Xander and Carla Wilcox

This story is a little different for me. I read other authors for years on this site before I ever wrote my own story to submit. One of those was Matt Moreau. He has a certain stylistic quality to his stories, so much so I consider him to be his own genre. I was fascinated by his use of language and I wanted to try writing a story using that language. I sent him an email asking for permission to do so. He gave me his blessing and only asked that I let him know when it was published.

Once I got the green light, I had to now write a story. This proved to be a conundrum. I like happy endings, most of MM's work is bittersweet at best. After kicking it around in my brain, I came to the conclusion that I couldn't separate MM's themes from the language he used. I struggled with it for a bit, kicked it around with some other writers and readers, then someone

suggested a direction. After immediately rejecting it because it wasn't my idea, I realized there is a benefit to collaboration.

If you like my previous stuff, you may want to walk away now. There's a good chance you'll dislike this story. If you have hated everything I've written... there's also a good chance you'll dislike this story.

This is my attempt at throwing a few things into the blender. A lot of MM with a bit of Piper. For those who follow me that have never read a MM story, you may want to read a few before reading this. For the narrow sliver in the Venn Diagram that read both, this story is for you. For those that have no idea about what I'm talking about and just stumbled onto this, I hope it holds up under its own terms.

"Fuck me Frankie, ram that sweet cock inside my pussy."

"He can't do this for you can he?"

"Hell no, he can't. His dick can't possibly satisfy a woman like you do. Not even."

"You need the real deal, don't you?"

"I need it. I can barely tolerate his cock inside me. Your cock is what a woman wants, Frankie."

"I own this pussy. Say it. Say it!"

"You own my pussy, Frankie. Frankie! FRANKIE!"

***

That's an empowering bit of dialogue if you happen to be named Frankie. I'm named Xander and I am the other person referred to in less than flattering terms about an unflattering part of my anatomy I was just born with. God or nature has a sense of humor; I truly believe that, and I'm skeptical by nature. I don't even believe my own story, and I lived it.

I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I was also born with a silver collar around my neck. Both came from the same place. I'm the illegitimate son of Edward Wilcox. That's Edward Wilcox, son of Reginald Wilcox. The Wilcox males in this country have been begetting other Wilcox children almost since the British decided America was important.

As the family legend goes, Reginald Wilcox came to America with only a hope and a dream. From there he founded a dynasty. When the Revolutionary War came, the Wilcox family was one of the first to answer the call to arms. Reginald Wilcox won't show up in the history books, he wasn't an important figure to the historians.

He is celebrated in our family though. Hell, he's considered our founder. Our family history begins with him because his past before he immigrated was never recorded. For all anybody knew, he could have been an adventurer or a convict. Nobody in the family knows anything beyond what he told his children. He didn't write anything, we all assumed he was as illiterate as so many were at that time. We did accept the oral history as gospel though.

It's a noble family history but I had no part of it. I was the son of a whore. I was a "bastard" in the strictly technical definition of the word. Edward, or more commonly "Big Eddie," had sired me with a woman who wasn't ever spoken of. I didn't even know her name. I was always told it didn't matter. I was told that by my only grandfather, mostly.

That should be a conversation that was had when a boy was a teen. Not my life though. As a child I never did not know I was not a member of the Wilcox family. I also did. Grandpa Archibald Wilcox was a force of nature. He took a family fortune and made it even bigger. He had politicians of both parties in his pocket with his generous donations, mostly under the table. He liked Republican tax policy nationally, but was known for photo ops in the city with local Democrats. As he liked to say, you can buy Democrats so much cheaper.

Still, he wasn't all about money, far from it. He'd inherited the family business and, as he saw it, the entire extended family. Family history and legacy was important to him. Grandpa told me my personal history in a way that was empowering but also threatening.

He told me time and again, "You're a Wilcox. Your father made mistakes when he was young. Hell, I know he did. I beat his ass to a pulp to try to get the stupid out of him. Some of it took, some of it didn't. If all of it took you wouldn't have been born. You were though. You never doubt you are a Wilcox."

