And on our wedding night ...
Madge sat on the bed rubbing a sweet finger, her right little one, over
the small medal
of Jesus, dangling from a silver chain on her lovely neck. The medal
was a silver figure
of a long-hair Jesus whom looked a whole like a young Errol Flynn in
the old movie
CAPTAIN BLOOD. The medal had a polished shine, a shine that her
beautiful face
made brighter.
She rubbed, gently running that perfect finger, over the medal's
flawlessly engraved
silver nose and on, around the then very shining face. She looked prayerfully
upwards
and stopped.
She got up, went and stood in front of the full-length mirror. She held
the medal's silver
chain with reverence, and an enormous sigh shook her sweet, perfumed
tummy. She
thrust her chest forward, causing the medal to bounce and swing from
side to side. She
then turned around and returned to the bed, where I, waited, wearing
the fireman red
night briefs that she brought for me. I'd prepared myself carefully
in the bathroom
[cologne, after shave, a touch of musk, a tonic of ginseng root that
I was told gave a
man an extra measure of strength, not that I felt I would need it.
I felt more than
prepared for my Madge].
As I lay on the sheets, my patient eyes happened to zero in on the medal
on her neck.
The metal face's silver engraved eyes looked like bumps.
"This is Jesus, my good luck piece," said Madge.
I smiled, something. I smiled constantly in her sweet presence.
"Now, Honey. Let's pray before we start our wedding night." She said.
She smiled. I smiled. She pulled back the sheet and slid in to the bed
to lay beside me
and play --pray with me.
We prayed.
After the prayer, I put my hips to hers and held us together until --
Until, I had to stop.
The medal! The hard silver medal! Pinched, scraped my skin! And hurt
my chest too much!
"I hope I don't get permanent scars," I said softly. [Mumbled, maybe.
Groaned.
Muttered ...]
"Oh, excuse me," she pulled completely away, politely.
"Will you take that off?" I asked. [Maybe barking a little. Just a little.]
"My Jesus? My medal?" she bitched. [No! That sweet mouth didn't bitch.
Fussed. Maybe just a little. Even angels get annoyed and fuss with
folks.
But I was not at fault. We were having a little misunderstanding,
I thought,
hoped. ]
I asked, smiling, using my voice, strategically, soft, "Are you going to keep it on?"
"Yes," she answered, a little louder than I'd expected. She poked her
sweet lips,
said, "I don't take it off, not even in the shower."
"We're not in the shower -" I spoke with a laugh. I grinned, "Not yet!"
"Don't start raising your voice to me."
She misunderstood me. She made a frown. Her perfect face gave me a frown.
"Ever since the day I accepted my Lord, and have been saved, and have
come to
love Jesus as my personal lord and savior, " she lectured me, frowning.
Oh, frowning!
"I have worn this. This medal is something that will keep me in grace
and in luck."
Her nostrils flared, the nostrils of her sweet nose. "I made a promise
never to take it
off my neck." She huffed.
As she did, I started to remove her night gown. My passion re-fired.
-- 'Lord, have mercy!' [I may have mumbled this.] -
Oh, I had the intense desire to hug her close and did.
The medal got brutal, like it was alive. It gave my chest great discomfort
and pain. The
hard silver was rough; it was if a claw was scratching my skin raw,
making a red bruise
on purpose, pricking me until droplets of blood flowed. From that moment
on I became
determined to get my babe to remove the medal. She would not, and so,
the wedding night
was not, was a night of misfortune, of me trying to embrace her,
and of me complaining
about the medal.
Eventually, I had to abandon, for that night, the activities that I
had long planned and hoped
for!
My bride accused me of being only interested in carnal sex, and of caring
more about carnal
things than having Jesus present to bless us and to watch over our
marriage. I attempted a
few times to remove the medal. She repeated that she would not take
off the medal for
anybody or anything.
"Not ever!" she snarled. [Yes, I'm sorry to say, like a dog. A certain
female dog.] The
Sweetness was replaced by --by, well--
I told her, I would not embrace her until she removed the medal. Stubborn
me! I could be
stubborn too. I said that being married didn't warranted being marred
by that steel metal
trinket, [I told her steel, though I knew her medal was silver]. I
refused to be given scars
that could last for a life time. She got ticked, said I had an attitude,
was being mean and
was acting in a sinful, awful way.
"A groom doesn't act like you towards his bride, " she said with her own attitude.
