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Friday, October 11, 2013

It was a Friday night and I was sitting in my outdoor hot tub, naked and alone. On the edge of the hot tub was my scotch. It wasn't the cheap stuff; I drink Glen Morangie or Glenfiddich. When I was younger and didn't have much money, I drank the cheap stuff; now that I have some money, I prefer single malt scotch.

It really didn't matter how good the scotch was, or how nice and warm the hot tub was, or how much privacy I had with a solid eight foot masonry fence around my back yard. None of that mattered, because I was alone. There are many things which do not live up to their reputation, but being alone is everything you ever heard about it . . . and more!

I know. It sounds pathetic, and it is pathetic . . . but I'm not looking for sympathy. I'm just telling you the story. If you don't want to hear it, stop reading now.

Some folks are alone, by choice, their entire lives, like monks who live in a reclusive monastery, but those folks are a very small minority of the loners. Some folks live in loneliness because they are socially awkward, inept, or intimidated and, for them, life is so challenging, so scary that they prefer loneliness.

Other folks live in loneliness because their lives have been shattered by some life altering event and they feel too much discomfort in facing the world after their reality has been horribly fractured. I am one of those folks. I wish I wasn't . . . but I am.

Up until a few years ago, I was happy, outgoing, gregarious, sociable, extroverted, etc. You get the idea. I had a life that would cause many men to feel jealous, not because I had attained my enviable position through artifice or chicanery, but simply because my position was so enviable.

I came from a good middle class family in a decent neighborhood. I was blessed with academic ability and I always performed well in school, but I avoided being a book nerd or a geek. I had a decent social life when I was in high school and I dated a few girls, all of them smart and pretty. When I went to college, I joined a fraternity and I balanced the demands of my education with my need for physical affection from the opposite sex. I never kept score or compared my number of conquests with other guys but I was happy and quite successful with women without ever being accused of being a man whore.

When I was in college, I loved history and political science. It seems like everyone was telling me that I should go to law school. My dad had a cousin who was a lawyer and he talked to me about it and it sounded better than anything else I could think of, so I went to law school. That's not a great reason to go to law school, but that's what happened and, in my case, it worked well.

The truth is that law school was fun. I know, most folks think law school is extremely hard and totally absorbing and you sacrifice three years of your life to be totally devoted to learning the law. Quite a few lawyers will tell you how hard it was in school because they want you to think that they fought and killed the biggest dragon in the kingdom. Some CPAs will tell about how many CPAs don't pass their exams on the first attempt. There's some truth to their stories and, yes, law school was demanding, but I still had enough time to have fun, work a part-time job, and graduate with honors.

After law school, I got a job clerking for an appeals court judge in Tallahassee. I worked in the court system for a few years and then got a job with a firm in Gainesville which handled a broad range of matters, including personal injury and wrongful death. It was a very honest and ethical group of lawyers, not ambulance chasers, and I learned so much while I was there for three years. At that point, I had the itch to open my own practice and I had saved enough money to make it happen.

Hard work and my reputation, plus some help from professional friends, made my practice grow and it became fairly lucrative. I had a nice home, a nice car, and I saved money for retirement. I had a great assistant at the office and my life was good - damned good. My friends considered me to be one of Gainesville's most eligible bachelors and I had no problem getting a date whenever I wanted one.

That was seven years ago. At that point, I was still single, 32 years old, and I felt like I was in command of my life. I was the master of my destiny and, although I was very happy with the niche I had found, I also had additional professional advancements which were within my grasp whenever I was ready to take the next step.

The next seven years of my life - from age 32 to age 39 - is what this story is about.

On Friday, October 11, 2013, I was almost 40 years old, sitting alone in my hot tub. I didn't want to see anyone, and I didn't want to talk to anyone. I wasn't a hermit - not entirely. I maintained my office and I did what I had to do, but I didn't enjoy work. I had other people working for me and I delegated as much responsibility as I could.

Outside of work, my social contacts were limited. I went to the grocery store about once a week. Sometimes, on weekday mornings, I would take a day off and go to the beach when it was unlikely that I would encounter many other people. On rare occasion, I would go to visit family members. Most of the time, however, I was at home and I was alone.

At the moment, I wasn't drunk. In another thirty minutes, I would be "feeling no pain." Then, I'd probably start thinking about her, about the first time we were together, what she looked like, how she felt the first time I was inside her, and I'd get a boner. Then, I'd probably jerk off, bop the baloney, choke the chicken, beat my meat, take matters into my own hands, fuck my fingers, crank the love pump, do some handiwork, flog the log, free willy, grease my pole, take the sausage hostage, honk my own horn, make the bald man puke, milk the moose, pet the pig, have a peter pull at St. Taffy's, yank my crank, stroke the bloke, wax the Buick . . . I guess you get the idea.

Then I'd get in bed and - hopefully - pass out. That was the plan, because this was one more "day in paradise," just like all the others.

Tuesday, October 3, 2006

"Mr. Darnell, your new client's here for her appointment. I've already got her in the conference room," Doreen announced. If it was just the two of us, she called me Tom, but it was always Mr. Darnell if a client or another attorney was present.

Doreen Gunderson was a goddess. She was the best secretary/paralegal I have ever had. She started with me in 2002. She never called in sick, she was never late, she knew her job, she never acted like she knew more than what she did actually know. Even more importantly, she never acted like she knew more than me . . . and she was beautiful. I thought she was beautiful and I saw plenty of other men checking her out when they were in my office. Doreen looked sort of like Jennifer Love Hewitt. She was cute and, paradoxically, her face proclaimed both innocent vulnerability and sexy allure. She had shoulder length wavy brunette hair. Her breasts weren't large (I'm not addicted to big boobs and, in fact, prefer small to medium size hooters) but they were certainly large enough. She always dressed in a manner which I thought was provocative but I doubt that she thought she was "asking for it."

There was nothing improper about our relationship but it was more than just a professional relationship between boss and employee. We each sometimes talked to the other about what was going on in our personal lives. Doreen was not my best friend but I knew that, if I confided something personal to her, she would respond with the best possible advice and then maintain it in confidence. She was a great woman, and under other circumstances, I would have been chasing after her . . . but she was off limits to me for two reasons.

