Dissolute

Rose gasped as I took my cock from her mouth.

I released her skull from my clenched thighs. She panted, her face red with exertion.

“Half an hour, give or take,” I said. “That’s a long time to get your face fucked.”

She smiled, nodding, silent as ever, per my command.

Her eyes returned to my cock as I stroked it.

I hooked a thumb in her mouth. I focused, I focused, I focused. I really wanted to cum all over her eager face.

But it wasn’t happening.

“It’s not happening,” I sighed, dropping my hands. My cock fell, already limp.

Rose mouthed an apology.

“It’s not your fault, Rose,” I said, stroking her face. “I’m just very, very tired.”

And so it was that I ended my birthday celebration of wall-to-wall sex.

In the week or so surrounding my forty-second birthday, I had sex with over a dozen women, and about half as many men.

A date with one woman would turn into a threesome with the addition of another, a threesome easily spun into a foursome.

I had sex before, during and after orgies.

I allowed myself to be kidnapped and taken across state lines for sex.

By the end of it all, I was exhausted.

My shoulders ached.

My knees hurt.

I had bruises I couldn’t explain, and a gash on my head.

I couldn’t get hard to save my life. I conked out at an orgy.

I needed sleep.

Rose looked concerned.

We had enjoyed a pretty good couple of hours. I fucked her through a few orgasms, flogged her, and caned her to tears.

But she could tell: I was not at the top of my game.

“You need to rest, Jefferson,” she said, breaking her imposed silence.

I looked at her. She looked so concerned.

I let pass her disobedience.

“I will. Luckily, I have my kids this weekend. I can rest.” I paused. “Funny, right? Taking care of three children will be my rest and relaxation.”

She laughed.

Later than afternoon, my eldest son and I were talking when he stopped and looked at me.

“Dad, you need to sleep late tomorrow.”

“I know, right? I look like something the cat dragged in.”

“I’ll keep the kids from waking you up.” He put a hand on my back. “We can eat cereal in the morning.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Sure,” he smiled. “Just be ready to make a big brunch at, say, eleven?”

“You got it.”

So while my pecker recovers, gentle reader, I will bring you up to date on my recent shenanigans. But before I do, I will need to backtrack to tell you a few tales—and to reveal my secret boyfriend.

As long as I am making introductions, may I present Aliza?



Aliza is married photographer who lives in the United Kingdom. Aliza’s libido recently kicked into overdrive, and her poor husband is having the devil’s time in trying to keep up.

She finds it rather frustrating, but she has another release: exhibitionism.

The girl loves to show off her lovely body, preferably in knickers.

Aliza also enjoys masturbating to my blog.

And so it is that Aliza and I entered into a special arrangement.

Once a week, she sends me a group of nude self-portraits that she makes just for me.

I masturbate to her photographs, and write a note telling her what got me off.

She masturbates to my notes.

It’s a really fine arrangement.

Aliza also makes photographs to share with you, gentle reader, and posts them—along with commentary—at her blog, Sexy UK Girl.

As you can see, the title is no misnomer.

One more thing, before you go: please don’t embarrass yourself by asking Aliza for special photographs.

Try to behave, wankers, won’t you?

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Astonishing

Lucy,

This morning, a little after 4:30, our youngest son woke me to say he had vomited.

He felt warm. I made him a bed on the couch, stripped the bed sheets and cleaned up the mess.

This morning, a little after 6:45, our oldest son called you to say he would be picking up something at your office on the way to school. He told you Collie was sick.

He handed me his cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Jefferson?”

“Hi Lucy, did you call?”

“Oh. You are asleep.”

“No, the alarm went off a while ago.”

Click.

You hung up on me.

I called back.

“Hello?”

“Lucy, you hung up on me.”

“I know, why are you calling?”

“Lucy, you shouldn’t hang up on me. Collie is sick and won’t be going to school today.”

“I know. What about tomorrow?”

“Well, we’ll see how it goes today and talk about tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

Click.

You hung up on me.

I called back.

You did not answer.

I left a message, saying you should not hang up on me, and saying I found your behavior astonishing.

I made lunches, got the kids dressed, and took them to your office.

Our sick son stayed home.

We arrived at your office a half hour before school.

You were out. We waited.

When you returned, you told me I did not need to stay—you would see the kids to school.

“Do you have anything you want to talk about?” I asked.

“No.” You said, smirking. “I’m working.”

“Your behavior is astonishing, and illegal. Our son is sick . . .”

“I know. I hope he throws up on you.”

I left.

This is, to the best of my recollection, a verbatim transcript of our interaction on a morning our child woke up vomiting.

Prior to this, you and I had no altercation, or any interaction of note. True to your behavior since mid July, you have avoided conversation with me.

This was not your response to a fight. This was how you responded to the situation of co-parenting a sick child on a school day.

I find your behavior astonishing.

Since our eldest acquired his cell phone, you use him to gain information about the children while they are with me. You cut me out of the loop, and treat him as your co-parent.

A month after freaking out that my phone was broken, you cut off my phone service, apparently judging it a useless tool for communicating about our children.

Insofar as your behavior affects me, it becomes just another anecdote I can share with friends. Divorce sure makes people weird, I say. You are welcome to detest me all you wish. You don’t need much reason, just as you didn’t need much reason to end our fifteen-year relationship.

But if the thought of Collie sick at home can’t make you communicate better about the children—to at least inquire about him—then I am at a loss for what might.

When I said that your behavior was “illegal,” what I meant is this.

My lawyer—who is a very, very good lawyer—foresaw that you could be a difficult co-parent. Our divorce agreement stipulates that if either parent refuses to cooperate effectively, the other has recourse to legal action. The court can intervene to make both parents stop behaving like children, and behave in the best interests of the children.

I have tried to be a calm, rational person throughout this process. I let the water slide off my back. I do not respond to goading. I long ago learned that I can’t win a fight with you. I can only survive one fight and wait for the next one.

You and I have a long history. I miss our friendship. I would dearly like to be friends again.

You don’t have to be my friend. If we didn’t have children, you would be free to refuse to speak with me.

However, we do have children. You have a moral responsibility to speak with me. What’s more, you have a legal obligation to do so.

For the next eleven and a half years, you are obliged to be the best co-parent you can be. After that, we can be friends or we can just be civil at weddings and funerals. That’s entirely up to you and how you chose to live life in your mid-fifties.

But now, in your early forties, you have to get past whatever revulsion you have towards me, and do what is best for the children.

I have offered, many times, to go into therapy with you, or to do whatever it takes to get you to a place where you can deal with me as your continued parenting partner.

If your behavior leads us to seek a court’s help, we will certainly be forced to accept the guidance of a family counselor.

I am writing to you now to say: please do the right thing for the children, and communicate.

I have cc’d our parents, as you seem to feel that is a useful thing to do when we are at a stalemate.

Best,
Jefferson

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Etiquette

Mitzi and I took in the air for a bit before heading back inside. She remained pretty blissed from her submission to Elena and the gang.

We found Susan and Nate talking by the stove.

Nate wore a dark t-shirt and boxers.

Susan was nude but for a slender black thong.

Susan is a seasoned veteran of sex parties. But as she knows, every group has its own dynamics and personalities. We had met at a Nubian sex party at my place, and found common ground in conversation. Now she was trying out the fit with my regular crowd.

She liked Mitzi from the start.

She enjoyed Nate’s attentions.

She worked the room, talking, laughing, and turning heads.

“Yeah, I like being a dominatrix,” she said to Nate, rehearsing lines she must have repeated so many times before. “It suits my personality, ‘cause I’m a Pisces and shit, so I love to be in control. But you know, really, I’m a sub, so I can really get into what they are feeling, you know? I get it.”

“Man, that’s just awesome, Susan,” Nate replied. “And your scars are too hot.”

She turned, bringing her bare ass into the dim light. She traced a finger along the line of her thong. “Yeah, those are the cane marks of my Daddy. I love that man; I do anything he asks. ‘Course, his girlfriend doesn’t like that much, but that’s the way things are, you know?”

“Yeah, that’s a tough thing, man, when people aren’t cool like that.”

“You know it; it just rains shit on everything. So, you have any scars?”

Nate pulled up his shirt and turned to show his scarification. “It’s small, but I like the design.”

“Yeah, that’s nice work,” Susan admired. “It’s a sun, right?”

“Right.”

“Have you been adding to it?” I asked, touching the outline of a wavy line.

“Yeah, some, man. My girlfriend added this.” He indicated a line near his spine.

“I don’t see how you take it,” Mitzi quivered. “I couldn’t do that at all.”

“Yeah, Mitzi, I didn’t know I could either, until I did.” Nate lowered his shirt, smiling.

I poured a bourbon. “Hey, I need to check on things,” I said. “You coming, cutie?”

“Sure,” Mitzi smiled.

In my bedroom, we found Elena torturing the balls of her slave Antonio.

I lay next to them to watch. “That’s nice work, Elena.”

“He seems to like it, don’t you, Antonio?”

“Yes,” he said, his nostrils alert. “I do.”

“Well, I’d like to watch and learn.” I was growing hard. “Hey Mitzi, would you please suck my cock?”

“Of course, Jefferson.” She took my cock in her mouth.

“Can you see okay?” I asked.

She nodded, her brown eyes on Antonio’s erection.

Susan joined us, holding hands with Lyra, who trailed a few steps behind.

“Elena, I hate to interrupt,” Susan said. “But may I play with your girlfriend?”

Elena looked at Lyra. Lyra nodded.

“Yes, you may,” Elena replied. “But I would prefer if you remained in this room.”

“Yes, of course,” Susan replied. Her tone was studied and deferential. She may be a dom elsewhere, but in this situation, she knew that Elena was in charge.

“You need the bed?” I offered.

“No, we’ll be fine in this chair.”

Susan led Lyra to one of the two black high-backs we refer to as “sex chairs.”

Their wide, low seats are perfectly situated for so many positions.

Susan caressed Lyra’s exposed belly and back, speaking in low, soft tones.

She quietly removed Lyra’s black bra.

Susan stood behind Lyra, her hands and long nails caressing her torso and small breasts. She squeezed a nipple.

Lyra stood very still, her eyes on Elena’s across the room.

Susan whispered in her ear. Lyra turned back, thought for a moment, then nodded slightly.

Susan’s hands traveled down Lyra’s sides to the top of her jeans. Her hands traveled toward one another slowly, finally meeting under Lyra’s navel.

Susan unfastened Lyra’s jeans.

She slowly unzipped them.

Elena glanced down to Antonio’s cock. She took his balls in a fresh twist.

He sighed, quietly.

I thrust into Mitzi’s throat, watching her eyes move to mine. We allowed ourselves to be distracted by the scenes unfolding on either side of us, but now and then, you have to check in with the person on the other end of a blowjob.

