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Lake Siren


I've lived on a lake almost my entire life. My earliest memories were when my family lived on Lake Texoma, in Texas of course, and I would swim almost every day of the year. To broaden my horizons for non-warm weather venues I got my first wet suit when I was eight and my first dry suit when I was twelve, so I swam almost all year round wherever my family was.

My family moved several times when I was growing up, but always ended up on a lake, in California, Georgia, and Arkansas. My summers when I was fifteen to nineteen were at Lake George in upstate New York, one of the cleanest lakes in the world, where I swam at least half a mile (and normally two miles) every single day, and kayaked, water skied, and/or sailed almost every day -- at least when I wasn't getting certifications of one type or another. Early in life I got a Red Cross Life Saving Certification and when I was 19-20 got an EMT-Basic Certification (110 hours of class and hands-on study) even though I never had any intention of working as an EMT

As a result of genetics from my mother's side of the family (her body has been a 10 virtually her entire life) and because I was always in shape due to swimming, modern dance, and weight training, I had a lofty place in Lake George lore -- At eighteen years old I was considered by most of the male population that knew me as having the best bikini body on the lake.

While I didn't consider myself that hot, and in fact thought that two or three other women that I had seen on the lake had better bikini bodies, I also saw no reason to have false humility. While I never promoted myself, I didn't refuse recognition either when the owner of the most popular restaurant (he also owned the largest boat rental establishment) on the lake gave me a "Best Bikini Body" ["BBB"] T-shirt, with the shape of Lake George, on it, and my name -- Amy Bryant -- in small letters on the back at the neck. I never wore the T-shirt in public, but I often did wear it to bed.

Even though I didn't flaunt it, an article about it did appear in the local newspaper. After that I was not popular with the women at Lake George; I was with the men.


I met my future husband Brett at Lake George the summer that I was nineteen. It was obvious that he had found out who I was from some of his friends, and that he agreed that my nickname of "BBB" was accurate. Brett is five inches (13 cm) taller than my five foot nine inch (1.75 meters) height, handsome with a shock of wavy brown hair and a warm and friendly smile, and an athletic body. I played hard to get, but he was persistent. I always was really picky about sex partners, but he convinced me that he was after a relationship, and we fucked a couple of times before the summer was out.

One thing that Brett really had going for him was that he liked to eat pussy, a quality that I really admire in a man. After eating me to two orgasms he could have been a bad fuck and I still would have enjoyed it -- but his cock had an optimum aspect ratio, and was nice and girthy, and although he wasn't real experienced he had a great deal of passion and desire to please; so his cock work was almost as rewarding and enjoyable for me as his tongue and finger work had been.

Despite his representation that he was after a relationship, I thought that my summer months with Brett might only be a fling but he apparently was really into me. I don't know how he did it, because it isn't easy to do, but by the second quarter of my sophomore year at Northwestern University (obviously on a lake -- Lake Michigan) where I was studying journalism he had transferred to Northwestern's medical school. While I thought that he was smart I found out later that he was not just smart but also extraordinarily intellectual and academic, hence his ability to transfer.

While I didn't date Brett exclusively my sophomore and junior years -- much to his dismay -- I did agree to be exclusive my senior year. By that time I had sampled enough other guys to know that there was something special about him; in fact, I probably was in love with him. I graduated journalism school at the same time that he graduated medical school. That summer we got married -- on a lake, of course with a reception that featured swimming (including skinny dipping by some guests; how scandalous, ha, ha) -- and started our life together.

We couldn't afford to live on a lake when we first got married, but we lived within five miles of Lake Michigan in the Chicago area and I got in swims several times a week. As first an intern, and then a resident, at a local hospital, Brett had to work hard. I never begrudged his need to spend long hours because I knew that he really loved medicine and it was for our future financial stability. Also, I had plenty to keep me busy, including leisurely getting my Masters' degree in journalism from Northwestern while I pursued various jobs and activities.