I didn't spend a lot of time with him. I do remember one of the few times in his home I went to brush my teeth and there was hardly any toothpaste left in the tube. After I brushed my teeth I told Grandpa he was out of toothpaste. He took me to the bathroom and squeezed out what was left. It was enough for three or four brushes, by my reckoning.

"Xander, I always use every bit of toothpaste and take the time to squeeze on the tube to make sure I do. I can afford to get a new one but I don't until the last one is empty. That's a symbol Xander, you make a purchase you need to squeeze out the maximum value. This family is rich, you and my son and I grew up wealthy. Never take it for granted, always appreciate it and wrest the last vestiges you can from something of value."

As an eight-year old I thought that he was crazy. We had money so why go through all the trouble to squeeze a tube of toothpaste? I had no idea what a metaphor was, but I did remember the conversation. When I remembered, I laughed. It was funny really. Grandpa was so rich and so cheap at the same time. Go figure.

My half-brother Cyrus was 10 years older than me. Our age difference was too far apart for sibling rivalry. If anything, Cyrus was the man I most admired. He was good looking, smart, and seemed to love mentoring me. He also had a chip on his shoulder concerning any rumors about my birth. I'm not sure if he was defending me or just looking for a fight. He loved saying any time someone said anything that might be considered disparaging." This is

my

little brother. Are you certain you don't want to rephrase that?"

Everyone did rephrase the few times it happened, and that quickly. It didn't happen at all after a certain point. Cyrus also shared his comic books with me. He'd out grown them, but he didn't just pass them on. We'd discuss the stories that he liked when he was my age. I found I liked the same stories he did, although we didn't talk to each other for a week when I said I thought Miles Morales was my favorite Spider-man and not Peter Parker.

Jessica "Mom" Wilcox, only birthed one kid. Yes, I called her "Mom," as she's the only mother I ever knew and she acted as such. She had complications during birth, so her baby factory was closed after Cyrus, as I learned after my childhood. Dad had at least two, I'm living testament to that. I wasn't even supposed to be in this family. Dad certainly didn't plan for me or my care, it was Grandpa Wilcox who made my father own up to his responsibilities.

Mom never let on during childhood I wasn't hers. She was certainly a better parent than Big Eddie, but she was more than that. She treated me like her son while he treated me like something to be tolerated. Imagine, the woman my actual father had cheated on loved me. She made me feel more loved than my biological parent.

As a boy she always called me "her son." When I learned the truth, she told me, "You are my son in every way. Don't you ever think otherwise. I may not have been the egg donor but you are my boy and you will always be my boy." It meant a lot to me to hear that, even though when I heard it, I didn't know what an "egg" was. I was eight. I just never understood then why Mom embraced me but Big Eddie kept me at arm's length.

The way I heard the story later in life, was Grandpa Wilcox told dad, "You made a Wilcox, you made a decision for life." I'm sure that story is true. It's a thing we say, like a mantra in our family. I just am the only child that it seemed to apply to that wasn't born in wedlock. My birth was a family scandal, albeit one that was accepted through Archibald's force of will. The only grandpa I knew got his way every time. The rest of the family deferred to his wishes, even after he passed. His presence was so powerful it seemed no one wanted to anger his ghost. Likely it was the law firm that had been paid to see his desires continue to be executed that was also a factor, but I do think fear of a possible haunting was a real consideration.

Grandpa Wilcox had left his grandchildren 30 million dollars each. There were four of those. Two came from Big Eddie's older brother Jefferson, in the way of his two daughters, and the other two were me and Cyrus. The way Grandpa Archie sussed the situation, I was an equal grandchild. The caveat was that the beneficiaries would receive their inheritance when they turned 30. Symmetry I suppose. 30 at 30.

It's not what he gave in his will, it's the conditions and reasoning that hit me. He was always a man of words and he left plenty of them in his will. I paid attention to the part that concerned me the most. What he said was he wanted his grands to make their own way without having money to spoil them. He also wanted his grands to enjoy life, knowing their future was secure.