It’s all about etiquette.

Lyra was fully nude, and reclining in the chair.

Susan knelt and gently opened her legs. Her palms moved along her thighs, gently directing her touch upward.

I caught Mitzi’s eye, and nodded in their direction.

Mitzi nodded back. “Mmm-hmm!” she hummed into my cock.

We had never seen Lyra entirely undressed.

Sex parties are new to Lyra. She has approached this with the guidance of her beloved Elena, who trusts us to take good care of her sweetheart. We do, allowing Lyra to take her own pace about things, suggesting she watch some things and try others, never pressuring her to do anything, always offering opportunities.

In her time, Lyra relaxed. She enjoys our crowd, taking solace in the familiar—as when she uncovered the Pixies in my music collection—and applying herself to the novel.

At a previous party, she had gamely used a strap on to fuck Mark, and had a fine time spanking Mitzi.

And now, here she was: her arms tucked under her chin, her lean athletic body extended as an unfamiliar mouth took to her privates.

I smiled at Elena. She didn’t notice.

Her eyes were on the woman tonguing her girlfriend.

Lyra watched Susan with a similar analytical curiosity.

Susan sat back, applying the pad of a finger to Lyra’s clit and rubbing, keeping her long nails clear of flesh. She tossed her long hair over her shoulder.

“That feel good, baby?” Susan asked.

“Yes.” A frog caught in Lyra’s throat. She coughed. “Yes, that feels good,” she reiterated.

“That’s nice, I want to make you feel good,” Susan smiled, her free hand roaming Lyra’s hip.

Susan was becoming aware of what Elena and I knew.

There was no way Lyra was going to orgasm.

We knew that getting naked and allowing Susan to touch her had been the landmark. Lyra was itching to be released and be with her lover.

Her tense muscles communicated that to Susan.

Susan moved her hand from Lyra’s pussy, and massaged her skin. She was winding down the moment.

“Hey!” A voice broke the still. “Did I hear that one of you girls has a strap on?”

Donny walked in, bare naked.

“Yeah honey, I brought my bag,” Susan said, turning. “Why, you want to get fucked?”

“Yes,” Donny laughed. “I’d like to get fucked.”

Mitzi rolled her eyes.

The girls I fuck are not enamored of the straight boy I fuck.

I met Donny two years ago, and I was impressed that such a handsome, muscular young model would choose me to be the man who fucks him. The boy needed a dick in ass now and then, and my dick was the one he wanted.

I told him about my parties, and he shows up now and then.

Like me, the girls are initially attracted to his physique and beauty.

They grow weary of his capacity for obnoxious behavior. They are put out that he doesn’t put out. He can’t be persuaded to fuck girls or get them off. He says he is saving that for the right girl.

They think he’s selfish.

Tonight was Susan’s introduction to Donny.

“Let me get my bag, sugar, and I’ll fuck you.” Susan stood. She looked back to Lyra. “You okay, honey?”

“I’m fine,” Lyra said, her chin on her chest. She sat up. “Um, so . . . thanks.”

“Of course, baby.” Susan leaned forward and kissed Lyra’s lips. “Anytime.”

“Wait,” Donny interrupted. “You’re going to fuck me, remember? Not the lesbian.”

“I remember,” Susan said, standing up. “But you need to mind your manners, pretty boy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Donny said. “I’ll see you in the other room.” He turned and left.

I took Mitzi’s chin in my fingers.

“Oh, this we have to see.”

She took my cock from her mouth, and drew a breath. “I’m not missing that,” she smiled.

Lyra pulled on her underwear and jeans, and sat beside Elena.

Elena released Antonio’s cock and held Lyra close.

They kissed, slow and deep, as Mitzi and I crept away.

“You really have a lot of dildos in that bag,” Donny said, as Susan crouched over a suitcase on wheels.

“It’s my job, honey. I have to be ready for anything. What size do you want?”

“Give me your biggest,” Donny said. “Hey Jefferson, hand me that lube.”

I passed a bottle of lube before sitting on a bed next to Mitzi.

Lyra joined us to watch the show.

Susan pulled out a foot long dildo, thick as a baseball bat.

“You really want this?” she asked over her shoulder.

Mitzi laughed.

“Uh, no,” Donny said. “Are you kidding? Guys take that?”

Susan shrugged. “Guys, girls . . . you know, size queens.”

“I think I need something big, but not that big.” Donny reached back, smearing lube on his hole.

I instinctively looked away.

Call it modesty, but I still give a man privacy to wipe his ass.

Lyra may have felt the same. She headed for the door, apparently deciding she preferred being with her lover to watching this display.

As she passed Donny, he smeared his lubed fingers on her breast.

“Hey!” Lyra exclaimed, pushing back his hand. “Don’t do that!”

“What?” Donny smeared lube on her other breast. “C’mon, lighten up. It’s a joke.”

Lyra took his wrist in her hand. “I told you to stop that. It’s not funny.”

“Jesus, okay.” Donny laughed, pulling back his forearm. He wiped his hand on his hip. He looked to me for support. “Man, lesbians.”

“Donny,” I interjected. “Relax. Pick out a dildo.”

Lyra looked at me, then Mitzi. She detoured into the bathroom. We heard the sound of running water.

Donny crouched over the bag with Susan.

When the bathroom door opened, Mitzi followed Lyra to check on her. Mitzi came back in a moment.

“She okay?” I whispered.

“She’s fine,” Mitzi nodded. “She’s making out with Elena. But that Donny is an asshole.”

“He is rough around the edges,” I agreed. “And certainly lacking in social graces.”

“Whatever, Jefferson,” Mitzi said. She had no patience for my continued interest in Donny.

“This one?” Susan said. She held up a purple dildo that would make Jeff Stryker look prepubescent.

“Yeah, that’s a good one,” Donny stood, stroking his cock. “What do I do, just bend over the bed?”

“Well, I have to get into the strap on, sugar.” Susan stood, holding a harness. She began strapping it to her hips.

Donnie waited, bent over, stroking his cock. “Whenever you’re ready. You are too damned slow.”

“We’re in no rush, baby.”

“I am, I want something in my ass.”

I have to admit, seeing Donny in that familiar position was pretty hot. My cock began to respond to the call.

But this was Susan’s moment.

Etiquette.

However, she had a tough assignment. She is used to fucking submissive men, but Donny doesn’t exactly think of himself as a submissive. He’s aggressive and cocksure. He is accustomed to people being impressed by his looks.

It scarcely mattered that Susan was every bit his match in appearance. He had no concern for her superior expertise.

She was the girl that was going to fuck him, that’s all. And she was too damned slow.

Susan talked to him calmly as she attached the dildo to her harness, preparing him to take such a big cock. I was impressed by her professionalism. Susan could work with anyone.

“Wait, no, that one is too big,” Donny said, turning to look. “What else do you have?”

“You don’t want this one?” Susan asked. She was standing naked in her thong and harness, sporting a thick veined cock. “I’ve got others . . .”

“Yeah, let’s look at the others,” Donny said, crouching over the bag. Susan joined him.

“This could go on all night,” Mitzi sighed quietly.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Back to the other room.”

We left them to debate dildos.

We found Elena torturing Antonio as Lyra watched.

Antonio’s cock was erect between two towels.

Elena dripped hot candle wax on his shaft.

“Oh Jefferson,” Elena said. “I guess you didn’t hear me call you.”

“Nope, we were at the dildo Tupperware party.” I nodded to Antonio; he smiled back. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to teach Antonio to suck cock. He never has. I wanted yours, but you were busy. So I made him suck John.”

I raised my eyebrows, impressed. “Your first blowjob was on that monster cock? He’s like nine inches, at least.”

Antonio grinned, as Elena dripped wax. “It was pretty big.”

“Yes, but I think you could have taken it deeper. Like this—do you mind, Jefferson?” Elena put down her candle and took my cock in her hand.

“No, be my guest.” I turned toward her.

“See, what you have to do is open wide, in your throat,” Elena instructed. My cock was growing in her hand, aroused by her touch and her use of me as an instructional tool.

She took me deep, then pulled me out. “See what I mean?”

“Yes, that was deep,” Antonio admired.

“It sure was,” I agreed.

Mitzi sat to watch.

“Okay, now watch as he gives it to me.” Elena looked up. “Hard, okay Jefferson?”

“Sure.” I took her face in my hands. She took my cock in her mouth.

I let her adjust to the feel of me in her.

Then I fucked her face.

She got past her gag reflex in a moment. I lodged in her throat, fucking deep and pulling out only slightly.

Elena sputtered and drooled on me. She was giving over to the moment. Sucking my cock, and instructing her slave, were paramount in her mind.

I looked at Lyra, who knew full well the intensity her lover could muster.

I looked over my shoulder at Mitzi, who knows how I get.

I closed my eyes.

I really let loose.

I gave Elena’s mouth my deepest, hardest fuck, holding her face firm.

She took it, past any endurance.

I was far in her throat, no letting go, as drool collected on my balls and thighs.

Finally, I felt she could take no more. She had to breathe. I pulled out.

Elena gasped.

A sliver of drool connected her mouth to my cock.

Elena drew deep breaths, her eyes on mine.

I stood, breathing.

I felt cool air on my hot, wet cock.

“Fuck,” Mitzi said.

I twisted my torso to see her.

I grabbed her hair. I turned.

I shoved my cock in her warm mouth.

“That,” Elena panted, “That is how you suck cock.”

“Wow,” Antonio said.

Elena had put me over the edge. Mitzi kept me there.

Mitzi’s eyes were wide on me. She saw my state. I had gone over.

I was in that place I get when I am making great art, or great sex. I am at my most confident and sure.

I was resolute. Determined. Undeniable.

There is nothing I can not do when I am in this place.

I pulled back.

“Mitzi,” I growled. “I think I should fuck that straight boy.”

She nodded, a little awed. She knows how I am in this state.

I left the room.

I looked into the next room.

Donny and Susan were discussing dildos.

“Donny?” I called. “May I see you in here, please?”

Donny looked up. “Okay . . .”

I walked back into the bedroom.

Everyone watched me.

“Clear this area, please,” I said, pointing to the foot of the bed.

Antonio drew up his legs. Elena stood and turned. Mitzi joined Antonio and Lyra at the head of the bed.

“What’s up?” Donny asked as he entered the room.

“Donny, lay down here, across the bed,” I instructed. I was already opening a condom.

He tugged his cock. “Okay.”

He stretched out across the bed, elevating his ass to me, lowering his head.

I felt his hole. It was still greasy.

“Back more.”

He shifted back on the bed.

He spread his cheeks for me.

Elena joined the others on the head of the bed.

Susan stood at the door.

I took my sheathed cock in hand.

I entered him.

