This story is a work of fiction. It is a collection of “what ifs.” Some of the “what ifs” aren’t legal most places. The author never advocates illegal behavior. It is your responsibility to find out what is legal where you live. Ignorance of the law is not an excuse or a viable defense. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead are coincidental.
Even when the “what ifs” are legal, no one should engage in any kind of sexual activity without the full, informed, and enthusiastic consent of all people involved. No one should ever take advantage of another person, especially someone who’s judgement is impaired in any way. Only the lowest kind of pathetic worm gets someone drunk or gives them a knockout drug, planning to take advantage of an unconscious person. Besides being immoral, it is also illegal.
It is every sexually active person’s responsibility to protect themselves and their partner(s) from unplanned pregnancy and all types of infection.
When I was a teenager, I wanted to grow up to be a curmudgeon.
Mission accomplished! I’m only forty-five. All the kids on the block are afraid of me and none of them dare walk on my grass!
I’ve been a “widower” for a year. DAMN Cancer!
The damn ovarian cancer robbed me of my partner and my reason for living. I didn’t have a reason to smile anymore. I didn’t have a reason to do anything anymore. I did seem to have the ability to get out of bed and take a shower every day. Feeding myself seemed worthwhile, so I drug myself to Cho’s Market, the old, way too expensive neighborhood grocery store. At least they had good produce. I know Tom Brady says not to eat them, but I LOVE tomatoes. I can get the deep red, juicy ones in the winter at Cho’s. Those tomatoes are nearly as good as the ones I grow in my garden, just smaller.
You’ll never catch me going to a Mega Mart or any other big box store. I do drive twenty miles to Murphy’s to pick up two bottles of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey every week. That’s what I’ve tapered off to.
For about the first month after Mary died, I was not doing much but drinking. When I realized I was drinking a bottle a day, I tried to pull myself out of the grave I was digging for myself. It was winter, and I couldn’t dig in my garden, damn it, so I just sat in front of the fire. I built the fireplace for Mary, so looking at it made me sadder. I just sat and drank.
I got a pretty generous early retirement package from the small liberal arts college where I taught Irish and Early English literature for over twenty years. I guess they thought they owed a “legend” something. I was a popular teacher. I used my reputation as a crazy Irishman to draw in students. My rolls were always full, and the administration liked that. I approached teaching as “performance art,” so students never thought my classes were boring. The students gave me good end of course comments. The administration liked that.
Now the administration didn’t want a crazed, drunken Irishman teaching the kiddies, so the college didn’t pressure me to come back to work.
Did I mention that my thinking is non-linear, and I don’t always put things in chronological order? Just imagine you are reading a stream of consciousness writer and fit new information in as you discover it.
Mary taught poetry. Sometimes there was some overlap. We always talked it out, so I never contradicted anything Mary said about Irish poets. I usually judged English poets HARSHLY, and sometimes I did talk smack about them, while Mary treated them more gently.
Once I overheard two students talking. One said, “If you take English Lit 101 & 102 from Mrs. Dr. Doyle and then take English Lit 201 & 202 from Mr. Dr. Doyle, you won’t recognize the same writers. Of course, if you answer Mr. Dr. Doyle’s questions with, ‘It was just another thing the British stole from the Irish,’ you’ll usually be fine.” It was irritating and amusing at the same time that students thought what I intended as a joke was something I believed and the most significant thing I taught.
In the spring I started drinking my coffee on the porch in the morning, and my Jameson’s any other time. I got tired of mosquitoes trying to carry me away, so I enclosed the porch with screening, so I could drink in peace.
I look a lot like pictures of George Bernard Shaw, except that my hair is still red. I used to keep myself neat and well-trimmed like pics of Bram Stoker, but after Mary died, I let my hair grow long and I didn’t trim my beard. I definitely looked like a monster movie wildman.
While I was drinking my coffee, I noticed a red-haired girl walking to school across the street from my house. She looked like she was around ten. She was wearing a school uniform that reminded me of how Mary dressed when I first met her.
We were around ten when we started clumsily flirting with each other in the little Irish town where we grew up. Mary Ryan stole my heart before we were teenagers.