I respected that a lot. I would get the largess that allowed me to have experiences which I suspected my grandfather couldn't fully enjoy. That was a gift as much as the money. I was a bastard and only had access to a better life because of my last name. I didn't know what I could do on my own. I did know early that I wanted a woman to love me not knowing I was rich. I sure didn't earn it and didn't want to claim any kind of credit.

I went to a prep school where family name, looks and potential were important. I failed by most of those metrics. I had the name but even that came with baggage. Everyone knew my family was one of the top five wealthiest of those who had children attending. There was even a Wilcox Library secured by a very large donation.

The boys all despised me, while giving me fake smiles and inviting me to things. They never wanted to hang out as friends. They just wanted to be sure I knew I was welcome at whatever party the kids were throwing. I knew I wasn't though, it was only because the inviter could tell his parents he'd done his damned best to try to get the Wilcox kid there.

The girls were the same, but different if you take my meaning. I didn't get attention and I didn't get indifference. It was like I was someone that needed to be treated cordially even if there was no interest. Girls in high school aren't interested in future prospects. They're interested in what teenage girls are interested in. That wasn't me. It's only in college when women consider getting their MRS degree.

It wasn't original but it didn't need to be. I had the same height as my father but lacked a lot of his bulk. No one was likely to refer to me as "Big Xander" in my lifetime. Needless to say, I got no action of any kind as a high school student. I didn't even go to prom. No way I was asking a girl just to hear her say, "No."

College was different. I didn't go Ivy League although it was a possibility. I could have gotten in as a legacy student. I didn't want that. I didn't have what it took to get there and I didn't want my quasi-family connection to be my reason I was accepted. I went to a state university. It was easier there to hide my family name and just attend classes and remove myself from the social scene.

I preferred spending my time off campus. When I wasn't studying I liked going to a bar off the beaten path and dressing down. I'd know who wanted to talk to me for me. Depressingly not many, but a few did. None of them were women though. I had a lot of conversations with people telling me about themselves and why popular music was bad. I had conversations about how the Cubs were doing. It was never about the White Sox. It wasn't that kind of joint. There

were

some standards in place after all, despite it being a mixed clientele.

My second home was a place called "The Watering Hole" but it was more commonly referred to as just "The Hole." The Hole was a blue-collar bar, but it was also a place where the hipsters went to feel like they were connecting to... hip things I suppose, but really they went for cheap beer as I surmised it. As for me, I felt uncomfortable going to places where women were looking for a catch. I didn't want anyone to like me for wealth. I wanted someone that would love me for me. At that time, I would have settled for like. It was at least a good starting point.

I always went by myself. I didn't really have friends. That part was my fault because I was shy. I preferred the company of people not in my peer group because I never really felt I belonged. So I would hang out with the regulars. They were mostly men, and the bartenders were the ones who knew me best. I tipped well, extremely well actually. I liked to think it made up a bit for the non-tipping hipsters ordering only one-dollar PBRs or Stags. It was nice to pretend my favorite bartender, George, actually considered me a friend. I'd like to think he did, but when money is concerned, you never really know. He did always seem happy to see me and made a point of acknowledging me when I entered. That meant something.

This was a regular routine until, as Bogie would say, the night that she walked in. All eyes were on her, including mine for a while. It was rare to see an attractive woman come in without her partner. Those who did were what used to be known as "ladies of the evening." I liked that term. Preferred it to the names "prostitutes" or "whores" currently in use. These days the classy term is "escorts," but The Hole was not a classy place.

That brings me to my wife Carla Wilcox, nee Ruggiero. We sure weren't childhood sweethearts or anything. Had we grown up together, I'm sure she never would have given me the time of day. I was socially awkward, as you may have sussed. I was tall and skinny and people called me "String Bean. It later got shortened to "Bean."

Carla was a beauty. At the time of this telling, she still is. She had jet black hair with waves. Every time she moved her head her hair seemed alive and always caught the light. It shimmered. She was about five foot six. She had a tattoo of a shamrock on her right breast. It caught my eye all right. It was the only tattoo I could see at that time, the way she was dressed and all. She had another one even more striking that I didn't find until a bit later.