I have fucked Donny so many times. I know how he wants it. I delivered it easy and deep, no prolonged foreplay, just a plunge into his body.

He tensed, then relented.

I took his slender hips in my hands.

I fucked him and rocked him, back and forth, back and forth.

He touched his cock. I knocked his hand away.

I reached around and grabbed his cock.

It was my handle.

As I fucked, I felt him buckle.

He surrendered his body.

I took his agency.

Now I had him.

I looked at the four friends assembled on my pillow. Mitzi looked so sweet.

They were all masturbating.

I smiled to say, I know, I know you are here. I can see you. You are watching.

Sweat trickled down my sternum.

I fucked that boy like he would be gone forever the next day.

I grabbed his skin, for he has no fat, and yanked him where I wanted him.

My periphery went black.

My vision was reduced to a pinhole.

Me. My cock. Somewhere, the boy. Out there, witnesses.

I was already pounding hard. I thought of Mitzi’s eyes.

I gave it harder. I wanted to abuse that hole.

Like Donny expects.

That gorgeous motherfucking cretin straight boy I like, the one who pisses off all my friends, the one who is so sweet to me, the one who calls me drunk because he needs my cock in his ass.

He said something.

I slapped his tiny ass and fucked away.

Susan was there.

She was doing something, fucking with things.

Susan, Jesus, let me fuck this boy, give me room, I can’t bring anyone into this.

“Unnh!”

He fell forward.

He buckled under me.

Donny the vanquished.

Donny the silent.

Donny the panting.

I staggered back.

I heard my name.

“Hey Jefferson, did you see?” Antonio said. “I came at the exact moment you did.”

I looked over.

Anontio had jism on his torso.

“Nice,” I said. I tugged off my condom. “But that wasn’t me who came. Was it, Donny?”

I slapped his ass on my way to the bathroom.

It was over. It was late.

Those who were going home went home.

Mitzi and I went to bed.

I fucked Mitzi.

I pinned her under me and pumped.

She was so worked up from the night, from her star turn as a submissive, from watching me fuck Donny, from the whole thing, that she gave up orgasms easily.

I greedily took all she could offer before I passed out.

She woke me early, and gave me more.

After she left, I slept longer.

I later found Susan on my couch, talking in her sleep. She huddled under a duvet I must have provided her.

When she woke, she sat up and began talking.

She was still wearing only a thong.

“Damn, Jefferson, you are the king of doms. I mean it, baby, the king.”

She threw off the duvet and fell to her knees.

“I bow before the king of doms! You are it, baby!”

“Oh please,” I said. “Stop. That’s silly.”

She sat next to me.

“Baby, the way you took command of that boy . . . he was nothing but trouble, and you made him behave! You made him your bitch, baby. How the hell did you do that?”

“I just fuck him, Susan. You know?”

“You fuck him like you own his ass.”

“I just, well, I fuck his ass a lot.”

“Baby, I wish someone would fuck me like that. ‘Cause that was one hell of a fine fuck you gave him.”

I looked at her.

I was in pajama pants and no shirt.

She was in nothing but a thong.

She was a lean gorgeous dom who admired the way I made an obnoxious boy submit.

What was I supposed to say?

“Oh, well, thanks. I fucked him the best way I know how. I always try to do my best.”

I rested my hand on her shoulder.

“You have totally got it going on,” she said, rising. “Now, where did I put my pants? Did you see my bag?”

“It’s in the bedroom . . .”

“Cool. Can I use your bathroom to shower?”

“Sure, there’s a towel in the linen closet.”

“Thanks. You want to get a quick breakfast some place? I have to be at work in an hour.”

“Oh, well, no, I guess I should work too.”

“That’s cool, that’s cool, I’ll be gone soon.” She stepped to the bathroom then stopped. She leaned forward to kiss me.

“You are the king of doms,” she said. “You are.”

“Okay, thanks.”

A shower later, she was gone.

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Sweetest Tabu

“Oh, she is adorable!” Mitzi exclaimed.

“Isn’t she cute?,” Elena gushed. “She looks just like him, doesn’t she?”

“Oh thanks,” Antonio smiled.

We were standing in my kitchen, admiring pictures of Antonio’s two-month-old baby girl.

I passed the photographs back to the proud papa.

He took them gingerly, lifting his restraints with care.

Elena had brought a special treat to the party. Along with her ex husband and her girlfriend, Elena had been accompanied by her favorite slave, Antonio.

He was instructed to tend bar. He brought good vodka for Cosmopolitans, the night’s featured drink.

“Maybe I’ll make him cook next time,” Elena said. “He’s a four star chef! But tonight, we have my Swedish meatballs.” She had put out a large chafing dish.

“These are great,” I said, chewing.

“Amazing,” Mitzi said. “And Antonio, you know, he’s very cute.”

“I know, isn’t he?” Elena smiled. “I’m not allowing him to have sex with anyone tonight, though.”

“Too bad!” Mitzi laughed. “I’d do him.”

“I think you’ll have plenty of fun tonight,” Elena said, stealing a glance at me. “But look, your drinks are low. Antonio?”

Antonio leaned from the kitchen door. “Yes?”

“More Cosmos for Jefferson and Mitzi, please.”

“Yes.” Antonio came for our glasses.

“Oh, and Antonio?”

“Yes?”

“Take off your shirt, please.”

“Of course.” Antonio stopped and took off his shirt, revealing a lean, smooth torso. He folded his shirt over one arm. “Your glasses, please?”

Mitzi and I handed over our glasses. Antonio smiled and returned to the kitchen. He hummed happily.

“Fucking suave,” I admired. “You are one suave motherfucker.”

Elena shrugged, smiling.

I have always admired Elena’s style as a dom. She’s been quite an influence on me.

Her submissives—she refers to them as “slaves”—are straight men, often married or in relationships. They are made to understand that they will not have sex with Elena; she is a lesbian, and while she fucks men on occasion, she keeps firm on her prohibition against her slaves.

What impresses me most is the way she treats her submissives. Elena is extraordinarily kind, almost maternal in her care. She doesn’t forfeit her basic open and friendly nature to take on false pretenses as a domineering bitch.

Elena’s submissives are drawn to her for the same reasons we all are: because being with her is simply more enjoyable than being without her. They are happy to contribute to her pleasure. They revel in the reward of her smile and touch.

We took our drinks to the couch. Elena propped her leg on my lap, allowing me to admire her fishnet stockings.

“These feel so terrific,” I said, rubbing my palm on Elena’s calf. “I could just touch your leg for hours. Here, Mitzi, touch Elena’s stockings.”

“I’d like that, Jefferson.” Mitzi put down her glass and caressed Elena’s leg. “Oh, that feels so nice, Elena. Thank you for wearing such nice stockings.”

“I like them too,” Elena smiled.

I shared Elena’s smile. I could sense Mitzi’s nervousness. She knew it was coming, but she didn’t know when. She didn’t even know what “it” was. She just knew it would be special.

Elena and I had plotted our most intensive collaboration to date.

We were ganging up on Mitzi.

Elena had discovered Mitzi’s submissive side at a previous party, when her girlfriend Lyra had given Mitzi a solid spanking. Mitzi had moaned in pleasure to have her ass so thoroughly beaten.

Elena had also observed how much Mitzi enjoyed fucking her ex husband, Jim.

While Elena is very experienced with dominating men, she had never taken a woman into submission.

She proposed that we do something special with Mitzi. I know Mitzi best, and I am, in a sense, her dom, so Elena regarded my permission and participation as essential to the project.

Elena has very good etiquette about such things.

Mitzi knew we were scheming on her behalf. She was thrilled and nervous.

As we sat on the couch, rubbing Elena, I mentally rehearsed my role. We would start when the time was right. Now, we were relaxing and waiting on other guests to arrive.

I caressed Mitzi’s forearm.

Goose pimples erupted on her flesh.

I had included a few doms and subs on the guest list. They included Nate, the world’s sweetest straight boy, a submissive who is, increasingly, a switch. Donny, the straight model I fuck, was also invited. John would round out the men.

New to the group was Susan. I met her at the Nubian parties I co-host, and thought she might enjoy this group. Susan is strikingly beautiful, tall with dark skin and straight black hair that reaches almost to her long legs. She is a professional dominatrix who styles herself in a classic mode, right out of Eric Stanton.

It helps that she looks the part.

Susan also let me know that she surrenders to her submissive side with the right dom.

Susan is very chatty and outgoing. She and Nate found one another immediately and began to talk about switching. She was unfazed when Nate mentioned his fascination with cutting.

“Man, Jefferson, Susan is insanely sexy, man,” Nate told me, his hand on my shoulder as we stood in the kitchen.

“Yep, and just your size, too,” I said, looking up at his blue eyes.

“Pardon me for interrupting,” Antonio said. He now wore only black shorts and restraints. “Jefferson, Elena has asked to see you in the bedroom, please.”

I thanked Antonio. Nate followed me to the bedroom.

Elena had assembled everyone. She had laid out an array of toys and implements.

Mitzi caught my eye. She came to my side and whispered, “Jefferson, may I speak with you for a moment, in private?”

I took her hand and led her to the vacant bedroom.

“Jefferson,” she whispered, her brown eyes wide. “I’m scared. What if I can’t do this?”

I held her arms. “You are not obliged to do this. No one will think the less of you for backing out. But you should know that Elena and I have discussed this in great detail. She has planned carefully. You are in very good hands with her, and I will not leave your side.”

“I know, I know, I trust Elena,” Mitzi said. “I’m just . . . ,” she exhaled. “I’m just scared.”

“I can tell, you are trembling. Do you want to do this, or not?”

She drew a deep breath. “I want to do this.”

“Good.” I kissed her forehead. “Come on. I’ll be there with you. You are safe.”

“Okay. Thanks, Jefferson.”

We joined the others in my bedroom.

“Did you have a good discussion?” Elena asked.

Mitzi nodded.

“Good. May I also see you in the other room, Mitzi?”

She nodded. Elena took Mitzi’s hand and led her away.

Everyone stood about, anticipating what was to come.

“So,” I said. “Everybody happy?”

Nervous titters.

The candles were lit.

I smoothed the sheets.

We waited.

Finally, Elena returned with Mitzi. Elena stood her near the bed, then spoke.

“Mitzi, will you remove your pants, please?”

Mitzi nodded shyly, then unzipped her pants. She lowered them, then stepped from the legs.

Jim took her pants and folded them.

“And the top, please.”

Mitzi pulled her shirt over her head, then handed it to Jim. Jim folded the shirt, and stacked it on her pants.

Mitzi stood by the bed in her black bra and tiger-striped panties.

“Mitzi, will you please crouch on the bed, on your hands and knees? Position yourself so that your ass is directed to me.”

Mitzi nodded and did as instructed.

