Alone with Memories for Christmas

Even though he had seen it a hundred times before, as if seeing it for the first time, he looked at the photo of his long deceased parents holding him as a baby. In the way that he should have looked at and felt about his children, he saw the look of love and pride that his parents had for him. Instead, taking up too much of his time, babies bothered him. Interrupting his sleep, when he had work the next day, babies, as was much of his relationships, were too often a bothersome and tiresome nuisance. Overwhelmed with sadness of how he could totally screw up his life after only 65 years, he could feel the tears welling up in his eyes for all the good times that he lost for the sake of work and for the sake of making money to buy more things. Having forsaken the really important people in his life, his family, his friends, and especially his children, he now suffered the decisions, sacrifices, choices, and mistakes he made.

So very long ago, a time right after the world war, everything has come a long way since that little Brownie box camera. Flipping another page was as if he had skipped over years of his life, he paused to fill in the gaps between the pictures with his memories that he still remembered but that were never captured on film. Not much more than 4 years old, the next photo showed him wearing his General Eisenhower, five star general's cap, his all-time favorite hat to wear. Another photo, when he was not much older than the previous one, showed him sitting in Santa's lap. A time of innocence lost, he wished he still believed in Santa Claus. He wished, just by being good, he could get back all that he now wanted and needed in the way he had lost all that he wanted and needed by being bad.

Maybe because it was so very important to him then, but in the way that children today ask for video games, their own cell phone, and a personal computer, he remembered telling Santa that he wanted a cowboy hat and guns. He was gratified to know that he got his wish, when he turned the page and the next photo showed him attired in his cowboy hat and six shooters. Only, he couldn't remember if he was supposed to be Gene Autry, "Back in the saddle again," or Roy Rogers, "Happy Trails to you," or the Lone Ranger, "Hi Ho, Silver!"

No matter, he remembered all the fun he had playing cowboys and Indians. When he bought his sons, Robert and William, six shooters, he remembered all the flack he took from his ex-wives, when both told him that the toy guns would make them turn out violent. Disproving that fallacy, never having fired a real gun, even with guns being his favorite toy, he grew up never owning a real gun and never turning violent. Even though his sons shared his love for toy guns, they didn't turn out to be violent gun crazed killers either.

Then, there were the uniform photos, Cub Scouts, Little League, Boy Scouts, Explorer, Pony League baseball, inner-city basketball, Pop Warner football, and collegiate hockey. He harbored dreams of being a baseball, basketball, football, and hockey player but, instead, was satisfied to get a good job right out of college working as a top salesman in a shoe store. Eventually, he ended up buying the shoe store and opening up more than one hundred shoe stores. From player, to dreamer, to sports fan, he never thought he'd lose interest in watching a ballgame but, along the way with so much else in his life going so terribly wrong, he did.

Then, there were all those prom photos. A time before his need to have sex with blonde, beautiful, busty, white women, he dated a bevy of bodacious, black beauties. Only, just as he couldn't remember now, he couldn't remember then. Who were all those women? Not even remembering their names, he remembered more what they did in the back seat of a '59 Chevy Biscayne, a '61 Pontiac Tempest, a '63 Chevrolet Impala SS, red with white seats Boy, except for being careful not to get the woman pregnant, those were the real days of free sex, fast cars, drugs, and rock 'n' roll.

Perhaps, because of the advent of the birth control pill, unlike the women of today who will freely give it up without a fight and suck his cock, without even so much as exchanging their last names, it was different back then. Whether it was verbal and/or physical, it was always a challenging contest, a welcomed and exciting battle, and sometimes a furious fight that he fought to win the coveted goods of some of the women who were unwilling to give up their virginity, so easily and so quickly. He remembered how some women didn't want him to touch them between their legs, but would allow him to grope their breasts, while kissing them. Others allowed him to unbutton their blouses, remove their breasts from their bras, and even suck their nipples, but wouldn't allow him to do much more else than that.

