[This one's just for fun, total fiction, all a lark -- but
if you're wondering who "Charly" is modeled on, watch Eve
Matheson in the BBC series "May to December" on PBS...!]

[Oh, yeah: If all you're looking for is one-handed sex,
you're in the wrong story. If you enjoy sex-and-romance with
actual people instead of cardboard cut-outs, and an actual
plot, then make yourself at home...]


                    CHARLY THE YARD GUY
                    by Michael K. Smith

     This whole thing started because I hate yard work. In
fact, I have way too much house and yard for my needs, but
as the only child of an only child, I was my grandfather's
sole heir and he left the place to me. The property formed
the bulk of his estate, most of the cash and investments
having been gobbled by his lengthy final exit. Don't
misunderstand: I loved my grandfather. I even liked him
quite a lot. We had a good deal of respect for each other
and I miss him. We've just never been a demonstrative,
huggy-kissy family. Maybe it has something to do with being
an "only."
     Anyway, when my grandfather died several years ago, I
was thirty-five and still single and still living in a
modest rented townhouse. I'm a contract software developer,
which means I can mostly work at home in faded jeans, an old
tee-shirt, and moccasins. I own one sport jacket and two
ties, for those occasional, unavoidable forays into the
world of commerce.
     The house is a nice old place, big enough for an
old-style family of eight with a maid or two thrown in. As a
family of one, I find it simpler to have a maid service come
in once a month to rearrange the dust, do the windows, and
all that other domestic crap that I'm not very good at.
     My place is located near the end of a dead-end street
that backs on the deep rough of a private golf course. The
back yard alone is a quarter-acre, edged by silvery aspens
inside a tall board fence as a windbreak and privacy
measure. I almost never see my neighbors and they probably
never see my back yard, but my favorite workroom overlooks
the back and it bothers me somehow if I let the lawn and all
the flowerbeds and shrubs get ratty. Anyway, the not-quite-
so-large front yard is visible to everyone; if I didn't take
proper care of *it* I'd catch hell from the Homeowners'
Association.
     Since, as I say, working up a sweat behind a lawn mower
is not my idea of a useful way to spend my time, one of the
first things I did after moving in that summer was to ask
around about a yard guy. The full-time lawn care businesses
-- the ones that show up with a truck and trailer and six
guys in jumpsuits with matching mowers -- charged a shocking
amount of money. I finally decided to put the money I was
going to have to spend back into the neighborhood economy by
hiring a couple of teenagers. A notice posted at the high
school brought a dozen responses and the best of the lot
were a junior named Chris Chambers and his brother Frank,
who was two years younger.
     The guys came around once a month and spent most of a
Saturday mowing, edging, trimming, spading, and raking. They
did a very nice job. Because the yard was so big, I paid
them considerably more than most high school yard workers
got, in addition to providing all the cokes and snacks they
could consume when they took their breaks -- and it was
still only half what the professionals wanted to charge me.
Everyone was happy.
     After a few months, we developed a mutual trust. The
brothers began keeping an eye on the yard on their own
initiative and when it was time, they'd just show up the
next weekend. I don't usually get to bed before about two in
the morning when the creative urge is upon me, so I would
awaken at nine or ten to the deep-throated burr of the large
power mower that lived in my garden shed. I'd climb into a
pair of jeans and wander out to the screened porch barefoot,
and there would be Chris and Frank in track shorts and gym
shoes, usually shirtless, toiling away at returning my manor
to a civilized appearance. To paraphrase somebody or other,
manual labor is a wonderful thing -- I could sit and watch
it for hours.
     Almost a year later, though, the day came as I had
known it would. Chris would graduate in June and was headed
for Notre Dame on a major athletic scholarship. And Frank,
already an up-and-coming basketball player, would be adding
varsity football in the fall... which meant a summer filled
with weekend practice sessions. I was happy for both of
them, but I was also going to have to find some new yard
guys.
     When I asked Chris if there was anyone he felt he could
recommend, he and Frank exchanged glances and Chris cleared
his throat. "Well, Mr. Weeks, I kind of promised Charly I'd
mention her."
     "'Her?' Who's Charly?"
     He grinned. "Our kid sister, Charlene; everyone calls
her 'Charly.' And she's really not such a kid any more, I
guess. She's a year younger than Frank -- sixteen and a half
-- and I promised I'd mention her name, but I also told her
she'd have to audition on her own."
     I thought about it. A female athlete, probably, if her
older brothers were any indication. Anyone who was capable
of doing the yard properly was okay with me. I'm not sexist
about such things. "Who does she have in mind to help her?"
     Chris's eyes twinkled and he poked his tongue in his
cheek. "Well... I think she means to do it all by herself,
so she won't have to split the money." Behind him, Frank
chuckled and slowly shook his head. Clearly, they were fond
of their sister and admired her ambition, but they doubted
her endurance.
     "It's almost May so we'll do the yard one more time, in
a couple weeks. And we'll bring Charly along to help and to
show her how to do things. You can judge for yourself
whether you think she can handle it, okay?"
     "Sure, Chris, bring her along. I just hope she's an
Amazon."
     Frank grinned and said half under his breath, "Do they
have pygmies in the Amazon...?"


     Three weeks later, I was watching "Rocky and
Bullwinkle" earlier than usual on Saturday morning and
eating a nice balanced breakfast of Pepsi and stale donuts,
when the front doorbell rang. I answered it to find Chris
and Frank, horribly cheerful for that hour of the morning. I
blinked at the glare of the still-climbing sun and waved
them in. As they entered, I realized there was a third
person in a sweatsuit who had been completely concealed
behind the two boys.
     Now, I'm not all that big, barely 5'10" and 160 pounds.
Chris and Frank, lettermen that they were, each had several
inches and at least twenty pounds on me, all of it muscle.
The "little girl" who accompanied them (that's how I
unconsciously thought of her) was a head and a half shorter
even than me. The guys were strapping, blond Aryan types,
with short hair and beach tans. The girl was pale of
complexion with rather long coppery hair done up in a
practical French braid. Her bright green eyes and generous
mouth gave her a pixie-ish look.
     "We heard the TV, Mr. Weeks, so we thought we'd
introduce our sister before she got all sweaty." Chris
smiled down at the girl. "This is Miss Charlene Chambers.
Charly, this is Tom Weeks. A good guy to work for." I was
pleased they thought so, but I wondered if their sister knew
what she was getting into, even if it was only once a month.
She had a firm, competent handshake, though, and when she
smiled it went ear-to-ear and made her eyes crinkle. She was
certainly very cute, I thought.
     They trooped out and I watched the three of them at
work at intervals all morning, peering through the
miniblinds from my workroom. Chris and Frank were at some
pains to explain to Charly just how the grass should be cut,
the sidewalks edged, the hedges square-trimmed. After nearly
a year of caring for my yard, the brothers seemed downright
proprietary about it. I didn't know what was being said,
exactly, but Charly nodded and asked frequent questions. Her
brothers teased her about things and she teased them back,
trading playful swats, and the work progressed rapidly and
smoothly.
     A little later, I saw her guiding the oversized power
mower with calm skill, apparently not even out of breath.
When silence descended about 11:00, I went down to the wide,
screened back porch to find the crew sprawled on the floor
in front of the oscillating fan, mopping themselves off with
sections of sweatsuit. They'd already fetched some soft
drinks from the kitchen. Now that she was warmed up, Charly
had peeled off her suit to reveal black spandex cycling
shorts and a snug black knit top. The dark clothing
emphasized her alabaster skin and the tight fit showed off
her curves, as well as unsuspected layers of smooth muscle
in her calves, thighs, arms, and shoulders. When she moved,
things didn't jiggle -- they flexed. There didn't seem to be
an ounce of fat on her anywhere. She still seemed kind of
small to do the entire yard by herself, though.
     "How's it going, guys?" Then I added "...and ladies,"
with a sketchy bow toward Charly. The boys laughed and Frank
prodded her in the hip with his toe.
     "Hey, you're a lady now, kid!"
     Charly delicately dipped a fingertip in her coke and
flicked the droplets at him. "Of course I'm a lady, you
moron!" she replied with an infectious grin. "Not that
*you'd* recognize a lady if she bit you..."
     "Hey, if you know a lady who bites, I wanna meet her!"
Chris and I joined in the laughter and Charly rolled her
eyes. I was getting the impression she'd grown up as a
tomboy to keep up with two older brothers who loved her and
looked out for her but who didn't allow her much slack when
it came to individual competition. Her obviously good
physical condition and evident sense of humor seemed to
indicate that she had not only survived the experience but
thrived on it.
     After half an hour of cooling down, the three went back
to work raking, edging the flowerbeds, and cleaning up the
hedge trimmings. I stood at my window awhile longer, idly
watching them labor as the modem muttered to itself behind
me. Especially the girl. She had a lot of energy and
enthusiasm and she moved about smoothly and with great
economy. I discovered I enjoyed simply watching her, which
made me a little uneasy. She was only sixteen, after all.
     When they finished and put away all the tools, the
three of them came up to my workroom for their pay and so
Chris could say goodbye. Charly's eyes widened at all the
computers and printers and miscellaneous gadgetry scattered
around the large room.
     I paid Chris and Frank the usual amount and added a
little bonus as a "job well done" kind of thing, and I shook
their hands and wished them both luck. Then I turned to
Charly and handed her an amount equal to about half her
brothers' wages -- which, from her surprise, she hadn't
expected. Apparently, Chris and Frank had intended to share
part of their earnings with her. My intent, of course, was
just to buy a little good will -- I thought.
     "Well, Charly, will I see you in June, then? I'm
certainly willing to give you crack at it and we'll take it
from there." She broke into a broad smile and her brothers
nudged each other. "I pay for the job," I added, "so if you
do as much as these two brutes have been doing together,
I'll certainly *pay* you what I've been paying both of them
together. But it'll probably take you sunup to sundown, you
know."
     "I know," she replied. "But that's fine: I need the
money for my college fund." She looked determined about it
and I decided this might work out after all. If she didn't
collapse from exhaustion. "I'll see you in about a month,
then," she said as they left. "And thanks a lot, Mr. Weeks!"


