3 comments/ 4439 views/ 1 favorites Until #$&%@ Do Us Part Literally Ch. 01 By: SusanJillParker Please give me the support of your vote. * Love at first sight, dressed all in blue with a gold badge on his chest, Susan meets the man of her dreams. Thinking back while warming my hands with my hot coffee cup, needing to write this story for my sanity, I wrote this story as if it was all a bad dream instead of a perfect love affair. With it all happening ten, long years ago, sometimes it feels as if it all happened yesterday. Memories that are sometimes hard to forget, from time to time they haunt me by giving me bad dreams and nightmares. The first time I saw Robert or Bobby, as he liked to be called, as if I was seeing a rainbow shining just for me or witnessing a personal miracle, it was love at first sight for me. Never have I felt as happy. Never have I been as excited. Never have I felt as alive, so positive, so energetic, and so hopeful that my life had finally turned the corner for the better. In the way I looked at my life, after experiencing so much pain and suffering sorrow, seeing him was as if I was born again. Seeing him was as if he was my hero, my white knight in shining armor, and my salvation all rolled into one. Instantly forgetting about all of the bad things that happened in my past, I was in love. Indeed it was a miracle for me to trust another man never mind to fall in love with another man. Only with me putting so very much of my expectations on him, maybe I had doomed our romance before it even began. Unfortunately, in the way of disappearing cigarette smoke, love is fleeting. Now that I think back, with my eyes wide open and no longer blinded by love, I don't think it was love at first sight for him. Now that I really know him or think that I know him, I'll never know the real him. Now knowing him for the cad that he is, I seriously doubt if it was love at first sight for him. With him just using me and possessing me, with him showing me off to his friends, he wore me as I was a piece of jewelry. It took me years to understand that a man like him can't love anything or anyone but himself. A man like him doesn't know the meaning of love. A man like him is without feelings. A man like him doesn't feel remorse or guilt, only pleasure. If something didn't affect him directly, he had the shortened memory of a dog. With him never apologizing for what he did to me, no doubt feeling that I deserved his slaps, his punches, and his kicks, he's not sorry for the beatings he gave me. He never apologized for shoving me down the cellar stairs and leaving me there unconscious and for dead. With him able to detach his emotions, as if removing his batteries, a man like him doesn't have attachments. I know now that an attachment, unnecessary baggage, was all that I was to him. I was something he could stand in a corner when done playing with me and when I was finished entertaining him with my hand, my mouth, and my pussy. With him having sex with whores all over the world, I was just another whore to him. The only difference between being his whore and being his wife, I had his ring on my finger and his last name taken as my last name. For him to withstand the physical pain he's endured when fighting in a ring and, later, the torture he survived as a prisoner of war, a man like him doesn't feel physical pain, never mind the emotional pain of a love lost. A man like him doesn't feel anything for anyone but for himself. His personal palette is simple. Eyes front in real time, not giving any thoughts to the future, never mind the past, it's just what he feels right here and right now. Instead of a man, trained to perfection, he's closer to a machine, the perfect fighting and killing machine. * * * * * I remember watching a movie, Michael Mann's Heat with Robert De Niro as Neil McCauley and Al Pacino as Los Angeles Police Lieutenant Vincent Hanna. It's a great movie. If you haven't seen the movie, just as I highly recommend Scorsese's movie Casino with De Niro, Sharon Stone, and Joe Pesci, I highly recommend both of those movie. Anyway, there was something in the movie Heat that De Niro's character, Neil McCauley said over a cup of coffee in a diner when talking to Al Pacino, as Lt. Hanna, that stayed with me. The character that De Niro played reminded me of my ex-husband. Not really registering with me before but when I heard what De Niro said again years later after my divorce, when watching the movie again, it was something my ex-husband could have said and may have said for all that I know. Finally, after years of wondering what I did wrong, it was then that I understood that I didn't do anything wrong. Except for me being in love and for the expectations that I put upon him, it was then that I realized that everything that was wrong with our marriage was his fault. It was then that I truly understood who he was. No reasoning with him, as if a Pit bull with a bone, he was a psychopath trying to act normal while