It wasn't long before he discovered which women would go all the way. It wasn't long before he discovered not only which women would give him blowjobs but also which women would swallow, a big deal back in his day. At a time when he still lived at home with his parents and couldn't afford to get a room because he spent whatever money he had attending college, blowjobs were much easier to receive in the backseat of a Camaro or a Mustang than twisting his body and turning his long legs in a comfortable enough position to have intercourse.

Albeit hushed and whispered about back then and not broadcasted, as they do today with posting nude pictures online and with every celebrity making her sex tape public, he never had as many blowjobs as he received in the backseat of a car, after a prom or during a drive-in movie, as he did back then, during the promiscuous sixties. Even the nice girls back then, the ones who never cussed, were quick to unzip him and stroke him, before taking him in their mouths to suck him. Even cumming in their mouths and them swallowing wasn't the problem that it became, once they had a ring on their finger and once they were married to him with children.

He turned another page to see the photo of his first wife, Susan. Seeing her pretty face again made him as happy as it made him sad. He touched the photo, as if he was touching her cheek. Wow. She was so young. She was so beautiful. She was such a nice woman, good wife, and great mother. If only she had sex with him more, if only she swallowed, he never would have cheated on her with his second wife, Christine.

Ready to be married, wanting to claim Susan as his own, so that no one else would take her, he was just a goofy, skinny, kid pretending to be a man, while dressed in a tuxedo. They had their first baby within a year, Robert, and then three years later, they had Julie. As if it was an out of focus collage of color and faces without memories, he looked at the photos of his children, his family, and his friends through different stages of their lives until, with him now out of the picture, the photos abruptly stopped, as if he had died. As if pulled out of their lives, denied his rights as a husband, father, and friend, he was always working, drinking, and carousing. Never taking the time off to be there for his kids' birthday parties, dances, and sporting events, believing work and making money was more important than family and friends, he now realized how important those memories were and how much he had missed.

He turned the page to another woman, his sexual dream woman, Christine, and another life of forgotten memories. Wildly sexual, she was everything that Susan wasn't in bed and everything that he thought he wanted, at the time. Blonde and buxom, he thought living life large was having sex every day, but when the sex stopped, so didn't his attraction to Christine. Not possessing any commonsense, not having the intelligence, quick wit, and fun personality that his first wife, Susan, had, he realized too late that the only attractions he had to Christine were her big tits, her blowjobs, and nothing else.

Sitting on the couch alone with Christine and not even talking to one another, their marriage had a sad, restless, and frustrating emptiness that he remembered and still now felt. More interested in her hair, her nails, and her clothes, she wasn't much companionship, unless she was in bed sucking his cock, while he fondled her big breasts and fingered her erect nipples. If he could do it all over again, he'd trade a thousand days with Christine for one day with Susan. Yet, Christine not only gave him hot sex, some of the best sex he ever had, she gave him beautiful children, their daughter Emma and their son William.

He perused the photos of Emma and William as children without feeling the pride and joy he felt looking at the photos of Robert and Julie, and as his parents did, so long ago, while holding him and looking at him as a baby. Somehow, except for the sex, he felt more connected to his first wife and to his first children, than he did to his second marriage and to the children that he had with Christine. It was then that he realized that because he didn't love their mother, Christine, in the way that he obviously loved and still loved his first wife, Susan, he cheated Emma and William out of all the good memories that he shared with Robert and Julie.

If he thought he had cheated Robert and Julie out of memories because he was working, drinking, and carousing, the memories he shared with Emma and William were even less. That epiphany of disconnected emotions made him sad and angry. He never should have cheated on Susan. She was his first love and his true love. With all the sexual attention he received from Christine, he never should have cheated on her either. Yet, that realization of love lost, especially in his relationships with Susan and Christine, already feeling bad that he didn't pay his children from his first marriage the attention they deserved, made him feel sorry that he didn't pay his children from his second marriage the attention that he should have paid them and that they deserved, as well. Knowing now that he could never make that up to any of them, he'd apologize if he could.

"I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry," he said holding his hand in his head, while weeping.