Elena nodded to Lyra. Her girlfriend handed her a roll of bondage tape. Elena unspooled the tape onto Mitzi’s limbs, binding her to herself.

Lyra gently rubbed her body.

I decided to provide a soundtrack. There was already a CD in the player, left over from a pervious sex party. I hit play.

It may come, it may come as some surprise
But I miss you
I could see through, all of your lies
But I still miss you . . .

“Oh Jefferson, no,” Mitzi complained. “You can’t play Sade during my lesbian bondage scene. It’s just too cliché!”

“Shhh,” Elena shushed. “You relax.”

I let Sade play on.

I wondered if we could match such an overplayed album with new images.

Mitzi’s elbows were bound to her knees, her ass elevated. Elena joined Lyra in rubbing her back, then gently eased down her panties.

Her fingers caressed Mitzi’s clit.

“Lyra,” Elena whispered. “Take Mitzi’s slapper.”

Mitzi had brought her favorite spanker, a double leather strap about ten inches long.

Jim passed it to Lyra.

She gingerly rubbed Mitzi’s ass, then spanked her with the straps. Slowly, with an intent focus.

Mitzi exhaled with every slap.

“Nice breathing,” Elena commended, still fingering Mitzi.

Lyra stood with her legs apart. She raised her arm high, bring it down firm and sure.

Mitzi’s body shook under Elena’s hands.

She nodded to Lyra, tossing her head in Jim’s direction. Lyra passed the slapper to Jim for safekeeping.

She leaned over, kissing him full on the mouth.

Elena nodded to me. It was my turn.

I rose from my seat on the floor, and crossed the room to stand before Mitzi’s face.

Elena nodded at my hips.

I unfastened my thick leather belt slowly as Mitzi watched. I stood with my feet apart, gyrating slowly.

I unzipped my jeans.

Elena reached into my pants and pulled out my semi-erect cock.

“Do you see Jefferson’s dick?” Elena asked.

Mitzi nodded.

“Do you know what to do with Jefferson’s dick?”

Mitzi nodded.

“Good.” Elena took Mitzi’s chin in hand, then guided my cock to her mouth.

I was deep and still in Mitzi’s mouth, letting her feel my erection form inside her. I rested my hands on her cheekbones, letting her know that she should keep me deep.

She gagged.

I slapped her gently.

I stood back and undressed. I returned to her face, and fed her my cock once more.

I thrust in and out, holding my hands against her temples. My palms were like blinkers; she could only see me, and my cock.

Nate stroked her hair. “Nice, man. You look good, Mitzi.”

She focused on taking me. Elena caressed Mitzi’s lower back and ass, occasionally fingering her clit.

Elena nodded to Jim.

Jim stood from his chair and lowered his boxers shorts. He reached for a condom and lube.

Mitzi gagged on me as Jim entered her.

Jim’s a tall fellow, with a big cock. He gave it to her gently and deep.

I watched, matching my actions to his.

Mitzi was plugged deeply, my cock in her throat, Jim deep in her cunt.

She came in shudders. He skin was cool and alive with goose pimples.

“Good, Mitzi, good . . .” Elena caressed her.

As that orgasm passed, Jim and I went for more.

I kept her face rigid in my hands. That, and the bondage tape, had her immobile, pinned to take her fucking.

Jim thrust hard and deep.

I did likewise.

As Mitzi approached another orgasm, Elena scratched her flesh gently with fingernails. Mitzi trembled.

Elena turned to Antonio. “Would you bring me a fork, please?”

“Dish rack by the sink,” I murmured.

“Yes, of course,” Antonio said.

When he returned, Elena took the fork loose in her hand, dragging the tines over Mitzi’s spine.

Mitzi nearly buckled from the sensation. I held her face up, firm in my hands.

“You okay?” I asked.

She moaned an affirmative.

I nodded to the others.

Jim dug in to fuck her full throttle. He kept at it, pushing harder towards his own orgasm.

I held her steady, my cock deep in her throat.

Jim pushed, pulled back and thrust.

He held her hips firm as he came.

Mitzi’s nostrils flared as he pulled out. He stepped back, smiling at us.

He left to wash up in the bathroom.

Elena relaxed the restraints, loosening the tape.

“Mitzi, can you lay back please?”

I released her from my hands, removing my cock from her mouth.

Mitzi fell over, breathing deep.

“Are you okay?” Elena asked.

She nodded.

“Good. Now play back please, on the pillows.”

I helped Mitzi to move her torso. She was limp as a rag doll.

Elena signaled to Antonio. “Would you come here, please?” she summoned. “Eat this pussy, gently.”

“Yes, of course.” Antonio crawled forward on the bed, resting his bound arms on his elbows as he moved.

He reached Mitzi’s body, and glanced at her.

She smiled, weakly, as he took her labia in his lips.

I leaned next to Mitzi, holding her head in the crook of an arm.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

“Thank you, Jefferson,” she whispered.

Soon, I was fucking Mitzi, pinning her below my body.

Next to us, Lyra lay on Elena’s back, holding her girlfriend as she blew her ex husband.

The scene was over. Now we were just fucking, coming back to reality.

I fucked Mitzi slow and deep. In time, we stopped.

She needed a smoke in the worst way.

Mitzi and I repaired to the terrace. Antonio served us fresh Cosmos.

We thanked him. He hummed as he left to serve others.

“Jefferson, that was insanely hot,” she said, lighting her cigarette. Her fingers still trembled slightly. “I got kinda lost there.”

“I could tell. You were in good hands, but baby, you were gone.”

She took a drag and nodded. “I know. I think I slipped off when Lyra started fucking me with the strap on.”

I looked at her. “Honey, Lyra didn’t fuck you.”

Mitzi leaned forward. “No way! I thought that was Lyra. Who the hell fucked me?”

I laughed. “Jim.”

“No shit! Huh.” She sat back. She took a drag. “Huh. Well, he can fuck me anytime. That was intense.”

Inside, Jim sat on the couch in his boxers, reading a magazine.

Like us, he was resting for the next round.

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Eric Stanton

Control

One afternoon before collecting the children from school, I met my friend Yael for lunch.

Yael and I work in the same field, and we have known each other for over a decade. We’ve collaborated on more projects than I can count. We are charter members of our mutual admiration society.

In many respects, we have enjoyed parallel careers, but different lives. I am newly divorced with children. She has recently married for the first time, finally making an honest man of her longtime live-in boyfriend. They have no interest in becoming parents.

“Look how gray you are!” I kissed her when we met.

“Isn’t it awful?” she said, hugging me. “And you are too thin.”

“Nah. Live fast and die young, right?”

“I think you are pushing the clock on that aspiration.”

We crammed into a tiny table at Le Pain Quotidien. I let her order for us.

We gossiped over lunch. She is incredibly well connected, which offers a very nice counterpoint to my current state of mind, more concerned with parenting and dating than with networking.

I ate up her gossip, glad to be in the loop on the latest.

She enjoys news on the ongoing soap opera of my new life. I spare the most salacious details, but give her enough to get her going.

We were asked if we wanted coffee or dessert. I agreed to coffee.

“Would you object to sharing a cookie?” Yael asked. “They really are good here.”

I allowed that I would take a nibble.

We were served a chocolate chip cookie the size of saucer. She tore off bits as we talk. I took my requisite nibble.

She claimed the check when it arrived.

“We talked about work,” she said, opening her wallet. “I can expense it.”

“Tell me in advance next time,” I teased, “So I can order without looking at the right side of the menu.”

As we pulled on our coats, I saw that there was still half a cookie left. I wrapped it in a paper napkin.

“Can’t waste a cookie when there are kids to feed.”

“Oh God, yes! Should we get another to go?”

“No, this is just a bonus. No need for more.”

She was heading west, and I was heading east. We hugged at the door.

“I’m glad things are going well with you and the husband,” I said, kissing her cheek.

“Yeah, and good luck with dating,” she replied. “Just remember my advice: it is just as easy to fall for someone wealthy as it is to fall for someone poor.”

I laughed.

“I mean it!” She held up a finger. “Don’t let me hear that you have fallen for a willowy starving artist.”

“I promise. No starving artists for me.”

“Good. Be well, Jefferson.”

I smiled as she walked off.

Yael and I always inspire optimism in one another. I tucked the cookie in my pocket, feeling pretty good about life.

I found Lillie in the schoolyard, huddled against a wall. Her hair was in her face. She looked cross.

“What’s up, Lillie? Are you sad?”

“Mmmrph!” Lillie whined. This signals that she does not want to talk about it.

“Well, maybe you will tell me later. Here,” I reached into my pocket. “You want half this cookie?”

Lillie looked up. “What is it?”

“Chocolate chip.” I broke the cookie in two. “You want?”

She nodded and examined the two halves. One was slightly larger. She took it.

She scrunched back against the wall, crumbs falling on her coat.

“Hey Dad.” Collie tossed his backpack at my feet. “Hey, where did she get that cookie?”

“Same place you got this one,” I said, holding out the napkin.

“Oh yeah, chocolate chip!” Collie grabbed the cookie and took a bite. “So Lillie had an accident in school today.”

“Mmmrph!”

“Is that true, Lillie?” I realized she was sitting so that no one could see the seat of her pants.

She had been having “accidents” lately, at school and in bed. She refuses to go to the bathroom until the very last moment, which is often one moment too late.

“Mmmrph!” She was clearly embarrassed.

“Don’t worry,” I said, lifting the hair from her eyes. “You can put on dry clothes at home.”

“Mmmrph.”

“That’s all I’m saying.”

Collie watched, chewing his cookie.

Lucy was also at school, as she had plans with Collie afterwards. She found us by the wall.

“Hi Collie, Hi Lillie!” she said, ignoring my presence. “How was school? What’s wrong with you, Lillie?”

“She had an accident at school,” Collie said.

“Mmmrph!”

“Oh, did you?” Lucy said, her face darkening. “And where did you get that cookie?”

“Dad gave it to her,” Collie said.

“Oh, he did?” Lucy leaned forward and snatched the cookie from Lillie’s hand, just as she was taking a bite.

“Hey!” Lillie said.

“No cookie for you,” Lucy said, crushing it into crumbs. “You don’t get rewards for having accidents.”

Lucy shot me a look, “you moron” written on her face.

Collie took another bite of his cookie.

“C’mon Collie, we need to go.” Lucy took Collie’s hand and picked up his backpack. She walked away without looking back.

She didn’t see Lillie crying.

“C’mon Lillie,” I whispered. “Let’s go home.”

Lillie stood and put her hand in mine. She kept her eyes on her shoes as we walked.

Lucy says she has a “no tolerance” policy for Lillie’s accidents. She insists that Lillie go to the bathroom at bedtime, and at certain times of the day, whether she needs to go or not. Lillie can pee or not pee, but she will sit on the toilet at those times.

