I Am Jacks Life Ch 00 01

Author's note and acknowledgements

This story has sat on my hard drive for four years now.

I wrote it, all twenty chapters and 95,000 words of it in eight days of a frenzied, near trance-like state, sitting on my couch with my wife's laptop. She would occasionally have to remind me to eat.

When the dust settled, and I looked up, I realized a couple of things: one, I had just written a fucking novel in a week, whoa. Two, it seemed to be pretty damn good, double whoa. And three, what the hell was I going to do with it?

I tried editing it, I even enlisted the help of a Lit-Editor, who was invaluable for early editing, and confirming it was in fact, pretty good, or readable at least. I spent several months then, editing, unashamedly forcing it on writer friends to read, regular friends to read, and total strangers on writer boards. Everyone had different opinions of course, as people do, but all of them seemed to think it was pretty good, and I should probably try to do something with it.

So I spent another year trying to sell it.

Well nothing happened.

And I can't blame them, agents and publishers. It's kind of a niche story, hard to market. It's got too much sex for a coming age story, too much teenage drama for adult fiction, and not a single word about vampires or bondage to make it work as erotic fiction.

So it's sat on my hard drive for four years. I'll occasionally open it up, tinker with a line, or try to figure out how to re-work it into something more marketable. I always end up wasting a weekend trying to figure out how to change it, without losing the essence of the thing which I, and several others, feel is, "pretty good."

So fuck it. Here you go Literotica. I just want people to read it. I want people to get to know Jack the way I did. Writing his life made me feel like I was a part of it. He's a pretty good guy, I wish I knew him in real life.

So NEXT, some disclaimers.

This is a coming of age story. Which means first it starts out when the characters are too young to have sex (on literotica.) So there's no sex for a couple chapters. I hope that's okay. Second, this is a novel length story, including the prologue and epilogue, there are twenty-one chapters in all. Some are longer than others, and there is not a sex scene in every one. (Though some have more than one.) More importantly, sex is a thing that happens, it's not written to be titillating, but rather just as events in Jack's life.

So there you go. It's a story with sex in it, not a story about sex. I think it's pretty good anyway.

So here you go, enjoy.

*****

PROLOGUE

Sunlight woke me.

Warmth spread across my face and golden red light flooded through my closed eyes. I rolled away from the intrusive, bothersome light; pressing my face into the naked back of my wife. I inhaled deep through my nostrils. She smelled deliciously like her. Slightly sweaty, with under tones of musk and sex and yesterday's perfume.

My friends, there is no scent on earth like that of your lover the morning after.

I flopped my arm around her waist. She stirred and nuzzled against me.

We lay like this for a few more minutes. The sun rising, the heat of it falling across our exposed skin. We lay there, coupled together, and the rest of the world fell away for a few more moments of not-quite sleep. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew the rest of the world was rising with the sun; outside our bedroom children were waking, pets were getting into their food bags, the paper was soaking in the dewy grass, commutes were starting, and school buses warmed up. The work day itself rose from its own slumber and hit the button on the eternal coffee maker. The day was stirring. I lay against the naked flesh of my wife, my lover, my partner, my best friend forever, and blissfully willed myself ignorant of it all. I lived in her scent and the sticky feeling of her perspiring skin against mine.

This was all of the world I wanted, the whole of my deepest desires made flesh and bone.

"You're hot," she moaned, her voice doing that cute little whiny nasally thing it does when she's sleepy I find so irresistibly cute.

"Mmmm, so are you lover," I responded amorously, once again kissing her spine and moving my hand against her hip suggestively.

She pushed my hand away with something between irritation and playfulness and said, "You're sweating all over me; gross." She giggled sleepily, though. My wife is in her mid-thirties, and she still giggles like a school-girl when we flirt.

I kissed up her spine again and planted another one moving up to the back of her neck. She sighed with smug pleasure.

Hot damn, I was going to get lucky this morning.

Abruptly, the door opened, and a six-year-old girl blurted out, "Mommy, Miss Mittens is getting into her food bag."

Both my wife and I moved in unison to cover ourselves.

So much for morning sex. Welcome back to the world, Jack.

