The Verification

My current girl, her fine little belly pushes out gently between the hem of her T shirt and the top of her blue jeans.  She's trim, gangly, young, but her belly—in the contradictory elasticity and firmness of youth—bulges.  Her belly-button, it dives in, and her stomach swells up around it. 

            Wonderful. 

            She's eighteen, with a sharply indented waist, and small, angled-out breasts and hard hips—yet she's also covered in fat. . .smooth yielding fat that's easy to push in with my finger, though this fat also thrusts back at me. 

            Here is the young body, asking for continuation, asking for other bodies to tilt to it, and for new bodies to be created from it.  With its smoothness, its chubbiness, its sleekness, its solidity, with all these qualities residing in her—seemingly in opposition to each other—her body is putting its best foot forward.  It is saying, Look at me; fill me up with babies; make me swell further, just like I swell already. . . 

            Yet this young body's request is largely ignored: our contemporary culture, our machine culture, never gives this body, this belly, its due.  This superb belly of hers, all it's asking for is further bulging: the distension of pregnancy. 

            Not going to happen. 

            And to deny this belly, to ignore this wish as we do, only tumbles this young woman into a deep and repugnant confusion, and into my arms, sadly. 

I am 49, and I couple with my girl three times a week.  We're both intrigued by each other, for very different reasons, obviously.  She wonders, Where did he come from, this older man who wants her, pays her (nominally, indirectly), yet does not really solicit her? 

            He's a perplexing guy, she thinks, with the sessions every few days at his house, at one of his several houses.  He's wealthy yet he seems to want sex for her more than for him.  He wouldn't even mind if she had a baby from him.  Talk about strange.  He's married, too, and his wife knows about everything, and doesn't care.  And the sex—again, it's not hidden.  There's no sense the way sex seems less for him and more for her to seize.  It's almost as if he's the one who's giving, instead of taking. . . 

            That's what she thinks, for she's told me so, as have other young women who have been associated with me.  As for me, for what I think—well, my current girl has two delightful dimples in her lower back.  Her wonderfully supple, padded, youthful back is ripely marbled with flesh, seeming to show every whorl and eddy of muscle, yet she has never worked out a single day in the gym.  She never trots to the damn fitness center, or belabors herself with any kind of machine exercise—yet look at this young flesh in her lower back, in its coiled density as it spirals around these two little hollows above her butt.  These two spots, I've told her, they look as if they're the connections to the fabulous plastic mold from which she was made. 

            "And they threw away that mold after I was created," she quipped, surprising me with her knowledge of this particular cliché. 

            When she and I make love, and she sits on me, facing me, connecting me to her, belly to belly, I like to grip her mid-section in both my hands, to reach around her and press both of

my middle fingers into these noble little indentations in her lower back.  My large hands can encircle her waist completely, and with my middle fingers delving into her back and my thumbs denting her stomach right above her bush, it almost feels as if I'm patting and burping my own belly.  These two bellies are joined, in unison, after all—and in their joining they're seeking, essentially, a fatter, more virtuous future belly.  Whose wider belly is it—hers or mine?  Impos-sible to say during these moments, but nevertheless it is a belly that can certainly be nobler, more righteous than our separate bellies.

            I repeat, she's not particularly thin or tiny; she eats whatever she likes and possesses no eating disorders (for why would she have any eating disorders if a man is focused on her this determinably and she is cared for and perhaps going to be pregnant soon?)—yet I can essentially palm all of her in my hand, simply because she's young, compact, encapsulated, and this com-pression and density of hers somehow heralds her future burgeoning, her plan for continuation, her wish to join and augment the world. 

            Each time when we start out, when I ask her to sit atop me, telling her then to gallop on me—she does it enthusiastically, for all girls have practiced this reckless careening in the saddle, have waited for this very moment with a man, rehearsing it since adolescence, on pillows, in boredom-soaked school rooms, on moist palms, wetted fingers. . .even on real galloping horses.  She hurtles, and she is wholly reckless and big-lunged, for she knows now it is happening, fin-ally—what she has always wished for, though everyone has wanted to hold her back.  Never-theless, the body speaks, finally.  This is not a cliché; there are many clichés in sex (in fact, sex could be seen as the first cliché, the most massive cliché there is, which is why it's so attractive to us)—but here, for her right now, is no cliché.  She is eighteen, or nineteen, or twenty, and finally she has unearthed the body, the forbidden fruit for each of us, especially these days, in our terrible modern prohibitions directed against the body. 

