Chapter 15

I sat there in the study for quite a while. How long I'm not sure, because the chair faces away from the only time piece in the room, an old style mariners clock that resides on my roll-top desk.

I held the glass of vodka in my left hand, my head in my right; staring out in the direction of the doorway yet seeing nothing but the swirling dissonance of my own thoughts. All the downstairs lights were off, the only illumination was a small nightlight plugged into an outlet halfway down the hallway that led to the staircase.

To say I was shaken would not have done my condition true justice. Shaken, not stirred. Fuck shaken ... I'd been puréed, poured out and left to dry; the residue that was me was then swept up, gently deposited into a trendy lavender colored bottle, the cork lovingly inserted, sealed with wax and, with great precision, smashed to bits against a grubby brick wall.

What the hell just happened? I asked myself.

Nothing.

Not a peep.

Not a whisper.

Not a sound.

Nobody home.

Thanks for nothing! I shouted into the void.

I lifted my head, raised the glass and took a long slow swallow of the contents, concentrating on the burn as it clawed its way down my esophagus before coming to rest in the roiling, acid filled pit of my stomach.

My belly was on fire, my gullet was raw and probably inflamed, but at least my heart was silent.

I snarled at the half empty glass before my eyes, even briefly contemplated hurling it and it's diminished contents thru the doorway and into the wall beyond.

While it might be momentarily satisfying, in the end I told myself sagely, it'd just be a waste of perfectly good vodka, and tossed back another mouthful.

Swallowing had become a chore. No, not a chore; more like a relentlessly painful obligation. Sort of like tattooing the Last Supper across your erect cock, just because you promised some pretty face you would.

Another swallow and there was less than half-a-half-a glass of vodka left. I thought about that thought for a second or two. I hate math. Hate arithmetic. Hate calculating, figuring, balancing, estimating ... pretty much anything to do with numbers. Fractions suck of course, but they beat percentages all to hell in my estimation. Some folks, including a few I went to school with, swear that mathematics is the unifying language of the universe; the only true, accurate and precise way to define or describe anything.

They are, of course, out of their tiny fucking little minds.

Mathematics is nothing more or less than another human system devised to define, label and otherwise try and make some kind of sense out of our perceptions; an attempt at eliminating the weaknesses inherent in all other forms of human communication. What devotees of math fail to take into account is the simple fact that any and all human systems are flawed. Why? For the simple reason that humans are flawed, imperfect, self-absorbed, short-sighted ... yada-yada-yada, so on and so forth. And we perceive the same things in different ways. They can try to describe the color yellow with ones and zeros, or lambdas and deltas, NOTs and NORs, but take away the perception and emotion factors and what's left is hardly worth the effort. But that's mathematicians for you.

Half-a-half-a glass of vodka. I knew how much that was. I could see it there, right in front of me. Made perfect sense really; eminently accurate and completely precise ... in a 'close-but-no-cigar' kind of way.

Another swallow and the problems of mathematical description were dispensed with for the moment. No more contents, no more fractions or percentages, no more problem.

No more math problem. Unfortunately, I still had the one I'd come down there with in the first place. Couldn't seem to drink that one away.

"Fuck it." I groused and dropped the glass, which hit the floor and, miracle of miracles, completely failed to shatter into dozens of pieces, pushed up out of the chair and, aching knees and all, headed off towards the kitchen.

I'd just gotten out of the door and around the corner when I came chest to face with Lilly, who was wearing one of my long sleeve dress shirts, socks on her feet and holding a fresh bottle of peppered vodka, extended out towards me like an offering.

I gave her a lopsided grin, mumbled 'Thanks', took the bottle, spun on my heel and returned to the study. I launched myself into the chair, which creaked and groaned in protest, but eventually decided to remain upright and in one piece. I opened the bottle, threw the cap over my shoulder, put the mouth of the bottle to my lips and lifted.

Fresh raw fire ate its welcome way down my throat. About a half-a-third of a half. When I lowered the bottle I saw Lilly standing, arms crossed beneath her breasts, before me, a miserably patient look on her face, compassion and sympathy in her eyes.

