God, if I lost her, I think I’d shatter like glass.
How the fuck am I going to be able to concentrate or function at work today? My dad’s daily supermarket glitches are trivial in comparison to this morning’s events.
My first order of business is to phone the police to report that someone attempted to kill Emily with their car.
The officer I speak to tells me that I need to come down to the station and to make a statement if I feel strongly about it. However, since no crime was actually committed, and Emily wasn’t seriously hurt, there’s nothing that can be done about it.
I call my father’s lawyer. He suggests that I type up a detailed statement and email him a copy. He’ll keep it on record. The police are correct. There’s nothing that can be done since no crime was committed.
Well. That’s that. Shit. I feel impotent.
Typing out the scene in exact detail, absorbs my attention. When I finish, I shoot it off to our lawyer. Everything that can be done has been done. I make a mental note to keep an eye out for a white Civic with a license plate number ending in 723.
Today I’m supposed to go over Lily Turner’s performance review. I hate doing these things. But since I like Lily and she’s a high achiever, I’m hoping that attending to this task will take my mind off of the events of the morning.
The phone rings. I answer it. “There’s a Rose Dunlop here to see you,” Pam whispers.
What the fuck? Rose fucking Dunlop, my ex who made that unpleasant scene in the parking lot. What does she want?
Whatever she wants, I don’t care. Not with the morning I’ve had. I don’t want Emily to see her either. She doesn’t need the stress.
I envision Pam in the reception area, talking to me with her back to Rose. “Tell her I’m not here,” I say briskly.
“Yes, okay.”
Lily arrives and sits across from me. I consciously try to loosen up, relaxing my fists, back, and neck. I’m still disturbed about what happened to Emily this morning.
If you measure the darkness of one’s skin, with ‘one’ being the lightest of white, and ‘ten’ being the darkest black, I’m a four, Emily, two. Lily is about eight. Lily’s hair sits just above her shoulders, styled into cornrows. She dresses professionally in a dark skirt, long sleeved, button down white blouse, and low-heeled black pumps.
I know that she’s thirty-six, but she looks much younger. I can’t imagine why, knowing that she’s been through some very stressful times with her son. Not that I have any idea what happened to the kid.
I wonder if she’s dating anyone.
Like any man who sees an attractive woman sitting before him, for a moment my mind imagines what she looks like naked. In this case, I wonder about that nice rack of hers. They’re great tits, big and round. How dark would her areolas be? I bet her nipples are thick and attractively shaped like pencil erasers.
Why do I envision her naked?
I can assure you, this inner narrative is not a conscious or sought out response. It’s just something that I think a lot of men naturally do. It’s like a reflex. I suspect that I’d have to be castrated to lose that habit. Even then I’m not sure things would change.
I know it presses Emily’s buttons. Too bad. We’ve promised to be honest with each other, so I’ve talked to her about it. I control everything, but as much as I try, I can’t fully control my thoughts.
The strange thing is, the more you try not to do it, the more it happens.
It’s kind of like saying, ‘Don’t think of a pink elephant.’ See? What did you do? You immediately thought of a pink elephant, didn’t you?
Now, imagine that you’re twenty-six years old like me. A fit, healthy young man with testosterone firing through your blood continuously, all day, every day, filling your body with carnal urges.
I can assure you that any human male under the age of twenty has a full time job just dealing with unwanted hard-ons. Thank God I’m past that stage, more or less.
You think women have it bad with their up and down emotions? The male primal imperative is to impregnate everyone. Try being a young man where male hormones constantly send messages to your brain like: “Fuck her! Oh no, fuck her, and her. Yes, and fuck her, too!”
Of course these are the actual urges. For me they translate into thoughts such as, “Oh, nice ass,” or “Ummm. I wonder what those tits taste like?” or “Damn, those full lips would look fantastic wrapped around my cock.”
So what’s a man going to do when a woman walks by? Well, he’s often going to see her naked, that’s what.
