Intemperance Epilogue Volume I
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 10: Fuck-paw
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 10: Fuck-paw - Intemperance isn’t over yet—we still have lots of loose ends to tie up. Volume I picks up after Book X as Jake, Laura, Celia, Caydee, and the rest of the Kingsley orbit discover that life goes on, whether you’re ready or not. Expect music, love, grief, family, crows, weed, questionable decisions, and all the usual Kingsley antics along with the antics of the surrounding Kingsley orbit.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Polygamy/Polyamory
Oceano, California
April 10, 2005
Laura didn’t even let the suggestion breathe.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Jake,” she snapped, turning on him immediately. “You’re being a piggie again. That’s not helpful.”
Jake lifted his glass slightly, unfazed, like he’d just tossed a perfectly reasonable idea onto the table and couldn’t quite understand why everyone was acting like he’d set something on fire.
Celia leaned forward, eyes narrowing just enough to signal she was about to pile on.
“It doesn’t work that way,” she said, and then began laying the sarcasm on thick enough to spread on toast. “Maybe you didn’t notice, or maybe it just never came up in casual conversation around the dinner table, but Westin is gay. Capital G. Likes dick. Has zero interest in pussy. He cannot ‘just fuck’ Yami like it’s some casual Tuesday afternoon errand.”
Jake nodded once, which in Kingsley non-verbal marital communication meant that he understood her point, understood that she was being sarcastic, but did not agree with the premise.
“Yes,” he said. “I am quite aware that the chef and the housekeeper both prefer the beef stick to the tuna melt.”
Laura shot him a look. “Jake—”
“But,” he continued, holding up a finger, refusing to get bulldozed, “that doesn’t make the operation impossible, does it?”
Celia opened her mouth, but he rolled right over the interruption.
“No one is asking them to enjoy it. Nobody’s asking them to throw down some candles and listen to Wicked Game on repeat during the act. No one is suggesting they film it, put it on a poster, or attach any deep, spiritual meaning to it or any shit like that.” He leaned forward slightly, settling into the argument. “I’ve never run the statistics on this—although I’m sure Nerdly has, if you’d like exact numbers—but ‘just fuck’ is the overwhelming champion of all time when it comes to successful human conception.”
Yami looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.
Jake pressed on anyway.
“And since it’s not anatomically impossible,” he said, “why not make a one-time exemption to the standard rule of operation?”
Laura and Celia both inhaled at the same time—the universal prelude to a coordinated takedown.
“Jake, that is—” Laura started.
“That is so far beyond—” Celia layered in.
And then Sean’s voice cut cleanly through the crossfire. “Now wait a minute.”
Everyone stopped.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He just leaned forward slightly in his chair, forearms resting on his thighs, looking from one face to the next with quiet, deliberate calm.
“Why don’t we talk this through here?” he said.
“What?” Celia asked, eyes wide. “You can’t be serious, Sean.”
“Westin and Yami can’t just have sex,” Laura said sternly. “It would be unnatural for both of them.”
“It wouldn’t be unnatural for Yami,” Jake pointed out. “She’s hetero, aren’t you, Yami?”
“Uh ... well ... yes,” Yami said, blushing furiously, “but...”
“Sean,” Laura cut in, “tell them you’re just joking, for God’s sake. Jake’s gonna go looking for those Chris Isaak CDs here in a minute.”
“I do not own any Chris Isaak CDs,” Jake said firmly, as if he’d just been accused of a crime against nature.
“I was not joking,” Sean said, raising his voice just a bit now to emphasize the point. “I really think we should talk this through.”
Laura turned to Westin now. “Wes, tell the two piggies here that this is not an option. And I’m sorry that anyone even suggested it.”
“Now ... wait a minute,” Westin said, his face thoughtful. “Maybe we do need to talk this through a bit.” He turned to Sean. “How much would it bother you if Yami and I ... you know ... did this the biological way?”
“It wouldn’t bother me a bit,” Sean said. “I know you’re not going to leave me for a woman. I know you better than I’ve ever known anyone. You’re not wired that way. You’re wired my way. There would be no jealousy of any kind if this were to be what is decided. In fact, my biggest worry would be if you’re even capable of ... you know ... performing such an act.”
