John Kostner experienced puberty on a Wednesday afternoon in the fall of 1971. The suddenness was more perceptual than biological.

His father had given him a book called My Body Is Changing some two years before, and many of the changes had begun. He experienced erections at the most inappropriate and embarrassing times. His voice hadn't decided on an octave, but was experimenting with several. He'd started finding the material in the book more exciting than when he had first read it.

John had a fine inquisitive mind when it came to academics. He had skipped fourth grade a year before the school district had decided that skipping grades was wrong. He had reached "G" in Britannica, despite the competing attractions of decent school, public, and home libraries.

Outside the intellectual arena, John was a damn snoop. He prowled the house like a cat and had found, years before, a stash of marriage manuals his parents thought hidden. The secretiveness attracted him then. Erotic stirrings had begun to tempt him back. Nevertheless, he was unprepared for the lightning bolt.

On Wednesday, September 22, he had been preparing for a piano lesson with mean Miss Lockhart. "Preparing" meant trying to learn in the last half hour what he hadn't in the hour-a-day practice over the previous week. What was worse, it was Indian summer; the day was bright after the cold drizzle of the past three weeks. Even John, who wasn't much for the outdoors, wanted to be out in that weather not trapped inside with his demanding teacher. When Miss Lockhart came in, however, she was an entirely different person. She was wearing a light blouse and perfume. He noticed both the perfume and the breasts. This time his erection was specific and relevant, if even more embarrassing.

That lesson was a disaster. But piano lessons, which had seemed useless up to then, made sudden sense. They were a means to the delicious torture of sitting next to delightful, beautiful, Miss Lockhart. He practiced an hour a day and usually more. He studied what she had told him before about finger positions. He learned to adjust himself before the lesson so that the inevitable erection started from a contained vertical position instead of catching in his underwear. He bloused out his shirt so that his lap was invisible from the top. All that effort earned him 30 minutes in heaven and hell glancing sideways at the most erotic pair of breasts in the world and trying to imagine what they might look like without that confinement and cloth.

John's sister, Debbie, was four and a half years older. She had not been amused to have her senior year in high school contaminated by John the freshman. She dealt with it by introducing him as her "baby brother" whenever he got too close. She normally defined 'too close' as within eyesight, but was willing to make exceptions for all-school assemblies, football games, and similar occasions. Then, speaking distance was 'too close.'

John's regard for her was not quite so warm. He had read a Heinlein novel involving a brother and sister who had a different chromosome from each pair in each parent. He thought that some chance arrangement like this could explain how two such different people could be siblings.

Lloyd Kostner had weighed his finances two years before, with two children approaching college age. The pay of a circuit-court judge in Wisconsin -- which probably looked munificent to most voters -- was significantly lower than what a respected lawyer could earn in practice, though the disparity was much smaller in Clay County than in Milwaukee. He left the bench and returned to private practice early in 1970.

He was still judge (and jury, and -- occasionally -- executioner) where his children were concerned. His theory of legislation was that the statutes should be like a jungle gym, rigid with lots of room to move between. His family rules came surprisingly close to those standards. He had a very heavy hand and used it rather rarely.

He had played with his babies and toddlers. He expressed pride in his kids' school achievements. But, having left the games of youth long before and without regret, he led his children towards adulthood rather than participating in their youth. The downstairs bookshelves, except for those in his office, were open to the kids. Encyclopedia volumes and the atlas needed to be replaced with a slip of paper naming the borrower. "The dictionary" had to be used in situ. (There were smaller dictionaries available, and each child had a paperback one.) John had itched so at being prohibited the books in his father's office, that he had been given a tour. They were law books, mostly out of date.

The Kostners had a tight curfew combined with a liberal entertainment policy. Debbie could entertain her boyfriend in the rec room after a date. As far as the Kostners were concerned, the boy could stay until it was time for Debbie to get ready for bed. John had regarded that privacy as a challenge to his ingenuity.

Now, spying fed his libido. He was caught late in January. The boyfriend, Zach, held him as Debbie struggled back into bra and blouse. Then she called her dad down.

"Fifteen swats," sentenced his dad, "and you don't go out, except for school, for a week." It was the only time that the number of swats had run above ten.

"But how about Debbie? I saw her ..."

"I've never put over a spanking, but if you invade your sister's privacy by finishing that sentence, it will be fifteen swats tonight and fifteen more tomorrow. Now come here." And he had. He had stopped trying to spy after that, and the hook-and- eye that his father installed on the door was superfluous.

One suppertime, his dad explained about the halo effect. He continued: "Many of your teachers know Deb, John. She gets good grades, does her work." [John thought that Debbie had better do her work. She didn't seem to learn anything without hard studying.] "You don't have to say anything about being related -- it's not like our family's name was Jones -- but let them think of you as 'Deb's brother.' They'll think well of you, then. You, too, Deb. John might not be a social success with your friends, but he meets -- exceeds -- teachers' standards. Don't mention your disagreements to them, and they'll think of you as two smart kids."

That made some sense, John -- at least -- let his teachers think of him as 'Debbie Kostner's brother.'

The school gave vocabulary tests late in the school year. Each student got his results privately, and the top twenty in each class were listed publicly with their scores. For three years running, Debbie had reported her score at dinner, and every year she had been justly praised for it. When she made no report in her senior year, Sylvia Kostner called the school.

Debbie had tied for twelfth in her class, with only 15 kids in the entire school ahead of her. One of them had been her brother, who was seventh in the school behind five seniors and a junior.

"Your father and I are proud that both our kids were in the top twenty in the school vocabulary test," she said at dinner that night.

"I'm getting Jerry Dalton next year," John replied. "The seniors are gone. But I'm not going to let Jerry beat me again."

By that summer, the relief that Debbie was going to live in Madison, combined with their different schedules, brought some peace to the household.

In July, Miss Lockhart gave up. If she had noticed his erotic interest in her, she never mentioned it.

"But he practices every day," his mother argued.

"And that produces accuracy. But that only makes clearer that he has no ear. I'm really sorry."

The music lessons had been his mother's idea. She was a great believer in discussion. She had discussed studying music with John. He hadn't been interested. She had discussed the idea the next month, he still hadn't been interested. She had discussed the idea the next week, and then the day after, and the day after that, with the same result. When he'd expressed interest during their twelfth discussion, she was pleased and grateful.

Claiming that her husband -- and later her husband and son -- represented the intellectual side, Sylvia Kostner took it as her duty to uphold the artistic side within the family. Her 'art' included literature, and neither her husband nor her children gave much credence to her lack of intellect.

With the specific object of his lust wrenched out of his life, John raided the manual stash again. It was less exciting than he had imagined. The store where he bought used Science Fiction, however, also sold used Playboy magazines. By that summer, the family consumption of Kleenex was higher than it had been in the cold and flu season. John's mother never mentioned it.

One weekday when he was certain the house was free of his parents and sister, he sorted through his magazines to select all the best ass shots. He stripped completely and got into bed. He folded two Kleenexes together into a sort of pocket. Then he read all the (preselected) sexy parts in the Harold Robbins book that he had borrowed from the library. As he got hard, he gave his penis some slow strokes with the bed sheet. He read last the incident involving doggie-style sex.

As he shifted over to the pictures, the strokes became more frequent. He pictured one of the high-school cheerleaders tied over a fence rail. (He had removed Miss Lockhart from all the explicitly degrading scenes. Anyway, he had a much better picture of the cheerleader's shape.) He looked at a new picture, then thought of how the girl would look all naked. He switched pictures and thought of how she would wiggle as he felt all over her ass and cunt. He switched pictures and thought of putting his penis right against her virgin opening. Thining of her screams and pleadings for mercy, he gave an evil chuckle. There was an anticipatory tightness, and he dropped the sheet, wrapped himself in the outside of the Kleenex pocket, and switched to the sexiest picture. His victim wiggled the inch that her bonds allowed and cried, while his hand imitated that wiggle. Then he drove into the victim, the Playmate, and his hand simultaneously. The cheerleader screamed. Four strokes later, he spurted. He took two more strokes and then held tight until the penis relaxed.

He lay there for ten minutes, then dumped the Kleenex in the wastebasket, returned his magazines to their pile, grabbed up his underwear, and donned a robe for a fast trip to the bathroom for a shower. The book was good for two more uses, one of them next week. Nobody at the library seemed to notice that he visited twice a week and kept many books for the maximum loan period. Actually, his library usage was down from the previous summer.

One Saturday in August, John came home to find that there wasn't a magazine in his room. He searched the house over. His father was puttering in the garage when he came in. There was a box on the garbage can and his magazines all stacked neatly inside.

"John."

"Yessir."

"I've told you that sex is a natural, joyous thing."

"Yessir."

"I've also told you that it is private. There is a box there, that I was going to throw in the garbage. You can take it to your room, but -- if any part of that is found outside that box while you aren't in your room -- they all go in the garbage. Keep them in the box. You could get yourself another box when you need it."

And that was all they said. John's father mentioned the joyful, good, natural aspects in several more talks. John preferred sex to be dirty.

A few nights after one of those talks, he heard rhythmic creaking from the bed in his parents room. He thought wryly of keeping sex private.

He remembered the Saturday a year and a half before. His sister had a social event. His father had taken him to the library. Everyone expected the staff to shoo a reluctant John out at closing time. After half an hour, his guts warned him; and he visited the toilet. Fifteen minutes later, he did the same. By then, he knew he had a serious case of stomach flu.

A bailiff had been moonlighting as a security guard at the library. He took one look at the pale face on the Judge's kid and got the librarian's permission to take him home. John made it to the top of the stairs when he heard the creaking bed. There were grunts along with it this time. He sat on the toilet and listened as the grunts were joined by moans. His mother cried out in what sounded like pain, his father answered with shouted blasphemy, John's guts gushed liquid. He sat there in an awful stink worrying about the sound of the flush. A new spasm shook him, and he flushed after that. By the time his parents found him, their joint concern for his health overcame any concern for what he might have heard.