My parents wanted to make sure everyone knew I was Irish, so they named me, Flynn Doyle. It took me several years to charm Mary enough for her to admit she actually liked me. As I got more education, I realized I was smarter than I looked and I started to excel at school. I also improved my ability to talk to Mary. When we graduated with our Bachelor’s degrees, we married.
I went to work and Mary continued at University until she completed her doctorate. We switched roles, and Mary worked, teaching at the University while I worked on my doctorate. When we both could add PhD to our name, we applied for US visas, and went to America with dreams of teaching at Harvard or Yale. Instead we ended up in Southridge, Minnesota, teaching at St. Carloff College. We never moved. We became American citizens and thought we would live in the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes forever.
I wanted to get mad at the little girl for disturbing my morning coffee and my flashbacks of life with Mary, but I couldn’t help myself, I was smiling. Then the little girl waved at me, and I found myself grinning like an idiot.
I didn’t seem to be able to get mad at the girl, but I was able to growl at myself. I managed to get pissed off enough to drink two more shots of Jameson’s than usual by that time of day. When the red-headed girl was due home from school I was totally pissed and thoroughly sloshed.
In the afternoon, the red-haired girl walked on my side of the street. Kids seem to be attracted to my house. It is built from limestone, and it’s really a pretty normal house built in the 1920s, but kids think it looks like a castle because of one circular tower. It’s built on the north side of the house. Instead of a battlement, the tower has a conical roof, much like the towers in Cinderella’s Castle at Disneyland.
I wasn’t surprised she wanted a closer look. I never imagined a kid would want to talk to me. They all just wanted to see the inside of the tower. Usually my “Crazy Irishman” impersonation scared them away. Uncharacteristically, I was inclined to show the girl the castle stairs and the room at the top of the tower.
She walked up the walk to the front door and peered through the screen. “You know the poison you are drinking doesn’t help you. It just makes you feel sadder,” She said.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, did I?” I said, in as nasty a voice as possible.
“No, you didn’t, but you should have, Dr. Flynn Doyle.” She said with a giggle.
“Why aren’t you afraid, like all the other kids? I could be a crazy person or a bad man, with evil intentions, who would do terrible things to you,” I said.
“I’d have to punch you in the nose if you tried to do anything to me that I didn’t like. Of course we both might be surprised by the things I like,” The girl said.
“Are you going to be polite and invite me in to sit and talk, or are you going to keep being rude?” The girl said.
“Well, back fifty years ago, that might have been acceptable, but these days, it could get me in trouble. You need to go home. You have to bring your mother up here to meet me, and give her permission, before I can invite you in.” I said.
I was confident no mother on earth would give her permission for her ten-year-old daughter to visit a crazy, drunken Irishman.
“Aren’t you going to ask my name?” The girl said.
“Since you already know my name, it’s only fair that you tell me yours,” I said.
“It’s Mary. My name is Mary Flynn. Pretty funny that my last name is your first name, isn’t it? Well don’t go anywhere Dr. Doyle. I’ll be back with my mom in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” She said. The girl giggled, and then she was gone.
I poured myself another shot of Jameson’s and was sipping it when Mary came up my walk holding the hand of a busty, chubby woman. By the amount of gray in her red hair, I guessed she was about my age.
“Good afternoon to you Dr. Doyle!” The woman said cheerfully.
“Hello,” I said gruffly. “Mrs. Flynn, is it?” I asked.
“Ah, and you’re not as big a monster as you think,” She said.
Against my better judgment, I invited them to join me on the screened porch.
I staggered to the kitchen and made tea for Mrs. Flynn and poured a glass of lemonade for Mary. I brought the drinks and a plate of oatmeal cookies out to the porch. I sat down with my Jameson’s and I turned to face Mrs. Flynn.
I said, “Mrs. Flynn, I think it’s dangerous for Mary to stop and talk to people she doesn’t know on her way home from school. I could have been a bad man, with evil intentions. I could have kidnapped her and done terrible things to her.”