He might also picture her on her knees, her head tilted backwards with his cock in her mouth. Or see her wrists in chains, pulled high above her head as he flogs her sex and tits. The options are as endless as his imagination and personal kinks.
I’m just being honest. Guys are pigs, sexually speaking. Genetic imperatives and mindless, insatiable bodily urges make them that way.
I’ve tried not to have these thoughts or visual images. I don’t want them. I only want Emily. But you know what happens.
It’s that pink elephant thing all over again.
Women like to believe that men – mature, civilized men – grow beyond such base, animalistic urges and thoughts.
Sorry. They don’t.
What they do is deny, ignore or redirect their lust-filled narratives. They suppress their nature through self-restraint.
After forty years of celibacy, someone asked Gandhi if abstinence became easier over time. He gave them a faint smile and admitted that he still fought his sexual desires every day.
What makes it all the more amazing is the good that most men do, by and large. They don't jump their neighbors' bones, rape or rove like gangs of wolves through convents and girls' schools.
Of course some men do act out their bestial urges. Then other men (and women) kill them for it, or imprison them, which is exactly as it should be.
All these thoughts pass through my mind in only a moment while I study my newest employee.
Lily’s a good looking woman with pleasing manners. I idly wonder if she’s submissive in bed. See how my mind works? Lily’s two front teeth are set slightly ahead of the others, adding to her charm. Her smile dazzles me.
Together we go over the ‘Staff Performance Appraisal Form’ that she’s filled out. It’s a record of how she thinks she’s doing, as compared to how I think she’s doing. Our opinions are mostly the same, except I mark some of her ratings higher. She’s either a bit hard on herself, or simply modest.
We are training Lily on every area of the business from counter clerk and inventory to accounts management. The more we give her, the more she does. In a very short time she could be running the place.
“You’ve become indispensable already, Lily,” I say. “You fit right in here; everyone loves you. You know that, don’t you?” I lean back in my chair, with a smile.
“You have good people here and I like the work.” She laughs charmingly. “I also like the money. You and Emily came to my rescue. Reggie and I will never forget that.”
I shrug this off. “Jarman’s isn’t a charity. If you weren’t any good, I would’ve shown you to the door long ago.”
Her bright smile broadens. “I doubt that, but thank you.”
“How’s Reggie’s doing?” I ask.
Lily’s son, Reggie, is a quiet, smart and determined kid. Not long after Lily started working with us, I helped her to arrange a week of summer camp for him. Reggie loved it. He still works for me every day after school, but he spends the first hour doing homework in the staff room.
This change in hours created a cut in his pay, but he never complains.
Like me, Reggie isn’t a talker. He doesn’t smile much either.
While I don’t know the details, I’m aware that he’s been traumatized. There’s a world of hurt behind those sharp eyes. It’s sad to see at his young age.
While here at the store, the kid’s kind of like my shadow. If I step outside, s
oon he’s right behind me. I suspect that Reggie’s actually playing spy. It took me a while to figure out what he was up to.
Lily fills me in on some details, how he’s doing at school, and how he’s made a few new friends. Her voice soothes me. Her open joy and pride for her son is like a balm for my wired nerves.
“I guess it’s probably obvious that Reggie looks up to you. Without having a father in his life, you’ve become kind of a role model,” she says.
“What?” Just when I was beginning to relax, she throws me this one. Role model? Me? I don’t want to be a role model. My face must reflect my sudden panic.
Lily laughs. “It’s nothing to worry about. I’m happy about it, really.” Her expression turns serious for a moment. “Reggie got into some trouble in Portland. That’s why we left. He hadn’t even done anything wrong. But don’t worry, I can’t see anyone following him here.”
I frown. Bad guys following him here? Shit. “Are we talking gang-related stuff?”
Lily shrugs. “Reggie was in the wrong place at the wrong time, you know? He’s better off here.”