For a while, the memories of fear and diarrhea and embarrassment had overcome any erotic tones to that scene. Later John had imagined himself sneaking back when his parents thought that they had the house to themselves and hiding in the closet. He pictured it now, inventing and magnifying the voices to add to the soft creaking. He imagined the sight and stroked himself. Too soon, however, the regular creaking ended. There were one or two more sounds that not even an adolescent could imagine were anything more than bodies shifting into sleep position. John went back to his cheerleader and branded her this time before raping her. It wasn't as good, however, since he had more trouble conjuring her screams when the house was occupied and still.

Not only his vice was solitary. Before school started, he approached his mother about an early Kenbak computer, although the price was high.

"$750 is a good deal more than we were planning to spend on you for Christmas," she said. The tone was more inviting than final.

"I have some money and can save up more. But I was thinking of something else..."

"Hmmmn?"

"What if I got all 'A's on my major subjects the first two marking periods?"

"Why don't you talk to your father? Wait until the weekend."

So he had.

"Well," said his dad, "that sounds an awful lot like rewarding you for ignoring those subjects in the past. Why only major subjects?"

"Dad, I am not going to get 'A's in gym. Effort has nothing to do with that."

"Well. We have to think about this. I'll get back to you early in the school year. I'm not forgetting it."

Early in the school year, his dad laid out the standards. They were all 'A's in academics and 'B's in Gym and Art. That required John to stretch in every non-academic subject (and to actually pay attention during the academic ones) for the full year. If he delivered in the first two marking periods, he got the computer. If he failed to deliver in the later marking periods, he lost use of the computer.

John signed. He got the computer for Christmas. He got a 'C' in gym for the third marking period. He delivered the computer to his father with the report card. He worked like a maniac the fourth marking period. He got all 'A's for the first time in his life. He got the computer back for the summer and the next marking period.

The computer, however, was much more than a bribe. He played a few games and did a little programming. He also kept a fairly complex database on the good pictures in the magazines, the good parts in the books he'd read, and the sexy material in Britannica. The latter seemed less sexy fairly soon. At first the database was only a text file, but then he wrote a primitive program in BASIC to handle it.

Faced with depleted savings (he had contributed to the computer's price) and increased expenses at the used book store, he neglected games for programming. The simultaneous concentration on schoolwork and music practice had instilled some work habits that didn't quite die over the summer. He wrote a test program (in machine language) which let him know that "a+a" was much faster than "2*a" and such information. He kept speed and size comparisons (on paper, oddly enough) for all sorts of what he would later consider alternative modules.

The summer came to an end, as all times do. Just before their parents drove her to the University, Debbie turned to him.

"I'm going to miss you, twerp."

"Don't worry. The University won't grade on marksmanship."

And he had the house to himself for 40 hours or so.

That school year, however, showed John that Debbie had provided one benefit. She had absorbed more than half the attention of his parents. His mother, in particular, took notice of his social life. Now, any boy with his own soldering iron is not devoid of friends, but that doesn't lead to the sort of social life that Sylvia Kostner had in mind. She waited out the first marking period, while John concentrated on maintaining good grades.

That crisis passed. As John got the 'A's and 'B' that he needed, the computer was unconditionally his. His father did note that John certainly could produce 'A's when he needed to, and was expected to produce them in academic subjects thereafter.

"And as for Phys. Ed. ..."

"What?"

"Be sure to pass."

Adults more or less rotated grace in the Kostner household. That had included Debbie at about 13. His father started asking John to say grace. John did, with the silent grievance that Debbie had been younger than he when she started. His chores increased, although "dishwashing," from clearing the table to loading the dishwasher, decreased from alternating nights with Debbie to everyone taking one turn in three.

One night, he was the dishwasher. His mother stopped him on the way up the stairs.

"Have a moment?" He self-evidently did. "Your school seems to be having a dance in two week's time."

"Attendance isn't compulsory."

"Nobody said it was. But some people find them enjoyable. Hmmm?"

"She's in Madison. Too far to come."

"Your sister's opinions aren't all wrong, you know. She does like hot fudge sundaes."

"I could ask a girl and get turned down once. I could go stag and get turned down for every dance. Which would you prefer?"

"I love your optimism."

"Mother, I'm a grind. I'm younger than my classmates. I am not a good dancer. Three strikes and I'm out."

"You're only a grind when a bribe is dangled in front of you. You got good grades for years on minimal effort."

"That is much worse. Please don't tell anybody."

"And you are not younger than the freshmen."

"I'm younger than some of them."

"You are socially older than any of them by being a sophomore. Unobservant as you may be socially, you do know more than most of them about what is going on in high school."

"You want me to ask a freshman girl to the next dance. They have their own relationships building up. And I don't know any of them."

"Many went to Wilson," his grade school. "Several have been here because they were younger sisters of Debbie's steadies." ('Steady' was, perhaps, a misnomer. But the family had tried to meet the subject of the current romance -- and sometimes their relatives -- while it was operational.)

"And you know everything about them."

"Hardly everything."

John remembered the endless discussions of music lessons. He decided to yield this time.

"I'll give one of them a ring. Do I get any choice?"

"Do you remember any of them at all?"

"Not really."

"There are two who have the same lunch period as you do. Why don't you ring one up and talk to her there?"

The social-life project advanced slowly, as Sylvia Kostner's projects tended to do. John earned the reputation as a reliable, not grabby, escort. His dancing became competent, if uninspired. He asked some of the girls out again. These tended to be girls who could appreciate, if not match, his sarcasm. The ones who accepted were often those who were impressed with his academic record.

The house had been filled with Debbie and John's music. Sometimes the two had squabbled over which music to play. John found that he didn't need that entertainment, the contents of his head were sufficient. His mother accepted the silence with pleasure for a week, and then -- tentatively at first -- started to play her "classical" records in the living room again. One afternoon, John came down during the last movement. He waited for the piece to finish, and his mother turned off the machine before the next record dropped.

"Two requests." She twitched her eyebrows. "Instrumental."

"I do love opera, so does your father."

"While I'm gone, then, and while he's here. You love a lot of other stuff, too."

"Sounds like a reasonable compromise. Two?"

"Turn it off when you leave."

She also took to turning music on when she came in. John had a pretty clear idea when he had the house to himself. Meanwhile, he studied, programmed, and (occasionally, he preferred times when he was alone in the house) masturbated to Chopin, Stravinsky, and Bach.

The dinner table had been a time for checking up on the children's progress. John did not consider himself to have a social life, let alone progress in it. His reports on his academic progress were nearly as laconic. The news of the day became a staple topic. John expressed his opinions, and his father welcomed them before -- as often as not -- demolishing them. John had been raised in the faith that Lloyd Kostner was the best attorney in Clay County, Wisconsin. He came to experience that he had a supple and subtle mind. Several times, his father stopped in the middle of turning John's arguments into mental pretzels and apologized for using "lawyer tricks."

Watergate was falling apart. John learned what immunity was and how denying it to all your intimates protected you. He learned that his father, like most lawyers, did little criminal work. He read a biography of Darrow, whom his father spoke of in awe.

"That's the real glory of your profession," he said, "defending the innocent."

"That isn't the duty of the profession, John."

"No?"

"A lawyer is not there to defend the innocent, but to defend the accused."

"Even if he is guilty?"

"The alternative is not trial by jury, but trial by lawyer. God judges by what happened. Man must judge by what can be proven. Any man who sets out what should happen to criminals without all these legal technicalities thinks that he is God. He is wrong."

Always precocious, John became a sophomore atheist as a high- school sophomore. He was slightly disappointed that his parents were not more concerned. He was quite disappointed that his decision did not excuse him from attending church.

"You may, however, decide not to take communion," ruled his father.

John, like Debbie before him, announced his academic triumphs at the dinner table and received measures of praise. He figured that this obliged him to report his defeats, as well.

"Jerry Dalton beat me again on the vocabulary test."

"Did anyone else?" asked his mother.

"No."

His parents looked at each other trying to not to laugh and, then, gave in as he stormed away from the table. He lay in his room steaming. The defeat had mattered to him. It was Dalton's last year. They had never been so unfeeling when Debbie had moaned about her problems, even when it was the fifth life- destroying romantic break-up of the year.

By the summer of 1973, John noticed that the occasional kid who greeted him on the street or in the library was as often a girl as a boy. He started going to a few birthday parties. He admitted to himself (his mother never asked approval for that sort of thing) that the actual social experiences were now pleasant while they occurred. His ranking among his classmates rose almost to tolerance. His masturbatory fantasies were improved by some knowledge of how a female fit within his arms, even if clothed.

That summer, Debbie was home. She dumped all her old college texts on John the third day.

"Leave the rest of my stuff alone. Deal?"

"Deal."

And he kept the deal. All the family, however, noticed that her mail was mostly letters from Troy Wright. Her social life that summer was confined to old girl friends and mixed events. Even John was impressed.

That July, John decided that he had played BASIC for all it was worth. He got serious about programming the computer in machine language. Otherwise, he continued his old ways. Occasionally playing with some friends, more often playing with the computer, daily playing with himself.

He gained twenty pounds that summer, and shot from about 5' 7" to 5' 10". In the fall, his mother took him to Sears. They decided, however, to get only what was necessary. The growth spurt looked like it would continue.

His social life got worse that September. His growth spurt destroyed his suit's fit and his few dancing skills. By Christmas, the spurt was over, the new suit fit better than the old one ever had, and he was in the taller half of the boys in his class. Dancing with John Kostner no longer looked ridiculous to his female classmates. He would take a bright wallflower or go stag and dance with several. He would watch Phil Patterson dance with Margo Standish and wish himself in his place, especially after the dance. His partner was probably envying Margo.

Christmas, Debbie brought home Troy Wright. He was an engineering junior, looked like a decent sort, and was as obviously smitten by Debbie as she was by him. Aside from his choice in girls, John had nothing against him. He played a mean game of chess after being decimated by Debbie's "baby brother" in an inattentive first match.

That March, Troy and Debbie were married. She came home for the ceremony, walked down the aisle dressed in white with her father beaming at her side, and returned to college. It rather cast a shadow over John's birthday in April. He did, however get his driving license that spring, which was what the sixteenth birthday meant to his contemporaries.

John's classmates had taken his vocabulary test scores as a matter of indifference, or -- for some -- an affront. This year, he became a slight hero. The juniors felt that they had shown the seniors something. John almost mentioned the irony at dinner, but he was still nursing a grievance about his parents callous response to his loss the year before.