First, you should never screw the help. If they're a good employee, you'll end up losing them when you break up; and if you don't break up, you probably end up marrying them, in which case you'll probably lose them as an employee anyway. Second, Doreen was married. I usually called her "Miss Doreen," because I am an old fashioned Southern boy, but I guess I should have been calling her "Mrs. Doreen," although I didn't think she was very happy in her marriage. Whether she was happily married or not, I would never allow myself to become the cause of anyone having their marriage fall apart. No sir, when I get old and I look in the mirror, I want to be proud of who I see looking back at me.

So, I knew that Doreen was definitely off limits, but one of my body parts (a part south of the equator) didn't know that, and it tended to be strong willed. On this particular day, the goddess was wearing a skirt that was so short that I'm sure I'd have seen her panties if she had bent over at the waist. I would have loved to see her panties - probably little silky, lacey, feminine things that barely covered the essentials. Yes, and I would have loved to pull those panties down. I would have loved to see what was being kept secret inside those little silk panties. I would have loved to get my lips around her nipples and see if I could make her cum just from licking on her precious little tits, and I'd really have loved to get inside her tight, hot . . .

"Mr. Darnell, Mrs. Easter is waiting for you!" Doreen reminded me in a voice that sounded more like my mother than my sexy assistant. Still, if she wasn't my secretary, and if she wasn't married, I'd have turned her over the desk and fucked her in a New York minute. Being single and between girlfriends, I was horny. Hell, I would have fucked a hole in the floorboard at that point. Sometimes, trying to maintain a life with some standards is torturous. I'm not claiming to be a saint, but I usually try to do the right thing, like not screw the secretary.

* * *

"Hi, I'm Tom . . . Tom Darnell. Sorry to keep you waiting," I introduced myself. As soon as I saw her, I really was sorry that I had kept her waiting. My new client was a beautiful blonde who appeared to be in her early thirties. She had a very pretty face with Nordic features. She was not particularly buxom and her clothes were not tight enough for me to guess her bra size, but that didn't matter; she was a beautiful woman, regardless of whether she had bodacious boobs, medium mounds, or tiny titties tucked away in her bra. She was well dressed, well groomed, articulate, and I guessed that there was much more to this woman than just a pretty face.

The next 1½ hours were spent on the usual information gathering interview that I do in all new divorce cases. The facts that she recounted painted a picture which was very sympathetic to her side of the case, and it was filled with enough details - some quite intimate - that I had no reason to doubt her veracity. Usually, when I meet a new divorce client, I ask them a series of questions to try to determine whether they are really ready for a divorce; I don't want to file a dissolution for someone who is going to reconcile two weeks later. In this case, there was no question. I was convinced that my client was ready for a divorce and it truly was the right decision for her.

Constance Easter had been married for 13 years to John Easter. They had married during their first year of college in Gainesville and she quit after her second year when she got pregnant with their daughter. She started working fulltime as an aide for the board of county commissioners; at that point in her life, she wasn't really qualified for the job but it was almost an entry level job, she was bright, beautiful, and eager to learn, and I certainly would have hired her if it had been my decision. Connie continued working until just a few days before the baby was born; after her maternity leave, she returned to that job and had continued to work for the board. I have several friends who work for the county and we made small talk for a couple of minutes about a couple of our mutual acquaintances. In fact, it was one of those mutual friends who had recommended me when they learned that Connie needed an attorney for a divorce.

His parents continued to help with the college expenses, and together with Connie's income and support, John got through college with a 3.8 GPA. The university had an excellent medical school and his application had readily been accepted, meaning that Connie and John did not need to move to another college town for the next four years. Those four years went by quickly but the two of them had decided to not have any more c***dren until John had become established in a medical practice.

Their little girl was Sally. Connie showed me a recent picture and Sally was a blonde cutie, just like her mother. Apparently, she had already proven that she was as bright as her parents. A full time job, supporting her husband in his career, and raising Sally had been enough to keep Connie busy through these years.

After medical school, every physician must participate in a three year residency program. John had decided to specialize in obstetrics and gynecology and there was a good residency program in Atlanta, only about 350 miles away. John and Connie decided that Connie and Sally should stay in Gainesville, as they wanted to live here after the residency was completed. John would move to Atlanta, and he would commute back to Gainesville as often as possible. At that point, apparently, neither of them realized that John would be able to commute only once every three to four months, but they soon learned the hard way.

By her account, which I didn't doubt, Connie was a faithful wife and fulfilled her duties as a mother in superlative fashion. She did everything she could to support John during his residency. She frequently sent him care packages with home-baked goodies, clothes, and personal items. She called as often as she could but not so often that it would cause problems for John, and she did very little to bother him with the day-to-day minor problems at home.

I was not surprised to hear John's response. Connie's good behavior was not rewarded. "He cheated on me, not just once, but over and over and over. He's a selfish bastard and I hate him!" You can't imagine how often I hear this story.

I've handled a few unpleasant divorces and it isn't unusual to see an otherwise proper and demure Southern girl turn into the demon from Hell when she has been rejected. "Hell knows no fury like that of a woman scorned," but make that a Southern girl and even old Satan himself wouldn't want to be near her. When a divorce client starts talking on this subject, especially a woman, I generally allow them to rant for a few minutes so they can dissipate their anger enough and, then, hopefully, continue a rational conversation. I also try to get an idea of the depth of their raw emotions. The fresher the wounds, the more difficult it will be to get the client to have realistic goals for the divorce case. blood may be what they want but I've never seen it awarded in a final judgment of dissolution of marriage.

"I know some guys cheat because their wives don't take care of them at home - or, at least, that's their excuse - you know, they say she's frigid. Well, that's not the problem here. I like sex. I like it a lot and he got it as much as he wanted, so . . . I don't want you feeling any sympathy for him: no empathy for the enemy. He's just a son of a bitch!"

She paused and looked at me as if she was judging something about me. "I don't know if this is something that you routinely discuss with divorce clients but . . . it's important to me. I need to know that you understand this is all his fault and . . . that I've done everything I can to keep things from getting this far. I need to know that you're really on my side."

"I'm on your side, Mrs. Easter. You seem like a very nice lady and he sounds like he's not a very nice guy. Besides . . . you're my client and I'll present your case to the best of my abilities," I defended myself against what was probably an unintended but implicit accusation.

"I understand what you're saying but that's not quite enough. I mean . . . I probably haven't told you enough to convince you . . . and I need you to really understand this, so . . . this isn't something that I'd ordinarily tell a stranger, or even a close friend, but I want to make sure you understand that he's the problem, not me."

