Chapter 5: All the World’s Indeed a Stage

San Luis Obispo, California

May 23, 2004

Owen Olson was nineteen years old and lived at 1628 Morning Glory Court in the fashionable hillside neighborhood of Laguna Lake. He didn’t own the house, of course—his parents did. His father was a San Luis Obispo County superior court judge who had been on the bench for ten years. His mother was the prim, proper, churchgoing wife of a judge. Church was where they were now, in fact: the traditional Sunday service at San Luis Obispo United Methodist Church. The Olson family, who had settled in SLO County in 1865, had attended SLO UMC since it was built in 1867. They were proud of this fact. All except Owen, that is.

The youngest of this generation of Olsons’ three children, he was a sophomore at Cal Poly, majoring in Computer Network Engineering. He was a major computer geek and always had been. He was absurdly plain looking: five foot eight, skinny, plain brown hair, plain brown eyes. He didn’t look like a typical nerd, but he was one, nonetheless. He had stayed home from church today on the pretense that he had to study for finals. And while he was a master of finding ways to avoid church on Sundays, this time the excuse was real. Finals were next week, and he really did need to study.

But he wasn’t studying now. Not while the beautiful vision of desire and femininity was washing her green Volkswagen Beetle across the street. Not while she was wearing a skimpy pair of black yoga shorts and a tank top. Not while it looked very much like she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath that tank top. He knew that if he just kept looking at her through the gap in the curtains with his birdwatching binoculars he would maybe see her nipple! Maybe even both of them! In his entire life beyond his newborn days when he breastfed from his mother’s body he had never seen an actual post-pubescent female nipple in the flesh. He had seen a million of them while watching internet porn, but not a single one in real life.

The house across the street sat at the end of the Morning Glory Court cul-de-sac, occupying a premium lot with a sweeping view of San Luis Obispo—unlike Owen’s, which looked directly onto the back patio of the house behind it.

The house he was looking at was infamous in the neighborhood because it belonged to William Archer, his wife, and their two children. William was the piano player for the notorious rock band Intemperance. He and his family had moved in three years ago, right around the time the infamous KVA Records studio opened up near Atascadero. His parents insisted it wasn’t really a recording studio at all. His father swore it was actually a studio for making child pornography. And while Nerdly—Owen was a secret Intemperance fan and knew the names, nicknames, and instruments played of every member of the group—was the mildest, least offensive member of the band, he was still a member. Owen had been warned repeatedly to stay away from that house, lest he be kidnapped and sold into white slavery.

The novelty of living across from a semi-famous musician had worn off after a year or so. Occasionally he still spotted Jake Kingsley or Celia Valdez dropping by, but nothing truly exciting or dramatic ever happened over there. Until about four weeks ago. That was when she moved in—the most beautiful, desirable woman he had ever seen in his life.

No one in the neighborhood had any idea who she was or what she was doing in the Devil’s house (as many in the neighborhood now referred to it). His father’s speculation, upon first seeing her and confirming that she was, in fact, staying there every night, was that she was one of the porno performers who worked out of the Atascadero studio. True, she wasn’t underage, but she was probably one of the “actresses” filmed engaging with young boys and girls.

Judge Olson had told his family he would have “some of my people” look into it—and indeed, he had. The license plate on her Jetta gave him a name: Tiffany Anne Moreland. It also produced a date of birth and a Los Angeles County address in the San Fernando Valley. She had no criminal history—not even a speeding ticket. A valid license, a current registration, no red flags. In the law enforcement database, she was a basic nobody. Beyond that, he had nothing. She remained a mystery.

Owen knew his father was a buffoon. For a man who made his living demanding evidence for everything, he sure jumped to some wild-ass conclusions. When Owen asked how Jake Kingsley and his clan were supposedly getting away with running an illegal pornography studio in San Luis Obispo County—in America!—the judge simply replied that people like Kingsley lived above the law, thanks to their vast wealth and underworld connections.

Owen didn’t believe that either. He did, however, like to imagine that Tiffany—he liked just saying her name; it was a perfect name for someone who looked like she did—might really be a porn actress who specialized in seducing first-timers into sex.

