Copyright© Rod O'Steele © 2005, 2006

Daddy. That's right. I'm a Daddy.

I couldn't imagine such a turn of events just days before, but it happened. I'm not a real daddy. Christ, I'm single, always have been single, always will be single. I even had a vasectomy because I knew I'd be the worst father imaginable. Well, that and I didn't want some sweet thing to trap me into marriage. Okay, I'm not always a trusting sort. So sue me.

My brother, George, always wanted to be a daddy, even when we were teens. He joined the Marines to get out of Kansas. He went off to fight, like Dad before him. He was in Kuwait for the war. He'd been there three years before as a liaison to the Kuwaiti army, such as it was. He met a Kuwaiti woman, Faizah, and fell in love. She was a bright girl and decided this American was her ticket to freedom... not the lazy intellectual concept most Americans mean by freedom, but real true freedom. As a woman in an Islamic country, she was a... I was going to say second class but that's generous. The camels were treated better; she was more like a fourth class citizen. She was bright and wanted to use her mind. She married George and became an American with all rights, obligations, and privileges. Unlike Americans, who take their freedom for granted, she appreciated it. She could quote Jefferson better than anyone I knew.

I never understood why she chose George. I mean, Bro was an all right guy. Hell, I loved him like a brother. He went to school in the evenings while a Jar Head and got his Bachelors. But he wasn't bright like Faizah. She was brilliant. She had a college degree, very unusual for a woman in Kuwait, and taught in a girl's school in Kuwait. Once here, she went straight into a PhD in Government and started teaching. She was always stirring things up in the liberal circles of the university by taking the unpopular stances, like pointing out the hypocrisy of the supposed academic freedom, except when it went against the liberal orthodoxy. When one graduate student was denied an assistant teaching position because he was doing his thesis on the continuing influence of Jacksonian democracy, she leapt into the fray on his behalf. It seems that dead white men were out of fashion. When the smoke cleared, she left the battlefield littered with the liberal orthodoxy and its supporters; the fellow had his position and his thesis had been accepted.

Faizah had been kicked out of her family for marrying a Christian. If they only knew we were pagan, they probably would have declared a holy war. Mom had been Episcopal, almost Catholic, and Dad had been raised a Bible thumping, no swearing, drinking, dancing Baptist and he hated it. So they raised George and me without a church. But it got Faizah kicked out of her family anyway which I suspect pleased her, except that she had to leave behind her mother and sister. She never sounded like she had much love for her dad but I never did know the whole story.

Faizah became Felicia, that's how I knew her. I even think they enjoyed being married, though that was a strange concept to me. They also had a daughter, Anne. Anne was a beautiful and exotic looking girl, half Arabic and half, whatever George was. I'd see them once a year or so. I'd go visit or we'd all be at home for Christmas doing our Family thing. I watched Anne grow up. I have to admit, if there was ever anything that could have broken through my defenses on marriage, it was Anne. She was vibrant and bright, sharp as a tack, and always cheerful. She almost made me want to have kids, almost. Then, she changed. She grew up. The last time I'd seen her, she was fifteen and looked older. I had to kick myself several times as she was really affecting me with her beauty, innocence, and smarts. George caught me one time looking at her. Lucky for me he only laughed and said quietly so no one else could hear, "Don't make me kill you, brother."

I turned to him shocked. "What?" I asked in feigned innocence.

"Don't worry, every man does that around her. I'm thinking of shipping her off to a convent, except Felicia won't let me. Too much like it was for her in Kuwait."

"Jesus, Bro. Who the fuck did Felicia sleep with? I know somebody that beautiful can't be related to you," I said.

George laughed, "Don't be an envious bastard 'cuz I got something you'll never have."

I looked at Felicia and Anne before turning back to George, saying quietly, "Yeah, I know."

George put his arm around my shoulder. "Don't get too serious, you shithead. You could deserve it, you sorry bastard, if you'd quit thinking with your dick and start thinking with your head."

I had to laugh. "Shut up, Jar Head."

"Leave the Corps outta this or I'll have to teach you some respect," he said

"Listen, little brother. I have always been able to kick your ass and you better remember it," obviously bluffing. That had been true when we were kids, but now, no way. George was six foot of sculpted muscle. I had been an attorney for fifteen years, sitting on my ass making money. While that's good for the bank book it's not good for the waist line. George grabbed me and put me in a headlock until I pleaded mercy.

That was the last time I saw George and Felicia. Four months later, they were coming home from a faculty party when a drunk, doing eighty-five, crossed the line and hit them head on. Even the airbags couldn't help. It was like hitting a brick wall doing one hundred sixty miles an hour... too much mass at too high an inertia stopped way too quickly.

