the nude who never by Ted Mark

Author:Ted Mark
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven.

WHEN Richie Munroe tooted his licorice stick, the sounds were like melting candy, sweet, but sad. He was young to the reed, but the music he made was age-old, and nostalgic, and wailing, and it touched something deep inside people. They didn’t always like what it touched-—-probably because of some instinctive recognition that it stemmed from Richie’s homosexuality-—but few remained unmoved when he really spooked the improvs. Richie got inside people with his clarinet and that’s exactly what he meant to do—with the obvious symbolism all too true.

He didn’t need tea or booze to inspire him. His music was Mama-and-Poppa music and his own Mama and Poppa provided all the inspiration he needed. It was all there in the sounds, man, the whole familiar sick-sick-sick story most fruits might tell—if only they could tootle the stick like Richie.

It was the story of a frail baby, born premature and scrawny, wailing the sadness even then, from the first, albeit without the reed. Yeah, blue eyes popping before they could even see; and the howl for a teat to be shoved in his mouth to turn the music sweet. But Mama dried up early and synthetic rubber only made Baby Richie wail the more.

The screeching made Mama feel awful guilty, but it only served to annoy the hell out of Poppa. From the first, Poppa’s opinion of his son was thin and hostile-—yeah, hostile, man, hostile. For one thing the little bugger, skinny nothing as he was, had worked some changes on Mama by getting born, and little Poppa felt as lost as if he’d dipped it into the Grand Canyon when he made love to Mama after Richie popped onto the scene. For another thing, the little bugger was Oedipally uninhibited from the first, and every time Poppa watched him grabbing for Mama’s breast, it would bug him. Still, a man’s supposed to love his son, so Poppa tried to pretend he did and only despised him way deep down where the Freuds nibble.

Mama, on the other hand, didn’t have to pretend. She loved Richie like crazy. And, unbugged by the warning theories of the shrinks—of which she’d never heard—she demonstrated her love uninhibitedly.

Richie lapped it up and came back for more. And there was always more. Except sometimes when Poppa was around. Richie learned early to squelch his demands then, lest he fall under the whiplash of his old man’s tongue. Still, he wasn’t always successful in avoiding it.

Like when he was four or five years old and he was rubbing Mama’s back. It felt good getting his little hands under her nightie and massaging the warm flesh. And he liked the little sighs Mama made when he squeezed her tooshie. That’s what he was doing when Poppa walked in one day.

“What the hell do you call this?” Poppa wanted to know.

“Richie’s giving me a massage,” Mama told him. “And it feels so good. He really has wonderful hands.”

“I’ll just bet! Listen, Madge, you shouldn’t do that. It’s not-—healthy. I mean, him squeezing your bare behind like that and all.

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