3 comments/ 14279 views/ 1 favorites Alone with Memories for Christmas By: SuperHeroRalph This is a Winter Holiday contest story. Too many readers don't vote. Please vote. I need the support of your vote. Reminiscing on Christmas, a lonely black man remembers better times in his life. * Michael's favorite thing to do, while masturbating, was to remember a few select white women from his past. Recalling the white women that he had sexual relations with always made him excited. Where some men may have one or two favorite females to remember naked, having fucked, sucked, and licked himself and his partner to orgasmic pleasure through the alphabet several dozen times, Michael had hundreds of women to recall. Even having sex with the rarer lettered names, such as, Olga, Olive, Olivia, Uma, Ursula, Veronica, Victoria, Yvonne, Yolanda, Zelda, and Zoe, Michael had hundreds of favorite women from which to choose to remember, that is, all except for a woman whose name began with the letter X. The only letter of the alphabet that eluded him, he never met and had sex with a woman who's name began with the letter X. "If only I could find and have sex with a woman with a name that began with X, my life would be complete," he said with a laugh. "I'd die a happy man." Now, with the passing of years, no longer sexually active, in the way he once was, what he was once able to recall in great detail of all the women that he had sexual intercourse with, pleasured with cunnilingus, and received fellatio from faded. Instead of remembering the women in whole, he was left with naked flashes and incomplete and infrequent snippets of sexual activity that included a breast here, a naked ass there, or remembrances of a shaved, trimmed, or bushy pussy. With their names no longer matching their faces, playing out as just one big sexual orgy of naked body parts that more resembled a modern art painting than his sexual reality, his memories merged, morphed, and compacted together as if one. Entwined, in the way that their naked bodies once did, with his long, black arms and strong, muscular legs wrapped around some beautiful, blonde, busty, white woman, there were so many women in his sexual past that he could no longer remember their names. "Doesn't seem worth banging them, if I can't remember them," he said unable to recall what he needed to remember to get him off, while masturbating. "Oreo, Oreo, Oreo," he repeated the word over and again, while trying stroking himself to maintain his erection long enough to cum. A term used to slam those uppity niggers, who tried to live in a white man's world, to others, Oreo was the hard shelled cookie with the soft, white, creamy center. Indeed, Oreo best described what he remembered of his dalliances and the word he now used to jog his memory to remember. If he was to pick a name, one word, to best describe him, when having sex with a white woman, Oreo was his word. When thinking about his interracial sexual affairs, surrounding her so completely with his big, black, beautiful body, the handsome, African American Knight that finally gets the beautiful, blonde Princess, it pained him that he could no longer put their names with their faces. Their names, their names, what were their names? Now that he was older, if only he could remember their names, reliving his sexual realities that he had back then, as his renewed sexual fantasies now, would make his masturbation sessions so much more heated and so much more pleasurable. Still, when he finally remembered some women, when he was able to put their names with their faces, the thing that turned him on, when having sex with them, akin to the cookie, Oreo, was the shocking, albeit exciting, color contrast of their skins. In the way of white piano keys, against a shiny, black Grand piano, in the way of a black tuxedo, with top hat and tails, against the shocking contrast of the required starched, white shirt, the women were all so white and he was so very black. As if they were snow, white Lilies, with their blonde hair and blue eyes, they were always so pale, nearly translucent, and he was as black as the shoe polish he used to shine customers' shoes, when he was a shoeshine boy in his youth. Shoes, played an important part in his life, especially women's shoes. High heels were in his blood and he ended up owning a retail chain of more than a hundred shoe stores that were found in the better neighborhoods of Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, and New Jersey. Never satisfied having sex with just one woman or several women in the course of a year, he couldn't stop having sex with different women. If he could have had sex with a different beautiful, blonde, busty, white woman every day of his life, he would have and in the way that he went through women, he nearly did. Forever trying to replicate those beautiful, blonde, busty, white women that he never had a chance to meet and to bed, always looking to find his Marilyn Monroe, Mamie Van Doran, Jayne Mansfield, Brigitte Bardot, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Morgan Fairchild, Elizabeth