Calypso Ch 00 Heat

Author's Note: This story, 'Calypso,' is an alternate version of a story I wrote for this site years ago under my original handle, bluefox07, called 'The Finer Points of Sheila.' Originally, I had intended to simply polish up and flesh out the original story, but over the years as I worked on it, the story evolved and became its own beast. It became a whole new book, in fact. 'Calypso' is a sister to 'Sheila,' with new and old characters, some changed names and details, similar plot points but it is ultimately a new journey. If you're familiar with the original story, you'll know this is a Mature category story, though this new prologue doesn't dive into that aspect just yet. Gotta build the tease. That said, I hope you enjoy reading 'Calypso' as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'll be posting a new chapter every week or so until it's done. Cheers!

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PROLOGUE: HEAT

Let's start this out nice and simple.

My name is Douglas Aaron Kane, Jr. I was born in Mount Shasta, California on June 5th, 1970 and as of this writing, forty years later to the day ironically enough, I'm happy to report that I am still alive in the year 2010. I run a veterinary clinic in the shadow of the mountain that oversaw my birth, but I live just outside my hometown of Canyon Ridge, California in the ranch-style house my parents built in 1975. Douglas Sr. and Mary Kane were among the last of the old school archetypal parents that society insisted every American boy and girl should have. The world changed in the 70's, and as time went on, such things fell out of practical fashion or simply became semi-obsolete.

My father was a career firefighter and my mother was a domestic engineer, and by that I mean she managed to raise two sons, keep the house from falling apart and somehow work as an architect in her spare time from a small home office that is now my private study. I have three of her best designs framed and hanging on the wall next to some of the awards and citations my father earned throughout his life. They loved my younger brother David and I completely and we loved them just as much. Understand, we were dysfunctional as any other family in Canyon Ridge, California. I don't want to imply that we had anything close to the idealized Beaver Cleaver existence, but I think we managed to adapt to the insanity of the times a bit better than others might have done.

I was an athletic, moderately popular nobody with what was then a good head full of chestnut hair while my little brother was the artistic, emotional type that still has a good head full of blonde hair to this very day. I remember instances of Dad worrying that David was gay, and even calling me up one night while I was away at college to ask me about it. I had been taking courses in human sexuality, and my Dad managed to work up the courage to take advantage of my newfound knowledge. Not that he would have loved David any less if he had been gay. Dad was just old fashioned and sometimes even had a hard time saying the word, let alone actually discussing it. For the record, I later confirmed that David wasn't gay in his freshman year of college. The threesome he had participated in during spring break, described to me in the sort of graphic detail one brother just doesn't need from another, was definitive. The additional evidence of recorded footage revealing that this threesome was between him, another male friend and his girlfriend, firmly established that David was a bisexual.

I passed no judgment.

We all have our secrets.

Dad never knew the truth about David, and if he did, he never let on. Same thing with Mom, though I think any suspicions she had were quieted by a devout practicing of Baptist Christian faith. I'm not a religious man, but I do remember Sunday School. Such things were immoral and not of God, but Mom loved her sons so I believe even now that it was acceptance of ignorant bliss that never made it into an issue. Looking back on that time now, David could have engaged in a circle jerk with the football team in the town square on the Fourth of July and it wouldn't have eclipsed the drama I brought down on my family and myself in the summer of 1988, the year I graduated from high school.

Sounds fairly over dramatic, I know.

I assure you, it's not.

You'll have to forgive me. I'm not much of a writer. If I told you how long it took me to write this, let alone how long my editor labored tirelessly in her efforts to help me craft a narrative that was both truthful and made sense, you might be inclined to put this little volume right back on the shelf of whatever bookstore or library you're standing in right now. Or perhaps you're reading this online? Don't click away just yet.

In the spirit of honesty, I'll forewarn you that I'm not the sort of person to dance around the issue of sex. I'm blunt about it, and always have been. I've been called a sex addict, though I think that's a bit extreme. I suppose you could classify me as sexually promiscuous if you had to. I prefer to think of myself as healthily obsessed with sex. The point is, this isn't the sort of story that I suspect the more, well, let's just say the more prudish will enjoy. But if you're reading this, I imagine we're more alike than not.