Lucy enlists Lillie’s brothers to help enforce the rule. If she has an accident, the boys are to report it, and to tell Lillie she did a bad thing.

I don’t play along.

I have told the boys they are not to humiliate their sister while they are with me.

Not that it comes up, really. She doesn’t have accidents at my place.

It’s pretty clear to me that this is really a pissing match between mother and daughter. At issue: control.

Lucy is determined to make Lillie control her bladder according to her mother’s demands. Lillie is determined to prove that she is in control of her own bathroom schedule. She won’t bend, even at the cost of wetting herself.

It’s the wrong battle for each of them. Lillie knows that her mother is in control of most things, but she has found one thing that she can control—her body—and she is not budging.

If Lucy listened to me, I would tell her what I tell the boys: if you make a big deal about this, it will become a big deal. If you can treat the symptom—getting to the bathroom on time—without challenging Lillie’s sense of self-control, you will get better results from her.

But Lucy does not listen to me. Lucy continues to confront her daughter, and so Lucy continues to wash sheets every day.

Later that week, Jason celebrated his twelfth birthday.

His mother and I planned a birthday party with his friends on the following weekend, when the kids would be with Lucy. I would join them for football in the snow.

The actual birthday fell on a school day, when the kids were with me.

The day before, Jason came to me holding his cell phone near his ear.

“Dad, are we doing anything special for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Well, I am making burritos, as you requested. Why do you ask?”

“One minute,” Jason said. He spoke into the phone. “Uh yeah, so Dad is making burritos. Okay . . . okay.” He looked back at me. “Can Mom come over tomorrow night?”

“Is that your mother on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure, your mother can come to dinner tomorrow night.”

“Okay. Mom? He says you can come. Okay . . . I’ll ask. Dad, she says she’ll bring cupcakes and be here at six.”

“That’s fine, though we will eat closer to seven thirty.”

“Okay. Mom? He says dinner will be ready at seven thirty. Okay . . . okay . . . Dad, she says she’ll be here at seven.”

“That’s fine, Jason.”

“Mom? He says that’s fine. You need me for anything else, Dad?”

“No, you can finish your conversation with your mother.”

“Thanks.” Jason went off to answer his mother’s questions about the homework he and I had already completed.

Ever since she gave Jason his new cell phone, Lucy has seen no reason to call me about the children. She can get all the information she needs from Jason, and use him as an intermediary when she requires anything specific from me.

She’s got it under control.

The next evening, Lucy arrived with cupcakes and presents.

I gave her a beer as she settled in with the kids. I went back to the kitchen to cook.

“Jason, do you want to open your presents now?” Lucy asked.

“Sure!” he said.

“I want to help!” Collie said.

“Me too!” Lillie said.

“Just a second,” I called, pouring rice into boiling chicken stock. “I can be out in a moment.”

“Hurry, don’t make us wait.” Lucy called.

I covered the rice, lowered the heat and wiped my hands. “On my way.”

When Lillie saw me, she grabbed a package and began to tear into it.

“No, Lillie,” Lucy said, taking the package. “You need to wait! These are Jason’s presents. Control yourself.”

“But I want to . . . ,“ Lillie began.

“I don’t care what you want, you need to wait.”

Lillie crossed her arms and frowned.

“You can be as mad as you want, but you need to control yourself,” Lucy said.

Lillie stuck out her tongue.

Lucy stuck out her tongue.

Lillie looked around.

She began to cry.

She ran to her bedroom.

“Hang on, guys,” I said, and followed.

Lillie was curled on a pillow, sucking her thumb and holding a blanket. She sobbed as tears ran down her cheeks.

I sat next to her.

“I’m sorry that made you sad,” I said, petting her hair. “You know Jason will let you open presents. We just need to take turns.”

“Mom is so mean,” she sobbed. “I hate her.”

“I know you are sad about that. Why don’t you take a moment to recover? We will wait until you join us to open presents. Okay?”

She sniffed and nodded.

I returned to the living room.

“Should I talk to her, or will that make it worse?” Lucy asked.

“Let’s give her a minute. Do you mind waiting, Jason?”

Jason shrugged.

“Well, I think I should talk to her,” Lucy said, standing. She went to the bedroom.

A few minutes later, she came out, holding Lillie’s hand. Lillie held her blanket, her thumb in her mouth.

Jason offered his sister a present to open.

She took it, and slowly tore away the paper.

Lucy was very talkative at dinner. She’s usually loquacious, all the more so when she is nervous.

I watched as she spoke with the kids. Her rapid speech had the kids rushing to keep up.

They were like other children in their interactions with her.

Lucy prodded Jason for details about his tardy return home that evening.

“There’s no story there, Mom,” he replied, sullen.

“That makes me think there must be a story!” Lucy laughed.

“Mom, I am telling you: there is no story. None.”

“Okay, now you have to tell me the story.”

Collie’s head moved back and forth as he followed their volleys.

“Mom, read my lips.” Jason was agitated. His voice rose. “There. Is. No. Story!”

“So why were you late?”

“I. Missed. The. Bus. I. Took. Another. Bus. The. End.”

“Why didn’t you just say that, then?”

“Urgh!” Jason threw up his hands, rolling his eyes.

Before dinner was over, Lucy had Collie in tears over something having to do with a turtle.

Lillie tried to interrupt, but was told to wait her turn.

Her turn never came.

I cleared the table.

We served cupcakes, with candles for all the children.

Shortly after, Lucy left.

“Thanks for dinner, Jefferson,” she said at the door.

“Sure,” I said.

I closed the door, locking it for the night.

The next day, Lucy called MCI and cut off my phone service.

When my phone died recently, Lucy overreacted by emailing her parents and mine to complain of my “irresponsibility” and inaccessibility.

I had learned of Lucy’s panic only after replacing the broken phone.

Our families wrote off Lucy’s behavior as one of those things.

As she fretted about her lack of control over my telephone, she realized that my phone bill was in her name. This was a hangover of our days with a shared bank account. I had never switched the service over to my new bank account; it simply never occurred to me to do so.

Lucy insisted that the service be put in my name exclusively. Fair enough.

MCI required that we both be on the phone to authorize the transfer. Fair enough.

It didn’t occur to us to make a three-way phone call. Instead, we decided to make the call one day when we were together, presumably when transferring the kids.

Unfortunately, she is barely speaking to me, and so our interactions are as succinct as possible. We are usually distracted when dropping off or picking up the kids, and so we neglected to take care of the phone.

Now and then, she would email terse reminders that this needed to be done. Each time, I agreed, saying we should remember then next time we were together.

We remembered one afternoon. Lucy made the call, but grew impatient with MCI’s automated process. “I don’t have time for this,” she complained, closing her cell phone. “We’ll do it next time.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “No rush.”

We forgot once again on the night she invited herself to dinner for Jason’s birthday. Apparently, it was not a huge priority.

But somehow, it became a priority for Lucy the next day. With no further notice to me, she cancelled the service.

One month, she panics because my phone is temporarily out of service.

The next, she discontinues my service.

As her father told me over the holidays: these things don’t make sense. This is just how they are.

I contacted MCI to continue the service. I was told this would not be a problem, so long as Lucy and I were on the line to authorize the change in her order to cancel the service.

We had three days to do so, or I would lose my telephone number.

I sent Lucy an email. I reminded her that my number is an emergency contact for the children, and said we now had the exact same situation—we had to make this call—but now we had a deadline.

She agreed to stop at my place after work.

Six o’clock passed.

Seven o’clock.

I called her. She was home.

She had forgotten.

Okay, I said. I will come to your office tomorrow. She agreed.

The next afternoon, I left my work to travel across town. We called MCI. She cancelled her order to discontinue service. I authorized service to continue in my name. It took half an hour of passing a cell phone back and forth, but it was settled.

A month later, I was at my desk when Meg sent an instant message.

“Dude, your phone is disconnected.”

I picked up my phone. It was dead.

I contacted MCI. They had no record of our call to cancel Lucy’s order. The service had been discontinued, per her original instruction.

The phone could be back in service, I was told, in about two weeks. But the number was lost.

Verizon said a new number could be had in a few days.

MCI lost a customer.

Bridget helped me to pick out a new number. It is incredibly easy to remember.

A few days later, my new phone number was up and running.

That same day, I lost my DSL.

That account had been linked to the original number. When that number vanished, the DSL went with it.

The DSL had been a gift from Shelby, my jailbait girlfriend and IT Director, as part of her continuing efforts to bring me into this new century.

Shelby was pissed to hear the news that her good work had been undone. She contacted Verizon, the DSL provider, and learned that a new contract would be necessary, as my new phone number represented a new account.

Service could resume in about one week.

I contacted schools, friends, family and colleagues with my new number.

I waited for my DSL to return.

I was furious at Lucy for being so unnecessarily vindictive and impulsive.

But my fury passed. I reflected on how fortunate I am to have such good friends to help with this situation.

And I looked on the bright side:

Now, my phone is one more thing no longer in Lucy’s control.

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Friends

The girls were still asleep when I returned home from taking the kids to school.

I kicked off my shoes, hung my coat, and put on a kettle for coffee.

I settled to work, but I could not let the girls sleep too late. It was their last day in the city, and we still had many things to do.

The giggling began around ten.

I brought them coffee, expressing the optimistic hope that we could be out the door by eleven.

Two coffees, two showers, two blow dries later, we were on our way by a quarter til.

Our first stop was Rockefeller Center.

We weren’t concerned with the tree. We had seen that on their first night in town, having walked up from Times Square.

That first night, they were duly impressed with the backdrop. I photographed them in front of the tree twice, once for each of their cameras.

I must have looked like a good photographer, as a Portuguese family asked me to snap them as well, with their camera, of course.

As we walked back towards Sixth Avenue, I pointed out the Today show set.

“Yeah, I never watch that,” Rachel said.

“Me neither,” Stevie said.

“Nor I,” I said. “But I’m just the tour guide here, just pointing out the sights. Maybe we should be thinking about a cab . . .”

I looked back down the street, not watching where I was going.

I walked full into Stevie.

“Oh, geez, I’m sorry, are you okay?”

She seemed not to notice.

“Whoa.” She looked up at a window.

“Yeah, wow.” Rachel said.

“What?” I asked.

Rachel pointed up at a life-sized cardboard cut out of Sam Waterson. “Do they seriously sell ‘Friends’ stuff?”

“Um, sure. That’s the NBC Store.”

Rachel looked at Stevie. “Okay, we are so coming back here when they are open.”

Stevie pointed. “Oh my God, they have ‘Scrubs’ stuff!”

They spent long moments marveling at the NBC merchandise—more time than they spent gazing at the nine-story Christmas tree.