Mary laughed and said, “Mom, he must have evil intentions because he keeps warning me about them so often. You’ll have to explain to me what ‘evil intentions’ are. For some reason I keep getting the feeling I’ll like them.”
Mrs. Flynn laughed and said, “Well, thanks for the tea. Mary has permission to visit you. I wouldn’t worry about your evil intentions, Dr. Doyle. Mary is a very special girl. You wouldn’t be able to do anything to her that she doesn’t like no matter how strong or evil you might be.
“If she should ever go missing, your house is the first place I will look for her, and if she isn’t here, I’ll bring the police round to see you straight way.”
Mary’s mother left and headed off toward what I assumed was the direction of their house. Mary grinned at me across the table. “You aren’t as far gone as you imagine, if you still bake oatmeal cookies, Dr. Doyle,” Mary said.
“I’m not a medical doctor, just a college professor kind of doctor. You can call me Mr. Doyle, or Doyle, or even Flynn,” I said.
Mary looked thoughtful, then her eyes sparkled and she asked, “What did your Mary call you?”
I was flabbergasted. How could this child know my late wife’s name?
“Well, she called me “You big idiot” more than a few times, but I don’t suppose your mother would approve of you calling me that. My Mary often called me Mr. Doyle. Let’s start there until I know whether I like you, and your barging in and bothering me,” I said.
Mary giggled and said, “Well someone needed to be barging in and bothering you before you rot your liver with what you drink morning, noon, and night.”
“Ah but I drink coffee in the morning,” I said.
“And would that be Irish coffee, Mr. Doyle?” Mary said with a laugh.
“Only on days that start with the letter “S,” I replied.
“Now tell the truth, Mr. Doyle. Is talking to a ten-year-old girl so repugnant?” Mary asked.
“I wasn’t aware any ten-year-olds were cognizant of the word, “repugnant” let alone knew what it meant and could use it correctly in a sentence. Truth be told, I think only one percent of the seniors in my last advanced class on James Joyce could do as well,” I said.
Mary smiled at me and said, “And everyone told me you had no manners! That’s the problem with listening to ‘everyone,’ since he apparently knows nothing.”
I laughed for the first time in over a year. I looked in her green eyes and said, “Why me?”
Mary giggled and said, “Why not?”
I laughed and was about to say something witty when she continued, “Flynn, you aren’t ready to know yet.”
I know my face showed my puzzlement. Mary laughed at me and said, “You have trouble going to sleep at night wondering if your life will mean anything. Your Mary couldn’t have children. You feel that without heirs, you have no legacy.
“Instead of writing something of your own, worthy of the Irish writers who came before, you choose to sit and drink.
“After a while you’ll decide you like me and pretend to be my grandpa. You’ll find some meaning in giving me a grandfather figure, because I never knew any of my biological grandparents.”
“That’s not the whole story, but it’s all you’ll tell me for now,” I said.
“Your Mary didn’t call you an idiot very often. Only when you really deserved it, I think,” Mary said.
I said, “That might be a little too kind.”
Mary laughed and said, “That’s what granddaughters do! You build up my confidence, and I idolize you and ignore any mistakes you might have made. It’s a perfect symbiotic relationship.”
I tried to look grumpy and I said, “I haven’t agreed to anything yet. Besides, some Biologists classify one of the symbionts as a parasite.”
“You are about to agree though,” Mary said.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Because you haven’t had this much fun for a long time. Until today, you hadn’t smiled for over a year. Your brain hasn’t had something interesting to do for so long it’s practically jumping up and down. Above all your cerebral cortex appreciates not being anesthetized for a change,” Mary said.
I was about to be sarcastic and nasty, when Mary stood up and said, “Don’t be a butt head, Mr. Doyle.” She totally shocked me by kissing my cheek, then she went home. I was left with my head spinning.
I didn’t know how I felt or what to do, so I poured another shot of Jameson’s. Somehow my favorite amber anesthetic didn’t taste as good as usual while I sat on the porch, alone, in the fading evening light. As the street lights winked on, I realized I had been drinking to deaden my pain and loneliness from missing my wife. Now I was missing a dumb little ten-year-old red headed girl, and the whiskey wasn’t working.
