The brain is a strange and wondrous organ. Apparently, mine is stranger and more wondrous than most.

My brain sees patterns and relationships. Well, except when it comes to my personal life, then I’m clueless. Women? Forget it. If they even look at me, it’s like they are seeing a vacuum. So, let me state categorically, “Don’t blame me. This isn’t my fault.”

I’m reasonably smart, but I’m no genius. I have a PhD that is pretty much a run-of-the-mill math and physics combination from MIT.

I own a consulting firm. Sometimes I’m hired to be an ombudsman - but usually, that’s not a good use of my time. Mostly, I’m hired to walk in and look at all of an organization’s raw data on let’s say - its product lines, sales, marketing, manufacturing, personnel - everything. I read. I interview. I walk around and look.

If you are familiar with process mapping, my brain does something like that - but not so formally and on a huge scale. Then I sit, listen to some good music, and think.

Sometimes quickly and other times over weeks, the relationships and patterns jell. I have a small staff (all men) who can translate my brainstorms into something understandable, and I’m able to give my clients recommendations that typically save them a lot of time and money. Needless to say, I’m paid well. With my talent, I invest even better.

Even with the money, I’m always short in the nookie department. Make that devoid. I’m trustworthy, loyal, helpful, thrifty, courteous, kind, sometimes obedient, cheerful, brave, clean, and occasionally reverent. Apparently, women aren’t in the market for wealthy boy scouts! They just don’t notice me. Been that way all my life. If not for Dad, I probably would have run around naked and starved to death.

I think my university is the source of my current problem. Ever since that mass pickup of MIT, Georgia Tech, and military gurus, the Confederacy has been after me.

It didn’t start out that way. I was curious and took the CAP test just after the President’s TV special. Tested on the high end, too, but the Confederacy’s reaction at the time was ho-hum. Anyone could look at my sub scores and KNOW that I’d be a drill sergeant’s worst nightmare. Until that specialty extraction - THEN it started. I guess someone from the pickup noticed I wasn’t there and wanted to know why not.

There’s this Confederacy Office of Targeted Extractions, and all of a sudden, they were pestering the hell out of me. I’m telling you, they were every bit as bad as ‘Ann from Credit Card Services.’ First they called me in as a consultant, then gave me the old hard sell. I was offered an immediate extraction and the authorization for two extra concubines. I told them that was as useless as tits on a boar, as I couldn’t attract even one woman on my best day. Then I charged them triple my normal rate and left.

Some tall dark dude showed up in my office and tried the old “duty to humanity” routine. I had him accompany me to the nearby Caribou Coffee shop where I made him stand beside me so I could order. Then I waved my CAP card and declared loudly, “I can take four companions with me right now. You can look at my card if you want. Anybody interested?”

Three women never looked up from their coffees, two looked over at him and shrugged, and the barista smiled at him, handed me my coffee, and said, “Nope.”

During the walk back to my office, I told him, “You saw my problem, but I’m pretty happy doing what I do, at least for the foreseeable future. I’m helping improve operations that will help the Earth fight the Swarm when it arrives, and you simply haven’t offered anything demonstrably better. Yes, we might buy or bribe women, but I want companions who at the very least demonstrate that they want to be with me. I don’t patronize hookers - probably never will.”

He left, and it was several months before I was bothered again. There came yet another call from the OTE with yet another proposition. They would leave the timing up to me, but they wanted to put me through a med tube to assure that I was in good health and would remain so until such time as I decided I wanted to be extracted. The cherry on the sundae was a promise to stop pestering me and to only call on my birthday to remind me to retest.

That sounded like a pretty good deal, so I agreed - if they would promise not to brainwash or kidnap me while I was helpless. I kept my promise as did they.

Around four years after the president’s speech, patterns around me began to change. It took a while for me to notice - personal life - clueless - said so - remember?

The occasional woman would notice me. The barista at Caribou would actually look at me when taking my order. Not much. Not a big deal. Then more change.

Near my downtown condo, I frequent Mambo Italiano, a restaurant known for their homemade vino and their linguini with white clam sauce. They had a mostly male wait staff, so another attraction was my ability to get prompt service.

All the pickups in restaurants around the city had caused a shortage of qualified restaurant staff, but Mambo managed to keep a high quality of food, even with the use of replicators in the kitchen. One evening, after paying my tab, I stood and made my way towards the door. Almost in unison, five ladies stood and followed me out.

That was odd, but I made my way to my car and drove off. The ladies seemed confused, but as I drove past the door to the restaurant, I noticed them reentering.

Time passed. More women now seemed to know I existed. Not many, but in a restaurant, a random woman or girl would touch me as I dined alone. Then they’d leave.

