Just in the Neighborhood

I give her a big sigh. "Of course. Always."

She pounces, and I am not ready.

"Ooooh boy, Kiki-bear, okay, okay, be gentle. I'm old and I'm sore."

That puts her off balance again -- emotionally, that is. I'm the one who's in trouble physically. She releases me, and her face is marred by concern. "But you said..."

"Kiki. Bear," I say with emphasis. "I'm not lying to you. I'm sore. It was a hell of a day. If I can't give you one big hug, maybe two will work instead?"

She nods quickly and moves back in. She's gentler this time; thank the Lord. I shower her with kisses. I feel some tension leaving her body with every one.

"I love you, Daddy," she mumbles into my chest.

"I love you, too, sweetheart," I reply. "I need to make a pit stop, and then I'll meet you at the dinner table."

"Okay, Daddy!" She lets me go, and I make a beeline for the downstairs bathroom.

I only take two pills; I took three of them twice during the work day. This brings me up to eleven. I wash up, and splash cold water on my face. It even hurts to bend down nearer to the faucet.

There's an open beer waiting for me next to my plate of food -- rosemary chicken with tiny roasted potatoes and cinnamon-glazed carrots. I raise the bottle in a toast to Carla, master chef and anticipator of needs. She raises hers. It's unusual for her to have one, but hardly a surprise this evening. Erika seems oblivious; she raises her glass of sports drink. It's a frosty, radioactive blue color. I don't ask. She got onto the varsity team, didn't she? She can manage her own diet.

"So," I say, "Day One. How's it going?" It's not a great toast, but it's what we all know we're going to be talking about. We lower our bottles and glasses and take the obligatory first sip.

"Well," Carla says, "I drove her to school early enough so she could do laps to substitute for running there. Erika will have to take it from there."

"Uhhhh," Erika says. "I... went to classes? I had a math quiz? I did some homework during free period? It's kind of a humdrum routine."

"Did you see Sophie?" I ask.

"Well, yeah, Dad," she says. "We have two classes together -- and, yes, we sat next to each other in the library during free period."

"Okay," I say, walking the tightrope between credulity and warning. "I just hope we don't get any phone calls."

"You won't, Dad," she says. "I'm not going to do anything to screw up college or track. Kicking you off sports and clubs is like the first thing they do if you get in trouble."

I nod, and sip my beer. "Okay then. That's good to hear."

"Sweetie," Carla chimes in, "do the kids at school... know?"

Erika blushes a little, then shrugs. "It's not official, but I think some of them have guessed already."

"Nobody's giving you any trouble, are they?" I ask. I can hear the shift in my voice; it happened automatically. With a look, I can tell Erika heard it, too. It's my protective, Papa Bear voice. Usually, she loves it and hates it at the same time. Tonight, it seems like she just loves it.

"No, Daddy," she says. "Most of the kids are cool -- well, you know, about that. They're still stupid teenagers, but that's whatever."

"Honey," Carla says, "I did tell Erika this morning that she can tell people she's grounded for breaking curfew too many times."

I nod. "That's good." It's a white lie, and I trust Erika not to throw it in our faces. "I imagine you not having your usual phone is going to raise questions."

Erika nods. "Oh yeah. It sure did. Instantly." She doesn't sound all that upset. Is that weird?

I give one more deep, wise Dad-murmur, then tuck into my plate of food. It's delicious, as always. Carla works wonders with spices. There's a lull in the conversation; we do all need to eat.

"So how are the track girls?" I ask after my plate is half empty. "Haven't heard a peep about them. Let me see... Marcy, Darcy, Stacy, Trish."

"Trish moved away," Erika says. "Steph -- uh, Ms. Brown sold her house -- well, her mom's house. Stacy and Darcy didn't make varsity. Marcy did, so I see her more often. There's a new girl, Yvette -- well, new to track, and she made varsity right away, which is awesome. I'm sure you'll see some of them around -- well, you know."

I nod again. "After the terrible two weeks of terribly tyrannical punishment."

Erika rolls her eyes. "Daddy, it's okay."

I glance at Carla and raise an eyebrow. She shrugs, unperturbed, and sips at her beer.

"'Okay?'" I echo.

Erika sets down her silverware and rolls her eyes again. "Well, yeah, it sucks, Daddy. It sucks, but I get it. I was shi -- I screwed up. Of course I'm going to miss hanging out with Sophie, but it's okay. I messed up, I'm getting punished, and then..."

The two of us get quiet. I look to my wife again. She's radiating sympathy towards both of us.