             

Invariably, in my own quest for body, I find I am inseminating teenage girls—because such luxurious potential resides, sun-like, weed-like, in their taut, risen radiating little torsos.  All the future arises momentously from the bellies and breasts of young women.  Who could ever deny it? The young women especially cannot deny it, with their succulent display of themselves in public.  The many smooth bellies on view in the public eye these days: such a trumpeting wish for pregnancy resides in young women, after decades of denial from their death-wrapped culture.  It's obvious, with all the bare bellies to be seen, what's happening: young women, again, openly, want to be luscious mothers, and they're not taking any more bullshit.  There are many more curvy girls these days on the street, with visible bellies.  Good for them!  They want to be big, to be pregnant, to fester with the incipient world.  So I need never force myself on young women, coerce them; really, there is no need to trick them, or wish to deny them anything.  I merely introduce myself, or they introduce themselves, emailing me or text messaging me after hearing about me from a friend.  I tell them I can treat them well, that I am experienced, hospitable, and that I can inaugurate them (or tune them, recalibrate them, if they already have some experience with some desperate teenage boy) to sex.  I also say that I will not be upset if they become pregnant.  In fact, I tell them if they find themselves swollen I will pay them for delivering a baby, and that they can give the baby up or keep it, but whatever their choice I will support them financially.  I also say they must be eighteen, and I then confirm their ages on an internet data base of public records. 

            "The money's not for you," I explain.  "It's not anything I'm paying you for. . .to give me sex, for instance.  Instead it's a payment for the results of sex, for our commitment in sex, in life." 

            I tell them they don't have to get pregnant, of course, that the sex itself is reason enough for us to embark upon this venture.  Yet often enough they do become pregnant.  Sex for us, in fact, seems to be better if we are hoping to stumble upon pregnancy. . .

            They've never heard anything like this before, from any man, but they're intrigued, and they aspire for me—at least most of them—and they often wish, after they've gotten to know me, to swell with a baby, with experience.  Most take no precautions with birth control anyway, because they don't wish to, fundamentally, although they have been instructed by the implacable system they live in to throttle their basic desire for further life.  So here is when their life begins, right now, with this man, as they sit naked on him, beating their hips at him—not at, say, age 36, when they get promoted in some ridiculous career-track job, or when they initiate their first divorce at 43, or, right out of college they receive their first major credit card.  No, instead, a man has come to them, a grown man, and he has made love to them, shown them attention, been decent to them, and fattened them. 

            And I, too, have entered life again (after leaving life, it seems, if I spend too much time away from young women) whenever a woman strikes her hips at me, cries out in the air, and then swells with me.  A swollen young woman, I discover, is my only expectation—after my having been planted, tree-like, on earth, after I have been given nearly five decades of life, and now am given, astoundingly, this stupendous young nakedness on top of me. . .as well as a glimpse of my own death, which for the first time, at age 48, is no longer an abstraction. 

           

When my wife arrived at menopause three years ago, she lost much of her sexual desire and warmth for me, and I found, sadly, I was no longer interested in a woman who found it difficult to make love to me, or to even place her hand on my shoulder as we prepared dinner together in the kitchen.  With this withdrawal I had, essentially, lost interest in living life adequately—though I still, inexplicably, loved my wife, and will continue to love her, despite what I am doing now.  With my marriage I am united with my wife in an unbreakable bond, yet she is incapable of having any more babies, and also, concurrently, in being warm to me (the two seem related, unfortunately).  I will never abandon my wife, never be cruel to her—but I cannot disavow my own inclination and give up on sex with warm, acceding, child-bearing women.  To do that would go against everything. . .against life itself; it would also be to cave in finally to my own bloodless culture.  It would even be to go against my wife, who, curiously, is proud that her husband is still fathering children—and supporting them—in his late forties and beyond. 

            Perhaps because of the experience I've had with my wife, I find older woman cannot stir me; only younger women do, for only they have potential residing in them, as well as a reflex hunger for connection.  I can have a very splendid and sophisticated dinner out with my wife, or with any other fine, smart, older woman—but I cannot get adequately aroused by her.  Of course, she can directly stir me, stimulate me by bodily actions, by expert hands or mouth, or other sex know-how, or by cultural sophistication, by experience (and indeed older women are more accustomed to their bodies, more practiced in their bodies, less self-conscious than most younger women, so sex with them can be delightful and enriching), but I cannot be aroused by an older woman's mere presence, by the sight of her, the smell of her.  Only young women can do that.  A young woman's laugh still makes me hard, almost instantly; a young woman's bra strap peeking out at me from her shoulder, does the same. . .for such immense potential resides in young women. 