How fucking hot was that? Yeah, unlikely. But still ... why was she here?

She wasn’t the nanny—he had already ruled that out. She left the house at the same time as the Nerdlys on weekdays, while an older woman stayed behind to care for the kids. Tiffany always returned shortly after they did.

His imagination ran wild with possibilities.

The simplest explanation—that she might be a musician working with the KVA people at their studio—had never occurred to him.

He didn’t care why she was here at the moment, just that she was here and she was dressed in a manner that had his schlong stiff and ready in his sweat pants. He kept his eyes on her, particularly when she was in side profile to him. That was when he could see under her arm to her chest area and those magnificent mammary glands just bounding freely. Twice he was able to catch a two second glimpse of areola and full on nipple! This was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Real nipples! And they were quite attractive nipples at that.

On the second flash of the nipple, he could no longer control himself. Holding his binoculars to eyes with one hand, he pushed down his baggy sweatpants and underwear with the other. It was time to wank! He had no lube with him but he was not about to peel himself away from the window to go get some. He put his hand in place and began to slowly pump it back and forth while his eyes continued to take in her chest. When she turned in his direction for a moment he lost sight of her side-boobs but got a good look at her face. Her lips were pouty and sexy. Oh, how he wished he could feel those lips around his cock.

“Why don’t you just come over here and suck this thing for me,” he whispered, pumping a little faster now.

She turned a little bit more in his direction, so she was looking directly at the house. He pulled back a little with the binoculars, more out of instinct than out of fear that she might see him. It was exactly the wrong thing to do. His movement rattled the blinds, opening them up for just the briefest moment before they slammed shut again.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

Not wanting to miss anything, he pushed them open a bit and stuck the binoculars through again. He looked at his target and was dismayed to see that she was staring directly at him, a strange smile on her face.

She fuckin’ saw me! his brain screamed at him. He pulled the binoculars back, causing the blinds to rattle again. His penis wilted a little in his hand as adrenaline shot through him. He kept his face out of the window for the better part of a minute. It was long enough for him to convince himself she had not really seen him. That he had misinterpreted that look of knowing recognition.

He slowly parted the blinds just a bit and peered through, using his eyeball and not the binoculars. Tiffany was nowhere to be seen. Her Jetta was still in the driveway, water still running down into the gutter, but Tiffany herself was not there.

“Where did she go?” he asked himself quietly.

A moment later, there was a knock on the door.

He froze. He looked at the door, the adrenaline now shooting through his body. The last vestiges of what had been a mondo erection a few minutes before shriveled up like a worm in the sun. Was that her? Knocking on the door? Had she come over to call him out for being a sick pervert? Would she tell his parents? It was this last thought that was most horrifying.

He held still, kept quiet. He had no intention of opening that door. He was not even going to move from this spot, not going to breathe in this spot, until he knew she had gone away.

The knocks on the door came again. Louder this time. Faster.

Just go away, he thought desperately. Turn around and go back across the street and I swear I’ll never look at you again.

The doorbell rang this time. And then a voice called out. A female voice.

“Open the door,” it said. “I know you’re in there. I saw you. I need to talk to you.”

Fuck! His worst fear was confirmed. She had seen him and was now demanding he come to the door. What to do?

“Will you open the freaking door?” the voice said, exasperated. “I’m not going to go away.”

I have to face this, he thought, resignation flooding into his soul. Whatever she needs to say to me, I’ll listen to her and apologize to her. I’ll fucking grovel if necessary. Maybe she won’t tell mom and dad.

Slowly, he stood up. He put the binoculars behind the couch, out of sight, and then pulled up his sweats and underwear. He did not need to worry about his erection showing. It had gone to Tahiti or maybe Cleveland, and had no plans to return anytime soon.

He walked over to the door, undid the deadbolt, turned the knob, and slowly pulled the door open. Tiffany was standing out on the porch. She did not look upset. She did not light into him. Instead, she gave him a smile that was very friendly.

“Hi,” she said. “My name is Tif. I saw you were watching me through your window.”