"Yes, we are going to have to talk about 'after,'" Carla says. "It is quite the fraught situation."

"That is one word for it," I agree. "I honestly don't know what to do -- or even how to talk about it."

"Yeah," Erika says. "That's why I hid it from you guys. It's not like I thought you were going to flip out that I was dating a girl. I just knew that once you knew, it was going to be weird, and I wasn't going to get to... hang out with Sophie. Like that. Anymore. At least not without sneaking around and feeling even guiltier."

"You took advantage of Stephanie -- Ms. Brown," I say.

Erika slumps her shoulders and nods. "Yeah, we did. I did."

I take another sip of beer and sigh. "Oh, Kiki-bear. Some girls your age are already in college, doing god-knows-what." The ibuprofen is kicking in, and the alcohol is helping. That's something. I feel like I probably would've been getting a headache right about now otherwise.

"And some of them are doing god-knows-what while keeping their grades up and being responsible," Carla says. "Lots of white lies between parents and college kids. Your father and I would know a little bit about that -- you know, because of some of our friends back then."

"But not anything to do with Hank," Erika says. She picks up her fork and focuses intently on her plate before I can stare her down.

"Do you know something?" I ask.

She shakes her head, and refuses to talk with her mouth full, because that would be rude. She is a little bit crafty.

"Mmmm," I say. "Well then."

"Oh!" Carla says. "I went to check out that gym today!"

"Oh?" I ask. "And?"

"It's really nice. Intimidating, even. Apparently I get two hours a week with a personal trainer, plus I can do my own thing whenever I want. Stephanie did all the paperwork on her end, so I just had to give them a little information to get my guest ID."

"That's so cool, Mom," Erika says. "Did you try anything today?"

Carla shoots me a sly look. "You know, I was a little achy today, honey, so I just took the tour and got some brochures. But I'm definitely going to try to go at least twice a week to start. Oh, and, I ran into Maura Clifton, of all people."

Just for context, it doesn't feel great when your wife, who was unusually horny the night before, suddenly mentions the local area's most famous divorce lawyer, whose specialty is nailing shitty husbands to the wall.

"Oh?" That's all I'm willing to risk.

Carla gives me a look. "Oh, come on, Benji. Honestly. We talked for ten seconds. She was on the stair machine. She said the gym is great. That was it. No hunting for business."

"I think she knows Sophie's mom, actually," Erika says. "I think they work together sometimes -- or refer clients? I don't know. Sophie sounded like she knew a lot about it."

"So, you'll be rubbing elbows with local celebrities and powerful people while you exercise," I joke. "How do we turn that into a money maker?"

"Guess I'll have to work on my elevator pitch for angel investors," Carla says. "Well, StairMaster pitches, I suppose."

"For what, though?" I ask with goofy, fake intensity.

"To be determined. Maybe I'll start baking cookies again. We can sell them right there next to the weigh-in scales."

"Wow, okay, Satan," Erika says. Carla laughs.

At the mention of cooking and food, I laugh, too, suddenly remembering my awkward day at work. "Well, on the subject of gyms, I asked around at work today, since apparently I'm not getting into the special club. Charlie, with a fifty-pound beer gut, told me that gyms are cults, and that I should just 'juice' and 'look into HGH' and buy some weights to lift at home."

Erika snorts, then gives me a quizzical look. "Wait... not really, though, right?"

"Oh, it takes all kinds, honey," I reply. "That got me roped into a discussion about food. The general non-consensus after lunch was that either fish, milk, or beans are going to turn me gay, render me impotent, and-or give me boobs. Vegetables are a conspiracy related to illegal immigration somehow, and pesticides used to be fine, but now the new ones that they claim are safe are actually... well, making us gay and impotent, too, I suppose. The details got fuzzy at certain points."

"Okay, Dad, you're screwing with us," Erika says. "That's like... something from the internet. Like one of the weird places on the internet."

"That you'd know about how, exactly?"

It doesn't faze her. "Because they're in the regular news every day, now." Well, she's got me there.

"It's a plant, honey. I'm in management. The guys down in the trenches are a very... eclectic bunch."

"We used to have some of them over for dinners," Carla says wryly. "We don't anymore. Your father might be pulling our legs, but from what I remember, I honestly can't tell."

"Wow, okay," Erika says. "But anyway, Dad... why don't we just do something? You know, the two of us?"

"Hmmm?"

She shrugs. "You could run. You know, with me. I could be like your personal trainer and running buddy, if you wanted. You guys do have to keep an eye on me for the next two weeks, and I have to run."

