Meeting Sensuous Shemale Savannah
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A Summer Sunday In Savannah free porn video
Please do not make the mistake of assuming the ‘when’ in this story. It could be 1970, 2006, 2030 or whenever. I’ve intentionally blurred the time frame so that I don’t get a bunch of inane political comments concerning current events from the lunatic fringe of any orientation.
This is a story with military overtones, there are no dogs and no corporate America anecdotes—although I almost added the dogs near the end. This story does deal with the publishing world, I don’t have any first hand experience so apologies in advance if I’ve missed some nuances. Then again this is fiction in an unstated era so who’s to say how the industry might evolve?
There’s a wonderful romance here but probably not the one you expect, I thought about, ‘that one’ and changed my mind as I was writing. There’s no outrageously raunchy sex, what little titillation there is comes very late. If you were hoping for stroke material, just move along…nothing to see here.
Savannah will always be one of my favorite cities along with San Francisco, Chicago, New Orlean, Fort Worth and Portland. All are unique, all are tied to important moments in my life.
* * * * *
‘Taxi!’
The battered yellow vehicle screeched to a stop a few feet past him. He had noted the attractive well dressed woman some years his senior standing a number of yards up the urban street also attempting to acquire carriage.
‘Where are you headed?’ He shouted to her.
‘Airport.’ She replied.
‘Same here. Do you want to share a cab?’
‘That would be great!’ She exclaimed, seemingly surprised that he had offered. The cabbie showed his irritation at the delay by lowering the flag on his meter prematurely. The woman had a single Pullman, moving with surprising speed she was beside him in a matter of seconds. Settling in for the half hour ride to the airport they introduced themselves.
‘I’m Mike—Mike Carson.’
‘Victoria…Simms.’ She replied, extending her hand, checking him out briefly and then seemingly losing interest. Mike was all of twenty-seven, he judged Ms. Simms to be at least two decades his senior…his mother’s age? She was a handsome woman, impeccably and conservatively dressed. Mike was in the mood for conversation.
‘Where are you off to today, Ms. Simms?’
‘Savannah.’
‘Business or pleasure?’ He inquired, refusing to be deterred by her remoteness.
She turned and examined him closely. He was a good looking young fellow at a hair under six feet with a stylish suit and highly shined shoes. He looked respectable, probably a young executive on the early rungs of the corporate ladder, she mused. She really didn’t want to hear about his recent marketing adventure but he was persistent and she was always polite.
‘A little of both. I have some work to do—brought it with me—but this is essentially a pleasure trip…a family thing.’
‘Well it would seem that we are headed to the same final destination, Delta through Atlanta at nine?’
‘Why yes. And you, Mr. Carson, a business trip?’
‘Returning home, actually. I came up to spend a few days with my grandmother. She still wears me out at eighty-six. Are you from Savannah?’
‘No, not really…ah…Mike. It just happens to be a favorite city. Every year the women in our family—sisters, daughters, mothers—get together for a long weekend…’girl fest’ we call it. Last year it was Chicago, this year Savannah, although we’ll be staying out at Tybee. Are you from Savannah? I didn’t note any accent.’
‘No, but I do like it and I did choose it as a place to live for a short period. I’m stationed there—in the Army…Hunter Army Airfield.’
‘You’re in the military? In the Army?’ She responded almost incredulously.
‘For another six months or so, I’m an officer…Captain. You seemed surprised. The suit? Not an Armani but a very well made and obscenely inexpensive knockoff complements of Bangkok, Thailand—six for the price of one original. The shoes are also of Thai origin, hand made and custom fitted. The watch? The real thing at a third of the U.S. price. My hair is probably just past the regulation limit—I’ll need a haircut before work on Monday.’
‘I confess I’ve never really talked to or known anyone in the military. Were you drafted?’
‘Nope. I accepted a fully paid four year education at the best school to which I was accepted and in return for that four years I owed Uncle Sam four years.’
‘Where’d you go to school?’
‘Dartmouth.’
‘Really?’
‘Same school my current boss went to…thirty some years earlier. He was the captain of the Dartmouth ski team, the entire team enlisted on the day after we were attacked.’
What was your major?’
‘English Lit officially but essentially pre-law.’
‘That seems like an unusual major for a military person.’