Montgomery, Farah Fawcett, Cheryl Ladd, Christie Brinkley, Cybill Sheperd, and Loni Anderson, there was always a new blonde starlet or model to take her place. Truth be told, the accidental and/or intentional up skirts of bikini panties or naked pussies and the fortunate and exciting down blouse views of bras, breasts, areolas, and nipples, from helping customers try on his shoes, were how he met his ex-wives and how he met most of the women with whom he had sexual affairs. Having bedded so many women, too many women to remember, he required a system to keep track of the women he bedded. He kept track of the women he bedded with their names and the date of their sexual encounter by the shoes that he gave them; the better quality the woman, the better quality the shoes that he gave her. His generosity of free shoes was all recorded in his inventory that he erroneously marked as shrinkage, a description that should have been noted more descriptively as engorgement. By the price of the shoes they bought, all the customers he served, whether at his store or in bed at a hotel, had money. Just as the women didn't want their white, rich, boring and inattentive husbands to know that they had sex with a big, beautiful and exciting black man, Michael didn't want his wife, at the time, to know about all the extramarital affairs he was having. With both parties wanting to keep their sexual affairs discreet, as if a boy locked in a candy store, Michael was given free rein to sample all the merchandise without ever needing to buy any of it, that is, other than when he met and married his two ex-wives. No longer able to blame his memory loss on his drinking, his forgetfulness troubled him. Michael wasn't much of a drinker now as he was in his younger days. A proud, black man, that some have called an uppity nigger, even though he once did more than his share of drinking, as did most everyone else in their youth, and even though he could imbibe now, as he wasn't an alcoholic, he hasn't had a drink in years. Yet, as much as he drank back then, a direct result of his drinking, Michael had a talent for sniffing out blonde, available, and willing pussy. Even though he took some guff from the black women in the neighborhood, who heard the rumors for his preference to race, he preferred white women to black women. His taste for alcohol coincided with his lust for beautiful, blonde, busty, white women. Drinking and carousing, one was never without the other. Now that he was older, no longer able to enjoy a long, wild night of drinking and fucking, he couldn't drink and/or carouse in the way he used to do. Now, that he was older, all that he had to fuel his passion, when his hand was stroking his cock, were his fading memories of all the beautiful women he bedded. With his cheating days behind him, so wasn't his drunken binges. To be honest, except for the occasional setback, he doesn't miss those days of excess white wine and naked, white roses. Busy with his business and with raising a family, he lost his taste for the buzz received when drinking too much and the guilt that burdened him, when cheating. Deciding to be an attentive husband and a better father, before deciding to go cold turkey with booze and women, he limited himself to having one drink after work to relax from his day, that is, before he stopped drinking completely, around the same time that he stopped his philandering. Sober and faithful for some years, but now drinking again, more than he had a taste for alcohol, he had the need for the numbness that the alcohol provided. Having come full circle, only more than the satisfaction of being a faithful husband, he had the need for the excitement he felt by being serviced by an anonymous beautiful, blonde, busty, white woman. "Say, what's your name, baby?" A good looking man, so long as he bought the drinks and paid for the room, when not peeking beneath the skirts and peering down the blouses of women he serviced in his shoe store, he didn't need much more of an introduction at a private club than that to go from standing upright in a bar to lying down naked in bed. As if a baby given a bottle, when sucking on big, white breasts with pink nipples, instead of nursing on coffee colored breasts with black nipples, just as the excitement of having sex with an anonymous, white women gave him, the alcohol calmed him. Whenever he was high and sexually aroused, the pensive relaxation he had from drinking conflicted with the excess excitement he received from having sex. Yet, the two tied so tightly together that they not only kept him balanced but also gave him the insight he needed to see the ramifications of his life more clearly. His diversion of being high and sexually excited, that preferred, albeit temporary altered state was his place on the mountaintop. Being high and sexually excited was where he needed to be to forget the past and to help him heal in the future. With all the folderol happening in the political arena, much of it instigated by the press looking for a story, the opposing political party needing him to lose, and lawyers