"Honey, you know you're supposed to knock before opening Mommy and Daddy's door," my wife said. Mom voice, not giggly school girl. Sigh. Ah well.

"But Miss Mittens isn't su-

Posed

to be in her food bag!" our daughter said as if this violation of the house rules validated another breach of conduct.

"I know, but you still need to knock sweetie," I said, propping myself up on my elbow.

"Da-Ad!" she replied. Clearly we were not understanding the egregiousness of the food bag violation.

"I'll take care of it. Now close the door, honey, so mommy and daddy can get dressed," I said. Dad voice. Sigh, the moment was definitely gone.

That appeared to satisfy her and she backpedaled, pulling the door closed behind her with a harder than normal slam.

My wife rolled over and looked up at me. The morning light caught her eyes. There was a slight lock of hair stuck to her forehead with a light sheen of sweat. Her lips were pouty and full of mock disappointment. How the fuck can this woman be so damn cute, sexy, and make me grin like a stupid idiot every time I see her? I put my arm around her and looked down at her body which disappeared beneath white sheets. My cock stirred, still not convinced the moment could not be recovered. I kissed that lovely spot between her breasts and neck and started working my way up.

"I think Miss Mittens deserves a chance for the meal she has rightfully earned don't you?" I said between kisses, "We should give her a few minutes to enjoy the fruits of her labors."

My wife giggled again. School girl back, yay! She ran her fingers up my arms and tilted her neck back for my lips to explore further.

I did.

We were just finding each other's lips and beginning to get with some serious making out and heavy petting when a crash came from somewhere downstairs.

"Miss MIT-ENS!" cried a six year old.

My wife and I looked at each other and sighed. Yup. Moment toasted.

We rolled out of bed and retrieved our clothing.

She must have sensed my leer and threw me a smirking glare over her shoulder. She tossed my boxers at me with a flip. "Later, Don Juan. Go fix your children breakfast."

"Yes dear," I replied with a smirk of my own.

"And get the cat out of the food bag please, before she barfs it all over the floor," she added as I pulled my shirt over my head. She disappeared into our bathroom.

There is nothing like the word "barf" to kill your amorous intentions. Sighing, I went downstairs to face the day.

Judging from the sounds of cat hurcking, my day was starting with cat barf, instead of sex with the most amazing woman imaginable.

Sometimes that's just life.

Thirty minutes later found me dishing silver-dollar pancakes onto the plates of our previously met six year old, Amber, and our four year old, Kimmy. Kimmy clapped with approval and gave a little cheer. Girl loves my pancakes, what can I say?

"Yay pancakes!" she exclaimed.

"Yay pancakes!" I echoed, because... hey, pancakes.

Footsteps stomped down the stairs accompanied by bickering voices. Into view came my wife pushing my eldest daughter in front of her. My wife's face was frowning, though her eyes said laughter. The rest of her expression was trying to hold onto some sort of stern disapproval.

It didn't take much to see why. Liz had attempted to put make up on.

Liz is eleven (and a half), and apparently never attempted to apply make-up before. She looked like some sort of clown-hooker. Red lipstick was caked on and

mostly

in the lines. Blush was painted in like she was auditioning for the part of a French madam in a burlesque show. Eyeliner and mascara formed black outlines, thick around her eyes, which were framed with at least two inches of emerald green gemstone eye shadow. I winced a little; my wife always complained about the cost of that stuff.

"Guess who decided she was old enough to get into my make-up kit?" my wife demanded.

I tried, with varying degrees of success to hide my smile, swallow any laughter, and attempt to find the stern father-face the situation required.

"Liz, we talked about this. No makeup until thirteen," I somehow managed to get out while keeping a straight face.

"Dad! That's not fair, other girls in my class get to wear it!" she nasalized, more than said. Only a pre-teen can get that tone, I think. It was fingernails on chalkboard to most parents, my wife included.

"Oh, none of that young lady! You know better. Plus, that's my good make up! For going out, not for everyday use, and certainly not for eleven year old little girls!" said my wife, pushing Liz forward a little toward the bathroom.

My wife had apparently found her mom voice again.