How could a ten-year-old know I was about to get nasty and leave my porch before the words had a chance to leave my mouth? I was glad she had done that. At least I didn’t have cruel words to apologize for. Then I got mad at myself again. Why the hell should I care what some snot-nosed kid thought? I didn’t ask her to rescue me. I enjoyed the taste of the whiskey and I preferred being alone and pleasantly numb. I was retired, I had a pension that would support me if I didn’t get crazy. My house was paid for, and if I wanted to sit on my porch and drink until I turned to compost, that was MY business.
I was so upset, I drank more than usual. I wasn’t just buzzed, I was roaring drunk, except I didn’t have anything to roar about any more. I tumbled into bed with my clothes on. I hate that feeling of falling off a cliff that you get when you go to bed drunk. I had to keep my eyes open to stop feeling like I was falling, so I couldn’t go to sleep until I’d sobered up a little. While I was waiting for the bed to stop dropping out from under me, I did something I hadn’t done for a while, I cried.
I woke up with sunlight streaming through my old fashioned, eight-foot tall window. The cheerful white curtains with a yellow border that Mary had picked, seemed to mock me. My head hurt and my stomach was doing flip flops. I dragged my sorry ass to the shower and let the hot water make a room full of steam, then I let the water pound down on my head. Just before I ran the water heater empty, I rinsed the shampoo and soap off of my aching head and body then I dried myself.
I dressed in my normal tweed slacks and white shirt. I went to the kitchen and made strong coffee. When the coffee was ready, I carried a big mug out to the porch and my antique platform rocker. I sank down into my chair and got myself into as near fetal position as an adult who is not suffering a complete breakdown can manage. I was indeed a sorry son of a bitch, and I definitely felt sorry for myself.
Mary walked up to my house on my side of the street. She came up my walk and stood there silently. After a couple of minutes she said, “Say it. You’ll feel better.”
Strangely enough, I knew just what she meant. While part of me raged against the weak and needy part of myself, I said, “I’m sorry Mary for almost being a butt head, so you had to go home before you planned.”
She laughed and said, “There, now don’t you feel better?” She laughed again and skipped off to school.
It was intensely bizarre because I did feel better.
I sipped my coffee and made myself cinnamon toast for the first time since my Mary died. I poured another cup of coffee and nibbled on the toast, saturated with melted butter and thick with cinnamon and my contribution to cuisine, brown sugar.
I made another pot of coffee, went and got graph paper and the notebook with my back-yard measurements, and designed the garden I was going to have this year. I decided to go big, so I would be tired and sweaty all spring and summer. Perhaps that would dull my pain better than Jameson’s.
I made myself a monster BLT for lunch using thick slices of home-made whole wheat bread that old Mrs. Olsson baked and sold on consignment at Cho’s Market, thick sliced, apple wood smoked bacon that Mr. Svensson made and sold on consignment, also at Cho’s; baby leaf lettuce, and green house grown, ruby red tomatoes, also from Cho’s; topped with my own home-made mayonnaise.
I was still feeling the hangover headache, so I made fresh squeezed lemonade to drink with my lunch. I told myself I wasn’t a drunk if I could wait until after dinner for my first Jameson’s of the day.
I suppose I need to talk about whiskey for a moment. Most people in America see the bottle of Bushmills come out when the barkeep makes them an Irish coffee, and they think that is the “authentic” or the only Irish whiskey. Not true! Bushmills happens to be a rather unremarkable whiskey that doesn’t get in the way of the other flavors in an Irish coffee. It’s sort of like a blended Canadian. The whiskey smells like alcohol and burns going down. It doesn’t have complex flavors like peat or smoke that you find in fine Scotch and Irish whiskey.
Jameson’s is an Irish whiskey that Scotch drinkers appreciate for the peaty flavor.