It all turned out very well, actually. Throughout the
summer, Charly showed up once a month or so in Frank's
battered old Chevy and spent a day beating the wildlife into
submission. Work that I would have dreaded, she seemed to
regard as a great way to keep in shape and get paid for
besides. It took all the daylight hours of Saturday (or
Sunday), too; when I suggested that she might want to do
part of the job on Saturday and come back the next day to
finish up, she laughed that her Saturday night dates left
her exhausted as it was.
     She took a couple of lengthy breaks each yard-day,
being careful not to overdo herself, and at first she
preferred to sprawl on the screened porch with a coke and
just rest. But she was simply too active and social a person
to spend the entire day by herself, and she soon asked if I
would mind if she came upstairs and watched me work. How
could I mind? I discovered that Charly had been taking extra
computer science classes and that she was fascinated by the
array of test systems I had set up.
     It didn't take me long, either, to realize that Charly
was a bit shy when she was away from her big brothers. The
first time I complimented her on the quality of her work,
she actually blushed with pleasure; I didn't know girls
still did that. And when she came indoors for a break, her
face bright red with heat and exertion, her flaming hair
escaping in wild curls, and trickles of sweat running down
her arms and legs, I thought she was unbearably cute ...
but, of course, I couldn't tell her that.
     By the time school started, just after Labor Day, and
Charly began her junior year, we had become friends. She
liked to stretch out in the beat-up old armchair in one
corner of my workroom, sipping at a cold drink or a jug of
Gatorade, and observing quietly while I debugged a graphical
interface or waded through email from contractors. And she
sat there and grinned silently when my laser decided to
assert itself by printing only the top half of each page,
and I had to wrestle it to the floor until it surrendered.
     I was pleased when she finally asked, rather
hesitantly, if she could experiment with one of the PCs I
wasn't using at the moment. She was learning the
fundamentals of program design theory and was anxious to try
some of her own ideas, but trying to book time on one of the
school's insufficient number of consoles was frustrating.
     I invited her to drop by almost any evening, if she
liked, and I could critique her programs and suggest
improvements. By Thanksgiving, she was coming over for a
visit a couple or three times a month and we talked not only
about the cyber-universe but about the world in general.
     It was a little strange at first, having Charly there
after dark and without sweat stains. It turned out she had a
strong feminine side, often preferring to wear a jumper or a
plaid skirt and sweater instead of the ubiquitous jeans and
sweatshirt. Her makeup made her look older, as well, and I
wondered if perhaps she refreshed it just before driving
over.
     Seeing her deep in concentration, the tip of her little
pink tongue visible between her lips, I began to realize how
much I enjoyed her company. She had watched me work at the
keyboard and now I watched her. She obviously missed having
Chris around and even Frank, now halfway through his senior
year, was much busier than before. Charly was the baby of
the family, and while I was more than twice her age, I was
still nearly two decades younger than her parents. She
apparently found she could talk easily with me about things
her folks were uncomfortable discussing. But my greatest
satisfaction came when friendship overpowered respect-for-
elders and she finally began calling me "Tom" instead of
"Mr. Weeks."


     The second week in November, she mentioned in passing
that she'd be seventeen soon -- not that she was dropping
any hints, but I made a mental note. I called Frank the next
evening and inquired what the exact date was. He told me her
birthday was the 20th and I made him promise not to tell her
I'd asked. That gave me about a week to cook up something.
     I was trying to think of some non-suspicious way to
sucker Charly into the surprise I was planning, but it
turned out not to be necessary. Late on the afternoon of the
19th, she called with a database design problem that was
giving her fits, and I invited her to come over after
supper. Then I spent an hour arming my traps.
     When Charly arrived, she opened the front door and
called, "Tom?" That's how relaxed our relationship had
become. I hollered for her to come on up and when I heard
her loafers on the stairs -- jogging, as usual -- I started
the program.
     My main system now appeared to display a FoxPro
debugging session in progress but it was actually a boss-key
fake. And I had lined up along one table the four systems I
used regularly, with the super-loaded Pentium at one end and
the Mac SE at the other -- plus the older, slower 386 I had
hauled out of the storage closet and dusted off, sitting
right in the middle of  the row.
     Charly came in and brightly said, "Hi!" She dug her
comp sci notebook out of her book bag and shrugged out of
her school jacket. Tonight it was a pair of tight black
jeans and a hot pink sweater, and she had her hair down in
shimmering metallic waves that were probably capable of
reflecting radar.
     As she came over to where I was sitting at a keyboard,
she noticed the rearranged equipment. "What's this?"
     "Nothing." I waved it off. "But there's a message here
for you." I had to struggle not to grin.
     "What, email? How could I be getting email? Especially
here?" I got up and held the chair for her and she sat and
peered at the screen.
     "Press 'ESCAPE,'" I hinted.
     She did, and the screen blanked and then flashed "LOGON
(first name only):"


     Charly glanced up at me and typed "Charlene."
     The computer made a rude noise and displayed, "Not good
enough! Your OTHER first name, please!"
     I received another suspicious look as she typed
"Charly."
     At that, the screen blanked again and all five monitors
immediately lit up in the bright fractal patterns of the
BEDAZZLE demo and all five speakers began playing the "Monty
Python" section of Sousa's "Liberty Bell March." Charly
rolled the chair back a few feet and stared from screen to
screen.
     "NOW what?" And at that moment, all five machines lit
up with screen-filling block numerals reading "17!" while
the speakers broke into "Happy Birthday to You."
     Charly considered herself too grown up to giggle, but
this time she did -- a delightfully musical sound. She gave
me a big, warm smile of pleasure.
     "Neat! Thanks, Tom -- that's so nice...!"
     "Oh, but there's more. Hit 'CONTROL-P' ... for
'Present.'"
     She gazed at me for a long moment and caught her lower
lip between her front teeth in a way that made me
unaccountably self-conscious. Then she pressed the keys.
"Are you ready for your *17th* birthday present? (Y/N)" the
screen said. She snorted and pressed "Y." Now it said "Can
you GUESS what your present is? (Y/N)" She shook her head
once as she pressed "N." The machines on each side lit up
with large, multicolored arrows pointing toward the older
machine in the middle of the row -- which now displayed the
message, "It's *ME*!!!"
     Charly stared at it and her jaw dropped. She finally
looked up over her shoulder at me, eyes wide. "You mean...?"
     I grinned and nodded. "I figured, what could you really
use that you weren't likely to get otherwise?"
     Charly gestured vaguely at the 386. "But, Tom, I
can't--"
     I leaned over her shoulder and rested my hands on the
arms of her chair, so I could put my head down close to
hers. "Yes, you can, Charly. That's not a new machine; it's
been in the closet for almost a year, waiting to be disposed
of. It's fully depreciated, so I can't legally sell it
without having to pay taxes. I don't have any nieces or
nephews I could give it to. And it's too old and slow for
the work I do. But it's just about right for a high school
student -- for term papers, computer classes, whatever. And
I'd much rather give it a good home with you, Charly, than
leave it on the curb for some charity I don't even know.
It's yours -- really."
     Charly turned her head and so did I; we were almost
nose-to-nose. She was trying hard not to cry. Then she
sniffed a little and kissed me carefully on the cheek. It
made me happy that I'd been able to make her so happy, and I
didn't notice until afterward the change in her expression.
But she suddenly lifted one hand to my chin and angled my
face toward her. Then she kissed me again, lingeringly, on
the lips.