And, so, as I've stated, I gave up in despair.
Naturally, the strong, natural urge to consummate the marriage grew
stronger. By the
next day, I was irritable and nervous. I believe I came to the edge
of a nervous collapse.
I even sought the help of a work buddy, an older man whose opinions
I valued. But I did
not like what he told me when I asked him about this. He said: there
was nothing he
could advise, except that I should snatch the medal from my wife's
neck and get down
to business. He said, if I didn't take action, I would definitely end
up in a mental institution.
That evening, I almost had a heart attack and a stroke. I struggled
to catch my breath,
my chest and head hurt.
As I walked-in to the apartment, my estranged bride was in the middle
of changing her
clothes. She was in her underwear. She was a sight. Mercy! A torture
to my poor eyes.
Laying on her bosom, between the cups of her bra, was the medal. The
thing was
steel! It nipped away at me, got under my skin, ripped, tore raw, the
deepest part of
me.
As I watched my bride move into her clothes, her long legs move, and
her butt, her
broad hips, I scratched my head. Scratched and scratched -- and yes,
I said a little
prayer too, to Heaven for help.
Soon, she was dressed and standing before me, frowning still. She was
wearing my
HIS of our set of HIS and HERS T-shirts. I became jealous of
a T-shirt! And angry
with that medal. She put her hands on the hips of her jeans and stared
at me.
Nuts! It was obvious that she wanted to be cuddled.
"It is bizarre," she mumbled. Her right hand went up and she stroked the medal.
I stroked the scalp of my head, with my sweating hand. My head began
to feel a
thinning on the top, as though my hair was falling out from the stress.
I stared at the
medal, then into her eyes. I saw steel in her eyes, twin to the the
metal's steel, and
the same glare. I winced, but I was determined not to wimp out.
"Stop being a high and mighty pain," I said. [Maybe plead]. "Will you,
long enough
to permit me my husbandly duty? [I'er - maybe I put it a little plainer,
like: "let me
have you, girl," or "come on, baby."]
She surprised me, sounded as if she was hurting almost as much as me.
"Stop being a jerk! You think I don't want you? But, I am your bride,
not somebody
to have her faith torn from around her neck just for your carnal convenience."
She stood straight, her back straight, her chest out.
I scratched my head like crazy.
She wore a proud expression on her beautiful face. She was beautiful
and she knew
that I knew it. She put her chin up to me, her magnificent chest rose,
challenging me --
and that medal, that darn medal, like a steel beast got set and ready
to mar, though it
pretended to lay at rest on my bride's bodicious chest.
My hand darted out, took her arms -- sudden like a crack of thunder.
I pulled her to
me, tightly. Anxious looks took over her face, as I would not let her
pull away. For a
brief moment, neither she nor I saw the blood that dripped from my
chest at the point
where the medal tore a small hole. My eyes must have looked glazed
over during that
moment. Her eyes kept widening. The small flow of blood ran down our
[held closed
together] chests and reached her jeans. My mind was busy, my body shuddered,
experienced a stark kind of intensity; then I stepped back, and she
broke free and ran
across the room.
As she moved away, I mumbled, "There is a line nobody should have to
cross. Can
you see what you are doing? Shall I apologize, no?"
She started talking slowly, having much difficulty speaking. She was
extremely tense.
She saw the blood and the wound. Though the wound was small, the blood
was still
bleeding out.
"You actually want to hurt me?" she said.
I shook my head, wildly. "I don't!"
"Why do you?" she demanded.
"Wait a minute?" I said. "Do you have an idea what you do? You do things to me like --"
Her eyes got fierce and bored into me. "Do you realize that you are crazy?"
"Yes!"
"You actually admit it?"
My eyes locked on hers. "I'm crazy about you, " I said.
"I-I had to marry a man like you!" she stammered. "That's the way I am!"
"And me!" I said.
"What are you going to do? Hurt me more?"
"You don't know how much I love you. You don't know? I'm going to kiss
you,
squeeze you, hug you tight, never let you go."
Yes, I spoke like I was quoting from a love song.
"I'm bruised and you're bleeding ..." she said.
I moved closer. "You're my wife, my WIFE. I'm going to squeeze you tight, get ready!"
"Wait!" she said. "Wait ..."
She made the sign of the cross, removed the chain and, reverently, laid
the medal on top
of the mantel.
{END}
(C) Copyrighted 1994 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
LIGHT STORY
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