            I find, despite being married for twenty years, that I cannot inform myself that my sexless, warmth-drained wife is enough for me, despite my sincere pledge of love to her, and despite my age.  She has raised our two children (as I have too, right along with her), but my child-bearing is not over.  So, despite my love for my wife, I seek out young women.  This is not part of any conscious decision of mine to turn back the hands of time, to keep a youthful, unlined face (in fact, my face is not that youthful anymore).  Instead, put simply—to pursue and impreg-nate young women is the most basic aspiration I can possess.  But it is important to note that I am not interested in the mere fact of tallying up babies, or administering to babies, or cuddling babies, or announcing to others that I am a father, yet again, at age 48.  All that matters is that the young woman I'm with could very well take, after I have pressed myself to her.  My most basic wish is satisfied, as is hers.  

            Indeed, what does the body, any body, want but this?  The sweat-stained sheet, and the winding sheet—that's all the body obtains, basically.  The little death of orgasm, and the little life of a baby arising from between our legs and from the sopped, wrinkled, tossed bed sheet (the same now-dry winding sheet that enfolds us at our deaths)—that's it for us.  One leads to the other; one incorporates the other.  As the poet W.B. Yeats said, about life, about death, about sex, . . .birth is heaped on birth/ that such cannonade/ may thunder time away,/ birth-hour and death-hour meet,/ or, as great sages say,/ Men dance on deathless feet. 

            That's what we seek on our deathless feet and our spawning bodies: the bed sheet, and the winding sheet.  And yet the body is easily led astray; the body is easily taken down the wrong path and led to believe it needs a career, that it needs individuality, or thirty pairs of shoes in a custom-built closet.  But then, at the precipice, taken as far away from itself as is possible, the body reneges on this foolishness (though often, by then, it's too late for women to get pregnant; that's the cruel trick that is played on women who buy into the propaganda, and then never have as much time as they were promised).  The body finally decides to seek itself, to find itself in others, in other bodies that, of course, never reside in themselves either, but only hope to convene in another body, in a wily, no-holds-barred drama culminating in the vascular theater of jetting fluids and shouted oaths and gasping lungs.  The body only seeks another body which is busy seeking yet another body,  bodies that are not even born yet, bodies yet to come.   Men, and women, dancing on deathless feet. . .

            Maybe it sounds like I romanticize this process, yet I only state what is obvious.  This is our life, to gasp and exhale, to yearn for other bodies born and not born yet, to be overjoyed with our offerings to life, much as we ourselves, our whole existences, have been an offering to life.  In this life we will be squirted out of a slit, babble in a crib, frolic with our schoolmates, succeed and fail in our endeavors, squat over toilets, eat wondrous and vile foods, suffer great heartbreak and love, then plunge into another slit, the narrow-slitted earth and get covered over by impatient shovels.  In to and out of slits we squirt.  Think of it: the body is seeking itself, which is only another body, and another, and another—and all these demanding bodies together are not ever a body but instead constitute the last body, the final body we all aspire to, the coffin body which shuffles us out of existence, and then back into existence each time a young woman gasps with her lungs and shakes her wobbling breasts in our face and exhales her breath in our ears.

In my endeavors with young women, I've fathered 8 babies that I know of (and three more I suspect).  Four of them were then given up for adoption, given to couples who desperately need babies.  Their culture may not need babies, but people do. . . 

            I, of course, pay for our courtship (unfortunately there is no other word in our barren times to use for this process), which lasts, delightfully, for weeks or months, and then if the girl should become pregnant, I pay the pre-natal costs, and then for the delivery itself.  After that, the mother gives the baby up to an appreciative adoption agency (who handle all the paperwork), and she is paid $10,000. 

            Or she can keep the child, and be paid considerably more money to care for the child through the years ahead.  If she wants an abortion, she is paid nothing.  None of the women have had abortions (at least that I know of), and I in no way proselytize against abortion, for abortion is part of life too—though not the mechanized process that it has become in recent decades. 

            Babies are needed by everyone, both for the culture as a whole—for all the older, desperate childless women out there who find themselves unable to conceive—and babies are also needed for the young women themselves.  Babies need to be born for the unquenchable mouth that is the world.  I contribute to this. 