wanting to make a fast buck, he couldn't help but compare his prior life to the recent political setbacks of Herman Cain. If one woman coming forward wasn't enough, two more came forward with charges of unwanted sexual harassment and now a fourth claiming that she had a 13 year sexual relationship with the presidential candidate. Where there's smoke there's fire and, of course, he believed the charges of the women. If he compared himself to Herman Cain, then he knew that Herman was guilty of cheating on his wife, in the way that he had cheated on his ex-wives. Just as he always had, Herman had a thing for beautiful, blonde, busty, white women. Only, Herman's mistake was running for public office. Herman's mistake was running for the presidency of the United States. Herman's mistake was being a black man in a white world. Call it sexual harassment, but Herman's mistake was in thinking that a black man can have sex with white women without being put on trial. Even when denying everything, calling everyone a liar, and playing the happily married for 43-years card, in the end, he was just another black man being discriminated against. Not willing to tow the line, Herman's mistakes were his arrogance in flaunting his sexual escapades in everyone's face and in not thinking that his prior dalliances weren't fodder for public digestion and inspection, once throwing his hat in the political ring and running for public office. All the press needed was to find the smoke to see the fire, before destroying his hopes of becoming the next President of the United States ablaze. If this was the good, old days, those vigilante white men, who now hide their KKK robes in the closet, instead of wearing them at night, would have already lynched Herman. Under the penalties of a horrible death, if this was the good, old days, Herman never would have dared date a white woman. If this was the good, old days, Herman's body would have been found in the woods, after being dragged down the road behind a pickup truck with a Confederate flag on its back window. With racism changing with the times, instead of being crucified on some back, country road, he was crucified on national TV. Some things never change and racism is alive and well in America. Michael wondered how many blonde, beautiful, busty, white woman would step out of the shadows to embarrass him, if he was ever to run for political office. An entire stage full, certainly, with all the white women he's had the pleasure to satisfy, no doubt, he had many more Caucasian skeletons in his closet than did Mr. Cain. He's had sex with a few hundred white women, while he was married and pretending to be a faithful, loving husband. With one drink leading to another and another, one drink was no longer enough to quiet his mind from thinking of yesterday and from remembering his memories with sadness, instead of with contentment. With the holidays always the worst times of the year for him, instead of the best times, one drink wasn't enough to numb the pain of being so alone and lonely on Thanksgiving and now on Christmas. After all his family and friends abandoned him to his bad self, he couldn't help but wonder if his drinking and carousing, as well as his subsequent loneliness, had anything to do with him being a black man trying to live and blend in a white society. When one drink was enough and sometimes too much for so long, suddenly, one drink was never enough. Maybe he was an alcoholic. He didn't know. Maybe he was addicted to sex. He didn't know that either. All he knew was he enjoyed drinking and having sex with white women. Just as he couldn't remember if he just liked to drink or if he had to drink, he didn't know why he was so attracted to beautiful, blonde, busty, white women. Yet, then, again, who wouldn't be attracted to beautiful, blonde, busty, white women? Getting caught up in the power that he felt he had over beautiful Caucasian women, maybe fucking white women was his way to get back at white men. He didn't know and it pained him to think about his sexual relationships with white women in that way. Yet, indeed and without doubt, it excited him to see a head of golden hair cascading around his lap, while receiving a blowjob and before filling her mouth with his semen. As simple as that, wanting and needing to control an inferior woman to make him feel superior, was it that simple? Unable to discern one condition from the other, the need to drink and the lust for sex, and unable to stop either one, what did it matter? The catalyst to his nefarious affairs was his drinking and the fact of that matter was that he was drinking again. No doubt, it would only be a matter of time before he found some blonde, beautiful, busty white woman to fulfill his sexual needs. He remembered that his attraction to white women started when OJ Simpson, his idol, made public his preference to Caucasian women known by dating dozens, before marrying one. Just as it was with many black athletes, OJ only dated white women, before marrying Nicole Brown. She was so blonde. She was so beautiful. She was so busty. It was