I lost my virginity to my best friend Anabella 'Ella' Bishop in the fall of 1985, in her backyard while her parents slept. Among other things, Ella taught me the importance of foreplay that night. It isn't all the difficult to make a virgin come in thirty seconds or less. That said, she worked me into such a frenzied state that when I finally came during the hand job she was giving me, I managed to not only stain the fabric of the lawn chair just to the left my face but also discovered that semen is not a very good lubricant for one's eye. The sex that followed was the most intense thirty seconds I had known up until that point.

In retrospect, I can safely say that youth is wasted on the young.

For those of you that are still here reading this, you probably know exactly what I'm talking about. Men, it seems like those earth-shattering orgasms happened a lot easier when we were younger, doesn't it? Just thinking about sex would lead to a raging hard-on that could leave you sitting in one position for up to fifteen minutes, and that's after realizing that walking around with a prominent bulge in your slacks might not be a look you want to sport. I think we all take it for granted, really. Distant notions of any sort of erectile dysfunction or, perish the thought, state of tiredness affecting one's libido seem laughable at that age, if such notions occur at all. When you're that age, your cock is always one step ahead of biological imperative and two steps behind common sense.

And ladies, you know damn good and well that all it takes to make that greenhorn come all over his own face is that persistent motion and the skillful twist of an engorged cock head at just the right time. It's that specific point of no return, where the head of his cock flushes into a deep ruddy purple and is leaking enough pre-come to make the aforementioned persistent motions a hot, slippery affair. You can feel his cock swelling to a rigidity beyond aroused hardness in your hand. He gasps and grasps something for support, maybe the arm of a chair or perhaps even your shoulders, depending on your position at the time. You get caught up in those rapid-fire respirations that seem to encourage your hand to work a bit faster. You can see the look in his eyes and you know what's about to happen. Finally, when he starts gritting his teeth and making a face that really only you would find attractive, and you feel that dick start jerking hard, and the eruption of semen that follows marks your control and dominance over him.

You'll never find a man more vulnerable than when he is in the middle of an orgasm, and that's a fact.

You're still here?

Good.

I won't lie to you. I'm not going to hold anything back here. I find myself living in a day and age where honesty is in short supply, and what's worse, the simple exploration of our own deeply personal sexual truths is problematic at best. A big part of this exercise is me reliving some of the best and some of the worst days of my life. I wanted, no, I needed to remember it all so that I could maybe gain some perspective and maybe relive moments that still burn like a fire in my mind to this day. I've always been direct, sometimes to a fault, and was more so when I was younger. Age and years of experience have tempered that directness, a change that's been mostly the result of working at the clinic and dealing with people that need the straight story with a shot of reserve and compassion. If you'll indulge me for a bit, I'll give you the details as directly, descriptively and honestly as I can.

After all, this is a story about sex, secrets, seduction and the many twists and turns that bring it all together. And as I said before, I am a man with nothing to hide. If there is anything to hide, we'll discover it together.

If you're old enough, you'll remember the feeling of excitement and unlimited possibility that came with finishing high school. If you're blessed to have a memory that reaches that far back with any kind of attention to detail, you'll most certainly remember it. Even now, for all the numerous day-to-day minutia I can't remember, there are certain things from that finite stretch of time that still remain vibrant. As I've gotten older and had some time to reflect, I've realized that memory is largely a private ocean of comfortable gray. Events and people, some of the sort that you would have sworn you'd never forget, coalesce into a warm body of liquid. Found in this mixture are all the memories, emotions, ideas, places, spaces, lovers, enemies, victories and defeats you ever knew.

Still, in those dense waters are powerful waves and brilliant crests that stand out like beacons. A lot of the details can get lost in the currents and tides that inevitably shape who we are. Every so often, however, and again if you're fortunate, certain memories are triggered by something as simple as a sight or a smell. The voice of random stranger is often enough. The feeling of a certain type of cloth or song can become powerful catalysts. In my experience, music is the fuel that powers these sudden trips down memory lane.

