Erotic stories,loving wives, A cheating wife drives a man to extremes.
He didn’t look that weird when he walked into the room. Actually, he had a nice face with a pleasant smile, and it was clear that he worked out regularly. But there was no getting past the blue spandex suit, the red cape and, of course, the big S on his chest.
For at least the tenth time I silently cursed my editor for assigning me to write a story about a nut.
She’d called me into her office a couple of days ago. “Have you heard about the guy who’s running around the city in a Superman suit?” she asked me.
“Nope,” I replied. “Sounds like a nut job to me.”
“Could well be,” she admitted, “but the geniuses in the City section think there might be a story in it and they want us to get it. We’ve tracked him down and he’s agreed to an interview. Guess who gets to do it,” she said pointedly.
“Why do I always get the weirdos?” I asked, lifting my eyes to the heavens, but I got the assignment anyway. Whoopee.
All that flashed through my mind as I rose to meet him. I could only hope it wouldn’t be too bad. “I’m Elle Finn,” I said, rising to shake his hand.
“Alex Stevenson,” he said, returning my handshake. “Pleased to meet you.”
We sat down and I pulled out my recorder. “I’ll be recording today’s interview,” I said. “Is that okay?”
“Sure,” he said easily, “no problem.”
I double-checked the microphone to be sure it was on. “Okay, this is Elle Finn, reporter for The New York Times, interviewing Alex Stevenson, a.k.a. Superman. Mr. Stevenson, let’s cut to the chase here: do you really believe you’re the Man of Steel?”
“I wish you’d call me Alex,” he replied. “It would make this a lot friendlier.” He gave me that easy smile, and I nodded my agreement. “Anyway, in answer to your question, no, I’m the farthest thing from a superhero.”
“So why do you wear the suit?” I prodded.
His face took on a serious aspect. “I guess because I didn’t want to be vulnerable any more.”
I tried not to react, but that wasn’t what I was expecting. “It sounds like someone must have hurt you pretty badly,” I said carefully. “Want to tell me about it?”
He gave a little sigh. “Okay,” he said, and began to tell his story.
The F train had that peculiar dank smell it gets some times in the summer, and I was glad when I finally reached my stop on Queen’s Boulevard. But once I climbed the stairs into the merciless sun at street level, I almost wished I was back under ground. By the time I had walked to our apartment, I was dying to get inside and into the air conditioning.
Usually, Glenda beat me home, but the apartment was dark and quiet when I unlocked the door. After I’d cooled off and changed into shorts and a t-shirt, I went out into the kitchen and began preparing dinner. When I heard the front door open, I called out, “Hey, babe, I’m in the kitchen. It’s so hot that I thought a salad might be nice for dinner. Is that okay with you?”
She stuck her head around the doorframe. “Before you do that, could you come out here and talk with me?”
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