playing the part of a policemen. Even though he was there with me physically, he was never there with me emotionally. As if De Niro had stolen my ex-husband's line and my ex-husband's character, I could see my ex-husband playing that role and fleeing the country when he felt the heat. With him still having his CIA credentials and passports, able to disappear in thin air, he could travel anywhere at any time. Whether serving in the military in special ops, called to do a mission for the CIA, working for the Boston Police as an undercover operative, or doing something illegal for a mob boss, doing what he had to do, he was still a stone cold killer. "A guy told me one time," said De Niro as McCauley. "Don't let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner. Now, if you're on me and you gotta move when I move, how do you expect to keep a marriage?" He was referring to Al Pacino's character, Lt. Hanna's third marriage going down the toilet. In the way that De Niro's character hit home with my ex-husband, he could have been referring to my ex and to our marriage. If I had known before what I know now, I never would have married him. Only at the time, vulnerable and ready for love, I thought he was the one. With my internal clock ticking, I wanted to start a family. I wanted a baby. Foolishly, a typical dumb blonde, I thought he loved me as much as I loved him. Only, he didn't love me. Incapable of love, he couldn't love me. With him having something seriously wrong with him, he was more damaged than I could ever be. It was then that I understood my attraction to him. With him being just as fucked up as I was, we had that in common. * * * * * Wow, insightfully eye opening, it was then that I realized my ex-husband's philosophy of life. He confessed to me some of the really bad things, criminal things, and God awful things he's done as an Army Ranger in a war zone, a CIA operative on a mission, as undercover police officer, and as a hit man for the mob. Kill or be killed. "Don't be a victim. Never get in a car. Never let anyone take you anywhere. Do you understand what I'm saying to you? You must make your stand right where you are. When confronted by someone out to hurt you, you must be just as crazed as they are," he said. "Okay, I get it. Don't worry. I'm just going to the mall," I said. Only, he was serious and I wasn't. He knew better and I didn't. He insisted on teaching me some things on how to defend myself. Better than the average helpless woman, I was no match for him. He was as quick with his hands as he was with his feet. "Dead or alive, with a knife or a bullet traveling faster than you can think, it's in that one split second of doubt, that deadly pause, that has you testifying before Internal Affairs for a justified shooting or has your widow shopping for a casket. I'd rather error on my side than on their side. Being that they're all criminals and scum, if I don't take them out, someone else will," he said with anger. He looked at me as if he was a professor done lecturing me. "Calm down Bobby. Here, have a drink," I said pouring him a stiff one. He was always angry in the way that I used to always be in a rage before I had therapy. He needed to talk to someone but someone like him would never see a shrink unless forced to see a shrink by his captain. Someone like him needed to remain angry to do his job. Yet, a good mixed with all that happened to him in the past enraging him and with his training in Judo relaxing him, he was more balanced the most men. "What does it matter? In the end, I'm just doing my job," he said with a shrug and softening in his demeanor and lowering his voice to a quiet whisper. "I'm just doing what I was hired to do, to keep you and everyone else safe. If it wasn't for men like me, they're be chaos." Just as Robert De Niro said in that movie, Heat, if my ex felt the heat around the corner, just like in that car theft movie, Gone in 60 Seconds, never looking back, he'd be gone in 30 seconds rather than to go to prison for life. Leaving me behind, he wouldn't give me a second thought. Heat, by the way, was his all-time favorite movie, along with Deadwood, both violent movies, death and destruction was the way he lived his life. * * * * * Seemingly at the time, in the way he looked at me, couldn't take his eyes off of me, I thought it was love at first sight for him too. Certainly in the way he held me and kissed me, having never been kissed like that before, I thought he loved me...to death. Our match made in Heaven, I thought we'd be together for the rest of our lives instead of just three years. "Until death do us part," is what I said when I married him. I took the traditional vows instead of writing my own. With me a writer, I wanted to write my own vows but thinking more of his feelings, I didn't want to pressure him to write something that he didn't mean and something he didn't feel. A man of little words, he'd rather punch someone in the face and/or kill them and