Today was a pretty nice round of golf. I made a few bucks, although it probably wasn't enough to cover the beer we drank after the round. One of the rules in my regular foursome is that the winner buys the first round of beer in the 19
th
hole. Nonetheless, it was an outstanding afternoon. I played well (shot three strokes under my 10 stroke handicap), the weather was beautiful, I was with good friends, and now I was on the back deck of my home in Walnut Creek having a steak I had just grilled up for myself and a glass or two (or maybe three) of a good cabernet.
Well okay, the house still technically belongs to my mother, but she doesn't want to live here since Dad passed away. She lives with her old friend and lover, Lisa, in Lisa's big house in North Berkeley. Yeah, it's the one I told you about with the Crow's Nest and the locomotive bell to ring when you climax. And yes, Lisa was my lover at one time too, but that doesn't seem to be a problem for any of us. They are both coming out here for dinner tomorrow. I'm going to prove to them that I have been learning to cook since my last divorce. The menu is grilled leg of lamb and ratatouille. Lisa is bringing the wine. She has a better cellar than me. My most recent wife actually demanded half the cellar in the divorce.
I'm still a little amazed at my mother's relationship with Lisa. Yes, I know that they and Mrs. E were lesbian lovers back in 1969. The three of them, along with my father lived in the big house on Euclid Street in Berkeley. But that was in 1969, and all the time I was growing up, or at least as much of it as I could remember, Mom was a classic stay at home mom happily married to Dad, so to now have her living with Lisa, one of my former lovers, in Berkeley . . . yeah that was more than a little bit of a change. Not that I object mind you. Mom's an adult, and if she loves Lisa, especially now that my Dad has passed, it's fine with me.
I chuckled as I set my wine glass down on the table next to my Adirondack chair. Having my mom living in the Berkeley house had some advantages. She and Lisa had made it clear that if I wanted to use the house when they were away (they traveled a fair bit) it was fine with them. Lisa had even told me that since I was sort of family, I could use the Crow's Nest and let my lovers ring the old locomotive bell when they climaxed.
That had come in handy not too long ago:
I was recently invited to a wedding. I never turn down an invitation to a wedding. They are just about the most pleasant and joyous events human beings have come up with. Just about everyone is happy at a wedding. Okay, sometimes there is a jilted ex-lover of one of the parties who has a somewhat negative outlook, but they should really just stay away. The game is over and they lost. Why go to the celebration and make yourself miserable. Send a nice gift with a congratulatory note and move on. But that's just my view.
In addition to being a just general good time, there is also always the possibility of "wedding sex." Maybe it's all the booze, but I like to think that the occasion is a part of what puts people in the mood. In any case I long ago lost count of the number of women I wound up having sex with after, or even during, a wedding celebration.
The bride and groom at this wedding were both co-workers of mine from our corporate office in Redwood City—young people just starting out on their career. I had once had a little fling with Charlene, at a sales meeting in Palm Springs, but that was a result of just a little too much booze one night. When I realized how in love she and Brad were, I told her I had enjoyed our moment, but it should stay at that, and she should focus on Brad who I thought would make a fine husband for her. I guess I sort of said "no" that time, but not until I had already had my fling with her and really, who knows whether she would have ever asked me again. So maybe it wasn't a "no," just a recognition of the obvious, but I have always counted it as a no. I have too few.
The wedding was held in Berkeley at a grand old hotel in the hills to the south of the campus. The Claremont is a big old barn of a hotel that sets high enough in the hills to command a stunning view of the Bay. Completed just before World War I, it is a huge multistory wooden structure painted a gleaming white allowing it to be seen even from the City. A perfect place for a wedding, especially if you don't mind what the Fairmont chain (which runs it today) is charging you. Apparently, cost was not a limiting factor for the bride's parents because it was a huge party.
I had to admire these folks. They understood the point of a wedding for most folks is the party that follows the formalities of the wedding. They had taken care of the formalities a week earlier with a very limited gathering at the bride's parent's home before a state judge that was a friend of the family, so there was no sitting around on hard pews in a cavernous old church. Now everyone was invited to gather at the Claremont for a celebration of the nuptials. The bride and groom made an appearance before the assembled party goers in the customary wedding garb (Charlene's dress was gorgeous, as was she), requisite toasts were made, champagne having been previously distributed to all, and then the band begin to play—first a dance for the bride and groom and then one for the father of the bride and Charlene. By the time the wedding party reappeared in more casual clothes the party was in full swing. I was having a grand time finding a nearly unlimited number of women to dance with. I didn't know hardly any of them, but what the hell, we were all having a great time.
About mid-way through the evening, I was taking a short break and I found myself sitting at a table sharing a bit of champagne with the bride. I was telling her what a lovely wedding it was when she suddenly got serious. She looked around to make sure we weren't being overheard, and then she said, "Andrew, there is something we have to talk about."
"Okay."
"Remember our night in Palm Springs?"
"Of course. It was lovely."
"Yes, it was. . . . but I've never told Brad about it."
"Probably wise," I said.
"But, . . . She paused and bit her lower lip. "You haven't told him . . . have you?"
"No, of course not. Charlene, you need to understand I'm not the kind of man who talks about the women he has known. I just don't do it."
"Good." She looked relieved. Then she furrowed her brow a bit. "But there is one other thing. I might have said something to a couple of my girlfriends. We got a little drunk at my bachelorette party and we were playing truth or dare and . . ."
"Say no more," I interrupted. "I have had three divorces and it's common knowledge amongst those few people who care that I have a hard time saying no to women who want to make love with me. My reputation is long past saving and I don't worry about it."
"Oh, good." She smiled. "Oh wait. That doesn't sound right. I'm sure your reputation is fine. I mean . . . "
I interrupted her with a laugh. "Don't worry about it."
She rose from the table saying she needed to go find her new husband. Then, almost as an afterthought. She said, "Ah . . . one more thing. I might have said something to my Mother about Palm Springs."
"Is she going to come after me with a gun or send your father to do the job?" I wasn't joking. I have a paranoia about spouses, boyfriends, fathers, brothers, and even lesbian lovers armed with a weapon.
This made Charlene laugh. "Hardly. Daddy wouldn't hurt a fly. And Mommy, well she and Daddy have been estranged for years now and Mommy plays the field a bit like you. In fact, a lot like you. I don't think she approves of monogamy. So don't be surprised if she comes looking for you, but it won't be with a gun." Charlene leaned down and whispered in my ear, "I told her how big your dick is."
"I see," I said. "And your girlfriends also?"
"Yes," she said with a devilish smile.
"Well it's nice to be prepared."
She laughed and walked away in search of her husband.
As she walked away, I chuckled to myself. It sounded like I had gotten a number of references.
Normally I leave events like weddings a little on the early side, but for some reason I tarried until the party was all but wound down. I was sitting at a table on a porch outside the ballroom enjoying my first hard liquor drink of the evening (Scotch, straight up) along with a stunning view of the lights of San Francisco. I pulled a cigar from my breast pocket and rolled it in my fingers as I wondered if l could get away with smoking it here. "Probably not," I said aloud.
A seductively low woman's voice from behind me responded, "Not a chance. It's a shame though. It looks like a good cigar."
I turned and looked. The speaker was a tall willowy blonde in her forties, as best I could guess, wearing an expensive looking sea foam green dress that accentuated her ample bosom and stopped an inch or two short of her knees.
"Do you smoke," I asked.
"No, not cigars or any other kind of tobacco product. My husband does and unlike most wives, I actually enjoy the smell of them. I believe you're Andrew?"
"Yes. Have we met?"