Lily leans forward suddenly, and fuck me. Her eyes tear up. God dammit. It looks like an emotional scene is coming my way. I brace myself for the worst.
“You and everyone at Jarman’s have been so wonderful to my son,” she gushes. “He feels safe here, and he’s having fewer nightmares. I just – I want…” Lily brings out a tissue, and wipes her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“It’s okay, Lily,” I say, keeping my face impassive. “I completely understand.”
Honestly, I really do understand. This is the thing I’ve learned about women. Of the two sexes, women feel more than men. They’re just more emotional. It’s probably due to hormones.
Maybe there’s a survival component to it. If a mother has feelings, they can empathize with and nurture their young better. While we men struggle with raging testosterone and the urge to fuck everyone we see all day long, they deal with estrogen, and God knows what else.
Personally, I think that men got the better deal.
Elbows on my desk, bent forward with a tissue in her hand, Lily fights to gain control of her powerful emotions.
I fight an internal battle, too.
I try not to look down Lily’s shirt, where she unintentionally displays her luscious cleavage. But she’s made it so damn easy!
Shit. A woman’s cleavage has an almost magical power over a man and Lily has an impressive rack.
Here’s the kicker. After a lifetime of stimulus-response conditioning and wrestling with my natural urges, here I am. Still struggling. Same old, same old.
Together, Lily and I silently wage war against our primitive natures. It’s a battle that’s difficult for either of us to win.
When she finally looks more composed I stand up and hold out my hand to her. Lily takes it and we shake, while maintaining our distance.
If she were my sub, I’d hug her. Hell, I’d hug her now, it wouldn’t bother me. But later, she might feel uncomfortable about it.
Being a woman, Lily would probably overthink it and worry because the boss put his arms around her. After a while, she’d have to quit her job, because for some inexplicable reason, she feels awkward around me.
Fuck that shit.
Lily has enough on her plate already. That’s why I carefully keep my distance.
After Lily leaves, I pop in to Emily’s office to check on her. She’s at her desk on the phone, writing something down. She raises her head as I open her door and her easy, loving smile makes something low in my gut flutter.
I can see that she’s busy. I nod, and shut the door. Emily is fine. All is right with my world.
For about five minutes.
Chapter 34.
“Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met.”
– Marguerite Duras
~~~
As I walk back to my office, my cell phone rings. Caller ID says it’s my mother.
“Hi, Mom¸” I answer. “How are you?”
We talk every week on the phone, but not about anything substantial except for my engagement to Emily. I spoke to her yesterday, so it’s unusual that she’s calling me now.
I haven’t seen my mom since she ran off with Emily’s father, but I’m not purposely avoiding her. I left for a few years, travelling. I only returned to Oregon for my dad after his heart attack. Besides, my mom lives in California with her husband, William Malone, Emily’s dad.
Talk about a soap opera. Sometimes it seems like Emily and I are living ‘Days of our Lives.’ I snicker, remembering a recent intense scene. Other times I know our life isn’t about daytime TV at all. It’s XXX rated and for mature audiences only.
“Oh, I’m fine hon, are you okay?” Mom asks.
“I’m good.”
Whenever I talk to my mother, we both have the same thing on our minds. So far, neither of us is gives in. It’s a little game that we play throughout every conversation.
I always think, ‘Mom, who was my sperm donor?’ And she’s probably thinking something like, ‘Should I tell him who his real father is?’
Today, wonder of wonders, mom gives in. “Honey, something’s come up. Recently, I talked to your father.” She clears her throat. “You know, your biological father?”
Long pause. To speak, or not to speak? Hmm. Nope. I got nothing, so I remain silent.
“The thing is, he’s dying,” she continues. “He didn’t know anything about you. Now that he knows, he wants to meet you.”
Okay. There’s an unexpected head spin for me. “Oh, yeah?” I say. My voice is strangely calm. I can tell, because I’m having an out-of-body experience. I feel a detached and far away.