Other less well known Irish whiskeys that are available only in the mother country include Teeling, The Pogues, Locke’s, West Cork, and The Tyrconnell, to name just a few. Like Scotch, you can find blended and Single Malt whiskeys. A Single Malt whiskey is produced at a single site, from malting the barley to distilling, to filling the barrels, to bottling when the batch is properly aged. Each single malt has a distinct taste produced by the local water, the ingredients, the roasting of the malt, the distilling method, the type of wood used in the barrels, whether the barrel has been used, and if so, what was aged in the barrel. Some whiskeys are aged in barrels used to age sherry, some in bourbon barrels, and so on, depending on the flavors the Master Blender is trying to obtain. A blended whiskey obtains whiskeys from several small distilleries and blends them together to get a distinctive taste. Even a blended whiskey can become a prestige brand.
I drink Jameson’s because it has some complexity of flavors, but more important is that it is generally available in the US, without going to a specialty store in a big city and paying $100 or more a bottle.
The truth is, you can’t be a real whiskey gourmet and be the guy put on a pension for being a crazy drunk at the same time. Only really rich people can afford to buy beautifully crafted, small batch whiskey. The need for aging makes whiskey expensive. The maker has all his investment tied up in filled barrels until the batch has aged sufficiently. Ten years minimum, twelve years is better, and eighteen is getting up toward the best a batch is going to taste. How would you like to wait eighteen years to get paid for your work? Then there are the costs of storing and rotating all those barrels. My father used to turn barrels by hand for a distillery near our home. Now the barrels are turned by computer-controlled robots.
It’s early afternoon, and I haven’t had a drink all day. I’m not sure it has improved my mood, but my brain isn’t anesthetized or pickled. I’m making chocolate chip cookies with dark chocolate chips. They are coming out of the oven just as Mary knocks on my door.
Sitting at the table on the porch, drinking home-made dark chocolate hot chocolate and eating dark chocolate chip cookies, Mary studies my face. She wiggles her nose at me and says, “I get the message. You are a DARK man. You know some kids would look at eating the cookies you worked so hard to make for me as punishment, don’t you?”
I laughed and said, “Oh, I suppose you eat Chef Boyardee too.”
Mary giggled and said, “There’s a difference between being different because it’s good and just being different for the sake of being different. I suppose I don’t have a sophisticated pallet, but these are just different Mr. Doyle.”
“Duly noted, Miss Flynn,” I said.
“Will you show me your tower?” Mary asked.
“Yes, but the castle stairs are dangerous. You must promise to stay close to the wall, hold the handrail, and not play around,” I said in my most serious voice.
We climbed the stairs that went around the tower wall counter clockwise, so the predominate sword arm would be encumbered by the tower wall. There was no rail on the outside edge of the stair, so as we climbed higher, the drop seemed ever more precipitous.
We got to the tower-top room and I unbarred the door. It was dramatically dusty because I hadn’t been up here for over a year. Mary went into the room and I followed.
My house is built on the top of the only hill in the town of Southridge. From the leaded glass, diamond pane windows, it was possible to see the vast, dark pine forests and the large sparkling blue lake north of town. Mary’s antique Irish desk dominated the room.
Mary Flynn went straight to the desk and pulled out the drawers in a peculiar pattern. I heard a woody click, and a panel on the side of the desk popped open. Inside there was an envelope made of linen stationary paper. My name was written on the envelope in Mary Doyle’s flowing handwriting. Inside was a single sheet of Mary’s personalized stationery. The message was short.
I’ve been a difficult to love old cunt for a while now. You’ve been better to me than I deserved. Don’t mourn over me too much or too long.
You are the sweetest man who ever was born on the Emerald Isle. You deserve much better than I ever gave you after the first few years. Allow yourself to indulge in one of the pretty young things who practically throw themselves at you. Enjoy all their sweet young flesh, ardent kisses, and incendiary lovemaking. You fell for me entirely too young. Sample fifty or a hundred or more if needed. Don’t be hasty. Wait for “THE ONE” before you let her hitch her wagon to your star.
I hope we meet upon Fiddler’s Green, and we can share a dram or two while you wait for your true love to join you.
Wishing I had been a better person and especially a better wife,
I sank down in the solid oak desk chair. Mary Flynn sat on my lap and kissed my cheek. “It’s time, don’t you think, Mr. Doyle?” She said.
