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Kat and Cyrano Chapter 10: Friendship In the first nine chapters, I described in sensuous and erotic detail how the chemistry and the hunger between Eric and me led to some wonderful and creative sexual adventures four years ago. But if it had just been about the sex, then Nov. 10, 2008 wouldn’t still be a cherished memory and one of the happiest days of my life, right up there with my high school graduation and the births of my four children. There was also friendship, trust, respect, and admiration for each other, which blossomed into genuine love. It’s that friendship and love, mixed with our passion and lust, which made Nov. 10 the perfect storm of love and desire and satisfied sexual hunger. And it’s our friendship that I want to explore in this chapter. The time frame for this chapter is early to mid October, 2008. During that time, through our emails, and our conversations while riding the bus into downtown, while walking around downtown holding hands and kissing, while sharing breakfasts and lunches, we got to know about each other more than just sexually. I found out that Eric grew up in a middle class suburb, a couple of thousand miles from here. He was one of three brothers, and the only brother who had any ambitions in life. He began writing professionally, for publication, as a teenager. And by his mid 20s, he was a published book author, too. But there wasn’t all that much money in freelancing, and he let himself sell his soul to get a corporate job in researching and writing reports, which is how he wound up moving to the west coast—closer to finding me. When one of his brothers fathered a child, who Eric’s brother and the mother couldn’t care for, Eric at age 27 stepped up and adopted his niece, rather than see her go into an endless string of foster homes. At 40, Eric had met and married a single mother to a 9-year-old son. So now at age 53, he had two adult kids. But his marriage, like mine, was strained, and I think that opened the door for us to find each other on the bus. Eric’s father had been a union representative, and his mother was active in the civil rights movement. So his liberal politics were much the same as mine. Only he was still politically active, when he could find the time, while I no longer was. I had once worked on the campaign of a presidential candidate, but I grew disappointed in the whole system when he lost, even though the winning candidate had repeatedly proved and continued to prove that he was evil incarnate. I had put time and money into believing in my candidate, and everyone I knew supported him, he even won the popular vote. But the man sworn in as President had the open checkbooks of half a dozen billionaires, a rigged electoral college, a crooked governor as a brother to rig the vote in a key state, and an even more crooked Supreme Court judge behind him. And that outweighed the will of millions of voters. Once in office, our appointed and unelected President told corporations and the military that they could do whatever they want, launch bloody oil wars, wreck the world’s economies, close factories and then foreclose the homes of those who no longer had the income to pay their mortgages, dump all the toxins they want to into the air, water, and farm soil, do any and every evil they could think up. As President for the wealthy and powerful, and for nobody else, he wouldn’t stop their evil. I was soured on politics after that. Eric had a big, generous heart, to have loved and raised two children who were not biologically his own. To care about people, more than about money and power, through his liberal political efforts. And to love me so much. And to let me love him and desire him so much, and to help me with my doctorate and with my job search. He said he got that generosity of spirit from his dad; they were very close. His dad was a gentleman and raised Eric to be one, too. As I now knew, Eric was a gentleman in the bedroom too, seeing to and caring deeply about my comfort and pleasure and enjoyment, as a higher priority even than his own enjoyment. When we met, Eric’s main job (politics were spare time and voluntary for him) was working on all sorts of weird research projects for various government projects, as it was the only steady source of income he could find after President Evil had overseen the destruction of all the world’s economies. We chuckled over some of Eric’s projects. For example, he helped on an investigation of a prison inmate filing a request to have outside dental work done, which of course wasn’t going to happen. But the inmate’s insistence on a specific dental clinic raised suspicions. Eric’s team’s investigation revealed that the medical facility at that address didn’t do dentistry, şişli escort but male enhancement surgery. That’s all a prison full of men needed, a guy with male enhancement! And worse yet, paid for on the taxpayer’s dime! We laughed over that, but I also kissed Eric, gazed through his eyes into his soul, lovingly patted his crotch, and told him how grateful I was that I was the cause of his near constant “male enhancement.” Eric always wore his “sword” tucked upward along his zipper. He said it was the only way he was comfortable walking; otherwise, he told me, the pressure of his boxers and trousers on his maleness was unbearable to him. And considering his eye-popping, mouth-watering thickness, I can believe that. But the way he wore his sword pointing upward in his trousers, also had the advantage that his thickness was always prominent for me to look at and daydream over. I sometimes noticed other women noticing (how could they not? His thickness was very prominent, and wearing it pointed upward all the time was like advertising!), and it made me feel like the luckiest woman alive to be routinely riding what other women drooled over. Eric had so many interests; he was also an amateur historian. And his latest historical research at that time had to do with some sort of nineteenth century steam machinery. He explained that the pipe that flowed into the steam boiler was called a throat, and the valve that controlled how much water flowed into the boiler was called a cock. “I think I know where this is going,” I gazed adoringly into his eyes and smiled. He read softly from the 19 th century boiler