John made a half-hearted effort to find a summer job that spring. Neither the economy nor his late start helped. He spent the summer of '74 with his computer, his magazines, and his library card.

Debbie bore a healthy son in August.

In John's senior year, he turned academic honors into a trophy hunt and the CEEB into a cheering section. His social life improved marginally. He took one of a group of wallflowers to each dance. He drove now, and they were out from under supervision for part of the time. He would dance with his date while he lusted after the homecoming queen and the cheerleaders. He assumed that his dates were lusting after the jocks and dreamboys. They would park on the way to her home and neck for a bit. He never got far. Then he would end the night with his tattered magazines.

Lloyd and Sylvia Kostner were doting grandparents. The Wrights came for Christmas, and Troy, Jr., was the center of the season. John got wrapped used textbooks from Debbie and both Troys, and was completely happy. Little Troy got new books, but John didn't expect to chew on his. He saw much more of Debbie's breasts than he had in the rec room, with some embarrassment at first.

He didn't share his parents' excitement about the baby's presence. He did find that holding a warm Troy in his arms for one of the brief periods that nothing was coming out of either end was pleasant. He did not, however, consider that holding a clean baby was sufficient reward for changing a dirty one. He handed Troy to Debbie or someone else when that task was called for. He noticed that his father was rotating the grace among the senior Kostners and the Wrights.

"Okay," he asked his father, "what did I do this time?"

"Do?"

"There seems to be one of our number who no longer says grace."

"Adults say grace in this household."

"And?"

"Adults pull their share of the load. Troy smells bad when he's dirty. Kids can't be expected to deal with that."

He started doing a share, if nowhere near one-fourth, of the changes. He resumed saying grace.

He was admitted to MIT. He got an actual job in a grocery for the summer of '75.

Troy came visiting at age 11 months. Among the vast paraphernalia that he brought with him was a mother. They were established in the master bedroom, where the air conditioning was much better, while the grandparents took Debbie's old room. Troy, Sr., was too newly employed to come for more than the last weekend. John "read" to Troy, who turned the pages after his own system but vastly enjoyed the sessions. John found himself reading the books himself to see how the stories actually went.

He went off that fall a hopeful freshman intent on a physics degree.

And as a much less hopeful virgin.

MIT did many things for John. He was neither the youngest nor the brightest kid in his class. There was no social stigma attached to knowledge. You could mention entropy, or bandwidth, or feedback systems, or psychohistory in a political discussion without an eyebrow being raised.

Relations with the opposite sex was not an area for improvement. MIT coeds were scarce enough to be choosy. None of their male classmates were going to ignore a girl with brains. Even the most desirable frosh men were hopelessly outgunned. Mixers were better, but not a great deal better. MIT was reputed to have the only college bookstore in the country to sell more copies of Analog than of Playboy, but John decreased that distinction. Then, he had a subscription to Analog, with each month's issue waiting for him back home.

John Kostner came home from his freshman year at MIT for the Bicentennial Summer. He had a job at a chemical laboratory in a neighboring town. His mother had bought a new car without trading her old one in. The old one was his transportation. His first Sunday home, he went to church. When he got back, he said, "The last time I was in church, it was that one."

"You're suggesting that you've stopped being a regular churchgoer?" his father asked.

"Your friends know that I'm back. I'll attend the last service before I leave."

"Well, it's a place to affirm your faith. You don't seem to have much to affirm."

His clothes had been unremarkable in Cambridge. They looked definitely scruffy in Wilmot. At his mother's gentle hint, John went down to Sears at the end of his first week of work.

Sears was the perfect clothing store from John's perspective, with no clerks to advise him about what was stylish. The drawback was that once you had your selection, you had to hunt for someone to pay. He found a short line, stood there, and started to figure whether summer fun programming his Kenbak would be good practice or build up bad habits for the bigger machines he programmed at MIT. He moved up to the cashier, handed her his selections, and waited with his wallet in his hand. Her words to him weren't a total.

"You're John ... um."

"Kostner. By God, you're Margo." Margo had been one of the popular girls a year ahead of him in high school. He would have bet that she hadn't known his name then, let alone recognize him two years later. If he'd been paying any attention, he'd have recognized her, by her slight build if by nothing else. Margo was barely five feet tall.

"Marge. The girls here won't put up with 'Margo.' And it's Standish again. Phil and I got divorced and I took my own name again." She waved an empty left hand. John vaguely remembered that she had married soon after graduation, maybe just before. She was holding down a cash-register in Sears, and he let an impatient woman through to pay.

"And you," she said. "You're in college somewhere."

"MIT. Just finished my frosh year." There were more customers again. "Look, this isn't working. When do you get off?"

"Close in half an hour. I'm out maybe half an hour after that. We leave by the north door." He paid for his shirts and left. He was waiting by the north door an hour later.

"Oh," she said. "You didn't say whether you would be here." He blinked. The Margos of this world tell you when and where you'll meet. You're there.

"Can I buy you a coffee or a Coke?" he asked.

"I should be getting back home. You didn't drive, did you?"

"Sure. Want a ride?"

First, she had to pick up her daughter, though it wasn't far from her apartment. "I moved back with the folks for a while, but that didn't work. Katydid is the only good thing in my life since I left high school." She laid out the new pattern of her life. "This woman keeps Katydid and some other kids days. If I want to go out at night, I have to get a baby sitter." She gave a detailed, if disorganized, report on her car and when it might be fixed.

The girl looked particularly alert and had big, brown, eyes. Otherwise, she looked like every other baby. "How old is she?"

"Eighteen months. She's awfully small for her age, but she's normal. The doctor's tests all say 'advanced for her age.'" What was advanced for a one-year-old, he did not ask. He dropped her at home. She didn't invite him up since the house was a mess.

That was Friday. Monday evening, he was stopped outside the north door from fifteen minutes after closing until she appeared.

"Want a ride?"

"Oh, John. Thanks."

"Same route?" She nodded. "Look, this might be out of place, but... would you be interested in seeing a movie with me Friday night?"

"That would be great. Thank you."

"Dinner first? Or is that too frazzling?"

"That would be great. But I have to feed Katydid first. Is seven-thirty too late?"

"That's fine. They have a late showing." They exchanged phone numbers, to deal with emergencies.

John's summer work was in a chemistry lab. Mostly, he washed beakers and test tubes. By Friday, however, he smelled like a chemistry lab. He came home, showered, and dressed in his suit. Marge called at the last minute and asked him to pick up April, the baby sitter. He did.

The restaurant was nice. Marge updated him on people whom he hardly remembered, the golden girls after whom he had lusted. The wallflowers, whom he had actually known, were younger than she and below her horizon. On the way back to her place she asked him to drive the baby sitter home. They got out of the car together, and she stopped halfway to the apartment-house door. Even he was experienced enough to know what that meant; he kissed her. She kissed him back, and their tongues came into play. Finding this exciting, he tried to search every corner of her mouth. Her tongue was subtler, but it was participating. The next thing he was aware of was that he had developed an erection. He was pressed against her, but she seemed to take no notice of it.

She broke the kiss gently. "We have to be getting in. April is probably watching."

April was watching TV, to the extent she was awake. After another look at the baby, who was sleeping, he drove her home in silence.

Sunday, he rang to say "Thank you." He suggested a mid-week dinner out. Just the dinner. She countered with a suggestion that she cook him a meal. They settled on Wednesday.

That Monday, when he got in from work, he found his mother reading a MS magazine.

"That seems so unlike you," he said.

"You think I'm a weak woman?"

"Not at all. But I'd bet that Gloria Steinem would consider this a patriarchal household."

"Who was that Frenchman who said that God would forgive him, forgiving was God's business? Hmmm?

"Gloria Steinem would disapprove," she continued. "That is her business. But there is something which you overlook. When your father left the bench, there were gains as well as losses -- not counting money. Lloyd Kostner is simply the best negotiator that I have ever met. Now wouldn't it be silly of me to sit across the table from him negotiating? Hmm?"

"And, instead, you...."

"Consult with him and let him be my negotiator. Works. Who do you ask when you want a budget-busting computer?"

"Both of you."

"Hmmm?"

"Well, you first."

"And your father and I talk, and the better negotiator meets with you to get the deal we want. Same with rules. There are a few things that your father lays out because he thinks them essential to family living. He enforces a few rules that I consider vital, as well. But most we talk over, first. You know, when we were first married, he kept asking me, 'What do you really want?' Took me the longest time to see what he meant. Which was, 'What did I really want?"

"It does have a certain resemblance to the original question."

"But, you see, that is fairly rare. Most people don't ask questions that nakedly.

"He wanted to know what I considered most important, why I wanted what I wanted. Then he made quite strong efforts to deliver that."

"Still sounds like a patriarchy to me."

"Ah! If I'm not careful, he'll put himself really out of joint to satisfy my twenty-seventh priority. For that I can follow his formulae for getting there.

"You see, people seek power. Some people want to be in charge so that they can make themselves happy. Some people want to be in charge because that makes them important. These idiots, you'll find them in every club, label proposals as 'mine' and 'theirs.' They don't know enough to see that what you do matters a whit. Anyway....

"The Lloyd Kostners of this world think that they can make it right. That doesn't necessarily make it right -- Hitler was one of these -- but they have some chance of doing things right because they ask that question. Where was I?"

"Why Dad is like Hitler."

"Much taller. And a much worse at speaking German.

"He, your father, doesn't want to run block clubs and committees. He thinks that running must mean putting your interest last. He does run the family within constraints that my desires, if not always my opinions, are always consulted.

"As I said, I have to beware that his own desires are not too scrupulously ignored."

"And how does one get one's desires put on record?"

"Your desires don't count. Your interests, as seen by us, are very carefully considered."

"Tyranny?"

"Dictatorship. Starting from when you were too small to know whether milk came out of a nipple or a finger."

"And now that I've grown perilously close to adult status and can vote and all?"

"We still have a dictatorship, only over a smaller range of your action."

"And if I were to demand freedom and equality?" He had gone off to school intending to major in physics. He still hadn't mentioned his intention to change to electrical engineering.