“Gay men throughout history have fathered many children,” Jake pointed out. “The equipment can be made to work.”
“Not to get too personal, Wes,” Celia said, “but ... have you ever done it with a woman before?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve never had the desire. I made out with girls in high school quite a few times, mostly after they all but attacked me.”
“Wes was smoking hot in high school,” Sean said proudly. “His mom has pictures. The femmes couldn’t keep their lips off of him.”
“He ain’t really hard on the eyes these days,” Laura had to admit.
“Thank you,” Westin said, pleased with her praise. He then returned to the subject at hand. “Anyway, I never really liked it. I mean, I learned how to kiss good from them.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Sean agreed.
“And most of them wanted to fuck me, but I was good at avoiding that. I would always find a reason to break up before we got beyond feeling tits under the sweater.”
“Did you enjoy feeling tits under the sweater?” Jake asked.
“Well ... it was interesting,” Westin said. “I mean ... there was curiosity involved, and that underlying urge to not really be gay that we all go through, and ... tits are aesthetically pleasing to the touch, but ... actual sexual arousal ... it was minimal.”
“But there to some degree?” Jake asked.
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” Westin said.
“Did you get a hard-on during any of this experimentation with the softer sex?” Jake rephrased.
“Well ... of course,” he said. “Especially when they started ... you know ... touching it through the pants. Basic biology is a factor.”
“There you have it then,” Jake said. “You can get it up with a female. That is really all that is required to complete this kind of mission.”
Sean and Westin looked at each other, passing their own non-verbal couple communication back and forth for a moment.
“You do make a good point, Jake,” Westin said thoughtfully.
“Now wait a minute,” Celia said. “There’s something you’re not considering here.”
Westin looked at her. “C, you know we both love you. We know you have nothing but respect for our sexual orientation and commitment to our cause, but you don’t get to tell us what is right and wrong in our own little universe. If Sean and I agree that this is the way to do this ... thing ... then you have no right to tell us we’re wrong.”
“Well said, my pretty,” Sean said righteously, using a nickname for his lover that no one else in the room had ever heard him use before.
“That is totally fair,” Celia agreed. “And you are totally right. Me and Teach overstepped our bounds and for that, we apologize. Don’t we, Teach?”
“Absolutely,” Laura agreed. “We totally shouldn’t have defended you without asking if you needed defending first. Our bad.”
“Apology accepted,” Sean said.
“Agreed,” said Westin.
“But you two are guilty of a little fuck-paw of your own,” Celia said. “That was the point I was trying to make.”
“A ... fuck-paw?” Westin asked. “What the hell is that?”
“A Tif-ism,” Celia said. “It’s what she calls a ‘faux pas’.
“Ohhh,” Sean and Westin said in unison, both smiling as they said it. They absolutely adored Tif, who did not have a mean or judgmental bone in her body and who’d once expressed envy toward them that they could suck each other’s dicks all they wanted whenever they wanted.
“A Tif-ism,” said Sean. “Say no more.”
“But do explain what you mean by that,” said Westin. “What is this fuck-paw that we’ve allegedly committed.”
Jake answered for her. “Your fuck-paw is not asking Yami what she thinks about all this. You would agree, I presume, that she should have a little say in this change of plan?”
Sean and Westin both got the same look of consternation at the exact same moment, the realization hitting them like a quiet slap. They turned toward Yami together, faces suddenly full of genuine remorse.
“I’m so sorry,” Sean said, leaning forward. “We got caught up in the logistics and we completely left you out of it. That was shitty of us.”
Westin jumped right in, voice soft and earnest. “Yeah, that was thoughtless as hell. We’re really sorry, Yami. You’re doing so much for us. We never meant to treat you like you were just ... equipment.”
They kept going, apologizing over each other in that overlapping way couples do when they’re both mortified, until Yami finally held up both hands, palms out, cheeks still burning crimson.
“Okay, okay,” she said, cutting them off. “Stop. Please. It’s fine.”
