuck out her hand and there was my note, the one I had written her in third grade all those years ago. The first thing I noticed was the crooked red heart I had drawn on it. “You remember giving me this?” Her voice was gentle now, not prosecutorial. Tender, even. “Yes.” My eyes finally rose and met her eyes. I was surprised to see wetness in them. “That was a terrible thing they did to you back then.” That’s all I could manage to stammer out. “Assholes.” She said.

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