Birdie and I were in some kind of park where we were planning to spend the night. I was surprised so many other people were here, spread out all over the place under covers and sleeping bags. It looked as if we would have to walk quite a ways to find a spot to lie down. We kept walking, and finally, when I saw an open spot, we laid our sleeping bags down. We lay down, Birdie crawled into her sleeping bag and I crawled into mine.
Although it was night, I could see quite clearly around me and I noticed a few people milling about, not in their sleeping bags. One girl was obviously smoking a marijuana joint which she was sharing with someone else. She and her companion took a couple hits from the joint and then she pounded it on something to put it out, obviously intending to save it for later. It seemed to me that marijuana must be awfully expensive these days and she was trying to save what she could of the expensive drug.
It seemed as if other people in the area were also smoking marijuana and drinking alcohol. And I wondered why I couldn't join in with them. These people seemed able to party on the weekend and then go back and function in their jobs during the week. Why not me? It had been such a long time since I had smoked any marijuana and I felt as if I would like to try some.
All in all, it seemed just a little strange being with Birdie, although I couldn't imagine why. Wasn't it natural for her and me to be here like this? But it seemed as if we hadn't been very intimate lately. I didn't know exactly why. But I felt a little distant from her, physically speaking. Here she was lying here in her sleeping bag, and here I was in mine. I nuzzled up close to her.
Sex. Were we going to have sex? I visualized her as being nude inside her sleeping bag, but I wasn't really aroused. Yet in a way I wanted to have sex with her. I felt close to her. But I felt distant from her.
She spoke, suggested we open our sleeping bags, put one underneath and one on top. It also seemed as if we had some covers we could also put on top. But I resisted the idea. I felt fairly comfortable the way I was and feel as if I would be less protected if I didn't have the sleeping bag all the way around me like I now did.
Birdie was saying something about having sex. I couldn't say I wasn't interested in the subject because I was. In fact I began thinking of various positions we could get into. But some might not be so practical with all these other people around. For example, if I lay on my back and she sat atop me, the covers would probably fall off and leave us both exposed.
She said something about our lying side by side. Yea, I remembered that position. She could put her legs over my legs and I could screw her while lying on my side. Seemed workable. I didn't think there was much to be concerned about as far as her having AIDS or some other disease. But still, the thought was on my mind.
Some fellow dressed in orange walked up and stood near Birdie. I chased him off, but he reappeared again standing right over her. What was strange was that he was standing on some short stilts. I wasn't going to waste time with him; I simply forcefully knocked him away. It didn't even occur to me that he might try to harm me. He left without further incident.
I felt restless and crawled out of my sleeping bag and stood up. Hadn't I been drinking a bottle of pop when I came, some kind of clear pop? I saw an empty coke bottle here, a bluish tint. Ah yes, here was my green pop bottle. Been knocked over, but it was still almost half full.
Birdie and I were sitting somewhere having a discussion concerning her daughter (probably 2-3 three years old). My main concern: was the daughter my child. I knew Birdie is married. But I still felt some responsibility toward the little girl. We talked a little about where Birdie used to live, in a shabby upstairs apartment in the black section of Portsmouth. At least it hadn't been over the Supper Club, a bar in that section of town. She would have probably been harassed a lot there. No, her apartment had at least been among other apartments.
But what was I going to do about this child? Maybe I could begin sending Birdie some support. $50 a week would be $2,600 a year. That didn't sound like that much. Seemed as if that was what my father used to send my mother after they were divorced. $100 a week would be $5,200 a year. Actually that seemed like more than I could afford. And did I really want to start sending her money? Nothing was compelling me. But I did feel some responsibility.
Copyright 2003 by luciddreamer2k@gmail.com
