If I'm Lying, I'm Dying

If you're from anywhere around here, you've seen those ball caps that say, "American by birth, Southern by the Grace of God." That's me. I'm Southern through and through.

One of the things I love best about Southerners is the way we speak. For example, as winter starts to approach, the weather isn't "cool" but "airish." I have some fraternity brothers from Johnston County, North Carolina who, instead of saying "It wasn't me...," say "It won't me..." Consider it to be "local color," if you will. I know some people from Stokes County, North Carolina who describe an intense pain by saying, "It hurt a right smart." Stuff like that. Then, there's the Southern take on the way children swear by saying "cross my heart and hope to die." In the South, it takes the form of "If I'm lying, I'm dying."

I think it was Jeff Foxworthy who pointed out that, for Southerners, a fairy tale doesn't begin with "Once upon a time..." Instead, we start that type of story with, "Y'all ain't going to believe this..." What I'm getting ready to tell you, you can believe or not. I promise you: It's not a fairy tale. It actually happened a long time ago so, while I might not have not included a lot of the dialogue that took place (memories do fade, you know,) the essence of my tale is truthful. The names have been changed (slightly) to kind of protect the less-than-innocent.

To the best of my recollection, the following occurred in the spring of 1978. I was in my early-to-mid-20s and had recently moved back to my home to pursue a career in selling real estate. At the time, I used to tell people I knew those were liberated times as I was following in my mother's footsteps, not my father's. My mom had become quite successful in the local real estate market and, since the company for whom she worked proudly boasted an all-female staff, she helped me secure a job with a firm that was one of her "friendly competitors" that would hire male real estate agents.

That was the summer of 1977 About eight or nine months after I started in the business, a new girl was introduced to the sales staff. Well, I say "girl." She was in her early-to-mid-30s making her older than I was. As those of us in the office got to know Rosie, we learned that she was a fairly recent widow with a 6-year old son, Joseph. She explained to us that her late husband had been running his family's business in a nearby city when he had been shot and killed while making a late-night bank deposit.

Rosie was probably 5' 5" tall with curly brunette hair and what appeared to be a nice set of 34 Cs. She was reasonably attractive but, physically, there was nothing particularly distinctive about her one way or another. She wasn't built like the proverbial brick shithouse. She wasn't skinny like some fashion model but neither was she a BBW. She was just a normal, attractive woman. Fortunately, she had quite a vivacious personality which meant that, even though she wasn't "Oh, my God" beautiful, on the whole, I found her to be quite appealing. (I'm of the belief that a good personality makes anyone better looking.)

However, while her looks might not have been distinctive, her mode of transportation was. When I started selling real estate, I had purchased a new 1977 Ford Granada. The color was what Ford called "Dove Gray" with a matching leather interior. (Back then, I thought that Dove Gray was Ford's prettiest car color. It was fresh that year and was available throughout all 3 of Ford's divisions.) Based on my mom's experience, I knew having a 4-door car was important for hauling clients hither and yon while showing property. While my vehicle was practical, Rosie showed up at our office driving an orange 1974 Chevrolet Corvette. Not exactly the chariot of choice for successful real estate agents.

Rosie was in the process of putting her life back together after the tragedy of her husband's death and, subsequently, selling the family business. The new career was part of her recovery process. Also, now that a suitable period of time had passed since that unfortunate incident, she had taken up with a fellow named Ronald. Ronald was maybe in his early 40s and, as I recall, he was divorced. For employment, he sold equipment that would have been used by quite a number of manufacturers in the Southeast and, apparently, he was very good at his job. Not only did he have a home in her former city, but he also owned a lake house at the largest lake in North Carolina.

From everything we could tell, theirs was a serious relationship. In fact, Ronald had even given Rosie a key to his lake house. Bad mistake on his part.

One day, Rosie came into the office and was rather upset. I finally got out of her that, the night before, she had let herself into the lake house expecting to find Ronald there. She did. What she hadn't expected to find was him, drunk as a skunk, in bed fucking another woman. Not surprisingly, Rosie hauled ass out of there and went to her home.

Now, my mama didn't raise no fools. I saw an opportunity here and I took it.

I don't remember exactly what I said but I realized Rosie needed to have her mind distracted from dwelling on Ronald's betrayal. I somehow convinced her that we should get together at her place that evening and have some fun. And, that's exactly what we did.

I showed up that evening at Rosie's condo which was located on the golf course of one of our local country clubs. As we started to indulge in some adult beverages, she introduced me to Joseph who I found to be a typical 6-year old. After a little while, we went up to the club's tennis courts and the three of us hit tennis balls over the net. We created a little game that was kind of a tennis version of four-square using the four service courts. He was 6, after all. I didn't have kids at the time but I knew enough to keep it simple and fun for him.