then that he noticed more black men dating white women, especially blonde, white, beautiful, busty women, than there were black women dating white men. Why? He didn't know. Then, when Tiger Woods married Elin Nordegren, he wondered again why it was that black men so loved white, blonde women? Just as Adam couldn't refuse Eve and resist the temptation of eating the forbidden apple in the Garden of Eden, Michael wondered if beautiful, blonde, busty, white women were his forbidden fruit? Consciously or subconsciously following in their footsteps, as evidence to his truth, he recalled some of the famous interracial relationships. Famed boxer Jack Johnson married three white women. Sammy Davis, Jr. had a long relationship with May Britt. Seal married Heidi Klum and actor Cuba Gooding, Jr. has been happily married to a white woman, since 1994. Then, there's Sidney Poitier married to the same white woman for 35 years. Hell, even the President's father, Barrack Obama, Sr., married a white woman, when he married Ann Dunham in 1948. Even though it's more accepted today than it was forty years ago, there's just something so dangerously exciting about a black man having sex with a white woman, an excitement that he doesn't feel when having sex with a black woman. Without the sex to combat the alcohol to balance out his mood and with the alcohol acting as a depressant, as if it was a fog slowly settling in around him, the liquor invited a sadness that altered his disposition, before a deep melancholy took hold of him. Even though that first drink relaxed him and the second drink made him feel good, one, even two drinks were never enough to make him forget, and there was so much he needed to forget. Already depressed, the alcohol caused him even more depression, yet, even without having sex with white women, there was still a method to his madness. Instead of creating a bitterness that would eventually burn into self-destructive rage and self-destructive behavior, working in the way that years of therapy would but, in conjunction with his depression to limit it, the alcohol served as a magic elixir that gave him the insight to help him understand why his life had turned out the way it had. Now, finally, acknowledging all the things he did wrong in his failed relationships with his ex-wives, his children, his family, and his friends, the lost promise of what could have been happier days now plagued him with remorse and sorrow. Too late to fix all that was wrong with his life, already too tragically and irreversibly ruined, it wasn't until years after his relationships had ended that he accepted the full responsibility for their failures. "It was all my fault and I'm sorry," he said for no one to hear. "I'm so sorry," he said for no one to care. "Please forgive me," he said hanging his head in shame and being so seriously sincere. He looked around his small room, as if the room was his prison cell, but he wasn't incarcerated. He wasn't even held against his will. He was free to come and go as he pleased, but with nowhere he wanted to be, he remained sequestered. With no one to go anywhere with anyway and tired of going everywhere alone, he may as well remain isolated in his room. As if ostracized and abandoned by all of society, with sadness and sorrow his best friends, he preferred reveling in his self-pity. But for one, dim light that lit up the photograph album he balanced in his lap, as if holding all the memories of his life in his shaking hands, his room was as dark as his mood. He didn't need the light to see all that was wrong with him and with his life. With the sudden insight that illuminated his mind, he already knew what was wrong and it was nothing that he could fix, even with the brightest light. Besides, having grown to prefer the darkness to the light, the darkness was his only way to confront his demons. The dark is when the demons all came out to haunt his dreams and interrupt his sleep. The darkness is what he used to hide his pain. As if a vampire needing to hide himself in the dark, turning on a brighter light was as if turning on the sun and, so troubled by the memories of yesterday, he couldn't face the brightness of another day that reminded him of yesterday. Shinning a concentrated spotlight, this little light was all that he needed to illuminate his reality. Unfortunately, the little light made his mood even worse by adding a ghostly ambience, albeit an appropriate but spooky feel to the room. Encouraged by his imagination, no doubt, the light cast reflective glimmers in the shape of familiar, albeit imagined faces on his walls that added to his melancholy. The reflection of the little light that lit up his lap so brightly, also cast shadows on the wall that appeared to him as ghosts from the past to haunt him and to remind him of his misdeeds. Alone with Memories for Christmas "Hello, hello, hello," he said with sad, little smiles, as if greeting every face that he imagined seeing. "Hello, hello, hello. I see you're all here," he said acknowledging the imagined presence of friends and family. "Thank you for coming. It's