            Young women come to me, looking for an affair with an older, wealthy man.  It's all word of mouth.  I tell these women what I want, what I will give, what they can expect.  I will not marry them or fall in love with them, and I tell them this.  That is enough for them.  No ads are placed, no money is offered to them upfront for the sex itself.  I take them out to dinner, to movies, or on short trips.  After they've gotten to know me (in a process that I insist take weeks,  and that does not include sex for our first three dates), they usually wish for me.  After all, a man has dined her, courted her, and now will perhaps have sex with her and impregnate her, and she can feast on life, and learn about him, see that he is a good man, with resources, and will also most likely, if luck smiles on her, contribute agreeable traits to her baby. 

     Having a baby with this man is done eagerly, although I have told each woman she can use contraceptives, and that I expect nothing from her.  There is no mystery at all in this, no strangeness.  The women take to sex enthusiastically, and because they are young there is little encumbering baggage, few emotional hang-ups, few physical problems; they come easily, they get pregnant easily.  They often have their enchanting dimples in their backs, too, which then disappear as they get older.  In fact, I joke to myself that after about age 25 or 30, when the dimples disappear, so does effortless baby making.  Complications arise, emotionally and biologically. 

            After birth, these mothers bring their babies to me, presenting them with pride, not 

anger or desperation, and if they want to keep the babies I pay them $200,000.  I enter the 

money into a bank account in my name (so I can monitor the mother's withdrawals from it) and 

tell her that I was happy she brought the baby to me, to hold, to view, to babble with for an 

hour, but that this visit is the last time I will see the child (until perhaps it is eighteen, when we 

can perhaps get together and talk about life), and that this check and its deposit is the finality of 

my support.  She has this money to raise her child as she sees fit, but she can take out no more 

than $10,800 a year, for the next eighteen years, for the total of $200,000.  Or, of course, she 

can give the child up for adoption. 

            If she keeps the child, $200,00 is not a lot of money for the raising of a child these   

days, but it will always be there until the child is of legal age, and just the fact that there is a strong man at the periphery of her life, with resources, this gives women tremendous confidence in their future, in life, in men.  There is strength in the world; there is a man in the world. 

            Additionally, her body has been calmed.  A baby soothes her, tells her she's a woman, at age nineteen, say, which is when she should learn this, and believe this.  Life gets easier now; the body has been placated a bit. . . 

            Of course my wife knows about my dealings and the babies, and I tell the young women that my relationship with them will in no way end my marriage.  The young women usually have no problem with this; my wife's presence in some ways gives them even more confidence in me, for they're having sex with a man whom another woman has approved of, sought permanent bonds with.  What else is there? 

            They also know that I, quite literally, "want them for their bodies" but that there's nothing furtive or shady about this.  Our meetings are never secret or time-constricted.  How deeply that relaxes both of us! 

            And when they came to me with their newborns, they merely wish me to admire what we have produced.  Each of them is, after all, an attractive young woman with a healthy baby, a young mother full of esteem for herself and her child. . . 

            "Now, Kenneth," one of them said to me bravely (perhaps too bravely, too selfcon-sciously), "I'm ready for other men.  Ready for everything.  I got started with you." 

            She begrudges me nothing, wants nothing.  And most of these young women have encountered only a few other men before me—boys mostly, hardly any of them older than twenty—so I stand out, in every way.  Women want older men, prosperous men, knowledgeable men—or hope their men become prosperous and knowledgeable, and stay that way.  After all, what else is there, they ask, to guard against the misfortune, the trials, the awful game of chance that permeates life, now and always, no matter how much money you have? 

            Of course there have been a few unpleasant scenes over the last few years, some moments of harshness on my part when a few of the girls didn't really want to let go of me, relinquish me—but if I politely insist, and repeat to them what we agreed on, they consent (with one notable exception, which I won't get into now), as long as they can have some kind of continuing connection to me, in addition to the money.  Yes, the money is important, very much so.  In recent decades there's been much ill-informed talk about how women don't care about the money, don't want men's money-earning capabilities, which isn't true at all, and has led to terrible pain and misunderstanding between men and woman for two generations now.  Our culture is overrun with propaganda of the worst kind, especially since money is such a large part of our culture. . .though we refuse to admit it, perhaps out of guilt for our extreme focus on money. 