I smiled at her sweet young face and looked into her astonishingly deep emerald eyes. “I suppose it is, Miss Flynn,” I said.
I left the envelope and note on the desk, and I followed Mary Flynn down the castle stairs. We went to the kitchen and I warmed up the remaining hot chocolate. I poured us two new mugs, and we went back out to my porch.
“I think the stone-ground, whole wheat flour may be part of the problem with your cookies, Mr. Doyle. It just messes up the taste and the texture. They keep telling us it’s healthy, but I’m not a buyer at any price.” Mary said.
“How did you know what kind of flour I used?” I asked.
“The package is out, I have good eyes, and I know how to read!” Mary said, merrily.
I buried my head in my hands. And laughed until tears were rolling down my cheeks.
“I like you this way,” Mary said.
I studied her face carefully. I wrinkled up my forehead and said, “Sometimes you say things adults don’t expect a ten-year-old to say. Should I do the normal adult thing, and ignore them, or should I take you more seriously and respond as if you understood and meant every word you said?”
“What do you think?” Mary countered.
“I think you are remarkably intelligent and have a plan you will only reveal a bit at a time, until I’m playing my part just the way you want.” I said.
“While that’s possible, you should know I’m not petty, malevolent, someone who enjoys manipulation, or desires a puppet,” Mary said.
“When you said, ‘I like you this way,’ I sensed you wanted to say something more, or at least something different,” I said.
Mary laughed and said, “A PhD in Literature is nothing, if not perceptive, and primed to see hidden meanings! The part I choked back was, “This is how I hope you are when we are married. You will want to marry me, you know. Since I already want to be your wife and take care of you, it will be very easy for you to convince me to say ‘YES!’ so keep that in mind, for when I’m allegedly “old enough” to get married.”
“Why did I know you were thinking something like that?” I asked.
“When your brain isn’t pickled, you really are quite bright, you know,” Mary said.
“Yesterday, when I was joking about doing unspeakable things to you, I was surprised by your responses,” I said.
“Come now Mr. Doyle, we both know you were only partially joking, but we shall let that pass.
“When we are head over heels in love with each other, many of those unspeakable things will be acts of love. I plan to respond enthusiastically to all of the unspeakable things I think I will like. I wish we could try some of them now, but it would complicate our emotions. Besides, your fear of getting thrown in jail for the rest of your life would keep you from enjoying yourself.
“I really do wish you humans would just leave it up to a girl to decide who she wants to do things with and when she feels ready to do them,” Mary said.
“I thought I detected an ethereal vibe from you. I’m guessing Wood Nymph,” I said.
“I’m just a plain old Nymph. Some would call me a nympho, but anyway, no forest is required, though things are generally more pleasant for me when there is some sturdy wood available,” Mary said.
“That means you are an older spirit in a ten-year-old human’s body. So wouldn’t that mean we could do whatever is appropriate for your spirit?” I asked.
“Yes and no. I am ten-years-old in many ways. It will be better for us emotionally and psychologically if you love me appropriately for my apparent human age. If you can stick with me until I’m supposedly “legal,” we both will get a much bigger reward. I’m kind of a mess from falling in love with you so quickly and wanting what I can’t have. The Nymph spirit just dropped into me. It took me by surprise. I never even had a crush before. Then she walks me up to your door, and suddenly I’m completely in love. Most people would say it is just a kid’s crush and that it won’t last. I know better.
Because the Nymph spirit and my human brain aren’t always in sync, I slipped up and told you things you really weren’t ready for. I’m sorry, because it will kind of mess with your mind. Just take a really good look at me, Flynn. I’m a ten-year-old girl. You never wanted to take a child to bed before. Just look at me. I’m a kid. If we went all the way it would probably hurt like hell. You don’t want to do that to me, do you?” Mary said.
“Of course not.
“You obviously have some kind of power. Can you hit the reset button and make me not know everything I just learned about you?” I asked.