     I was frozen in place by surprise. Obviously, Charly
hadn't planned this, either; it just happened. I had
forgotten what a young girl's kiss was like, but my own
teenage memories flooded my mind and I found myself kissing
her back. Charly's other hand gripped my forearm -- not to
push me away but to prevent me leaving. I knew even at the
time how stupid and conscienceless my reaction to her was. I
simply couldn't help myself.
     Then our lips parted and I straightened and cleared my
throat. "I'm sorry, Charly. I shouldn't have done that." She
stood and moved close to me, slipping under my arm which
moved naturally around her shoulders.
     "I'm not sorry," she said softly as her own arm snaked
around my waist. "And I started it, not you." She hugged me,
her cheek pressed against my chest. "I wanted to thank you
for such a wonderful present."
     I opened my mouth to protest her motive but she cut me
off instantly. "--And I just *wanted* to do it, too." She
looked up and stared unwaveringly into my eyes like a cobra
hypnotizing a bird. "I knew all of a sudden that I really
wanted to kiss you, Tom..."
     I couldn't think of a meaningful reply so I hugged her
again. I finally managed to say, "This isn't a good idea,
Charly." The hoarseness in my voice embarrassed me. "We're
friends, and I'm glad we are. I don't want to screw that
up."
     A ghost of a smile crossed her face and her nose
crinkled as she suppressed a grin. "I never said anything
about 'screwing'..." Jesus God. She could play me like a
fiddle. I didn't know if she was just having a little fun or
was truly unaware of her powers -- or, even more terrifying,
whether she knew *exactly* what she was doing.
     "Charly... I think I hear your mother calling you."
     She sighed and squeezed me again before letting go.
"Okay, okay -- I'll behave." She moved back to the work
table. "You'll have to show me what plugs into where on this
thing so I can get it set up right at home." So I identified
the cables and connectors for her and she jotted down the
pin types and plug numbers. Then we took everything apart,
packed it into a couple of cardboard boxes, and lugged it
down to her car. When I followed her back up the stairs, I
found myself fantasizing as I watched the swaying of her
tightly denimed bottom. Not good, not good at all.
     She collected her notebook and purse and stuffed them
back in her book bag, her original programming problem
forgotten. Then I held her jacket while she slipped her arms
in... and she managed to lean back against me as she did so.
It was torture. I enjoyed the attention she was giving me
and I loved the feel of her warm, young body against mine --
but she also scared the hell out of me. If she were a junior
in *college*, I might be censored by some for engaging in
mutual seduction, but I probably couldn't be arrested or
harassed. A dalliance with a girl just turning seventeen was
dangerous.
     So, part of me wanted badly to put my arms around her
and squeeze those just-ripening tits, to hump that firm
little ass pressing into my groin, to kiss that smooth,
white neck and stick my tongue in her ear. Another part of
me wanted to run screaming from the room, down the stairs,
and into the night.
     "Charly -- sweetheart, please, uh... look, don't do
this, please? God, you're making me crazy... Charly, I know
it's not very original, but I *am* just about old enough to
be your father. And *your* father would call the police if
he walked in here right now. And Frank wouldn't bother --
he'd just break my back!"
     She turned around and leaned against me again, and that
was even worse because I was now extremely aware of her
unharnessed breasts poking in beneath my ribcage. My
fantasies were jumping up and down and salivating.
     "I'm not a virgin, you know, Tom." She was carefully
studying the design on the front of my sweatshirt.
     I couldn't tell whether she expected a comment from me
or not so I settled for "Mmm?"
     "Nope. I let a guy fuck me for the first time a couple
months ago." She pronounced "fuck" very carefully and
deliberately, making two syllables out of it like she was
studying for a vocabulary test.
     Then she raised her eyes and began, "Wouldn't you--?"
and I hurriedly put my finger to her lips. It was going to
be a question I probably couldn't, and certainly shouldn't,
answer. I was so nervous, I hadn't gotten an erection,  even
under the provocation of Charly's cybernetic body abrading
mine.
     I finally put my arms around her and hugged her again.
A kiss on the forehead would combine rejection with
paternalism and I wanted desperately to avoid both, so I
swallowed and kissed her as softly and gently on the lips as
I could, without shaking too badly. "Sweetheart, you really
have to leave; I think I'm going to need some privacy for my
breakdown."
     Fortunately, she didn't misunderstand.
     "Charly, I want you to think very carefully about
everything that's been said and done here this evening. Be
sure you understand what you really want -- and what the
consequences might be. Okay? And whatever conclusions you
come to, we're going to remain friends, I promise." And that
was as noncommittal as I could force myself to be.
     "I'll think about it," she promised, as I walked her
down to the door. She turned to me one last time before she
left and said, "Tom, thanks so much for the computer. You're
the nicest, most thoughtful guy I know -- and it has nothing
to do with how old you are." Then she gave me a quick peck
-- more like the chaste "thank you" kiss I had originally
expected -- and was gone.
     I went back in and stood at the bottom of the staircase
looking up before I finally gave in to my turmoil and sat
heavily on the bottom step. I had thought Charly was cute
and vivacious since the first time I'd met her. That didn't
bother me and I certainly didn't feel guilty about it. But
then I'd begun having daydreams about her that became more
and more sexual as they progressed. Still normal enough, I
thought: a thirty-five-year-old man could experience a sexy
little fantasy even about a strange teenager he saw on the
bus and just write it off to unfulfilled horniness.
     But now I was facing the actual possibility of access
to the source of my arousing fantasies and it was making me
very nervous indeed. My cock was belatedly straining the
front of my jeans as my runaway imagination concocted
pictures and situations featuring the athletic little body
that had just bopped out the door. It was her age -- or lack
of it -- that was driving me wild! Physically, Charly was
certainly a woman. And most people would not be very
surprised at a sixteen-year-old girl losing her virginity to
a boy her own age. But because I was so much older, I would
be branded a "dirty old man," even though I was still in my
30s. I sighed and stared at the front door and wondered if I
should just sell the house and leave town.


     On Friday a week later, Charly called for the first
time since her birthday -- and with a comp sci problem. She
seemed to have returned to our previous, "merely" friendly
relationship. I was a bit regretful about that -- I couldn't
deny it -- but I was also relieved. I told her to come on
over that evening. And it didn't even occur to me to wonder
why she was doing schoolwork on a Friday night.
     Charly showed up about 7:30 wearing a new, rather
short, very red skirt and a very pretty red-and-white angora
sweater -- birthday gifts she wanted to show off, she said.
Her hair was drawn back in a gleaming, rust-colored
ponytail, brushed and silky. Her lipstick was a metallic
dark red that matched her hair and her carefully-drawn eye
shadow made her large luminous green eyes seem even larger.
Her warm smile was private between us.
     "I lied," she said with a sidelong look as she shucked
her jacket. "I don't have any computer science assignment. I
just wanted to see you, Tom."
     My antennae extended to their full length, quivering
and cautious. I should put her jacket right back on her and
push her out the door while I still have a chance, I
thought. But she had linked her arm through mine and was
steering me toward the living room sofa.
     As we sat, she looked at me very seriously. "I've been
thinking, like you asked me to. About you and me, and the
difference in our ages, and everything." She paused and
turned unexpectedly shy. "Am I assuming too much, Tom? About
'you and me'...? I don't want to push myself on you; that's
one of the things I decided this week while I was thinking."
     She seemed suddenly unsure of herself and I felt the
need to reassure her, so I put my arm around her shoulders
and gave her a little squeeze.
     "Charly, if you were twenty-seven instead of seventeen,
I wouldn't hesitate a second; I'd be wining and dining you
and sending you flowers."
     Her face lit up as she leaned against me. "Really?
You'd do that?"
     "A little charmer like you? You bet I would!" I smiled
at her fondly and wondered why I was putting myself on the
line that way. Charly ducked her head and the tips of her
ears turned pink. It was hard to believe this was the same
girl who had come on so strongly the last time we were
together.
     "But I'm *not* twenty-seven," she countered in a low
voice. "Does it really matter that much? Anyway, in another
year I'll *be* a legal adult. And I wouldn't tell anybody
anything until then, honest..."
     Tell them what? Was this sweet young thing offering
herself to me for real? And was I really prepared to accept
such an offer?
     Without considering what I was doing, I found myself
stroking her head, like a kitten. God, she was so cute. And
she was right about her deceptive age: I had to keep
reminding myself that I had been finishing college the year
she was born.
     "Charly? What's the matter, sweetheart? Let me see that
pretty face..." I chucked her under the chin, which made her
smile as she tilted her head back against my arm. She still
wore an unhappy expression but the gaze she fixed on me
burned away my optical insulation.
     I stroked her cheek for a moment, staring back into
those wide, impossibly green eyes. In them, I could see the
reflection of my burning bridges. I leaned over and kissed
her wet, inviting lips.
     She made a small whimpering sound in the back of her
throat as she bunched up the front of my shirt in her fist.
She leaned into me and her eyebrows rose as her eyes widened
still more. Then her lashes fluttered and her body melted
into mine. It was the most exciting and soul-satisfying kiss
I'd ever participated in.
     As the long chord of our kiss faded away, she scrambled
around so she could bury her face in my neck. I heard an
"Ohhhhh..." in a breathy, little girl whisper that gave me
shivers. She was up on one knee, her arms around my neck; my
arms had wrapped themselves around her narrow waist. Her
breasts were mashed against one side of my chest and when I
ran one hand across the back of her sweater I encountered no
evidence of a bra strap. All I found was shifting layers of
smooth muscle.
     Charly had shifted gears and was nuzzling my throat,
scattering steamy, aggressive kisses up and down my
windpipe. Her hot little hand clutched the back of my neck
and my own hands pushed her sweater up until they reached
her volcanic tits. My thumbs moved over her hardening
nipples and she moaned against my Adam's apple, flicking her
tongue out to stab me in the throat -- and the heart. She
was drowning me in wet kisses and I loved it.
     Then she was straddling my lap, pressing her breasts
against my face. I snagged one hard, stiff nipple between my
lips and swirled my tongue around it. Charly gulped twice
and her fingers sank hard into my shoulders.
     "Oh my God, oh my God, ohhhh... oh, Jesus, that feels
*so* good!" she whispered thickly and tried to push more of
herself into my mouth. I switched to the other nipple and
she moaned again. My hands were moving on automatic,
caressing her slender waist and polishing her lower back. I
was vaguely aware that I was avoiding her taut buttocks, nor
did I try to push that short skirt farther up. I didn't
quite know why I was denying myself that, but I never argue
with my unconscious.
     After a few minutes of savoring the taste of each young
nipple alternately, I realized that Charly was trembling. I
got her to bend at the knees, squatting on my lap, so I
could see her face. She was crying, not loudly but damply,
and she wore an unfathomable expression.
     "Sweetheart, what is it? If all this scares you, we'd
better stop, Charly. I would never do anything to frighten
you, please believe me."
     Her fingers moved from my shoulders to gently stroke my
face. "No, no -- it's nothing like that," she replied
shakily. "I just didn't know it was possible to feel like
this. It's so wonderful...!" She blinked away her tears and
licked her lips in indecision. "I... I have to say it, Tom.
I'm in love with you. Not 'puppy love' or a 'crush' -- I
really love you." She took a deep breath. "Have I scared
*you* away now?"