            So, after they've given birth, the young mothers send me cards and pictures of them-selves and their growing babies.  I never wholly disappear from their lives, though I do not write back.  Still, they know our affiliation is unending, essentially, because the baby lives on, long past my own short decades ahead.  One woman wrote me and said, "Perhaps you'll run into my son one day, or read of him in the paper as he competes in sports, or does fine acting on stage.  You'll say, 'That's my boy.'  And he has a fine mother. . .with fantastic hips." 

            I was quite moved by this.  For she was right.  And indeed I have a list of my children, their names and birthdays.  I have them memorized; hopefully, as the list grows, I can continue to keep all of them in my head.  It seems, at these moments when I think of my children, there is no limit to what I can give. 

           

But my current girl, the one I'm with now (and there cannot be two at the same time) I have discovered she wants something of me I can't give; she wants her mother to be affiliated with me.  This is the first time I feel I have been stymied by a young woman, rendered too meager and begrudging  to help. 

            "Give her a baby, too," the sleek-skinned, youth-fattened Sierra Lefler said to me last week after we had made love and lay in bed at my beach house.  "It's what she needs." 

            Nodding eagerly as she pulled the bangs of her dark hair between her fingers, and absently beat her knees together, she added, "It's what I need, too.  Give me a baby brother, please." 

            `Her mother, I found out, is divorced.  The breakup happened nearly a decade ago, but Sierra, of course, remains dismayed over it to this day.  Another tragedy of our times: rampant divorce.  Too much sentimentality in our times; too much hope for personal perfection and freedom from other people and obligations. 

            Sierra's mother, I found out, has never remarried, though she's still only 41.  She has one daughter, Sierra, who reclined here in my bedroom in Half Moon Bay and made her demands as the two of us viewed the Pacific Ocean. 

            She said to me, moving in close to me, pressing her belly into mine, "Even if she doesn't get preggers, mom needs the action.  Been over three years since she's even done it!" 

            "How do you know that?" I asked. 

            "She told me."

            I said, "Honesty is good, but maybe you overdo it."   

            "She tells me everything—so I need to also tell her everything."  Sierra began to slowly rotate her fore-finger into my side.  "And after I tell her about us, then I can send her to you.  It's the least I can do for my mother.  Her name's Jill.  And she looks just like me—only better.  I'm not kidding." 

            Fearful of this complication, as well as whatever mother/daughter issues might be involved here, I drew her to me, reached around her and with my fingers pressed into the dimples in her lower back.  I said teasingly, "I don't make love to females that have lost these dimples.  It's my rule." 

            "What?" she said, snorting.  

            "It's youth. . ."

            Reaching back behind her and feeling the dimples herself, Sierra said, "But my mom's young.  She's a real babe.  And," Sierra said, knowing me as she did, "she can make babies.  She wants a baby, believe me." 

            She then rolled over—and displaying her buttocks and lower back for me—exclaimed over her shoulder, "Like I said, she looks just like me." 

            "Probably not."

            She flushed at this, triumphant for a half second, proud how she was more beautiful than her mother, at least in this man's eyes.  She said, "You'd really appreciate her.  I'll check her out; I'm positive she's got the dimples—and then I'll get back to you with the good news. . ."  

            I laughed, "Oh, so you'll get back to me. . .are you some kind of sex broker for me?"

            "Why not?  A little bit more action wouldn’t hurt you.  Don't be such a wuss," she added, sounding genuinely frustrated with me as she reached down to grip my still-slick but fallen cock, shaking it in her fist. 

            Teasing her, I said, "I don't know if I can get it up for your mom.  She might be too old."  

            "Oh, bullshit," she said.  "Just because you can't get it up for your wife. . ."  Then, drawing her finger slowly down my faded cock, she said, "My mom, she'd make you rage with lust, just like me." 

            I was shaking my head.  Her comment about my wife had hurt me.  It was untrue, too.  I could get it up for my wife, but my wife had withdrawn from me.  I wanted to tell Sierra this, that my wife, who still shared my bed, had gone away from me, but I didn't.  I never divulge anything about my wife to these girls, though they often ask. 

            Then Sierra said, "I won't have your baby unless you meet my mom." 

            I looked at her.  "That's fine with me," I said.  "It's your choice.  But I won't be forced into anything.  Nor should you." 

            "C'mon!  Do her!" 

            "No." 

            "My mom," Sierra repeated, with a little bit of a whine in her voice, "she's in great shape." 