I flew back to handle the arrangements. Lord, isn't that a nice word, arrangements, for such a brutal awful thing. After the funeral, I took Anne back to their house. What the hell was I going to do with her? I knew I was constitutionally unfit for parenthood. I sure as hell couldn't send her to live with my dad; he had been going downhill since mom had passed on. And I knew Felicia would hound me from the grave if I sent Anne to live in Kuwait.

"Uncle Mike," I heard Anne say, pulling me from my reverie.

I looked up to see tears streaming down her face. "What is it, sweetie?"

"What am I going to do? I don't have anybody..." she broke into deep heaving sobs, sobs that wracked her entire body.

I sprang up from the sofa and wrapped her in my arms. I didn't really make a decision; it just came out. "Anne, sweetie, as long as I'm alive you'll always have somebody." She clutched at me like a drowning person would a life preserver. And I suppose that wasn't all that wrong a metaphor. I held her and rocked her as she cried herself out.

"Do you mean that, Uncle Mike?" she asked between sniffles, the tears drying.

"Of course." I leaned down and kissed the top of her head. Anne grabbed me and held herself tight against me.

That's how I became a daddy.

Anne never did call me Daddy. It was Uncle Mike, gradually becoming just Mike, dropping the Uncle as a useless adjunct to my name. I couldn't argue. We settled into a domestic routine. She attended a girl's school and I went off to work. In the evenings she made dinner, I have always been an awful cook, and we'd sit and watch something on TV or we'd play games and talk. Anne got her brains from her mom. She was in the honors program and still got straight A's without much effort. She showed me one of her reading assignments once. I had trouble reading the damn article, something to do with Emerson and transcendental poetry. It made law school look easy. So, our discussions over dinner or a game were usually mind stretching, for me at least and I'd like to think for Anne as well.

Anne had been with me for a year when she truly shocked me during one of our evening discussions. We'd been playing Gin. She generally kicked my butt since she could recall every card played, in order. She put down her cards and looked up at me. "Mike?" she asked.

"That sounds like a troubled tone of voice," I said.

"It is. I'm worried that you don't like having me here," she said.

"What in the hell gave you that idea?" I asked really astonished.

"What have you been doing about sex for the past year?" Anne asked.

Shocked, I blinked a few times and finally managed to close my mouth. "Anne!"

"Don't Anne me. You asked and I told you. I'm worried that you don't like having me here because it interferes with your sex life," she said quite calmly.

"What in the world would make you think that?" I asked. Let me say up front it was true. It had put a serious damper on my sex life to have Anne in the house. But I certainly hadn't held it against her, or wished she wasn't with me.

"I heard mom and dad talking about your sex life. From what they said, I know you must have been having sex all of the time. I don't think you've had it once since I came to live with you," she said.

She was close, certainly. She didn't know about what happened on an overnight I had to do on a case. I met a woman in the hotel bar who was also traveling on business. We sat in the bar, talked, and flirted. A gentleman, I escorted her back to her room, into which she invited me, just for a moment. Standing by the window, we turned heads towards each other and kissed. That's when she started ripping my clothes off. I was lucky to escape in the morning with my life, and a big smile. But that was it for the year.

"Anne. I don't know what they said about my sex life, but it wasn't all that spectacular."

"From what mom said, it must have been hundreds of women," she said. "She said you probably kept a scorecard to keep them separate."

"Greatly exaggerated, I can assure you. Your folks were talking in hyperbole to make a point. It is true that I had a sex life, but hundreds is way overboard. Anne, your folks had such a special marriage, they always thought I should have one too. I think they blamed the women a little for me not settling down," I said.

Hundreds was an exaggeration. Damn, but Felicia knew me. I did keep a journal. It was password protected, zipped, and encrypted with a different password to protect the guilty, since a few of the names were married to friends and colleagues. Oh yes, and that one time with the senior partner's daughter, but she was turning eighteen in a month. I was always glad she never told Daddy about me taking her up to her room during that cocktail party. My journal also contained all of the details of the various trysts. I'd been keeping it since college. It started as my little black book, as a way to keep track so I wouldn't inadvertently say something to the wrong guy or girl. But as it grew, it became a monument to past accomplishments and I hated to let it go. Okay, I was, am, a horn dog. I admit to it.