     Since graduating from high school romance, I'd had
serious affairs with two women, both of whom I'd eventually
broken up with. I had proposed to the first one and she'd
turned me down, gently but firmly. She had career plans that
didn't allow for marriage just yet. The second one, I
*should* have proposed to but didn't, and she got tired of
waiting.
     I suffered badly both times and in the nearly ten years
since my second defeat, I had carefully kept my
relationships with women physical, with friendship and
neutral affection added wherever possible. That seemed to
work, especially with the women I dated regularly and slept
with occasionally. By mutual understanding, "love" never
entered the equation with them.
     While these affinities were quite satisfying sexually
and filled a mutual need, I guess I'd deluded myself about
avoiding love. Charly's forthright declaration, not
insisting I reciprocate, not demanding anything for
herself... was it really what she thought it was? Was it
really possible for a girl of seventeen to be genuinely in
love with a man who was nearly thirty-five?
     Equally important right now was how I really felt about
her. Was my strong attraction to Charly only sexual? No --
absolutely not. That was part of it, of course, but she was
intelligent and cheerful and witty, and I thought about her
every day ... a realization which had only just that moment
dawned on me. If I sent her away, or if she left, and I
never saw her again, how would I feel? And the answer to
that question, I knew immediately, was that I didn't even
want to consider the possibility of never seeing Charly
again.
     Was I in love with this astonishing young girl? Real,
true love? And did the rest of the world give a damn about
"true love"? Was I out of my fucking mind?


     I came out of my thoughts and saw that Charly was
studying my face and biting her lower lip. She'd just taken
a huge chance. Because she was right: I might get spooked by
the implications of this situation and chase her away. She
was actually worried about losing *me*... and I knew, too,
that if I did end this thing, it would never even occur to
her to seek adolescent revenge by hollering "rape!"
     Her hands had moved to her lap and she was anxiously
intertwining her fingers. I took each of her hands in one of
mine and squeezed a little.
     "Charly, I don't know what to say..." A sad, dejected
look began to appear on her face. "No, sweetheart -- I mean
I *really* don't know what to say. I sure wasn't prepared
for all this, you know. And I don't think 'love' means the
same thing to you that it used to mean to me. Seriously,
Charly: Are you thinking 'going steady' or 'having babies?'"
Her cheeks abruptly flushed. I wasn't doing this very well.
     "I'm not making fun of you, honest. But the idea of
digging out my old senior ring -- if I could find it -- for
you to wear on a chain around your neck..." The image was so
ludicrous I stopped and grinned. She saw the humor of it,
too, and smiled as she squeezed my hands in return. "And you
don't really want to get married before you can even vote,
do you? I know you want more from your future than that,
Charly." Her smile turned serious and she glanced down.
     "Can't we... um... have an affair or something?" she
asked softly. But I'd had affairs; she hadn't.
     "Sweetheart, 'love' means more than an affair. It has
to. Trust me on this, okay? Hiding our relationship from
everyone wouldn't last very long, either. Things like that
just don't stay secret." She nodded slowly.
     There was something else, though. "Charly, you haven't
asked me how I feel about you."
     "Well..." She took a deep breath. "I'm still sitting on
your lap, so I guess you don't hate me too much." The bright
smile flashed on and off again. "I know you like me, Tom. I
think I turn you on, too, don't I?" The second smile was
much more confident. "But if you don't love me... well,
that's okay. I can live without that as long as you *like*
me and just let me be around you." She was studying my
sweatshirt again and my heart climbed up into my throat. I
didn't deserve someone like this feeling this way about me.
     I stroked her cheeks with my thumbs and felt some of
the tension drain from her muscles. "Charly, it's important
that I be completely honest with you. I'm not sure I know
what love is anymore. I know my feelings about you are much
stronger than I realized until this evening. I've thought
you were cute and sweet since the first day your brothers
introduced you. We've become good friends, and I value that
a great deal. You have a mind and a force of character I can
respect -- and that's important, to me, anyway."
     I shrugged. "But is that 'love?' I don't know, Charly.
If I were twenty again, without the life I've experienced
since then, still full of enthusiasm and with fewer
battle-scars... hell, yes, I'd be in love with you! I'd
neglect my work to write you love poems. My friends would
make jokes about my lapses of attention. I'd lie awake all
night thinking about you, your beautiful eyes, those
luscious lips, and especially that radiant smile!"
     Another shrug. "But I'm not twenty, Charly, any more
than you're twenty-seven. I'm almost thirty-five, and my
friends would make very different jokes. Your father would
probably go to court and get an injunction to keep me from
coming anywhere near you. And your brothers... well, I hate
to think how they'd react. And I'm sitting here wondering if
all of them wouldn't be right."
     But I was still backpedalling and Charly knew it. She
scooted closer on my lap and slipped her wrists around my
neck. And she gazed at me very seriously indeed. "Tom... do
you think you *could* love me? Eventually?"
     There it was. And without thinking any further, I knew
the answer. "Charly -- sweetheart -- I think I *am* in love
with you. I think I've been falling in love with you for
months now, God help me." She blinked rapidly several times
and pulled my lips to hers. I've never been kissed like that
in my life, before or since. The alarm bells that had been
clanging in my mind for ten minutes fell silent. I didn't
know how we were going to work this out, but we would. At
least, we'd certainly try.
     Then Charly brought me back to the here-and-now with a
snap. "Tom... are we, um... are we going to make love?" Her
voice was low and excited and her squirming transmitted
itself to my groin like a telegraph key. There should be
rising violins in the background, I thought absently. Of
*course* I wanted to make love to this marvelous girl. I
wanted to strip her bare and bury myself in her within the
next ten seconds -- which was exactly why I couldn't do it,
not yet, not after our revelations to each other. It would
be too much like rape under psychological duress.
     I slid my hands up and down her smooth, firm thighs and
sighed in frustration. "I don't think we should, Charly.
When I was your age -- God, there I go! -- the common wisdom
among the guys I knew was, 'if you can't get her to fuck,
tell her you love her.' That's what I'd feel like I was
doing, sweetheart."
     Charly laughed lightly and her eyes sparkled. "They
still say that, Tom; we just don't believe them any more!
But I understand what you're saying," she added quickly.
"It's okay; I know you're trying to be careful. But it
doesn't really matter, because we have all the time in the
world -- and you're going to be seeing a lot of me from now
on..."