Nookie? Nada! Nil! Nichts!

Late one Friday evening, I returned home and found a naked redhead asleep in my king bed. In the dim light, I could hardly see her, but stunningly beautiful seemed an inadequate description. Not one to ignore blessings, I undressed without turning on the light and slipped in beside her. She didn’t stir, and I lay there for a while before drifting off to sleep. At some time in the night, it seemed a warm body snuggled up to me, but in the morning, I woke alone.

A few minutes after waking, I heard a melodious voice, “I hope cheese and asparagus omelets are okay. I’ll throw in a little ham, but your fridge is kinda bare.”

Okay? With that voice, Spam on dry toast would have been a feast! “Yes, that sounds great. Let me do a couple of morning things, and I’ll be right out.”

Came the voice, “Save the shave and shower, and I’ll pour the eggs. We can shower after we eat.”

‘We?’

Immediate morning necessities complete, I threw on a terrycloth robe and headed for the kitchen. By the stove stood the auburn vision, spatula in hand, dressed in a short pale green babydoll nightie and an open robe.

She motioned me over, kissed me lightly on the cheek and began to plate two omelets. We moved to the already set breakfast nook where juice, coffee, and English muffins waited.

“My name is Cynthia,” the vision began as we ate, “I know who you are. I moved some things into the empty half of the walk-in closet. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not really,” I replied, “but if you were sent by those morons at the Targeted Extractions Office, you can call them and tell them I said, ‘thanks, but it ain’t gonna work.’”

She looked genuinely confused. “Targeted what? Who or what is that?”

“Never mind,” I responded. “It’s not important. Care to explain what’s going on?”

“I’m not exactly sure myself,” she began around healthy mouthfuls. “I’ve had this empty feeling for months. Then, the first time I ate at Mambo Italiano, the feeling changed - like there was an answer for something. I noticed you leaving and followed you out, but you got in your car, so I went back inside and finished my dinner.”

She must have been one of the five women who followed me out that day, but why?

We seemed compatible, with similar tastes in music, complementary tastes in books - she prefers fantasy and I prefer hard SF, and neither of us watch much TV. She isn’t big on ‘chick flicks’ or action movies, and neither am I.

We talked about relationships, well she did. I explained that there was no woman in my life, never had been.

“I don’t have anyone in my life either,” she started, “Since I started to develop, I only attract lotharios looking for a quick conquest or arm candy. No man has ever really expressed interest in me or even tried to find out who I am.”

Tragic, but with her stunning beauty, I could see that many men would think they had no chance and wouldn’t try.

“I get hit on by women, pretty much in the same category as the men,” she continued, “but I have no real friends - I suppose they consider me too much competition. I’ve never even had a wingman.” It was amazing how open she was with me, a stranger.

“I bribed my server at Mambo,” Cynthia confessed, “he gave me your name from your credit card, and I Googled you. I liked what I found and decided to follow through on the chemistry I felt. So here I am.”

Cynthia and I talked until the coffee was exhausted. We cleared the table and she turned to me. “We’ve now had a longer real discussion than I’ve had with a man since my father died. Why don’t we take that shower and see what it leads to?”

It led to pure joy.

Cynthia preceded me into the large ensuite bathroom, reached into the shower, and started the multiple heads as if she had lived in the condo for months.

For a pair of virgins, things proceeded very well. They proceeded very well for anyone - period.

Cynthia looked at me shyly and slowly removed her robe and babydoll, letting them slip to the floor. She smiled playfully and stepped into the streams of water. A hand reached back and crooked a finger at me.

Under the water, I reached for shampoo and began washing her hair. She sighed contentedly and stepped back against me. When Junior saluted her, she giggled.

We took it slow and easy. Aided by the Internet’s unintended tutorials, we both had a pretty good intellectual (Intellectual! Really?!) understanding of tab A and slot B. The reality was a major and pleasant surprise to both of us. We washed and played with naughty bits until we were both panting. If not for the shower, we’d have been covered with perspiration.

We exited the shower and dried one another. I loved her perky breasts and delightfully matching auburn landing strip - damn I loved everything! Cynthia was equally enamored with Junior.

“Let’s not rub him raw with that towel,” I advised, “He’s got a job to do in a few minutes.”

Cynthia tossed the towel over her shoulder and into the shower, grabbed Junior, and pulled me into the bedroom.

After the messing around in the shower, I was all in for more experimenting such as I had seen on the Internet. I was especially interested in eating out her pussy. Cynthia was having none of that; she was ready for the main event - her deflowering.