She continued. "Well . . . I was raised to be a very modest Southern girl and I don't consider myself to be an uptight prude but I rarely discuss sexual matters with anyone else, not even my own mother."

"Well, you already told me that you like sex," I reminded her with a smile.

"Yes, well, that's probably not the confession of the year and, besides . . . you're my attorney and you need to hear these details.

"I understand that's the way you feel. I'm not asking about anything that private, but . . . if you think I need to know, I'll listen very carefully, I'm not a judgmental person, and, of course, everything you tell me is confidential." I do not routinely ask for details about sexual matters when I'm interviewing a new divorce client as it is rarely relevant to the case and it is a private matter. However, since Connie had been raised to be a very prim and proper young Southern lady and yet, despite that upbringing, she wanted to tell me about these matters, I would let her "spill her guts." Apparently, her efforts to overcome her inhibitions and please her husband were, at least in her mind, the strongest measure of her heroic devotion . . . so she volunteered the details without hesitation. You can call me a sexist for offering this generalization, but it's true: in my experience, women love to talk about sex if they can do so without being blamed or judged for it. Give them a slender excuse and they'll tell you about every kinky little thing that they've ever done. That's my experience.

Connie began by telling me that, when John did come home, she would arrange for a friend to keep Sally overnight and Connie would indulge John in whatever his desires were. "When he came home and it was time to be intimate, I gave him whatever he wanted. Do you know what I mean by 'whatever?'" she asked rhetorically. "I mean it wasn't just missionary position regular sex. I really wanted to make him happy and I didn't limit him to the options in the Proper Girl's First Book Of Acceptable Married Sex. I want you to know how dedicated I was to giving him whatever he wanted. So . . . we're both adults here, so . . . here goes. I told him to call me whenever he was feeling, you know, lonely . . . and we'd have . . . sexy talk on the phone. If he came home, I tried to give him whatever he wanted. I mean, if he wanted regular sex in the missionary position, I gave it to him, but if he wanted, like . . . oral sex, I gave it to him and give it to him good and I'd, you know, let him finish in my, uh . . . I guess you know what all guys want when it comes to oral sex. However he wanted to have it - doggy style, woman on top, reverse cowgirl, in bed, in the shower, on the kitchen table, whatever he wanted - we did it. My momma never taught me any of that stuff but I was bound and determined to make him happy. I actually looked at some porn online for a while to educate myself about some of the things that get guys aroused. And, one time, after we watched a porno together, he told me he wanted to do what they did in the porno, and . . . well, they did a lot, so I asked him 'like what?' and what it was is that he wanted, uh, sex, you know . . . 'back there,' and I was a good sport about it . . . I was surprised that it wasn't that bad."
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"Once," she continued, "he suggested a threesome but that was where I drew the line. I certainly didn't want to share my husband with another woman. I tried to talk to him about that, I wanted to know if he had a particular woman he wanted to include in this threesome, I wanted to make sure that he was happy with me . . . but he acted like I was making a big deal over nothing, so I gave up trying to get him to talk about it. Looking back on it now, I think I know who he wanted to include, and . . . if I had agreed to it, maybe I could have held my marriage together, but . . . if that's what you have to do to hold a marriage together, you don't have a marriage."

She got quiet for a minute and it looked as if she was summoning her strength to continue with the details. "A couple of months later, I decided to surprise him by going to Atlanta for Valentine's Day. I didn't tell him in advance. Stupid, little naïve me. I thought I would just drive to his apartment and wait there to surprise him and we could get a pizza delivered and just spend the evening, uh, you know . . . acting like sex-starved teenagers. Anyway, while I was there, I found a pair of panties that obviously weren't mine. I mean, they were a size 8, for heaven's sake, and I'm a size 4. Anyway, so I asked John and, without missing a beat, he said he'd let a friend borrow the apartment for a 'romantic' interlude and the panties must have been left by the friend's girl. He said it so casually and spontaneously that I just believed it without question. But . . . well, that was the end of his second year of residency and he didn't come back to Gainesville at all during his third year."

She started crying, and I offered her some tissues. "Thanks. I'm sorry. I'm sure I sound like I was pretty stupid but . . .."

"No, no, no. It sounds like you wanted to trust your husband. Marriages are supposed to be built on trust. You certainly don't sound stupid," I reassured her. "In fact, you sound quite bright to me."

"Well, he said he didn't have time to come home because he was the chief resident and it all sounded plausible at the time, but . . . anyway, he finished his residency two years ago and he finally moved back to Gainesville. He started in private practice with an established group and now he's doing very well with his practice, we've got a great house with a pool and a hot tub and sauna, nice cars, but . . . I know sometimes he needs to work long hours and babies don't usually call and schedule an appointment for their delivery, but . . . I started to get suspicious so I started driving by the hospital when he said he had a patient in labor and sometimes his car wasn't there. So, about a month ago, I confronted him and, at first, he got mad but, all of a sudden, he confessed that he had been having an affair with another one of the residents in Atlanta and she had moved to Gainesville and was working with the same practice group, and they were seeing each other again."

"You must have been devastated," I interjected. It felt like a stupid comment for me to make, like, what are the alternatives? She felt elated? She felt vindicated? Obviously, she was devastated, but what else could I say?

"At first, I was pissed off!" she exhorted and then she apologized. "Pardon my French."

"No apology necessary. In fact, I, too, speak French," I offered a small measure of humor to try to break the ugly mood of the conversation.

"Well, I told him to pack a suitcase and get the hell out of that house and don't come back. He left that night and, of course, he's been back to get some more of his stuff and . . . you probably already figured out that he's now living with Doctor Slut. Despite all of that, I've let him spend time with Sally. She's 12 years old now and, for some reason, she idolizes the son of a bitch, but . . . she doesn't understand; after all, why should she?"

She began crying again. "What's wrong with me? Am I ugly? Didn't I do enough to please a man?" she asked. I'm not sure that she wanted an answer to that question, but she paused so long that I thought perhaps she was waiting on a reply, so I gave her an answer.

"I can't see that there's anything wrong with you, Mrs. Easter. You're a beautiful woman. If you weren't my client . . . and if you weren't married, I'd want to go out with you . . . absolutely. And, yeah, it sounds like you would have kept most men happy, so . . . I mean, hell, I'd be happy if any of my girlfriends were that eager to please me, so . . . I don't think it's your fault. Some guys just aren't suited to settling down and being monogamous. You know what? After you get divorced, he'll probably marry Dr. Slut and then cheat on her. And won't that bitch be surprised?"

