I remember that classmate, and yes he was Irish, gulping a bit and admitting that it was not one of Ireland's finest moments. He reminded me, though, ...hat the Irish really hated the British.During the early 1980s, I wore a red and white Solidarity badge for a few days when Polish workers in and near Gdansk demonstrated against their government, of course Communist-dominated. This time it was my father who said, "You still remember that girl whose name you could not spell..." He had said that. "I am not patient by nature." His voice, hungry and hard, broke into her musings. "Take what we both want, and begin the ritual. You know who I am to you now. I have always known. It is time."She opened her mouth to speak, to question his words, his knowledge, but he raised one finger to her lips, and stopped her before she began."I burn for you, mo stór!" His voice was gravelly with hunger now, and her limbs trembled with need. She could hear his blood coursing though his veins."Come with me!". Wow, my knees are nearly buckling. She looks up at me with a "Did I please you?" smile, nut-juice dribbling down her chin which she wipes away with her thin blouse sleeve. I stand her up straight before me, cuddle her breasts in my palms as I gently bounce them.I tell her I've had fun, and want to continue it. "You get off soon, right? Live near here, if not I do" (a fib...I'm miles away, but so what.)Not a soul has approached near where we were, and the few people left in the store have. It was a heavy sleep, a deep sleep with strange dreams but, thank god, I slept through till morning. I woke up to a strange sound. Sort of like someone licking their lips, or sucking on a lollipop. My heavy sleep-filled eyes squinted open to reveal, right next to my bed, my sister wrapped in her bathrobe with her hand between her legs! And the sound...it was her hand. She was...and I was...butt naked!Lying spread-eagled on my bed, the covers still on the floor where I kicked them, I squinted.
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