"The equality is the equality of a fellow head of household. Start your own household. We'd wave bye-bye. We might cry, but not 'uncle.'"

"Neither of us will top that line. Let's end on it."

"Sure. Back to the gender wars."

John showed up for dinner at Marge's apartment with a bottle of red wine. Dinner was home-made spaghetti. The baby, about to go to sleep, gave him a g'night hug and kiss first. The spaghetti was surprisingly good, although the kitchen in which they ate it was uncomfortably warm. "The only air conditioner is in the bedroom," Marge said, "and I have to close that door." The wine went down fast. He helped her clear and took the rest of the wine into the living room. Television was a great invention. It required that you to sit next to each other.

He reached an arm around to hug her, and she snuggled next to him and turned her face for a kiss. They were a high-school couple out of time. He was a college (fresh) man. She was a divorced woman. It was a second date. He wondered how far she would let him go.

The kiss was immediately open-mouth with their tongues in full play. During it, he caressed her back and then brought his hand around to her breast. The bra was rather stiff, but when he got his hand over where the nipple should be, the ardor of her kiss increased. He stopped for breath.

"Oh Marge." She held his face and kissed around on it. That put him distant enough from her that could reach her buttons. He did. The blouse was open, the bra unsnapped, the kiss again liquid, and his fingers inches from her bare nipple, when there was a noise in the bedroom. He lost her attention and then her presence. He heard crying, soothing, and a flushed toilet; then she was back. Her blouse was buttoned again, and he expected a dismissal. She didn't need to draw the line; her duenita drew it for her.

Instead, Marge dropped back down in the same place. "There. We have an hour."

He reached for her again. The bra was gone. He felt the breast through the blouse and then held her in a position where kissing could be combined with efficient unbuttoning. She cooperated in both. After holding the smooth, soft skin of the breast for a moment, he broke the kiss and began a series of nibbling kisses down her neck and then down to the long nipple. He kissed it before he had clearly seen it. She moved to give him better access and then started to unbutton his shirt. He helped for a minute before standing up. The shirt and t-shirt came off and decorated her TV. He stopped and looked at her. Her blouse had come off too, and she was removing her skirt. There didn't seem to be any underwear.

"Don't worry about a thing. I'm on the Pill."

He finished stripping. She was lying down on the couch where they had been sitting. He knew, in theory, what to do once between her legs. The step in between was a mystery, and the couch made it harder. Two voices spoke together in his head. "It's going to happen," said one; "How?" asked the other.

He climbed over her left leg and knelt in the little room available. He bent down to suck at her breasts again. A minute later, her hand reached his penis and pulled it forward. There was less moisture than he had expected, and he had to try twice; but he pushed inside her, and she smiled. He kissed her again and then started an in-and-out motion. She moved against his motion and became silkier. The feeling was softer than his hand and reached everywhere at once. She was moving harder and faster under him. He held on to her shoulder and quickened his pace. Then something took him over and drove him more and more furiously. He tried to appreciate the smooth tunnel, but the charge was gathering, and he felt only his own tension. When her hand cupped his scrotum, he exploded. He rammed forward and stayed there as his seed pulsed through him and into her.

He tried to hold his weight off her as the lassitude struck. When his breath came back, he had slipped out. He climbed off the couch, wrapped his member in his underpants to protect the carpet from drips, and knelt on the floor so he could hug her. He hugged her bare torso, occasionally pulling up to kiss her mouth, her forehead, or something more interesting.

"Marge, you are wonderful."

"Thank you. We'd better get up."

He dressed there, she went into the bedroom and came back in her original outfit. The TV program seemed to have changed. He'd given so little attention to the other that he wasn't sure. The evening was over. He took a last look at Katydid, who looked like a sleeping baby. They hugged briefly as they kissed good night. She was again wearing a bra.

By God, he'd done it. He had not only done it but he had fucked Margo. But his inexperience bothered him. He didn't want to tell Marge that he was new at this. He decided another raid on his parents' stash of marriage manuals was called for. There was no chance of detection. They knew what they were doing. He would bet that he was still the last person to visit the stash.

The next evening, his parents went walking after dinner. He dodged into their room, opened the closet, reached down the hat box and pulled the pile of books down. The top one was new! The Joy of Sex. It looked good, he was in a hurry, and he took it and the old The Marriage Art.

He replaced everything else, tossed the books into his room, and went to the phone.

"Hello." It didn't sound like Marge's voice.

"I'm calling Marge Standish."

"Mrs. Standish isn't home."

"Is this April?" No answer. "Can you take a message? Got a pencil?"

Negative sounds and the phone clicked on something. Then, "I have a pencil."

"Please tell her that John Kostner called. I'll call tomorrow." He spelled his name.

It was late, and he was deep into the newer book when his father knocked on the door. He tossed the book under the pillow and called out, "Come in."

His father closed the door behind him. "I believe that you have a book of mine that you borrowed without permission."

"Without permission?" He had read most of the books in the house. He got both books and handed them over.

"I long ago told you that, except for my office, the book shelves were open to you. Are you really going to plead that you didn't think that these were private?"

"No sir."

"Good. I wouldn't want your intellect going too." He sat. "You're being neither honest nor prudent in this whole affair you know. What's between your legs has cooked what's between your ears."

"You should talk! Getting that book at your ages."

"Let me make a few things clear!" His dad's voice was forceful, a shade quieter, and very precise. All were danger signs. "I have put up with you these past few weeks because '18-year-old arrogant snot' is a redundancy. Look 'sophomoric' up in the dictionary, Mr. 'about to be a Sophomore.' But past tolerance wasn't meant to be a precedent. My relationship with your mother is blessed by God and State. When we close that bedroom door, it is the business of no person in the entire world besides ourselves whether nothing happens or whether we reenact this whole book every night. But, of all the people who have no rightful interest in that, you have the absolute least. You make a big point about being an adult, but I've been an adult one hell of a lot longer.

"Now on the other matter. I won't ask you whether you are having sex with this divorcee, because a gentleman always lies. (Not that you are acting much like a gentleman.) I'll tell you that you are having sex with her. I'll also tell you that you are responsible for contraception. She may be providing her own, but you are responsible. You can't support a child, and you have the duty to support any child that you have, legitimate or not.

"You don't have to tell me what you have done. I want an unconditional and a conditional promise. That you will buy some condoms tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

"That you will not have intercourse without them until you have already told me that you will not need my money for tuition ever again."

"Yes sir."

His father sat there for a minute, then visibly relaxed. "That doesn't mean that I'm condoning anything, but I feel that prudence is the higher need just now."

"If you are neither condoning nor forbidding me to do it, why make it harder to do it right?"

His father looked at the books still in his lap and smiled. "Buy your own."

The next evening, he stopped in another town on his way home from work. At a drugstore he bought some Trojans. The bookstore was about to close, but they had The Joy of Sex. He bought it.

He called Marge that evening before dinner.

"This is John. Can you talk?"

"Look, I never told you that I wasn't dating other guys."

"I never asked that you wouldn't. I called to tell you that I enjoyed your dinner and to thank you for a wonderful evening." There was no way to avoid the double entendre. "I was wondering if I could take you out next week. I know that you need to warn the sitter, and my time is more flexible than Katydid's. If you have a day, I would appreciate it."

"I can always get April on a Friday."

"Dinner and movie again?"

"That would be nice."

"Want me to pick up April?"

"Please."

"You call her to arrange it."

The Joy of Sex provided little Comfort for John. It assumed the reader knew too much. He went back to the used book store and got two old manuals. They were a little better.

Friday was broiling. That night, he took Marge to the movies and found the place full of high-school students enjoying the air conditioning -- and each other. Between car chases in the movie, Marge leaned over to whisper to him.

"We were never like that."

"Not that bad. And we are restrained adults now."

"Yes." She didn't sound overjoyed by that comparison.

"On the other hand, nobody can identify us in the theater." She giggled and snuggled closer.

First in parody of the kids around them, kids only a few years younger than Marge and some John's age, then in enjoyment of the deed itself, they petted there. His right arm was casually over her shoulder, the hand coincidentally reaching the side of her breast. The popcorn box was between her legs; and, if sometime his hand missed the box, no one else cared. Most of then were doing something similar. She was not merely the passive recipient. Finally, he had to move her hand back into her own lap.

"You don't like me?"

"I like you too much."

He parked farther from the apartment house and stopped her in the shadows under a tree. They came together in a kiss. Their tongues played tag while he kneaded her buttocks and pulled her to him so that her mound rubbed his leg. They finally broke.

"You have to take the sitter home," she said.

"Damn the sitter."

"Nothing stops you from coming back after."

"Let's go get the sitter home, she needs her rest before tomorrow."

Marge was giggling as they climbed the stairs to her apartment.

He drove April to her door, watched her in, and drove back. Marge was wearing the same dress, but not -- he soon learned -- the bra.

They kissed standing. He played with her tongue for a while, then broke the kiss to kiss her face and neck. He stroked her back and butt, then moved to her breasts. When she pulled him back to her mouth, lust suddenly grabbed him. He hugged her tight against him, first ignoring and then enjoying the stiffness that he pressed to her soft belly. She started to remove her dress, and he helped.

When her dress was off, all that remained was panties and sandals. She tried to help him, and he hurried to strip. They kissed again, and she lay down on the couch. He knelt there and kissed her mouth, her throat, her breasts. His hands went everywhere her his mouth wasn't at the time. He kissed her breasts and stroked her thighs. He petted her through the panties and then helped her remove them. He suckled her nipples and parted her labia. She was moist there and he spread that moisture upwards.

His finger crossed the nubbin of her clitoris and she inhaled in a hiss. He returned to the source of her moisture and pressed a finger into her. She widened her legs. He returned to her clitoral area and spread a little more moisture. He stroked around to the meeting of her folds and then across the clitoris again.

She touched his wrist and he stopped for a moment. She caressed up his arms and across his shoulders. He resumed his petting. She stroked over his chest and down across his, suddenly taut, belly. He thrust two fingers into her. She brushed her fingers across his erection.

He got up, went to his trousers, opened his wallet, and got out the packet.