Point is, even now I can remember the sense of excitement that had gripped me in the months before graduation that finally culminated in the ceremony itself. I had turned eighteen years old on a hot and extremely humid Sunday, June 5th, 1988, exactly five days after earning my freedom from Canyon Ridge High. I had already been consumed by everything that lay beyond that cap and gown well before then. I had been daydreaming about the future since my freshman year of high school, countless hours spent fantasizing about everything from a career to my first apartment to the women I'd meet who just might want to see the aforementioned first apartment first hand. I was cocky, horny and ambitious. I knew what I wanted then just as much as I know what I want now. I'm a bit smarter about it all now.

I wasn't that smart about it then.

I was never what one would call a jock, or a nerd, or geek or even popular by any standard. I did play football in my junior and senior years, but that was more an exercise in trying to impress both my father and a red-headed girl named Maggie Secord. By the end of the training season, the coach of the Canyon Ridge Bobcats had decided that my skill set was best utilized on the defensive line. I couldn't argue with that. My size and build were ideal for blocking and running the opposition over, but my hand-eye coordination insured that I would never touch the football. I can perform surgery on everything from a horse to a hamster, but I can't catch a goddamn football.

Irony is a bitch.

Still, I was smart enough to work hard at my studies, discovering a love for animals and biology my junior year. I was stupid enough to start smoking, a habit I picked up from the girl who popped my cherry in '85 and my best friend, Ella Bishop. Ella was my right-hand woman, my best friend and my partner-in-crime through thick and thin since we were six years old. Ella was a raven-haired, Latina tom boy that transformed from being a precocious, skinny 4th grade troublemaker in denim overalls and pigtails to being that smart ass, shapely high school bad girl in a leather jacket, jeans, combat boots and styled, short hair. My mother had always thought Ella was trouble, even from an early age, and did everything she could to keep the two of us apart. I suspect that catching us playing doctor behind Dad's tool shed in the fifth grade didn't help matters any.

We shared a mutual attraction and liked each other a lot, but even then we somehow knew our friendship wouldn't survive anything more than a friendship. Neither one of us was ready, even as we entered the summer of '88. Ella was angry at the world, wickedly sarcastic and armed with a mouth that could make any sailor shrink away in shame, a character trait that only got worse as we progressed through high school. I was a Four-Cornered Joe that managed to avoid getting his ass kicked by upper classmen by being just funny enough to diffuse tensions and just big enough to make the unspoken statement of self-defense loud and clear. The Mouth and The Muscle were the nicknames we picked up, and I suppose as far as high school nicknames go, it could have been worse.

We balanced each other out well enough, I suppose, and made it a point to share everything with each other. From soda and secrets to dreams and bodily fluids, we held nothing back. We trusted each other implicitly, and had things gone a different way during the summer of '88, we both might have gotten over our hang ups a bit sooner. As it was, we were partners in crime that evolved into partners in casual sex.

As convenient and incredibly fulfilling as this arrangement was, it did, however, cause problems from time to time. I had been through seven different girlfriends leading up to my senior year and every single one of those relationships, if you can call a high school romance a true relationship, had been complicated by my friendship with Ella. One of our rules was that when we were dating other people, the sex stopped. Neither one of us liked the idea of cheating, no matter how liberally casual our attitudes were about sex. Nor did we broadcast the fact that we were regularly fucking each other, but small towns have a way of figuring such things out, even if it is all based on a hunch and a rumor.

Turns out girlfriends don't like the idea of their boyfriends being that close to other girl. I can't say that any of those former girlfriends were off base, per se, nor can I say I blamed them for being uncomfortable with the situation. Ella and I were very physical with each other and we spent a lot of time together, sex or no sex. Our unique friendship made it difficult for either one of us to really connect or commit to other people. Our respective romantic relationships never lasted longer than a roll of Mentos, and the fact that Ella had me wrapped around her little finger didn't help matters at all. It was the rule of no romantic entanglements between the two of us that both sustained and simultaneously held us back.

