A Change Of Face - The Prequel - Sex Stories

A Change Of Face - The Prequel

... details didn't matter. Some of my old friends tried to reconnect during that summer, but our meetings were awkward at best. I wasn't the girl they remembered and seeing them and the innocence they still held on to was more than I could stand, especially as I dried out. There was no alcohol in my grandfather's house, and if our town had a local dealer, it wasn't anyone I knew. I would have tried picking something up at the liquor store, but I knew there was no point. Mr. Simmons would never sell me anything. He was a good man and knew I was underage. Besides, even if he wasn't that type of man, no one in our small town would be stupid enough to cross my grandfather. I'm not sure if my old friends started avoiding me first or I started avoiding them, but halfway through the summer I was spending a lot of time alone. That wasn't a good thing without the alcohol and drugs to subdue my thoughts. That's when my grandfather took a sabbatical from the church and focused all of his attention on me. Grandfather was patient with my outbursts. I refused to listen whenever he tried talking about God, but I still loved hearing his voice. It was oddly calming. We began to bond once more despite my resistance. Grandfather didn't preach to me after I blew up at him the first couple of times. Instead, he started telling me stories about my grandmother. I knew them all by heart, but I listened just the same. I always wished that I'd gotten the chance to know her, but she was gone before I was ...

... born. One day he was talking about how they first met, but this time the story differed from what I remembered. I knew they met at a fair, but I always pictured it as something sweet and romantic. You know, two kids bumping into each other and it being love at first sight. It turns out that when I was younger grandfather had been editing what actually happened. Grandmother wasn't an innocent country girl when they met. She was an actual carny. She travelled with a gruff group from town to town setting up the rides and games for the local fairs. My grandfather used the word worldly to describe her, but I knew what he meant. He even went so far as to describe a tattoo she had on her pelvis. It was a butterfly. I didn't bother mentioning that my own tattoo was in the same place. Of course, mine was a small thorny, colorless rose. It signified a lot of things to me, most of which I tried not to think about. The stories about my grandmother became more colorful after that. Mostly, they were about their first couple of years together. She was a good woman, but in no way a saint. Frankly, by the time he was done sharing them all it was weird to realize that in some ways I now probably knew my grandmother better than my father did. Dad knew her as his mom. I now knew her as a human being. Not a perfect one by far, but not a bad one either. For some reason it helped a lot knowing that she'd had a rough life growing up and still somehow found my grandfather and happiness. I doubted that ...