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She’d had many lovers that could bring her to an orgasm but even then felt there was something missing, something far more pleasurable that could be achieved.Over the years she’d taken chances, risks she would not normally consider. She knew there was a lot being put in jeopardy, that her health may have suffered. There had been a time when she’d woken with bruises on her neck and a lack of memory of the events that had caused them, but none of this satisfied that urge, that yearning. Nothing came close to reaching that utopia.Then she met S. Like her, the man was different. It started as an online friendship in a chat room, one of the thousands of anonymous relationships that fill the internet in the depths of dark, cold nights. The only commonality in their vague profiles, M knew the area where S lived.M enjoyed the easy conversation albeit restricted to words on a screen but quickly became bored and wanted to move on. It’s what she did. Then S showed vulnerability, when. It's not like I can do much else nowadays other than remember it and write about it. If you do mind, maybe you shouldn't read this story. Or you can just go to hell, I don't much care one way or the other.As far as dialect goes, I'll try to represent the Appalachian patois as best I can. And one other thing; I'm not a professional writer as you'll soon discover, and I never could figure exactly what the hell commas are supposed to do, so I just stuck one in wherever it looked like it might fit. If you're one of those grammar Nazis, well get a life, why don'tcha! Anyhow, here's the story the way I remember it:One late spring evening back in 1949, Mama called us kids in to supper and she'd just set a pot of navy beans and ham hocks on the table and turned to take the cornbread out of the oven when we heard Daddy's heavy boots clomping up the back steps. He wasn't supposed be home because he'd only left for the mine a couple of hours earlier, but there he stood at the open screen door.
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