And so it was that their final day in New York began with a trip to the NBC Store, or rather, the “NBC Experience,” as it is marketed.

They shopped, pulling one another from one array to t-shirts to another. I dawdled at the skimpy bookcases, filled with titles by Al Roker and stars of “Days of Our Lives.”

I watched Milton Berle on a vintage monitor. And Bob Hope.

That reminded me, I keep meaning to pick up the Gary Giddins biography of Bing Crosby. Such an interesting subject for a biography, I thought . . . one could really follow much of twentieth century pop culture through the crooner’s career . . .

“Hey Dad!”

“Huh? Oh, yes, Rachel?”

“Spacing out there?”

“Maybe so. Finding anything?”

“Yeah, lots! We’re going upstairs. They have a thing where you can get your picture made on the ‘Friends’ couch.”

“Oh, cool. I’ll come along.”

Rachel and Stevie picked up coffee cups and posed on green blocks against a green backdrop. A man pushed a button, and the girls watched a monitor as the Central Perk appeared around them.

“Awesome!” Rachel said.

“Smile!” the man called.

The girls picked up two sets of prints, a couple of t-shirts and some magnets.

“That was pretty cool!” Stevie said as we hit the street.

“Yeah, we’ll have to wear our shirts when we watch your first season DVDs.”

“Yeah, and drink coffee in my CNN mug.”

“How cool is that?”

“You girls hungry?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m starved,” Rachel said.

“Good. Let’s take the subway one stop.”

We came up at Macy’s.

“Oh, I’ve been here!” Rachel said, looking up.

“Oh, many times,” I agreed. “But you’ve never been to the place we’re going. It’s Little Korea.”

“What, like Chinatown?” Stevie asked.

“Sorta,” I said.

“Cool,” she smiled.

Midway down Thirty-second Street, we climbed the stairs to Kam Tang Kalbi House. (My dear gourmet Viviane had recommended the best barbeque of the street.) The tables were filled with Korean businessmen. We were seated near the kitchen in the back.

“Yeoboseyo,” the hostess smiled, distributing menus. “Welcome. You want soda, or tea? Water?”

Rachel and Stevie looked at one another. “We’ll take water,” Rachel said.

“All around,” I agreed. “And tea is nice.”

The hostess looked at me for a moment. “Okay, three water.”

I nodded. “Yes,and tea. Thanks. Kamsahamnida.” She smiled, bowed and left.

Rachel looked at the menu. “Please tell me you are going to order, Dad.”

“Sure. How about some chicken, some beef and some pork?”

“Okay, that’s fine,” Stevie said, opening the envelope on her napkin. “Hey, are we eating with chopsticks?”

“Looks like,” Rachel said.

“Awesome. What do you do, just break them apart? I’ve never used chopsticks.”

“Here, let me show you,” Rachel offered.

The girls practiced as I pondered the menu.

The hostess returned with the water. “You ready order?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. I pointed to barbecued beef.

“Eh,” the hostess began, looking around. “Um, this . . . no delicious.”

“Oh, not delicious, huh? Well, how about this?” I pointed to barbecued steak.

“Yes,” she wrote in her pad. “Very delicious.”

“Oh, good. And here we’ll have this chicken . . . and this pork and kimchi stew.”

“Good, all delicious.”

“Great!” She collected our menus and left.

“What were you getting that wasn’t delicious, Dad?”

“I’m not sure, but we sure dodged that bullet,” I said.

We were served an array of salads, including kimchi, soy grass, and bean sprouts.

“Whoa,” Stevie said, looking over the dishes. “Which one is the chicken?”

“These are more like side dishes for what is to come,” I said, clicking my chopsticks. “Some are spicy, some are cool. Try it with your sticks, and have your water handy. This,” I lifted some kimchi, “I love this shit.”

We dug into the kimchi.

“That’s hot!” Stevie said, chewing as she covered her open mouth. She did a great job with chopsticks. “Like a hot pickle.”

“Nice, right?”

“I love it,” she said, her eyes tearing.

Stevie and I were, like, fast friends.

Rachel laughed.

The main courses arrived. The chicken was placed in front of Rachel, the steak in front of Stevie. In front of me was a stew simmering over a Sterno.

“Just take what you want and drop it over your rice,” I said. “Douse the rice in soy sauce if you like. We all eat everything.”

“Is this the soy sauce?” Stevie asked. She dipped a finger and licked it. “God, that is good.”

She poured a dish into her rice.

My new friend is a savory.

The girls dug in.

As they ate, they traded quick asides about the men around us. One was cute, Stevie said, adding: “unless he is a panty sniffer.”

“Hey yeah, what was up with that? What happened at the cabins?”

Stevie looked a Rachel. “What, you didn’t tell him?”

“I know the basics,” I said. “But I’d like to hear it all from your point of view.”

Rachel picked up some steak and wrapped it in lettuce.

“Okay,” she took a bite. “So my bosses’ nephew David moved in . . .”

“Creepy David,” Stevie amended, taking a lettuce leaf.

“Yeah, so creepy David moved in.”

“How old was he?” I asked.

“Twenty six. So he moved into the cabin next to mine. And so one day, Stevie and I were walking past his cabin, and the door was open. He has cats, so we were like, let’s shut the door before they get out.”

“Yeah,” Stevie chewed. “And then we saw it . . . “

“ . . . in a pile, under the bed . . . “

“ . . . mostly pink.”

“What?” I asked.

“A bunch of my panties!” Rachel said. “Under the bed!”

“Jesus, seriously?”

“Seriously. So we took them back to my place and called Dad”—Rachel’s other father—“who came right over. He told us to put the panties back and called my bosses. So soon they came over, with creepy David. Dad showed them what we found.”

“Good call.”

“They were totally freaked. David was really embarrassed.”

“Creepy David,” I added, instinctively.

“Creepy David, yeah. So they decided to talk about it.”

“Yeah,” Stevie added. “Here’s the thing. I work for them too, so in the mornings at work I heard a lot of this.”

“Yeah, Stevie told me some of this. So anyway, they finally said, look, we have to keep our nephew David around. So you need to keep this a secret.”

“A secret?”

“Yeah, like, if we talked about it in church, or at work, they said they would fire us.”

“What, both of you?”

“Yeah.”

“They said they would fire you both if either one of you talked about this?”

“Yeah.”

“At church, even?”

“Yeah.”

I looked at Stevie. “That is totally fucked up.”

“Seriously,” she agreed, tugging chicken with her chopsticks.

“So anyway, I quit working for them.”

“Well, I can see why.”

“They got David into counseling with our pastor, but it didn’t last long. He moved to Florida a few weeks later.”

“So what, he’s just gone? You had to move, you lost your job, and you had to deal with that threat from your bosses? And he moves to Florida?”

“Yeah.” Rachel picked up some steak in a lettuce leaf. “Sucks.”

“You must’ve been angry.”

She shrugged.

“I wanted to kill him,” Stevie said.

“No doubt,” I said. I looked at Rachel. “Are you okay, baby?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s over, so whatever. I’ll get a new job.”

“You won’t work for them any more?”

She chewed. “Oh, no way. That was too wrong.”

“It was. You did the right thing. But Jesus, honey.”

“I know. Anyway, you want that last steak?”

“Take it.”

We took the check and went to get the kids.

On the way home, I had a surprise.

“You girls want to do a little celebrity sighting?” I asked as we took the bus across town.

“Sure!” Stevie sat up, looking around. “Who?”

“Howard Stern, right Dad?” my son asked.

“If you want,” I shrugged.

“You know Howard Stern?” Rachel asked.

“No, I don’t know Howard Stern. But I know where you can see him, if you like.”

“Oh my God, yes!” she replied.

The kids giggled. They knew I was grandstanding. We would see Howard Stern whether or not she wanted it. It’s a weekly ritual.

We arrived at the specific corner just a few moments early. Stern’s limo stood waiting.

“You know who Howard Stern is?” my youngest daughter asked.

“Yeah,” Rachel smiled. “Do you?”

“Sure, we see him every week!” she laughed. “He’s tall. That’s his car. It’s big, right?”

“It is big,” Stevie agreed. “I guess because he is so tall?”

“I guess!” she agreed.

“Okay!” my youngest son shouted, running to us. “Here he comes!”

Howard Stern came around the corner.

The limo driver opened the door.

Rachel and Stevie snapped photographs.

The door closed.

Howard Stern was driven into traffic as the girls waved and laughed.

“Did he see us?” Stevie asked.

“Oh, he saw you,” I said. “Did you notice how coolly he ignored you?”

“That was so cool,” Rachel said.

Two hours later, I put the girls on a bus back home. Stevie hugged me. “Thanks, Jefferson! I had such fun.”

“Stevie, honey, anytime you want to sleep in my bed, it’s yours.”

She laughed. “Now I wish I weren’t getting married. I could be Rachel’s stepmom”

“Maybe your marriage will end soon,” I said. “Then we can talk.” I took Rachel’s face in my hands and kissed her. “Bye honey.”

“Bye Dad. Thanks.”

“Thank you darling. I love you too much.”

“I know, same here.”

The bus was still boarding as I headed to the subway.

Life is not what I envisioned it might be when Rachel turned eighteen.

Still, life is pretty good.

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Eternal Sunshine

The shower was running, as it had for nearly forty minutes.

From my bedroom came the sound of a hair dryer. The girls had each packed one, just as they had each packed individual assortments of identical toiletries, just as they had each packed two changes of clothes for each of the three days they were to be in the city.

Their oversized suitcases sat side by side under the window in my bedroom.

I took my coffee to my desk, answering email as the girls went through their morning routines.

As they drank their coffee in bed before showering, we had gone over their plans for the day. They had many things they wanted to do in the city, and so little time. I helped them to organize an itinerary, taking into account the proximate location of each destination.

They needed a little guidance to realize they could only get to so many things. We had to prioritize.

I also dropped an enticing tidbit.

I had set aside the day to be their tour guide. Of course, I was happy to do it, and really enjoyed the time with my daughter and her best friend.

But, I suggested, if they wanted to do a few things on their own . . .

I laid out a plan that would fill their morning with selected activities, all accessible without public transportation.

“We are with your siblings this evening,” I reminded Rachel. “And tomorrow is your last day. I can take you around to do the remaining things tomorrow, of course.”

I could hear them discussing options in the next room as they dressed.

Rachel came out and dropped into a chair near mine. She looked out then window, then down at the floor. “Okay, so, Dad, we think we are cool with being on our own today.”

“Are you sure? I’m happy to join you if you prefer.” I knew they were itching to strike out on their own, but I had to offer.

“No, we’re cool. I mean, it will just be boring for you, girls shopping and all.”

“Well, if you are sure . . .”

