Chapter 5

When I went back to school my thought processes were somewhat clarified. I liked Martin, but I knew I’d never fall in love with him. I knew I was already in love with Uncle Bob, and that that love affair would last a lifetime. I also knew that, as much as I now wanted my first child to be Uncle Bob’s, it was unlikely that would work out. I knew I should try to look for a man I could settle down with and have babies with, but I thought I had plenty of time for that. I had at least three and a half years, and more, if I waited until my career was in full swing.

So I resolved to work out with Martin for the next year and a half and fuck his brains out once a week or so. When he left for the Army I’d have to find another partner, but I’d worry about that when the time came.

And so, as that school year went on, Martin and I were fuck buddies. We both got summer jobs in town and I didn’t go home very often. Whenever I did, though, I always spent some time with Uncle Bob, having the best orgasms of my life. I liked what Martin did for me, but nobody could compare with how Uncle Bob made me feel. I was in a limbo, of sorts, where school was the most important thing, but Martin and Uncle Bob gave me what school could not.

Martin gave it to me for the rest of that year and the year that followed.

Most people who haven’t gone to college think those years are a lark, where kids (as they might think of them) get to do whatever they want to and it’s all hedonism and fun. But when you’re pursuing a meaningful degree, college is actually just like a regular job. Each day is very much like the one before and each year is very much the same as well. The only differences are what you are reading about and what your instructors are talking about. You go to class and then do four or five hours of homework. You don’t have time to run around getting drunk and being hedonistic. Sure, there are plenty of party animals, but they’re not serious about their education and most of them drop out, eventually. College, for me, droned on and the only hedonism I engaged in was with Martin or, rarely, Uncle Bob.

If I went home my parents still treated me as if I was their teenage daughter, still in high school. I would later find that many parents even treated their newly married children the same way, because they could’t see the changes in their child’s development from teenagedom to adulthood. I needed money anyway, so I got a job and just didn’t go home anymore, except for holidays. I worked at the student union in the book store during school, and in the summers I got a job as a checker in the local Walmart. Martin worked, too, but we didn’t have homework, so it was easier to get together more often when it was summertime.

What I did not think about is that, even if two sexual partners don’t want things to become romantic, if they spend enough time sharing intimacy, it’s inevitable that their feelings for each other will deepen. It happened to Martin and me in small, insidious steps that we didn’t even realize had taken place until he was about to graduate and leave for the Army.

We were making love - somewhere along the line it had changed from fucking for fun to making love - and it hit me that, in a few days, he would be gone.

“I’m going to miss you,” I whined, as he dug deep and rubbed.

“I’m going to miss you, too,” he panted. “I didn’t realize how much I’d miss you until now.”

“Me, either,” I said.

“I wish you were my girlfriend,” he groaned.

“In a way, I’m the closest thing to a girlfriend you have,” I said, feeling an orgasm rushing towards me.

“Can I write to you?” he asked, going in deep and rubbing. He could read me really well, now, and knew I was close.

“Of course. But you’ll probably find some hot, buff chick to bang like this,” I whimpered. Then I gave up and welcomed the orgasm.

“Get one,” he urged. “Pound it out, Megan. Squeeze me hard.”

I did and was rewarded with his rush of hot semen.

Three days later I watched Martin walk across the stage in his dress uniform. He was leaving just a few hours after the ceremony and I went with him to his house as he packed up his uniform and got ready to get in a taxi to take him to the airport.

“You better do more than just write to me,” I said, after a long, tongue swapping kiss. “Text me. Or call me. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”

“You’ll find some other poor schmuck at the gym to seduce,” he said. “Wear your spandex and they’ll crawl all over you.”

“I don’t want some other poor schmuck’s penis in me,” I said.

“You could always go back and find that guy who took your cherry,” he teased. I had never told him my other lover’s name. I didn’t talk to Martin about Uncle Bob.

“I’m in contact with him, occasionally,” I said.

“Do you let him fuck you?”

I heard tinges of jealousy in his tone.

“I’m in your bed ten times as often as his,” I said. “Twenty times more often.” I frowned. “Maybe a hundred times.”

“And here I thought I was the only one who had rights to your pussy,” he said.

“It’s quite possible that you, like him, will always have rights to my pussy,” I said. “And you’ll probably find some poor innocent girl to knock off her feet and onto her back.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But you’re special and you’ll always be special.”