He stopped in the light from the kitchen to open it and roll the latex on. When he returned to the couch, Marge beckoned to him, and he climbed over her leg and knelt there. He kissed her belly once and then her breast. He tried to find purchase for his left hand at the edge of the couch, gave up, and grasped the back with his right hand. He felt for her with his left hand, but she was there before him. Grateful he lowered himself, checked the position, and pushed in.

Once there, he stopped thinking about the clumsiness. He was in her vagina and in her hands. The feeling was a little different with the rubber but still warm and clinging. Only a little effort was needed to bring his lips down to hers, and the reward was a wet kiss. She cupped his hip with her hand and squeezed. He thrust forward and actually moved her on the couch. She adjusted her legs and then thrust back. He retreated and got into the rhythm. She squeezed his butt in time.

The motion was good. The sensation of her breasts and thighs and mons as he moved against them was better. The sweet clasping and friction of her vagina on his stiff rod and its sensitive head were the best. He stroked in time to her squeezing, then in time to his inner urge. Then he drove into her with all his lust and pressed forward as emptied himself into her. She was moving beneath him and around him. Then his muscles softened. Finally hers did too.

Gasping, he lay on her. Then he felt himself softening and drew back. His penis seemed to be shrinking out of the condom, so he hauled himself up. He stood and pulled the contraceptive off just before it fell. He moved to the bathroom and tossed it in the wastebasket. While there he used the toilet and washed his hands and penis. She was starting to get up when he came back.

"Sorry. That was ill-planned. Sit there for one more moment, can't you?"

He sat beside her and hugged her. He kissed her over her face as well as on the mouth. He hugged her for a minute, but both of them were too hot. This time, when she got up, he didn't try to stop her. He was dressed when she came back in a robe.

They kissed quietly, he asked her out on the next Friday. She agreed. He left, a little saddened somehow.

That sadness didn't last past the night. He awoke with no demands on his time and replayed the night. The clumsiness bothered him, but the sensations had been delightful.

Marge was dating other men, and only one date a week was available for John. She was almost certainly shagging the other men. John had bouts of jealousy, which he concealed from Marge. He could pout or he could make each time memorable for both of them.

As a science student, he'd been told about the dialogue between theory and experiment. Now he lived it. The books could tell him generalities, and he would find on Marge the experimental reality. The books would suggest variations; and she would refuse them, enjoy them, or find them awkward. He learned that one changed diaper turned her on as much as the same amount of time kissing. She felt alone, and a 'we' dealing with the problem was worth celebrating. On the other hand, he sure enjoyed the kissing more.

He would take her out, drive the sitter home, and return. One night, he stopped her on the way into the apartment.

"Do you guys ever go on picnics?" he asked.

"Not this year."

"If I take care of the rest of it, can you take care of Katydid? Think about it. I'll take Mary home."

It wasn't worth a drive. Mary lived a block over. He walked her to her house and watched from the sidewalk as her mother let her in. When he came back, Marge had considered.

"Y'know, the picnic idea sounds like fun."

"Does Sunday work? Or are you churchgoers?"

"Sunday? This Sunday?"

"That's what I meant. Is it a problem?"

"No. Sounds great."

"Eleven?"

"Fine."

That night, when she lay back on the couch, he brought a kitchen chair to sit beside her and stroked all of his favorite parts. She became quite excited and reached for him. He rolled the condom on, but wouldn't join her.

"No, dear, you come to me."

She was dubious but willing. She sat on his legs for a moment while he played with her again. Then she raised herself and he slid forward in the chair. She lowered herself and inserted him.

"Slowly, Marge, slowly." That was one thing the books had emphasized.

She impaled herself slowly, holding on to his shoulder with one hand and adjusting his phallus with the other. He could suck her breasts in this position, and he did. She responded by moving against him. The instinctual muscle patterns produced quite different motions in this position. The sensations were different, as well. She seemed to grasp him at the base and rub the tip all over her insides. He reached down between them to find her clitoris. He stroked it in time with her motions and sucked her nipples in time with both.

She gasped, and her motions became erratic. She clawed his shoulders. He felt her vagina clutch him, and that triggered his own thrusts. His position was even less mobile than hers, but he grasped her buttocks and pulled her to him as his legs strained to thrust. In a minute, he was pouring himself upward into her quivering warmth.

She slumped against him. He had to keep hold of her and couldn't relax completely. Their breathing slowed.

"That was nice," she said finally.

"Me too, but it's always nice with you."

She kissed him, not passionately. He reached down to hold the condom on as she lifted herself. He dressed, kissed her again, and left.

John overstocked for the picnic, but bought only cold food. His father scowled at him as he came down to breakfast in jeans and t-shirt while his parents were dressed for church.

He and Marge ate. Then they cuddled while Katy played on the grass. John started unbuttoning Marge's blouse.

"Out in the open like this?"

"Who's here to see? Anyway, get out of your bra and put the blouse back on."

She did, not rebuttoning the blouse, and he spent a pleasant hour playing with her soft breasts. Sometimes they kissed heatedly, and sometimes he lay in her lap and talked. In that position, she would bend over occasionally, and he would kiss her through the cloth. As the kisses grew passionate again, he stroked up her thighs beneath her skirt. She spread her legs, and he stroked her through her panties.

"We can't out here."

"If we can't, we won't. Maybe, we'll go back to your place when Katydid falls asleep. Let's do what we can out here." And he kissed her again.

Then the toddler was visited by a honeybee. Neither party attacked the other, but Marge panicked. The baby responded as any sensible young mammal would to a mother's panic. She caught it and doubled it. The picnic was over, and they headed home. John explained that the cooler and basket were his parents', but the food wasn't needed back there. Marge objected a little, but he took two trips up her stairs.

While Marge was storing things, he offered to change Katydid. The baby had had too much excitement and not enough sleep, but he brought her dry into the living room and turned on the TV. The dancing pictures caught her attention, and she was asleep in ten minutes. He eased her down onto the couch. Marge came in and wanted to take her to her crib, but he shook his head. He took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

The change of location put her off for a moment, but she cooperated in the kiss. Their tongues played tag while he squeezed her buttocks. He weighed one breast in his hand and then touched the nipple through the cloth. She held his face as she tried to get her tongue deeper into his mouth. He opened her blouse and kissed her nipples which were sticking straight out. They tasted of salt. She shrugged out of the blouse and then smoothed her hands over his back. She started pulling at his shirt.

He broke away to pull off the t-shirt: and, when he looked, she was removing her skirt. He started on his own. When he was done, she was lying on the far side of the bed -- still wearing her panties. Momentarily embarrassed by his nakedness, he turned away as he got the condom from his wallet and palmed it. He slipped it under the pillow as he got into bed.

He started with a kiss again and cupped and teased her nipple. One thing that he learned fast about bed was that he needed his left arm to hold himself up. He kissed her all over her face before moving to her breasts. For a few minutes, he kissed the near one and teased and caressed the far one. Then he shifted to lick the far nipple. He stroked down her side three times. The third time, he went on from her hip across her mound. The panties were damp, and he hoped it wasn't just sweat. He cupped her there, feeling the softness of he folds through the cloth. She lifted her hips, and he shifted to kneel at her side.

He got one hand at each side of the elastic band. She lifted her hips, and he pulled them down. As she shifted her legs to accommodate him, he got them off and put them on the foot of the bed on his side. His stiff erection bobbed at every move, making him terribly self conscious. She spread her knees, and he clasped her again. His palm was on her matted hair while his fingers touched her soft folds. He dropped down to lie beside her without removing his hand. She turned her head, and they were looking each other in the eyes while he parted the outer lips and then the inner ones. Between these, it was flowing with her moisture.

"Oh Marge."

He stroked down there gently, unsure of what he was doing but watching her face. He found her clitoris. She gasped, and he tried to move more lightly still.

She reached for him. He evaded her and reached under the pillow. The packet was hard to find, then hard to open. He rolled it on, having rehearsed that part. Getting between her knees was less clumsy than the time before. She was lying there waiting for him to act. He got himself down and spread her lips again with his hand. He entered the valley, rolled so that he was balanced on both arms, found the entrance and pushed gently. He'd done something right, for he slid straight in.

Fully within her, he shifted his weight so that he was on his elbows. He paused a moment to enjoy the sensation of being enclosed and then began to stroke in and out. He was moving his whole body, and he brushed his chest against her nipples. They stiffened. He tried to move slowly and feel the warm wall grip him through the rubber. Marge started moving under him, and it took him two strokes to figure out how to deal with this. She was moving a little faster than he had been, but he matched her pace. She stroked up his arms to his shoulders, then down his back to his butt. She wrapped her legs around him and rested her feet on his calves. She was pushing back at him as hard as he was stroking into her. The pressure was building in him, and he knew he was close.

"John?"

"I'm right here." And then she groaned. She was pushing hard against him, and her tunnel was rhythmically clasping around his erection. He pulled back, drove forward, and came in pulses. He collapsed upon her.

"Can you move?" Marge asked.

It could have been hours later, but the light from the window was no different. He rolled off her and out of her. The condom stayed inside. She reached down, pulled it out, and threw it in the wastebasket.

"Sorry. Was I gone long?"

She giggled. "That's one way to describe it. Not more than a minute."

"You have beautiful breasts." His breath was just now returning to normal. "Beautiful face too. But I'd seen that years ago. C'mere."

She moved over, kissed him and then turned her back. It surprised him for a second, partly because he was breathing hair. After he had pushed her hair out of his face, however, he found the spoon cuddle quite enjoyable. Indeed, he got another erection. He realized that he didn't have another condom. She snuggled deeper against it but made no other move. Ten minutes later they broke apart. The weather wasn't made for this, and they were both pouring sweat.

She got up and covered him with the sheet. When she returned dressed, he took his clothes to the bathroom sponged himself off with a washcloth and dressed.

She was changing the baby when he came out, and the afternoon was obviously over. He kissed Katy goodbye, kissed Mommy goodbye, and left.

The next date, Marge seemed in a bad mood and suggested that they skip the movie. She took a paper cup of soda with her from the restaurant. John was excited as he drove her home, but she asked him to turn off. She guided him to an isolated spot, and he pulled her over to kiss. Shortly into the kiss, she unzipped his trousers. This forward behavior and the openness of the surroundings excited him greatly. By the time her hand reached it, his erection was rock hard.