so nice to see you all again," he said with a sincere smile. He couldn't help but feel a bit like Charles Dickens' character, Ebanezer Scrooge, from Christmas past, in A Christmas Carol. Even though he thought they were all there, even though he knew he was alone and there was no one present and nothing there but shadows, as a way to confront his guilt and sadness head on, he acknowledged his shadowy faces by playing along with whatever images his subconscious placed before him. No doubt, they were there for a reason and he figured it was better to acknowledge them than to deny their presence by ignoring them. Alone but for those that he imagined were present in his room, it was now that he finally understood the cliché, the quiet was deafening, because the sad silence of having no one there visiting him interfered with the focused concentration of his thoughts. Perhaps, the reason why he imagined that everyone he knew was there was because no one was and he missed them all so very much. Yet, strangely enough, as if they were all there now, he heard their voices. There were always voices that he heard in his head and, as the years passed, it became so impossibly more difficult to place the voice with the face. Sometimes unable to distinguish if the voices were real or not, the voices that he heard from his past always haunted him in the present. Who are all these people that once sounded and looked so familiar? Alone with his bad self and bothered by his troubled mind, he couldn't even concentrate enough to open the photograph album he held in his hands and focus long enough to look at some old pictures. For sure, he needed another sip of his drink to quell his nerves and stop his hands from shaking. Hearing himself swallowing, the warm liquor heated his chest and momentarily stopped his shaking and quaking. It was so quiet that he could hear his heart beating in his chest. It was so quiet that he could hear all the voices of all the people he forgot about then and suddenly remembered now, as if they were all truly here in the room with him. In a raucous roar with them all talking at the same time, as if they were surely all there in the room with him, when he closed his eyes, as if merely turning off the light, he hushed their voices and they disappeared. Then, sadly alone again, it was so quiet again that, for the first time, he felt so lost and so lonely by the stark realization that he had no one that cared enough about him to call him or to see how he was doing on Christmas that he opened his eyes again. Living and sharing his life with ghosts from the past was much better than living his life alone. Worse, devoid of bitterness and self-pity, he had no one to blame but himself. Those people that he thought he didn't need then, he needed now. Those people he wished were gone from his life then, he wished they were here now. No doubt having something to do with his drinking and philandering that he did so long ago in his past, hoping that it wasn't because he was a black man in a white man's world, for the life of him, he couldn't remember why he was mad at them or why they were mad at him. Not wanting to be alone, never wanting to be alone, all that he knew was that he was alone now and he missed them. Holding his scotch in one hand, as if afraid to let go, afraid his drink would leave him, disappear in thin air, as did everything and everyone else who left him, he was so timidly fearful of misplacing his drink in the way he constantly misplaced his car keys and his eyeglasses. Was he losing his mind? Is this how Alzheimer's feels, lucid one second and lost within yourself the next? He took a long sip of his drink and finished the contents of the glass, before pouring himself another and, hoping to take the edge off, he poured himself a double this time. Maybe it would help, if he got good and drunk. Maybe it would help, if he forced himself not to remember. Maybe it would help, if he suddenly had amnesia or really did have Alzheimer's disease. If having Alzheimer's would make him forget all of those faces and not hear all those voices that haunted him every day and every night in his dreams, then he'd welcomed the disease. No doubt, the alcohol relaxed him from the madness of his days of despair and from the lunacy of a life that plagued and now haunted him from his first relationship to his last. After having dated so many white women, more white women than he could even remember, before marrying two of them, he didn't know why he had the need to continue to have so many affairs, even after being married to two, beautiful, blonde, busty, white women. He wondered where all of those women that he so desired enough to cheat on his wives with then were now. Knowing full well that they wouldn't, he wondered if they looked as good now as they did then, when he had sex with them so many years ago. Glad that he never ran into any of them again, especially when with one of his wives, it was better remembering how they used to look than ruining his fantasy of yesterday with the reality of how they look today. With two children from