Eventually, it was time for Joseph to go to bed. We returned to Rosie's condo and—in my best Andy Griffith voice—I read him a bedtime story. Andy has always been a North Carolina hero and The Andy Griffith Show plays everyday on one of our local TV stations—still. It's never gone off the air here some 50 years after it was on CBS. His hometown is located 35 miles or so from us and, that evening, I had drunk enough alcohol to think that using Andy's way of speaking to read aloud the bedtime story was a good idea. I don't know if I scored any points with Rosie for having done it that way but I sure didn't lose any.

Once he was asleep, Rosie and I played backgammon and consumed several more gin and tonics. Eventually, we moved to the living room sofa where one thing led to another—if you know what I mean. The kisses got hotter and hotter. Hands started to roam. Well, at least, mine did. Rosie started to call a halt to the proceedings but, apparently, I was enough of a salesman to persuade her to do what I wanted. Then again, I didn't have to do a lot of persuading. The alcohol must have done its job and lowered her inhibitions sufficiently for me to realize my goal that evening. I stripped off her clothes and mine. I played with those very nice boobs. She stroked my dick. I ate her. She sucked me. Then, we fucked. I guess you could say, "A good time was had by all."

We then went to her bedroom for round two after which we fell asleep. I woke up about 3:00 AM with a hard on, ready to go again. I reached down and started to play with Rosie's pussy in a effort to get her wet. She woke up and didn't really care that she wasn't all that wet. She just reached over to her nightstand, opened up the drawer, and pulled out a jar of Vaseline. Rosie just rubbed some of the lubricant on my dick and told me to go ahead. I guess being awakened in the middle of the night for sex was not all that an unusual occurrence for her.

About 6:00 in the morning, Rosie woke me up saying I needed to go. She didn't want Joseph to wake up and find me still there. I understood completely. Hell, I had just gotten laid three times. I wasn't going to complain—particularly if I wanted some more in the future.

Well, in the next few days, Ronald realized that he had screwed up big time. In an effort to mend the relationship with Rosie, he bought her a brand new 1978 Lincoln Continental Mark V. No dozen roses for this boy. No, sir. He spent some serious money—the kind of money you don't plan on letting get away from you. Now, it wasn't a 4-door car but, at least, it had a back seat so she could take more than one person at a time when showing houses.

It was about this time, our local Realtors association was planning a big Hawaiian-themed party. I didn't have a clue as to whom I would ask to be my date. Just before I started my real estate job, I had ended a three-year relationship with my college girlfriend and, at the time, I was making a conscious effort not to appear like I was dating anyone on a steady basis.

While the new car had been successful in getting Ronald somewhat back in Rosie's good graces, their relationship still was not on the same footing as it was before his unfortunate (for him) dalliance. He had made enough progress with Rosie that the two of them made plans to attend the Hawaiian party together. I was happy for her. It wasn't like I was serious about her or anyone else. I had spent three years being tied down and was not ready to make another commitment to any woman.

Rosie offered to fix me up with one of her divorced friends that lived in her former city—which was located 20 miles or so southeast of us. (Some of my fraternity brothers who are from there like to joke about their city's name by saying it's "located between Climax and Horneytown." Seriously. Those are two of the unincorporated communities outside the city limits.)

To keep it from being a pure blind date, Rosie suggested we go there one evening before the upcoming party and she would introduce me to her friend. It turns out that Rosie had lived in an apartment complex in that city with a partying bunch of people, most of whom were about her same age. It was her idea that we could take her car (the Corvette) and drop Joseph off at her friend's house where there would be a baby sitter for both Joseph and the friend's son. Then, Rosie and I would go downtown, have dinner, and then come back to party with her friends. That sounded like a plan to me.

After dinner, Rosie suggested I drive. Never having driven a Corvette before, I jumped at the chance—even though I had a nice buzz on. As we're driving up Main Street, I took care to make sure I was not speeding. By this time in my life, I had been stopped twice for DWI and, both times, I escaped without being issued a ticket. I didn't want to risk a third time, figuring you can only go so many times to the same well before it runs dry.

Rosie wasn't having any of it. She made fun of my safe, law-abiding driving. As I said, I had a nice buzz going so, against my better judgment, I decided to take on her challenge. I felt I needed to defend my manhood. When the traffic light changed to green, I punched the 'Vette and very quickly ran it up to 60 in a 25 MPH zone. Fortunately, the police were otherwise engaged elsewhere and I got away with it. Rosie seemed to be appeased and no further challenges of that nature came from her that evening.

We found our way back to the apartment complex without further incident. It turned out that her friend (and my prospective date) was over across the parking lot at the apartment of some guy. Rosie and I joined them and tried our best to catch up with their alcohol consumption. For an evening in the middle of the week, these folks were partying pretty hard, but then, back in the late '70s, everyone I knew partied hard pretty much all the time. If I could go back and relive any period of my life, that time period would be my choice. I had a blast then and got more than my share of pussy.