“Listen, buster,” she explained, “I’ve been on the pill for two months, and my period was over Wednesday morning. I’ve been masturbating for years while waiting for this day, and I’m not about to wait another minute.” She pushed me onto my back and straddled me, so excited her juices were dripping. She settled on her butt, looked me in the eyes, lifted, notched, and dropped. She yipped, then sighed, and Junior became Mister Happy!

Once she was no longer a virgin, she was contented with gentle loving, hitting several small peaks before picking up the pace and rocketing skyward. Cynthia’s passion and spasming tunnel pulled me along with her. I was doubly surprised, having heard that women seldom orgasmed their first time and that virgin men seldom lasted more than a few strokes after penetration.

Life was suddenly wonderful. Cynthia snuggled under my arm and asked, “Can we go dancing tonight? I’ve never been.”

“I’d love to, but I don’t know how,” I responded. “I could never find a girl or woman who would partner with me to learn. Evita is playing at the Old Emporium Theater. Could we see if I can get tickets and have a nice dinner before the show?”

When she nodded into my shoulder, I kissed the top of her head and suggested, “Why don’t we plan on taking those lessons. Would you like that?”

“I certainly would,” she murmured sleepily. “I’ve never learned either. I just thought it sounded nice,” and she was gone.

My first date ever, was everything I could wish for. Dinner at Mambo was excellent, Perry Como sang Don’t Blame Me, the companionship was wonderful, and a cancellation enabled me to get sixth row, center tickets for Evita. Cynthia was even teary in the same spots as me. Sex that night was wild and experimental.

We collapsed in the early morning hours, and when we woke around noon, it was clear to us both we were now a committed couple. After two decades and some years of drought, now a paradise of plenty.

Cynthia was a research librarian with a masters in library science. She worked in a relatively low pay position in the city library system. It was clear that she had skills that would fit into my firm, so I offered her a job.

My employees were ecstatic. For obvious reasons, she was our first female employee - if they wouldn’t deign to look at me, how could I get them to interview? She was beautiful, and smart, and very competent.

Life, dancing lessons, work, and Cynthia were wonderful over the next months.

One afternoon, I returned home after a short out-of-town trip, and there was a small, mousy looking, blonde sitting with Cynthia on the sofa. They were deep in discussion.

Cynthia turned and announced, “Sweetie, this is Harriett, she moved in with us this morning. I gave her half of my side of the walk-in.”

Harriett looked at me and smiled shyly. “It took me ever so long to find you. It was only when I recognized Cynthia from seeing you together at the restaurant that I was able to ask her.”

It turned out that Harriett wasn’t mousy at all. When happy, her smile was brilliant; when naked, her body was a killer; and when aroused, she was major passionate.

She was frequently aroused!

I learned that she was a recently graduated English lit major who moved to the city to write. I read some of her fiction, and it was better than good. She loved mysteries and romance trash, board games, cooking, and oldies music. She fit with Cynthia and me like a missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle.

When I offered her a part-time, ad hoc, job as a technical or report writer, jaws dropped at the office - one woman was miraculous, two was impossible.

My home life was happy; my sex life was wondrous. With no previous experience, I never speculated on my ability to satisfy two very horny and passionate women. Besides, they frequently satisfied each other while I watched in awe.

Our relationship had another interesting and unusual aspect. I’ve always needed a quiet place and music to really concentrate on my work, and I frequently worked from home. When I thought about it, these ladies never caused a distraction, never played music not conducive to my concentration, never interrupted for sex - nothing. It was both wonderful and unnerving.

One Wednesday, the three of us grabbed a quick evening meal at Chipotle Mexican Restaurant, and Elizabeth followed us home. She didn’t know why, she just did.

She stood four foot ten inches, weighed in at ninety-five pounds, and had the classic, beautiful features of an Asian and Negro hybrid.

Elizabeth was a wunderkind, a certified genius. We discovered that she had graduated high school before she reached fourteen, was now sixteen and had almost completed a dual MS in statistics and computer science.

I watched as my delighted ladies oohed and ahhed over her, and then I went to our walk-in, cleared half the clothes from my side, and moved them into the second bedroom. I may be clueless about my own relationships, but I mostly recognize inevitability when I see it.

If my not-so-little family expanded any further, I knew I was going to need a cabinet maker for a bigger bed and Omar the Tentmaker for bed linens. I would remember that thought later. Then, I decided I needed the modifications now.

Like my first two ladies, Elizabeth arrived totally inexperienced with sex. As with them, once relieved of her hymen, she became a very happy wunderkind. She is also insatiable - and so-to-speak - omnivorous. On top, underneath, standing up, girl-girl, boy-girl, girl-girl-girl, on the bed, in the kitchen. If there was another willing participant, and it involved a variation of slot B with-or-without Tab A, day or night, she was and still is ready.

