Lace Curtains on a VW Van

"Twenty five years later I can see a lot of y'all need glasses," she declared. "Just standing here? I see five or six women ten times prettier than me."

"Who's one needs glasses?" Bernice called out.

Renee was jolted out of her reverie when Sandra reminded her that they needed groceries. Renee took one last look at the VW van and looked for the entrance to the supermarket parking lot.

Home again, they put the groceries away, then Sandra, Marcia and Maxie Junior started on supper. Max came in and, as was his wont, greeted his son first. Then when he'd tired of making Maxie squeal in protest, he grabbed Marcia until she threatened to kick him.

"Don't; I'm cooking," Renee said when her husband moved to grab her.

"I'm cooking too!" Sandra squealed, trying hard to escape her father's hands.

"Hmm? Don't look like it to me," Max yelled and grabbed the girl in a playful headlock.

"Daddy! Quit it, butt breath," Sandra complained.

"Butt breath? BUTT BREATH? Honey, hear how my girl talks to me?" Max complained.

"Just calls 'em as she sees 'em," Renee smiled and kissed her man.

After dinner, the three children were sent to their rooms to do their homework. Max turned on the news and Renee retired to the den to surf the 'Net.

That night, after the nightly battle to get Maxie to take a bath, the nightly battle to get Marcia and Sandra to agree on who could shower first, after the nightly battle of getting the three children to bed, Renee and Max lay in bed.

Max's hand wormed over the comforter, then stealthily underneath the flat sheet.

"You tickle me, I swear to God I put a major hurting on you," Renee smiled.

Max must not have believed her; he did exactly that.

Then the two made love, slow, gentle love.

"We get pregnant again, you carrying this one," Renee threatened.

The next day, after the challenges of getting three children and one husband out of the house, Renee got herself to her office. Then she sat and thought.

That school year, the school year of the Volkswagen van had been some of the happiest days of her life. To be young and pretty and free.

And loved. Renee had no doubt that Max loved her. And, yes, he did occasionally run into a few ignorant people, people that just could not, or would not accept a racially mixed marriage.

But she and Tara had been taking a real risk when they'd loved each other for that school year. It went much deeper than the black/white thing. Girls weren't supposed to do that, weren't supposed to love each other.

A 'ding' from her personal assistant snapped Renee out of her reverie and her work day officially began.

As Renee was 'forgetting' about them, Tara sat at her desk in her Austin office. Supposedly, she was poring over some MLS listings that were currently under contract with competing agencies. But her mind was miles, and years away.

That school year, in the lace curtained rear, she had known love. A pure and deep love.

"And because of that love..." she murmured out loud.

Then finished the thought in her head, "...I let you go."

She'd met and married John at a convention in Las Vegas. She was thirty seven, still unmarried, still flitting between relationships.

In college, she'd experimented with men, experimented with women, experimented with orgies, pulling trains. And had always felt hollow, empty.

She'd even come close to marrying. Dear, sweet Ben. He'd paid for her to go for her broker's license, encouraged her, tutored her.

Two days before the wedding, Tara let Ben know she would not be marrying him. He wanted children and she did not.

"Ben, sweetheart, I swear to God, I get pregnant I'll get an abortion," she said. "I am not the mommy type."

Last time she'd seen Ben, he'd been married to a rather homely looking red head. But he'd looked happy. The wife had just looked dumpy, frumpy, and pregnant.

Tara been at one of the casinos, doing fairly well on the blackjack table. She looked up and made eye contact with John Brocker and the two had smiled.

"You owe me a thousand, hear?" he said to her a moment later.

She turned and the handsome man was standing next to her.

"Oh? Why's that?" she tittered.

"You got me so distracted I just lost a thousand dollars on that last hand," he said.

They gambled some more, they drank, they gambled even more and drank even more.

Then Tara had come to, head throbbing and a horrible taste in her mouth.

Tara was not in her modest hotel room; she was in a lavish suite. And there was a large rock on her finger.

Seeing Renee at the reunion had brought all those feelings rushing back. Seeing Renee at the reunion had made it impossible to hide from herself any longer.

"Five years, down the drain," Tara said with a light smile on her lips.

John had blown up when Tara had let him know she was moving out. John had stood, mouth open in shock when Tara disclosed her homosexuality.

"But you, but you, we, I mean, you have orgasms. You can't be gay," he sputtered.

"John, being gay isn't just about sex," Tara had frowned at his misunderstanding. "Yes, the sex we had was good. Sex is always good."

She smirked.

"But, Sweetheart, if we could teach a cucumber change the oil on our car? Wouldn't need men at all," Tara had said.

Then John's shock and confusion had morphed into rage.

He ranted, he railed, he threatened, he had even begged. Tara wasn't fooled; without her income, John would have to give up the home, the membership in the country club, the gym membership. Unless he suddenly fell into money, which was doubtful, he would have to give up the Mercedes-Benz and would have to make do with last years tailored suits.

"Look at it this way, Sugar Bear," Tara had finally smirked. "Now maybe you can finally find some woman willing let you stick your cock up their ass, huh?"

"Fuck you," John had snarled.

Tara looked up as Shaniqua, her eighteen year old assistant came into the room. The girl had beautiful chocolate brown skin, soulful brown eyes, and a full Afro hairstyle.

"I can't believe that hairstyle is back in fashion again," Tara smiled, eyes flicking down over Shaniqua's full breasts and full hips. "But it is just so cute on you."

Shaniqua and she chatted for a few moments as Shaniqua put that day's mail on Tara's desk. Then the girl turned and Tara's eyes fixed firmly on the young girl's full buttocks. She wondered if the girl realized the sexual energy she was putting out as she flounced around the office.

Shaniqua made a movement that caught Tara's attention and Tara looked up from the mail to see the eighteen year old girl bending over to pick up something that had rolled under her desk.

Tara fought down the groan as Shaniqua's short skirt rode up, allowing Tara a momentary glimpse of Shaniqua's thick tightly coiled bush.

Tara felt her mouth grow dry. She began to fight hard for breath.

In a VW van, twenty five years ago, she had seen a beautiful little pussy, just like Shaniqua's pretty little pussy.

Tara had touched that pussy, kissed that pussy, licked that pussy. Behind lace curtains, she had loved that pussy.

"I'm thinking some lace curtains in here; what you think?" Tara blurted out.

Shaniqua peered over her shoulder into Tara's office. She smiled.

"Instead of them ugly ass blinds? Yeah, lace curtains be nice," the girl agreed, now twisting her chair around.

Tara's mouth felt dry again. Shaniqua's pussy was on display as the girl sat in her office chair.

"Go with me to buy them? I'll treat you to lunch," Tara offered.

"Ooh, can't today, got me an appointment," Shaniqua said.

The African-American girl pointed down toward her crotch.

"Going get it waxed baby smooth," she whispered, even though they were in the office alone.

"You do that and you're fired," Tara exclaimed. "That'd be a crime take off that beautiful bush."

Tara then froze. She felt light-headed. She couldn't believe she'd said that out loud. There was a whirring, a buzzing in her ears.

"You uh, you think, you think it's, I should keep it all natural and stuff?" Shaniqua finally said, breaking the long silence.

"God yes," Tara breathed out.

THE END.

**Author's Note: I write these stories for my pleasure; I post them here for your enjoyment. I thank you for reading my stories.

I especially thank those that take the time to leave comments, take the time to rate my stories. I appreciate feedback, good and bad.

Hurtful comments, however, will be deleted. If you're that angry at yourself, take it out on yourself. It's not my fault your mother shamed you during potty-training.

Have a groovy day.