The number was actually eighty-six. I realize that puts me way out on the bell curve. I just read a recent CDC study on American's sexual habits. The average man has had eight sex partners. I'm at ten times the average. What is funny is that women in the study have only had four partners. Now, if you can do simple math, like me, you realize that if women have had four, men eight, something doesn't work. It has to be, one woman, one man to make the math work. Until you take into account that, another study that found women, even anonymously, cut in half their sexual activity on sex studies. They lie even if no one will know it was them. Then the numbers add up. Women have had eight sexual partners just like men; they simply lie about it.

Anne pulled me back from my reverie. "That still means you were having sex and aren't now because of me," she said. "That isn't healthy."

I had been in a couple of arguments with Anne. She had great command of reasoned argumentation. Her former school district had tested her IQ and she had tested way high. I never knew the number, but afterwards, she was treated almost as a celebrity. She had trapped me more than once into a position I couldn't escape. It made me wary. I felt like I was walking on quicksand, waiting for it to swallow me. "Hold it. We aren't going to discuss my sex life," I said hoping that would stop it cold.

"Okay," she said picking up her cards. "Then don't ask what's bothering me."

Of course I couldn't let the topic go like that. If she was truly concerned, I wanted to know, and damn her, she knew it. She was way too much like her mother. I'm man enough to know when I've just been beaten to a pulp, and by a teenage girl. "You win."

"Mike, I wasn't trying to win. I really am concerned. It isn't natural for a guy to just give up sex," she said.

"Men get married all of the time." She gave me the look along with an eye roll. "Anne, please. I haven't really missed it." She just looked at me. I said, "Okay, maybe a little. Life is a series of tradeoffs. Do I want this or that? Now or later? This is a tradeoff I am making."

"That's just the point. You don't need to. I am a big girl. I can stay home by myself. Why don't you date?" she asked.

"Why don't you?" I asked.

"No interest in boys I know. Too shallow. Nothing to talk about," she said.

"Anne, you just described most of the single women I know. That's why I'm not dating right now. I have more fun coming home and having dinner with you and playing gin, than I'd have taking some ditzy blonde to a movie, even if it involved sex," I said.

"Really? You aren't just saying that?"

"No, I mean it." And I did. Funny, but saying it out loud like that made me realize that it was true. I'd just never noticed it before. I was having fun. I wouldn't mind a roll in the hay, I suppose, but it wasn't worth the chasing. That was a real revelation for me. I was becoming domesticated, a fate worse than death for me just a year before.

"I just want you to know that you could date. If you wanted to bring a woman home I could stay in my room. I wouldn't peek, too much," she said with a devilish little smile. "I just don't want you feeling like I'm keeping you from dating."

"Anne, I'd rather be with you."

She gave me an unreadable look. "So you don't want to date any of the women you know?" she asked.

"I don't. And I just want you to know, you can't date until you are twenty-one," I smiled.

"You sound just like dad," she said wistfully. Then she gave me a sharp look, "Probably trying to keep me for yourself."

I laughed. "That's right. Deal the cards, my little prisoner."

Anne smiled and started dealing. I could see the calculation in her eyes and knew she was planning to beat my butt. I was used to it.

That conversation was the wellspring of our new relationship. Anne started asking me questions about sex and boys, women and men, and my own past indiscretions. While she was brilliant she had no real experience. She was smart enough to know it and tried to fill her own gaps of knowledge with my experiences. I tried to answer her clearly and truthfully, neither encouraging nor discouraging her interests... except about my own past. I let that stay buried. Anne opened up to me as well, talking about her dreams and desires. She even asked once about masturbation, basically asking about technique. I had to tell her I didn't know female techniques, male being substantially different.

Another change happened about the same time. Anne was a typical teenage girl; very body conscious. She always made sure the bathroom door was closed and locked, and the same to her bedroom when she changed. She normally would wear a robe over her nightie if she was running around outside her room. She accorded me the same treatment, always announcing herself before she'd come into my bedroom.

So I was surprised one morning when I was changing, having just dropped my pajamas to the floor when Anne came through my door. "Oh. Excuse me," she said, making no effort to leave or look away. I didn't want to make it a big deal, since I firmly believe that many of the problems with American society is our prudish behavior about skin and bodies. It is just skin. So I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around me while asking, "What is it, sweetie?"

"Can you give me a ride this morning? I have a project and I don't want to carry it on the bus."

"Sure. I'm going to take a shower and I'll be ready," I told her.

"Thanks," she said leaving.

It was at this time that she started being much less body conscious, coming out at night in very revealing outfits to kiss me goodnight. It's funny how much sexier a woman can be in a sheer peignoir than she looks naked. The tease makes your mind wonder, 'What is she hiding?' I found myself having to work at controlling my thoughts and other more physical reactions. It wasn't always comfortable.