“Yeah, it’s cool. We’ll be fine.”

“I know you will. Let me give you a few directions, okay? And call me if you get turned around.”

I directed Rachel to the “glass mall.” I planned to meet them there after lunch, walk them to Wollman Rink in Central Park, and leave them to skate as I picked up the kids. We’d meet back at my place around four, just before dark.

Rachel took in this plan, clearly happy with this turn of events. She conveyed the plan back to Stevie with calm reserve, as if it was no big deal for her to stroll around New York City on her own.

I watched from the window as the girls walked arm and arm up the street, wearing gloves, hats and scarves on an unseasonably warm morning.

My baby girl! We didn’t make a big deal about it, but this was her first solo venture into the city.

Jason is six years her junior and already able to get to and from school, the store and a few friends’ homes. I don’t bite my nails about that anymore; no use, as they were stubs anyway.

But Rachel is the country mouse among my litter.

I remember her as a little girl visiting us in the city. She would gleefully push all the buttons in elevators, just to see if the numbers would really light up.

I remember calling her name as she ran to the curb, knowing she had no experience with traffic signals.

I remember the way she covered her ears as the subway trains approached the station.

“You so country, sugar,” I would say.

Now here she was, smart, independent and days from turning eighteen. She was walking a few blocks along the safest streets in the world.

Still—my baby girl!

I watched until they were out of view.

I sat back with my coffee and worked, killing time until I could meet the girls after lunch.

“You having fun?” I asked when we met. I kissed them each on the cheek.

“We sure are,” Stevie beamed. “I could only afford one thing at that mall, though. Check it out—a CNN coffee mug!”

“That’s pretty cool,” I admired, guiding our way across Columbus Circle. “And so now you are off to skate.”

“I am so going to bust ass,” Stevie fretted, returning her mug to its bag. “I’ve never ice skated.”

Rachel laughed.

“Yeah, you’ll bust ass,” I said. “And you’ll get up and bust ass again. Just don’t blow Rachel’s cool. She hates it when I do that.”

“Not a problem, Dad,” Rachel said. “I mean, yes, a problem with you, but, well . . . you know . . .” She let her zinger sink in.

“Are you insinuating that I am uncool, young lady?”

“No, I mean . . . “ She shrugged. “Well, you said it, I didn’t.”

“Well, I never! I’ll have you know I am very ‘with it,’ as the kids say, very ‘hep’ to what you are ‘putting down.’ I can readily ‘get jiggy with it,’ because I know when it is ‘hammer time’ . . .”

Rachel stopped in her tracks. “Are you done yet?”

“No, I can go on and on, just ‘keeping it real,’ you know, just ‘laying down a back beat,’ you know, just ‘hands up’ on our ‘rap session’ . . .”

“We get it, Dad.” Rachel kept a straight face as Stevie laughed.

I shrugged. “All reet. Don’t blow a gasket, gidget.”

“Dad! Enough!”

“Just saying.”

“Fine, fine. You are cool. All right?”

“If you say so, sweet peach.”

We bantered our way into the park. We faced down the line at the ice skating rink.

Winter trees and the city skyline were etched against a clear blue sky.

The girls got their tickets and skates.

I took their parcels so they would not worry about them in rented lockers.

I kissed cheeks and left them to be best friends.

I walked north though the park.

Lillie ran up to me in the school yard.

“Daddy, Daddy!” I crouched as if to catch her in my arms. When she was steps from me, I turned and ran away, hell hounds on my trail.

“Dad!” Lillie ran after.

“No, no, make it stop!” I shouted back. I lifted my knees high, running like a Keystone Kop.

“Dad!”

“What?” I stopped and turned, standing stock still, not a care in the world.

Lillie jumped in my arms.

“Pick me up, old man!” she laughed.

“I picked you up, stinky girl.”

Lillie looked over my shoulder. “Where’s Rachel?”

“Rachel is meeting us at home. She is ice skating with her friend.”

Lillie pulled back in my arms. “I don’t want to go ice skating.”

“We won’t, it’s just Rachel and her friend. Where’s Collie?”

“I don’t know where he is,” she replied, looking around. I put her down and took her hand.

“Let’s find him,” I said.

She led me to her brother. He was playing ball, as he always was after school.

“Hey Collie!” I waved.

“Hey Dad.” He ran over. “Mom said she would be over later for dinner.”

“Oh, is your mom coming for dinner?”

“Yeah, she wants to see Rachel.”

“Okay, great!”

I knew Lucy would want to see her. Rachel had mentioned that Lucy was planning to take her out for dinner. This was the most I had heard about a plan.

Naturally, these days Lucy makes plans with the children without consulting me.

Now I had two conflicting reports. Was Lucy talking Rachel and Stevie to dinner, or was she joining us for dinner at my place?

Common courtesy suggests I should be in the loop on this decision.

Barring courtesy, I needed to know if I was preparing dinner for four or seven.

I contacted Lucy.

“Hey Lucy. Rachel is looking forward to seeing you. So what’s the deal? Are you taking her and her friend out, or are you coming over for dinner?”

“Can I just come over? I’m too tired to do a whole night out with them. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine, no big deal. I have wine. If you want beer, can you bring it?”

“I can bring beer, sure. Is seven good?”

“Seven is fine. See you then.”

“Okay.”

Click.

We waited for Jason to join us, then headed to the bus.

We had to make a stop at Fairway.

The sun was setting as the girls called. They were late, but blocks away. They arrived with the happy news that neither had fallen, not even once.

“You didn’t bust ass your first time on ice?” I asked Stevie.

“Nope!”

“Call the Ice Follies, sister, because you have a God given talent.”

The kids had finished their homework. They were eager to soak up Rachel’s attention.

I poured a glass of cabernet and washed basil.

The pesto was ready when Lucy arrived.

She said hello and handed me a bag of beer. I took the bag to the kitchen and opened a beer, bringing it to her as she settled in with Rachel and Stevie.

“You girls want some wine?” I asked as Lucy took her bottle.

“Sure, that sounds nice,” Stevie began.

“Jefferson, no, no!” Lucy admonished. “They can’t have wine! They are underage—Jefferson!”

“Oh, right. Sorry about that girls. Water?”

“No, we’re cool,” Rachel motioned.

I boiled pasta and grated cheese. I prepared a salad. I softened butter for a baquette, which I cut at an angle to present larger slices.

We were too large a group to eat at the table, so we camped around the coffee table in the living room.

“I’ve never had this,” Stevie said, twirling another fork full. “I’ve just had pesto in mayonnaise. It’s so good.”

“Thanks,” I smiled.

We spoke softly under the noise surrounding us.

The kids were excited to see Rachel, and happy with the novelty of having Mom at Dad’s apartment.

Lucy was trying to draw out Rachel over bites full of food. She was curious about school and life at home, never mind the recent controversy that drove her from her first apartment.

Lucy and I were both hungry for the details on that, but this was neither the time nor place.

Lillie slathered butter on bread slice after bread slice, devouring them in hungry bites. For once, the grown ups were too preoccupied to chaperone her infatuation with butter.

Lucy’s conversation with Rachel was punctuated with interruptions. Eventually, she gave in, frustrated that she could not have a private conversation at so public a table.

It was, after all, a family reunion.

After dinner, I collected the dishes.

Stevie nibbled the remains of the salad with her fingers.

“This is the best salad I’ve ever had,” she said, eying the bowl.

“Take another plate, if you want,” I said.

“No, I’m cool,” she said, stuffing another leaf in her mouth. “What is this dressing?”

“It’s store bought—Newman’s Own Olive Oil and Vinegar.”

“Cool,” she chewed, reaching for a tomato. “Newsmansome rocks.”

“Oh, it’s ‘Newman’s Own,’ you know, like Paul Newman.”

“Whatever, he rocks.”

I left the salad bowl to Stevie and stacked the dishes in the kitchen.

After dinner, the kids treated everyone to the floor show.

Jason pulled up ”Lazy Sunday,” which his mother hadn’t seen. He rapped along, laughing.

I was in the kitchen, so I skipped playing Chris Parnell to my shaggy son’s Andy Samberg.

Collie followed up with his presentation of the Hustle.

I was surprised Lucy had not seen this.

For two years, our middle child has done a spot on choreography of the Hustle. He performs this in sunglasses and a velour purple paisley jacket I bought as a joke to wear on New Year’s Eve, nineteen-eighty-nevermind.

Jason was the DJ to his brother’s disco fever.

Lillie laughed and danced along, flubbing every clap and kick.

This played through twice before Lucy was ready to call it a night. It was late, already nine thirty on a school night.

“Okay kids, I need to go. Come say good night.”

Lucy made the rounds. Rachel was kissed and wished good luck. Stevie was told it was nice to meet her. The kids were kissed in turn.

Collie cried as his mom waved from the door.

The kids looked at me as the door closed.

Mom was gone.

“Dad, can I check the score?” Jason knows his mom doesn’t allow media on a school night. But it was playoffs.

“Yes, fifteen minutes.”

“And can we . . . ?” Stevie asked.

“Bottle’s in the kitchen.”

“Will you carry me?” Lillie asked.

“Absolutely not,” I said, picking her up.

Half an hour later, the kids were in bed. I had a bourbon in hand, watching “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

Stevie had brought her favorite movie. The three of us were in pajamas.

“So, is that about typical with Lucy?” Rachel asked.

“No, that was very nice,” I said.

Rachel watched Jim Carrey erase Kate Winslett from his memory.

“Weird.”

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Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Tourists

I was working at my desk, and already on my second cup of coffee, when I heard giggling from my bedroom.

The girls were up.

It was a little after ten. I had assumed they would sleep longer after our late night together.

I saved my work and went to the kitchen. I opened a cabinet and pulled down two cups.

The girls take their coffee as I do, strong, with sugar and half and half.

I stirred, humming as a stream of sugar vanished into a whirl. I tapped the spoon twice on the lip of each cup.

I carefully lifted the cups and made my way to the bedroom.

I rapped on the door with my foot.

"Are you decent?" I called.

"No, never." More giggles. "But come on in."

I nudged the door with my shoulder. "I thought you might want some coffee."

"Oh!" Stevie said, tossing her hair as she sat up. "I could get used to room service."

"Only the finest," I smiled, placing the cup on her nightstand.

Stevie was a tourist, on her first visit to New York. Her naive awe of the city made her seem younger than her twenty years.

I made my way to the other side of the bed, the side where I sleep.

"Good morning," I smiled to Stevie's best friend.

I put the coffee on the nightstand and leaned forward to kiss her.

Stevie's friend was a blond beauty, also a tourist, just a few days shy of her eighteenth birthday.

Her braces showed as she smiled. I caressed the hair from her face.

"Did you sleep well, love?" I asked.

