Gerry's Gift

And there were others for various life events. She knew she couldn't be there in person, so she did the best she could. I'd get mad that I didn't have my mother, or feel sorry for myself, but I treasured that journal, hearing her voice in my head and taking strength again.

One of the envelopes was labeled "Uncle M.," and the journal told me that one was for a time when I was hurting, needing a confidante, and when my Dad wouldn't do.

I reached that time when I was twelve. The anti-war movement was virulent, and I was ostracized at school for having a father in the military. My best friend casually parroted the things she heard at home, referring to our soldiers as if they were murderers and baby-killers, and began to distance herself from me.

My father was in Viet Nam at the time, and I was living with my Aunt Connie and her husband. They were nice, but stuffy and overprotective.

I needed my Dad, but I also knew that he would become so furious at those who were hurting me that he would not focus on comforting me for a while - he was super a making me feel loved except when someone threatened or hurt me. So I opened the "Uncle M." envelope. I couldn't have been more surprised.

The Uncle M. that Mom referred to was Buddy! Buddy was a friend of my Mom and Dad from before I was born. He was often hanging around the house, and I liked him because he didn't talk down to me.

But he knew I didn't like my name, then, anyway. Mom and Dad had adopted that old Virginia custom of giving their child a last name as a first name, and mine was Giradeau. Giradeau Devereux. Even my nickname, Gerry, produced gender confusion.

Of course, his solution was no clearer on that point... he called me Pip, short for pipsqueak.

He was in the Navy, like my father, and would be gone to sea for months at a time, only to reappear as if he had never left. He was a familiar friend, but nothing that special to me.

He was special to Mom, though. Her letter explained that she sometimes needed someone to talk to about things she couldn't discuss with my Dad. Calling him "Uncle Miles" was her code to him that what she wanted to talk about was secret and emotionally important to her.

She trusted him absolutely with Uncle Miles matters. She told me that I could trust him too. Not only to keep my confidences, but also not to judge. She warned me that he didn't refrain from giving advice, and even mentioned a tendency to lecture, but she assured me that he would be there for me no matter what I ultimately decided to do.

She expressly told me that he wouldn't tell Dad anything, short of preventing me from committing suicide. It was quite a long, and obviously loving story, with anecdotes and warmth radiating from her words. I was desperate enough to try.

He was taken aback the first time I asked to speak to Uncle Miles. Then he laughed and said, "Why so formal, all of sudden? Am I getting too old for you, Pip?"

When I told him Mom had said to ask for Uncle Miles, his face changed. He looked lost and sad for a moment. I handed him Mom's letter, and his eyes watered as he read it.

Then he visibly drew himself together and said to me, "Uncle Miles it is, sweetheart. Talk to me."

Little did he know what he was getting himself into. Among other things, after comforting me in that initial crisis, he got to field my questions about sex, and making out with boys, and crushes and going steady - all things I knew my Dad didn't want to think about, much less talk about to his little girl.

And it was Uncle Miles who took me to the clinic to get the Pill when I told him I was ready, even though he thought I was too young at fifteen. He saw me through first love and first heartache. He helped me build the character to avoid the drug culture prevalent in college in my day, without making me a prig or a prude.

And, to the best of my knowledge, he never disclosed any Uncle Miles confidences to my Dad. I believe I would have turned out okay without him, but it would have been much harder. I loved him dearly.

*****

As I gazed out the window of the Church at Buddy, who was smiling and gesturing as he talked to Aunt Connie, I wondered who this familiar man really was. Buddy a commando? Why had he never told me? Why had Daddy never told me?

Oh, I knew why they never told me, but it still rankled that they hadn't.

When I turned back, Dondi was gone, silently and completely, just like so many times before at our house.

Naturally, I tried to thank Buddy for taking care of Dad, as well as for all he had done for me. When I told him what Dondi had said, he would have none of it.

"Me a SEAL?" He laughed heartily and patted the bulge of a more than incipient belly.

"Sorry, Sugar, but your friend must have mistaken me for someone else. I was just a drone at a desk in the Pentagon on CNO's staff. The Navy has the records to prove it. Besides, what would I be doing in Iraq? No ships to drive in the desert. You've seen my uniform. Not a combat ribbon on it.