The moment at which a relationship between a man and a woman changes from non-sexual to sexual is a moment fraught with potential, but also fraught with uncertainty. Since that moment is always the woman's choice, the man often doesn't know that it has happened. Monica Piper summarized the entire dynamic when she said, "A man on a date wonders if he'll get lucky. The woman already knows."

It was a Saturday morning. I rose and headed to the bath intending to take a shower. Anne, being a teenager, always slept in on the weekend. I knew I'd have the bath to myself and could enjoy a luxurious long hot shower and there would be plenty of time for the water heater to refill before she dragged herself out of bed.

I rounded the corner and stepped into the bath only to see Anne, leaning against the counter, her hands in her long thick black hair, and a towel wrapped around her waist. She smiled at me. "Good morning, lazy head. About time you got up."

The irony of her statement was lost on me as I stared at her. She was beautiful. Anne simply smiled and waited as I stared at her tits. "Excuse me," I mumbled. I turned and fled the bath. I hurried into my room, trying to get the image, which was now indelibly burned into my mind, out. I kept seeing her, so beautiful, her tits proudly standing up from her chest, a smile, a knowing smile on her lips. Where did this woman come from? Yesterday, she had been a girl.

I looked into my heart, why was I so shaken up by seeing Anne naked? I remembered that day when I had first noticed Anne as a woman and my brother had threatened me. Here I was, trying to be a father figure to a woman I was excited by, maybe even in love with, certainly in lust with. The L word... Love - Lust. Which? Both? Worse, she was my niece. The old taboos raised their heads.

I was standing in front of my closet trying to regain my composure, when from behind I heard, "Mike. You okay?"

I turned. Anne was standing there, a look of concern on her face and that was it. Once again, I was confronted with this vision of loveliness, this time completely naked and seemingly unconcerned. I noticed that she trimmed her pubic region for I could see her labia pooched between her legs. I tore my eyes away and looked up at her face, still reflecting her concern.

"Are you okay?" she asked again as she wrapped the towel around herself.

"I'm fine." I said trying to buy time to get the image of her out of my mind.

"You don't look fine. You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No, really. I'm fine," I said. I wasn't fine. I wasn't in the least fine and I knew it. But my mind was an inchoate mess. Defensively, it tried to shut off more stimulation until it could get a grip on the thoughts, emotions, and feelings flowing, bouncing around.

"Is it me?" Anne asked, the concern evident in her voice. "Do I look ugly?"

"My God, no. Anne, you are stunning. I can't believe how beautiful you are," I said without thinking.

She smiled; the concerned look was gone as if it had never been there at all. It wasn't until much later, when I had time to rationally review what had happened that I began to suspect the concern hadn't really been there at all. But in my haste to allay her concern, I had opened the door to something else. She pressed her advantage in my befuddlement. "Really? You really think I'm beautiful? You're not just saying that, are you?"

Her question focused my attention back on her body, now barely covered, but still burning in my mind's eye. My eyes once again drank in her stunning beauty. It almost hurt, she was so perfect. If she had been a model in a magazine they wouldn't have needed to airbrush any part of her. There was not a blemish or an imperfection that I could discern. The towel only made her beauty more desirable by teasing, the swell of her breasts under the towel, a peek at her thigh, the towel barely covering her pussy. "Anne, you might be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

Her eyes widened before narrowing their focus on me. "I think you mean that." She stepped forward, as stunned, I couldn't move, and put her arms around my neck pulling my head down and pressing her body to mine, covered only by a towel. "That deserves a reward," she said. Her breasts pressed into my chest as our lips touched, then pressed harder. Her lips parted, drawing mine with them as her tongue gently pressed forward, drawing mine into a dance of affection and then passion.

My brain short circuited as conflicting messages sped down the neural tunnels of my mind, piling one atop the other until nothing seemed to be under my control; pull away, draw close, stop, continue, sex, no sex. On its own, the body knew what to do, respond as it was conditioned to respond to such stimuli. Send blood. My cock rose up and pressed against Anne. She pressed back, rubbing against my cock, making it harder still. Her rubbing had loosened the towel which tried to fall but was held up only by the pressure of Anne against me. She relaxed only enough to let it fall, then pressed forward again, my cock now between her legs. As she hunched forward my shaft slid along her labia and she moaned her pleasure into my mouth.

It was then that my brain finally managed to correct the problems and I came to my senses. I tore myself away from Anne, appalled by what I had done, backing into the wall. She had a surprised look on her face. "Oh Anne. I'm so sorry."

Her surprise turned to a smile. "I'm not. I just wish you weren't sorry. I wish you loved me as I love you."