‘We’re a very eclectic organization.’
‘Did you attend law school?’
‘That I did, University of Virginia. I even graduated—JD.’
‘Doesn’t the military have a special program for lawyers?’
‘That they do—JAG—Judge Advocate General Corps. I had to fight like hell to stay out of it. Fortunately they weren’t that short on lawyers at the time I graduated so they let me switch to something more to my liking.’
‘Which was…?’
‘Aviation. I’m a pilot, dual rated actually but I spent most of my time flying helicopters.’
‘Have you been overseas?’
‘I spent a year and a half in the current combat zone. The first year was a given—98% of my flight school class went. The second six months was my own choice.’
‘Why on earth would you do that?’
‘I liked what I was doing and the people I was doing it with, extending gave me a chance to command a detachment. I got a free round trip ticket to anywhere in the world and a thirty day vacation. By agreeing to extend for six months I reduced my active duty obligation by about a year. I’ll be a free man in under six months.’
‘Did you see combat?’
‘I was assigned to and later commanded a flight detachment in support of Special Forces, so yes, someone seemed to be trying to kill me almost every day.’
‘Were you wounded?’
‘Not seriously, certainly not seriously enough to get one of those damned purple things.’
‘I thought every wounded soldier received the Purple Heart?’
‘Only if the powers-that-be find out about it.’
‘Didn’t you want the award?’
‘No, nor did most of the people I served with. First—and this is a commentary I suppose on the perceived invulnerability all young pilots seems to have—most of us viewed it as the, ‘I screwed up and got hurt’ medal. I guess we also thought that the kids that really got chewed up, lost essential pieces of their anatomy and such deserve it…earned it. A piece of shrapnel here or a clean through and through there…’
‘Clean through and through?’
‘A bullet that passes through the body without doing any permanent harm.’
‘That happened to you?’
‘Only once, thankfully plus a few assorted pieces of shrapnel here and there.’
‘Do you come from a military family?’
‘Let’s see…my father joined right after graduating from college immediately following our being attacked—Cornell. ‘Served in the airborne as an officer, today he’s a chemical engineer. One brother served in another crappy war as an enlisted Marine—more a judge’s decision than a choice. My other brother—Yale—was a Navy carrier pilot during peace time. In carrier aviation even in peace time people get hurt, roughly ten percent of the guys he graduated from flight school with died in accidents. He’s an aeronautical engineer and always loved to fly and found something ludicrous about designing military airplanes without actually flying them.’
‘What are your plans?’
‘I wish I knew. I don’t really want to practice the law. I’ll probably end up
working for some corporation we’ve all heard of.’
‘Mike, I can’t say I approve of this war…no offense intended.’
‘None taken. I have nothing to do with making U.S. foreign policy. I’m certainly not high enough up in the organization to determine the overall combat scheme. I’m glad I served, I’m proud to have performed honorably under fire. We certainly don’t have time between here and Savannah to discuss why we’re there, what we’ve done right or wrong and so on.’
‘Some people believe this war is illegal.’
‘Those people are wrong, Congress hasn’t declared war in decades but in this as in every other ‘conflict’ or ‘police action’ the President, aided and abetted by the Congress entered into military conflict—and the judiciary chose to let him do so. It’s a tired and frankly ignorant statement to say this war is illegal. I did get an ‘A’ in constitutional law. Most of the folks making that claim wouldn’t know the Constitution or the law if it bit ’em.’
‘What about immoral?’
‘We will have decades of discussion on that front! Chalk it up our nation’s indefatigable idealism. We always get into these things with the very best of intentions, I choose to believe. We mean well, sometimes we leave a better world after the shooting stops, sometimes not.’
‘How do you feel about those who have avoided serving?’
‘Those who confronted the system and risked imprisonment—you have to have a grudging respect for, they have principles and are willing to suffer for them. There are numerous members of the military who, generally on religious grounds, refuse to take up arms—but they serve willingly in non-combat roles, often as medics under the most dangerous conditions. Those who ran across the border are moral and mental cowards. Just as always happens after our little forays across the oceans they’ll get a free ride when it’s over.’
‘Not having encountered a person who has served in the military in combat before, I’m never quite sure what to say.’