Laura watched the exchange with a small, satisfied nod, then turned to Yami, her tone gentler now. “Well, Yami. What is your take on this plan?”
Yami was still blushing furiously, eyes fixed on the coffee table like it might offer her an escape route. She swallowed once, twice, then managed to speak, voice quiet but steady enough.
“I think ... I’m okay with ... you know ... doing it the normal way. If Westin and Sean are okay with it.”
Sean studied her carefully. “Are you sure? You’re giving us a huge gift here, and the last thing we want to do is make you uncomfortable.”
Yami finally lifted her gaze and met theirs, one after the other.
“I can do it,” she said firmly.
Sean and Westin both nodded, solemn and sincere.
“Thank you,” Sean said. “We really appreciate your courage and your willingness to ... sacrifice like this.”
Westin echoed him. “Yeah. Thank you, Yami. Seriously.”
Yami gave a small, almost shy smile. “I just want you two to be happy.”
Jake sat back and watched her without saying anything. He wasn’t fooled for a second. Yami was a heterosexual woman who hadn’t been laid in at least four years. Westin was a guy with Hollywood leading-man good looks in the prime of his life. She wasn’t exactly making a terrible sacrifice here.
He kept that thought strictly to himself. He didn’t want to be accused of being a piggie by Laura.
“All right then,” Jake said. “Is that a decision?”
Sean, Westin, and Yami all looked at each other for a long beat.
“I guess it is,” Westin said.
A Petition for Probate of the Estate of Matthew Norman Tisdale was filed in the Superior Court of California, County of Los Angeles, on April 11, 2005, at 9:05 a.m.
Twenty-five minutes later, that document—now public record—had been faxed to six separate outlets, all of them news or entertainment publications that typically paid about a hundred dollars for that kind of information. The LA Times was chief among them, the fax landing on the entertainment room desk.
Less than two hours after that, the story was on the internet.
The LA Times published it on their website. The San Diego and Sacramento papers followed. The entire document appeared on the Smoking Gun website.
It didn’t take long for the information to make its way to the law offices of Vance, Calloway & Hargrove in Sarasota, Florida.
Brent Calloway, one of the firm’s partners, specialized in estate law. Sarasota and its surrounding communities were home to several hundred thousand retirees, including Loraine Gallen—formerly Loraine Tisdale—and Candice Meeker—formerly Candice Tisdale. Matt’s sisters.
Loraine, fifty-nine, was twice divorced and currently between husbands. Candice, fifty-six, was thrice divorced and likewise between husbands. Neither had ever worked a single day in their lives.
Both held college degrees—Lori in English, Candy in Home Economics—that they had never used in any meaningful way. They had spent their entire adult lives living off the money earned by their father.
And that money was starting to run thin.
Not enough to force them out of their half-million-dollar homes with distant views of the Gulf, but enough to introduce a concept neither of them had ever taken seriously before: budgeting. If they didn’t give their inherited accounts a little boost pretty soon, they might not be able to summer in the lakes region of Maine anymore. They might not be able to replace their Mercedes and BMWs every three years like always. They might even have to give up their ownership in the timeshare in Nice on the French Riviera. That was perhaps the greatest horror of them all.
Both were counting on a piece of their little brother’s estate. That little pest who had once been underfoot as a baby—and who spent most of his life from age ten onward in the servant’s quarters—had actually become richer than Daddy. Rumor had it that he had been worth around fifteen or twenty million dollars when he died. All that just for playing his little guitar. The luck of some people.
Their greatest hope had been that Matt had died intestate, which would have handed them essentially everything, given that he had never married that bimbo porn star he lived with. That hope disappeared the moment it was reported that a will did, in fact, exist—but surely he had left them something.
After all, they were family.
Neither knew their brother well enough to have him speak in their heads. But if they did—and if he had—he undoubtedly would have said, Family don’t mean shit if you ain’t there for them.
And then he would have added, And don’t fuckin’ call me Shirley.
Brent Calloway didn’t start reading the heart of the will right away.
He flipped through the faxed pages first, quick, practiced movements—just getting a sense of what he had in front of him before committing to anything in detail. Standard probate filing. Petition up front. Supporting documents behind it.