"I'm having my period. Don't come back to the house after taking the sitter home."

Then she bent over and took him in her mouth. There was no easy way to reach her breasts, and he sat with his left hand on her head and his right patting her back.

At first, she held the shaft in her hand and only licked and lipped the tip. Then she closed her lips behind the glans and sucked before rolling her tongue all around it. The tongue felt rougher than her smooth vagina, but softer than the hand he was more used to.

When she began to move her mouth up and down along the shaft, her tongue was on one side rather than the bottom of his glans. Still, the sensations were exciting him; the idea was exciting him; there was no reason to try to hold back. The tensions built swiftly.

"Marge. I'm about ..." Acknowledging sounds from his lap. She held the bottom third of his shaft in her fingers and bobbed faster on the rest.

"I can't come in your mouth!" She lifted her head for a second.

"Do."

She licked the underside of the glans again. Then she settled back down. The idea repelled him. The idea excited him. The excitement and the sensations combined to send him toward the edge. He found himself pushing her head down as she worked. Then he felt his himself peaking. He rose an inch in the seat and pushed her head down. She sucked hard and pulled up still sucking. He spurted in her, and she kept sucking. He spurted four more times, less after the second.

She swung up, grabbed a Kleenex out of her purse and held it on him with her left hand. She opened the door on her side and spit out. She grabbed the Coke, sipped hard, spat again, then repeated that.

He took the Kleenex from her and finished wiping himself off. She handed him another, and he wrapped it about his member and stuck it back in his shorts.

"Sorry," she said, "I still have trouble swallowing it." She was now drinking the Coke.

"I never asked you to." The reminder that she did this with others was much more of a turnoff than the activity of spitting. He considered his options, then got out of the car to adjust his clothing.

He drove her home. When he drove the babysitter home, he continued on to his own house. Somehow, he hadn't taken any opportunity to kiss Marge good night.

On the next date, April called in sick at the last minute. Marge called John while his parents were finishing their dessert. He first thought of strangling April -- which wouldn't solve the child-care problem, then of strangling Katydid -- which would. Finally he had an idea which was worth sharing.

"You have to eat, anyway," he said. "Have you thought what?"

"There are some cans here."

"I'll stop by the pizza place. Get glasses and plates set up. 40 minutes. Katy can have what you allow her from ours, get whatever she needs special for her. I'll take care of the rest."

He phoned in the order, and stopped by the grocery for pop, dessert, lettuce and dressing. On impulse, he bought a cheap plastic tablecloth. The pizza order was ready soon after he arrived, and he got to Marge's within his deadline.

Katy, who had just had supper, turned out to adore pizza, though not to the point of swallowing much of it. She bathed in tomato sauce and cooed and babbled through the meal. She was no better for John's appetite than his nephew, Troy, had been. She had a little ice cream before Momma took her to bed an hour behind her schedule and even more behind John's. This time, he didn't offer to do the changing.

While Marge got her kid somewhat clean, John cleaned up the kitchen and prepared the living room. He pulled the cushions off the sofa and draped them with his plastic table cloth. He found two bowls and filled one with lukewarm water. He put some ice cubes in the other. He sniffed the washcloths in the bathroom and rinsed out the three which smelled least of sour milk. He found two clean glasses large enough for root beer floats, spooned the ice cream into them, and put them away in the refrigerator. He rescued the straws that he had picked up in the pizza parlor. He still had time to wait.

Marge came back looking frazzled.

"What's that in the living room?" she asked.

"Take off your blouse and go lie down there."

"Look, in this heat I don't need ..."

"Please."

She did. He poured the root beer to make the floats, inserted the straws, and took them in.

"Turn over." When she did, he put her float in front of her face.

As she began drinking it, he took one washcloth, dipped it in the lukewarm water, and began rubbing her back with it. She sighed and relaxed. He took her arms one at a time and wiped them with the cloth. When he unsnapped her bra, she cooperated. After wiping all the surfaces on that side and kneading her tired shoulders with the wet cloth, he sat back on his heels and sipped at his float.

"That is the first time I've felt cool since leaving the store. Thanks."

"Take the rest of your clothes off."

She turned back over and removed the skirt and panties. At a gesture, she returned to lying on her stomach. He straddled her facing her feet. Again, he rinsed every surface, starting at her waist. He avoided the space between her buttocks, but he included the insides of her thighs as he proceeded down. After he cleaned her feet, he tossed that washcloth onto a loose corner of the plastic and returned to rubbing her shoulders for a minute.

"All done. Turn over."

She did. He wiped off her face with the second cloth and then kissed her. His shirt was getting wet, and he removed it and the t-shirt. Then he wiped down her neck, arms and torso. He skipped her breasts. When he returned to them, he dipped the washcloth in the ice water. Her nipples stood up at attention, and she shivered. He squeezed the cloth over her mound and let the water run over her pubic hair and between her legs. She shivered again and reached for him.

He dropped the cloth and kissed her, covering her cool torso with his sweaty chest. The kiss was a long one involving tongue play. Then he began stroking her with his hand. At first, he merely touched her side and hip, then he reached between them to cover and rub her breast. When he broke the kiss, he took one breath and then began kissing her all over her damp face. He proceeded down her neck and chest, then circled the near breast and kissed the valley between her breasts, pressing them together against his face.

Only his left hand was free, and he stroked the length of her body with it from her shoulder to her knee. After a minute he kissed up her far breast until he met the areola. He licked a circle just at the edge of the areola and then across it to touch the nipple. As he sucked the nipple, he began to stroke between her thighs. These tensed against his hand and then fell open. He continued sucking her breast and stroking her thighs, reversing as soon as his hand brushed her mound. Then he left her breast, dropped a quick kiss on her mouth, and shifted to the other breast.

This time when his hand moved up, he cupped her entire mound. She spread her thighs more, and he caressed her outer lips with two fingers. Then he gently massaged the peak of he mound. Her breathing seemed shallower, and she began to push her groin up at his fingers. When he spread her labia apart, his fingers were drenched. What had been a technical, if lustful, enterprise stiffened him with desire. He freed his mouth from her breast.

"Oh, Marge!"

He watched her frowning face as he stroked upward in the cleft. She grew more and more tense, then she gasped as he found her clitoris. He returned to the bottom of the cleft and kept his fingers there as he rocked back on his heels. Then he repeated the stroke with his left hand as he tried to deal with his clothes with his right. He had his trousers and underpants down to his thighs when he began rubbing in a circle over her clitoral area. She was breathing harder, and her frown had become a tense rictus. He managed to tear open the packet of the Trojans and fitted it to his penis. It wouldn't roll down. He tore his eyes from watching her and found that he had it on the wrong way. He reversed and rolled it on. He abandoned her for a minute to stand and pull his clothes the rest of the way off.

She was reaching for him when he moved between her legs. He spread her labia once more with his fingers, stroked the length of the cleft once more, glided his finger over the clitoris once more. Then he was at the entry. He paused while she tugged at his arms. Then he eased in. The stroke was slow but sure, sliding along the fluttering length of her tunnel until his groin pressed against hers. The following strokes were more rapid, and she met them with heaves of her own. He was far along his own spiral of desire, but not too far to feel her contractions around him. He pressed into her, clasped her shoulders to him in a hug, and rolled to his left. He didn't miss a stroke as he felt over to the iced bowl. He grabbed the third cloth -- still wrapping two ice cubes -- from the bowl of ice water, and clasped it to the small of her back.

When he rolled her back over onto that chill, she gasped and missed a beat against him. He resumed his strokes. She moaned, and her internal sheath was clasping him again and again. The motion was taking him now. He thought only to clasp her breast with his, still ice cold, right hand. She was calling out into his face, clawing at his back, pulsing around his member. He drove into her again and again. He called out himself. He rammed home once more and spurted his very being into that welcoming, spasming, warmth.

The next thought he had was to roll sideways again and remove the third cloth. Since she was absolutely limp, it was a difficult job. When it was done, he was out of her. His muscle control had returned. He held himself light on her and lay his head below her breasts listening to her heart beat slow.

After it did, she twisted a little. Deciding that she was uncomfortable, he pulled himself back to his feet. She certainly didn't object. He finished his float, visited the bathroom and disposed of his condom, resumed his pants, returned the pots and washcloths. She seemed awake but detached.

"What are you thinking?" he finally asked.

"I'm never going to be able to get up from here."

"Sure you are."

He went into the bedroom and folded the sheet over to one side. He returned to the living room and carefully knelt by Marge's side. Then he did a three-stage lift. She grabbed him around the neck as soon as he started, so they were fairly well balanced going into the bedroom. He actually tucked her in and kissed her forehead. He checked on Katy and straightened her covers.

"I'll let myself out."

And, after straightening up himself and the living room, he did.

Marge Standish got another sitter, Mary, for their next date. John drove Mary home and returned. Marge was in a nightgown and robe when she let him in. She put a finger to her lips.

They sat on the sofa and necked in total silence for ten minutes before Marge left to check on her toddler. John took the opportunity to shed shoes, socks, and undershirt. He put his shirt back on, with two buttons done, and slipped the contraceptive from the interior of his wallet to his back pocket. Marge returned smiling and relaxed.

"She's down for hours."

They kissed again, and his tongue played with hers. He weighed her breast in his hand and tickled the nipple through the cloth. He eased her robe off as she undid his shirt. They broke to remove these completely.

He kissed her again and then started a trail of kisses from her mouth across her face to her ear. He held her tight as she wiggled at this teasing. Then he trailed kisses and licks down her neck to her shoulder. He moved the strap out of his way as he went. Then he kissed and nuzzled a path to her breast, moving cloth as he went. When he was licking her nipple, he moved off the couch and eased her down on the length of it. Kneeling on the floor, he pulled the other side of the nightgown down and kissed the other nipple. She shrugged out of the top of the gown and pulled his chin toward hers.

As they kissed, he stroked her torso and thigh. He pulled her gown higher and trailed his hand along the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs. Her legs parted more. He stroked his hand upward between them, brushing a thigh on either side. When he came to the juncture, he clasped her vulva with his hand and broke the kiss to stare into her eyes.