be done with them than to have words or an argument with them. I've seen him in a bar fight when he overheard a man commenting on my ass. His hands and feet are faster than most people can speak. As if he was Jason Bourne in Bourne Identity when he disabled those two Swiss policemen when they rousted him from a bench in the park, he wasn't a man to anger. With three quick tap, tap, tap blows, one to the face, one to the neck, and one to the stomach, the fight was over. With him just flicking out his hands and not even reaching back to hit the man with a haymaker, most of the patrons didn't even know there was a fight. If nothing else, my ex was my inspiration for writing my story, The Retired Marine and the Bag Lady. Scary bad, I've never seen anyone handle themselves in the way my ex could. When with him, I felt safe. When with him, I felt protected. Only, my safety was limited to me staying with him. As soon as I told him that I was leaving and filing for divorce, I was no longer safe from him. For me to feel safe, in the way that he could be gone in 30 seconds, after he signed the divorce papers and I left him, I needed to disappear. When things weren't navy blue with a gold badge on his chest, things were black and white. There were no grey areas with him. Either you were good or you were bad. With him having surviving a bad childhood too, boo-hoo, he didn't care about what happened to you in your childhood for you to act out and for you to be like the way you are. He was the judge, the jury, and the executioner all rolled into one. Following his orders to the letter, a personal extension of the United States military, the best military in the world, he was the essence of the perfect soldier. Retired from active duty, he was now a modern day Rambo hidden in plain sight as a Boston policeman. Volunteering for the jobs that no one else wanted, he was the one they called to take care of things and to clean up their messes. After a while, able to see the transformation in his eyes, even those messes got to him. After a while, no longer the good man he was, as broken as I was when his past overcame his present, he was just going through the motions of going through life while pretending that he cared when he didn't and couldn't. Unfortunately for him but fortunately for me, he didn't have years of therapy in the way that I had. After a while, not only did he not care for me but also he didn't even care about himself and his own safety. After a while with everything in his life meaningless and unimportant but for his job, he didn't care about anything. He was like Mel Gibson when he played Martin Riggs, a suicidal cop, in Lethal Weapon. Just as he was desensitized to all things living, he was desensitized to death too. With him wearing his bulletproof vest and carrying his three guns, two knives, SAP gloves, expandable baton, brass knuckles, blackjack, and with a shotgun and an assault rifle in his trunk, a virtual arsenal of death, he felt invincible. Not wasting the time nor the energy, he didn't reflect on his past or think about his future. His world was only about today and what he had to do now. "If you don't have order, you have chaos," he liked saying. "I much prefer having order to chaos. I don't like it when things are a mess," he said not realizing what a mess his life was. Until death do we part? Well, now he's gone, gone for good, and I'm still here. I'm not dead. Even though he could have killed me, he didn't kill me. With me still alive and kicking, had I stayed with him, no doubt about it, I'd be dead. After all he had confessed to me about some of the things he's done, I was a loose end. I was his chaos. I was evidence to his mess. Gone in 30 seconds is how long it would have taken him to murder me, perhaps a little longer to dispose of my body. * * * * * Right from the first time he saw me, he seemed smitten with me. Before he even professed his love, I suspected he loved me. Even though he didn't have to tell me he did, he told me he did with his eyes, with his attentiveness, and with his kiss. He listened to me as if I was the only woman in the world. His kisses made me feel that he loved me, truly loved me. In the way he looked at me, he made me feel that he adored me. A generous lover, when we made love to me, when his cock was buried deep inside of me, just in the way he made love to me, I was certain that he loved me. How could something that felt so right be so wrong? How could someone deceive me for so long? How could I love someone who didn't love me? Yet in the way he was able to hide his true feelings, in hindsight, I never knew who he was. With him in his own world or law and order and right and wrong, I never knew what he was feeling and/or what he was thinking. He was an enigma. With the wool pulled tightly over my eyes and with him definitely a wolf in sheep's clothing, he had me fooled. I was so naïve. I was such a sucker. Sadly and still painful for me to even write this, he had a