each marriage that gave him seven grandchildren, he should have a houseful of children opening Christmas presents, but he didn't. With many more friends than family, he should have his family making him breakfast and his friends stopping by for a cup of coffee or for a drink to wish him a Merry Christmas, but he didn't have that either. Sadly, he had no one there to celebrate the holiday with him. Just not the same celebrating the holiday alone, the one day that he should be surrounded by family and friends, he was alone on Christmas day, of all days. "Merry Christmas to me," he said raising his glass in toast of no one. With a home fully decorated for the holidays that always had a big holiday wreath on an open door for friends and for family, and with a huge collection of Christmas cards that were prominently displayed throughout the house downstairs every year, his house was devoid of holiday decorations now. Maybe because he stopped sending them, no one even thought enough of him to send him a Christmas card. He shouldn't be all alone for Christmas now, as he was for Thanksgiving, but he was. He couldn't even remember what he ate that holiday or if he ate at all. He couldn't even remember the last time he had a Christmas tree. With no one there to celebrate the holiday with him, just as there was no reason for him to cook a big Thanksgivings Day dinner then, there was no reason to have a Christmas tree now. He tried decorating a tree the first year he was alone but, as if the ornaments were haunted, too, with every ornament saving a special, sad memory, decorating the tree was more a lesson in torture than it was in pleasure. Now that he's experienced too many of holidays alone, special occasions weren't the same without family and friends. Sadly, now, holidays are just another day, when alone and lonely. For sure, after all he did to help his friends in bad times, if not surrounded by relatives for one reason or another, he should at least be surrounded by friends. Only, the closeness of friends and the relationships of friendships loses much in the translation, when he stopped going out to visit them and when he stopped inviting them to his home. Having taken everyone for granted, when his life was going so well, along with the personal visits, eventually the telephone calls and the e-mails stopped, too. Having taken the time to learn how to Twitter but, without having anyone to Twitter, no one Twittered him. Other than to call someone when there was an emergency, he didn't even know why he had a cell phone. As if his account had been terminated, no one visited his Facebook page in years. No one wrote anything on his wall. When others boasted of all the Facebook friends they had, he had none. Angry with hurt, he pulled his Facebook page and closed his account. Unfortunately, that action spited no one but himself. Now, with his cyber link to humanity closed, he only felt more isolated. With him feeling so abandoned, but for the memories of the good times that he had and the laughter he once shared, as a sad albeit realistic end, with all the food and booze he put out, he wished he had all that money he wasted for their entertainment. "Where'd everyone go? Why is it so damn quiet? Why am I so lonely and so alone? What did I do that was so wrong to make everyone hate me and abandon me? Hello?" He looked around the room. "Hello? Is there anyone here? Hello? I need someone to talk to and someone to give me a hug. I need a friend to tell me that everything will be alright," he thought to himself without verbalizing any of it this time. He divorced his wives, alienated his children, and lost contact with his relatives and friends. Always, the end of one relationship started another. Always, as if someone had died, the end of one relationship took him time to grieve over the death of it. Only, the new relationship was never as large and as loving as the old one lost. Always, the end of one relationship cut ties to those mutual friends he shared with his ex-wife. Always, he had to make new friends, until he was just too damn tired to care and to take the time to develop what warranted as a friendship. No longer could he give the effort to start all over again with new people in his life, people who would, one day, no doubt, abandon him, too. Now, he just didn't care, he told himself, when he thought that he did. Everything he built brick by brick, when he was younger, with everything he needed put in place that gave him a happy home and a rich life, somehow was dismantled and destroyed brick by brick, as he grew older. A side effect of living life large, blindsided by the jealousy of others less fortunate, he was too deterred with living his life to see that his life, as he knew it, was ending. While riding the high of the drug alcohol and excited by the sex, he never saw the loneliness coming, until it was too late and already there. When he was younger, he never thought he'd be alone when he was older, as he was so alone now. When he was younger, he figured his life would be the same when he was older, only better, in the way