But I wouldn't talk about it if I were you. If it were true, and it does sound like something your father would have done, Mr. Solomon could get in deep trouble for revealing classified information. Just be proud of your father and keep it to yourself."

Then he walked away, with a limp that favored his right hip. Arthritis, he said.

I let it go at the time, but I knew Dondi well enough to know he was not just telling a sea story. And I think I know what Buddy was doing there.

I remember Dad commenting on the extraordinarily low losses that first night. The Apache helicopters and the Wild Weasel fighters got the credit for knocking out Iraqi defenses in advance of the strike, but their losses were amazingly low as well.

Buddy did classified work with computers in his staff jobs, and he was old enough to remember how to use the computers that used eight inch diskettes.

I think he was chosen because the Iraqi command and communications computers were too old for any of the young hotshots to have grown up on, and there was no time to teach them. So I think the Service picked a forty-odd year old staff puke to insert the virus or worm or whatever to spread through the forward Iraqi antiaircraft control network.

I think a lot of families have something to thank Buddy for, but whether that is true or not, I knew I needed to thank him for all that he had done for me, and for Dad. And I knew how I wanted to thank him. Just like my mother had.

I had been shocked at fourteen when I had read the entry in Mom's journal. Buddy had received orders to a ship on Yankee Station off Viet Nam, and Mom had given him a warrior's send off. In her bed. And Dad had helped.

I couldn't believe it at the time. My parents, classic examples of conventionality during my youth, letting another man borrow the marital bed? How could they, if they loved each other?

Dad willingly letting himself be cuckolded? Where was his pride?

To that point, I had never even thought of my parents as having sex with each other, despite the obvious fact of my existence. This revelation was perplexing, to say the least. It was the one thing I never felt comfortable about asking Buddy.

Later, as an adult, I began to understand. Buddy had been a very important part of Mom's life, just as he was in mine. I now knew how rare it was to have such a confidante, and how deep the feelings I developed had become.

Mom's journal made it clear that she felt just as deeply. Enough to entrust me to him when she knew that I would need someone I could trust completely. I understood why she wanted to thank him in the most intimate and complete way she could.

Nor was I surprised that Buddy had accepted her offer. When he was lecturing me - yeah, Mom was right about that - it became clear that he was essentially amoral.

Not immoral, mind you, but rather, amoral, as in without morals. He told me that the really smart members of a society seldom adopted its rules without thought and analysis. He professed to be governed only by ethics, and pushed me to develop my own ethical code.

I understood what he was getting at, but as a teenager, I didn't see much difference between his "ethical rules" and conventional morality. I will say that must have influenced me some, though, for it took two years before the birth control pills were put to the test. Anyway, if he could encompass the act in his ethics, no morality would stand in his way.

No, it was Daddy I was most surprised by. Mom's journal made it clear that Daddy had personally told Buddy that he was welcome - and even then, he had to struggle to get him to accept Mom's gift.

Buddy may not have had morals about sex, but as I said, he was damned strait-laced about ethics. My Dad had to argue him into bed with Mom.

Mom was two months pregnant with me, so Buddy's argument about the danger of pregnancy was moot. And a recent predeployment physical proved Buddy disease free.

Finally Dad convinced Buddy that they were serious. So, when Dad conveniently got TAD orders the next day to spend four days at Camp Lejeune, Mom and Buddy spent those days together.

Mom even wrote that Daddy got a kick out of the whole thing once he understood that there was no threat to their relationship and that her love for Buddy would never replace her love for him. In fact, Mom mentioned that Buddy stayed a week, which would have included three days after Dad returned.

And Buddy did sleep over many nights when I was young. As I grew in experience, I realized that my parents had depths I never saw at the time. But it sure didn't fit the strict Dad I knew.

Well, now it was my turn. Two years after Dad died, I accepted a proposal of marriage from a wonderful man named Michael. I intended to offer him my fidelity in marriage, so it looked like it would be soon or never with Buddy. The first hurdle - getting Michael to agree - looked daunting, for I did not want to deceive him.