Then the will itself.
Typed, formal, exactly what you’d expect—dense legal language, properly structured, clean. No surprises there.
But as he turned another page, something caught his eye.
An appendix.
He paused, then angled the page slightly and read the heading.
Appendix A: Dictated Statements of Testator Corresponding to Formal Provisions.
Brent’s brow lifted a fraction. It wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t common either—not in anything this straightforward. He scanned the opening lines just enough to understand the structure. Each formal clause of the will was paired with the testator’s original spoken wording—a translation key, essentially. Legal language on one side, raw dictation on the other.
Transparency, maybe. Or something else.
He shifted in his chair and let his eyes drop to the first actual entry.
“I want my ass to be buried at Ridgeview Cemetery in fuckin’ Lemon Hill. I used to get stoned with Darren and Coop in that fuckin’ place and I even boned a bitch on some dead dude’s fuckin grave. Motherfucker died in 1905 and shit.”
Brent blinked, then blinked again, slower this time. He stared at the page for a moment as if it might correct itself into something more conventional.
It did not.
He exhaled quietly through his nose and scanned down until he found the corresponding clause.
Testator is requesting burial in Ridgeview Cemetery in Lemon Hill, California, an unincorporated municipality in Heritage County, California. Testator has personal attachment to the location.
Brent leaned back slightly, eyes moving between the two versions, then once more just to be sure.
He was an estate lawyer by training and practice. He had seen at least a thousand wills in his time. And he had never—not even once—seen anything like this.
He tapped the appendix lightly with his pen, his expression shifting as the novelty wore off and the analysis began.
If they had to go undue influence to contest the will, that might very well be helpful to their cause.
Brent set the appendix aside. Interesting, yes. Potentially useful. But not yet. First, he wanted the will itself—clean, unfiltered by whatever editorial layer had been added for public consumption.
He pulled a legal pad closer, uncapped his pen, and began to read, slowly this time, carefully. The language was exactly what he expected—tight, formal, structured the way estate documents were supposed to be. No obvious irregularities in construction. No sloppy phrasing. Whoever had drafted this knew what they were doing. That, in itself, was a data point. And it made sense. Matt Tisdale would not have gone to a law firm that advertised on a bus bench or on late night TV. He would have gone with a real firm. Brent had not looked into BR&J, the firm of record, yet. But he would be doing that very soon.
He made his first note and continued.
The Stratocaster—identified in precise detail, serial number included—was bequeathed to Jacob Glenn Kingsley. No real surprise there. That one had already been made public. KVA Records and Pauline Kingsley, the named executor, had released it almost immediately to justify Kingsley retaining possession. Clean, defensible, expected. Brent didn’t linger on it.
He moved on.
The residence in Cabo San Lucas was left to one James Ramos. Brent’s pen paused. He underlined the name once, then wrote it again in the margin.
Who the hell was James Ramos?
There was no context in the clause. No descriptor. No relationship stated. Just the name and the asset. That meant something. He made a second note—investigations.
The next line added another detail. An additional one million dollars, post–estate tax, to the same James Ramos. Brent’s brow tightened slightly. Not incidental, then.
He turned the page.
Another million went to someone named Owen Olsen. Again, no explanation. No relationship. No qualifier. Brent wrote the name down beside Ramos.
Olsen—ID?
He tapped the pen once against the pad, thinking. Unexplained beneficiaries in that range weren’t random. They were personal. Close, or at least significant.
Or intimate.
Brent leaned back slightly, eyes drifting for a moment as the pattern started to take shape. He’d seen this before—men with money, men with appetites, men who burned through women until the novelty wore thin and then started looking elsewhere for it.
Jake Kingsley came immediately to mind. There had been rumors for years—women by the hundreds, maybe the thousands. At some point, a man like that either slows down or starts expanding the menu.
Brent’s gaze returned to the names on the page.
Ramos. Olsen.
No descriptors. No relationships. Just money, property, and silence.
“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath.
Gay lovers, most likely. Or something close enough to it that the legal language didn’t bother trying to explain.