     The next few months went by in a blur. I felt fifteen
years younger, which worried me a little when I mulled my
unconscious motives for this unlooked-for romance. I was
both breathlessly starry-eyed and worried to the point of
indigestion every time I thought about Charly. And I thought
about her *all* the time. The refrain spun madly around in
my mind: You're too old for her! / Age difference doesn't
matter when you're in love! / You're not in love, you're
just flattered that she thinks *she* is! / But she's a
wonderful girl! / Yes, and you're going to mess up her life!
/ She wants me! / You want her body! / SHUT UP!
     Charly didn't seem visited by such doubts at all. In
fact, she was amazingly calm and sensible. She didn't tell
her girlfriends that she was involved with an older man. She
went out on social dates with boys her own age, just as she
always had. When we bumped into each other in public, she
would pause and chatter brightly about computers... and only
I could see the longing hidden behind her youthful smile.
     I'd met her parents once or twice -- nice people,
unfortunately -- and Chris and Frank apparently had vouched
for me as a "good guy," so no one objected when Charly
continued her periodic visits, in between yard-work days.
Her grades, if anything, rose even higher and she was
invited to apply for both academic and athletic scholarships
at one of the state's more prestigious universities. But she
didn't want to go if it meant being separated from me. That
required a heart-to-heart talk.
     "Charly, you still have a whole year to go before you
finish high school and I'm willing to bet you get additional
offers during that time. Take the best offer from the best
school and go!" I touched my finger to her lips to stave off
the protest I knew was coming. "Sweetheart, if you stay away
from college because of me, you'll come to hate me for it.
You have to think of yourself first in matters like this."
She looked stubborn, though, which perhaps is why I said
what I said next: "Charly, there's no rule that I have to
stay here when you go off to college."
     She stared at me blankly as if she had assumed I was
chained to this house. "You'd move? Just to be with me?"
     I reviewed in my mind what I'd just said. "Um. Yes... I
guess I would. Yes, of course I would! As long as I have
electricity, a phone line for the modem, a mailbox, and
access to UPS, what else do I need to do my work? It's not
like I have to put on a suit and go to an office every
morning."
     That got me a neck-crushing hug and a rain of
passionate, joyful kisses. Every couple of weeks thereafter,
Charly came over for the evening. Sometimes we went out to
eat -- not in our part of town, though -- and sometimes I
cooked for her. We cuddled on the sofa and talked about all
sorts of things. She explained to me her aspirations in math
and science and I encouraged her enthusiastically. I was
sure Charly had a greater natural aptitude for this stuff
than I had and I wanted to witness its blooming. I wanted
stardom for her, of some kind.
     I explained to her, without embarrassment, what I
thought had gone wrong with my two earlier serious
involvements with women and she said intelligent,
sympathetic, soothing things. Words that, to my amazement,
I'd needed to hear and never realized it. It was like she
possessed an ancient, natural wisdom to balance her bouncy,
optimistic personality.
     The deeper my knowledge and understanding of Charly
grew, the deeper I fell in love. I no longer argued with
myself about the ethics of what we were doing. I became
convinced -- gradually, completely -- that what I had come
to feel was not infatuation nor simple lust, but a quiet,
thorough acceptance that this was the person I wanted to be
with permanently.


     It wasn't all talk between us, though, not by any
means. Our physical relationship also continued to develop,
though we took it slowly at first... just as Charly would
have done with another high school student. I rediscovered
the excitement of exploring inch by inch a willing young
body of the opposite sex. And she had the dubious pleasure
(in my opinion) of exploring a male body that had seen
better days, but she seemed to take as much pleasure in
being an explorer as an exploree.
     She enjoyed teasing me, wearing a cropped tee-shirt and
no bra with tight short-shorts and thong-style sandals, to
show off her smooth, muscular legs. She was very nearly as
strong as I was and a good deal quicker. More than once, we
wrestled playfully, with me ending up on the floor on my
back, arms pinned by Charly's focused energy. Then she'd
grin and brush her bare, swaying breasts against my lips and
let me suck at her firm, resilient nipples.
     I loved to stroke that lovely, lithe body, running my
hands slowly up and down her calves and thighs, squeezing
her perfect buttocks, gently testing the tensions in her
strong shoulders and neck. Her eyes would smoulder in
shifting verdant shades and her piercing look of undoubting
love would skewer my heart and soul.
     Then her jeans would be down, or her skirt up, and my
fingers and thumb would gently probe her pussy, massaging
and strumming her clit while she clung tightly to me, until
she collapsed in a shaking, stammering orgasm.
     Nor did my own arousal go unnoticed. When our laughing
loveplay gave me an erection -- which was nearly always --
Charly would matter-of-factly squeeze and massage my cock
through my slacks, then unzip my fly and carefully extricate
the object of her attentions. At first, methodically and
with her usual concentration, she would simply stroke and
pump my willing penis until the climactic moment when her
hands were covered in my oozing semen.
     But it didn't take long before she was nuzzling my
cock-head with her face and lips, licking the shaft with
long, torturous strokes, and then sucking avidly on it until
my climax ended up on, and then in her mouth. Less to wipe
up, she said, and winked.
     Finally, five months into our mutual journey of
discovery, when she'd spent a particularly hot, muggy April
day working on the yard that spring of her junior year, she
killed the mower and came up to meet me on the wooden steps
of the screened back porch. And there she stripped
completely, twining her sweaty, somewhat aromatic body
around mine.
     It was the first time I'd seen her entirely naked. I
glanced quickly to both sides but the aspens and the fence
screened us completely from my neighbors. She nipped at my
ear, then bit me harder than usual on the neck.
     "It's been long enough, Tom," she murmured insistently.
"If you don't take off your clothes and make love to me
right now, I'm going to skip-rope down the sidewalk naked
until *someone* pays attention to me...!"
     All I was wearing was an old pair of wash pants and she
had them pushed down my legs within seconds. My cock was
ascending between us and she grasped it just below the head
and led me down the steps to an area of newly-clipped,
sweet-smelling Bermuda. There we stood and kissed, tongues
dueling, hands moving urgently over trembling bodies. She
was right, as usual: this was the time and the place. God, I
wanted her!
     Charly sank slowly to her knees and lay back in the
fresh-cut grass, drawing me down with her. "Do it, Tom," she
said quietly. "Put it in me. I need you to fuck me, Tom." If
she was trying to enhance the old guy's arousal, she was
succeeding. She spread her smooth, very white legs, knees
apart, and urged me on. Her rusty pubic patch shone in the
spring sun.
     But there was something we were forgetting.
"Sweetheart, what if you--" I began, but she interrupted me
with a broad leer.
     "I started on the Pill months ago. Now, do it! Fuck
me!"
     So I knelt between her thighs and rubbed my cockhead up
and down at the already moist opening, for lubrication. She
jerked in excitement and laughed at her own reaction. When I
slid slowly into her, she hissed and closed her eyes
tightly. Her pelvis arched upward to meet me. From what my
sweet Charly had said, this was only her second time -- her
first time with someone she really cared about, the extra
dimension -- and I was determined to make it memorable for
her. I took my time, moving slowly, though it was a struggle
to maintain that discipline. On each stroke, I drove into
her more deeply and forcefully and in seconds she was
gasping in high excitement and sliding her hands agitatedly
up and down my arms and across my shoulders. Her legs rose
and locked around my ribs and I was aware of the long
muscles tensing and relaxing in rhythm with my movements.
     At first, she moaned my name over and over but as we
progressed she became nearly inarticulate. Having that kind
of effect on her wound me up tight, too. I leaned forward
over her body to increase the friction against her clit;
looking down, I watched the shallow mounds of her creamy
breasts vibrate seismically. And when she reached her orgasm
after ten minutes or so, her legs squeezed my torso even
harder while her fingers tugged at my hair.
     I slowed for a few strokes to allow her to catch her
breath and then increased the tempo. "Oh, do it hard!" she
moaned under her breath and held her knees apart for the
deepest possible penetration. So I let myself go, pounding
into her, making her gasp raggedly at each thrust. When I
finally came, my cock pressed against the end of her hot,
clasping cunt, she hung onto my neck so tightly I could
barely breath myself. And with her nose in my ear, she
whispered, "Tom, I love you so much... you're the only guy
I'll ever want or ever need...." Any lingering doubts I'd
had about my future with Charly were gone.