That first hurdle actually proved absurdly easy. Ever so hesitantly, ever so fearful, I broached the subject at dinner shortly after I made up my mind. I was floored when my fiancé readily, almost casually, agreed to let me have a fling with Buddy. It was so easy that I was a little hurt by the lack of apparent jealousy.

Michael explained, though, "You've made me trust you. It's the foundation of our entire relationship. I trust you to avoid things that will harm what we have between us. If this will not harm us, and if it's something you need to do, do it. I'll even help, if necessary."

After a bunch of Are-you-sure's, he finally said, "I understand just how your father felt, and I approve. In fact, it is kind of exciting in a way. Stand up and let me show you."

Then he pulled my chair back, bent me over the dining table, and fucked me. It was like a bad movie. My skirt went up and then he literally ripped my panties off. My normally sensitive, oh-so-considerate lover was nowhere to be seen.

We usually make love, but this was fucking, pure and simple. I winced when he put the head of his erection in place and thrust hard, but it was reflex only. It didn't hurt. To my surprise, I was lubricated and ready.

I never come without foreplay, except that I did, and quickly. He came quickly too. And several times more that night. And several nights thereafter.

I decided to believe him that it wouldn't hurt him for me to thank Buddy Mom's way. This also provided food for thought about what our relationship would be in wedlock, but I put those thoughts aside at the time.

The next hurdle seemed even more formidable. Jackie. Not only was she my friend, but I knew my plans had absolutely no chance of success without her active approval and help.

It was true, as I said earlier, that Buddy had no sexual morals, but with his strait-laced ethics, he might as well have been a Puritan in his outward behavior. He had explained it to me when I was just embarking on my sexual explorations. That explanation would be my path through his defenses.

"Pip, I don't believe God sent word from above that this act or that position offends the sensibilities of Heaven, but most sexual acts affect other people as well as yourself. So I have made my own set of standards for myself of right and wrong, based on my own concepts of honor and courtesy. If you don't want to inflict unnecessary pain, or end up receiving it yourself, you should too."

When he explained his standards to me, I exclaimed, "But your rules sound almost exactly like what they teach us in church! Fidelity, loyalty, trust, how are your rules different?"

"The difference, Pip, is that my fidelity, for example, will be to a person, not to an abstract. In church, sex with someone other than your spouse is a sin, flat out, no matter what. If I get married and my wife promises me fidelity, it would not violate my rules for her to have sex with someone else if I approve. The way I see it, when she gives me the promise, it is mine. I can give it back, if I choose, or maybe just loan it to her temporarily. On the other hand, it would violate my rules to cheat. I hope my personal honor will never let that happen. That's the difference that I see."

I saw the difference even back then, and it helped to reconcile my feelings about Mom and Buddy. And I had set my own standards. And it wouldn't be cheating if Jackie and Michael approved.

But how do you approach a friend and say, "I want to take your husband to bed and screw his brains out." A friend in a marriage that has never shown an outward sign of anything except monogamy. I didn't know. So I decided to ease up to it.

I arranged to have lunch with Jackie in a quiet little place that served great Sangria with the food. I made sure her glass was kept full as I first told her the story Dondi had told me.

"I kind of thought it might be something like that," she mused thoughtfully. "Miles never talked about his work. I always thought it strange that he would return from a trip to do 'field tweaking of some local brasshat's command network' with bandages from chest to toe. Somehow the 'training accident' explanation never rang true."

"You've known that Miles has been my confidante all these years, Jackie, but did you know he filled the same need for my Mom?"

"Yes, Gerry. Miles told me about the relationships as soon as we got serious. He wanted to make sure I knew that he could not reveal those confidences even to me, even after we married. I was quite jealous at first, to have to share him with you, and with a ghost, but I finally realized he had enough love for all of us. After that I was just envious that you had had such a friend growing up. I didn't."

"Jackie, Miles brought my father back to me there in the Gulf, and he filled a major void in my life when I needed someone most. Next to my father and my mother, he is most responsible for who I am today. I owe him more than words can say. I don't know how to say what I want to say now, so I want you to read something in my Mother's journal before I say anything else." I handed her the journal, opened and marked, thinking "Girl, you are incoherent."

