Chapter 8

We had - separate - showers, got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. Dad was there drinking tea (he was never a coffee person) and reading the Sunday paper. He looked up and seeing Fran, his eyes widened. "Well, good morning you two," he smiled. "I didn't know Fran was spending the night!"

"To be honest, neither did I," I replied. "But you won't hear me complaining!"

Fran, blushingly, blurted "I hope you don't mind Dr. Monroe..."

"Under the circumstances I think you can call me 'Art'," Dad dean-panned in a stern voice, but seeing Fran looking uncomfortable, he hastened to add. "Just joking! I am truly delighted you are here. You are so very good for George. Besides he is 18 now - you may recall we celebrated his birthday yesterday - so he is his own master."

"Well, it is your house," I interjected.

"No, George. It is our house," Dad replied. "And Fran is welcome any time."

We fixed ourselves breakfast - Dad had already had his - and sat down to eat. "Listen," Dad said. "It's a bit like the alcohol policy thing, really. I'd much rather you had a chance to explore your sexuality in the safety and comfort of your home than nervous and unsatisfying fumbling at random parties or in the back of uncomfortable cars."

Gosh, my dad was cool! "Thanks," I said, "we really appreciate that." I had unconsciously said 'we', but Fran murmured agreement. Most of my peers would have been embarrassed having that kind of conversation with a parent - particularly in the presence of your girlfriend - and the girlfriend would be mortified. Not that many of the other parents were willing to speak openly in the first place. But with Dad it was different. He made people feel at ease, and I could see that Fran was OK about this - she was looking at Dad with rapt attention.

"Just as long as you look after each other and take precautions," Dad continued. "Sex is wonderful, but it can have nasty side-effects like incurable diseases and unwanted pregnancy."

"Well," I said, "we are both virgins, so we don't have to worry about diseases. And pregnancy is not a concern either. We have agreed that we are not going to go all the way before Fran has my ring on her finger."

Dad lifted an eyebrow. "That is unusual for this day and age," he said. As a medical professional he knew very well that the abstinence programs promoted by the Bible-bashing right had no effect apart from adding hypocrisy and deceit to the misery of unwanted teenage pregnancy.

"Perhaps," I said, "but Fran's mother had the wrong idea about what we do and said so in a hurtful way. It is important for us to prove her wrong."

Dad nodded. "Besides, Fran's and my relationship is in itself 'unusual', wouldn't you say?" I added in a lighter tone.

"That it is for sure," he agreed and turned the conversation to other matters.

Fran's surprise overnight stay may have been the greatest thing that ever happened to me, but it did not go down well with her mother at all - the 'wrong ideas' got even more distorted. When I took Fran home on the Sunday afternoon, we were met with a tirade of abuse. Ms. McNair out-did herself in her venomous outbursts and she didn't sound like she was sober. She worked herself up so much that her fat face got dark red, and I started to worry about her health.

I worried more about Fran, though, and tried to be as diplomatic as possible. "I think you are misunderstanding the nature of our relationship Ms. McNair," I tried - in retrospect much too convoluted. I had another go: "Fran and I love each other, but our relationship is not physical." Better perhaps, if not strictly true - unless you apply a bit of Bill Clinton logic, but close enough to counter her vulgar suggestions.

She would have none of it. "Yeah, right. You spend the night doing scrabble, I suppose?"

"No Ms. McNair," I replied. "We spent the night cuddling and sleeping."

"Yeah, right!" she smirked. "And you paid her for it!"

"I did not, and you know it!" I replied - stung and starting to get angry.

"Well, I didn't buy the slut's outfit and she didn't pay for it herself either," she bellowed.

I was about to fire an angry retort, but Fran stopped me. "George, please," she cried, tears streaming down her face. "Ignore it, don't answer her. I'll be OK. If you stay arguing with her it will only get worse."

Reluctantly I left, but my heart was breaking for Fran. She told me the next morning that the verbal abuse had carried on for hours. At one stage Fran had been battered into admitting that we had been touching each other - she couldn't bring herself to talk about the oral sex - but was adamant that we had never had intercourse. Her mother had called her a liar and Fran had replied that they could go and get a doctor to confirm her virginity. Her mother then changed track and again claimed we didn't have sex because Fran was fat and ugly and I couldn't stomach the idea.

So Fran's life was like night and day. Pitch black night at home, bright happy day in school and with me. After the watershed of my birthday party, Fran and I showed our affection openly at school to the point where Linda described us as 'Hallmark Card lovey-dovey' and calls of 'Get a room!' where frequent. Our dates were great. Remembering Dad's wise words about sex in a comfortable setting, we would frequently go home to my house and make out on my bed. "Not that your car is uncomfortable," Fran laughed, "but it doesn't have a back seat!"

We stuck to the 'rule' that either her panties or my boxers stayed on at any given time, but we got to know each other's bodies very well and enjoyed giving the other pleasure. And it wasn't only physical. We got closer and closer and I felt she was happy and that we could talk about anything when we were together. Still I could feel she dreaded the time with her mother and I obviously hated taking her home.