Chapter 3: My Roommate's Leftovers

About a month later, it was time to find a new roommate. Walt's wedding was only a couple months away, and he had already rented an apartment for him and his bride to live in. I found another partner easily; another of my coworkers was looking to move into a better place and needed someone to share expenses. As luck would have it, my new roommate, Roger, was even more of a ladies man than Walt. If Walt had been good with the ladies, Roger was downright spectacular.

In some ways they were complete opposites. Walt was a down-home, country kind of guy, while Roger was much more of a smooth Southern city gentleman. As I said, Roger was every bit as good a cocksman as Walt, maybe even better. He was handsome (I guess, it's always a little hard for a guy to judge that), easy-going, and very confident. If you looked up the word "suave" in an illustrated dictionary, you would be likely to find Roger's picture there.

Walt had brought girls back to our place a few times, but most of the time he preferred to go to their place for his dalliances. Roger on the other hand was not at all bashful about bringing girls home and taking them to his bedroom, whether I was there or not. Since our bedrooms shared a common wall, it was easy for me to hear most of what went on between Roger and his girl of the night. At first, I tried not to listen, but I soon learned that overhearing sex can be exciting in its own right; aural voyeurism, you might call it. There were several times when I found myself with my ear pressed against the wall, and a hand stroking my cock, as I listened to some frisky young girl being seduced by my talented new buddy.

I didn't even know where Roger found all those girls, or just what his secret was. Other than sharing a living space, we really weren't that close. But one time, after we had been roommates for about three months, I got a chance to see him in action. We had gone to the grocery together, and as we were leaving we spied a pretty young thing walking toward her car in the parking lot. She had long black hair, expensive-looking clothes, and a nice tight ass. Her hips had a kind of a 'you can look but don't touch' wiggle. We slowly drove by, and took a quick inventory. Her profile looked every bit as interesting as the rear view. Roger looked at her, and said, "I'll bet I can get her number in five minutes."

"Just like that?" I said. "You don't know her, but she's going to give you her number because you're such a nice guy."

"Yep, never saw her before, but she looks like my type. How about it, loser buys dinner."

I knew he was good, but to work his charms that quick seemed impossible. I took the bet. Roger looped back through the parking lot so we could casually drive by her again. He pulled up next to her as she was loading her stuff in the back of her car, and went into his spiel. "Hey sugar, how you doin," was his opening line. A lot of women might have been insulted by being approached like that by a stranger, but Roger's charm made it work. I won't try and replicate his exact words. It really didn't matter what he was saying anyway, it was all about the delivery. Maybe it was the dimple in his chin, or his blue-grey eyes, but whatever it was, I think he could have been reciting from the Federal Tax Code, and the ladies would still have been entranced. He had a deep, resonant voice, and a smooth, relaxing kind of southern accent that you don't hear very much any more.

She stopped, took a quick look in the car, and smiled. At Roger. I don't think she ever actually saw me, even though she had to look past me in the passenger seat to see Roger. "Well, hello there," she drawled with a typical native New Orleans accent.

I glanced at my watch, marking the starting time. I should have known better. Within two minutes, he had her name, Martha O'Dell, and the names of some of the favorite clubs she liked to hang out in. By three minutes, she was scribbling her phone number on a card and handing it to me to pass to Roger. Before the fourth minute was over, we were on her way, mission accomplished. I was glad to buy dinner that night. It was like buying dinner for a musician whose concert I had just enjoyed.

While she and Roger had been getting to know each other, with me sitting awkwardly between them, I had used the opportunity to get a good look at her. She was a true beauty, not just a cutie pie like Cassie. She had a face that could have been on a magazine cover. She wore just the right amount of makeup to enhance her appearance without overwhelming her natural skin tone and luscious lips. Everything about her seemed to say money. She looked like she was well on her way to making a great trophy wife for some politician or business tycoon in a few years. When she bent over to talk to Roger I got a good look down the deep plunging neckline of her expensive-looking blouse. Nice tits, and I even got a glimpse of a nipple peeking out from her tiny bra; pink and tempting and only a few inches from my face. But it might as well have been a thousand miles away, for all the hope I had of ever seeing it again.

Roger didn't hesitate, he called her later that night and they agreed to go out the next evening. It turned out that as I suspected, she came from a family with some major money. Daddy had provided her with an almost new Jaguar. Since Roger drove an eight-year old Chevy, they decided to use her car when they went out, and she even agreed to pick him up. Talk about having it all, a beautiful girlfriend, with money and a nice car, who picks you up. That pretty much summarized the way life was for Roger.

When she came to pick him up the next night, Roger wasn't quite ready. It was kind of a reversal of the usual gambit of the girl making her date wait. That gave me a few minutes to talk with Martha, one-on-one. She was so pretty that I felt uncomfortable just being around her. It was like she was royalty and I was a serf. She noticed my record collection and started leafing through it.

In those days, Bossa Nova was popular, and I had a good collection of that wonderful Brazilian music. It turned out that Martha liked it also, which gratefully gave us something to talk about that didn't cause my tongue to twist into knots. I put on a Joao Gilberto record that she hadn't heard before, and we were sitting on the sofa listening to it when Roger emerged from his bedroom. As they headed out the door, Martha turned and said, "Maybe I can come back sometime and we can listen to more of your records."

"Uh, sure, that sounds great," I managed to squeak, knowing that it would never happen.