I cringed and attempted to intervene before this escalated. Liz had a way of getting under my wife's skin in a hurry.

"Honey, that make up belongs to your mother. Also..." I said. I was just about to go into the 'jump off a bridge' lecture that had been so ineffectual on me as a kid, but somehow I felt would hit home with my eleven year old; when words I had been dreading for a long time spewed forth into the kitchen.

"It's not like she's even my real mother!" Liz spat out, with the voice only those in the venomous onset of puberty can muster.

My skin froze against my flesh and my hairs stood on end.

I glanced at my wife and she had lost all of her color, leaving her pallid and sick-looking. It was quickly replaced with an angry flush however.

I stepped up before she could say something which would make both of them feel worse.

"Liz," I said in a quiet voice that brooked no discussion, "go up to your room. Stop at the bathroom and wash your face off first, but then go to your room and don't come out."

"Fine!" she shouted, somewhat surprisingly offering no argument. She turned and ran past my wife and stomped her way up the stairs.

I was still holding the pan with the pancakes and I turned to set it back on the stove with a defeated sigh. I wasn't ready for this yet. I thought I had a few more years. I needed a few more years.

My other daughters were quiet. My wife straightened her shoulders and turned to follow Liz up.

"Babe," I said, "Give it a minute, I'll handle it."

She turned and gave me a cold look, "I was going to our room, Jack, is that alright?" she bit my name off. No pet name. I was in as much trouble as Liz.

"I've got to get ready for work," she continued.

"Right, fine, sorry," I said, trying to squeeze apology into my tone as well.

She turned and walked upstairs

There was a few moments of awkward silence. Then the part of this I had really dreaded came up.

"Daddy... what did Lizzy mean when she said Mommy wasn't her real mom?"

It was Amber, asking with the sort of quavering innocence I wanted to preserve for as many years as possible.

"Liz is just upset honey, she didn't mean it."

"So, she was lying?"

I sighed and gripped the edges of the sink. Years. I was supposed to have years. Maybe forever, if my secret wish be told. I never wanted this conversation. Lie now and confess later? That had its own problems. Try to explain the truth now? Without the full context of the story, the truth sounded horrible. There was no way a six year old could understand the full context. Hell, I'm thirty-six. I lived it, and I'm not sure I understood the full context.

"No, she wasn't lying sweetie. But her real mom is gone."

Even after nine years, thinking about that night made my throat tighten and my chest constrict like I was drowning.

"Oh." A pause. Now the next question, Amber is way too damn smart. Takes after her mother. "Are you her Daddy?"

Sigh. Context, context was everything.

"Yes I am."

"So you were married to her Mom before you met mommy?"

"No, and that's enough sweetie, finish your pancakes."

Context.

Context is everything.

She had one more question though.

"I thought you said you and Mommy met in school?"

"We did, we met when we were just a little older than Liz is now. We were just kids. Now. Eat your pancakes."

I headed upstairs. Wife first.

I opened the door to our bedroom. She was sitting on the bed, crying. Or at least, trying not to.

I close the door behind me softly.

"She didn't mean it baby," I said.

"Oh yes she did. It's been coming for a while, since we told her two years ago," my wife said, sniffling roughly and rubbing her face with her hands. She always hated it when she cried. "The way she's been acting toward me all year? I've been waiting for this."

I came over to sit down next to her, but she got up and walked away. I sighed.

"I'll talk to her," I said. It sounded lame. I had no idea what to say and we both knew it.

"And say what? Not to be mean?"

"That's a good start. She's eleven, she blurted out the first mean thing she could think of. Not a great habit to have."

"Jack, I'm trying to tell you, she's been acting strange for the past few months. Refusing to hold my hand, ignoring me when I ask her to do something..."

"She's a pre-teen, you think you're the first mother of a prepubescent child who started asserting their independence."

"This is different."

"Alright. I'll talk to her. I have no idea what I'll say. But I'll talk to her."

"For all the good it will do you," my wife sighed, "I can already see her mother in her."

"That's not all bad." I said softly.

That was apparently exactly the wrong thing to say.

