When I married her mother, Jasmine was a cute, five-year old--a bit precocious and smart as hell--also inquisitive. She also introduced me to the world of the willful child.
I had a friend in my previous life who had two of the cutest little angels you could imagine. One was dark, the other light. The dark one was sultry from birth, the light one, angelic. How do children have personalities before they can even roll over? It’s a mystery to me, but personalities they did have.
They weren’t bad kids, they were just kids. I never saw either of them throw a tantrum, but the younger one, the dark one, Lisa, made it very clear to anyone watching that she was the one who would make the decisions regarding her and her activities.
Their father was forced to stop bathing them when Lisa made it clear that she wanted to do things that he could not envision doing with her. The safest way for him to proceed was to withdraw, as much as he missed their private sharing times in the bath. He would take his guitar into the bathroom and sing Spanish-sounding songs to them that he made up as he went. He only knew a handful of Spanish words, but he knew how they sounded, so he made nonsense lyrics with a Spanish flavor. His daughters loved it.
Jake would miss those communal gatherings, but told me that he dared not get in the same room with Lisa without a credible witness. He would ask me, “How do you deal with a willful girl-child”? This was back before they put parents in jail for any degree of corporal punishment, but it was clear to anyone who encountered Lisa that no degree of punishment of any sort would deter her from a chosen course. She would neither bend, nor break, on pain of death.
I think, to her, giving in was synonymous with death, so what did she have to lose by standing her ground? At the time, I was married to a woman who may have been very much like Lisa when she was young. A broken family, foster homes while Mommy recovered from nervous breakdowns, abusive step-fathers and extreme poverty had taken its toll on her. She was not unreasonable in most cases, but apparently had never taken the course on compromise. Once she had formed an opinion, any attempt at discussion represented a personal attack on her competence.
Loving someone with those problems can be very stressful. I loved her so much that any distress to her, caused her by anyone or any situation, was painful to me. Her happiness was more important to me than any other goal I had known. On the other hand, I was much like her in the sense of demanding the freedom to choose my own path in life. The difference between us was that I recognized the necessity for compromise, sometimes, and she absolutely rejected the concept.
The night I realized that our relationship was doomed was when I had managed to convince her to let me please her orally. At this point, we had been together for around six years and this was maybe the third time she had relented when I offered to give her this sort of pleasure. After I had brought her to a shuddering orgasm, she began crying.
It took several minutes to get her to explain. Finally, she muttered, “I don’t deserve to feel this good”, and curled up into a ball, totally closed off against the world--and me.
As time went on, it became more and more clear that my efforts to help her were in fact making her life worse. In her view, she was powerless and I was powerful. If I managed to help her when she couldn’t help herself, that was more evidence of her lack of power.
“When you love someone, let them go. If they never come back, they weren’t yours in the first place.” It took me three years to steel myself against the loss of her bright smile, quick wit, amazing talents and quirky intelligence. I let her go and wished her every success. From time to time, she needed a helping hand and I was always happy to provide one.
I was alone for many years, waiting at an open window for her to fly back, but she never chose to do so, although we remained close. It occurred to me that she had transformed me into a beloved family figure. It was ok to love me from afar, but she couldn’t deal with me as a partner.
The secretary at one of my consulting gigs had introduced me to the (pseudo?)science of Numerology. As a scientist, I never held much respect for any field that pretended to be able to predict personalities or future events, based on birth dates and the position of heavenly bodies.
My sons are identical twins. They are examples of “mirror image” twins that result in a perfect division of the egg that occurs late in the development of the egg. Later division is sometimes incomplete, resulting in conjoined twins.
My boys were perfectly formed, with one being left handed, the other preferring the right. The crowns of their hair were on opposite sides. These characteristics could be expected, but then one fell and broke his right arm, the other broke his left arm a few days later. When their teeth were to be straightened, the molds made of their very crooked teeth were so identical that the tops and bottoms could be interchanged, with perfect fit.