“I wish I could. It would mess with things that are too complicated to change without endangering others, so we are stuck. This is an, ‘It is what it is’ situation. I made a mistake, now I have to live with it. You got information you shouldn’t have received until I was fourteen, we were married, and it was safe for us to love each other with all the passion in our hearts.
“There I go again, not being able to keep my mouth shut. Flynn, try to look at me and focus on me being ten. Try to love me like your daughter or granddaughter. Love me appropriately for my age. Be a good man. Don’t let yourself be tempted by the dark side. We can just love in the appropriate way, and before we know it I’ll be old enough and have a sexy body that’s capable of doing all the things we both want. It’s a little strange for me to be one of Pan’s Nymphs driving a little girl’s body. It’s very difficult to have a sexy spirit but a brain and body that go, ‘WHAT???’ a lot of the time. However I see very hopeful signs that this little girl is going to grow into a teenager who will love you the way you always dreamed of.
“So I’ve screwed things up badly. I hope you can forgive me and try to stick with the program. Let me just mess things up some more and tell you WHY,” Mary said.
“You are still grieving. You still miss your Mary. You are still broken. If we went straight to the logical conclusion, I would be a substitute for Mary Ryan Doyle. You wouldn’t love me for myself. The plan called for you to have time to heal and slowly discover you loved me romantically. Then you’d realize you desired me sexually toward the end of my thirteenth year. When I was fourteen and had a sexy teenage body compatible with making love with you and a fourteen-year-old girl’s brain and emotions, capable of coping with loving you and you loving me, and all the feelings that becoming sexually active generate, we’d get married to protect you legally, and then have the wedding night both of us want,” Mary said.
“I think it would have been good if I’d had an age appropriate attempted love affair along the way. Then I would have realized that she was a great woman, but she wasn’t you. That would have helped crystallize my feelings, and your response to my feelings.
“Now, I don’t know how it will play out. Will we just wait around because fate has decreed we should be together?” I said.
“It’s a little different than fate. It’s more like the Karma Fairy is giving you a fresh start with a partner who isn’t going to die on you and can make all your fantasies come true, as long as the fantasy is free. Being possessed by an immortal means I’ll never get sick and of course I’ll never die. Unfortunately, I don’t come with a Platinum Card, so I can’t finance a tour of Irish distilleries or anything else really interesting. I will be able to roleplay like a boss. And I can change my appearance for the fun of it,” Mary said.
Suddenly Mary, ten years older, and with an impressive bosom, was standing in front of me. “So most any of your evil intentions we can do together, once you marry me, if I think they sound fun.
“I don’t know exactly how I’ll react to you dating and perhaps bedding an adult human female. I suspect I’ll be jealous. I can’t tell if I’ll be violent or just bitchy. However I think Mary Doyle was right, you should see what things are like with some of your former students who let their desires be known,” Mary said.
Mary saw my graph paper and asked me about it. I explained my garden planning. Mary frowned and told me all about raised beds, and why they were better than a garden in the ground. She told me to look it up on the internet before I started digging.
Throughout Mary’s tenth year, we did a lot of talking. When we felt like our emotions were at the right point for us to relate as grandfather and granddaughter, Mary started cuddling with me on the couch and sitting on my lap, pretending to remember sitting on my lap when she was a little girl. She helped me build the raised beds and do the gardening all through the spring and summer. Now I was one of the people delivering consignment produce to Cho’s. The raised beds Mary and I built dramatically increased my yields. My tomatoes and sweet corn were in demand as long as I could keep the harvesting going.
Mary was right, I wasn’t a pedophile, and I didn’t desire her sexually unless I let my thoughts go to the dark side. As winter deepened, and the snow piled up, my thoughts got darker. One day Mary slapped my face. I looked hurt. I felt hurt.
“A lot of girls have a rape fantasy, but I’m not one of them. A nymph gives herself freely and joyfully to whom she will. He has no claim on her, nor can he have sex with her without her permission. Now get rid of those dark thoughts before I have to kick you in the balls. Remember, I have an immortal’s spirit inside me, and you never would be able to rape me. The part of me that is immortal would mangle your junk and leave you a broken man. I’d vanish, and your last chance for happiness would go with me. There are no ‘do overs’ for such a serious crime.”