"Yeah, fine," she said sitting up. "Thanks for the coffee, Dad."

My daughter Rachel was in town.

Rachel brought along Stevie—and yes, she was named for Stevie Nicks—to introduce her best friend to her "other" family and the city she has come to know over so many visits throughout her childhood

I surrendered my bedroom to the girls, and bunked on the couch.

This was the first time she brought a friend to the city, and I was keen to make it special. It could only bode well for the frequency of future visits if Rachel regarded my place as an urban pied-a-terre for herself and her pals.

Rachel lives in a small town, a place where friendships can be a tad incestuous.

Rachel's best friend Stevie has a younger brother who is Rachel's new boyfriend.

Rachel's new boyfriend is the best friend of two of her younger brothers.

Rachel tells me it can get a complicated.

Sometimes her boyfriend comes over to skateboard with her brothers, and she feels left out. Sometimes her brothers feel neglected when he comes over to listen to music in her room, the door left ajar to allow her mother's frequent peeks, "just checking in."

"It's not like we're doing anything anyway," Rachel says. "I mean, he's only fifteen."

Their visit was to last only a few days, but the girls had arrived with a hefty agenda.

Stevie wanted to see Times Square and the tree at Rockefeller Center, and to go ice skating in Central Park, "if," she added, "we won't get mugged there."

Rachel wanted to go shopping at St Mark's Place, and to visit the "glass mall" we toured on her most recent trip.

(It took me a while to ascertain that the phrase "glass mall" referred to the new Time Warner Center.)

Somewhere along the way, they would also need to spend time with my kids and my ex.

Their first night was the only one we would have on our own as a trio. I had a few items to add to their agenda.

Stevie beamed as we took the subway to Christopher Street. She whispered to Rachel,

"Everyone is New York is so fine."

"I know," Rachel replied, knowingly. "They walk a lot and wear black."

"That's cool," Stevie said, holding her bag close to her raspberry coat.

As we walked through Washington Square Park, Stevie noticed a sign for New York University.

"Oh, too bad the Olsen twins dropped out, we might see them."

"Yeah, keep your eyes open for celebrities anyway," Rachel said. "They all live down here."

"Actually, my boyfriend Peter Sarsgaard lives nearby," I said.

"He's my boyfriend, not yours," Rachel corrected. "Can we stop by and see him?"

"I though you hadJake Gyllenhaal?" I asked.

"Him too, he's mine too. Hey, can we see 'Brokeback Mountain' up here? I really don't think it's going to come to the Podunk Palace Multiplex back home."

"If we have time, I'm game," I said.

Rachel looked at me, smiling. "What did you say?"

"Game. I said 'I'm gay-MUH.' Listen for the final consonant."

Stevie listened to our banter. "Wait, who is Peter . . . ,"

"Oh cool, look," Rachel interrupted. "A tattoo store. Can we go in?"

"Yeah," I said. "Let's browse the flash."

"Wait," Stevie asked, "what's flash?"

"Stevie's got two tattoos, you know," Rachel said, raising an eyebrow to me.

"Really? Let's see," I asked. "Here, under this street lamp."

I will always take that bait.

Stevie lifted her jacket and shirt and bent forward to show the ornate sprawl on her lower back, then turned and lowered her waistband to show the flower on her lower torso.

I stooped for a closer look. "Nice work," I admired, politely.

"Thanks," she said, lowering her shirt in place. "My fiancé talked me into the second one."

Twenty, tattooed and betrothed.

There are times I miss the South.

We stopped in shops as we walked towards dinner, the girls admiring overpriced hand-painted jeans and cheap mass-produced sunglasses. I fell back, allowing them time together. I was content to be the third wheel.

Though I did my share of steering.

"Hey, a friend of mine is doing some editing over at that Starbucks," I said. "Mind if we say hello?"

"Sure," Rachel shrugged.

"We'll make her buy us coffee," I elbowed her.

"Hmmmm," Stevie smiled. "Caffe mocha light."

At the Starbuck's, I knocked on the glass.

Bridget looked up.

"Well, hello, Jefferson," she smiled, as we entered the door.

I kissed her cheek, and introduced the girls.

"Hi Rachel, I've heard so much about you," Bridget said, scooting over to make room for more chairs. "Nice to meet you Stevie. You girls want anything? Some hot chocolate?"

"Well," Rachel's eyes scoured the menu. "We were thinking caffe mocha light . . ."

"Sounds good." Bridget palmed a twenty my way. "You, boy. Go get coffee. We have girl talk."

They were laughing as I returned with three cups.

They talked as we drank our coffee.

Now I was a fourth wheel.

Bridget was taking to her new privilege as an insider in my family.

Rachel was no doubt filing queries about Dad's friend.

We finished our coffees and took our leave. Bridget had her work to do, and I wanted to get the girls fed reasonably early. We had a full night ahead.

As the girls put on their coats, I leaned over to kiss Bridget.

"Rachel is adorable, and yes, she looks exactly like you," Bridget whispered. "And by the way—the girls just saw you kiss me."

"People kiss in New York," I smiled. "It's sophisticated."

"Just be ready for questions."

"We'll see. Take care. Good luck with your work. Thanks for the coffee."

"Have fun, sweet boy."

I walked a few steps behind the girls as they admired windows and vendors' stalls.

That was okay, I thought. Short but sweet.

Maybe my secret life can be not so secret with Rachel. At least a little bit.

"Jefferson?"

I turned. It was Thomas.

Thomas: the sex party twink who loves the trannies.

"What brings you to my neighborhood?" he asked.

"I'm here with my daughter," I replied, pointing ahead. "And her friend."

"Really? Huh. Man, I have to meet your daughter."

"If you behave," I intoned.

I was kidding, but half serious—for two years he has admired Rachel's photographs on my refrigerator door. He stands naked in my kitchen and asks, "So how long before she's legal?"

I usually reply that I am not setting up my daughter with anyone I've blown, so eyes off, faggot.

Perverts are lost without scruples.

"Rachel? Stevie?" I called. "Hang on, I want you to meet my friend Thomas."
We caught up. He shook their hands and introduced himself.

The girls smiled that smile girls smile when meeting someone very cute.

"So what are you guys up to?" Thomas asked.

"Nothing much," Rachel said. "Just looking at stuff, on our way to get something to eat."

"Yeah, I was just on my way to grab some dinner too."

Rachel and Stevie looked at me. Thomas looked at me.

I supposed this would be all right.

"Thomas, if you don't have other plans, would you like to join us? We're going out for Indian."

"I like Indian," Thomas said, nodding at the girls. "I know a good place on Avenue A."

"That's very likely the place we have in mind," I said. "Come on."

As we walked, Rachel described the restaurant to her Stevie, who was a little trepidatious. She had warned me that she didn't like "weird" food, as all tourists will say, but she was open to all the major food groups, so Rachel and I were determined to broaden her horizons a bit.

I could imagine that Thomas was also willing to broaden her horizons.

We climbed the stairs to the restaurant. We had warned Stevie to ignore the shouts of competing maitres d', encouraging us to choose their doors over the one we selected.

We were seated. Stevie marveled at the dense tent of lights overhead.

"Cool, right?" Rachel giggled.

"Weird, but very cool," Stevie agreed.

I described a few dishes, as the girls had decided I would order for them. Thomas made his selection.

He was very quiet.

Thomas is funny like that. He's a performer with a great sense of humor, yet he is also shy with new people. That's as true at a dinner as it is at an orgy. He tends to listen and watch, observing people and their interactions. You know he is at ease when he begins dropping well-placed one-liners into the conversation.
I knew to take the lead until he warmed up.

After we ordered, I remembered that we had failed to pick up beer for dinner. The
Indian restaurants of Sixth Avenue generally lack liquor licenses, so diners must bring their own beer or wine.

"I think I want beer," I said. "Thomas?"

He said that would be great and started to stand. “No, sit,” I said. “Talk. I’m just walking downstairs I’ll be right back.” I excused myself, nodding to Thomas. He would just have to fend for himself with these chatty tourists.

"So, how do you know Dad?" Rachel asked after I left.

"Oh, we just know each other," Thomas gulped. "So, how was the trip?"

Thomas was listening to the girls talk when I returned.

"Everything all right?" I said, unpacking two Kingfishers.

"Yeah, cool," Rachel said.

I poured the beers. The girls excused themselves to the restroom.

Thomas took a sip. "Man, you didn't tell me Stevie was engaged. How am I supposed to score here?"

"You aren't supposed to score. You are just here to pretty up the joint. Be nice and make nice talk."

"Your daughter looks just as Aryan Nation as you."

"Yeah, if I were young and pretty, I'd be her."

"Too bad she's not a slut like you."

"You want to take this outside? Behave."

The girls joined us. We had ordered a round of appetizers, including the sweet crunchy banana pakoras Rachel likes.

Thomas relaxed and kept the girls laughing.

When dinner arrived, we passed around silver trays heaped with rice, chana saag, chicken tikka masala, and lamb vindaloo. We tore at the poori and nan, dipping it in daal.

The lights were dimmed in favor of flashing sirens and disco birthday music as the waiters brought Rachel her birthday mango ice cream.

"This place is pretty awesome," Stevie shouted over the music, clapping along.

"Yeah, I love it," Rachel nodded.

There was a line of hungry diners waiting as we left. The tiny restaurant was so cramped we had to put on our coats outside.

The maitre d' thanked us profusely, as if we had been the only prospective customers that night.

"Nice schtick," I said to Thomas as the girls walked ahead. "They don't charge much, but you know they do very well."

"I'm convinced all these restaurants share the same kitchen," Thomas said, gesturing at the street lined with Indian places.

"This is widely rumored. Like the cole slaw that is ubiquitous in Greek diners. It's all the same, so it must come from the same source."

We talked until we reached Thomas's corner.

"Well, this is where I live," he said.

"Thanks for joining us," I said. "We are off to be tourists."

"Have fun." He nodded to the girls. "Very nice to meet you. Have fun while you are here."
"Thanks, you too," Stevie smiled, flirtation dripping from her drawl.

"Nice to meet you too," Rachel said. She reached to shake his hand. Stevie followed suit.

"Cool." Thomas took their hands in turn. "Okay, have fun."

"You too," I said.

He turned and crossed the street.

Stevie watched his back.

"What's up with that?" she said. "I thought for sure we'd get sex off him."

"I know, what's up?" Rachel drawled. "He's just too cute."

"You want me to set it up?" I teased. I turned toward the corner and raised a finger. "Oh, Thomas . . ."

"Dad!" Rachel punched me. "We are kidding!"

"Oh, whew," I said. "Good thing you stopped me."

"Were you really . . . ?" Stevie began.

"Don't encourage him," Rachel laughed.

"Come on now, no more cute boys," I said. "We're off to Times Square."

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