Connie laughed. "So, you do speak French."

"Oui, oui, I speak that kind of French," I joked. "Well, now that we've had a laugh, we've got to spend a few minutes with something that might be unpleasant for you . . . but we've got to do it. So, here goes. After we serve him with the divorce papers, he'll go get a lawyer and, believe it or not, he will freely confess to his lawyer that he's had an affair. So, after his lawyer hears about that, he'll say, 'John, it's going to be rough trying this case in front of a judge, unless you've got some dirt on her, too, so . . . what kind of dirt is there on Connie? Tell me all the stuff she hopes doesn't get talked about in court.' Connie, if his lawyer is going to hear about it, I need to hear about it . . . and now, not later, not as we're walking in to court for a final hearing. So tell me, Connie, what will John tell his lawyer about you. However embarrassing it is, I need to hear it and I need to hear it now, so don't even think about what you're going to tell me, just start talking."

"Wow, you're brutal, aren't you?" Connie said, probably wanting to stall the conversation.

"Only when I need to be. Now start talking," I replied. "Spill the beans!"

"We both smoked pot a few times when we were freshmen in college. I shoplifted a shirt when I was 14 years old but I never got caught and I've never done anything like that since then. Last year, he wanted to watch me 'do' myself and I know that he took a picture of me with a vibrator inside my . . . you know. We always celebrated my birthday by me getting drunk and letting John have, uh, you know, usually. . . anal sex with me, but I don't think he took any pictures of that. Oh, and the reason John suggested having a threesome was because I told him I had fantasized about it, but when he suggested us doing it for real, I realized it was just a fantasy and nothing that I wanted to do in real life. But, if I had any offers now, I'd fuck somebody senseless just for revenge, even if it meant doing a threesome."

"Wow. It takes a lot of courage to admit those things to a stranger . . . but, the good news is . . . you don't need to worry about any of that stuff. His attorney will never bring up that both of you smoked pot 10 or 11 years ago. You weren't arrested or convicted of a crime so the shoplifting incident isn't admissible. The fantasy thing isn't relevant to anything we need to talk about in court. The birthday sex thing is . . . well it's interesting, for sure, but it would probably be as embarrassing to him as it would be to you, so I wouldn't worry about any of those things being discussed in court. If he brought that picture out in court, he'd get judged pretty harshly for taking the picture and then bringing it out to embarrass you. And, if you're serious about the revenge sex, think twice about it. Unless you're very upfront about what you're doing, it's not very fair to whoever you choose to be your partner and you'll feel lousy about it later on. In fact, you should avoid dating anyone until the case is finished. If we ever need to argue about custody in court, your sex life is an issue that I want to be a non-issue."

"How's a girl supposed to have fun?" Connie asked flirtatiously. Ten minutes earlier, she was talking like she was ready to shoot John and then set him on fire. Then she was telling me all that embarrassing stuff about herself. But, in the space of sixty seconds, she had bounced out of that mood and was talking with me in a way that I thought was openly flirtatious.

"The same way you had fun all those years he was in Atlanta," I said. "I assume that you and that vibrator you told me about have been the best of friends in the past and it may be time to renew the acquaintance." I offered her a sympathetic smile. I realized that my response had probably crossed the line and might have been interpreted as flirting, so I got more serious. "Connie, being a good mom isn't always easy, but it's obvious you're a good mom, so be patient and don't do anything to screw this up, okay?"

After that caveat, I proceeded to advise Connie about no fault divorce, c***d custody, visitation, c***d support, alimony, and division of assets and liabilities. We talked about the process of divorce, both the legal process and the psychological process of healing. I suggested a psychologist and a support group.

We talked about my fees. We talked about how often we would need to meet. We talked about likely outcomes for her divorce. All of her questions were answered - I thought.

After she stood to leave, she turned back towards me to pose the proverbial one-more-question. "Do you ever meet a client for dinner, you know, after hours?"

"Come back in and sit down," I instructed her.

As soon as she was seated, I started. "Connie, if you weren't my client, and if you weren't married, I would LOVE to have dinner with you. Now, I just met you and I don't know you very well, but my impression is that you're bright, sensitive, caring, energetic, and, obviously, you're beautiful. You're the kind of woman my mother hopes I'll bring home to meet her and dad. . . . You're also the kind of woman my bachelor friends warn me about, the kind of good woman who will steal your heart and make you want to settle down in ignorance-is-blissful monogamy. You might just be the perfect girlfriend for me, but 'you' and 'me' aren't going to become an 'us' for three reasons."

She had a look on her face like a schoolgirl being chastised. Damn, she was cute!

"First," I began, "you are still a married woman and I don't date married women. Period. Not now, not ever, not negotiable. It doesn't matter if you're separated and in the process of a divorce. Not negotiable. I don't live at the corner of Saint Street and Virtue Avenue, but . . . most of the time, I try to do the right thing . . . and dating married women is wrong."

"Second, you're looking for someone for revenge sex and I don't want to be used for that purpose. I'm not accusing you of consciously trying to use me, but . . . listen, I'm sure it would be more fun than a barrel of monkeys, and one day, I may kick myself in the ass for not taking you up your offer, but . . . no."

"Third, and most important, the bar has very strict rules against having sex with clients. You can probably guess what the rule is, right? Well, when the legal representation has ended, the rule stops applying, but until then, the answer is no. Not just 'no,' but 'hell, no!' I have a reputation as being a very ethical lawyer and I'm going to keep my reputation intact. But, I don't want you to feel badly; you're a VERY tempting woman. If I was ever going to break the rule . . . it would be with you . . . or your twin sister. When the case is over and I'm not your lawyer any more . . . and you're not married, and . . . you're not just wanting to get revenge on Dr. Buttface . . . well, we'll see what happens then."

"Finally, just in case you're going to remind me that you only asked about dinner and you never said anything about sex: we are both adults and we both know that if we meet for dinner, after dinner we'll have a few drinks, you'll look at me in a certain way, I'll look back at you the same way, and we'll both be headed down the slippery slope that leads to us having each other for dessert."

Connie looked at me and smiled. "I can tell that you're a great lawyer. And, I hear you . . . and I respect everything you're telling me, even if I don't like the answer, so . . . I hope I'll get a different answer if I ask again when the case is over."