It was hard to say 'no' to Ella Bishop for a number of reasons. Her arguments were persuasive, and even if you managed to defeat her through logic, she had no problem using her sexuality as a weapons grade counter measure. Ella was a text book example of the classic hourglass woman, complete with an ass that wouldn't quit and a generously large bust line that very few women in Canyon Ridge could compete with. Her tits were a particular point of physical notoriety that Ella constantly used to her advantage, a fact more than a few of the less endowed local girls resented her for. Truth be told, I think she enjoyed that female contention just as much as the attention she enjoyed from her male counterparts. Regardless, she made a name for herself by doubling down on her image as a curvy sex pistol that fired hollow-point rounds of sarcasm and armor-piercing insults.

On the afternoon of June 5th, 1988 I was hanging out with Ella on the banks of the Sacramento River. The sky was clear, devoid of clouds and brilliantly blue. The humidity was high enough that by the time we finished hiking thirty yards downstream from the turnout where I had parked my Delta 88 through the brush to Turtle Rock, we had broken a healthy sweat. Turtle Rock was a gargantuan, flat topped boulder that had probably started somewhere in Northern Canada and ended up in Canyon Ridge thanks to the last ice age. The world was alive with birdsong, the endless symphony of countless insects and the persistent thrum of a lone cicada breaking the ambience for two or three minutes at a time. The river babbled and churned along the bottom of the canyon our little town had spawned in, curving and twisting alongside the rail line that had been established nearly a century before.

The summer season was officially in full swing. Between plentiful fishing and all manner of railroad themed wares, tourists were as thick as the clouds of gnats hovering over the water. Thankfully, none of the out-of-towners had staked a claim on Turtle Rock that day. We had the place to ourselves, and that was just fine by my reckoning. I had stripped down to a pair of khaki shorts and nothing else, mostly for comfort and primarily for trying to catch Ella's attention. The moment we arrived at Turtle Rock, Ella wasted no time in removing her sinfully short denim cut-offs and plain white tank top. The heat might have been taxing, but watching her move around in that blue one piece bathing suit was its own reward. If swimming in the cool water, escaping the sweltering ninety-nine degree temperatures and admiring the curves of Ella Bishop was as good as my birthday was going to get, I could count myself lucky.

I was due to have dinner at Ella's house with her family that night for my birthday. My folks were out of town visiting my grandmother in Redding for two weeks, and since I was now officially an adult, my father decided I was capable of fending for myself. The freedom felt good. It was a new sort of thrill that I could, for the most part, come and go and do as I pleased. Dad made it point to forbid alcohol in his house, and I wasn't about to disobey him on that one. Today, however, I was not in his house nor was I in the mood for a Pepsi. Sure, I wasn't remotely close to being twenty-one yet, but to an eighteen year old, twenty-one might as well be forever and a day away.

And what Dad didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

So I enjoyed a few beers with Ella as we sat on Turtle Rock in one of the many coves along the river bank, feet dangling in the water of our own private paradise. The six-pack of Coors that Ella had hidden in her backpack was likely snatched from the sizable stash that her father kept stacked in the garage. The cans had been cooling in the river water for the first twenty minutes of our river excursion while we swam and were as chilled as they were likely going to get.

"I love this song" Ella adjusted the volume of the Sharp brand portable tuner she had gotten as a graduation present just a week prior. She smiled, running her hand through her short, wet hair as George Michael sang on and on about one more try. She added, "He just melts my sex butter."

"Robert Palmer has an album coming out later this month" I said after a long chug of beer, "Heavy Nova, baby."

"Palmer's okay," she shrugged, pulling half a cigarette from her crumpled pack of Pall Malls. Ella lit it, inhaled and as smoke jetted from her nostrils, declared "George Michael is better."

"No accounting for taste, I guess," I nonchalantly reclined back on the rock, soaking in the sun and hoping to avoid another endless debate on the merits of Palmer vs. Michael. After a moment, I asked, "Wait a minute. Sex butter?"