Lottery

My name is David Adams and I both curse and celebrate every day that I won the lottery.

About a dozen years ago, I won a national lottery. After choosing the single cash payment, which reduced the size of the prize by more than forty percent, and paying federal, state and local income taxes, I netted just over twenty-one million dollars. I banked the money and spent the next three months fighting off bankers, money managers, lawyers, charitable organizations and long-lost relatives who immediately descended on me, my home, my mail and my telephone, because my state insisted on a public announcement of my winnings. They were careful to tell me I couldn't remain anonymous because the public needed to know the lottery was genuine and honest and the only way they could do that was to parade actual winners through a gauntlet of presentations and news conferences. "No public announcement, no money," was their mantra.

I disconnected my phone, had all my mail forwarded to a post office box, created a new email address and moved out of my home for the first two months. I kept in touch with important contacts by using unregistered cell phones I could buy, with prepaid minutes, at convenience stores. I also had a friend, someone I could trust, pick up my mail at the post office since some of the more aggressive money suckers began to hang around the post office to catch me if they could. It worked well since she worked at the post office and could empty the box from the rear and bring it to me in the evening without anyone noticing except the postmaster who understood the problem and wanted the lingerers gone as much as I did. Changing my hair color and growing a beard helped with those times I had to go out in public.

I spent much of the first week, confined to a hotel room, researching the histories of previous lottery winners. It was depressing knowing the fate of many of them. Most of them were broke within two years and that's the best stories. They spent lavishly, bought huge homes, and when the money ran out couldn't pay the real estate taxes or the upkeep. A few were murdered by others who wanted the money and the rest had disastrous relationships with wives and children. There were plenty of conflicting theories and research, some of which believed that most winners were still financially better off years after winning.

I was determined to act rationally and be a survivor. Simple math convinced me that twenty million dollars, invested conservatively at five percent would produce a million a year income without reducing the principle. That seemed more than enough for me and I set out to make it happen.

I contacted the only lawyer within fifty miles who hadn't tried to contact me and went to see him. He had no idea who I was or why I wanted to see him. After explaining the situation, he helped me set up a trust for the money and a schedule of monthly payments to my bank account. He also agreed to handle any other legal issues that might arise for a reasonable retainer plus expenses. He also helped me find a reliable investment bank to invest the money and manage the transactions. I resolved to remain in my own home and the lawyer agreed, telling me that if I lived a normal life without blatant displays of wealth the attention would eventually fade away, people would leave me alone and the curse of having the money would fade as well.

After two months, I moved back into my home with a new phone number, twenty million dollars invested and the rest in one of my two checking accounts. I kept none of my financial paperwork at home on the advice of the lawyer. He thought visitors might become over curious and having nothing for them to find would be unhelpful for them.

The lawyer was almost right about people. The number of folks hanging around diminished rapidly when I didn't seem to have more money than before, except for the women. Some women seem to have a sixth sense for money and nothing can dissuade them once they've got the scent.

I'd been divorced several years earlier and my ex-wife, who thought I was a good for nothing buffoon in the divorce papers, suddenly discovered she missed me and thought we could get back together somehow. She had left dozens of messages during my two-month isolation. I returned her latest call and played along with her, wondering if I could get her between the sheets and thighs again somehow. She faded away before I could get her panties off when she found a checkbook I carelessly left on the kitchen table with a balance of $384.57.

After my divorce I was feeling lonely and a little horny as well. On the advice of a neighbor, who was also divorced, I signed up on one of the couples matching internet sites. Most of the member profiles seemed too good to be true, a feeling supported by my neighbor. He said his profile was "slightly" exaggerated as well and, since everything "balanced out in the end" he encouraged me to do the same. I didn't. I decided to be honest with my profile. As predicted by my neighbor, the response was underwhelming. I contacted some of the members with mixed results. I got laid a couple of times but nothing more.

Soon after I won the lottery the number of responses to my unimpressive profile increased exponentially. I ignored them for over two months until, driven by testicular pressure, I responded to one of the less aggressive ones. I used to kid with my friends that failure to release accumulating semen would lead to what I called "the beach ball effect." Imagine a beach ball with a small amount of water inside. It doesn't roll easily and wobbles around instead. I equated that vision to how an overloaded man begins to walk, a condition only relieved by more frequent sex.

Tiffany responded to my contact within minutes, an unusually rapid response. Her profile picture was a close up of her cleavage, nothing else. I thought that was different and, since she was close by and I just wanted to drain my reservoir, I thought she might have the same goal.

I met Tiffany at a local watering hole. I was deliberately a couple of minutes late and made a point of driving by in my seven-year-old, domestic sedan before parking. Tiffany presented all the attributes of a classic gold digger. She was older than her profile suggested and struggling to maintain a younger appearance. She was a bleach blonde with quarter inch roots, too much makeup, too little clothing and four-inch heels. By far, her most attractive feature was the financed and prominently displayed, oversized melons between which her profile picture had been taken. I was tempted to end our "date" quickly but, what the hell, I hadn't eaten melon in a long time. Worst case, she would smother me between her breasts. Best case, I would walk straighter tomorrow.