            I said, "I don't doubt that.  But I don't go with two women at the same time.  One of my rules. . ."

            Sierra gaped at me.  "You and your rules.  That's stupid." 

            "I know.  So let's not think about this anymore." 

            "But it's my mom.  She's lonely; she needs a man and a baby." 

            "Not me," I said. 

            She exclaimed, "But you are going out with two women: me and your wife.  What about that?"

            "Not making love to you both."

            "Maybe you should." 

            "Maybe. . .I should." 

           

But three days later, just minutes before Sierra was to meet me for a lunch date on my patio, I got a call from her.  "My mom's coming by, instead of me." 

            "No," I said, "I don't think so." 

            "I have a question for you," she said.  "How did you get to know me, hmmm?  A friend of mine, Bailey Rose, at school, told me about you.  Your times together gave her," and she laughed, "much bliss. . .even though she didn't want to have one of your babies." 

            "Yes, well. . ." 

            "She liked you for other reasons.  Free meals!  You know how Bailey loves to eat—" 

            "—Yes, I do."

            "—Now I'm telling someone about you.  Word of mouth, you see.  Passing the torch." 

            "Sierra. . ." 

            "And you know, I examined my mom.  She's got the dimples!" 

            "You examined her?" 

            "I pulled up the back of her shirt last night.  The dimples, they run in the family. . ." 

            "A truly special mom," I said. 

            "She'll be over in about five minutes." 

            "You don't make these dates, Sierra.  I do." 

            "Bye."  She hung up. 

            Holding the phone in my hand, staring at it, I was upset.  First time something like this had happened, and I told myself I would nip it in the bud.  Call Sierra back.  Then again, the thought of seeing the same dimples from the same bloodline was enticing.  Kind of like making love to twins, which I've never done, though I could see the attraction: you get to repeat with the same body, yet it's a different body.  Who exactly is this in your hands?  You're checking for differences.

            Yes, enticing.  But the dimples. . .I'd need to see the dimples on mom, for I doubted their existence. 

            "The verification," I said aloud, ridiculing myself, staring at the silent, dead phone in my hand.  "Need the verification."

           

A few minutes later the doorbell rang. 

            These two really had it well planned.  Like some kind of commando team. 

            I went to my window and looked down, seeing an unfamiliar car in the driveway.  Buzzing my maid, I told her to let the woman in, have her take a seat in the study.  I decided to leave mom there for a bit, to cool her a little, take the momentum out of her. 

            I needed to think.  I didn't like the way this was being sprung on me.  And yet I liked how I had no control.  It seemed very different than when any other young woman wanted to meet me, showing up at my door, after calling or emailing me first, telling me they were interested, telling me who they had spoken to about me. 

            This was new.  But I figured I could talk to her, get to know her a little.  It would be a vetting, essentially, like all the others—for not every woman passed muster.  Some weren't appropriate for me: attitude might not be right, or simply the wrong look in their face.  Intangibles.  And I never made love to them the first time I saw them, which disappointed some of them (and their disappointment was usually a mark against them).  Best to slow things down, give everyone time to think about things. 

            My wife was, at that moment, at our apartment in the city.  I would be seeing her in a few hours for a drive up into the wine country.  But I wanted to see her now, not get caught up in any complications here.  Wanted to be with a woman where everything was understood. . . 

            I really thought of fleeing, heading out the back door and around through the garden to my car.  I could tell the maid to send the woman away.  It was immature of me to flee, yet I felt entrapped, not by this woman waiting in my study, or by eighteen-year-old Sierra, but by my own confusion.  I didn't want to meet this woman, for fear of desiring her, and also for fear of not desiring her.  She, in her middle-age, might not attract me, might not stir me.  So, did I have to see her dimples?  The wonderful dimples in a woman's lower back, which had only been a symbol for me, a symbol of youth, a playful little conceit that allowed me to focus on what I felt was important and desirous—this symbol would provide me with life and continuation, in every sense of the word.  It was just a symbol, however.  Or was it?  Symbols always stood behind something.  Or, was it that symbols stood in front of something?  Which was most important, the thing itself, or the symbol? 

