Sandy
I suppose I'd be considered the "dirty old man" about whom you'd warn your pubescent daughters. And in some ways, I guess I'd fit the profile. Mid-60s, goatee and thinning salt-and-pepper hair, widowed, living alone in Blanksville, a smallish central California town, quite near not one, but two high schools.
Except, I have no bad intentions at all. The last thing I'd ever do is harm a young woman in any way. I simply love and cherish them too much -- all of them. I'm Trevor Sandifer, expectedly -- and very early-on -- nicknamed "Sandy."
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Let me back up. I was married to the love of my life, Elizabeth ("Beth") for 38 years, until she passed away four years ago. All those years, by day I was a professional manager, working in various offices in the larger cities on the coast, while by night and at any other time we could manage, Beth and I had a wonderful life, including and especially in the bedroom.
We had only one child, a daughter, Rachel, who throughout her entire life has been the apple of my eye. Both she and her mother taught me everything I know, quite a lot if I do say so, about appreciating women and all their wonders, and I've taken all their lessons to heart. Rachel is my only relative in the area, works as the Director of Counseling Services for the local school system, and is my confidant in every important way. Her relevance to my story will soon enough become apparent to you.
In some ways, my wife Beth and I were ahead of our time. Although I was always the main breadwinner, we were equals in every way that anyone could observe. We understood one another in everything, and completed one another in myriad ways, so many that I couldn't begin to do justice to them all with the written word. We always believed we were truly meant for one another.
In the bedroom, however, our roles were different. Early on, even before we were married as I recall, it was apparent that Beth wanted to play the submissive in our sex life -- indeed she craved doing so. Something in her upbringing made her extremely comfortable in that role. To her, sex was a total escape, for a brief time at least, from all the responsibilities of everyday life, and the bedroom was the place in which she willingly gave up all responsibility for what took place, and in which she was truly able to just go with the flow, react, and enjoy.
Far from me having to figure this out over the years, Beth made this unique kink of hers clear to me early on. Put simply, behind closed doors I was Beth's "Daddy," and she was my "babygirl," for our entire life together. I got off big-time on being a dominant, gaining proficiency at directing her bedroom activities, taking care of her every desire, and providing loving structure and discipline, and for her every need sexually, and she got off equally big on allowing me to do so with her. Our sex life was one big role-play and a total joy, and we each had the utmost respect and appreciation for the role the other played within that part of our relationship.
Given this background, one can imagine how devastating Beth's diagnosis, at age 59, of terminal cancer, and her death barely a year later, was for Rachel, and especially for me. For about a year, I went through the motions of work and life the best I could, as I tried to process the loss of my everything, as well as to figure out what to do next. One fact became blindingly obvious to me: my wonderful life with Beth had helped me insulate myself from the full effects of my less-than-desirable work situation, particularly in the last few years, as I came to increasingly regard my job as a succession of petty political battles, of no importance to me, and with which I no longer had the interest or inclination to engage.