Sexual Nuclear War

Copyright; Elizabeth Loring, August 11, 2006. All Rights Reserved. (No part of this story may be reproduced for any reason without explicit written permission from the author. Do not remove this copyright statement.)

THE INTRODUCTION

We sat in our swimsuits at the edge of the sofa, my daughter next to her boyfriend, another young man I met that evening sat next to me. My daughter's roommate sat across from us on the other side of the coffee table, in an overstuffed chair. Her date for the evening sat on the chair's arm. I felt out of place, a woman in her early 40s around men half her age. And then there were the two girls; one was my daughter, the other was her best friend and current roommate. It just wasn't my social crowd. Strange music blared from the stereo. I used to like songs loud; not any more. Beethoven and Bach and Mozart are my favorite bands now. The stereo played not a single rendition from the 60s.

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Why was I there? It was part of my "monitoring;" a task given to me by my husband after calling our daughter and being unable to reach her. He worried so. She'd represented to him that she'd be at the library studying for a Chemistry exam all weekend. My daughter wanted to be a physician like her father; a man who was her idol. I was so glad they got along famously.

He couldn't reach her after midnight and became worried. The libraries close at 12AM. To the campus he drove the thirty minutes in twenty. I was unable to warn her of his approach, my reason for not accompanying him was to some how, some way, inform her that the authority of our household was on his way. That real reason I did not tell my husband, feigning instead that keeping tabs on her would destroy trust. I tried to stop him; telling him that she might have stopped at a bar for a drink, or gone out for a late night meal with friends. I thought of even faking I'd reached her on the phone and talk to a dial tone or some kind of periodic ringing, but thought better of it because I knew my husband would want to speak to his only daughter, the truly precious woman in his life.

Nothing worked. The hell-bent man went into his desk in his study where he retrieved an "emergency" key; a key given to him by the apartment complex manager since he paid our daughter's rent. It was the first time I knew of such an alternative way to gain access to my child's apartment. Fear overcame me. I had to reach her. I had no choice but to opt and stay behind.

At 2:12AM the invertible phone call came. I pretended to be awakened, but was actually wide awake, thinking about who else to call, thinking of whom I knew that would know where she was and warn her. I remember that exact time because I remember looking at the clock before picking up the phone and hearing the most angered voice I'd ever heard my husband raise. He was in her apartment. There was no sign of my daughter; our only child no longer referred to as "his daughter" or "our daughter" but "your daughter." I was told that there were indications that she was recently there.

The list began; a drying wet spot in the middle of the bed and the bed sheets wrinkled, showing signs of an impassioned struggle; two opened condom packets complete with the opened cellophane wrappers lying next to them on a night stand; a single condom pack, unopened, lying next to the two already opened; a clear plastic sandwich bag found on the dresser, partially filled with what looked like oregano but contained seeds and tiny twigs; and two long-necked beer bottles with both necks smeared with something that, when dried, flaked. One neck was fully dry; the other had on it a clear lubricating jelly. Those he'd found lying on the carpet, next to the bed, easily within arm reach of someone lying down. I was told there was a faint scent from their bottlenecks, something other than beer. My husband left the aromas and/or odors up to my imagination, but mentioned to me that each scent was from a different body cavity; and one of those scents was definitely feminine in origin.

Thus, when my daughter came through her apartment door, drunk, high, and topless, at a bit before 4AM; wearing a young man's arm draped over her shoulder, the arm's hand covering a single breast while the other male hand she carried in her all too brief swimsuit bottom, her wardrobe selection became of grave consequence in the eyes of my husband. He'd already suspected the worst and now had it confirmed. The shock registered on his face. The young man was kind enough to quickly remove his hands from places men like to touch women and returned my daughter's swimsuit top, hanging around his neck, before taking leave. At least that is what my husband claims. My daughter says that her father threatened the poor boy with severe bodily harm, yelling obscenities at the top of his voice. The truth depends upon whom one wants to believe.

A few days later my grounded and relocated-to-home daughter would admit, when we were alone and my husband was at work, that her father, because of his rage, hadn't seen everything. Being emotionally involved, his vision focused entirely on the man's hands, and failed to note hers. It was fortunate that the man she wore was behind her. It seems her hands were exploring too, but had gotten much further than her first date's; and she was in the process of bringing forth his splendor for all at the doorway to see.

It seems they weren't alone. There were two others males, friends of his whom they happened to run into while taking a late night swim, who stopped dead in their tracks when my husband began to yell. They, too, were swift to depart, but did so by silently ducking around the building's corner and jumping the final ten-feet from the balcony to the grass below.

I made inquiry of the beer bottles. A dreamy look came to my daughter's eyes. I admitted that long-necks had the same effect on me at her age, when inserted into the same two places, either individually or simultaneously; and probably still would if her father was a beer drinker. We laughed, hugged, and began to conspire, both thinking it best if her discipline was turned over to me; my philosophy concerning how to raise a daughter in her late teens being much more lenient and permissive.

That night began my cajoling of my husband. My lofty goal was to get him to turn the reins, he now attached to our daughter, over to me. I was determined to achieve my difficult mission by using all means available. My daughter's maturity, growth, and development as a woman of the 90s were at stake. To that end, and for that noble cause, I declared on my physician husband's body, sexual nuclear war!

Chapter 1 to follow...