It hadn't taken me long to fall in lust with Martha. I had so far resisted any feelings of jealousy toward Roger, but that night, as I sat there alone in our apartment knowing that he was out having a good time with her, I started to feel a certain amount of resentment toward the guy that always got the girl. Then I began to wonder what the chances would be that she would spend the night in the bedroom on the other side of the wall from mine. I went to bed a little before eleven, just to be out of their way if she did stay over. I went to sleep, but awoke when I heard voices from the living room. Apparently Roger had convinced her to stay over, because a few minutes later I heard them whispering as they went into his bedroom. I waited a few minutes, unsure if I really wanted to eavesdrop on them. Somehow, I considered Martha different than the other girls Roger had brought home, and I knew it would be extremely frustrating to listen to Roger having his way with her. But finally my horniness overcame my sense of propriety, and I put my ear to the wall.

It hadn't taken them long to get past the foreplay, because I heard them going at it as soon as I started listening. Roger's mattress had a squeak that was unmistakable. I heard Martha moaning also. It didn't take long for her soft moans to turn into loud exclamations of delight. Martha was a bit of a screamer, and that's putting it mildly. I think I could have been standing in the parking lot and I would have known when she had her first climax.

Roger didn't stop, if anything he started working even harder. The mattress was still squeaking, and now his headboard was banging against the wall. A few moments later, I heard her starting to express her gratitude for the skillfulness of his lovemaking again, not quite as loudly this time, but still with a lot of enthusiasm. Things got quiet for a few seconds, then I heard Roger's voice. "Martha? Hey, are you OK? Martha... say something."

I began to worry that something serious had happened, but a few seconds later I heard her respond. "Sorry, hon, didn't mean to scare you. Sometimes when I have a big one, the feeling is so intense that I just pass out for a few seconds. But I'm OK now."

I had never heard of any other women who has such a dramatic response to an orgasm. I'm sure there was a medical condition associated with her fainting, and it probably wasn't a good thing, but that night all I felt was a great deal of envy for my roommate. Not only had he banged one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, but he had fucked her so well he had turned her lights out. Damn!

The next morning was a little awkward. Martha was still there. She didn't sleep in, while Roger and I were getting ready to go to work, she fixed herself a bowl of cereal. She looked really great sitting at our breakfast bar in one of Roger's t-shirts, with her long, slim legs on display. I couldn't help stealing glances at her, imagining what sex with such a beautiful, passionate creature would be like. She was sitting with her legs crossed, looking very ladylike, except for the fact that she was only wearing a t-shirt. She caught me looking once, staring at the sight of her pink panties peeking out from Roger's shirt. She didn't seem to mind, she just smiled at me. She didn't even bother to adjust her position to a less revealing pose. Of course, she had to know that I had been in the very next room last night, and there was no way I could have slept through her screaming, but she didn't seem to be embarrassed about that either. I think Roger was more uncomfortable about the situation than Martha was.

That was the last time that Martha spent the night at our place. I knew they were still going out, but apparently they had decided to do their lovemaking in her bedroom. That was fine with me, my mind was still full of the sights and sounds from that one night, and I spent more than one night jacking off to those memories. I didn't want to hear any more of Roger banging Martha; I feared that my frustration level would have been too much.

A few weeks later I was sitting in our apartment on a cold, wet October evening. I was alone, Roger had taken a few days off to go back home. He had told me there were still a couple of young sweeties back in Mississippi that he liked to stay in touch with. The doorbell rang, and when I answered it I was a little surprised to see Martha standing there, looking a little drunk and disheveled.

"Is Roger here,"

"Uh, no, he's gone for the weekend." Apparently he hadn't bothered to tell her that he was going out of town.

"Crap," she snapped. "I'm cold, and bored, and really wanted to see him."

Martha looked like she wasn't in any hurry to run off, and I made what for me was an impulsive, unprecedented move. "Hey, why don't you come on in? We can listen to some music like we talked about, and I have an unopened bottle of Southern Comfort I would be glad to share." I've been away from New Orleans for a long time, so I don't know how things are now, but in the late sixties Comfort was the drink of choice for a lot of natives and new arrivals also.

Six months earlier would never have had the courage to make such a bold suggestion to such a beautiful woman, but if there was one thing I had learned from watching Walt and Roger in action, it was that if you never swing at a pitch, you'll never get a hit. I held my breath, waiting for her to find an excuse to say no.

Instead, she smiled and said, "That sounds great."

I escorted her into the living room, wondering what the hell I was going to do now. I had taken a first step on a journey that I really didn't know how to finish. I went with the obvious. I put a stack of my favorite music on the turntable, and went to the kitchen to get a couple of glasses and the bottle. Martha didn't waste any time in making herself comfortable. By the time I returned, she had kicked off her shoes and curled up on the sofa. Her dress had slid up, and while I was trying to be as suave as I could while I poured the drinks, I couldn't help peeking again at those wonderful, slim legs of hers.

I was still very unsure of myself, and didn't know if she would consider it too aggressive for me to sit next to her, but sitting in the recliner across the room was out of the question. I compromised by sitting on the rug in front of the sofa. I grabbed the covers for the albums I had selected and started reading from the liner notes, as if a discussion of the finer points of Brazilian music was the reason I had invited her in. I was babbling like a total idiot, trying to ignore the fact that a beautiful, sensuous, half-drunk young woman was sitting right behind my head. If I had turned my head, my face would have been inches away from her. I was like a kid trying my first high dive; I was teetering on the end of the board, but afraid to take that last step.

Fortunately, Martha did not have the same hesitations I had. "Sit with me," she purred, patting the cushion next to her. When I sat down she put her legs across my lap. "My feet are cold," she complained.

They were, but they were also beautiful. OK, I don't have a foot fetish, but I had to admit that everything about Martha's feet, from the delicate turn of her ankle, to the bright pink polish on her nails, seemed perfect to me. I began rubbing her feet to warm them, as Martha growled her approval. I don't know if I was actually bringing warmth to her feet, but things were definitely heating up in my pants.