While I didn't go to work as an employee for a magazine, newspaper, television station, or other conventional workplace for a journalist, I did work in the field. I became a freelance journalist, selling concepts to the highest or most interested bidder, and then following through with articles or treatises covering the concepts. I especially liked doing exposés under pseudonyms or sometimes even anonymously.

Brett was not as enamored with me doing exposés as I was, so I found out that it was best not to tell him the details of what I was doing; in fact to ensure his sanity I sometimes blatantly lied to him about the subjects of the stories that I was writing or the research that the stories required. This was especially so when I did an exposé on strippers, several on gender bias or sexual harassment in various workplaces, and a stint of working with undercover cops especially in the apprehension of human traffickers. I probably was technically violating the law in some of those since I used a fake ID and Social Security Number, but I was never challenged. For my one year exposé of professional cheerleaders I had to use my real name and couldn't hide that from Brett, but it wasn't as daunting as some of the other work.

Early in my career I took a safety course on handguns and became fairly proficient at the firing range with a Sig Sauer P-238-.380, which I obtained a concealed carry permit for. I also have two essentially identical .410 Shotshell Snake Slayer derringers from Bond Arms, one registered, and one "off the books."

I was able to do the majority of my most "daring" (I prefer that word as opposed to "dangerous") work while Brett was working himself. He often had eighteen-forty hour shifts, which really allowed me to do my thing without involving him and while still being able to devote full time to him when he was off work.


Researching my articles on strippers was my first foray into daring journalistic endeavors. I prepared for it by taking a Strip Aerobics course taught by "Jinx" (she continued to use her stage name in her business dealings), a 50 year old real ex-stripper whose body was still in great shape, and who was my first interview for my articles. Jinx also provided me with much worthwhile inside information and contacts. In view of my history in modern dance, and my great shape from swimming (and eating right), I took to the physical part of stripping naturally.

Of course I had to get a job as a real stripper to properly research my article, and since my body hadn't degenerated in any way since my "Best Bikini Body" days and in view of Jinx's tutelage, I had no trouble getting a job. What I did initially have trouble with is actually getting naked in front of an audience. I psyched myself up for that, however, and by my fifth or sixth performance I had fully suppressed my anxiety.

Of course it helped that the perverts in the audience were very appreciative of my looks and talent -- a nice, even if illusory, ego boost. They seemed to especially like my East-West C-cup boobs (they point outwardly when I'm topless) with distended nipples.

The major drawback to being a stripper was having to remain "in character" as "Cinnamon Fire" while I was researching my articles. I wore blue contact lenses to disguise my green eyes, a very authentic-looking red wig to cover my short-cropped (solely for this job, I normally wore my hair long) brunette hair, fake red eyebrows, a washable large tattoo on my left arm and another one on my left thigh, and special effects makeup that changed the shape of my nose. It took me twenty minutes every day to get my disguise right so that on the off chance that someone I knew appeared at one of the strip clubs I worked at (I worked at three different ones while researching the article) that I wouldn't be recognized.

It will not be a surprise that I found the populace/customers/managers to be very handsy. I was able to deflect 99% of the unwanted attention with my hands, elbows, and words, and the other 1% with a kick to the groin or the flash of my Snake Slayer. However, one guy required that his leg almost be blown off with my Snake Slayer when he was attempting actual rape; but that occurred on what was already going to be my last week as an exotic dancer anyway since I had virtually all of the information that I needed for my exposé by then. Either the cops were never informed, or it was impossible for them to find me, because I never had any repercussions from the discharge of my firearm.

The exposé that I wrote was very favorable to the strippers (several sent in appreciative letters to the editor), but scathing toward the management and clientele, including exposing the names and perverse activities of a number of regular patrons who were politicians, judges, or prominent attorneys; in fact one local judge was forced to resign. The exposé appeared as a four part series in The Daily Herald (Suburban Chicago's largest newspaper) and won a Peter Lisagor award. Since I wrote the articles under a pseudonym (the editor was the only person who knew who I was) I couldn't accept the award but the editor gladly did. The award assured me the future opportunity to write for The Daily Herald -- and after the editor moved on to the Chicago Sun Times for it -- almost any time that I wanted to.