Then, there were all the photos of his friends at parties, dinners, baseball games, football games, basketball games, hockey games, concerts, graduations, and special events. Good times that should evoke a flood of memories, he looked at the photos, as if they were the photos of someone else. So many photos and so many friends that, even though he recognized many of their faces as vaguely familiar, he couldn't remember their names. Now that he's alone, where are they all now? Why is there no one with him now? What did he do to deserve being so alone and lonely? Why does everyone hate him? Is it because he's a black man that had tried to live in a white world by marrying two blonde, beautiful, busty, white women and having four children and seven grandchildren of mixed race?

"Time for your medication, Mr. Cross," said the nurse entering his room unannounced.

Young, tall, blonde, beautiful, and so very busty, that she'd make women question if her breasts were real or surgically altered, the Caucasian nurse walked in his private room, as if she owned the place and as if she was in control of everyone who visited his room. More acting like the lady of the house than just a mere nurse in a nursing home, she was met with a cold stare from his friends and relatives, and especially from his ex-wives, Susan and Christine. With his reputation preceding him, they suspected he had hand selected this nurse with special attention not only because she was a blonde, beautiful, busty, white woman but also, no doubt, for her willingness to accommodate his healthcare needs, along with his still very active sexual needs. Unlike him to seek out women that weren't his age, was he now hoping to recapture his youth, by having an affair with a much younger woman? No doubt, already jealous with an obvious protective rage seething, both Susan and Christine suspected he was already having sexual relations with his nurse.

"Medication? I'm drinking my medication," he said with a laugh. "Scotch. Cheers," he said taking a big gulp.

"Scotch? Give me that," she said grabbing the cup from his hand. "You're not supposed to have alcohol with the medication you're taking," said the nurse sniffing it, before tasting it. "This isn't scotch. It's water," she said with a relieved laugh.

"Yeah, well, with me having Alzheimer's disease, what does it matter if I drink scotch or water? Having more fun pretending it's scotch, in a few minutes I won't remember what I drank or if I even had a drink. In a few minutes, I'll be thirsty all over again," said Michael with a sad laugh, "and won't remember that I had too much to drink, until I pee the bed."

"I see you have company," said the nurse, as if she hadn't noticed them all, until now. She smiled a rehearsed, plastic smile at everyone who crowded the small room. "Normally we don't allow this many family and friends in a patient's room, but with this being Christmas Day and his doctor already gone home to celebrate the holiday, I think we can make this the exception," she said collecting her medication cart. "I'll return, after your guests leave, Mr. Cross, to give you your medication," she said fixing his bed and fluffing his pillow before leaving.

"Thank you for the photo album," said Michael to all his family and friends who were there to celebrate Christmas with him. "This was the best Christmas gift you could have given me," he said clutching the album to his chest and quietly sobbing.

"You're welcome, Michael," said his first, white, ex-wife, Susan, leaning down to give him a kiss and a hug.

"You're welcome, Michael," said his second, white, ex-wife, Christine, leaning down to give him a kiss and a hug, too.

With the nurse taking her sweet time to leave the room and turning her head back around to look at Susan and Christine again, before finally leaving, both of Michael's ex-wives watched the nurse with jaundiced eyes leave Michael's room.

"Who's she?" Susan waited for Michael to answer her question.

"Who?" Michael looked at Susan with a vacant stare.

"That blonde, pretty woman who just left. The one with the big tits," she said putting a hand on her hip and scowling at her ex-husband, as if they were still married and intimate with one another.

"She's the nurse," said Michael with a shrug. "I don't remember her name. All that I know is she's nice to me," he said with a soft smile, as if having a flashback of how nice the nurse really was to him.

"Yes, of course, I know she's your nurse, but I don't remember her being your nurse. I would have remembered her being your nurse," she said under her breath. "The last time we were all here for Thanksgiving, you had an older, shorter, and overweight nurse," said Christine jumping in on Susan's conversation with a shared flash of protective jealousy. "What's her name?"

"Who?" Michael looked at Christine with eyes that would make anyone question, if he even knew who she was.

"Never mind," said Christine.

"Get better, Dad," said his children, Robert, Julie, Emma, and William nearly in chorus and leaning down to give him hugs.