     Our circumstances were such that we were only able to
have sex every five or six weeks that spring and summer.
Which turned out to be a good thing, actually, because it
kept the suspense and anticipation high between us and
prevented physical boredom. We always made love at my house,
of course, and Charly was never able to spend the night. I
wanted to sleep with her literally as well as figuratively,
to wake in the morning with her head snuggled against my
chest, to watch her yawn and stretch. But I was glad of the
time we were able to spend together.
     We planned elaborate scenarios in which Charly would
take her closest friends into her confidence and stage a
fake slumber party; they would cover for her and she would
spend the night with me. Or an overnight campout in the
woods -- which she would desert, to meet me at a fancy
motel. In the event, we played it safe. We had all the rest
of our lives and we didn't want to take chances with them
now.
     The day after Labor Day, Charly began a serious
campaign to nail down as much financial aid as possible for
college, only a year away now. She ranked very high in her
class and her SAT scores were stratospheric, so her chances
were far better than average. The fact that she was a female
with an interest in math and science didn't hurt, either.
Softball, field hockey, and women's track coaches from
several state universities also invited her for a visit; she
went, but she was much more interested in academic
scholarships. Besides, as she noted in annoyance, the money
available for women's sports was nothing like the huge
allotments for the guys.
     Her competence in computer science also had
accelerated. Where I'd had to lead her through beginning
database design almost by the hand only a year before, she
was now looking over my shoulder and making insightful
comments and suggestions on the jobs I got paid for.
     Her talent was driven home one October evening when I
took a break from a tedious project to play around with one
of the better-known social simulation games. I was surprised
when my previously saved game immediately began to exhibit
all sorts of emergency scenarios -- many more of them and
much stranger than the game itself called for. While
struggling to figure out why a smoothly-functioning city I'd
constructed months before was suddenly stricken with a
plague of grass and weeds, a suspicion began to dawn.
     Grass and weeds?
     "Oh, Char-r-r-l-y-y-y," I warbled while staring at the
screen. A strangled sound made me look back over my
shoulder. My little sweetheart was curled up in the old
armchair in the corner, both hands over her mouth, tears of
laughter at the corners of her beautiful, devilish eyes.
When she saw she'd been found out, she gave up any attempt
to smother her glee and broke into a cacophony of giggles,
even drumming her heels on the chair arm in her delight.
     Of course, I got up and went and leaped on her, and we
wound up on the floor, mock-wrestling and tickling each
other. She'd set me up, all right -- and I was very
impressed at the skill with which she'd done it.
     "Sweetheart," I said as we cuddled out of breath, "I
think that little stunt was your graduation project. There's
nothing more that the Weeks Academy of Computer Guru-ism can
teach you!"
     "You mean I don't get to stay after school any more?"
she laughed.
     "Only if you're very nice to your teacher."
     "Oh, I'm *always* nice to my poor old teacher!" Of
course, I had to tickle her again for that.
     "Do you think my teacher would be willing to write me a
letter of recommendation?" she asked after she had me
pinned. "Berkeley's offering me a really *big* scholarship,
plus a waiver on the out-of-state tuition. I just got the
letter today! It goes term-to-term and I have to keep my
grades high to be renewed, of course, but it *could* cover
all four years."


     I sat up excitedly and hugged her. "Charly, that's
wonderful! UC is a terrific school for the things you're
interested in! And I know you'd like the Bay Area, too. I
lived out there for several years before my grandfather died
and I hated to leave." Then something occurred to me. "Um,
sweetheart, have you told your folks about this yet? I know
they were expecting you to go to college someplace nearby."
     "Yeah, I told them last night. They'd prefer I didn't
go to school so far away, but they realize what an
opportunity this is... and also that they couldn't afford to
pay for me to go someplace like that. And they're proud that
I've done it all on my own, so there's no problem." She
twisted around so she could look me in the eye. "But, Tom,
there's something else: I know what you said before, about
leaving here, but Berkeley is so far away, and--"
     I held her by the biceps and returned her gaze.
"Charly, do you still want us to be together while you're in
school? Be honest with me; I'll understand,  I promise."
     "Oh, God, Tom -- I don't *ever* want to be away from
you! But I don't want to mess up your work, either; that
wouldn't be fair."
     "Charly, wherever you go, I'll go. As long as you want
me to be there. Always." And her face crumpled into happy
tears and she hugged me so tightly around the neck, I nearly
strangled. I was so proud of her, and so unequivocally in
love with her, and so in awe of being the one *she* loved, I
would have followed her to the Moon.


     Charly graduated third out of 700-some-odd in her
senior class -- president of her National Honor Society
chapter and winner of an award from the local IEEE chapter,
too. When the principal announced her scholarship to UC at
commencement, she and the two or three others who had
received major financial awards received standing applause
from their friends -- and from me, because I was there, too.
There was no way I was going to miss my sweetheart's latest
triumph.
     We'd only had one real disagreement that spring, when
Charly mentioned she wasn't planning to go to the Senior
Prom. But why? I wanted to know. She looked at me oddly and
declared that if she couldn't go with me, she didn't want to
go. And that was out of the question, of course. It took me
several days of patient talk and cajoling to convince her to
accept an invitation from a boy she'd dated off-and-on for
several years, someone she'd become good friends with.
     She explained to the guy beforehand that her
"boyfriend" was in another town and couldn't make it for the
prom -- and then discovered, quite belatedly, that not only
her prospective date but all her friends were perfectly
aware there was *someone* in her life, someone she was
unwilling to talk about. The boys she knew were curious
about the mystery man but respected her privacy in the
matter. Her girlfriends thought it was all "too romantic."
     So Charly went to the Prom -- and admitted the next day
that she'd had a wonderful time and was glad she'd let me
talk her into it. When I asked her, with a smile, whether
she'd thanked her date with a kiss or two, she hesitated.
Well, yes, she had, actually -- but they'd been friends for
so long and everything... And I laughed and held her in my
arms and assured her that I was not going to be jealous of
anyone she ever dated, then or in college.
     I'd already thought it out: I was busy with my work so
much of the time, she was young and full of energy, and for
me to smother her with even psychological monogamy was the
quickest way I knew to lose her love.


     Charly spent June throwing out most of eighteen years
of accumulated junk and adapting her wardrobe for the even
but temperate climate of San Francisco and Berkeley. She had
to be there for freshman orientation on August 1st. Chris
and Frank, home for vacation, helped out.
     I spent July in preliminary conferences with several
real estate agents. We'd already worked this out, as well.
She was going to be extraordinarily busy for the first few
months. Her scholarship included room and board and it made
sense for her to live in one of the freshman dorms, at least
officially. I would wait until mid-fall to dispose of my
property. That would allow me to get the best price and my
departure from town wouldn't follow hers too closely... just
in case someone noticed a connection. Also, I had several
contacts around the Bay Area and I asked them to keep an eye
out for a rental of some kind that wasn't too far from the
University but was still within my modest price range.
     The afternoon of the day before Charly was due to leave
for school, I made a point of going around to her house to
say goodbye to my "yard guy" and unofficial student. I gave
her a little guidebook to San Francisco as a going-away
present, and she hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, and
thanked me sincerely for two years of extra income and
mentoring. Her father was also sincere when he shook my hand
and thanked me for all I'd done for his daughter. Her mother
added that it was very nice that I'd spent so much of my
free time helping her daughter in her schoolwork; she
obviously didn't have a clue about computers or Charly's
proficiency with them. I smiled and waved cheerfully as I
left.
     After dark, Charly and I met "by accident" in the
farthest corner of a nearby mall parking lot and I gave her
her real present: a small gold ring with a solitary pearl.
(I could hardly give her a diamond solitaire.) But Charly
had a weakness for pearls and this modest bit of jewelry was
symbolic of a much greater depth of feeling than it appeared
to be. So she slipped it on the third finger of her left
hand and stood admiring it while tears flowed down both
cheeks. We kept our parting kiss brief -- it could have
lasted until sunrise, had we let it -- and confirmed that
the next time we embraced would be in California. Then I
went home to lose myself in work the rest of the night and
Charly went home to try (unsuccessfully) to sleep.


     Charly called a few days later in a state of high
exhilaration. Most of the freshman girls in her dorm, she
said, were nervous and even a little frightened to be there.
She, on the other hand, wanted to learn *everything* there
was to learn before Friday at the latest. She'd made it into
several honors courses, which meant smaller classes without
TAs. She *loved* the campus already, she *loved* what she'd
been able to see of Berkeley itself, and she *loved* the Bay
and the view of the city on the other side. Several of the
girls were going on an expedition by BART the next day and
the little travel guide I'd given her was already full of
paper clips and dog-eared pages. She was so ecstatic about
everything, I found myself grinning like an idiot over the
handset. I had a feeling I knew where our future home was
going to be.
     Two weeks after that, one of the realtors I'd talked to
called to say she had a live one: The general manager of a
new company in town wanted an appropriate home for himself,
his wife, and their three teenagers. They were moving from
Boston and the family wanted no more of brownstones and
crowded sidewalks. I shook my head: Nouveau suburbanites,
yet. But the guy and his wife came and examined the house
top to bottom, exclaiming over all the bedrooms and closets,
the huge old kitchen... and especially the large and
beautifully maintained yard. Then they had an independent
inspector do the same and he gave the old place a clean
bill. The offer my realtor managed to get from them was
considerably larger than I had expected, but a dollar's
worth of housing went a lot farther in that town than in
Boston.
     It took me another month to dispose of my own unwanted
junk and to arrange for shipment of computer equipment and
books and family furniture to the large studio a trustworthy
friend had found for me near El Cerrito. It wasn't as close
to the campus as I would have preferred, but it would do for
a year or two while I reacquainted myself with the area. And
then I was on my way in my old Corolla station wagon, loaded
with clothes and odds-and-ends, and I never looked back.
     On Halloween, Charly and I took turns going to my
redwood door to pass out candy to trick-or-treaters. And in
between doorbells, we made up for the two months we'd been
apart.