vasectomy just before he married me. He didn't tell me he was having a vasectomy. His decision, apparently he didn't think it was my business to even discuss it. I wondered what he'd have to say about my own body if I wanted to have an abortion, which I'd never have, or if I wanted to keep the baby when he didn't. He having a vasectomy without consulting me wasn't right. After the terrible childhood I had, he knew I wanted children. He knew that I wanted to right the wrongs of my childhood with my own children. Only, he took that right away from me by denying me a child. Just because he lost his faith in mankind and was tired of living didn't mean that I had too. Even though he knew he couldn't father a child, we tried to have children for years. Night and day, week after week, and month after month, he pounded my pussy while telling me how much he wanted to give me a baby. He told me all of the names he wanted to name his son. He made me so happy with the thought that he wanted what I wanted. It wasn't until we signed the divorce papers and were sitting across from one another at the lawyer's office that he told me that he had a vasectomy. Spitting my hatred for him in his face, if I had his gun, I would have shot him dead. To be continued... Please give me the support of your vote. Until #$&%@ Do Us Part Literally Ch. 02 Please give me the support of your vote. * A Boston undercover cop threatens his wife for leaving him. With him dressed and masquerading as a Boston police officer, I thought he was one of the good guys. It took me a while to figure out that it was me who put my expectations on him. In the way he played me, a professional player, he was just playing another role. With him having played so many roles, I don't think even he knew who he was. Most times, even when he was there physically, he wasn't there emotionally. Most times with him lost in his thoughts, there was no one home. With him just playing another role while assuming yet another identity, this time the identity was as my husband, my friend, and my lover. Not much of a husband or a friend, he was a good lover. Two out of three isn't bad but I wanted more. I wanted everything. I wanted love. In the words of the late, great Freddie Mercury, "I wanted it all." Callous and calculating, he was a cold blooded killer. With him leading a double life, and for him not to be exposed for the lunatic he was, he had to keep his emotions in check. When he was an Army Ranger, the best of the best and better than all the rest, he saw some stuff in combat and did some stuff when on reconnaissance patrol. Had he not been seriously wounded and nearly brought home in a body bag, his dream was to stay in country. His dream wasn't to be a war hero. His dream was to be a Delta Force soldier. Earning ten times what a top non-com soldier earns, in the way he loved his guns, assembling them and reassembling them, his dream was always to be combat ready as a mercenary soldier. He could shoot the eye out of a squirrel at a hundred yards with his service revolver and he never missed his target with his rifle or scoped, long gun. Had he realized his Delta Force dream, he never would have met and married me. Had he stayed in the Middle East, he never would have become a Boston Cop. Had he stayed in the Middle East, with him speaking half a dozen languages fluently, he never would have come home. No doubt, eventually making a careless mistake or taking a tragic misstep, he'd be buried in some unmarked grave in the desert of Iraq, Pakistan, or Afghanistan. Sticking to their motto of leaving no one behind, maybe his buddies would have brought what was left of him home for his parents to bury. Seemingly, with him having a long list of victims in his wake and in the way of a gunfighter in the Wild West of old, as if he was living life large in Deadwood, he enjoyed killing people. He didn't talk about killing someone and never bragged about taking a life, he just did it without remorse and without feeling. Had he not told me some of what he's done when he was drunk one night, I never would have known how much of a bad man he was. A real eye opener, I could only imagine the things he didn't tell me. Yet, in a moment of insight, when he confessed his crimes to me and with him telling me too much, the type of man who leaves no witnesses behind and no loose ends, it was then that I feared for my life. Whether killing enemies of our government as an Army Ranger, playing a role as a CIA operative, doing dirty things undercover for the Boston Police, or doing a favor for the mob, it was an easy transition for him to change his hat and go from one character to another. With him always having money, I always wondered where he got his money but, after growing up with my four criminal brothers, I knew enough not to ask questions. Only, with him being a cop and with him being such a bad man, turning himself in, he should have started by arresting himself. With him doing bad stuff now as