He made a small mark next to both names—nothing elaborate, just enough to flag them for deeper digging later. He didn’t chase the theory any further. Not yet. Speculation was cheap. Evidence was what mattered, and that would come from his investigators.
For now, he kept reading.
The bequests continued—more names, smaller amounts, a mix of individuals, charities, and organizations. Nothing unusual in structure, just distribution. Thoughtful, even. Intentional. It was a real will. Not a rushed one. Not a careless one. That was becoming clearer with every page.
And then he reached the clause he had been looking for.
The residual.
Brent slowed, reading it once, then again. This was where estates were won or lost, where intent stopped being symbolic and became definitive.
The remainder of the estate—everything not otherwise specifically devised, with the explicit exception of the rights to Matthew Norman Tisdale’s music—was to pass to Kimberly Kowalski.
Brent sat back slightly.
Kim Kowalski. Also known as Mary Ann Cummings. Former porn star. Current internet porn queen. Longtime companion. Twenty years, give or take. He didn’t need to look that up. That part was public knowledge.
What wasn’t public—what mattered—was that she got the rest. All of it.
He glanced back through his notes—Ramos, Olsen, a handful of others, and then Kowalski. That was the structure.
Nothing to his clients. Not a dollar. Not even a courtesy mention.
Brent let out a slow breath and set the pen down for a moment. Not entirely unexpected—he wouldn’t have left anything to those two entitled shrews either—but disappointing.
He picked the pen back up and drew a single line under Kowalski’s name.
They were not going to be happy.
Not one little bit.
Brent leaned back in his chair, the document resting lightly in his hands as he thought it through.
Right now, he and the firm were working under a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer submitted by the Tisdale sisters. He was billing three hundred an hour against it. Straight work. Straight math. No risk on his end. That had been before—before he knew they were getting nothing.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. When he told them, they were going to be outraged. That part was a given. The real question was what came after that. Would they want to contest the will?
Brent glanced down at the pages again. There was no hope in hell they could actually win if it came to trial. The document he had just read was about as tight as it got—structured correctly, internally consistent, no obvious pressure points, no sloppy drafting to exploit. Whoever put this together had made it watertight. There was nothing here he could sink.
But maybe he didn’t have to sink it. Maybe he just had to spring a leak—just enough to make the other side want to pay to make him go away.
He tapped the edge of the paper lightly against his desk, eyes drifting toward his notes. If he filed a contest, everything stopped. No distributions, no transfers, no clean handoff of anything. The estate would freeze in place until the matter was resolved. That was how the system worked. No Cabo house for Tisdale’s gay lover, no change of title on the property in San Juan Capistrano, no money leaving the accounts for anything other than routine expenses, no monument going up in Ridgeview Cemetery. Nothing moved until the case was settled.
Brent leaned back a little farther, the chair creaking softly beneath him as the shape of it settled into place. Not victory—pressure, delay, leverage. That was the play. It was the only plan that had any chance of getting the sisters a piece of this thing.
But he wasn’t going to run that play on straight hourly billing, not on a case that was, at its core, a guaranteed loss if it ever saw the inside of a courtroom. He shook his head once, already deciding. No. If they wanted him to do this—if they wanted him to step into that kind of fight—then the structure changed.
He would cut the hourly in half and take thirty percent of whatever settlement he could pry out of it. Non-negotiable. If they didn’t like that arrangement, they were free to walk. They could take their outrage, their expectations, and their checkbook and go find someone else to lose this case for them.
Brent set the will down on his desk, decision made.
The Kingsley family, unaware that someone was about to piss in their rain barrel, went about a normal Monday.
Caydee was taken to school and Yami returned home to check her body temperature with a device that measured to the hundredth of a degree Celsius. Her prime fertility window was opening very soon. Maybe even tomorrow.
Celia, Laura, and Jake returned to the Campus to do some actual work. There were no immediate plans to start mixing the final Intemperance tracks just yet, but Celia was still recording her album. Her band was still in San Luis Obispo. She needed to finish the job she had started. Jake needed to be her producer, and Laura needed to be her saxophonist.