     The two of us had been so concerned with trying to
logically and rationally plan our future together, we'd
forgotten one of the best things about moving out to the
coast: Freedom! No one knew us here and we didn't have to
hide. We could hold hands at a show in El Cerrito, or play
tourist in San Francisco, or attend some event on the UC
campus, and *nobody cared*! We knew almost no one yet, so
any friendships either of us formed came ready-made with an
acknowledged lover/partner. We still took precautions
against the world in general -- I stayed away from her
classrooms and dorm and she was careful not to be present
when I had clients over -- but the student culture of
Berkeley is one of the most intellectually free places in
the country. Not always the most liberal (this wasn't the
'60s any longer), but certainly one of the most tolerant in
terms of people-mixing.
     You could see "couples" of every description and
definition swarming in and out of Sather Gate: Mostly young
people, of course, but also leftover hippies with gray hair,
gay men, gay women, people with jewelry in unlikely places,
people in three-piece suits and ponytails, political
pamphleteers for every cause imaginable, local merchants and
street-sellers, and gawking tourists from the Corn Belt --
they were all there any afternoon when the weather allowed
it. I loved the place, and still do.
     Though I didn't mention it to Charly, I'd been
concerned about my ability to earn a living in the
computer-industry hothouse of northern California, but it
turned out that talent can always find a home -- and I knew
I had talent. Actually, as I'd explained to Charly, it
didn't really matter much where I lived, as long as I had
the means of communication. I was working not with hardware,
which often required one's physical presence, but with
software -- electrons over a wire. Most of my previous
clients stayed with me and I managed to acquire a few new
ones. By Christmas of that first year, I was busier than
ever -- and charging for my work at California rates, too.
     Charly ended her first term in a turmoil about her
grades: She'd managed only a 3.8 instead of the 4.0 she
expected of herself. I tried not to laugh (remembering my
own struggles and lack of discipline the first couple of
years in college), but I was secretly very proud of her
indeed. And damned if she didn't make all A's the *second*
term.


     That first summer, my sweetheart went home for a few
weeks to see her family and friends and to bask in their
congratulations at the quality of work she was doing. She
seemed to be heading for a career in pure math and was
already at a level she had difficulty describing to her
parents. Chris had just graduated from Notre Dame with a
degree in accounting and was cramming like mad for his CPA
exam, she said. Frank had finished his second year at
Cornell, where he was near the top of the HRM school
academically and was well thought of by the varsity football
and basketball coaches, as well. Whatever else Mr. and Mrs.
Chambers had accomplished in their lives, they'd certainly
raised a trio of overachievers.
     Then she pleaded the need to study over the summer and
returned to my waiting arms. I rented a small, sporty car
and we indulged ourselves in a two-week drive up the coast
and back, with lengthy stops at Mt. Shasta, Crater Lake,
Portland, Mount St. Helens, Seattle, and Vancouver. We gaped
at the scenery in the Cascades, gaped again at the Columbia
Gorge, used up a dozen rolls of film in Olympic National
Park, and took the ferry over to Vancouver Island to ride
the omnibuses in Victoria. Each of us found a score of
places where we knew we could be happy for a long time.
     Charly looked just enough older now, especially when
she spent a little time with her makeup, that we were never
cross-examined by motel managers. And there was something
especially romantic about making love in a different bed
almost every night. Coming and going, I estimated that I had
filled up her cunt across 1,500 miles of wilderness and that
she had sucked my cock in a dozen towns and cities (not
counting several scenic overlooks). In fact, I made the run
from Roseburg to Eugene with her copper-topped head in my
lap, milking two separate orgasms from me at 65 mph.
Positioned as she was in the little car, it was a good thing
I never had to shift.


     The second year was more of the same, only better. We
knew our way around now and we had acquired a small circle
of mutual friends -- including two couples whose disparity
in ages was nearly as great as our own. We had found some
favorite restaurants in the City, and we delighted in
walking through the crowds along Jefferson Street and the
Embarcadero on a Saturday afternoon.
     We were spending much more time in each other's company
now, and I was pleased (and relieved) to find that while we
both enjoyed a rousing argument, we never, ever fought. I
believe both of us went to some trouble to avoid fights
because each of us feared the potential fragility of our
relationship. Yes, we were deeply in love, more so every
day, but we both were too aware of the odds against us to
take ourselves anything other than seriously.
     But we didn't hold things back, either. Not important
things. Charly once caught me watching an attractive
neighbor sunbathing on the back patio of my building. The
woman had very nice tits and she was wearing only the lower
half of a bikini. I know my expression as I stood by the
open window was one of frank admiration. Then Charly came up
behind me and I fell all over myself, apologizing and
assuring her that I was "only looking." My sweetheart took a
peek out the window herself, clucked in apparent
disapproval, and turned her back on me -- and then lost it
and broke down in giggles at my guilty expression. When I
assured her I loved only her, she put her tongue in my ear
and whispered "Don't you think I know that, you dummy?" We
spent the rest of the afternoon finding interesting ways to
occupy our bodies.