"If you do, and if I'm not dating anyone else monogamously at the time, the answer will be . . . probably, yes." I finished the sentence by giving her a very sly smile.

"Aren't you the sly Mr. Fox?!" Connie said seductively.

"At the present, it's the sly Attorney Fox," I reminded her with a feigned dour expression.

* * *

Over the next six months, I filed Connie's divorce, her husband hired an attorney, we gathered all the required financial disclosures. Doreen and I spent several hours absorbed in John's financial documents. It wasn't unusual for Doreen and me to spend hours working literally side-by-side, but each and every time was somewhat taxing for me. I have always been very strongly attracted to Doreen but I have also always intended to be a very good boy. As I said before, doing the right thing is not always easy, but I've never done anything with Doreen; never held her hand, never kissed her, never tasted her taco, never gave her a poke.

After we reviewed those documents, I called Connie in to the office and showed her the credit card expenditures where John had bought his girlfriend gifts, paid for flowers, weekend motel rooms out of town, meals at nice restaurants, etc. She had been distraught previously but now she was angry and she didn't cry. That was a good sign; it meant that she was progressing through the grieving process and she probably wouldn't get stuck and become obsessed with how she had been wrongly treated.

I deposed Connie's husband and it was fun making him squirm. Connie was right; it looked like she had devoted herself to John and he turned around and took advantage of her. I sent Connie for a psychological evaluation to make sure that there wasn't likely to be any persistent trauma as a result of John's philandering and the divorce. The psychologist said she was rather normal and would probably be okay with the passage of time.

I deposed John's CPA and I deposed the senior partner in his medical practice. I actually had a legitimate purpose in deposing John's superior but I did also revel in the fact that I was making John's life a little bit uncomfortable. Later, I made gestures as if I wanted to depose Dr. Slut. That's the one that always gets their attention. At that point, John's attorney asked me to postpone the deposition while he put together a settlement offer.

Along the way, there were a few more conferences with Connie . . . but always in the office, always during normal business hours. On one occasion, Connie brought Sally with her. I met Sally in the reception area and had her wait there while I spoke with her mother. Sally was almost a clone of Connie and was obviously destined to become a bright and beautiful temptress to the next generation of men.

Throughout the representation, Connie never again suggested any meetings after hours and I was glad that matter had been resolved at the outset. Here's a little bit of the wisdom that I have gleaned from 39 years of life: the best way to respond to temptation is to avoid it. I know most people understand that, but in some situations, it helps to be reminded of the obvious.

On every occasion that we met, Connie was dressed to impress, always appropriate to the circumstances and never overly suggestive. She was pleasant and I heard very few complaints about her spouse like those that I normally hear in divorce cases. She smiled often, we had lots of eye contact, and there were a few moments when I felt that my resolve might begin to weaken.

Connie was not demanding or unreasonable in her expectations and she didn't try to use more of my time than had been allotted for our meeting. In short, she was an ideal client, and she was always a subtly provocative woman. She was a testament to the power of a woman to pique the interest of a man without lewdly showing any hint of her private treasures. I was determined to follow my own rules, but I had decided that I would want to date Connie when our case was concluded. I hoped that she would still be interested in me.

Wednesday, April 4, 2007

At last, we had a court-ordered mediation conference. We had already been in negotiations but had not finalized a deal, so I expected that we would complete the process at mediation. Connie had sacrificed dearly for John to advance to his present position but placing a value on her contribution involved some assumptions and some amount of speculation. We had plenty to argue about but we all knew there was no way John would be able to avoid the wrath of a trial judge after he or she heard the testimony about his adulterous affair and the testimony about the significant sacrifices Connie had made for his benefit. We also profited from the fact that Gainesville is a small town and news about the divorce would circulate in the professional community. It wouldn't look very good to his colleagues . . . even if many of them were hypocrites and engaged in the same behaviors.

Ultimately, John caved in and agreed to a generous settlement: he gave Connie the marital home, he would make all house payments until Sally graduated from college, he would pay substantial amounts for c***d support and, in lieu of alimony, John would pay Connie a lump sum of $500,000 in installments of $50,000 per year for ten years.

Connie was delighted with the settlement and, the following day, she had flowers delivered to my office. I have received gifts from clients a few times but I have never - not before or since - received flowers from a client. I expected Connie to renew the dinner invitation which she had extended at our first meeting, but she didn't. Not then. We still had to make an appearance in court to get the divorce finalized and entered by the court. It was just a formality but an absolutely essential part of the process.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

We went to court and saw Judge Thomas in chambers. Connie was dressed impeccably and she was very, very attractive. She looked like a woman with lots of class and it's a look that low-class and no-class women cannot fake.

It was a very brief hearing and we stopped to talk for a few minutes afterwards. I reminded Connie of a few of the details about how the financial arrangements would work. I also told her that my expectation was that she and John would not return to court to fight about anything and she would probably not continue to need my services.

"So, this is it?" she asked, pretending to be overcome with sadness.

"That's right," I responded nonchalantly. I knew what she was going to say next.

"So, that means you can pick me up for dinner around 7:00 tomorrow, okay? Obviously, you know my address and it should be easy for you to find."

"Whoa! Are you asking me to dinner?" I paused for dramatic effect, because any good lawyer knows the value of a good, uncomfortable pause. "Don't you think that's rather forward?" I asked in a voice that pretended to be insulted. "You know, I'm kind of a traditional guy and . . . you're a traditional lady, and . . . you know the guy is supposed to do the asking!"

"Okay. So, are you going to ask me to dinner tomorrow night?" she asked.

I really wanted to be with this woman but something inside of me didn't like her thinking that she was in control of the situation. "I'll think about it. I've got your phone number if I want to ask," I answered with a smile. If I was going to have any relationship with Connie, I wanted to have some ground rules established, and I didn't want to begin with her thinking that she owned me.

Connie looked somewhat crestfallen. "It's over now and I thought . . ." she began, but I interrupted her.

"There's nothing wrong with you, Miss Connie. You are a very desirable woman, but . . . you need to slow down and not be in such a rush. If you try to make things happen, you'll repeat your mistakes of the past . . . and I don't want to be one of your mistakes. Just let things happen and the right things will eventually happen for you. Besides, I know that you want to find a traditional kind of guy and you need to let a traditional guy do the things that a traditional guy does, like asking the lady out instead of vice versa."

