Karma Doesn't Have to Be a Bitch
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2018 by George Foxx

Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - What if you actually got rewarded for being a good person? What might happen if there was an accountant who kept Karmic books on everyone? What kind of reward might he give you if you were very, very good? Widower Flynn Doyle is about to find out.

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft   Consensual   Heterosexual   Fiction   High Fantasy   Cream Pie   First   Oral Sex   Petting   Safe Sex   Voyeurism   Big Breasts   Size   Small Breasts   Slow  

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 lawn!

I’ve been a “widower” for a year. DAMN Cancer!

The goddamn, fucking, 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.

At this time in my life I looked 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 had even gone through puberty.

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 memories 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 at myself 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-west corner of the house. Instead of a battlement, the tower has a conical roof, much like the towers of 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, in a heavy Irish accent.

“Hello,” I said gruffly. “Mrs. Flynn, is it?” I asked, exaggerating my brogue.

“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 squeezed, homemade 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 and want to do terrible things to me because he keeps warning me about them so often. You’ll have to explain to me what ‘evil intentions’ are and what ‘terrible things’ he might want to do to me. 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 are going to tell me 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, 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 for joy. 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 one by one, 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, single pane window. The cheerful white curtains with a sun faded 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 the room fill up with 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 oxford cloth shirt with a Henley collar. 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, which didn’t seem to be working any more.

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