"Oh, Marge!"

Smiling, she began stroking his right arm. He bent to lick her far breast from the bottom to the peak. She tasted of salt and of herself. He licked over the smooth skin to the rough areola and then teased the nipple with the lightest touches his tongue could manage. She pulled his head down, and he took as much of the breast into his mouth as he could. He pulled up until all but the nipple had eased out against his suction, then took a little more in and started to tease the nipple again. Meanwhile he played with her labia before slipping a finger between them. She was fairly damp, and he moved his finger around in the dampness before stroking upward. He stopped partway to the top and returned to the very bottom of the labia. His next stroke was slower and moved a millimeter higher.

He eased his suction on her breast and kept just the nipple in his mouth. He would suck it, then lick it, then move it in and out with his lips. He kept stroking her cleft, bringing his finger a mite higher each time. She started to push her hips down to move her clitoris toward his finger. He returned to her vaginal vestibule and tried to move even more slowly.

Her hip movements had a regular rhythm now, and he sucked her breast to its time. One stroke of his finger met her clitoris, and she gasped. He returned his finger to the vestibule and pushed it within. Her hips moved more rapidly. He stoked up the full length of her cleft again, passing over her clitoris. He kept up that stroke in time to her movements as he tried to undo his belt and trousers with his left hand. When these were open, he slipped the packet out of his pocket. He removed his mouth from her breast long enough to tear the foil with hand and teeth. Then he moved to her near breast. He couldn't seem to feel her clitoris any more; but he continued his stroking, and her hips continued their response. She was breathing hard and looking worried. She tugged hard at his arms.

He pulled away and stood up. The trousers fell when he did so and, one step took his right leg out of them. He pushed his shorts down, checked the direction of the condom, and rolled it on. A few hairs caught, and he had to pull them out. Then he knelt between her thighs.

He covered her with his torso, and she placed him. His entering thrust met her spreading and raising hips. When he was fully within, she sank down on the couch and put her hands on his shoulders. He lifted himself on his arms and began to stroke slowly in and out. Her eyes met his, and then her expression turned inward. She looked worried, then almost in pain. Then his sensations caught him up, and he wasn't noticing her face anymore.

He withdrew until only the tip was held and then drove through a silky sliding tunnel until he was clasped on all sides and his groin hit her mound. Then they fell together inches which felt like miles. The change of angle started to pull him out, and he continued the move, feeling her tunnel try to hold him back as he slid back through the slick hug. His glans passed through a clinging collar, and he stopped at the entrance to paradise for the instant he could before the sensations made him return. As he drove in, she rose to hold him and then ease him down. This repeated, but it became all one sensation. Then she clawed at his buttocks to draw him more tightly in.

He drove into her with all his strength. He pulsed, drove again without withdrawing, pulsed. She was speaking, she clasped around him. But there was only himself, his rod. He shook in that pulsing warmth, thrust, shot, thrust, shot. He was one streaming stalk of nerve endings.

He was limp nothingness floating on softness and hipbones which gradually coalesced into a living, breathing, gasping Marge. He reached down to retain the condom as he slipped out of her. She shifted so that more of his weight was against the back of the couch.

His breathing slowed, and he caught himself falling asleep. He got up and headed for the bathroom with his underpants. He chucked the condom, rinsed himself off, and returned in his shorts.

"Sorry. I must have been heavy."

"I'm in no condition to complain. Did you really tuck me in last time?"

"You looked like you needed it. Was I supposed to leave you lying on the floor? I just worried later that I hadn't set the alarm."

"No worry. I have a self-setting one in the same room." A long pause. "You know, you don't have to use those."

John had known this was coming. College sophomores didn't do things because daddy told them to. He had worked out a moral stance which he more than half believed.

"Look. I know you use the pill. That is your responsibility, and you take it. I have a responsibility too. I've seen your struggles with the Katydid. What you are doing by yourself is noble. I'm not prepared to do that. I have three years to go in school before I'm ready to either support or care for a kid.

"So I need to take precautions, as well. I'm not responsible if I don't use contraception. I'm not responsible if I leave it up to you. That doesn't mean that I don't trust you to be responsible. It means that putting the burden on you is my not being responsible. I don't know if that makes any sense."

"It makes some. John, you are a good person. Almost nobody is."

"Consult my sister on that. She thinks that I am a monster."

"Look, I need to think -- and to sleep. Let's call it a night."

"Sure."

After he dressed, her kiss was as deep and aggressive as any they'd shared. He would have been ready to start over if she hadn't already rejected that.

He called her the next evening. After his usual thanks for her going out with him, he started to ask her for a date in the next week.

"Do you think we might..."

"No but." She paused to let him hear that. "But I'm inviting you here a week from Sunday. 10:30, if that's okay with you."

"Fine."

"This time, it's my food. You don't bring anything to eat or drink. I'm serious."

"Okay."

"What you always bring, however, ..."

"Hmmm? Gotcha."

"Bring two." At that, she hung up without waiting to say 'goodbye.'

He brought two. He also brought flowers for Marge and a book for The Katydid. He had walked to the front of the bookstore with Horton Hatches an Egg before deciding that Marge might take that as an offer he was not willing to make. Hearing a Who would be much safer.

He read to her from the book after lunch. It went really fast with her turning the pages, but it still didn't catch her attention. She settled on the couch, and two adults turned on the television and prayed for her to fall asleep. When she did, Marge led John into the bedroom.

Soon their attention turned from listening to kissing. Marge was almost the aggressor, unbuttoning his. Their kisses became wilder and deeper. He undressed her to her panties and sucked on her breasts before she asked him for the two condoms. It was the first thing she had said since speaking to Katy. She put them on the night stand beside the bed and then simply lay down. He removed his shoes and socks before joining her.

She was silent again, but she kissed more deeply and sloppily than she had ever done. She even kissed his body and sucked on a nipple. He was surprised to find that this caused an erection both there and below. He reciprocated, and she pulled him to her breast. He sucked as much as he could into his mouth and then moved to the other. She hugged him to her, and he reached for her mound. He caressed her through the panties and clasped the whole delta in his hand.

She reached to push the panties down, and he pulled them the rest of the way off. He removed his own trousers and shorts and rejoined her. He stroked up the line of her inner thighs, and she moved her legs apart for him. He clasped the delta again, this time without intervening cloth. The tips of his fingers, which he had expected to get sopping, were barely damp. He took another deep, if brief, kiss from her mouth and then began kissing a path down her face and throat. He continued down to her far breast. There, his mouth climbed the hill and sucked the peak. Her nipple hardened, and he parted her labia.

There seemed to be more liquid now. He stroked from the bottom of he slit to the top, sliding over her clit. He closed the labia again and rolled the outer lips against each other. While doing that, he licked a path from the far breast to the near one. He licked a ring around the areola and then blew across it. She shivered, and the nipple stood straight up. He licked the nipple, beginning with one stroke along the side facing him and then moving around and taking strokes from almost every direction. By this time, Marge's hips were working and pushing her mound up against his hand. He again parted her labia and tested her with two fingers. She was much juicier than before. He started to suck her nipple while he bathed his finger in the secretions. Then he stroked upward in her cleft. He stopped halfway to her clit and returned for more lubrication. He did this five more times, always going higher, always stopping.

On the seventh stroke he passed her clit, with a finger brushing it from each side. She sat up a little, then settled back down on the bed. He returned for more lubrication, stroked upward again, and settled into circling strokes over the clitoral area. Marge was breathing in gasps. She reached for him.

He grabbed one of the packets, managed to get it on right, and climbed between her legs. She raised and spread her knees and guided him in. He eased through her portal and then stroked forward until their pubic hairs linked. He stopped there to feel the warm pressure on all of his cock. Almost as sensual was the joy of possession. Some days he still could not believe that he was really fucking Margo. The glorious crowing of that thought contrasted with the tenderness and erotic generosity he sometimes felt for Marge.

He slipped back, and the warm friction thrilled him. He thrust forward, and Marge pushed to meet him. Both the pure sensation and the erotic cognition were intensely sensual. Then Marge was raising, rolling and dropping her hips. He grabbed her shoulders. His hips were pumping to meet hers, but it was an effort to just hang on. At that intensity, he could not last long. He slammed into her even harder than she was moving and kept pressing inward as he erupted. She was only two beats behind and kept moving against him until he was drained. They both collapsed. He felt her roll him over and thought that he should say something.

"Oh Marge."

"Hush. I'll be back."

She was back quite soon, in a robe and carrying a washcloth. She gestured him back when he started to sit up. Bemused, he lay there watching her strip the latex from him and then wash his genitals. He was 18; his penis stirred and straightened.

She set down the cloth and kissed him again on the mouth. She looked as if she had been crying, or was about to cry. The kiss, however, was deep and aggressive. Their tongues played until she broke the kiss. She kissed his face and then his chest. She licked and sucked both nipples until they were hard. Then her mouth traveled lower. She kissed him across his belly, now tensed and rigid. She skipped to his thigh and then kissed the top of his glans. She circled the tip with her lips and then literally sucked him inside. She exhaled through her nose and sucked again. Most of the shaft came inside. He was as hard as stone. She abandoned him for a moment to reach for the second packet. She gathered him in her lips again and bobbed her head up and down as she tore open the packet. She let him go and rolled the condom over his stiffness.

She straddled him on hands and knees so that a breast was dangling in his face. He took the hint -- and a nipple. She ran her fingernails up and down his sides while he sucked. Then she reached for his phallus and straightened. She sat back and positioned him, then sank down. He wasn't quite straight, and he caught. She shifted and impaled herself, surrounding his shaft. The consciousness of being engulfed reinforced the sensation of the warm, gentle clasp of her flesh around his.

She eased herself down until her hips were resting on his groin, then bent forward until her other breast was offered to him. He lifted it forward to his lips with his left hand and held it there while he played with the nipple. Simply bending like that had pulled her a little bit off, and any more motion threatened to lose their connection. She pressed back until he was securely inside. Then she started to move her hips in a horizontal circle over his groin. The feeling was a constant rubbing against different parts of her vagina without appreciable movement in or out.