It should be obvious to one and all that their horoscopes would be identical. While it is true that they shared a fair amount of personality characteristics, the more dominant characteristics of their individual personalities was quite “individual”. Any attempt to predict their life path or personality based on time and date of birth failed to account for some very distinct variations.
One volunteered to go into the Navy. The other would have stood before a firing squad rather than subjugate himself to military rule. From a physical aspect, they were so identical that my father was never able to tell them apart. In the recent election, their votes canceled. Need I say more?
All of this is leading up to a discussion of Numerology. Although I was even more leery of ridiculous claims made for this endeavor, I did allow the secretary to submit my name and birth date to a friend of hers who was a professional Numerologist. The secretary would pay the considerable fee for the in-depth report that filled a large folder, just for the satisfaction of learning about me.
I never met the Numerologist and had only met the secretary a couple of times, but the report laid out my life as a history. “When you are 37, you will divorce your wife of many years and marry a much younger woman, who will be the love of your life.”
I was 39 and had two years previously divorced my wife of 16 years and was now with the love of my life. To say I was intrigued would be an understatement. Now there was a basis for understanding the difference in personalities for my mirror image twin sons. They had different names. The comments made in the Numerologist’s report fit their personalities better than any description I might have made, but having read her description, I had to accept the validity of it.
Now we come back to Jasmine and the personality quirks that she shared with my second ex. All of this put together made me feel as if I knew her a little better. I was still not much more equipped to deal with her, but at least I could now put her in the category of immovable object, as personified by my second wife. My options were extremely limited. Beyond simply dealing with whatever path she chose or leaving her mother, there were no visible options. I loved her mother very much and loved Jasmine, as well, in no small measure based on her similarities with my ex, who still holds a special place in my heart.
I simply had to decide how important it was to me to modify her behavior and to try to imagine some sort of definition of how much would constitute too much. Yeah, stupid, wasn’t it? Ok, before you call me a wimp, what would you do when faced with an ultimatum of, “let me do what I want or kill me”?
One thing I could do about it was to provide her with an ultimatum of my own. “If you value my presence in your home and whatever pleasure I can bring you and your mom by being here, then you need to know that I have my limits. I will bend as far as I feel that I can bend and will never knowingly do harm to either of you, but if you push me too far, neither of you will ever see me or hear of me again. Is that clear?”
“Sure, Pops. I always knew that.” She ‘cheekily’ mooned me as she walked away, secure in her imagined control of the situation.
From the time she was five, she had discovered that she hated clothes and her mother and I eventually gave in to the pressure and allowed her to remain nude inside the house and back yard unless we had visitors. She accepted that one small limitation and we survived without a battle that both would lose.
Watching her grow up naked was a delight for me. Babies and puppies learning and adapting to life are two things that drive my curiosity. As a natural nudist, myself, I don’t see children as sex objects, but do enjoy watching their metamorphosis from cute to gangly to awkward to rounded. My interest is more about the changes going on in their own minds than anything else. What is it like to suddenly have bumps on your chest and find people of all sorts reacting differently to you, everywhere you go? A few months ago, nobody paid attention to you. Now you feel as if you have fallen into a fish bowl and have been put on display. How are you supposed to react?
I was certainly no help to her. I asked my wife if Jasmine had asked her for advice and she simply raised an eyebrow at me. I never knew if she was saying, “Duh!”, or if she was telling me to butt out or go fuck myself. I let it slide.
Then Jazz raised the stakes. (I forgot to mention that it was no longer de rigeur to refer to our nudie flatmate as “Jasmine”. The name on her birth certificate did not reflect her true personality. My previous exposure to Numerology fully supported this attitude, much to her surprise.)
When she hit fourteen, it was if she had received a seduction license and I was fair game. There were to be no more childish pranks like making me look away when she bent over and winked at me between her skinny legs. Now that she was an adult in her mind, she escalated the game a bit. If by ‘escalation’ and ‘a bit’ we can describe moving to full blown masturbation while seated across the room from me or pulling on her nipples to make them stand out like clothespins before she called to me to get my reaction before I could look away.