"Okay, but . . ." she started and again I interrupted by pulling her body to mine and giving her a platonic but extended hug. I know that the hug only caused her to be more confused about what was happening between us. She looked up at me and she looked into my eyes with that look that combines lust and love, but perhaps that was just wishful thinking on my part. I could tell that she wanted to say something so I immediately put the tip of my finger on her lips, indicating that she needed to keep her thought to herself.

"Soon," I said as I turned and walked away.

* * *

About fifteen minutes later, I called Connie on her cell phone. "Hey, this is Tom," I announced.

"Oh, hi. Was there something you forgot to tell me at the courthouse?" she asked.

"No. This isn't about your divorce case. Since the first day you walked into my office, I've thought that you're a wonderful woman and a beautiful lady and I know you've probably got a line of guys waiting to take you out, and it's kind of late to be asking but, would you like to go out to dinner tomorrow night?" I asked.

"Can I think about it?" she asked. Obviously, I thought, she wanted me to feel what I had made her feel just a few minutes earlier.

"Okay, but don't wait too long, because Doreen just called me and said there's a line of women waiting outside my office and they all want to go to dinner with me tomorrow night."

"Tom Darnell, you're really quite full of yourself, aren't you?" Connie teased me.

"No, not really. I've just . . . I've been expecting this to happen and . . . well, cool guys aren't supposed to say these kind of things to a lady, and if you ever repeat this, you'll ruin my reputation, but . . . the truth is, I've really been looking forward to this and . . . I just want to hear you say 'yes.'"

"So . . . all I have to do to make you happy today is say 'yes?'" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm really a simple guy and that's all it takes to make me happy today."

"Okay, here it is," she said. "Yes. Pick me up at 7:00 pm, and . . . this is my first date in f******n years, so please don't take me to McDonalds for dinner."

"No, ma'am. No Golden Arches for you," I promised.

Friday, May 25, 2007

Sometimes, when I have a first date with a woman, I don't get particularly excited about it. I've had enough experience to feel comfortable with dating and all of the rituals that traditional guys go through in the courting process, but sometimes it just isn't fun. And, sometimes, I just don't have very high expectations for new prospects. You might call me a well-seasoned veteran of the dating wars.

If the next candidate-in-waiting is overly eager because she thinks she's going to marry me and get all my money and never need to work again . . . well, desperate women can do desperate things, and quite often they will ignore the three-date rule. If that's the way they are, and they are willing to plan and manipulate to try to take advantage of me, and if they are at least reasonably attractive . . . I let them play their game. I get a few drinks in them and I take them back to their apartment - always back to their place and never to mine - and we have down-and-dirty, hot, a****l sex. I'm talking about screwing her until her eyes pop out and she begs me to stop. I'm talking about fucking her so hard that it hurts for her to walk the next day. I cum in her mouth, I cum in her pussy, and anywhere else that she lets me. I never do anything to a lady against her will and of course I never do anything by use or threat of force, but . . . I don't really care if she likes it or has fun; if she doesn't respect me, why should I respect her? I'm not a disrespectful chauvinist pig or whatever women call men who are selfish users, but what I do isn't any more disrespectful than what they're trying to do to me. If they think they can take advantage of me, they don't deserve to be respected, so the only thing left is the basic satisfaction of primal needs . . . so I fuck them good and then I never call them again. Those aren't the kind of women that I want for a long-term relationship and I give them no more, and no less, than what they deserve.

I have dated a number of women who did not fit that description, and I really don't have a jaded opinion of the opposite gender. I love women. I love good women. I want a good woman. I just don't approach a first date with any expectations.

However, Connie was so different; she had my attention from the first time I met her. She was the polar opposite of the designing women who I had met in the past. I knew Connie well enough to know that she was a classy lady and I knew that she didn't need me for financial support. I knew that she was as sweet as orange blossom honey and I knew that she was dedicated, faithful, and loyal to the people whom she loved. Guys won't often admit it but, sometimes, we look at women and evaluate them as potential wives. Some of us really do want to settle in to a long-term relationship and we aren't just interested in notches in the bedpost. Connie would be a good catch for any guy worthy enough to hold her attention.

So . . . I was excited about this first date. I got a haircut. I had my car detailed. I made dinner reservations at my club and I made sure that we had a nice table reserved. I left work early and went home and showered. I cleaned up and made as good a showing of myself as I could. I knew I already had Connie's interest but I wanted to send a signal that I was excited about our date. I know that strategy is not covered in the guys' first book about girls, but I don't follow the book; never have, never will.

I picked her up at 7:00 pm sharp. Connie was dressed in a very attractive gold sequined dress with a bust line just low enough to make me want to see more of her feminine assets. The jewelry she wore was tasteful and not gaudy. She was wearing a perfume that I only smelled when I got close and, then, it made me want to smell more of her. It was a very sexy effect. She was like a siren calling Ulysses but this siren's song was just as powerful though much more subtle.

Connie had obviously spent some time getting herself ready for the date, not that she needed to worry about her appearance. Obviously, she also was excited about our date and she wanted me to know it. Hell, it was her first date in 14 years. I knew she was nervous and excited, and I knew that she liked me.

We started the date with dinner at the club. The food was excellent, the service was superb, the atmosphere was elegant, and my date - as I already described - was beautiful. I noticed more than a few guys stealing glances at Connie when their wives or date weren't looking. So far, it was the best date of my life and I felt like the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet to have this woman sitting at my table. Men can be Neanderthals, even men with bonus IQ points, and Connie brought out all of my a****l instincts. My woman! You can look and drool, but don't come closer and don't touch!

During dinner, I avoided "serious" conversation, meaning that neither of us talked about prior romantic relationships or her marriage. We talked about our families, where we grew up, our musical tastes, the most recent movies we had seen, and all the other "stuff" that people talk about on first dates. In addition to our physical attraction and mutual respect, Connie and I discovered that we had much in common. We both enjoyed live music and liked to attend classical music concerts as well as classic rock concerts. We both preferred comedy movies and our favorite comedian was Steve Martin. We both loved day hikes in the North Carolina mountains and we both loved a good, thick T-bone steak.

After a very pleasant and leisurely dinner, we moved to the adjoining lounge and had a few drinks while we listened to a live band playing easy listening/soft rock. When the band started playing a few slow songs, Connie asked me to dance with her.