It turned out that her jigsaw piece filled my other wives’ need to mother. Wives? Yeah, really. That’s what I decided I have - go figure.

The next morning, I called Paul Bunyan Remodeling to have walls removed to consolidate the three bedrooms into one. I contacted Omar and ordered custom bed linens and enlisted his aid in finding someone who could quickly build us a giant bed to spec.

Then I called the local Hilton and reserved their penthouse for the ten days estimated for completion of my various orders. That afternoon, we moved in.

The penthouse was a pleasing experience for the ladies. The view was spectacular and the restaurant excellent, but it was the hot and cold running service that spoiled them rotten. Staff was increasingly anxious to please as the tips were generous, but especially because my women opened the door in whatever they happened to be wearing, or not, as the circumstances warranted. Current dress styles might be minimal, but there were few who wore (or failed to wear) as well as my lovers.

I later heard that there were fights and bribery to see who would answer a call from the suite while my ladies were in residence.

On our next-to-last day - Saturday - we were lounging on the patio by the pool when the twins joined us.

Amber walked over, sat on the lounge beside me, and ran her finger from my lips down my chest and over my stomach to Mister (suddenly) Happy. Completely distracted, I failed to notice her mirror image approaching from my opposite side. My ladies noticed and smiled.

Ember reached my side and spoke, “We noticed your ladies at the breakfast buffet, but failed to see you until we had finished eating and were on the way out. Then we had to hurry and change and leave for event finals. We’re in the regional college gymnastics tournament that ends at the arena tomorrow. I’m Ember and she’s Amber.”

They were petite brunettes, taller than Elizabeth, but not by more than three inches or so. Both were college juniors, Ember majoring in botany and Amber in animal husbandry. After their events, they had ducked out on their team, coaches, and chaperones to find us.

Amber told us that they needed to meet the team in the morning for breakfast at seven. Their coaches would be pissed when they found the twins missing, but it wouldn’t be the first time. The twins were adventurous. With the ability to be reached by cell phone, a lecture was sure, but a manhunt forestalled.

Cynthia noted that she had had enough sun, mentioned that we could order dinner from room service, and headed for the elevators, the recent arrivals trailing like newly imprinted ducklings.

The conversation was lively, the pizza plentiful and varied, and after the twins surrendered their cherries, the orgy was truly epic. Cynthia again assumed the leadership role and ensured the twins were in bed asleep in time to assure plenty of rest for the next morning’s events.

The coach was livid. The twins didn’t care. I booked us for another day, left a message for Omar to add a dozen sets of towels and accessories to my order, and asked Cynthia to call Peapod and place a humongous grocery order to be delivered Monday afternoon.

Then we all saddled up and headed for the arena to watch our new wives in their final performances.

I was beginning to worry. I had transitioned from no nookie to seemingly unlimited pussy, and I couldn’t figure out why. Except for my personal life, I could always figure out why. Always!

My cadre now numbered five beautiful women, amazing in itself, but there were no fights, no jealousy, no jockeying for position, none of it. It was eerie. The jigsaw puzzle was growing, and there was no sign it was complete. The puzzle’s picture wasn’t visible either.

The sex was oh-my-god crazy wonderful.

The huge new bed had plenty of room for acrobatics and rest, puppy piles and cuddling, and even alone time in the middle of a crowd. I blessed the thought that made me order the changes. The twins contacted their professors and made arrangements to finish the semester remotely. Gymnastics were over, so a quick trip back to school with a U-Haul to move their possessions, and they were history. Our university’s botany and husbandry programs were every bit as good, and the twins’ academic records made the transfer easy. Done deal.

The following Saturday, Mr. and Mrs. Twins appeared in our foyer and asked if they could speak with me. I showed them into our conversation pit and called the ladies in from the pool. The lovelies paraded in wearing bikinis, cover-ups, and sandals. Amber and Ember squealed when they saw their parents and ran over for hugs.

Their elders seemed relieved to see them alive, whole, and visibly undamaged. Very visibly, but Dad seemed comfortable with the view. Then again, he might have been distracted.

After drinks were served all around, Mr. Twins asked to see my CAP card and asked my intentions towards his daughters. “Is this your prepack?” he asked, looking at the gathered beauties, “It seems like a rather large number.”

I handed him my CAP card, my latest bank statement, and my business card and waited while he perused them. He looked up, smiled, and waited for my answer.

I thought for a moment before I answered, “We haven’t discussed it at all, sir. I’d like to think they would accompany me. This is one heck of a compatible group - even considering your daughters just joined. And if they don’t want to go, I can leave enough money to ensure that anyone staying behind is comfortable.”