I draw in a slow, deep breath to steady my nerves. What the fuck else is going to happen today? First I almost lose my Em, and the police say that without a license plate number and because she wasn’t injured, there’s nothing they can do. Then I’m a friggin role model, and now my dying sperm donor wants to meet me?
I’m pretty sure that if this keeps up, my head is going to explode.
After a long silence that I have no intention of breaking, Mom finally adds, “Your dad is Gordon Child.”
More silence. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“He was the lead singer in a rock band called, ‘Broken Arrow.’ Do you remember them?”
“Seriously?” Broken Arrow was huge in the eighties. They were famous for a number of years, then the band broke up.
“Yes,” she sighs. “Well, you may as well know it all.”
For an instant, my mind seizes. For the love of God, what is she going to tell me? Do I want to know it all? My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. My mother keeps talking.
“I went to see ‘Broken Arrow’ live,” she says, plunging in. “I got front row seats and went by myself. I can’t even remember why your dad couldn’t go. He loved that band as much as I did. Anyway, I’d been drinking red wine, and I smoked some dope. Hash, actually.” Her voice speeds up. It’s as if she’s in a hurry to get it all out, before she changes her mind.
Maybe she shouldn’t tell me. “Mom -” I try to interrupt, but nothing can stop her.
“And the concert was brilliant, so, so amazing,” she continues. “I honestly can’t remember how it happened. Somehow or another, I got pulled from the crowd and ended up in a threesome with Gordon and another woman. Can you believe it? That just shows how messed up I was.”
My mom had a ménage? Wow. I didn’t expect that. Why did she tell me? Talk about too much information. I’ve never thought of mom that way. Now I won’t be able to not think of my mom that way. Fuck.
How the hell do I reply to that? ‘Great, mom. I guess it runs in the family? I love a ménage with two women or two men. Either work for me.”
“Well, you know your father,” she says. “How conservative he is? How could I tell him what happened? I was embarrassed and ashamed. He would’ve never found out if it
wasn’t for him doing that fertility test and discovering that he was sterile.”
“I see.”
There’s no condemnation in my voice, or in my mind. Makes perfect sense, really. While I can’t remember what Gordon Child looks like, I suspect he was hot. It’s probably every woman’s dream to fuck a famous rock star. On her own, influenced by drugs, dragged backstage. In all that excitement, I guess my mom simply forgot her marriage vows.
I take in a deep breath, surprised. Ah. So, there is a bit of judgmental snark in me after all. It’s because I feel sorry for my dad. I wonder if the condom broke, or if she simply didn’t use one.
“Well,” I say. “I’m glad it happened. I wouldn’t be here, otherwise.”
I hear her exhale in relief. “I’m glad that you feel that way,” she says. There’s something in her voice that makes me think that embarrassment is only one of the many emotions that are keeping her on edge.
“I’ve told Gordon a lot about you,” mom says, “and I’ve given him your phone number. I just wanted to warn you so that you’re prepared.” When she laughs the sound boarders on hysterical.
Uh-oh. There are those feminine emotions again. Mom fucked someone and now I’m here. Good. What’s the big deal? Even dad would be more accepting of a chemically impaired, accidental one night stand – as long as she never mentions the ménage of course. But I’ll have to spend time soothing mom’s frazzled nerves before I hang up.
“If you check him out on the Internet, you’ll know pretty much what I know,” Mom says.
“I’ll do that.” Right after my brain starts working again.
My mother continues chatting for a while, talking a mile a minute, about everything from her new Siamese cat, to what Emily’s dad (her husband) has been up to, and how happy they both are that I’m engaged to Emily.
I listen, but part of me is thinking about my biological father. The man is dying. I wonder why? Cancer maybe.
My mom blathers on anxiously. I assure her that I’m not upset, I don’t think less of her, and I still love her. I’ll keep her informed about anything that happens with Mr. Child, and yes, I promise to give Emily her love.