“Uh ... well ... uh ... I was just checking the weather and ... uh ... so I peeked out for a minute ... and ... and ... you know?”

“I know,” she said, nodding wisely. “I like to check the weather too. You never know what it’s going to be like here. What’s your name?”

“My name?” he asked dumbly.

“Yeah,” she said. “You know? What they call you?”

“Uh ... Owen,” he said. “Owen Olson.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, stepping a little closer to him.

He fought to keep his eyes on her face and not on her breasts. It was one of the mightiest battles he had ever fought. He could smell her—girl-sweat and dish soap. It was a warm day and her skin had a sheen of perspiration on it. It was the most exciting thing he had ever smelled in his life.

“Uh ... uh ... nice to meet you too,” he stammered. “I’m uh ... really sorry about ... you know?”

“About what?” she asked, confusion on her face.

“About ... uh ... you know ... accidentally seeing you washing your car.”

The look of confusion deepened. “Why would you be sorry about that?”

He literally could not think of an answer for her. He also began to get the impression that maybe she had never defragged her hard drive? Was maybe running on Windows ME?

“Tell me, Owen,” she said. “How old are you?”

“How ... how old?” he asked. Why is she asking me that? Is she going to tell me I’m too old to be looking at women washing their cars in a driveway through a set of genuine simulated wood grain window blinds? Somehow, he didn’t think so.

“Yeah,” she said. “Are you over eighteen? Like able to vote and buy lottery tickets and all that?”

He nodded. “I’m nineteen,” he told her. “I go to Cal Poly.”

“What’s that?” she asked. “One of those islands out by Hawaii?”

Wow, he thought. She definitely needs to add some more RAM to her system. “Uh ... no,” he said. “It’s the big college here in town. I’m taking computer network engineering.”

“That sounds so cool,” she said—perhaps the first hot woman in the history of the computer age to ever utter that phrase. “Listen, I have this ... uh ... problem and I was wondering if maybe you could help me out with it?”

Problem? “Uh ... sure,” he said. “I will if I can.”

“That’s very neighborly of you,” she said. “Do you know anything about female singers?”

“I ... I ... don’t think so?” he said. This conversation was starting to feel like a dream. It was all over the place.

“Not a musician huh? That’s okay. You see, female vocalists like me have to have a certain kind of singing ointment once a week or so to keep our vocal cords healthy. It’s a very specific kind of ointment.”

Singing ointment? WTF? “Okayyy,” he said, unknowingly using a Caydee-ism. “How can I help you with that?”

“I’d like you to give me some of the ointment I need. It’s been like ... eight days now since I last had any. If I don’t get some before tomorrow my voice will start to crack.”

“I ... I don’t think we have any singing ointment in the house,” he said. What the fuck was singing ointment?

“But you do,” she insisted. “You’re carrying it with you right now.” She giggled a little. “At least ... I’m pretty sure you are.”

Owen felt like he was in LaLa-Land now. “I’m carrying it with me? What do you mean?”

“Your semen,” Tif told him. “That’s the singing ointment I need.”

Owen just looked at her, his brain vapor locked. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please repeat that.”

“Your semen,” she said, emphasizing the word. “They also call it come. It’s the stuff that comes out of your boy part when you get excited.” She furrowed her brow a little. “You’ve had that happen to you before, haven’t you? I mean ... you’re nineteen and all. Surely you’ve come before.” She giggled. “And I wasn’t calling you Shirley. Jake always thinks I’m calling him Shirley when I say something like that. I don’t even know who Shirley is.”

Owen had never seen the movie Airplane before. His parents did not approve of the flick and he had no real friends who might have talked to him about it and convinced him to give it a watch. He had no idea what the Shirley reference was about.

But that wasn’t important now.

She was talking about semen. His semen. She wanted him to give her some of it. In her mouth. Was she talking about ... no, there was no way she was talking about that.

“You still with me, Owen?” she asked, perhaps a bit impatiently.

“Uh ... yeah,” he said, his mind in a flurry of mixed sensations. It occurred to him again that he might be dreaming. This had to be a dream, right? “Uh ... when you say you need my ... my semen, uh ... what do you mean?”