I was talking to George when she made her entrance. Even above the music playing you could hear voices adjusting to the volume. They suddenly stopped one after another while Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" was playing. Not that her backside was overly large, it just was noticeable with what she was wearing. It was a dress that hugged every curve of her body. The voices started again as one of the hard hats shouted, "Welcome!" The hipsters naturally pretended to be aloof, but the direction of their glances told a different story, oh yeah.

I did stop looking at her. She sure had plenty of attention and I knew she wouldn't consider me her type. Looking at her any longer would only be like prolonging suffering when she inevitably made her choice to leave with someone else or alone. So I was completely surprised when I was talking to the bartender and heard a voice say, "Would you like to dance? Whaddya say?"

"Huh?"

I was the only one sitting at the bar at that moment. I turned around and found my eyes looking directly at that shamrock. It did take a full second to make eye contact. I'm sure that didn't go unnoticed. Now I was in a quandary, indeed I was. I was looking at the face of the most attractive woman that had ever graced this place since I started coming here on the regular. Truth be told, one of the most attractive women I'd ever seen in my life.

I can't dance. I have two left feet. I knew I'd make a fool of myself on the dance floor. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to dance with her but I'd be a laughing stock. I knew this would be blowing my chance with her if I didn't dance, but better than being laughed at. I said, "I don't like to dance." I was certain I'd never see her again.

"We could just sway on the dance floor. All you need to do is hold me. If you want."

I did want. I wanted it more than anything I'd ever wanted before. I figured I could do at least that. So we hit the dance floor and just held each other and swayed. We swayed to the next song playing which thankfully was Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer." Not exactly a song to sway to, but it didn't require dancing either and wasn't awkward lyrics wise. I think I'd have spontaneously combusted if it had Prince's "Pussy Control."

I don't think either of us ever even moved our feet. It felt good to be in such close contact. Real good. I wished I could have moved better but also didn't want to move too much at the same time. Holding her close and just swaying, I loved how she smelled and felt, and I didn't want anything to blow that moment. I kept my hands appropriately placed.

A fast song came on next. I knew I couldn't dance to it. I needed to avoid that song, but wasn't sure how to get out of it gracefully. I just awkwardly said, "That was nice. I need to sit this one out but I'd buy you a drink if you want to sit with me?"

That was so cliché. To my surprise she said, "I'll take a Cape Cod."

I had somehow gotten out of that. I didn't know what a Cape Cod was but I was sure George did. I headed over to the bar, relieved I'd dodged a bullet. "I'll meet you at our table."

I walked away to order her a drink. As I walked, I thought about my choice of words calling it "our" table when I'd been sitting at the bar. I was worried I'd either gone too far or was coming across as intellectually challenged. I ordered two from George, and like I surmised he knew what they were. He told me, "On the house," with a wink. I wasn't sure what that was all about. The last time I'd gotten a comp from George was on my birthday.

I took one in each hand and didn't look back behind me to see if she was still there. I figured I might be drinking them alone. She was there and waiting. I was so nervous it's a miracle I didn't drop both glasses.

I handed her hers and said, "Here's your drink my lady."

She took it and replied, "Oh, you think I'm a lady? Thank you for the drink but I'm sorry that you feel that way. I should go. I'm no lady, I'm a woman with needs. You should find yourself a lady." Having said that, she just downed her drink.

I blush when I get embarrassed. My face was a five alarm fire. I was blowing it. Had blown it. I had to make a decisive move. I grabbed her by the back of her head and kissed her. It was all or nothing. At worst I was going to get slapped, rejected and humiliated verbally in front of the regulars. I'd at least know I tried though. It was nothing I'd ever done before.

I'm not sure what I was thinking exactly at that moment or even if I was thinking, but I knew what I was hoping for. For once in my life with a woman, what I wanted to happen happened. She kissed me back and that immediately. It was as though she was waiting for it. Her tongue started dancing with mine. I'd had a few kisses, but nothing like this.