a police officer when he was paid to arrest the bad guys, the crimes he committed could have sent him to jail for life. With him so black and white, I always wondered how he justified what he did and reconciled with all that he's done. Perhaps, if he had a conscience, he'd feel guilt and remorse but he didn't feel anything that didn't have directly do with him. Difficult for me to admit it at the time but he was a psychopath. He was very hard to read. In addition to him being my husband, my ex-husband now, he was a very dangerous man. An ex mixed martial arts combatant, an MMA, fighter, a third degree black belt in Judo, an expert at getting information by torture, he knew a thousand ways to hurt someone and a hundred ways to kill someone. With him earning his gold shield as a Boston Police Detective and with him privy to everything illegal, especially the evidence holding cell, he knew how to get away with murder. Knowing how to frame someone else for the crimes he committed, with no one even suspecting him, he always had an alibi. He was on the job. He was working. At the time of the crime, armed with a dozen witnesses, he was with his fellow, brother, police officers. The perfect alibi, he was in a police bar having a beer. He was with men and women who would swear to anything in a court of law for the protection of one of their own. * * * * * It was during the Red Sox parade that snaked its way from Fenway Park and through the Back Bay of Boston. The duck boats made their way downtown and ended up across from City Hall, at the Government Center Plaza. Within walking distance of Faneuil Hall, the duck boats continued to the Charles River to take their customary, cold water plunge by the Long Fellow Bridge that overlooked the esplanade, the Hatch Memorial Shell and the Arthur Fielder Bridge. The Red Sox had finally won the World Series in 2004, seemingly such a very long time ago. With me finally riding high to only slide down so very low, I can't believe it's been ten years since my downslide of a life started after meeting him. As if my life hadn't been bad enough, meeting him was my forsaken curse. Done with men for a while, I had no intention of meeting a man. I had no intention of starting another go nowhere, one sided relationship. Not wanting to be just another fuck buddy, I had no intention of falling in love. Just as shit happens, falling in love just happened to me on that auspicious, fateful day. Self-sufficient in my career as an accountant, I didn't need another self-indulgent, self-centered, and controlling man to support me. Able to take care of myself, I didn't need a man to take care of me, especially after all of the emotional and sexual abuse I suffered at the hands of men who supposedly loved me. I was happy living my life alone while occasionally dating. Yet, cursed to meet Robert and fated to marry him, I wish he had realized his dream in becoming a mercenary soldier. In hindsight, knowing what I know now about him, I wish I had never met him. I wish I had never married him. If only I could go back in time and change that fateful day, I would have called in sick and stayed home. I should have watched the Red Sox parade on TV instead of being there in person. I wish I hadn't worn shoes with heels that fateful day. I wish I had worn flats. I wish I had stayed inside my office on Newbury Street to watch the parade go by from my office window instead of going out to celebrate with the crowd of well-wishers. Only, this was my beloved Boston Red Sox, starring Kurt Schilling, Pedro Martinez, David Lowe, Tim Wakefield, David Ortiz, Jason Varitex, Nomar Garciaparra, Johnny Damon, Kevin Miller, and Manny Ramirez. Terry Francona, the coach of the Red Sox, defeated Tony La Russa, the coach of the St. Louis Cardinals to win the World Series. "They won! I can't believe they won!" Every bar and tavern was crowded shoulder to shoulder with people who wanted to celebrate their victory. Spilling out into the streets, a happy mob, it wasn't a violent mob. A very special day for Bostonians, New Englanders, Rem Dog members, the Red Sox Nation, and Boston Red Sox fans, this wasn't just any World Series, this was the 100th World Series of major league baseball. Unbeknownst to me that this would happen again in 2007 and again in 2013, with me thinking that this was a once in a lifetime occasion, I needed to be outside on Newbury Street to cheer my team with the rest of Boston. After eighty-six years in the making, I needed to wave and cheer my joyful happiness that was filled with pride for the Boston Red Sox. "Hooray! Hooray!" Now in hindsight, with me going from high to low, what have I done with my life in ten years? Actually, maybe not all what I wanted to do but I've done a lot with my life in ten years. The highlight of many couples is getting married, having children, and staying married, until death do they part. Yet, as quickly as I got married, realizing that I made a bad mistake, I got divorced. With my