     But then we reached a turning point that neither of us
had expected. The doorbell rang one May evening as I was
working online on a problem in data transfer and I was
annoyed at the interruption. Charly had her own key, of
course, so it was probably a salesman -- or, at this hour, a
Jehovah's Witness. But my jaw dropped when I opened the
door.
     "Frank?! What are you doing here? Uh, come in, come
in..." Charly's brother was in his third year at Cornell,
nearly three thousand miles to the east. He had no business
being here, especially without warning, and he wasn't
smiling as he entered and shook my hand.
     "Hello, Mr. Weeks. Funny seeing you here, too." He
looked down at me appraisingly for a moment and then walked
over to my favorite armchair and sat without waiting to be
invited. Mr. Weeks? What had happened to "Tom?"
     Also, Frank, like his older brother, was ordinarily a
very polite young man; such rude conduct on his part had to
be calculated and I didn't like the implications.
     "Since I was in San Francisco for a UIL debate," he
continued, "I thought I'd surprise Charly ... so I didn't
tell her I was coming." He shot me a faint smile and nodded
slowly. "Yep -- she was surprised, all right. She'd been
sitting at her desk in the dorm room and while we were
chatting I happened to glance at the writing pad she'd left
lying there. She was writing a love letter." He watched me
swallow nervously.
     "I didn't realize at first who she was writing to -- I
assumed it was some guy she'd met on campus -- and I was
reading bits of it out loud and teasing her a little about
this new-found love interest. She got pretty upset -- which
was very strange, you know? I expected a wise-crack or a
zinger from her, not tears. And then I came across a
reference in the letter to lawn-mowing and 'rolling in the
hay,' and how nice it was to be in love with 'a more
experienced man'..." He let it just dangle there and waited
silently for me to respond.
     Jesus... With a little advance notice to form an
explanation of my relationship with Charly, I was pretty
sure I could make Frank understand. Charly and I had already
discussed the unpleasant fact that we eventually would have
to confront not only her two brothers but her parents as
well. But having been caught off-guard and unprepared like
this by a large young man who was physically quite capable
of pounding me into hamburger, I was flustered and dry in
the mouth. Moreover, Frank's unblinking cobra gaze made me
feel *guilty*, and I didn't like that at all. It made me a
little reckless.
     "Frank, I'm not going to apologize for falling in love
with your sister. It happened despite my efforts *not* to
become emotionally involved -- but it happened. Have you
asked Charly how she feels about me?"
     He seemed nonplussed that I'd strayed from the
defensive. "Charly's not old enough or experienced enough
to--"
     "I could say the same thing about you, Frank. You're
only a year older than she is."
     He stood up and glared at me. "The point is that you're
*twenty* years older than my sister! We trusted you, Mr.
Weeks, and you--"
     And at that point the girl herself charged through my
front door looking both worried and pissed. "Tom, I tried to
call, to warn you that Frank was in town, but your phone's
been tied up forever!" Oh, yeah: my modem was still running
and the call-waiting was disabled. She turned fiercely on
her brother; her fears that Frank might have punched me out
had dissipated, to be replaced by rising anger.
     "Frank! You have no business harassing him like this!
I'm an adult now, remember? I'll make my own decisions!" Her
face was red with furious determination and when she
clenched her small, hard fists and stepped between her
brother and me, Frank actually took a pace back.
     "Charly, this guy's old enough to be your father!"
     "Hey, now *that's* really original!" she shot back.
     "He's just taking advantage of your youth and
inexperience!"
     Charly stared back at him and took a couple of deep
breaths in a conscious effort to calm herself down. She
visibly set herself and her voice took on a tone of quiet,
serious anger. Hell, she even scared me.
     "Now, Frank, I want you to listen to me very carefully
because I mean every word I say: You're my brother and I
love you very much. The same for Chris. You guys have always
been there for me and I would never intentionally do
anything to hurt you. But I also love Tom Weeks and I know
he loves me." She glanced back, reached for my hand, and
squeezed it.
     Frank was a bit bewildered by Charly's blistering
attack. "But he's twen--"
     "--he's twenty years older than me! So what, Frank?
He's also seven or eight inches taller than me! So what? And
don't forget, he has brown hair and beautiful hazel eyes..."
Frank obviously was at a loss how to respond to his sister's
blunt challenge and she knew it.
     Charly shifted gears and her voice softened. "Frank,
please understand. You'll have to trust my judgment on this.
I admit it -- I'm so crazy about him, it keeps me awake at
night." She gave me a warm, melting look and squeezed my
hand again. "But I've thought this through, over and over
again. I'm not stupid, Frank: I know the statistics are
against us. And there's something else you don't know." She
shot him a wry smile. "I'm the one who started all this, not
Tom! He tried to talk me out of what I said I wanted. He
worried about all the very same things you're worried about.
He tried so hard to convince me it was a bad idea to fall
for him." I was the recipient of another soft smile. "And he
did that against his will, kinda...  because I could see it
in him. Poor Tom... It caused him pain, I realized that
later -- but he was doing what he thought he *ought* to do,
what he thought was best for me."
     Charly turned to me and linked her wrists around my
neck. "You were wrong, darling. The best thing for me is
*you* and it always will be." Even though I knew this little
display was for Frank's benefit (neither of us was in the
habit of calling each other "darling," for one thing), my
emotions were climbing nevertheless. When she pulled me down
into a kiss and wound her fingers in my hair, I returned it
for all I was worth.
     As we came out of our clinch, both of us with foolish
smiles, I became aware that Frank was shifting his weight
from one foot to the other, abashed, a little embarrassed,
trying not to watch us too closely... and maybe beginning to
be convinced that his kid sister wasn't crazy.
     He groped for a chair and sat, and Charly and I took
the sofa across from him. He studied his hands and the
coffee table and a speck on the arm of his chair. Finally,
he visibly squared his shoulders and looked at his sister's
face, then at mine, then back at her. "Well," he began, "I
still don't think I approve of all this -- but you're right,
Charly: Tom Weeks has always been an honest, conscientious
guy... and somehow I can't picture you being seduced against
your will by *anyone*." Charly beamed at him. "So, uh,
should I be expecting a wedding announcement, or what?"
     "No, Frank, not yet." Charly interlaced her fingers
with mine as we held hands. "Didn't we just agree that I'm
not stupid? If I *really* wanted to get Tom mad at me, I'd
quit school and forget about a career."
     "Damn right," I interjected with a grin. "Frank, I
don't think I'd be bragging to say that I'm pretty good in
math and logic and computer software design. But your sister
puts me in the shade! She has a tremendous talent and she'll
pass me by long before she graduates. To waste a mind like
that would be criminal."
     Charly picked up the explanation again. "We have each
other already. We spend most of our free time together,
naturally, but we don't even live together, Frank! Tom has
more work right now than he can find time for. He's
successful at what he does and that makes both of us happy,
believe me. And *my* work is getting through school. If we
got married right now, it would just complicate our lives
even more and we don't need that. I have another two years
before I get my B.S. After that -- yes, you can expect an
invitation. Also," she added practically, "I'll be
twenty-two. Our marriage won't be so difficult for people to
deal with."
     Frank shook his head slowly in disbelief. "A two-year
engagement? That's hard to believe, man."
     Charly glanced at me and quietly corrected him. "It'll
be more like four years, Frank. Or five. We've been in love
for quite a while now."
     Her brother nodded without comment; nothing more could
shock or surprise him now. "Okay -- whatever. I just don't
want you being hurt, Sis." He glanced at me and I saw the
warning.
     "Frank," I said quietly and seriously, "if I ever do
anything to harm this girl in any way, I hope you'll come
and beat me to a soggy pulp." His slight nod seemed to mean
he would take me at my word. Then he smiled, a bit wearily.
     "Well... anything I can do to help, let me know. I'm
always on your side, Charly. Both your sides, now, I guess."
     He stood and Charly jumped up and hugged him
aggressively. "We were  going to tell everyone, you know.
Just not yet and not like this. So Chris doesn't know about
us, either. Or the folks."
     Frank grinned ruefully. "Well, I think I can smooth the
way a little with ol' Chris. I'll be seeing him at a Knicks
exhibition game in a few weeks and we're planning to get
together for a pizza afterward, before I go back to Ithaca.
I'll break the news to him and get him to think about it
before he gets angry. He always said I was the emotional
one, anyway." He touched his finger to his sister's nose.
"But *you* have to handle the folks, kiddo. And I don't even
want to be in the same county when you tell 'em!"
     "Yeah, that'll be interesting, all right," Charly
admitted. "We'll have it planned out by then -- I hope." She
didn't ask Frank not to say anything to anyone else because
it wasn't necessary.


     As it turned out, when we went to talk to Mr. and Mrs.
Chambers the afternoon their daughter graduated from the
University of California with High Honors, I discovered they
were much more astute than either Charly or I had given them
credit for. (Well, Charly and her brothers had to have
inherited their brains from someone, after all.) They'd
heard from a mutual acquaintance that Charly seemed to have
a steady romantic interest. They knew she was still living
in the dorm and they trusted her uncommon common sense, so
they made a conscious decision not to worry.
     Then something or other that Frank or Chris had said
that winter caused them to think back, and to wonder about
my departure from town two months after Charly's. That had
alarmed them, so they'd bluntly asked their sons what was
going on with their sister. The guys had broken down and
explained to them, as best they could, that Charly really
was in love with an older man. Serious, twenty-one-year-old
love. The man in question was just as much in love with her.
And the two of them were being as cautious and
forethoughtful as they could think to be.
     Well, at least Charly's folks knew me and had -- at
least to that point -- a good opinion of me, so they
decided, after much late-night discussion, to reserve
judgment and not to say anything to their daughter. I was
frankly amazed at their level of confidence in their
progeny.
     So, as they sat on a bench in a hillside grove of
redwoods that afternoon, and Charly was tense and I was
nearly sick to my stomach with apprehension, her parents
just looked at each other and smiled. I think they actually
enjoyed our discomfort -- in justified retribution for their
nights of worry, I have to admit.
     And when Charly carefully explained to them her
feelings for me --  omitting the age at which she had first
felt those feelings -- the now-elderly couple nodded in
unsurprised satisfaction. Her father looked up at me with a
rather piercing gaze.
     "And do you feel the same way about Charlene, young
man?" It was so long since anyone had called me that, I was
too startled to reply for a moment. When I replied that I
was very much in love with their daughter, he smiled and
said, "I'm glad you both had the sense not to do anything
precipitous. Charlene's mother and I were married in
college, you know. Neither of us would change that now, but
it did make things a bit more difficult for awhile." And he
shook my hand and hugged his daughter, and my relief was so
profound I nearly fainted.


     It was a very small ceremony in a Unitarian Church in
Berkeley: Just Chris and Frank (as ushers, at their own
insistence) and Charly's parents, and a few of our own close
friends. The bride didn't go in for lavish bridal gowns,
considering them a pointless extravagance, but she was
heartbreakingly beautiful in a white lace cocktail-style
dress and a veil. I could barely get through the vows, the
lump in my throat was so large. Frank said afterward that
the expression on my face resolved any lingering doubts
about my sincerity.
     But I proved my sincerity to Charly that night. Beyond
question. We have a small, comfortable place near campus
now, since Charly is well into a Ph.D. program in an area of
mathematics I don't even pretend to understand more than
superficially. I have a couple of comp sci grad students
working for me part-time and several independent software
contractors, and business is... well, perhaps not "booming,"
but certainly very adequate, and extremely satisfying.
     We've also begun browsing around the Bay Area for a
house. One with a  small yard.


                             END


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Copyright 1994 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and
posted elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial
rights are reserved.
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