Jazz announced her new adult status to me one day by appearing to be sitting demurely on a sun chair in the back yard, then pulling a nice sized Zucchini from her twat before I could return to my policy of ignoring everything she did.
She was amazingly adept at concealing her activities from her mother. If I had made a squawk, there would never have been any proof. It was one more case of ‘who hit who first’, so I kept my mouth shut. It was not as if I minded these little episode. Quite the contrary. I found them exciting as hell, but dared not let on or I was surely lost.
She knew and I knew that it was only a matter of time before the Zucchini would be the one hanging between my legs, but I desperately needed to delay the inevitable until she was legal. For now, she held all the aggression cards. My only available strategy was a stategic fallback and perhaps some aggressive security measures.
I worked from home, so the instant she returned home from school, she would ditch her clothes at the front door and grab a drink from the kitchen before sliding into my office, to sit with one heel raised on the arm of the chair while she idly toyed with her developing muff.
“Mike?”, she says, while twirling her fingers in the sparse fluff that accentuated, rather than hid, her girlish treasure.
“Yeah?” I tried to limit my responses to the barely civil, without encouraging her. She usually settled for a small victory, knowing on some instinctual level that I was simply not going to fuck her until she was legal.
“Do you ever think about fucking me?” Subtlety, thy name is ‘woman’.
“No. Not really.” Now why in the hell did I add those last two words? My ass was grass. She would never relinquish that advantage.
“Oh?” I could hear the glee in her voice. I could sense the anticipation in her mind as she worked through the ten thousand ways she could twist that tiny bit of surrender.
I was well and truly fucked, in the abstract sense, and damned near it in the concrete.
“Not really, huh?” What is the difference between, “No” and “Not really”. Those are two different sentences you said, but you said them together and they are very opposite to each other in meaning. ‘No’, means you don’t ever think about sliding that big, humongous flesh log up my tiny little slippery twat into jailbait heaven. ‘Not really’, means that you think of just doing it until it thunders, like the way they say Snapping Turtles hang on. Did you know I have a ‘Snapping pussy’?”
“Jazz. We’ve known each other for nearly ten years. You are cute as hell and will become a very desirable woman in a few years, much like your mother, whom I love deeply. But that mother whom I love deeply would not be at all happy with me if I even acknowledge an interest in you. What’s just as bad is that messing with someone your age falls into the same ‘child abuse’ category it would have when we first met. I have no interest in being ‘Bubba’s Bitch’ or in having to register as a sex offender after my release. You can tease all you like, but be warned that I will be gone with the tide if you try to make this happen before the proper time.”
“Ok, so you admit that you would fuck me if I were older?”
“No. Like they say about stock market investing, ‘Past performance is no guarantee of future success’. What you see is what you get. I won’t guarantee that it won’t snow tomorrow, but that is more likely than that I will do you before I am ready.”
“I just want you to say you want to fuck me.”
“Jazz, any person, male or female, that likes to fuck young girls would love to fuck you. The difference between ‘wanting’ and ‘doing’ is what we call ‘civilization’. Now we’ve had our civics lesson for the day, so why don’t you ease up a bit and work on your tan? I promise to look out once in a while, just to make sure no horny Eagles have carried you off, but right now I’m working on something that would allow us to have a pool. Which would you rather do, terrorize me or have a nice swimming pool this Summer?”
“Ok, ok. Meany. May as well turn this off.” She killed her video stream.
It would have bothered me if I had not been prepared. I did not mention to her that even after judicious editing to prove me guilty, her clumsy blackmail attempt would be discarded when I played back my unedited version. Two can play at that game, Kid! I somewhat regretted not stretching the encounter out a bit, but I really did need to get this work done and really looked forward to seeing her and her friends around the pool all Summer.