By the time that Brett finished his residency and got almost normal and predictable work hours as a general surgeon I was ready to stop the daunting exposés, write a novel or two and some fluff articles, and start a family. We ended up as an All-American family with a boy, girl, dog, and cat.

My relationship with my kids has always been excellent. My marriage to Brett was very good, including good sex. As Brett matured he became less passionate and we rarely had monkey sex like we did before marriage and during the early years when he was off work, but that was to be expected. It was important to both of us, however, to stay in shape, which was facilitated in my case by purchasing a house on a mid-sized lake once we could afford it; I swam two miles almost every day that there wasn't ice.

Since I maintained my body enough, in my humble opinion, to almost live up to my BBB nickname I got hit on constantly. If it wasn't so sad it would be funny. It could be a sporting event for one of my kids, the health club, the beach, the newspaper or magazine office when submitting or polishing articles, parties, or even the mall or grocery store. I became an expert at fending off advances; I only twice had to expose my Sex Sauer (which I carried only on certain adventures either in a concealed carry purse -- I had three -- or a quick draw fanny pack -- when jogging, at the beach, or in informal clothes where carrying a purse wouldn't be desirable) only three times to dissuade particularly aggressive advances.

During the time that the kids were between one and twenty I wrote about fifty articles that I sold to various publications, and actually made decent money on three novels, two based in part on my life experiences before kids when I was doing daring investigations.

That is my marriage was very good until it wasn't.


About the time that our youngest left for college, Brett seemed to get less affectionate, antsy, and mysterious, and sex got less frequent despite my attempts to initiate it or to be available. Several times I asked him if he was going through a mid-life crisis, which he denied. However after about a year I was sick of it and was making plans on how to snap him out of it, or at least get to the root of the problem, when out of the blue on a Friday afternoon he presented me with a formal six month separation agreement. At the time he was 50, me 47.

"What the fuck is this?" was my surprised reaction.

"I just need some time to find myself -- I feel like I'm drifting, and I think that I need a change in life for a while. I still love you, it's just my problem," was his mealy-mouth trite reply.

"Hmmm; you say that you still love me yet I see in paragraph nine both parties are free to have carnal relationships with others. That sounds to me that you want a license to fuck around. What's with that?" I snarled.

"Look -- that's just something that my attorney put in there. He says that it's standard for a formal separation agreement so that there is nothing messy when the parties re-connect," he more mumbled than said, making only fleeting eye contact.

"So I'm not attractive to you any more, despite the fact that the entire heterosexual male population that I encounter in my daily life thinks that I am?" I retorted, again with a snarl.

"Look...I know that you're hotter than I am, you certainly lord it over me enough..." he started to say.

"Where the fuck is that coming from -- the 'lord it over you' shit?" I yelled. That "lord it over you" crap really irritated me because it was about as far from true as could be. In fact, the only three times that I remember that people made comments hinting that I was far sexier than Brett I hostilely shot them down. Now that my dander was really up the "conversation" devolved into a full-fledged screaming match, the like of which we had had only twice before in our twenty five years of marriage.

At the end of the screaming match, with smoke still coming out of my ears, I scribbled on the last page of the document "Needs to be revised so that we sell the house and split the proceeds, and that the date to terminate or divorce is indefinite otherwise I don't sign but file for divorce instead."

I threw the document at him, and despite the fact that it was still a few days before spring I put on my dry suit and dove off our dock into the lake expecting to go for a mile swim to lower my blood pressure. However, a half mile into my swim it suddenly dawned on me that Brett's attitude change happened shortly after his surgery practice had hired Brenda -- a young, cute (she looks like Hilary Duff), flirty nurse. I ended up having to swim four miles to lower my blood pressure after that revelation hit me.

