A great big thank you to Nora Fares and Bebop 3 for inviting me to write in their event. I hope I haven't disappointed them.
This story was inspired by Michael Fitzgerald's story, "Last Man" and George Anderson's continuation piece, "Last Man: Brian's Tale." But I haven't given you links to those stories because this is not a continuation or companion piece. I used the set-up and then went in my own direction with my own characters.
A second thank you to Nora Fares for her proofreading skills.
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The classroom had a few less students in it than usual as it was Friday morning, and I'm sure more than a few of them started their weekend last night at the local bars.
I'd always wondered about the intelligence of the schedule-makers to set an upper level economics course for 8 a.m., particularly if the class met Fridays. Why not set a freshman level econ course for 8 a.m., since those students were under 21, and unless they had a fake ID, they weren't going to be drinking Thursday night. Absenteeism would have been much less for the frosh level class.
But that makes too much sense. In the real world, where I lived, the powers that be apparently prided themselves on not making too much sense. I don't care if it's politics, big business, or a big Midwestern university, once someone becomes a "power that be," he or she must have to check their common sense at the door.
Like a lot of people, I had been one of those kids who used to start my weekends on Thursday nights. I was a party guy supreme. I got OK grades, but never really put any effort into the academics. I learned what I needed to learn, but didn't feel that I needed to impress anybody with my grades. Yeah, I later learned that some recruiters were hooked on that, but, oh well, I'd always proven to my bosses that I was more than qualified by my actual performance on the job.
And then I got into teaching, got my master's and Ph.D. in economics, and wound up teaching our brightest young minds. I had been an associate professor for the past two years, made decent money, had great hours, and life was good. My wife was a mid-level bank executive, having taken off several years while our kids were toddlers, and she went back to work after they were both in school.
My son, Jeremy, is 9, and my daughter, Sandy, is 7.
My 10:00 class was the frosh class, and it was well-attended. It was my favorite class to teach because, at 18, most of those kids were like sponges waiting to absorb knowledge. Also, there were several kids in the class that were not econ majors as most majors required econ as a required frosh class. I really enjoyed getting the basic concepts into journalism majors and history majors, who I'd heard bitch about having to take econ at all.
"All I need to know is how to write, not how to figure out how to spend money," I'd heard more than one journalism major say at the beginning of the semester. Hell, you can't be any kind of a journalist today if you don't understand the basics of economics.
My one afternoon class was also upper level, but since it was at 1, the juniors and seniors actually showed up, although most were hungover. But for this class, these were the best of the best in intelligence, so even hungover, most were probably functioning better in the brain department than most of the regular population. It was a great challenge to teach these kids, especially since I was one of those journalism kids when I started out about a hundred years ago.
There are never any students that come by the office for help on Friday afternoons, so as usual, I left for home at about 3. The kids showed up at about 3:30, and after a few minutes of laughter and screwing around, we started getting Friday night dinner ready. That was our routine, and we enjoyed each other's company as we prepped for my wife's arrival at about 5:30. We usually made a pretty big dinner, and the four of us would celebrate the week that was as a family before the craziness of the weekend started.
Traci walked in just about her usual time. The kids both screeched and ran over to hug her. I hung back, watching and smiling, waiting for my turn. She was wearing a dark blue business suit, nothing special really, but I stopped breathing for just a quick second upon first laying eyes on her. It didn't make a difference what she was wearing, she always got that reaction out of me when I first saw her after a separation. She was just that stunningly beautiful, at least to me. After she kissed and hugged the munchkins, she came to me, and we kissed passionately, as we always did after any kind of time apart.
"Please, you two, get a room," said my son, who always looked clearly uncomfortable when Traci and I showed any kind of physical closeness. Ah, for the innocence of being a 9-year-old.
The same age as me at 35, Traci was a 5-foot-5 bundle of beauty and intelligence. She had long blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and despite having birthed two children, was probably still 36-24-36. She was a regular at our gym and rode her bicycle 20 to 30 miles per week. I was one incredibly lucky man.
And then the world fell in on me.
Since it was the weekend, the kids got to stay up until 10. After they went to bed, Traci and I did some snuggling on the sofa. Within minutes we were both naked, and she was doing the lollipop thing on my dick. I maneuvered us into a 69 and started to return the favor on her delectable pussy. Within minutes she was screaming unintelligibly, trying to muffle her yelling with a pillow from the sofa. Three orgasms in, we had to stop and adjourn to the bedroom so we could at least shut the door.
An hour later we were cuddling together, breathing heavily, both sweating. God how I loved this woman, and how I loved loving her.
"Roger, are you still awake? Roger?"
I was spooned behind Traci, and she could feel my regular breathing, indicating I was either asleep or not far off. I perked up a bit when she spoke.
"I'm awake, Babe. What do you need?"
"Just about the biggest show of love you could ever give me," she answered softly.
Now I was intrigued, and wide awake.
"You know how depressed Karen's been over not being able to have kids with Dave, especially since he's the last male of his bloodline, right," she started.
"You want to talk about this now?" I asked. I was more than a little puzzled.
Karen is Traci's younger sister, three years younger, to be exact. She has been told that unless it's a miracle, she's not having children. Her husband, Dave, a guy I don't like much, has some royal Hungarian blood and thinks he should have some male progeny to continue on his royal self.
"She just goes to work, comes home, and mopes around the house. I've suggested counseling, but she won't do it. It's starting to get really bad.
"Well, I think we've come up with the answer to her depression and Dave's bloodline ending. I'll carry a baby for them!"
I sat up at that point. I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open. I guess we were talking about this.
"Wait ... what?"
"You know she can't produce hardly any viable eggs, and she probably can't carry to term if she could produce eggs. But I can produce eggs, and I've got two kids to prove I can carry to full term. I love my sister dearly, Roger, and for her, I could carry another baby. It would be her baby, hers, and Dave's, but I would carry it for her.