"And I wouldn't slow you down?"

She shrugs, and gives me the look. I nod, giving her permission to tell the truth.

"You would at first, but it's okay. We don't go all-out every day. Three or four days a week we just make sure the heart rate gets up and stays up."

I slap the table lightly with my palm. "You know what? Let's do it."

Carla lightly claps her hands a few times. "Ooh, this is exciting. Ben, I think this will be really good for us -- you."

Oh, that was one hell of an "us." Guess we might not be getting divorced after all.

We finish dinner, and I cock my head towards the kitchen, letting our prisoner know she's got a new chore to do. How poetic that she volunteered twice when Sophie was over. I walk in after her.

"Daddy?" she asks.

"Wash, or dry and sort?" I ask. "I have no preference."

"Oh!" she says happily. "Okay. That's cool. Ummmm... I'll scrub tonight. Maybe we'll switch off."

"Okay," I say, motioning broadly to the sink. "You get started, and I'll grab a towel."

Just then, though, Carla walks in. She puts her hands on her hips. I look over, and almost do a double take. Up top, she's wearing a knit turtleneck, which is perfectly normal for this time of year. Down below, though, she's wearing black leggings. That's new, and I am liking it.

"I'm going to be all alone in the TV room?" she pouts. "How is that fair?"

"It's only for a little while, honey," I tell her, matching her fake pouting with fake sympathy. I'm also drinking in the sight of her. She notices. We trade looks. It feels naughty.

"Oh, come on, Daddy!" Erika says. "Let me do it. Go be with Mom. I'll be in in twenty or thirty minutes, tops."

"She is being punished, dear," Carla says.

I don't argue anymore. I walk up behind Erika, who's already by the sink. I give her shoulders a quick squeeze and kiss her on her head. Her medium-length chestnut hair is the perfect blend of Carla's and mine. "Thanks, Kiki-bear."

"Of course, Daddy," she says. "Love you."

"Love you, too."

Carla clears her throat theatrically.

"Love you, Mom," Erika says. "Thanks for dinner."

"Love you, 'Mom,'" I echo dumbly. "Dinner was delicious."

Carla and I retreat to the big sofa and settle in.

"Nine," she says in a low voice.

"Eleven," I counter. There's a million terrible jokes we could tell, but we don't. We know it's about the ibuprofen.

Carla flips on the TV, picks something seemingly at random, and keeps the volume low.

"We don't want her to catch us," she says. "Gotta make sure we can hear those pots and pans."

Before I can ask her what she means, her hand is on my crotch, and she's moving in for a kiss. Not to be outdone, I grab hold of her thigh and meet her in the middle. There's a hint of surprise when our lips touch; she thought she'd seized the upper hand. My first squeeze on her leg makes her jump a little, but then she relaxes into it. I can feel her flesh underneath those black leggings. It's completely unlike fondling her through slacks, jeans, or corduroys -- and when was the last time I even did that?

"Mmmm," I hum into her.

"Mmmm," she agrees.

Our quick, sneaky makeout session consists of slow, languid kisses. There's not a lot of tongue; we're too busy glancing towards the kitchen over and over, and playing little games of chicken with our naughty, wandering hands.

"So," I say after another soft, wet kiss, "I love this. What's the occasion?"

She smiles. "No occasion," she says. "I got some good advice recently."

"Really."

"Mmmm. I was reminded that I'm married to one of the best men in town, who's a great dad, and who's still quite sexy. He just needs to do a little cardio to get back into the swing of things."

"And did this advice come from a certain rock star realtor? Or, wait -- did the divorce lawyer do some digging and find herself stunned by my pristine record?"

Carla shrugs coyly and moves in for another kiss. It's just as good as the last one.

"Honey," I say, "I hope you don't think --"

"Shhh," she says, lowering her voice even further, until she's just about mouthing the words. "Think about last night." She squeezes the outline of my cock for emphasis. "Did that feel like obligation sex to you? Guilt sex? Or did it feel like hot sex? Hot, married sex?"

She makes an excellent point.

"You came twice," I whisper.

"I came twice," she agrees with a silly, squinty smile.

My hand creeps up her thigh. Her beautiful hazel eyes open a bit, but remain hooded. She bites her lip. I haven't seen a look like it in ages.

"She might catch us," she says, doing a horrible job of pretending to care.

"Turnabout's fair play," I say, and I claim another kiss while wriggling my fingers near the spot where her thigh and pelvis meet. She's hot; I can feel it. What I can't feel is any panties below her leggings. I find her eyes and try to ask her the question.