My wife walked to the bathroom. In a cold voice she said, "Get the girls ready, I'll drop them off on my way to work."

Sigh. This was a different voice. Amazing how so many things can be expressed by which voice you use. Mom voice. School girl voice. Cold-hearted bitch queen. All voices my wife had mastered. I got up and went to get Kim and Amber ready for school.

Twenty minutes later, my four girls were piling into the SUV in our driveway. I watched from the front window. Liz and my wife were not speaking, but Liz was helping with Amber's car seat, as was her job in the morning. My wife buckled little Kimmy in without looking up at Liz, but still managing to check her work. They got in and drove off. To school, to work; the four most important women in my life rolled down the street.

Context is everything friends. For stories. For relationships. For life.

I needed Liz to understand the context of her birth, but eleven was far too young to hear the tale. Besides, the full context began over twenty years ago, with four girls not much older than her. My entire life pretty much. I needed her to understand the context of my life, so she would be able to make sense of hers. It - like most life stories, was full of heartache, confusion, elation, victories and defeats, discovery, and failure. Love and sex, and the distinctions between the two. Casual friendship and the kind of bond that carries you through the worst of tragedies. How can you explain relationships in the context of these things that would make sense to another adult, let alone an eleven year old?

God the things I wish I'd known when I was fifteen.

CHAPTER ONE

I was fifteen when I finally figured out it was easier to get girls to talk to you if you did their homework for them. Oh, at the time I'd have told you I was helping them with their work, but the reality was I would do the work, and in return they'd let me ogle them while they sat around and gossiped.

It wasn't a bad trade for me really. I was lucky enough to have the brains and attitude required to make school easy for me. Believe me, you need both. I knew plenty of kids just as smart as me who didn't have the attitude to go with it, which made school a struggle. Me, I never minded the homework, or the studying, so school was easy for me. As a result, by the end of my freshman year I was well on my way to a perfect GPA. Trust me when I say luck had as much to do with it as anything. On the other hand, I was not fortunate to also be blessed with the natural sense of style and athleticism that created the kind of casual good looks which were far more valuable in the high school social hierarchy.

Also I was completely hopeless when it came to speaking to the opposite sex.

Oh, I had charisma enough I suppose, looking back with the benefit of twenty years of hind sight. But all the charm in the world is useless if you forget your own name, the name of the person in front of you, and some of the subtle nuances of the English language; like grammar and, you know, words.

Beth changed all that.

The high school I went to posted the GPA of all the students above a 2.0 in the hall outside the administration offices at the end of every semester. Incentive they said, though state sanctioned public shaming was more like it. I suppose the kids whose names didn't make the boards feigned indifference, or sometimes celebrated it.

As I said, I was lucky enough to be good at the whole school thing, so at the end of my freshman year my name was at the top of the list for my class. There were seven of us at the time that still had a 4.0; four girls and three guys. I knew all of them. I guess you figure out pretty quick who your competition for Valedictorian is in four years. Not that I cared really, not at that point. I was still just trying to survive the lunch line and make it through the day without ending up in a dumpster. But you still acknowledge the other kids in your league I guess. I wouldn't say I was friends with any of them except, Tomas Johnston, but Tommy and I had been friends since 4

th

grade, so it hardly counted.

I knew who Beth Jenkins was, though. Oh, she wasn't one of the girls in the 4.0 club, but I knew who she was. Every straight male and secretly bi-curious girl and lesbian knew who Beth was. She was easily the hottest girl in my class. Long brunette hair, slender figure, the most amazing eyes of any living being on the planet; and breasts like...well, she had perfect ones, by any standards. Not too large, not too small. She knew how to dress to show them to their best advantage without being remotely trashy, and still manage to show enough to cause male teachers to lose their train of thought when she'd raise her hand in class.

Yeah, I had the hots for her. So did everyone. They either wanted to fuck her or be her. At least, that's what I often assumed. So when she came up to me after class near the end of term our freshman year and said my name, I naturally assumed she was talking to the other Jack Wallington behind me.

"Jack!" said the most perfect pair of breasts I'd ever seen in my short time on this planet.

I casually glanced behind me to see who this lucky Jack person was.