            My wife's withdrawal from me at menopause had been very painful.  And her distance from me had apparently arisen from nothing other than middle age, or some kind of chemical shift in her body.  I had always treated her well; I was attentive toward her, didn't shout at her, had never struck her.  I was not a drunk, or an addict; I had provided her with a good life, with two children—and then one day she began her withdrawal from me.  Her wintriness to me in bed, even if I tried to put my arm around her as we said goodnight to each other, it was excruciating.  For many months I had tried being warm to her, then urging her to see a doctor.  She was not interested.  She wouldn't leave me, but wouldn't come to me either.  

            Then, when I found other women, young women, and decided to be honest and tell my wife about it, how these young women had rejuvenated me, making me feel I once again belonged to life, my wife wasn't upset at all.  Amazingly, she liked it, how I sought the women out and wooed them.  Later, when I made some of them pregnant, then supported these women, she liked that, too.  Additionally, these relationships had the benefit of allowing her more time to herself; she enjoyed not having as many things to do with me anymore.   Yet she seemed to take pleasure in the fact that these girls found me attractive.  And I, curiously, enjoyed her pleasure in me, how she found me compelling. . .because the girls found me compelling.  It was a vicious, bizarre circle.  

            So now, with some reluctance, I found myself heading to the study to meet my waiting guest, still not knowing what I was going to do or to say. 

            I was presented with a small dark-haired woman in blue jeans and platform sandals who stood with her back to me, examining my bookshelves.  I had come in on her, sur-prised her, but she was not at all embarrassed; in fact, when I entered the room she did not immediately face me, but continued to look at my books, ignoring me, lightly patted a book spine as she slowly turned to me. 

            I have made most of my money in the selling of medical equipment to hospitals.  Trained as a doctor, I only practiced for a few years, as a gastroenterolgist.  I discovered that the scientific as well as the business aspect of medicine interested me more than the doctoring itself.  My own father was a professor of literature, and I studied literature as an undergraduate (though more to satisfy my father, I think).  I probably entered medical school to oppose my father—to search out the physical body instead of text and symbol, but as a doctor and then a businessman I still found time to continue to read literature, and my book-lined study reflected this.  And I soon grew bored with the selling of machines, as well as the fancy machines themselves and the way these machines increased and prolonged our health yet removed us from our bodies, so I sold my company a few years ago at great profit, and have not worked since. 

            Now, here in my study, with this woman's tight jeans and sharp ankles, her maturity, her calm, her presence, I suddenly felt embarrassed. I felt incapable of com-mitting myself to my project; this woman was coming to me for something that shouldn't concern her, even if she was only in her late-thirties.  Yet she clearly was an attractive and intelligent woman, who looked a great deal like Sierra; she even painted her toes a light blue like her daughter.   She wore her jeans low on her hips, and sported a little black T-top, just like Sierra and all the other young women wore.  This disturbed me; I felt that mom here shouldn't be copying them, though the effect was captivating. 

            A bare band of belly and hip circled her midsection.  Flat, unyielding stomach, a bit too flat, courtesy of a workout routine probably, which would not impress me.  Nice high breasts on her, except a Wonder Bra might be doing a too-good job with her, and I could be disappointed if the clothes came off.  Her waist was coolly indented, incised sharply above her clean hips.  Thick, nicely-cut, natural-looking hair; no coloring added, or so it seemed.  Painted toes.  A very attractive woman. 

            And what would she present to me if she were to turn her back, and peel up the hem of her little black top?  The dimples?  I found I didn't want to know. . .and I was confused: did I want to see her proof of youth, or not?   

            Had she and Sierra discussed me, my wants, my thoughts?  I hoped not.  Yet with her being here, and dressed very much like Sierra, it seemed they had talked, discussed me.  Yet surely the mother did not come here for sex. 

            With my hand extended, I went up to her to introduce myself, "Hello, I'm Ken."  "I'm Jill."  She took my hand  calmly, demonstrating the confidence and upbringing I had seen in her daughter.  She had a handsome, well-proportioned face, with dimples in her cheeks.  Foolishly, I wondered if this indicated there were dimples in her lower back at as well. . .  

            I did not ask her to sit down.  No drinks were to be prepared, or anything like that.  Nothing to bring her closer to me, to break the ice. 

            I decided to get right to the point. 

            Smiling, speaking fast, trying to be light, ironic, I asked, "So, did your daughter tell you all about me?" With an eighteen-year-old girl I would have been much softer and slower. 

            With bright eyes, her head tilted in question, she asked me, "Did my daughter strip me and look for what you require?"  She seemed amused. 

            For this I had no reply.  She was already out ahead of me. 