that Jimmy's Stewart's life was, when he played George Bailey opposite Donna Reed's character, Mary Hatch, in It's a Wonderful Life. Surrounded by old, close, and trusted friends, imagining he'd live the good life retired, he figured he'd have his wife by his side and his children regularly visiting with his grandchildren, too. Unfortunately, he never stoked the fires to maintain the heat of his relationships. Regrettably, instead of alcohol and sex, he now knew too late that family and friends are what kept him entertained and busy, that is, when he had family and friends in his life, who cared enough about him to do that. Even though he should have, he never saw this lonely day coming, but it did and here it was. Now, with the promise of living a good life gone, Michael faced the reality of living the rest of his days alone and lonely. He wrestled with the reality of becoming the mean and miserable man his father had become, when Michael finally had enough of him and abandoned him, too, in the way that everyone has abandoned him now. Unable to feel the sad depression that made a whiskey bottle his father's only friend, he finally understood what it must have been like for his Dad and he wished he could have helped him then, in the way that he wished someone would reach out and help him now. What comes around goes around. Realizing now that the money he had then bought many of his friendships and cemented his family relationships, he was depressed, despondent, and disillusioned that the love of money superseded the love of people. "Merry Christmas to me," he said again holding up his drink in toast of no one but himself, while thinking that he was turning into his father. If not friends, at least he still had money but he'd trade whatever money he had to have his family and friends back in his life. Now with no one there but voices and shadows of faces to interrupt his thoughts, never having the time before and/or taking the time now to look at it, he remembered putting this personal photograph album that he now held aside. Vaguely, he remembered briefly scanning the pages, when he first received the album, so long ago. How many years ago, he didn't even know. He truly had forgotten he even had it, until now, when he discovered it in the back of the closet, while looking for something else, he remembered. Too busy living life, he was having better days to not need the warmth of the memories hidden within. For sure, these memories weren't as important to him then, as they were now. Now, the photograph album was his last lifeline, the thread that grounded him, and the support that saved him from the lunacy of feeling forgotten. The pictures were his evidence, his documented and detailed proof that he had once lived life large, instead of hiding himself in this room. Contained within, a permanent record of his life, these were his official, private moments frozen in time with the mere click of a camera lens. After everyone and everything else was gone, he was grateful for these photos. Yet, with a feeling of dread, as if it was Pandora's box, afraid to open it, afraid of what memories he'd unleash and what emotions he'd surely feel, he paused before opening the book. As if tracing the features of one of his children with his finger, as if pushing back a strand of their blonde, silky hair, as he watched them sleep so innocently, he slowly ran his fingers over the soft, leather cover, before opening the page that he truly didn't remember turning until now. "Someone surely went through a lot of trouble to amass all of these photos in honor of me," he said looking up at all the faces that he imagined were there from the shadows that his little light cast upon his walls. "Someone truly loved me to go through all of this trouble," he said nodding his head. His eyes welled up with water remembering all of those people, wives, girlfriends, lovers, friends, family, his children, and his grandchildren, who once loved him, as he'll always love them. Now, but for the memories he had from these photographs, the people behind them were all gone. He had no one to blame for the loss of them but himself. Other than to blame time, he had no excuse. When his life was too busy with work, too busy drinking and cheating, he never had enough time for those who truly loved him. Then, just when he pulled himself out of the mad, daily rush, just when he took a moment to relax and took a breath to reflect, he watched the seconds slowly tick by, tick, tick, tick, tick. Constantly, continually, he heard the tick, tick, ticking of time, his time. What he thought ticked by so slowly in his youth, now, in a blink of an eye, ten years, twenty years, thirty years passed and all the things he thought he did yesterday and all the things he said he'd do tomorrow were things he did forty years ago and things that he now would never have enough time to do. Where did the time go? Either too busy or too drunk, he wasn't present during all that time, was he? With no second chance to go back and correct his mistakes, his time was now nearly over. With no certainty of the