Sometime during all that drinking, Rosie and I wound up on the fellow's living room floor, wrestling and tickling each other. Maybe I can blame the alcohol or just the passage of time for the lack of details. All I remember is that, as Richard Pryor said, "My dick was as hard as times in '29." My hard on was easily visible. I wanted to fuck Rosie so badly but thought that, since I was going to be dating the other girl (I apologize to her for having forgotten her name) in the apartment in a few days' time, I might want to restrain myself a little bit. So, I did—momentarily. Rosie and I called a halt to the wrestling. My dick didn't care. It was still hard and showing prominently.

By this time (it must have been about 11:00,) it was time for us to head home. After all, we did have to work the next day. We walked back across the parking lot to fetch Joseph—who had been sleeping. I expected I would have to hold him in my lap on the way home but Rosie said he could just climb in the back (such as it was) on the shelf behind the seats. That shelf was what passed for a trunk in a Corvette, only it didn't have any access from the outside.

As we started out of the apartment complex, Rosie cranked up the volume to something just under the threshold of pain. Any disco would have been proud to have their music played at that volume. I almost had to yell to tell Rosie there was no way Joseph would be able to sleep with the music that loud. She replied that he could sleep through anything. I had my doubts about that.

I didn't know exactly how drunk Rosie was—but I soon found out. It was the first time she took a right turn that didn't require her to stop when she got sideways big time. And, that wasn't the only one. She was slinging that 'Vette around every corner she could. Left or right, it didn't matter. I guess she figured if she could make the car fishtail and then correct it once it had gotten out of shape that it proved she wasn't drunk. Of course, a sober driver would have kept the car under control in the first place but, those thoughts don't occur to you after an evening of consuming "mass quantities" of adult beverages. How Joseph could sleep through all the loud music and being tossed about to and fro was beyond me but she was convinced that he was dead to the world.

Fortunately, Rosie chose to take "the back way" home. We were much less likely to run into local law enforcement on that route. We were out in the country, about halfway back to her condo, when she pulled over into the parking lot of an abandoned store on the left side of the road. She said that I should drive the rest of the way. I was relieved. Even though I was drunk, I knew I wasn't as drunk as she. I thought I offered us our best chance to get back to her home in one piece.

After she sat down in the shotgun seat, I climbed in behind the wheel, turned down volume on the radio to something reasonable, and carefully pulled back on to the two-lane road. About a minute later, Rosie started tugging at my zipper. I sort of slid down in my seat to facilitate what she was trying to accomplish. She fished out my dick, leaned over, and started giving me a really nice blow job.

I tried to return the favor somewhat by reaching over her torso and unbuttoning her pants. I worked my hand into her panties and started fingering her the best I could while still driving down the road at 55 MPH. Of course, I didn't want to interfere with her sucking my dick, which she was doing quite well, I might add.

Eventually, we made it to her condo, straightened up our clothes, carried Joseph inside, and put him to bed. Then, I helped Rosie into the shower in an effort to try to sober her up. She asked why she was naked and I was fully dressed. I didn't have a good answer so I got naked and stepped into the shower with her. We each scrubbed the other. We hugged. We kissed. We groped. We fondled. Then, we got out of the shower, dried off, and climbed into her bed where I proceeded to fuck her hard.

Now, I have no doubt some of you are wondering what's the big deal. You're probably thinking mine is an okay story but there's something lacking, something that makes it special and worth writing. And, you'd be right.

Like so many stories, there is an epilogue. Here it is: A couple days later at work, Rosie pulled me aside. We had a conversation that I remember like it was yesterday. She started by asking, "You remember our driving back the other night?"

"Yes, I do."

"Did I... uh, put my head in your lap?"

"Well," I said, trying to come up with the right words, "that's a... 'polite' way to phrase it. Why do you ask?"

"Joseph asked me why I had put my head in your lap." Holy crap! Her 6-year old son watched his mom start to give me a blow job. Now, with the seatbacks in front of him and with my leaning over to the right so I could finger-fuck his mom, his view was blocked. He couldn't see anything specific, thank goodness, but he wasn't as asleep as she thought, either.

I still smile and shake my head when I think of that experience.

Oh, there's a second epilogue. Remember, this was long before the term "friends with benefits" came into vogue. Therefore, before you accuse me of being a womanizer (like that's a bad thing,) you should know that Rosie and Ronald later married. I eventually married and my wife ran into her at the dentist's office. I'm sure Rosie became more financially well-off by having Ronald to support her. So, did she use her relationship with me to show Ronald that other, even younger, men found her attractive and, thereby, spur him into proposing marriage? Did she use me just to get even with Ronald for his transgression? Or, was she just as much of a slut as he was? While writing this tale, I'm reminded of the words of Bob Seger:

We weren't in love oh no far from it

We weren't searching for some pie in the sky summit...

I used her. She used me. Neither one cared.

We were getting our share

Working on the night moves

I don't know what Rosie's motivation was for playing with me. It doesn't matter to me. I'm just glad she did. Like Bill Withers sang, "You just keep on using me... 'til you use me up."

So, there you have it. You can believe it or not. I promise you, though: It's a true story. If I'm lying, I'm dying.