Marie's The Name (Of His Latest Flame) - Elvis Presley

A very old friend came by today
'Cause he was telling everyone in town
About the love that he just found
And Marie's the name of his latest flame

He talked and talked and I heard him say
That she had the longest blackest hair
The prettiest green eyes anywhere
And Marie's the name of his latest flame

Though I smiled the tears inside were a-burning
I wished him luck and then he said goodbye
He was gone but still his words kept returning
What else was there for me to do but cry

Would you believe that yesterday
This girl was in my arms and swore to me
She'd be mine eternally
And Marie's the name of his latest flame


I scratched my head and tried to remember just how long I had known Remy le Beau. There weren’t a lot of people on this earth I put up with, and even fewer I called friend, but he was one of ‘em. He knew why I was surly bastard, and I knew that the bayou French was a smokescreen to hide his real origins. We’d fought together. Killed together. That tends to cement a friendship, even for an anti-social type like me.

Even so, I wondered what the fuck we were doing in a bar on a Friday night, two miles from a place in Westchester I’d vowed never to go near again. He lived there now – my fault for telling him about the mutant haven in the first place – and was managing to keep his criminal activities under the radar while he swanned about in the leather suit. Fuckin’ X-men.

The resentment welled up from nowhere and settled bitter as bile in my throat. We’d fought together, too. I’d killed for them. But throw a girl into the mix and the old Canuck was just too wild for them. Too savage. Not good enough for a sweet thing like Rogue.

Well, that was what they’d thought. They hadn’t seen the gouges that sweet thing left full length down my back. The way she gripped the headboard and begged – begged! – me to go harder. Deeper. And fuck, I did. Hardest and deepest and most and every superlative you could think of. That was my Rogue. My Marie.

“Mon ami? Where you go just now. Looked like all kinds a fun to Remy!” The Cajun was leering. Somethin’ musta given away my thoughts. Couldn’t of been my hard-on, ‘cause that was under the table. I wondered – not for the first time – if le Beau had some sort of sex-o-meter that went off when someone else was thinking dirty thoughts. It seemed pretty damn accurate, and I growled at him taking amusement at something so private.

“Relax,Wolverine. I won’t ask about the lovely lady. But I have to tell you about mine,” he sighed. I laughed. The day Mr Fuck-them-all settled down to one woman was the day I’d be welcome at the X-mansion once again. Would never happen.

“Her name is Marie. Long, dark hair, like midnight on the bayou. Her eyes, they are green like … nothing is that green. Nothing. And her body,” he bit his lip, eyes taking on a glaze I was all-too-familiar with. “Her body was created by Erzulie Dantor herself.”

He looked up at my hoarse cough. “Fierce woman to be creating your girlfriend, le Beau. Thought she hated men?” Because the voodoo saint of New Orleans sure hated me. Because I remembered that body, hard and tight and like watered silk under my fingers. And tangling that black hair around my fingers as I licked my way from one distended nipple to the other. And staring into those eyes as my body convulsed and hers shook and we panted together but never, ever broke eye contact.

“That the one they call Rogue?” I begged him to say no. Begged fate to have sent another green-eyed temptress to the mansion. Begged life to cut me a break, just for once.

“You know my Marie?” He was smiling from ear to ear. Happiness. He wanted to share his fuckin’ happiness. “Of course! Sometimes I forget you used to fight with the X-men. You must have pissed them off good, Logan – they never talk about you.” He was frowning at that. I stilled. He was the type of guy to ask.

“But Marie – she wouldn’t have known you, I guess. Too young – it was 10 years ago, no? She would have been just a teenager.”

Yeah. Just another pickup. Six hours to convince her parents to let her come with me. Two nights in a dingy hotel room, shared room for safety. Three days on the road, ‘cause I couldn’t fly. And I knew I wanted her within moments of seeing her poised on her momma’s front doorstep, one hip cocked and bold eyes running over my face, my chest, my biceps. It was a miracle I lasted as long as I did.

First night, she walked into the bathroom. “Oops!” those rosebud lips said, but her ravenous eyes never left my equipment. Second night, her towel dropped, “by mistake.” Third day, she was sick of my resistance and dropped the subterfuge. I had my hands on the wheel when her nimble little fingers unzipped my jeans and delved straight inside. And this time, there was no hiding just how hard she made me.

“Logan. Stop the truck.” I knew I shouldn’t have. I should have growled at her, removed her hand and given her the annual “don’t do it” lecture – sex was a sacred trust between two people and required maturity, honesty and careful consideration. Instead, I let her unzip me, explore with a not-so-maidenly hand, and then deep throat me like a New Orleans whore.

I was almost praying as I jerked into her mouth. Not sure for what. I sure as hell should have been asking for absolution, because her grin of triumph made her look even younger than she was. And I never once asked. Reckon I didn’t want to know.

Not even when she pursed those lips and told me to drive off the highway. Not even when she pointed out a clearing – dark and close and private – and stripped off her jeans. Not even when she bent over the tailgate and presented her bare ass and commanded I fuck her.

Right then? I wanted to know what she felt like inside. I wanted to know how hard she could take me. I wanted to know just how tight and hot and wet a girl like that could be. And as I banged into her that day in mid-summer just hours from the Mansion, I discovered something. I had no scruples. No morals. Because I was going to fuck this girl as long as she would let me. No matter how old she was.

And so I did. Every night, in my bed. Every day, during the extra combat lessons I’d told Chuck she needed. Every evening, in the dark and quiet of the boatshed, where no one else came. For four months. A lifetime, for me.

And when they found out – we were loud, and that night, too fuckin’ loud – I had less than 24 hours. To pack my stuff. To get out. For “abusing” a student. Scott wanted to turn me over to the police. Jeannie looked sad and regretful, and I knew she’d read Marie’s mind. Ororo was simply uncomprehending: how could an adult man want a child like that? Now, I’d fucked Ororo once. I knew who the child was.

And Marie? She wanted to come with me. She told the Professor she’d only come to the School in the first place because she wanted me. She told Scott that she was perfectly legal in Mississippi, thank you. Just because New York had stupid laws. And because her control had slipped once or twice while we were beyond stopping ourselves, she knew my history with Ororo. So looked her in the eye, and with a perfectly even, rational voice, explained “some of us love being fucked hard, Ororo.”

Despite her defence of me, despite her feelings for me, I left. It was Xavier, of course. “Logan. I know you don’t want to hurt Marie. But you are – you’re stopping her from growing up properly. You’re stopping her from being a normal, everyday teenager. Her mutation destroyed one part of her childhood – do you want to be what makes her turn her back on the rest?”

My sinking heart told me he was right. Girl deserved to be a girl, for a little while longer. I would come back for the woman. So I left.

And here I sat in bar, two miles from the Mansion, listening to an old friend rave about his latest flame. Marie. And I just sat there and nodded. Forced a smile occasionally. While the memories ate me up inside and the pain burned like it was yesterday.

Then I saw something out of the corner of my eye that chilled my heart. I stood up. “Remy. Got to go. Been good seeing you again. Good luck with your lady.” I shook his hand, all the while feeling the blades itch inside, and then walked away.

I headed for the door in back. Because I had seen a woman push through the swing doors at the front, and her long black her curled around her hips the same way it always did. Green eyes, shaming gems the way they always did. And my heart banged against my ribs and my cock leaped inside my jeans and I knew I could never meet Gambit’s woman. A woman called Marie.

fin