life quickly becoming a soap opera melodrama and a television mini-series, when I filed for divorce, I moved out and took my own apartment. Only, it was at a time when the economy hit rock bottom in 2007. No longer having a safety net, it wasn't as easy to be on my own as it was before the economy soured. Back then, I could find another job, a better job, within a week or two. After losing my job due to budget constraints and being unable to afford my rent, I stayed with a girlfriend while working as a waitress at an upscale restaurant. Then, when she got married, with me having nowhere else to go, I moved from my beloved Boston to Pennsylvania to live with my mother. I dreaded living with my mother after all that she's done to me but with me promising not to kill her in her sleep, we reconciled somewhat. With my four, much older brothers living out in Ohio and Michigan with their families, I had no other place to go. Besides, I wasn't even talking to them never mind wanting to live with him. After being born and raised in Boston and living there all of my life, when I moved to Pennsylvania, I may as well as moved to a foreign country. With nothing familiar and recognizable, I didn't know where the Hell I was. Surrounded by funny looking men dressed in black with long beards and big brimmed hats, I didn't understand why so many women, who didn't wear makeup, dressed the same as all the other women. Wearing with long, plain dresses and strange little hats, they spoke a peculiar language that sounded a little like German. A place where the Amish and Mennonites converged, strangely enough, living in Pennsylvania and within a Mennonite community was the first time I not only felt save but also was happy. My happiness was short-lived however. On September 11, 2011, ten years to the day of the bombing attack of the Twin Towers, with me living across from the picturesque Susquehanna River with my mother, we were flooded out of our basement apartment. With the river cresting 30' over flood stage level, there was water higher than the second floor. Because we weren't allowed to return to our apartment until the water receded and until the buildings were inspected and deemed safe, by the time we returned three weeks later, everything was ruined. Submerged in a soup of home heating oil, raw sewage, and mold, we lost everything. Nothing was salvageable. The Red Cross gave us food, clothes, and temporary shelter. True to her nature, my mother a tall, busty, good looking woman who looks ten years younger than her age, immediately hooked up with a man and moved in with him within a couple of weeks. Instead of staying homeless and staying with me, she abandoned me for him. What else is new with her? That's just the way she was. With her always preferring the company of a man over her daughter, she likes men, especially a man who could take care of her. From having a good job as an accountant in Boston to falling in love and getting married, I became unemployed and homeless. Wandering the streets of Harrisburg, I lived in a shelter and ate my meals at a mission until a kind, elderly, Mennonite woman offered me her spare bedroom. Three years later, having morphed to be more of her companion, chauffeur, and caretaker, I'm still living in the spare bedroom of a kind, elderly, albeit crazy Mennonite woman. If only she knew that I wrote erotica, she'd throw me out of her house. None of what happened to me is what I wanted to happen. Sadly depressed but grateful for the roof over my head, this is not how I imagined my life to be. I'd rather eat nails than to go through another day of poverty. "More nails?" "No thanks. I've had quite enough, thank you very much." Yet, surprisingly so, for the first time in my life, I'm happy. Other than writing my stories, albeit erotic stories, and making some wonderful online friends, I haven't done anything worthwhile in my last ten years of living. For someone wanting a career working from home, what sounds like a great life to someone on paper is a Shakespearean tragedy in reality for me. With my good looks and hot body, I should have been sitting in a nice house in the suburbs and having lunch with my girlfriends while my husband is at work and my kids are in school. Only, in the case of my life, shit happens. Apparently, I was never meant to be a soccer mom. Seemingly, with my ex sabotaging that for me, I was never meant to have children. Unlike the shit of a mother that I had growing up, learning from all of her mistakes, I would have made a good mother. * * * * * Disguised as the beginning of a beautiful romance, Robert could have fooled me and he did fool me to tears and for years. More than fooling me, he confounded me. He sexually frustrated me. He angered me. He beat me. He abused me and he tortured me. Knowing where and how to hit me to not show a bruise, he could have killed me. Truly, just as I'm lucky to have survived my sexually abusive childhood, I'm lucky to have survived my physical