‘Thank you for your service, thank you for your sacrifice and welcome home. Follow it up with smile and a hug. That’ll do more good than anything else you could think of. They don’t want to be pitied or patronized. The ones who saw combat don’t even want to talk about it.’
‘Do you ever have…nightmares?’
‘No, but I’ve known some who do. Some of those who do weren’t well wired before they went. Some were as solid as they come but simply experienced events too horrific to even comprehend. It’s an individual thing. For the record, mental illness, suicide, adultery, ‘going postal’, drug use, alcoholism and all of the other ills of our society occur no more frequently in the active military than in the civilian world. The anti-military press just makes a bigger deal out of it when it does occur.’
‘When you and your peers are together…what do you talk about?’
‘Not war unless it’s a funny story. Women, booze, food, music, art, literature, politics, sports—the usual stuff. Plus in my line of work, we do talk about flying too much.’
‘Somehow I’ve always viewed the military as a haven for the disadvantaged, lesser educated, racially disenfranchised…’
‘The military does provide a chance at a future for those on the fringes of society…a ticket out of the barrio or ghetto. Most do well by it, some waste the opportunity. Another myth I need to dispel: in spite of the reinstitution of the draft—which I despise—combat units are strictly volunteer. The Army accepts draftees because Congress has mandated it. Doing so lowers the overall standards of the Army. Up until it was reinstated, the Army wouldn’t accept anyone without a high school diploma, now they have to. I was pretty lucky, just about everyone I dealt with in Aviation and Special Forces was a volunteer.’
‘What does the Army have you doing now?’
‘I’m a glorified secretary, my official title is, Secretary General Staff. I report to the Chief of Staff, the number three guy and I take care of him. It’s a pretty neat job but demanding, it’s given me a chance to be part of an organization’s high level decision making.’
‘How’d that come about?’
‘We knew each other ‘over there’ and came back around the same time. He asked me if I’d take the job.’
‘Asked you?’
‘It’s a high visibility job with long hours…strictly volunteer.’
‘How does your boss view you leaving the Army?’
‘He’s more than okay with it, if truth be told he’s encouraged it. It looks like we’re almost here! And you have let me talk incessantly for the last half hour and I don’t know your story!’
Mike and Victoria checked their bags and proceeded to the ticket counter.
‘Let’s see if we can change our seats, Mike. I’ve enjoyed our conversation and would love to continue it.’ The task was accomplished in short order. The two travelers continued their conversation waiting in the boarding area.
‘So Victoria, what’s your story?’
‘I was born and grew up in the city we’re getting ready to leave. I have two children, a daughter who is twenty-five and currently working for a publishing firm and a son twenty-two who is working on what appears to be an eight year bachelor’s degree. I’m divorced, no real animosity, we still speak on occasion. We just grew apart. I own—along with two other individuals—a small publishing firm. We’re sort of a jack-of-all-trades concern, we act as literary agents, editors and publishers. We don’t get into distribution, we have relationships with several of the big book companies and they handle that.’
‘That sounds fascinating!’ Mike said as they worked their way down the jet way and found their adjoining seats.
‘You’re being way too kind. While it’s true we’ve had our share of successes—found that special author or had our name associated with the occasional best selling novel—all too often I spend too may nights reading really drab and dismal prose by people who have no concept of what telling a story is all about. I have several to review during my supposed ‘holiday’ and based on my first flip through I don’t have high expectations.’
‘How did you end up in the field?’
‘I loved books—my mother’s influence from an early age—loved to read and also majored in literature. I took a job right out of college essentially as a proof reader, learned everything I could about the publishing business and decided one day that I was smart enough to strike out on my own. The three of us were friends and we’ve been together since day one. It provides a respectable income and I still enjoy going to work every day.’ Victoria paused. ‘With your educational background I have to ask—have you ever considered writing for a living?’
‘Not for a living but I do write, I’ve published a few well-received short stories in respectable periodicals…even gotten paid for it. I love to write but I’ve always feared that if I had to write it wouldn’t be fun anymore—and I wouldn’t be able to do it.’
‘So, Mike Carson won’t be the author of the next great American novel?’ Victoria said with a grin.
‘Probably not! I’ve actually started three full length works but only finished one…the last one…involving my time over there. It’s a work of fiction but based on fact and certainly technically accurate. I wrote it purely for my own purposes…my own needs.’