When we got on the dance floor, there were several other couples all doing what real dancers sarcastically call "the hug and wobble." No one else was watching us and it was like one of those old movies where the guy and girl are on the dance floor and the rest of the world fades out; nothing existed except Connie, me, and the immediate moment. She placed her arms around my waist and pulled me close enough that I'm sure she could feel the boner which was beginning to form down south. However, if she felt it, she didn't say anything about it.

She placed her head on my shoulder and spoke softly. "I'm so glad it's finally over. I've been ready to move on with my life and now I'm free to do it. And you were great. Thank you."

"Connie, with most of my clients, there's a certain amount of sadness that comes with a divorce, you know, an admission that a chapter of your life was a mistake that couldn't be fixed, especially for the folks that have a c***d. But I understand the sense of relief, and . . . I have a selfish reason to be glad that it's over. It feels good standing here with your arms around me, and we wouldn't be here if you were still married, so I'm glad you're finally free."

"I've wanted you since the day we met, so the feeling's mutual," she responded.

"I want to make sure you understand something," I began. "I've been single for a while, I'm a successful attorney, and there are lots of good looking single women looking to snag somebody like me. Most of them will jump into bed on a first date if they think that will help, so . . . I don't have any problem getting laid, if that's what I want, but . . . I don't put notches in my bed post and I don't keep score; that's something I got over a long time ago. You're a beautiful woman and I'm sure I'd enjoy every second of it if we were between the sheets but . . . you just got divorced and you're probably nowhere close to ready to have a relationship. I know there's some chemistry between us, but I don't have any expectation of us having sex tonight or the next date or the date after that. I'm not saying I'm opposed to it, either. If you want to have sex, we can do that, but I hope you know that's not all I want." I was looking straight into her eyes as I spoke to her and I know that my words stuck a chord with her. I knew that she wanted more.

"What makes you think that I want to have sex with you?" she asked with a very serious look on her face. About two seconds later, I started laughing and then she started laughing. "Okay, I guess that was lame."

We both looked into each other's eyes. I felt an openness with Connie, a direct communication with nothing hidden by innuendo or concealed with ambiguity. I knew, or at least I felt, that I could reveal anything about myself and she wouldn't laugh or run away. I felt my heart unlock and I was overwhelmed with the beauty of this moment. It was at this moment that Connie stole my heart. That is precisely when it happened.

"So, there's something you need to know about . . . but don't worry, it's nothing about a sex change operation. First, everybody in the world has warned me about falling for the first guy who comes along. You know, 'just date but don't get serious,' they all say. But . . . you really impressed me the first time we met. I could tell that you're a man of integrity and that you really care about your clients but, still, at that point, I'll admit I was just flirting. Then, every time we met, you did something or said something that made me want to be with you even more. I don't want to let a good man pass by just because of what my friends tell me."

She paused briefly, then continued. "Not being able to pursue you was frustrating to me and the only release was . . . well, you jokingly told me to tend to my needs with the battery operated boyfriend - I don't know if you remember that, but I certainly do - and there were lots of times that I thought about you when . . . you know, but . . . this isn't just about sex. I've had several offers over the past six months but . . . you want to know how many notches I have in my bedpost? One, just one, the one I just divorced. I know I've been a bit forward, and unusually . . . I guess, flirtatious, but I'm not a slut, not even a high-class slut, and you wouldn't have a chance with me if I didn't have some genuine feelings for you more than just feeling, uh, horny. I want to give myself to somebody who I can trust, and I want to feel trust, and appreciation, from them. I hope that's you."

I looked down at her and brought my lips to hers. I briefly felt her lips and I thought I felt, momentarily, the tip of her tongue. It wasn't a chaste kiss but it wasn't a pull-down-your-panties-and-let's-fuck-right-here kiss, either. It was the kiss that two people share in that moment when they say to each other, "everybody else might think we're crazy but let's explore this thing together and hope we find gold."

"I just want a guy to love me the way I love him. Is that too much to ask?" Connie posed rhetorically.

"You know, I'm not in love with you Connie. I like you and I respect you and, if I spend enough time with you, I may fall in love with you. God knows that I'm in lust with you!" I said. Connie grinned. "For me . . . if I go home with you and we have sex, it won't be fucking. It's a way of saying that I trust you and I want you to trust me and I want to know that I can please you physically."

"Tom!" Connie said with some mild emphasis in her voice. "You had me at 'hello.'"

"Well, Southern girl, you can stop working your voodoo spell on me, too," I smiled. "Where's your daughter tonight?" I asked. She got a glint in her eye that told me that she understood - she understood beyond doubt - why I was asking that question.

"Spending the night at a sleepover with one of her friends. She won't be back until tomorrow afternoon."

"Very convenient! I guess you had all of this planned from the beginning!" I teased.

"Maybe," she slowly and seductively replied, "I had it planned . . . just in case."

"When I take you home, I can kiss you goodnight at the front door and walk away feeling like a very lucky guy, looking forward to our next date. But if you invite me in . . . you won't need to work anymore graveyard dirt or chicken bones or roots on me and you won't need to get me liquored up; you've already got me. I'll spend the night and I won't be sleeping on the sofa. So . . . it's your call and there's no pressure . . . really. In fact, I'll ask you for a second date right now, regardless of what happens tonight. Connie, what would you like to do for a second date?"

She thought about it for a minute and then responded, "I think I'd like for us to have breakfast together."

"How soon do you want us to have this breakfast date?" I asked.

"How about tomorrow morning?" she smiled as she responded.

"I'm not sure I can wake up that early on a Saturday morning," I cautioned her teasingly.

"Don't worry, Tom. I'll come back upstairs and wake you when breakfast is ready." The sly smile on her face told me all that I needed to know. I quickly signed the tab and we headed for the exit.

We got in my car and drove back to her house. My car has bucket seats so she couldn't slide over and get cozy with me, but we did do something that seems to be a dying art: we held hands. It wasn't a nervous, sweaty palms kind of hand holding. It was a comfortable-like-wearing-old-gloves holding of the hands. As we held hands, I thought about the dates I had when I was a teenager and how nervous I was when I attempted to hold hands with a girl for the first time. That shy little k** had vanished a long time ago.

As we got close to Connie's home, we stopped talking. I know that I was a little bit nervous about the evening. Men who are concerned about their partners always experience a bit of performance anxiety before the first time with a lady. Will I be good enough? Am I big enough? Will I make her cum? Will I make her feel satisfied? The last few minutes of our ride, there was no conversation as I was lost in thought.