abusive ex-husband. I'm lucky to be alive. In hindsight, wishing I knew then what I knew now, I was such a sucker. Only, unable to see the physical and emotional abuse before, becoming desensitized to it, I see it now. Normally, I would have immediately spotted him as an abuser but confusing things, I fell in love with him and my love for him blinded me from seeing the real Robert. With me having been so emotionally, sexually, and physically abused all of my life, I thought I had a normal marriage but now that I'm away from him, I see that I was the victim of another raging man yet again. Literally nearly throwing myself under the bus, my life took a turn for the worse when I stepped off the curb to return to work as the Boston Red Sox parade was still passing by me. Blindsided by love, I thought my life had taken a turn for the better. My heel, my modern day glass slipper, something I had in common with Cinderella, caught the sewer grate in front of the Brooks Brothers store on Newbury Street. I had just been looking at the diamonds at Cartier's while dreaming of getting married one day and living happily ever after. With me standing out in the street and my heel caught in the sewer grate, I suddenly had a real fear of being run over by a duck boat. "Quack! Quack!" That's the sound the tourist all made with their duck calls in hand while making their way around Boston on their sightseeing, duck boat tour. With throngs of people on both sides of the street trying to see the Red Sox players, several military, amphibious vehicles were filled with Red Sox players, personnel, and their families. I would have fallen, twisted my ankle, or maybe even broken my leg had my Prince Charming not been there to put a strong arm around my waist and lift me right out of my shoe. Actually, in the way that I felt about the Red Sox winning the World Series, being crushed by the Red Sox motorcade wouldn't be such a bad way to go. "An unidentified woman was killed today, crushed to death, on Newbury Street in Boston when she fell beneath a duck boat filled with Red Sox players," I could just imagine Natalie Jacobson, the WCVB news commentator reporting the news of my demise. "The good news though is that no Red Sox players were injured in the accident. The good news is the Red Sox finally won the World Series after eighty-six years and the parade through Boston's Back Bay was in their honor. How about that?" As if I was an ice skater or a dancer, lifting me off the ground with one hand, when I leaned against him off balance, I fell against his shoulder. I may have fell against a brick wall, he was so muscled hard. I looked up at him surprised to see that he was a uniformed Boston police officer. His white horse was an unmarked, white Ford, Crown Victoria. I wouldn't want to be a criminal being chased by him. When I looked up in his hazel eyes, weak kneed and dizzy, I was gelatin. After having kissed so very many frogs, right there and right then, I knew he was the one. Love at first sight, I was in love. In the way he looked down at me, he may as well, brushed back my blonde hair, looked into my blue eyes, and kissed right then and right there because I was forever his until death do we part. "I'd say you've fallen for me but I can't imagine a woman who looks like you falling for a man who looks like me," he said. He was being modest. He was very handsome. He looked down at me and smiled. Did he already see my interest in him in my eyes? Normally, I play things cool when I like a guy. Normally, I always fall for the wrong guy. After my last relationship, I promised that I'd be more careful the next time. "Sorry. I'm usually not this uncoordinated. It's these heels. I'm more comfortable with running shoes or bare feet than I am wearing high heels," I said. "I wear them for work. I work at the modeling agency," I said pointing to the building across the street that was lined with tall, beautiful woman who streamed out of the office to watch the parade. "Are you a model?" He looked at me with more interest. "No, I'm the business manager," I said. "You could be a model," he said. "You're tall and beautiful enough." Even with my high heels, with me hitting 6', he was taller than me. Accustomed to my behemoth brothers, with all of my brothers well over 6' tall, I figured he was 6'3". I leaned all my weight against him to pretend we were a couple and he was hugging me. God, I was so pathetic and needy back then. After emotionally hurting for so very long, I just wanted someone to love me in the way that I needed to love someone. As soon as he looked down at me with those green eyes, I already knew I'd be dreaming about him tonight. Instantly, I wondered his name, James, Michael, Charles, or Alexandro. I wondered if he was married, separated, or divorced. Surely, someone who looked like him couldn't possibly be single. Yet, why not? I was still single. I wondered if he had kids. I wondered how many kids he'd want to have when I asked him to