"What happened up there Ike?" she asked while I wiped my mouth with the back of the hand holding the bottle. Somehow I avoided spilling any of the liquor on either myself or the floor, but completely failed to avoid Lilly's piercing gaze.

"Nothing happened. Nothing at all."

Back went the bottle.

"You do know that you can't lie for shit, right?"

I lowered the bottle, closed an eye and squinted at her with the one that remained open.

"Au contraire," I said with a pathetic attempt at a French accent. "I happen to be one of the great liars of our time. I'm so damn good, even my oldest friends are convinced that I've never told a lie in my life." I half lifted the bottle in a mock salute. "Or they would be, if I had any."

"Okay, so you can lie. I stand corrected." she said with just a taste of hurt in her tone.

I opened my closed eye and looked around owlishly.

"I'm sorry Lilly. I shouldn't have said that."

"Feeling sorry for yourself?"

I nodded absently. "Something like that I suppose."

"Want to tell me about it?"

I peered down at the bottle for a moment before returning my gaze to Lilly's lovely features.

"Have I always been a clueless idiot, or is it a recent affliction?"

Her smile blazed brighter and hotter than the acid and alcohol in my stomach, drenching me with fondness and affection in equal measure.

"No, you've always been a clueless idiot. Less than most men I've known, but still..."

She stepped closer, took the bottle from my hand and set it down on the end table next to the chair. Then she plopped herself down on my knees and wiggled delightfully until she was comfortably snuggled up against me. I put my arms around her and sighed loudly.

"So what did happen between you and Izzy?" she asked at last.

I explained to her what had happened, what we'd said, what Izzy had done and how I'd responded ... how she'd ended up across my knee and about my sudden chilling realization.

"Are you positive?" Lilly asked. She didn't seem the least bit surprised by my revelation.

"Honey, I've been reading emotions almost constantly for eight years. I might have trouble making sense of my own at times, but I've gotten pretty damn good at breaking down and analyzing other people's."

"Okay." She was thoughtfully quiet. "Explain to me why this upsets you so much."

I tilted my head to look down at her. Was she serious?

"Sorry?" I said, perplexed.

She smiled patiently, tapping the fingers of one hand on my chest.

"Peggy loves you, right?"

"Right."

"But she's in love with Izzy."

"That's what she tells me."

"Do you love her any less because of it?"

"No."

"Does she love you any less?"

"Not that I can tell."

"Okay ... I love Peggy and Izzy, but I'm in love with you."

I had to smile. She said it as if it were so naturally obvious it hardly bore mentioning.

"Yes dear." I replied dutifully. Her smile turned seductive, enticing and approving.

Her fingers wormed between the buttons of my shirt and began toying with my chest hair.

"That's my good boy." she chuckled. "Now, as I was saying, just because I'm in love with you doesn't mean I love them any less."

"And I don't dispute a word you've said. But love isn't the problem."

"Isn't it?" She twirled her finger, dragging her short nail lightly across the skin beneath the hair.

Her teasing had distracted my thoughts just enough that I had to back up and rethink my position.

"Izzy loves me." I said, preparing to restate my argument.

"We all do." Lilly said, trying to work her entire hand between the buttons of my shirt.

"But she doesn't like me." I pointed out.

"So what?"

I tried to keep my thoughts on track as her hand slid inside my shirt and began caressing my left nipple.

"How can you love a person if you don't even like them?"

She pinched my nipple between her fingers and laughed.

"You tell me. From what little I know, you've loved Izzy all your life, but for about half that time you didn't like her at all."

I opened my mouth to dispute her assertion ... and found that I couldn't. She was right.

I shut my mouth slowly, before a fly could get in.

Clueless. Absolutely fuckin' clueless.

I carefully opened my mouth. "Affection isn't love." I said slowly.

Lilly shook her head slightly. "Nope."

"Affection isn't even liking." I proposed softly as her fingers stroked and caressed the skin beneath my pocket.

