A Widow's Comfort Ch. 01 - Sex Stories

A Widow's Comfort Ch. 01

... champion four years running, who helped me master that sweet 15-foot jump shot that got me onto the varsity team, and who spent hours in the batting cage with me until I could finally hit a fastball nine times out of ten.

But it was always Mom I went to for the things that really mattered, you know, emotionally. Sometimes it was terribly embarrassing. It was Mom who held me as I cried like a fucking baby after my girlfriend broke my heart. But it was Mom as well who cuddled me when I stubbed a toe or skinned a knee. Okay, and I won't deny. It was Mom, the central woman in my life, who set my tastes. Maybe if I hadn't been brought up in a house with such a wonderfully round woman I might have been like the rest of the males my age and found skinny women attractive. But I wasn't and I don't.

I didn't hesitate. Hell, it's not like it was a hard decision.

I got up, pulled myTitanfall II game out of the xBox, carefully put it in the green plastic box, and then went into the bedroom I used, threw my half dozen T-shirts and pairs of jeans, my rolled-up socks, and my boxers into the army surplus duffel that was my only luggage, and headed out.

I stopped long enough to stick my head into Josh's room. As usual, he was balls-deep into some chick. This one, I noticed, was so damn black she looked like she had just stepped off the slave ship from Africa.

"Hey man," I said and waited.

He pushed the chick out of the way and said, "Ummmmmm, a little busy here."

I laughed ...

... and said, "You'll need to find another roommate. I'll get you a month's rent, but I have to go home."

"I figured," he said, chuckling, "Mama's boy. Tell Hattie hi for me. And don't worry about the rent, man. I have a bit of a reputation and I won't have any trouble getting someone else in."

"Thanks, man," I said, grinning, "enjoy."

"I always do," he said and pulled the girl back on top of him.

And so, obligations met, I headed home.

And yes, it was "home." I hadn't lied in what I wrote to Mom. I wanted to let them have their privacy when I left, every day since I left I had felt that, well, not quite "homesickness," but a little bit of "emptiness" is a good word. The apartment wasn't "home."

I parked my little blue chick magnet, the PT Cruiser so damn ugly girls seemed to like it, in the driveway, grabbed my duffel, and went in through the back door as I had pretty much every day of my life until I moved in with Josh.

As I walked in it hit me, the place seemed empty.

"Don't be stupid," I thought, "A house can't feel empty just because someone died."

But it did, dammit.

I stopped in the kitchen, trying to figure it out.

Well, there were dirty dishes in the sink, something Mom would never allow.

There was a slightly musty smell in the air that I couldn't identify.

Ahhhhhhhh, there it was.

It was silent. The silence of an empty place. When Dad was alive there was always some sort of background noise. There would be those oldies he loved ...