future, all he has left of his time on Earth was the past and his memories associated with this photograph album. For a man who thought he was living life large with a loving wife, a beautiful home, and two new cars, it came to a crashing end, when he had one too many affairs. Then, when he divorced his first wife to marry his second wife, he thought his life was perfect again with a loving wife, a beautiful house, and two new cars. Four children and seven grandchildren should guarantee him a place in someone's heart. Yet, just as there was no one here on his birthday, on Thanksgiving, and now on Christmas day, there was no one here to testify that he was loved and needed. If he was anything, he was forgotten and despised. If he was anything, he was sorry for all the wrongs he had done. As he harbored no hate for anyone, it hurt his heart for him to think that his friends and family hated him. Sadly, he didn't appreciate the effort of those who made the photo album, until now. Unbelievably, he didn't appreciate these photographs and these forgotten memories until now. As if he was a dying man from lack of food and water, these memories of his life past was the food and the water that he needed to nourish him and return him to life. Reveling in the past, a time before he dirtied his air with drunkenness and sexual affairs, surrounded by people who truly loved him, the past had clean air for him to breathe. Putting aside all the bad and despicable things he had done and forgetting, for a moment, all the people he had hurt, he needed to relive the memories that were within this album to remember and to continue living his life. Thinking the book came from the back of his closet, where this photo album came from, he really didn't know. He couldn't remember. Magically, as if from out of nowhere, this album just appeared and was there sitting on his lap, when he needed it the most. Certainly, as he'd never even do this for himself, it was, no doubt, a gift from someone, but who? His wife? Which one? His children? Which ones? He didn't know. Sadly, he should know who loved him enough to give him this thoughtful of a gift, but he couldn't remember. With all of the material things he had accumulated in life, the money, the houses, the furniture, the jewels, the watches, the cars, the clothes, the toys, and all the things that he thought he cherished and needed, now for him to be left with nothing but this photograph album was a sad joke that someone played on him. It was as if, by looking through the photographs, he graphically needed to see what was of real importance to him in his life. As if saved in a time capsule, he realized now that he didn't need anything other than these pictures that were captured on film. He didn't need anything other than the memories that were associated with these photos and contained within this album. With many of them dead and forgotten, as he would be one day soon, too, if only he had the people behind the pictures still in his daily existence, his life would be complete. "I get it. I finally get it," he said to himself, as if the sudden clarity of thought was an epiphany and his eureka. "I understand that I wasted my life on meaningless things and lost out on all the truly important things in life." He knew now that there was nothing more important to him than this photograph album. He knew now that there was nothing that was manufactured in America, handmade in Italy, engineered in Germany, and/or mass produced in China that meant more to him than what he now held in his hands. It was the memories behind these photographs that mattered to him more than money, more than mere things, and more than anything else. Only, too late, he had already missed out on so much, too much of his life. Seemingly, he had everything before and truly, he had nothing now, but for this photograph album. He opened the cover and the first picture was a black and white photograph of his mother and father holding him as a baby. If only he somehow knew then all that he knew now, he would have made the changes to his life that would have guaranteed him not being so alone today. If only he heeded this photograph, as a symbol of how he should have lived his life with true love, instead of by random sex, he would have been a happier man. Yet, not having learned the lesson from his father, like father like son, his father was a drinker and a philanderer, too, and ended up alone, just as he is now. If only he could have a second chance to live his life over again, as the ghost of Christmas past gave Scrooge a second chance to amend all that he did wrong, he surely wouldn't be sitting here now looking at a mere photograph album. He'd be living life large and, no doubt, happier surrounded by his family and friends. 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. * If you enjoyed the story, please vote. I need the support of your vote. So very many readers don't vote. Please don't forget to vote, make a comment, and/or add me and this story to your favorite lists. Thank you for reading, voting for, and/or making a comment on my story.