"Not really. There've been lots of times when I didn't like either Izzy or Peggy. But I never stopped loving them. There's even been a time or two when I didn't like you much."

"Really?"

"Sure. Have you always liked me?"

I had to think about that one. If I were to be completely honest about it...

"With the exception of a few days last week, yes, I've pretty much always liked you."

Lilly laid her head against my right breast. "You're a sweet boy." she sighed.

What had I been so upset about? Why had realizing Izzy didn't like me set me off the way it did? Maybe because I was still hyper-sensitive about the cheating. Maybe because I couldn't help but link liking with love. And maybe it had something to do with the after-effects of tying us all together. Or ... no, damnit! That possibility didn't bear thinking about.

"It's my professional opinion that psychologists know fuck-all about bugger-all." I eventually confessed.

"Mmm-hmm." Lilly agreed. "But I love you anyway."

"That's very generous of you."

Laughing softly to herself, Lilly's body shook rather pleasantly within my arm's embrace.

"What can I say ... I'm a sucker for a pretty face." she smirked, obviously well pleased with herself. I squeezed her tightly, trying to express warmth, affection, and love along with just a hint of aggravated sexual frustration in one prolonged, bone crushing bear hug. Eventually she squealed and squeaked ... and then she bit me again.

We tussled briefly, kissed for a time, each took a couple of drinks from the neglected vodka bottle on the end table and returned to simple snuggling, her small hand inside my shirt, my big one inside the shirt she had on, cupping and fondling the soft, warm breast I'd exposed to view by the simple expedient of undoing two pearl buttons.

"You have an ass fetish, don't you?" she suddenly asked out of the blue.

I was busily swimming around in the depths of her eyes and practicing my digital manipulation skills on her silken tit, so was pretty much ignoring everything else right then. She recaptured my attention by reaching down between her thighs and clamping one small hand firmly around my balls.

My ears pricked right up.

Lilly repeated her question. I glared at her.

"I was a heartbeat away from discovering the answer to one of the world's most interesting and perplexing philosophical questions and you just had to go and break my concentration." I complained with a wince.

"Oh yeah? What question?"

"Can Lilly Blacktower orgasm just by having her breast played with?"

"That's your idea of an interesting and perplexing question? Not the Grand Unification Theory, or some unsolvable math problem? Not world peace or a workable flat tax?"

"Nope." I assured her. "Those are problems for lesser minds. I only bother with real mind benders."

Lilly snorted, sounding like me as she did it.

"Answer my question, dumb-ass." she insisted, gently squeezing my balls.

"Sorry, wasn't paying attention ... what was it again?"

"I was asking if you have an ass fetish?" she said for the third time, but unlike the other two times Lilly was blushing ever so slightly.

I raised an eyebrow.

"I guess you could call it that. I find women's bottoms, well shaped ones anyway, highly arousing. I'm not sure why ... just do."

Lilly nodded. "We've noticed. So, having owned up to your special perversion, would you please explain to me what you find so damn fascinating about my boobs?"

I grinned like a cat who'd stumbled onto a lake of cream.

" ... let me count the ways..." I said with reverence. Lilly sighed, shuddered and chuckled as my fingers continued their ministrations. "As much as I enjoy admiring a well formed and well maintained posterior, the winking walk and the sexy saunter, and believe me when I say that you lack for nothing in that department ... there is just something about your breasts that I find absolutely entrancing. I don't know if it's the shape, or the feel, the taste, the weight or texture, the coolness or the heat, the soft swelling or the temptingly taunting nipples with their haughty come-hither hardness and flexibility. But whatever it is that makes boobs attractive to me, yours have got it all, and then some. Pleasant to look at, thrilling to touch and an absolute delight to taste and tease."

"They're not very big." she pointed out, as if that were an important factor I'd overlooked.

I was back to staring in her eyes, but my fingers remained busily engaged.

"How big is big enough? They're big enough for me ... and bigger than either Izzy or Peggy's."