“I won’t be able to see you for a long time,” I said.

“Not until after my branch training is over and I actually get an assignment,” he agreed.

“How long is that?” I asked.

“My specialty takes six months of school,” he said. “But maybe after that you can come visit for a weekend or something.”

“Call me,” I said.

“I will.”

And, just like that, he was gone. I really had no idea if I’d ever see him again or not. I was surprised at how empty I felt.

So I packed a bag and went home for a week.

Except I didn’t go home.

I went to Uncle Bob’s, and didn’t tell my folks I was in town.

He knew right away that something was up. He knew me even better than Martin did.

I told him I was a sex orphan again. He comforted me until he just couldn’t get it up again.

Then we slept and when we woke up, I wore him out again. The rest of the week was like that as I decompressed and he loved me in that deep, meaningful way that nourished something inside me. I wasn’t depressed on the ride back to school, where within three days I’d be standing at a register in Walmart, selling everything under the sun all summer. But I wasn’t looking forward to it, either.

I went home for the 4th of July and stayed with my parents that time. They didn’t want to stay up late enough to go to fireworks at the county fairgrounds, so Uncle Bob took me.

He fucked me in the bed of his pickup, in a dark corner of the parking lot, on a bed made of blankets, while the skies lit up above us.

I still had two years to go on my degree program. I had finally settled on a major in architecture. Why? I’d seen Uncle Bob’s drawings and thought they were beautiful. Before I left for college I didn’t pay that much attention to what he had to do to create those drawings. I was always more interested in getting him naked and playing. I suppose some people would say I just took the easy way out, or that Uncle Bob influenced me to go that direction. A lot of people would say he manipulated me, in terms of the sex, and that his manipulation didn’t stop there. I, however, would not have agreed. Everybody has to find some career and get a job and all that. Why would anybody be upset just because I chose the same one my first lover had?

Anyway, we were getting into degree-specific courses now, and they were harder. For the first six months I paid attention to school. Martin did call me and text me, though he only sent me two letters. Both were pornographic in the extreme, but I loved them. Each of his Army schools had a specific length, but each time he finished one class there seemed to be another one he had to attend. After basic there were classes associated with his military area of concentration. Martin’s AOC was signal branch, which I guess has to do with communications in the Army and on the battlefield. He didn’t tell me a lot about that. I know he had to get a security clearance because a guy in civilian clothes came to interview me. He asked some odd questions about Martin, but I said, basically, all I ever did with Martin was work out. The guy asked me if I ever had sex with Martin, which I thought was kind of rude, but I didn’t lie about that. I said we did, and that Martin and I still communicated, though we hadn’t agreed we were in any kind of formal relationship. The guy asked me who else I knew who had hung around with Martin, but all I could give him were the names of Martin’s roommates.

Long story short, I did not go visit him for a weekend, because he was at Fort Gordon, in Georgia. I couldn’t afford to fly and it would be a sixteen hour trip by car. Each way.

As I look back on all this, I have come to the conclusion that the culture in which I live wants to categorize relationships in a way that judges them. I was in love with Uncle Bob. The feelings I had for him were bone deep and I knew I had to have him in my life for as long as humanly possible. “People” would never approve of that relationship. I loved Martin, but in a completely different way. I liked being with him and felt comfortable talking to him about anything. Add in some pretty great sex and we were both happy. “People” would have called us “fuck buddies” and frowned, but not nearly as much as if they found out what Uncle Bob and I did.

I also loved my brothers and my dad, and, again, this was a completely different kind of love. It didn’t involve things sexual. I knew I could call on them to help me if I was in trouble. Of course Uncle Bob and Martin would also help me if I was in trouble, if they could. “People” would smile and approve of the relationships I had with my brothers and father.

I knew that “people” who knew the intimate details of my life would probably call me a “loose woman”, as my grandmother would have put it, but from my own perspective, I was just a woman, trying to learn how to be a good architect. I had hopes and dreams that were nobody else’s business but my own, so I really didn’t give a flying fuck what “people” might think of me.

What I didn’t understand, back then, though, is that you have to interact with “people” unless you’re a hermit. And I wasn’t.

