Orphans Of The Storm - Sex Stories

Orphans Of The Storm

... suspected an out-of-kilter chromosome that I had inherited from my mum; authority often annoyed me back then. I hated my dad for being too strict, and my mum for leaving me with him. The truth was, I guess, I just hated 'everyone' at that age. Dad passed away at forty-one, his judicious heart suddenly packing up whilst riding his bicycle to church. Neither exercise, nor god it seems could save him. I never rode a bike after that, too scared of history repeating itself I guess; he was a year younger than I am now when he died. Sometime later I turned into him without realizing it. I got a degree in Modern History and like him I became a teacher. I constantly teased myself about the comparison, imagining myself to be boring and aloof like him. Although, like my mum, I seemed to have no shortage of friends. At the time of his death, I was bumming around Europe and had fallen in love with an English girl. I arrived back in Washington too late for his funeral, which I regretted enormously. Something I was determined I wouldn't repeat for my mum. I had spent so many blissful times in this house, it was impossible not to be elated. Real and rare moments of happiness came flooding into my brain. Mum telling me fabulous stories of her time in Spain; her sparkling dark eyes bouncing from one memory to another in quick succession. Recounting her life with a mixture of genuine sorrow and booze driven excitement. I was never sure if her stories were true or not, but I loved them anyway. ...

... Tales of her childhood in various homes in Andalusia; busking with her gypsy family, playing three-card-tricks, and cheating money from the outsiders who came to the fiesta. Her father the agitator, was pulled from a secret communist meeting by Franco's troops, and was never seen again. Then, leaving her home at the age of eighteen she made her way to Barcelona, dancing flamenco in bars and clubs. After a few years she met my father the American tourist, strong and reliable. To her he was the polar opposite to all of the unfaithful boyfriends she'd had before. She fell hopelessly in love with him, and emigrated to D.C. I recall her black opal eyes, full of anger one minute and sadness the next. Her smooth olive skin iridescent in the lamplight as she tucked me into bed. She would rub her face against mine and say: 'You have the gypsy nose Pedro. You look like your Grandfather tall and handsome, all the women will love you.' The Cuban heels of her dance shoes were like thunder on the kitchen floor. ' El Fuego is here', she'd shout in a drunken slur. Supple wrists and expressive fingers mixed with the sensual sway of her hips. I didn't know much about sexuality in my youth, but I sensed it all around her when she danced. She was the most beautiful person I had ever known, and as a young man she filled my scared and doubtful days with excitement and adventure. There was always music in this house. Elvis. The Stones. The Doors and Joni would bounce off the walls and into my memory ...