As I pulled into her driveway, I gently squeezed her hand to reassure her. She looked at me and smiled. "You seem to have been lost in your thoughts. Would you care to share them?" she asked.

I was afraid that she might think she wasn't good enough to hold my attention, so I decided on what some men would evaluate as a risky strategy. I told her the truth.

"I was thinking about being in your bedroom, getting naked with each other, being intimate and close and . . . I was thinking about whether I would make you feel satisfied. You see, despite what women think they know about men, we actually have some bedroom insecurities, too. It would be nice to know - now - that, tomorrow morning, you'll feel glad that you invited me into your bed."

"Tom, very few men would admit to having those feelings but I bet you make me cum like a party girl at a gang bang!" she joked with me. That was certainly not the response which I had expected.

I laughed. "You are a different kind of woman, Connie. You seem so - classy - and then, every now and then, these naughty-little-girl comments sneak out and . . . holy fuck, I'm so hard for you!"

I parked and opened the car door for her, then offered her my hand to assist her in getting out of the car. I know what good manners are because (you may not believe this) I learned them when I was in a fraternity in college. It's true, though that it not what most people think about fraternities. Those lessons have served me well, because good manners and chivalrous behavior always impress truly good women.

When we got to her front door, we stopped for her to find her key. She put the key in the lock and turned it without opening the door. She turned to me and extended her hand as if she was going to offer me a handshake instead of a goodnight kiss.

I looked down at her hand and then back up at her eyes. "That wasn't very convincing," I said as I moved my lips towards hers. As soon as we connected, her mouth was open and her tongue was probing. I matched her ardor as I thrust my tongue into her mouth. My right hand was on her back and I slid it down to her ass and pulled her body to mine in a tight embrace. My right leg was extended down between her legs and her crotch was against my upper thigh.

I whispered into her ear. "I want you. I want to make love with you. I want to be inside you. I want to hear you cum. You've been getting me aroused since the moment I first got here, and now I'm an a****l, an a****l that needs to be inside you . . . real bad."

"Let's go in before the neighbors report us to the morals board," she quipped, "then we can be real bad . . . or real good . . . or both."

"The sooner, the better," I said.

She opened the door and then locked it behind us after we had entered.

"I don't need another drink; do you?" she asked.

I shook my head in a negative response.

"I'll give you the grand tour of the chateau tomorrow, okay?" she asked in a way that told me it wasn't really a question.

"Just lead me to your bedroom," I said.

She took my hand and led me through a foyer and family room, through a hallway, and then into her bedroom.

"I hope you don't mind but I usually sleep naked," she said coyly.

"That'll work out just fine, because . . . I was planning on getting you naked and . . . I didn't bring any pajamas with me," I explained rather innocently.

"Well, then, let me get you ready for bed," Connie suggested.

Without waiting for a response, she removed my jacket and then my tie. She unbuckled by belt and unfastened my pants, letting them drop to the floor. She knelt down and untied my shoes, loosened them and pulled them from my feet. She slipped the socks from my feet and tossed my pants aside.

Then she stood, unbuttoned my long-sleeved white shirt and pulled it away from my torso. Next was my t-shirt and it was gone quickly. I was standing before this goddess wearing nothing but my boxers and my excitement was obvious; my member was standing up and saluting Connie for a job well done.

"Now it's my turn," I said with a smile.

"Okay, but . . . well, first, you're going to be only the third guy in my life to see me naked. I didn't have sex with the first one and the second guy decided that what I've got isn't enough, so he divorced me, and . . . well, it's just, I know how guys are about boobs, and . . . mine really aren't that big, and I hope that you won't . . ."

I quickly placed the tip of my finger to her lips to suggest that she needed to end her sentence right there. "Don't you even say it. Every guy does not want a girl with humongous watermelons on her chest. I haven't seen you naked . . . yet, but I've seen you in enough different clothes to guess that you are probably a 34A, and . . ."

"How'd you know?" she asked.

"Lucky guess. Listen, that last guy messed you up if you're worried about how you look, 'cause you're beautiful. Out on that dance floor tonight, when we were slow dancing, I felt your boobs rubbing against my chest, and it was driving me crazy. Okay, I know your boobs aren't big and we both know it but, personally, I can't stand big tits and I'm so glad you don't have massive mammaries. It took a lot of self-control for me to not rip off your dress and m***** your boobs right there on the dance floor and I'm more than ready to see them, and lick them, and suck on them, and, as far as making disclosures, you have no idea how big my . . . unit is, but . . . it's not humongous, either. It's about 5½ inches when I'm hard and it shrivels up when it's not in use, so if you're looking for King Kong's Ding Dong . . ."

"Tom, 5½ inches is plenty enough and I'm already wet thinking about you being inside me, so let's stop talking," she suggested.

"Good idea," I responded. "Great idea. Now, turn around."

She turned to face away from me and I reached up to unhook the clasp at the top of her dress. As soon as I had that done, I grabbed the zipper tab and lowered it to below her waist, exposing the back of her white silk panties. I had expected a slip but there was none. I pushed the dress off of her shoulders and she did that little shimmy that women do, allowing her dress to fall to the floor.

Connie was standing, facing away from me, wearing just her bikini-style panties and bra. They were a matching set, of course, and I felt the elephant man getting even harder as I basked in the beauty of this woman.

I put my arms around her and held her tightly to me. My erection was pressed into the fabric on the back of her panties and I could feel her butt cheeks squeezing against me. I whispered into her ear, "You're the kind of woman who could make a good man look forward to coming home every night."

"Make love to me, Tom. Fill me up and make me cum," she answered. I kissed her at the base of her neck while I brought my hands up to cup both of her bra-covered tits. I could feel her hardened nipples through the fabric of their enclosure. The thought that I would soon be sucking on those beautiful little boobs added to the stiffness of my zapper unit.

"You've already got me harder than Chinese arithmetic," I said in a quiet, desperate, longing voice.

She immediately laughed, signaling that I had achieved the desired effect. I knew that she was nervous about what we were doing and I suspected a laugh would help ease some of her tension.

As I massaged her cute little boobs through the silky fabric of her bra, I said, "Actually, you have me much harder than Chinese fucking arithmetic. You're the sexiest, most beautiful woman I've ever held in my arms."

I released my hold on her and took a step back. I reached up and unfastened her bra but I left it in place.

"If you're nervous about this, you decide when to pul