She looked remarkably calm as she read that entry, slowly sipping on her drink as she turned the pages. When she had finished, she looked up at me appraisingly. She didn't speak.

Finally I was desperate. I pleaded, "Jackie, I need to do this if you will let me. I won't go behind your back, but can you share this once? Besides, Miles won't do it unless you say he can, no matter what I want. Oh, God... I know this is crazy, but I had to try. Please don't hate me, I don't want to break you up or anything..."

"Okay."

I almost didn't hear her reply through the babbling that came from my mouth of its own volition. Suddenly, though my eyes had opened wide and my mouth had made a big round O, all of their own volition as well.

"Okay," she repeated.

"Oh, God, Jackie, are you sure? I mean I really want this, but I couldn't stand it if it would turn you against me."

"I said, 'Okay.' But you can only borrow him for a night. The rest of the time he's my husband, like always. In fact, you may have just solved my problem of what to give him for his birthday this year. It's the double nickel, and I wanted it to be special, something really big, but this will be better than Callaway irons."

She was smiling that glorious smile as she spoke, the one that lights up the room. I was so relieved I could have slid off the chair into a puddle on the floor at the slightest push. I hadn't realized how many muscles I could tense up at once until they relaxed.

Jackie became my co-conspirator. Between us we developed a plan that would make it impossible for Miles to refuse me. It was set for the night before his birthday.

Jackie had gone to Miles' boss and asked for his help. Hinting that she was cooking up some special erotic evening with her husband for his birthday, she got Miles' boss to schedule a dinner meeting that Miles was required to attend. I went to Miles' house, where Jackie and I set the stage. By 11:30 p.m., I was naked in their bed, and Jackie was at Michael's house to wait with him.

I didn't have to wait long before I heard Miles come in. I heard him rip open the envelope that had been taped to the outside of the front door, and then I heard his footsteps across the hard floor, then muffled by the rug in the den.

Shortly thereafter, I heard Jackie's voice coming from the TV. As instructed, he was watching the videotape Jackie and I had recorded earlier that evening. She had done a strip tease while she made the tape, and I visualized what I had seen in the camcorder's little display as I listened to her talk.

"Miles, honey, tonight you will have a treat like never before, provided you follow instructions. Screw up and you get nothing... at least tonight you get nothing... but do it right and you won't regret it."

Her voice took on a more commanding tone, "First, strip. Right here in the Den. Just like I am doing now. I want you naked, not a stitch, and I want you hard. There's some lubricant on the coffee table. Put some on your hands and stroke it on. Keep going until you are fully erect! But don't you dare come."

She was sounding coy, flirting now. I knew she was naked on the tape, except for her panties. She was toying with them, making a production of taking them off as she spoke, "Just maintenance strokes now, just keep it up. In fact, keep it up until midnight. For your birthday, you are getting a very special present. You'll be taking a special virginity. Your virgin sacrifice will be on our bed, on the edge, poised just like this at midnight." By now she had taken off the panties, and was on her elbows and knees on the floor, with her head down.

"On the bed, I think you will find it a convenient height for you to stand behind. But you will have to feel for it, because the room will be dark, the hall light will be off, and you will be wearing my black silk scarf as a blindfold. You can wait until just outside the bedroom door to put it on, but you'd better be wearing it when you come in. I really want you to have this gift, but the embarrassment would be too great, presenting one's butt, as it were, if you could see. Put it in the regular place first for a couple of strokes, and then do it for real. Straight in, but slowly. Don't dawdle or second thoughts might win out. On the other hand, do it well, and maybe it will happen again. Now I'll be getting myself in the mood for the rest of this tape. I don't know exactly when you'll get home, so I'll give you something to watch until midnight."

Too bad for him. It was almost midnight. He would only get to see the beginning of Jackie's session of self-pleasuring. He'd be in the bedroom before she came the first time.

I put some lubricant where it was needed while waiting out the last long minutes. Having done my stretches before the big event, using my fingers this time, I was wet and as ready as I could be. Had been for hours, it seemed.