The sensation was infinitely sensuous, but he felt no urgency. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the nipple in his mouth, pressing it almost all the way out, then sucking nipple and areola in, then holding it in his lips while he bathed the tip with his tongue. He raised his right hand to hold her other breast. He played with that nipple with his thumb. His self absorption and sensual bliss lasted for some time, then consciousness of Marge's gasping broke though his happy haze. He opened his eyes and focused on her face. She was grimacing.

Either the position was causing her pain, or she was nearing a climax. He stroked her side in a gesture which was meant to convey sympathy in the first case. When she took no notice, he decided that this was sexual tension. She, like him, was slick with sweat. He swept some of it off as he ran his hand down her side. Then he gripped her flexing haunch. Her breath came faster, the sweet muscle he held started to quiver, her motions became erratic and simply side-to-side. Then her internal muscles gripped him. There was no warning, just rhythmic clenches. He thrust up into them, with no noticeable effect. This seemed to go on forever. She had turned bright red, and her face looked like she was undergoing torture. Then she sobbed.

She dropped onto one of his thrusts, then collapsed onto his chest. He let go with his lips and got his left hand out of the way barely in time. He felt two quivers around his organ, then nothing. Even the thigh in his right hand softened. She gasped on his chest, and each motion eased him out a little. He finally popped free, still erect. He hugged her with one arm and patted her back with his other. It seemed appropriate, if not adequate. She had broken out in a renewed sweat, but that didn't explain the amount of moisture running down the crook of his neck where she had buried her face. He held her while her crying slowed and stopped. She had Kleenex on the night stand, and took two of them to dry her eyes and blow her nose. She didn't explain, and he didn't ask.

She reached back and touched his softened phallus. Then she moved down his body. Her breasts pressed against his belly as she kissed his nipples once more. She reached back again and held his scrotum. The touch was feather light on his testes, the suction was determined on his nipple. He rose to the occasion.

She settled herself around him again. This time the entry was not quite so smooth. He guessed that the condom might have dried out. She took him all in, however, before beginning a new motion. For this, she sat bolt upright and shifted slightly from side to side. This brought some in-and-out motion but most of the friction was from the sideways motion itself. His mouth was out of play, but his hands weren't. He held a breast in each and played with her nipples with his thumbs. She started an up-and- down motion which increased his tension without seeming to promise relief. He dropped his right hand to hold her thigh, then to scratch it lightly with the backs of his nails. She moved straight up and down and whipped her head back and forth. He reached between her thighs to finger the top of the mound just next to her clit. She was throbbing against his phallus, and then she pushed herself so far down his shaft that his hand was trapped.

He pulled his hand out and levered himself over. He was beside her and then over her. He was hard and wanting; and he drove into her, swung nearly out, and drove in again. She caught the rhythm and matched it, pushing back at him and then dropping down. All his movement was in his hips, rotating them hunched his groin against and then away form hers. And then, when her clench began again, his legs drove him forward while his hips drove him in. That thrust shoved her two inches up the bed. They were pressed together, and their tremors were their only movement as they both came. His was over first. He lay there with her quim squeezing his softening penis until she was done. Soon after that, she rolled over. He dropped to the bed. This time he really slept.

It was late afternoon when he awoke. His clothes were on the bed, and there was noise through the closed door from Marge and her daughter. He dressed before stumbling out to find Katydid finishing up dinner. He continued on to the bathroom; and, when he came out, Katy was ready for more Horton. They hit mostly different pages this time, so she was getting variety if not a continuous story. Before Marge began Katy's bedtime ritual, he took his leave.

"Look, I'll call..." he started.

"Not this week. It's a killer. Besides, I have to think. Call next Sunday or after."

He called the next Sunday. She was out at 11:15 and at 12:10. She was in at 2:00.

"Sorry. We were at church. The Lutheran one two blocks away has activities for Katy's age group during services."

"Did I hurt you by zonking out last week?"

"Darling, it was a compliment. It's not you. It's just that I've been doing too much chasing after a social life this summer that hasn't included Katy.

"You are a special person, John Kostner. Don't think that I am saying no to you. I'm saying no to an old part of me."

"I'll call again."

"Do that. But don't think of me as your social life. Katydid says 'Thank's for the book.' I read it to her each night."

He called again and once again. The conversations were pleasant. The last one was terminal.

Sylvia Kostner had mentioned no more about her son's new social life than was absolutely necessary to establish whether he would be in for meals. Her blithe ignorance was an affectation which didn't fool John for a moment. The evening after his last phone conversation with Marge, his mother asked him to stack the washer and then went into the living room. As he came through afterwards, she caught him.

"Come sit with me. Or are you off somewhere?"

Clearly he wasn't. He sat.

"You seem to have fallen off a dance card," she said.

"Dad is ashamed of me, and you tease me about my lousy social life. I should have stayed in Cambridge."

"You looked for a job in Cambridge. I wanted to sell that car. If I were inclined to tease you for poor social life, I would have started earlier. And your father is proud of you. You two are too much alike to be comfortable with each other, but he's certainly proud of his son. Tell me, is there a self-pity gland which takes the overflow from blocked libido? You should have taken biology at the Institute."

"He certainly hasn't been expressing pride recently." He wasn't about to follow her diversions.

"He's very proud of your intellect and accomplishments -- and your work performance at your job. Off work, this summer hasn't been your finest hour."

"I don't see where my supposed misdemeanor is any worse than Debbie's."

"Your sister thinks you a moral idiot. She has evidence."

"I think she'd say, 'immoral idiot'."

She wasn't chasing diversions either. "We can't talk about Debbie's supposed sex life."

"The human gestation period is longer than five months, Mother. And nobody has any problem talking about mine."

"It semed about two years longer in your case. And anything Debbie has heard about you is from yourself. Anyway, consider this purely hypothetical situation: When a young couple want to get married and can't it is wrong for them to take the privileges of marriage without the responsibilities. Quite wrong. But quite understandable."

"Your church would forgive."

"Jesus would forgive Hitler. And understand. The church either would forgive or would sin. Churches do both, frequently."

"And gossip."

"Even more frequently. Anyway, ...

"If your father died today," she continued, "I wouldn't look at another man. Ever. If he had died when you two were small, I would have remarriedv -- and remarried for love."

"Anyone I know?" He couldn't follow this curve, but it would get back to the subject. Perhaps this week.

"No-one specific. 'For love' because I'm the sort of woman who needs to marry for love. 'Remarry' because a family takes two parents. Now, a widow or a divorced woman raising a child... This is another hypothetical, mind you. Such a woman needs to meet the man who will take on her family. That is a given. How such a woman does that is a matter of intelligence and options. Had that -- purely hypothetical -- woman asked me, I would have suggested that bedding Smith improves the odds of wedding Smith only slightly and reduces the odds of wedding Jones much worse. But then I wasn't asked.

"What any woman does in that situation is tactical. There is no morality in it. I wouldn't judge her at all. I would, however, slice her throat before I would let her destroy my child's future to secure her's."

"Purely hypothetical," he said.

"Purely hypothetical. And only if slicing her throat was my only option. There has never been a woman who threatened my family in that way.

"Now take the situation where the woman is looking for a potential husband, and a man who is not a potential husband misleads her. That man is reducing her child's chance for a future. That is not the deed of a hero."

"Did either you or dad ... ?"

"Your father worried. I didn't. The reason that a marriage would be poisonous for you now make you really undesirable to a woman with a young child. Two people in love, people who were marriage material anyway, caring for their kid, seeing the future opening up each week they struggle toward the degree, go through hell! Consider how much worse it is for two people who aren't that committed, people who aren't caring for their joint child."

"And you didn't point this out to anybody?"

"Judicious letting alone solves most of the problems in the world. Why call attention to any resources that you might have beyond your own pitiful pay? You know, your father was a very good judge. We say 'everybody knows that.' What's your guess? Do five percent of the county know that he was a judge at all?"

"And if I should make a set speech to this totally hypothetical person laying out that I was not prepared to raise a child? ..."

"She would, quite reluctantly I'm certain," [The twinkle in her eye implied that she was not certain at all. For once, John trusted his take on a human issue better than his mother's.] "decide that you were no longer date material."

"And nobody, despite the innuendoes, knows whether it went beyond simple holding hands."

"And not even I, the world's leading expert in the behavior of the male Kostner under sexual frustration and under sexual satiation, knows. But that leads to an entirely new subject."

"Which is?"

"Given that you were interested in dates and have some free time, you should look for other dates."

"Mother, the summer is more than half over."

"Remember Dawn Rogers?"

"Year behind me, nice girl, took her to two dances. No chemistry at all."

"She is going to Boston University in the Fall. Could probably use some pointers about the big city."

"No chemistry in Wisconsin will be no chemistry in Massachusetts. So why does she want to know me?"

"Because you know lots of boys in Boston. You'd make a great co-conspirator. And, in return, I'd bet the sex ratio is better at B.U. than at MIT."

"The only college in known space with a worse sex ratio is the College of Cardinals."

"So you return with a connection to coeds, and she arrives with a connection to MIT men. Son, there is no war between the sexes. Girls are your allies; you just have to let them want what they want."

"'Always give them what they want?' That seems...."

"Hell no! Be very clear what they want. Then if that is disastrous for you, or just not worth the price, walk away. Now, different girls want different things, and the same girl wants several things. If, however, one girl wants something from you that is dangerous for you, walk away."

"All that talk about slitting throats. You really are ruthless, aren't you?"

"Your sister thinks you are the most selfish human being on earth. You didn't inherit that from Lloyd Kostner."

"And now you are passing on the wisdom of the velvet glove."

"I was never a Playboy centerfold." So much for that secret. "I was a girl and am a woman. Now that your tastes have changed to girls, I have some wisdom to impart. We were perfectly happy with you as an immature heterosexual. Saved lots of worries. I had this discussion with your sister before she turned 15."

"So how do I get a girl in the sack?" That should make her back off.

"Marry her, but not before graduation. You asked the wrong question. The right question is 'How do I get women to like me and trust me?' I wrote something similar, mutatis mutandis, for your sister. I'll rewrite it and send it to you. Are you going to call Dawn? I can probably find the phone number if so."

"I'd bet it's on that index card sticking out of the book you're holding."

"You'd win."