instructions, “let the cock slowly enter the throat, until the desired quantity of liquid is introduced into the throat, to be heated until steam is produced.” I rested my head on his chest and purred, “Mmmm, I love when you let the cock enter the throat.” “And I love that you desire a large quantity of liquid to be introduced into the throat.” “Mmmm! I love heating your liquid until it steams into the throat!” I purred. We went on punning like that for several minutes more. I could see his tucked-upward maleness growing longer and thicker under his zipper, and I felt my nipples drilling holes into my blouse. But we were in public, and could only look at each other and daydream. He also shared with me, his childhood hurts. How he was a reader and a writer, not an athlete, and how that got him bullied a lot. How he was overweight and got bullied for that, then lost a lot of weight and became skin and bones, and he was bullied for that, too. He told me about terrible relationships he’d been in, how women couldn’t seem to appreciate his soft gentleness, his complete lack of the phony machismo that so many women seem to want—the very same sweet qualities that drew me to Eric, had caused so many other women to reject him and hurt him. As we talked and got to know each other beyond the sex, it turned out my dad and Eric’s dad had the same first name. Even stranger coincidence, my mother’s maiden name was the same as Eric’s middle name! Those coincidences made me feel even more that we belonged together. Through our emails and face-to-face conversations, I also gradually let him know about me. I was born in a small west-coast farming town. My family, a mix of English and Native American (mostly Cherokee) heritage from the Midwestern plains, had fled westward from the Oklahoma dust bowl in the 1930s. My maternal grandma taught me the old native ways about sex, about how sex was for the woman, and the man had to prove himself sexually worthy to give himself to her. Grandma taught me that I had to own my sexuality, to take charge of it. I did that my own way, and I don’t think this is what grams had in mind. I met this local band in my late teens and loved their unusual and soulful music, I became their groupie. They may have thought it was four guys taking the same girl, and that it was about their pleasure. But I was in charge every moment, seducing them, getting them to do what I wanted to do sexually, and thoroughly and genuinely enjoying all four of them—sometimes separately, sometimes all together, but always I made sure I was in charge and they gave me what I needed and wanted, nothing more, nothing less. Oddly enough, that long-ago band would play a small role in breaking-up Eric and me. All the threads of my life eventually met in my love for Eric, as you shall see later. I told Eric I really appreciated him, because with him, we were completely ourselves, neither trying to dominate each other. It was about love and respect as much as about lust and getting each other’s desires met. I’d never really had that before, and I sensed escort şişli that he hadn’t either, it was wonderful, he was wonderful, and together we were amazing! I also told Eric about how I had let myself be distracted in high school by a boy. My grades were OK, but would have been better had I focused on studies instead of on him. With only a high school diploma and in a small farming town, my career prospects weren’t great. And at our graduation party, the boy my hormones were raging for, got me pregnant. It was my fault really, I guess. I had wanted him so much and had lured him into a bathroom—not that he didn’t go willingly and eagerly! But he was a good man, he didn’t run away scared and leave me to be a single mom, and we got married and started raising our daughter. And a son soon followed. But when both kids got old enough to understand, their father started filling their heads with putting me down all the time. Maybe he felt trapped, getting married and starting a family so young. It was a little scary for me, too, not having much career opportunity as mom of two, and with only a high school education. But I loved my kids and still do, and his attitude just made it all harder for me. Kids have enough hostility toward their parents over not wanting to follow the rules, without one parent turning the kids against the other parent. My first husband was very insecure, and putting me down was his way to feel better about himself. After a few years of this horror show, two kids and a husband always hostile to me, I filed for divorce. And I went back to school to get my B.A. in English. Then I took a job as an advertising writer and proofreader, eventually promoting to chief graphic designer for them. My boss was nice to me, and he got a chuckle out of when I pointed out that he had typed “Best of luck” as “Best of fuck.” I kidded him that I knew what was on his mind! Thankfully, his thoughts were on someone else in the office, not on me, when he typed “luck” as “fuck.” I wouldn’t have been comfortable working where my boss was thinking of me in that way. When I told Eric this story, he told me he had a similar experience. One of his early jobs had also been proofreading, at a typesetting shop, not that different from my work at a graphic arts shop. In those days, Eric told me, the typesetting computers still used floppy disks. But one of the female typesetters, typing promotional material about their shop, had typed floppy dick instead of disk. When they saw her typo, he and others had teased her about what was on her mind. But she had a comeback: “Why would I be thinking about floppy dick when computers have hard dick—DISK! Hard disk!” Eric was never quite certain if she had said hard dick on purpose, or really meant hard disk after all. I wasn’t there, but I think she was trying to tease back as good as she was getting. I think I would have teased back sexually, too, under those same circumstances. “I agree with her, by the way,” I kissed Eric’s mouth. “Hard dick is much more fun to think about than floppy dick!” The graphics design shop eventually became a dinosaur, as personal computers let people and businesses design their own graphics. I then moved closer to my ex-husband, not to be with him, but to see my children, who had moved out of state with him. But my kids