And that, for all you philosophers out there, is why I finally decided I understood why people don’t like talking about sex in Western culture. If you talk about it, somebody will judge you. Even if the sex you’re talking about is milk toast, ordinary, monogamous, every-day sex, they’ll judge you just for talking about it. If the details of your sexual life become exposed, then the weight of someone else’s morals and values will be brought to bear and your life may become difficult (at best) and possibly untenable. They even judge the hell out of the people trying to make things better. They judged the shit out of Masters and Johnson, and Dr. Ruth, for example.

Now, you may be asking why I vomited up the last four or five paragraphs. Well, I’ll tell you. And the reason I’ll tell you is that you aren’t here, with me, and able to bring the weight of your morals and values to berate me for how I decided to proceed, as it pertains to my sex life.

I decided that I could have two lovers, maybe forever. Martin would be one of them. Uncle Bob would be the other. This wasn’t really going to be up for a vote, from my perspective. I knew that one, or the other, might balk at this idea, but I had faith in my ability to convince them both that this was a great solution to a simple problem. Everybody wants some intimacy in their lives, and this would achieve that.

So you can call me a slut if you want, or say I disrespected Martin or Uncle Bob, but I don’t care. I love them both, so I was going to keep them both.

Well, I was going to try to keep them both.

Maybe you think I’m selfish. I don’t care.

Just remember, I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life.

I’m only explaining how I came to be living the life I am.

Of course I was still young, and I admit I was looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses. I was spoiled by my very easy introduction to the world of sex and love. Uncle Bob spoiled me, though I’m quite sure he had no intention of doing so. Martin spoiled me further by giving me my second very easy and comfortable relationship. I never got my heart broken, and never had to deal with broken dreams.

Martin got his first assignment, and it was at Fort Drum. It’s in northern New York and it’s the home of the 10^th Mountain Division of the Army. As soon as he got situated, he called me. His attitude about things had changed a little. He still wanted our sexual relationship to go on, too. We were like-minded as all get-out about that. That part hadn’t changed.

What had changed was that he now wanted me to come live with him ... permanently. He wanted me to marry him.

I still had a semester and a half left until I would get my degree. That wasn’t the hard part, though. The hard part was that Martin’s and my perceived futures had diverged significantly. I didn’t want to get married. Marriage had never been in my plans. As I think back on it, I think that’s because I couldn’t marry Uncle Bob. And if I couldn’t marry him, then I didn’t want to get married. I didn’t visualize myself as a married woman in the future. Maybe it’s like people who love to fly, to soar above the clouds and patchwork of different colors of the land below, but can’t visualize themselves as ever being the pilot who is actually flying the plane.

I understood why Martin got to the place he did. When we communicated I always told him I missed him and wished we were together. I told him I loved him. Both of those were true. To him, that meant the logical next step was to formalize things. He wanted a wife, a family, permanence in a relationship. I understood that. I wanted those things, too. Where we diverged was that he wanted to be “normal” and I just didn’t.

The problem was I wanted something less defined, more flexible, something that included Uncle Bob. I really, honestly couldn’t imagine a life without Uncle Bob in it. And I mean in a meaningful, sexual way. Martin was aware of that on some level. He knew that while he and I were being fuck buddies, I also saw my “other lover” from time to time. He’d been able to live with that when we were just fuck buddies.

Now, his opinion on that had changed, and he assumed I’d change my opinion, too, when the option of a normal marriage was on the table. We didn’t actually talk about that, but I knew it. I knew Martin well enough to understand how conventional he was in his outlook on the future. He was going to make a career in the Army. That meant he’d get stationed who knows where every couple of years. He’d move every couple of years. I could live with him in on-post quarters, or maybe an apartment off post, but what kind of career could I have if I had to resign every two or three years and then try to find a new job in a new place?

Basically, I had a reality check and it wasn’t fun.

Basically, I had to choose. The culture in which I lived required I choose one over the other. Actually, the culture I lived in demanded that I choose a normal, regular life, as a housewife, maybe with a career of my own, but with just one man in my life. Society wanted me to toe the line ... be “normal”.

I finally got my heart broken.

I called Uncle Bob. He could tell instantly that something was wrong. I told him I didn’t want to talk about it over the phone and asked if I could come spend the weekend with him.

“I don’t want my parents to know I’m in town,” I said.