That was when I ran into Erin O’Malley at the pub just off campus. After Mary went home from our afternoon chat, I went down to the pub to have a pint of Guinness and see if there were any of my former students hanging out. Erin was sitting alone at the back corner of the darkest booth in the bar. I walked up to her and slid onto the seat beside her.
“Erin, I think you made it pretty clear that my attention would be welcome. My life has changed and I’m no longer married. I’m not your professor any more. You are over twenty-one-years-old. If you are still interested, I’d love to get to know you,” I said.
Erin grinned at me and whispered, “I know everything about you I need to know. You make me tingle when you walk into a room. You make me feel hot all over. You make me feel way beyond wanting, all the way to needing. Please take me home and have your way with me.”
We left the pub and walked to my old 4WD Bronco in the parking lot. I unlocked the door and opened it for her. She climbed in, letting me see up her skirt on purpose. She had gone commando, and she smelled hot!
I drove home and took her up the stairs to the top room of the tower. I had followed Mary Flynn’s advice and sold Mary Ryan Doyle’s desk, cleaned up the room, and put a bed up there. The delivery men were shocked when they had to get the king-size bed up the castle stairs.
I lit the candles in the wall sconces and agreed with Mary that the tower room made a great place to seduce a girl.
Erin had a lot of unsatisfied need. No seduction was required. She practically ripped my clothes off. We mashed our bodies together over and over until both of us felt; first relief, and then satisfaction.
I escorted Erin down the castle stairs and to the bathroom. We took a shower together. She used the shower head on a flexible hose as a bidet and cleaned my semen out of her vagina. We finished washing each other, dried off, and got dressed.
Erin looked at me with an apprehensive expression on her face. “Dr. Doyle, that was so much better than I expected. I hope you understand that I just needed to feel you inside me and know what it was like. I have always been ‘the smart girl,’ never ‘the pretty girl’ or ‘the sexy girl.’ I just had to know I was desirable, not ugly. You gave me the answer to my self-doubting questions. I’ll always love you for that. I hope you weren’t expecting fireworks, symphonies or a cottage with a white picket fence, because that’s not who I am or what I’m looking for,” Erin said.
I chuckled and said, “How the world has changed! You gave me the ‘guy’s’ speech. I’m fine. I had some demons to exorcise, and you were instrumental in sending them on their way. I wasn’t looking for forever either.”
We made out for a while, then Erin said, “You better take me back to the bar so I can get my car. If we keep doing this, you’ll get me horny again, and I won’t leave until tomorrow.”
I grinned at her and said, “That wouldn’t be a tragedy as far as I’m concerned, but I want to make sure you get what you want from this.” I grabbed a jacket and took her out to the Bronco. I drove her back to the pub, made sure her car started, and then I drove home. I felt more relaxed, but it was more of a mechanical thing, like the old expression, “I got my pipes cleaned.” There was something emotionally unsatisfying about it. I knew one-night stands were not what I wanted. It felt like something was missing.
When Mary turned eleven, her nipples got bigger and often swelled up to be much bigger and harder than usual. It sometimes seemed like a volcano was trying to push up from under her flat chest. Her bottom was still tiny, but sometimes when she sat on my lap I thought she felt better padded and a little less bony. I thought Mary was still too young for a real romance, but I was starting to feel more drawn to her. I decided that to reduce the chances of my behaving inappropriately I needed to find a better sexual release than masturbation.
After Mary went home one night, I went down to the Short Horn bar. I got a Guinness and sat at a conspicuous table. I wasn’t alone long before Sandy O’Rourke, one of my most persistent admirers, sat down next to me.
“How are you Professor Doyle?” She asked.
I was gratified to see concern in her big blue eyes.
I grinned and said. “Sandy, I’m much better. I’m still processing the grief stages, but I’m at the place where company is superior to solitude.
“How have you been?” I asked.
“Now that I see you, I’m in exactly the same place I was when I threw myself at you a few years ago. You make me hot and wet in a way I’ve never been before,” Sandy said.