"We love you, Grandpa," said his seven grandchildren giving him hugs and kisses.

"Take care, Michael. Merry Christmas," said the rest of his friends and family leaving the hospital room to give him the privacy and rest he so needed.

After Michael's family and friends left, his nurse came into his private room and locked the door.

"Scoot over, Michael," she said crawling in bed beside him. "You didn't tell them about me, did you?"

"Tell who?"

"Your family, goofy. I'm sorry that I intruded but I just had to meet them, especially your ex-wives. The tall blonde is very pretty. Is that the one you told me about? The one that loved sucking your cock," she said reaching down to grab Michael's cock through the sheet. "Is that Christine?"

"Christine? Yeah. That's Christine."

"She has big tits like me," said the nurse unbuttoning her uniform top and puffing out her chest. "Both your wives have big breasts." She took his hand in hers and stuck his big hand inside her uniform. "Who's tits do you like better, Michael, my tits or their tits?"

"I love your tits," said Michael feeling her breasts through her bra. "You have big, firm breasts."

"I know you love my tits," said the nurse looking down at Michael's hand, before looking up at him to give him a kiss. "But who am I?"

"Who are you?" Michael looked at her and laughed, but the nurse didn't return his laugh. "Don't you know who you are? Maybe you're the one who should be in this hospital bed, instead of me." He looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

"Very funny, Michael, but who am I? Seriously, what's my name? Do you know? Do you know who I am? Who am I, Michael?"

"Don't you know your name? Did you hit your head?"

"Michael. You don't remember my name, do you?"

"Sorry, but I don't remember," said Michael suddenly looking sad and confused.

"I'm Xana, your nurse, silly. I'm the one who sucks your cock," she said reaching her hand down to fondle him through the sheet, again. "I'm the one you're taking home to care for you, when they release you next month. Do you remember me now, Michael? I'm your good, little cock sucker. Now that's something you can't forget, after putting a hand to the back of my head and cumming in my mouth."

"Yes, I remember who you are now," said Michael with a nervous little laugh.

"Good. Don't forget, you must ask for me, before they discharge you. You must hire me to exclusively care for you."

"Oh," he said, while watching her hand fondle his growing erection through the sheet.

Then, Xana pushed the sheet aside and reached in his boxer shorts. She grabbed hold of his penis, pulled it out, and stroked him.

"How does that feel, Michael? Does that feel good? Do you like it, when I give you a hand job?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to suck you, Michael?"

"Yes, I'd like for you to suck me. I'd like that very much."

"Ask me nicely, then."

"Please suck my cock."

"And what will you do for me?"

"I'll hire you as my private nurse."

"Would you like to cum in my mouth, Michael," smiled Xana.

"Yes, I would..." he said pausing and suddenly forgetting her name again.

"Xana," she said. "My name is Xana. I'd like to think you'd at least remember the name of the woman who regularly sucks your cock," she said leaning down and taking him in her mouth. She was sucking him now, really sucking him.

"I know who you are, Xana," he said lightly stroking her soft, blonde hair, in the way he ran his fingers across the top page of the photo album.

You're the woman who wants my money, he thought to himself without verbalizing it. You're the woman who's daft enough to think that I'd give you any of my money. After wasting too much of my money on affairs and mistresses, my family has already arranged that I'm protected from women like you.

"I love sucking your cock, Michael. I really do," she said making a gagging face and looking, as if she was about to vomit. Only, instead of enjoying it, Michael didn't see that she was repulsed by sucking his cock. "You have such a big, hard prick, Michael. I just love sucking your cock. If you hire me to care for you in your home, I can suck your cock every day. Would you like that, Michael? Would you like me to suck your cock everyday?"

"Stop talking and just suck my cock, Xana. Suck it."

"Merry Christmas, Michael."

"Merry Christmas, Xena. Now shut up and suck me."

"Okay," she said taking his prick deeper in her mouth, while, no doubt, thinking that she had struck gold in sucking off this elderly, black man on Christmas Day.

*

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