‘How long is it?’
‘A little over 85,000 words.’
‘Has an editor seen it—what stage is it in?’
‘It’s done, typed up on a word processor and proofed by a retired friend of mine up in Ohio. I don’t use an editor per se. He’s too humble to call himself one. My boss read it, he liked it. It’s not a war story as much as it is a story about people thrown together in a war zone. My secretary also enjoyed it—as did my grandmother—but that is the limit of distribution at this point in time.’
‘Can I read it?’
‘Now you’re being too kind and you already told me you had more than enough amateu
r wannabe prose to review over the next few days.’
‘Do you have the manuscript with you or not?’
‘Of course, I never leave home without it.’ Mike said, retrieving the work from his carry on. Victoria snatched it from him and began to thumb through the bound pages.
‘The title…’364 and a Wakeup’?’
‘The day you arrive in the combat zone they hand you a special locally fabricated calendar, you cross off each day you survive. On the first day you have 364 days remaining and one final day when you wake up and go home.’
Uh, huh…’ Victoria replied, then retrieved a similar bound document from her brief case. ‘If you don’t feel like napping, make yourself useful, I hope I’m being kind—this is probably the best of the crap I brought with me to review, feel free to mark it up. Can I do the same with yours?’
Mike nodded in assent. The two travelers grew silent as each burrowed into their respective manuscripts. From Mike’s perspective what he had been handed was ponderous, trite, superficial, hackneyed and entirely unfulfilling. After two chapters of kindness he went back to the beginning and began entering critical comments. He tried to avoid looking at Victoria, he didn’t want any commenting she might be doing to distract him from his task.
Victoria was in fact making some strategic notes in the margins of Mike’s work but she was finding her task far more enjoyable, she was sure, than Mike was. The kid could friggin’ write, his characters were rich and well developed. He knew how to spin a yarn, it never dragged. As the seat belt warning was announced for their decent into Atlanta she had three chapters to go, as much as she didn’t want to put it down her eyes were tired and the pure emotion of the story was exhausting. She needed a break. She looked at him intently and spoke.
‘It’s good, it’s very good. I’m not finished yet but I need a break. How ’bout yours?’
‘It’s horrific crap on almost every level one can imagine. If you think what I’ve written is remotely decent, trust me, you don’t need to read this drivel.’
‘I’d hoped I’d given you the best of the group I brought with me.’ She said, laughing. ‘How long have we got before the Savannah flight?’
‘A little under an hour on the ground.’
‘Good! I need a drink and a break and we can chat.’
Mike and Victoria found a suitable bar that served alcohol prior to noon.
‘Mike, you are a gifted writer, this is a superbly crafted story. Talk to me about fact and fiction.’
‘The characters are for the most part amalgamations, certainly bigger than life in terms of the core individuals they represent. The actual events—the battles, losses, time lines—are all correct. Some of the dialogue is almost verbatim in parts but expanded fictionally based on what I felt the fictional character would have said.’
‘Are you one of the characters…the main character?’
‘Again, yes and no. There are pieces of me in three characters—the narrator, of course, the character that represents who I believe I was—at least as viewed by others—and finally the personality I wanted to be—wanted to be seen as.’
‘Any issues with the statement, ‘any resemblance to actual persons, blah, blah, blah?’
‘I wouldn’t think so, those I served with that read it and see the character they think is ‘them’ as heroic won’t have an issue. Those characters who are decidedly not heroic or honorable are totally fictional. Now, if one of those individuals reads it and thinks to himself, ‘I acted that way at times’ the events associated with that particular character do not fit any real world scenario. Major Bass is a dishonorable, low life, immoral prick and quite probably a borderline war criminal but he is a purely fictional creation. He represents the worst behavior of several individuals of different ranks. And the most dastardly of his actions—didn’t happen at least from my experience.’
‘How long is the flight from Atlanta to Savannah?’
‘It’s almost a joke, it’s only around 150 miles by air. We’ll spend more time taxiing than actually flying. We’ll be in baggage claim forty-five minutes after we back away from the gate at the outside.’
‘Okay, I can finish it in that time but I fear we won’t have time to chat—and we need to chat. What are your plans for the rest of the day?’
Ofelia
- 13.08.2020
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