didn’t really want to be close to me. I found jobs here and there where I could, but my life was going nowhere fast. So I decided to return to school and earn my Master’s Degree in Education. While in the Masters Program, I met and fell in love with another man who lived in the college town near where my kids and my ex lived. But he wasn’t a classmate as my first husband had been from high school. We got married, and I had two more daughters by him. When I graduated, I tried to use my Masters to get work in education. An opportunity came for me to teach in the Midwest. I didn’t want to go and leave my husband, but he didn’t want to be the one holding me back. It led to a lot of argument and a real strain on our marriage, damned if I stayed and he would feel guilty. Damned if I took the job and moved because he didn’t want to relocate with me. I took my two youngest kids with me and took the job. We were still married, but we were 1,000 miles apart. As a teacher far from home, I was very lonely. And being in my late 30s, I was flattered by the attention of a 21-year-old student, and allowed myself to have an affair with him. Another boy in my class must have noticed how we looked at each other, and gotten jealous or something. Anyway, that other student one day led the class in chanting “Cou-GAR! Coooo—gerrrrr!” The dean walked in and heard that. mecidiyeköy And that ended my career as a teacher. Though my lover was 21 and not under legal age, and our affair had been eagerly entered into by both parties with eyes wide open, schools frown on student-teacher relationships. Especially when the teacher was technically still married! My second husband swooped in and took my kids away, and the court insisted I pay him spousal support (he wasn’t working then) and child support, as I was the one who had cheated on him. Broke and broken, I returned to the west and took work in research. I met and married my third and current husband, a manager at a supermarket near my job, where I frequently shopped. He was 10 years my senior. There was real love there for a while. But the store laid him off, and he refused to look for another job. He blamed me for his job ending, and he began to blame me for every bad thing that had ever happened in his life, even things that happened years before we ever met. I’d been through two divorces and had four children who rarely spoke to me, and who I hardly ever heard from unless they needed something from me—money or moral support for their own bad life decisions. My third (and still current) husband claimed my two failed marriages meant I’m a slut, and he said my kids hated me because I’d been a bad parent to them. An ironic claim, as the worse my third marriage got, the closer my four kids got to me. They would visit me and I would visit them. And we spoke on the phone weekly. Things got so bad between my husband and me, that I took my own bedroom, and we no longer slept together, and barely spoke to each other—which has been our situation for seven years now. I can’t leave him without the danger I’ll be stuck with spousal support payments, as I was in my second divorce, since he doesn’t work but just watches TV and online porn all day. Or goes to see his brother at his cabin up in the mountains and comes back drunk and high. Mercifully, my third husband and I had no children together, because early in our marriage, I had to have my uterus removed due to a potentially cancerous growth that turned out to be benign. I still have periods, though, my body not seeming to realize that a sexual cycle does no good with an inability to get pregnant. You might recall, I was on my period the first time Eric and I made love. Anyway, the research job I’d had through most of my third marriage, eventually ended, and I took another research job, which I had been in for two years when Eric and I met and fell in love, and in lust, while commuting to our jobs on the same bus. In my strained third marriage, I had also decided to go on with my education and get my Ph.D. Not for my career, but as something positive I could do just for me. I was halfway through my doctoral studies when Eric and I met, and he helped me as much as he could, through the second half of my studies. Besides our pasts, Eric and I also discussed my doctoral thesis quite a bit, and Eric would review and make notes on my drafts for me. We are both writers, so his edits, his fresh perspective, were a big help to me. He told me since his family had been going to college for generations, he had been unaware how tough it is to get into college, first generation in your family; he told me he had learned a lot from helping me, reading my research and analysis. For his help on my thesis, and for loving me and letting me love him, hardly a day would go by when I wouldn’t tell him “I appreciate you,” usually accompanied by a kiss on his mouth …. and when I could, a kiss on his sweet hardness, too. Because the breathtaking beauty that lay beneath his trousers was another thing I truly appreciated and adored about him! And a “big” (pun intended) reason why I still miss him, three years after we had to split up. Eric would show me drafts of the books he was writing; he had three books in progress at that time, on top of about 20 he had already published. He had a way of writing history that drew you into the characters and what they were doing, and of rooting for them to succeed in their business and inventive endeavors. He didn’t write about famous people, he wrote of obscure historical characters who nevertheless accomplished much for themselves ,and for the industries or political movements or artistic and musical styles they helped create. Another thing we discussed in person and in email included when my boss told me they were doing some belt tightening. And although I’d done a great job on research for them for two years, and had made a great presentation out of state for them (the business trip that led to the first sex between Eric and me, on the day I returned), they were going to have to let me go. But they would all give me glowing recommendations. Eric joked that his recommendation would get me a very different sort of job. But he did say he would recommend me based on his having read my doctoral thesis notes and drafts.

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