After one drink, I suggested we have dinner. She quickly agreed. When she slipped off the bar stool, she needed to pull down the hem of her short skirt to avoid the embarrassment of revealing the color of her bright blue thong to the entire clientele.

We walked the short distance to my car. I could see the distain on her face as I opened the passenger door on my less than impressive ride. I took her to a small Italian pizza restaurant where dinner would cost me less than twenty dollars for both of us. Her face again reflected her thoughts about my choice for dinner.

The place did not serve alcohol but they did offer forty-ounce sodas and sweet tea. We shared a pepperoni and onion pizza and I had unsweetened tea and she sipped a generic cola. During dinner she tried several times to draw my attention to her boobs. She shook them and pressed them together with her arms. I remained indifferent to her attempts despite my desire to peel them and indulge. Finally, in desperation, she lifted them, one in each hand, and asked, "What do you think of these?"

Continuing my deliberate lack of interest, I responded, "Your fingernails are beautiful."

"Not my fingernails, these, my tits. What do you think of my tits?"

I thought I'd be honest. "They're incredible. Very appealing."

She smiled and bounced them in her hands. "Do you want to play with them?"

That was a direct challenge. I don't know any male who could answer that question in the negative. "Are you offering?" I asked.

"Do you really have to ask?"

"If you're done with dinner, I think we should move on."

"Where to?"

"My place is not far or your place if you'd be more comfortable. Otherwise, I suggest a motel I know on the edge of town." I suggested that last option, a rent by the hour establishment with a less than desirable reputation, to insure she'd choose my place.

"Let me use the ladies' room and we can go to your place."

I paid the bill, twenty-five dollars and change, including the tip and waited for her.

I was unable to imagine what she expected to see at my place since she was under the impression I was beyond rich. She was going to be disappointed. I wondered if I would get to play with her melons anyway.

I took her to my apartment. The lawyer had suggested I keep a pad somewhere so guests would not know where I actually lived. I found a suitable, second story walkup that I furnished from a used furniture consignment store. The only concession to luxury was the king-sized bed in the sparse bedroom. I kept the refrigerator filled with beer, bread and a couple types of cold cuts and the freezer with defrost and bake pizzas.

By the time Tiffany and I stood in front of the door to the apartment I could see she was questioning her decision to participate in a play date with me. Walking inside did little to boost her enthusiasm. I was careful to insure she noticed the checkbook carelessly left on the kitchen table next to the empty beer can on the way to the bedroom.

Her mood improved somewhat when she saw the oversized bed with clean sheets and she relaxed completely when I came up behind her, put my arms around her and cupped her breasts. She turned out to be a decent lover. She was up for screwing in several positions and more than once although she was reluctant to either get or receive oral sex. Suggesting anal sex almost ended the evening. Most of our time together was spent finding new and unusual ways to make use of her "girls."

We kept busy until the early hours of the morning, when she suggested she would have to go home soon. I suggested she spend the night but she insisted saying ironically, "We've just met and spending the night doesn't seem appropriate." I reluctantly agreed and suggested she shower before getting dressed, an offer I knew she would refuse once she saw the bathroom.

When she was dressed, I told her to wait in the living room while I cleaned up and got dressed. I took enough time for her to examine the checkbook before I was ready. I drove her back to her car parked near the bar where we met. I thought she must be wondering how she could have mistaken me for the guy with the lottery money. My thought was confirmed when she said as she exited the car, "I thought for a while that you were the David Adams that won the lottery."

"I get that a lot," I replied. "Some people even think we look alike. I've never met him but I'm sure he's happy wherever he is."

I haven't seen Tiffany since but I've had enough melon for a while and I'm walking with more confidence.

Everything I've told you so far might convince you I was not enjoying the money. That would be a misconception. With the investments throwing off a million dollars a year, I needed to step up to the challenge. While the outside of my home seemed little changed from the time before I won the money, I had employed a gardener and landscaper and the changes were subtle but extensive. I had tried to keep the outside appearance consistent with the neighborhood standards but, inside, I spared no expense. The entire first floor had been redone. The living room now had a large screen TV with an eight-speaker sound system. The kitchen had every known appliance built-in around a quartz counter and high-end cabinetry. The dining room had been similarly redone with an Ipe wooden table, chairs and serving cabinets. Indirect, adjustable lighting finished the room.

Upstairs, the changes were more extensive. The original, three-bedroom configuration was now a two bedroom, two bath, multi-suite environment. The master bedroom was almost double in size with a large bathroom with a walk-in shower and a soaking tub large enough for two or more. The second bedroom allowed for privacy with its own bathroom and served as a comfortable room for guests or as an overflow arena for activity in the master bedroom.

The basement, originally a cold place with a workbench, washer/dryer, and utility room that collected items that resisted being discarded but were of no longer any use, became a luxury theater environment with a 105-inch wall mounted screen and a twelve-speaker sound system on one end and a small game area on the other.

The entire project had taken over a year since it was accomplished in small increments to attract as little attention from the neighbors as possible.

About a year ago, I purchased, through the trust, a six acre parcel on a small lake about an hour from the house. I designed and built a "cabin" with a view of the lake and mountains beyond. Nothing was spared in the building and outfitting the "cabin." When completed, I, tongue in cheek, labeled it "David's Camp" and began to spend time there whenever possible.