She squirms -- in a good way -- and moves in to whisper. "Of course I'm wearing some," she says quietly. "Silly boy. You're just supposed to wear thongs so there's no visible panty line."

My nostrils flare and my eyes flash. She bites her lip again. I try to scoot even closer, even though our legs are touching. She pushes back against me, letting me know she wants the same logistically impossible thing. The pots, pans, and running water behind us provide reassurance as we keep up our scandalous TV-room rendezvous. Since I'm not a horny teenager anymore, there's no risk I'm going to shoot off in my pants. Carla, to my amazement, might be a different story. My naughty hand keeps getting naughtier, and she makes no move to stop it. Her far leg separates. Before long, I'm fully cupping her sex, and finally feeling those skimpy panties she's wearing. My fingers tease. Her hips start rocking ever-so-slightly, and her ample butt slides along the fabric of the couch.

"She's going to be done soon," Carla whispers, "but we'll continue this 'discussion' tonight."

"God damn right we will," I whisper in her ear. I nip at her lobe.

She flinches. "You know I hate that," she lies.

"Right," I say, pretending to remember something. "Lower."

I hunch down, lean in, and find her neck. I kiss her there, and she can't pretend. Her eyes close almost all the way, and her smile is so beautiful I have to lift up and kiss her cheek.

She pats my cock. I pat her pussy. We both adjust ourselves, tilt away from each other, and put on the well-worn facade of a loving, but boring, married couple. Two days ago, it wasn't even a facade. It was just who we were. I have no idea what changed -- well, I have no idea what changed that could have anything to do with why my wife is suddenly interested in sex again.

Erika comes in a few minutes later and plops down next to Carla on the opposite side. Carla brings her in with her left arm. I yawn theatrically and stretch my arm around Carla. My hand finds her shoulder, and Erika's head. Carla tuts and chuckles, and then tries to find something worth watching on TV. She fails. Nobody cares. We watch total garbage as a family.

*******

At this point, I'm at a complete loss. The lights are on in our bedroom, I'm naked on our bed, and Carla's turtleneck is already off. She's wearing a fancy bra I didn't even know she owned. It's black, with full coverage over her luscious pair, but each cup is cut diagonally, with lace on the top. It dares you to squint and make out each areola and nipple.

Carla isn't willowy or trim; she never was, but, well, you know what I'm trying to tell you. She has womanly, motherly curves. Her belly is soft. Her arms are, too. She's beautiful to me. She's my wife: her body today, yes, but also all of my memories, her place in our family and home, our love, our trust, and, suddenly, our passion, after so many years of it lying dormant.

Let's add to that her newfound confidence, because the woman before me isn't ashamed of her curves or her softness. She's pretending to be shy -- just a little -- but she's having fun showing off for me. Her fingers are hooked into her leggings, and she's teasing me with little flashes of the waistband of her thong -- also black and lacy, from what little of it I've seen so far.

"Just the leggings, first, baby," I tell her. I'm propped up on pillows and my cock is in my hand. I trimmed my pubes a bit, which made me feel silly at the time, but I'm not thinking about it anymore. After last night and this evening, I'm not letting disbelief or surprise stop me for a single second. I'm rolling with everything. My cock's doing better than it did last night; maybe it appreciated the shave and haircut.

Carla does a half turn. She starts swaying her hips; it's hypnotic. The black leggings slide down, revealing the lacy waistband again, then her plump, pale ass. Parts of it push out as the fabric slides down. The thick 'V' of the thong's black fabric tapers to a thin strand, and then that strand disappears into her long crack.

I moan encouragement. She bends at the waist as much as she can to keep lowering the leggings; it's not much, but I sure as hell couldn't do any better. It's the effort that matters -- and the fact that I love seeing her bent over.

When she unbends, she does a silly little dance to get the leggings down to her feet, and then off and away. It's a cute shimmy with some footwork that makes her ass and thighs jiggle. It's a great show; my cock agrees. It's swollen to more than half mast in my hand, and I'm giving light, friendly attention, letting it know it can take its time.

"Give me the front again, baby," I tell her.

Her shoulders hunch a little. Her arms come in, criss-crossing near her breasts. She's suddenly shy -- and not playing, I don't think.

"It's a little..." she says. "Well. Unkempt. For the set."

I understand. Her full bush has far more coverage than her risque underwear. "Well, you could always bend over for me, again, baby," I say. "You could slide those sexy undies down your legs and present yourself to your man."