“Then maybe I should come see you, instead,” he replied. “I can stay in a motel and we’ll have time to talk about whatever is bothering you.”

“Okay,” I said, somewhat listlessly.

I was so depressed that, for perhaps the first time in a very long time, I didn’t get horny when I opened the door of my dorm room and found Uncle Bob standing there.

Chantelle Rodgers, who lived on my wing, two doors down from me, was more sanguine.

“Who’s this delicious morsel?” she asked, stopping and staring at Uncle Bob. She was coming from the snack vending machine area and hadn’t worn much when she left her room. You couldn’t get away with wearing thong panties in the halls, so she wore the bottoms of a thong bikini. They couldn’t ban swimwear. A lot of girls did that kind of thing, mostly to torture the boys. I was aware that when coed dorms first got started, everybody was worried about the girls, and how they would deal with the inevitable attention of the boys. They should have worried about the boys, instead. There are more blue balls in coed dormitories at one or two major universities in the US than there are in the entire Vatican. And we all know how horny priests get, don’t we? That’s a major scandal that’s lasted more than two decades.

“He’s taken,” I said, as something approaching enthusiasm perked up in me.

“Not by you, he’s not,” sniffed Chantelle.

Chantelle is mean, sometimes. Her father is rich but made her live in the dorm just to find out how the “little people” live. She was a sophomore. I was the “old lady” on the floor. Most college students don’t live in the dorm for longer than they just have to, but it didn’t bother me. Martin had lived off campus and I’d spent lots of time at his house. I didn’t need a house of my own and the dorms were cheap. The university I attended was so desperate to have the dorms filled they even had a program to let students live there in the summer if they didn’t want to go home. Or didn’t have a home to go to.

“He’s too yummy,” said Chantelle. “He’s obviously got class. He’s like twenty-five-year-old single malt. He wouldn’t play with a child like you.”

“Of course not me,” I said. “He’s my uncle. He’s married and has six kids.”

Chantelle lost interest almost instantly.

“Oh,” she said, disappointment heavy in her voice. “What a waste.”

“Not at all!” said Uncle Bob, brightly. “If I’d married you I would have gotten you fat six times, too. You look strong and healthy, like you could push six babies out while making a casserole at the same time!” He grinned.

Chantelle actually shuddered and hurried off down the hall. Uncle Bob watched her bare bottom jiggling along, until I pulled him into the room.

“I’m jealous,” I growled.

“Nonsense,” he said. “I wouldn’t do anything with that girl if somebody paid me to.”

“You watched her ass when she left,” I accused.

“Of course. She has a nice ass. Now, what’s going on? What’s wrong? How can I help?”

I didn’t want to get interrupted by my roommate, so I told him we’d talk at dinner, or in his motel room. He hadn’t gotten a motel room, yet. He’d come straight to the dorm. That was one reason I loved him so much. He cared more about me than his own personal comfort.

I had him take me to Minnelli’s, probably out of either an attempt to stay connected to Martin, or to expunge Martin from my memory of that place. He ordered wine and I had two glasses before our food got there.

While drinking those two glasses of wine I whined and moaned and bitched about how unfair life was to me. It was a pity party of gala proportions, and he just sat there and nodded and listened. I finally ran down when the food got there and then we just ate in silence. I didn’t think it was odd that he said almost nothing the whole time.

After dinner he drove to the Sheraton and left me in the car while he got a room. I’d polished off four glasses of wine, and was feeling a little woozy. I’m not a big drinker. When he returned to the car he got in and started it, leaving the hotel.

“You didn’t get a room?” I slurred.

“I did get a room. Maybe you’ll get to see it,” he said. “Right now we have more important things to do.”

“Like what?” I was still feeling sorry for myself, and couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do at that point. I didn’t even think about sex. That’s how depressed I was.

“I want to see your drawings,” he said.

What he was referring to were the drawings I had to do in my third year classes. I was taking design III and structures II that semester. Both of those classes required I turn in detailed drawings that incorporated whatever the professor put into the lesson. I had a whole portfolio of drawings already, and it would only get thicker over the next three semesters. To me, they were just assignments, in a big vinyl folder. They were no longer neat and clean, as when I turned them in. Now they were marked up by the person who graded them. I had never been ashamed of them until he looked at them, with their red circles and terse notes where something was wrong with them.

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