They spent the entire day plugging back in and resetting everything, and then trying to remember exactly where they had left off. Celia’s rhythm and acoustic tracks were the first pieces they finally managed to reestablish.
They left the studio at four o’clock and drove to the new Ramirez house on the east side of Oceano. Monday meant that Caydee had walked home with the Ramirez kids, and that Jake and Laura would go to retrieve her and stay for dinner.
But not Celia.
She had nothing against the Ramirez family, and they had nothing against her. It was simply not her place in this particular tradition. Someone had to go home and relieve Yami of Cap duty for the day.
She would socialize with the Ramirez family on Saturday, when they came over for dinner.
The smell of Juanita’s steak chicana simmering on the stove was the dominant odor. She was making homemade flour tortillas and rice to go along with the savory beef stew. Though it was a beautiful day, the kids were not out playing when Jake and Laura arrived. They were inside playing with Jesús the kitten.
The eight week old kitty was gray and white, tiny, adorable, and quite clearly enjoying playing with Emilia, Carlos, and Caydee. He made soft mews and seemed to enjoy chasing a string that Caydee and Carlos passed back and forth. Jake took a look at his daughter’s bare arms and hands. No scratches or bite marks visible. Nor were there any on the Ramirez kids’ arms or hands or face.
We can’t catch a break, Jake thought sourly. And now that Caydee had met and played with the kitten and come away uninjured (at least so far), she was going to double down on her effort to talk them into getting a cat for her.
Jake ultimately held the trump card, however. It was not the queen of spades. It was the queen of accounting. And he would play the card if necessary.
José told Jake and Laura that the niños had been playing with Jesús since they got home from school.
Jake watched the little animal for a moment, then said, “That’s a calico cat?”
He wasn’t sure what calico even meant. He’d never owned a cat, not even as a child, and he’d interacted with them only a few times.
He remembered that Jill had had a cat when they were both young kids, back when he used to go over to her house to play after kindergarten and first grade. That little fucker—his name had been Hiro—had bit him on the hand once, causing an infection, which had forced him (Jake, not Hiro) to take antibiotics for a week to clear it up. And his teacher at the time—Mrs. Wells had been her name—had gleefully told him that if the infection had happened a hundred years before, they would have had to amputate his forearm to keep him from dying a horrible death from blood poisoning and sepsis.
He’d never really craved feline companionship after that. He preferred his pussy in a different form.
“He’s not a calico kitty,” Caydee said righteously. “He’s a common gray tabby kitty.”
José chuckled a little. “Román—the father of the family that was giving away the kittens at church yesterday—told us it was a calico.”
Caydee shook her head politely. “He’s wrong.”
She wasn’t being rude about it. Just certain.
“Why do you think that, mija?” Laura asked.
“After Carlos and Emilia left yesterday, I researched cats for almost two hours on the internet,” she explained. “Calicos have three separate colors—almost always black, white, and orange. And calicos are pretty much always girl cats because you need two X chromosomes to make a calico, and boy cats have a Y chromosome.”
She looked back down at Jesús, who was still busy murdering the length of string.
“Jesús is very cute and awesome,” she said, “but he’s not a calico.”
Roberto chuckled again. “María Delgado knows her cats pretty well.”
Caydee nodded once. “Señora Delgado might know cats,” she said politely, “and there was probably at least one calico in the litter, but Jesús is a gray tabby cat. He’s a boy and he doesn’t have any orange in him.”
And with that, she dropped the subject. She had made her point and was telling them to take it or leave it. She was displaying Kingsley discretion and tact and Jake was proud of her for that.
But Jake also knew that if Caydee had researched it and concluded the cat wasn’t a calico, then the cat wasn’t a calico. If she was talking X and Y chromosomes and the vagaries of gender based traits, she wasn’t pulling that out of her proverbial ass. He kept this thought to himself, displaying that same Kingsley tact. After all, in the great scheme of things, what freakin’ difference did it make?
José looked over at him. “You want a beer?”
Jake didn’t hesitate. “Asking me that after a day in the studio is like asking me if I’d like some oxygen.”