marry me. Thank you from saving me from certain death beneath the wheels of the Red Sox duck boat I wanted to say but I didn't. Unable to formulate any words, not able to utter a complete, cohesive sentence, I just stared up at him. I imagined looking up at him in the same way I'd be looking up at him when standing at the altar. I imagined looking at him now in the same way as I'd be looking at him when in bed naked with him later. "It's okay. I have you," he said reaching down to free my heel from the sewer. Oh my God, when he squatted down like that while running a slow hand down my leg, I was already wet. With his face eye level with my crotch, I imagined him lifting my short skirt and licking me through my blue, bikini panties. With his hand on my ankle, he steadied me while pulling out my heel. Normally not a fan of the men in blue, this Boston policeman came to my rescue. He was my hero. I needed to give him more than my sincere thanks for his help. I needed to give him hot sex. "Thank you," I said trying not to stare in his eyes that mesmerized me. We stood there for what seemed like minutes when it was only seconds. With the duck boats filled with Red Sox baseball players rolling by me, after waiting there in the wall-to-wall crowd for thirty minutes, I missed the best part of the parade. I never saw them go by. I never heard the cheering. As if we were standing on the corner of Newbury and Berkeley Street alone, I just saw him. Until #$&%@ Do Us Part Literally Ch. 02 "I'm Bob," he said holding out his hand. Bob? Someone who looks like him shouldn't be named Bob. Someone who looked like him should be named Brad, Zach, Hunter, Luke, Jake, Adam, Alex, or Ryan. Nonetheless his lack of having a hot name, he had a hot body. Nonetheless his lack of having a hot name, he had a handsome face. I imagined party favors, wine glasses, towels, and wedding invitations with the names Bob and Sue engraved on them. Only, I hated the name Sue. Blaming Johnny Cash for that, I hated that song. All my brothers fault for teaching me how to throw and catch a football, how to hit a baseball, and how to shoot a basketball, the kids used to tease me because I was such a Tomboy and so athletic. Before I had tits, because I was so tall and skinny, the kids in the neighborhood used to call me a Boy Named Sue. In my freshman, sophomore, and junior years of high school, I ran indoor track, outdoor track, and cross country track. I would have run track in my senior year but I dropped out of high school in my junior year, a much longer story than this story. Able to beat the boys at anything, running, hitting, shooting, and throwing, the only way they could get back at me was calling me A Boy Named Sue. In hindsight, I suspect the boys wanted to get me fighting mad so that they could roll around the ground while wrestling with me. Even later in life, still hating the name Sue, I always preferred Susan. "Susan," I said shaking his white gloved hand. A big day for Boston with the Red Sox winning the World Series after not winning one in eighty-six, long, frustrating years, he was in his dress uniform. "Pleased to meet you, Bob. Thank you for coming to my rescue." 'Oh, yeah, definitely,' I thought, 'he can lift my leg any time he wants.' With him becoming an undercover cop shortly after we were married, after that, the only time I ever saw him in uniform was at a policeman's funeral. With him working dangerous duty, as if he had turned on a switch that severed his emotions, he suddenly, dramatically, and drastically changed. Not the same man, he did some things that he wasn't proud of doing. He did plenty of things he didn't tell me about. Then, one day, when he had been drinking, he told me some of what he's done. With me safe as long as I stayed married to him, when I threatened to leave him and file for divorce after he not only hit me but beat on me several times was when he threatened to kill me. Good while it lasted, the romance was officially over and before I was dead, it was time for me to leave. * * * * * With his arm still around my waist, I never wanted him to let go of me. Kiss me Bob, I imagined saying to him. Hold me, Bob, and never let me go. Touch me, Bob, I imagine giving him permission to feel me while kissing me. May I touch you? May I feel your cock Bob? All of this went through my mind in a nanosecond after he pulled my heel out of the sewer. Only, too short-lived, our romance wasn't meant to be. He placed a higher importance on his job and on his career than he did on me. I was baggage. I was his attachment. I was a witness. Holding him back from doing all that he wanted and needed to do, I was dead weight. I was in the way of him fleeing if he felt the heat. He placed a higher importance on making money for things that people paid him to do that they didn't have the balls to do themselves. I'm glad that part of my life is over. I'm glad I survived him to write my stories. THE END Please give me the support of your vote.