When I got back from my swim I was still pissed, but I had achieved my goal of stabilizing my blood pressure.

Brett actually looked contrite. "Even though I don't want to make the changes, and certainly don't want a divorce, I...I phoned my attorney and told him to make the revisions that you suggested," he said, trying to be conciliatory.

"Good -- I'll call Rachel," a friend of mine and well-known local real estate agent "tomorrow," I shot back.

"Look...let's settle down. How about we go out for dinner?" he said in an expectant voice.

"Sounds like a great idea," I said, "let me know where you're going so that I can be sure to go someplace else." Then I went to change and got the hell out of there.

I should have picked a different restaurant, because the one that I did had a bar associated with it. Three guys at three different times sent drinks over to me, all three of which I declined and not just because I rarely drink alcohol. One of the three actually came to my table but he got only two words in before I said "Fuck off."

He called me a "bitch," which was an accurate representation of my demeanor at the time, but he got the message and left.

Brett's attorney made the separation agreement modifications that I wanted by the next day and we both signed the agreement in front of a Notary. At that time I made a production of taking off my wedding and engagement rings, putting them into an envelope, sealing the envelope, and telling Brett to "put it in the bank safe deposit box along with one of the signed copies of the separation agreement."

By the afternoon of the agreement-signing "ceremony" Rachel was at the house telling me the minor changes that needed to be made to get the best price.

After that, despite Brett's attempts to interact with me, I really only communicated with him by text message or email, or a few phone calls when something important came up. Any night that he gave an indication that he would be staying at the house I stayed out until I was sure that he was in bed, and then slept in the spare room in the basement, and one night I even went to a hotel.

I threw out tons of stuff that we no longer needed, put things that the kids needed or wanted (which information I extracted from them by phone and email, although they weren't thrilled about us selling the house that they grew up in, and even less thrilled about the separation) in climate-controlled storage, and did all of the sprucing up of the house that Rachel recommended. The house sold for our asking price within two weeks of its first listing. Since I wasn't sure what I was going to do in the future, or where I would live, I put most of the furniture that I wanted to keep in storage, and rented a local condo on a month-to-month basis.

Over the next several months, with the help of some female friends, I realized that I was letting my bitterness consume me. I decided that the change that I needed was to summer where some of my fondest memories were -- at Lake George in upstate New York. The kids had summer jobs in different cities than each other and where my condo was, and both would be thrilled to visit Lake George for two weeks at the beginning of the summer. So I rented a nice house right on the lake, with a boat and kayaks, for all of June, July, and August.

Even though the water was a little nippy, the kids and I had a great time together the first two weeks of June, swimming and water-skiing every day. They each brought a friend for part of the time and enjoyed what night life there was in Lake George Village, and we all enjoyed the numerous activities in the surrounding area including parasailing, rafting, hiking, and special events.

After the kids left things were a little quiet -- although a very pleasant quiet. Since I was now a free agent, and didn't have to worry about what Brett thought or wanted, I was trying to come up with a blockbuster idea for a story, novel, or both. I wasn't having much success in doing that, but at least I was having fun and staying in shape.

That is things were quiet and I was coming up blank on ideas until after a week of solitude a number of college kids rented a house three down from mine for a week or so. It turned out that the renters were most of the rising seniors of a fraternity at Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire.

While the fraternity brothers' raucous parties every night seemed to disturb some of the neighbors, they didn't bother me for two reasons -- the noise was a nice distraction since the quiet contemplation of the previous week hadn't inspired any great ideas; and I had a bedroom in my rented house that I could close off to be almost soundproof.

The fourth night of parties I decided to go for a midnight (actually 1:05 a. m.) swim -- something that I do occasionally when I can't sleep. Oftentimes at that time of night I swim naked, but fortunately this time I wore a bikini. I started to swim away from the fraternity party house, but then changed my mind, and decided to see what was up there, and maybe get some vicarious thrills.

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