After two years, interest in the guy who won the lottery had declined to the point that I gave up the apartment and bought a new car. The curse had definitely been exorcised and the fortune was about to begin. I had settled into a routine with the income and expanded my interests to include many of the more deserving charitable organizations nearby. I attended many of the public events and donated freely, although never enough at one time to attract undue attention.

Establishing my bona fides in the philanthropic community had unexpected benefits. I began to meet, and greet, a better class of women. The number of women engaged in charitable causes greatly outnumbered the men. For many of the meetings I attended, I was the only male. Most of the women were exercising their altruistic ambitions with money provided by their overworked husbands or their well to do fathers. There were a few single women, most of whom where the daughters of the married ones.

None of them were named Tiffany.

As the lone male with a charitable nature, I attracted an unusual amount of interest. It soon became clear that many of the other attendees were willing to share other assets in addition to their financial ones. Claire was one of the more audacious ladies. She was a frequent attendee to several of the functions I fancied. She was usually with another woman I originally thought was her sister. It turned out, Gloria was Claire's daughter. Claire was a well-put together woman about my age but looked younger. Gloria was significantly more sophisticated than her age and a match for her mother in physical appearance.

About six months ago, Claire and I attended a monthly, midweek breakfast meeting in a downtown hotel. It was the first time I'd seen Claire without Gloria and coincidently we were seated next to each other at the same table. I introduced myself to the others at the table, including Claire. Most introduced themselves to me except Claire. Her "I know who you are," response was unexpected and disquieting as well.

"Really," I replied. "And you are?"

"Claire Parker of the Westport Parker's."

I had no idea who the Westport Parker's were so it was easy to be unimpressed. I offered my hand, "Nice to meet you."

She took my hand with a firmer than expected grip and responded, "Same here."

She followed up with, "You have many interests. I've seen you at several events and meetings."

"None more than you," I said.

"Touché," she said with a smile.

I turned my attention to the dais where a matronly woman was approaching the lectern. Claire twisted in her chair to get a better view and accidently pushed her left leg against my right leg under the table. "Sorry," she said with another, broader smile.

I was willing to accept her apology at face value but reevaluated my position when she didn't move her leg away from mine. If anything, she maintained the contact with an even firmer pressure. I only knew Claire slightly from my fleeting contact with her over the past months. However, she struck me as a high-energy individual who vigorously pursued what she wanted and rarely quit without being satisfied. I knew from the pressure of her leg against mine that the contact was not an accident and her apology was more an invitation than sincere regret.

I took a chance. I leaned in on the table with my left hand supporting my chin and focused my attention on the speaker at the lectern while moving my right hand under the tablecloth and resting it on her nyloned leg above her knee and below the hem of her skirt. I watched her peripherally as her smile faded and she pondered her next move. When her smile returned, broader than before, I knew I had made the right move.

I continued to focus on the speaker while squeezing her leg gently and stroking it an inch or two at a time. When I glanced at her quickly, she was as focused as I was on the speaker but she moved her legs apart a couple of inches and I was able to manage longer strokes as I rubbed her leg.

We continued like that for the next forty minutes as several speakers addressed the gathering. At the end, my strokes were traveling up the inner portion of her thigh and occasionally touching the gusset of her underwear. At one point, her left hand landed on my right thigh and, as the breakfast came to a close, her hand traveled up further and gave my junk a quick squeeze thorough my trousers before returning to the top of the table.

As the others at our table rose and bid their good-byes, Claire reached for the carafe on the table and refreshed her coffee. She offered the pitcher to me and I pushed my cup in her direction. She refilled my cup, replaced the carafe on the table and turned to talk with me. For the next twenty minutes, we drank our coffee and talked with each other despite us both knowing the real intent of remaining, given the events under the table. We had a spirited conversation. Claire was a quick witted, educated woman with an excellent knowledge of current events including sports. Several times she inserted comments designed to test my ability to detect indirect humor and innuendo. Her visible assets were equally impressive. I often found my attention wandering to her womanly curves and down as far as I could see on her slim frame. She caught me several times and her continued cordiality let me know that she approved of my approval.

When half the lights went out, we walked together from the room. We stood for several minutes in the lobby outside the hotel meeting rooms and continued our conversation. Claire looked at her watch. It was after eleven thirty and I hoped she didn't have another commitment.

"David," she said, "I'm enjoying this encounter. Are you free for an early lunch with me?"

"Claire," I responded, "I'd enjoy eating with you any time. Lead the way and I'll follow."

Her short intake of breath and quick laugh told me she hadn't missed the full import of my comment. She took my hand and led me out the front of the hotel where she handed the valet a ticket stub and a twenty-dollar bill. He quickly returned with a new Porsche Panamera. He waited by the driver's door for her but, as I opened the passenger door intending to get inside, she slid past me and got in instead. "You drive," she said.

I walked around the car and got into the driver's seat. I settled in, connected my seat belt, adjusted the mirrors, put the car in gear and pulled down the hotel drive. "Where to?" I asked.