            Tapping her toe in fake scorn, she added, "I could turn and show you my lower back, but perhaps that would seem a little desperate." 

            "Yes. . .probably."  My voice was very flat. 

            She clasped her hands to her hip and said, full of mock arrogance, "Though trust me, you would not be disappointed." 

            "I don't know about that, " I said.  " Many things disappoint me. " 

            I was sorry I had said this.  This talk of ours was already too fast, too ironic and dispassionate.   But she was not afraid of me. 

            I said, "Perhaps Sierra exaggerated my impulses about a woman's. . .markings."

            "Perhaps she did."

            "Why don't you sit down.  Let's chat." 

            When we sat, I asked, politely, "What do you want from me?"

            "I want to meet the man who is having a relationship with my daughter." 

            I said, "That seems logical.  I too am a parent. . .with a parent's concerns." 

            "That's what I hear," she said.  "These days I guess you're a parent many times over."  She smiled. 

            I said, deciding to be distant and a bit officious, "I have two grown children with my wife.  And then there are my recent relationships.  It's not a big quest of mine, to make girls pregnant, but in my relationships I want there to be no furtiveness, in any area, and for the girls to do what is natural, if they wish it." 

            "Very laudable.  But do you think young women can really make these decisions?" 

            "Well, you did, at a similar age.  You were how old—eighteen—when you had Sierra?"

            "Twenty-two.  And it was a bad decision.   Not really a decision of mine at all. . ."

            "And yet you did it, unless you were raped.  So perhaps it was a decision.  And I'm sure you love Sierra dearly." 

            Gesturing at me, she said, "Yes, well, we can argue about this, that, and the other.  But, you see, she's not even out of high school."

            "I realize that." 

            She said, "However, I will say that Sierra's disposition has improved markedly since she met you.  She's a much happier girl these days.  And now she wants us both to have babies by you."  She lifted her hands in a gesture of incomprehension.  "As I said, Sierra is really a bit young. . ."  

            I said, "Any bad feelings, awkward feelings, must be acknowledged.  Although, she has reached the age of consent." 

            She sat on my couch looking at me.  A pause between us.  She said finally, "You're right, I can't force her.  As you shouldn't force her either."

            "Be assured," I said, "I have put no pressure on her at all to get pregnant, or to  even see me.  She came to me, after all." 

            "That's really unfair to say about a young woman.  Especially from you, a wealthy, older, decent man.  Of course she will want to see you, and even have a baby."

            "That's just my point.  And I treat her with respect. "

            She laughed.  "I'm sure you do." 

            Before I could respond, she said, "I'm sure she gives you great amounts of respect in return.  Sierra is a beautiful girl: lots of girl-action for you."  Her last statement was said with no contempt, or humor, just very factual.   I was impressed. 

            More from her: "She says you love the dimples in her back.  I don't think she even knew she had them until you told her." 

            "I find that hard to believe." 

            "Despite thoughts to the contrary, young women are often quite ignorant of their appearance."  At this, she looked down at her folded hands in her lap, then looked up at me and said, "But you've helped her along tremendously in that department."

            "Is that a compliment?"

            "I suppose it is.  Except she doesn't get to have you.  You're going to send her on her way, in the end.  That's the problem, you see." 

            "So, you've come here to tell me that?"

            She stood.  She said, "I needed to meet you." 

            I said, still sitting down, "You look very much like her." 

            "So, instead of her, would you like to view me instead. . .to see my sacred dimples?  Unlike her, I know exactly what I look like." 

            This was too abrupt.  And it was what I feared would happen. 

            Yet I found myself stirred by her. 

            Raising both hands, she made, in the air, the curvy signature for the sign of woman, the shoulders, waist, hips of the elemental female.  She said, "Don't you want to see my fabulous figure, and the absolutely compelling sign of youth stamped in my lower back?" 

            Was she making fun of me? 

            I stood and said, impulsively, a bit annoyed at her, while I too described the same signature in the air, "It's no joke, you know, the sign of the woman.  It's what we all need, even the woman herself."

            "Oh, a philosopher who fucks," she said. 

            "We all want to be inside beauty, youth and curves."  Still being too impulsive, I added, "Let's go to my bedroom and make love.  I won't look for any dimples in your lower back.  I think right now it's very important for me not to see them, to not let them. . .get in the way." 

            Yes, this is what was needed.  I reached out to take her hand. 

            "I understand," she said.  "But you will disengage with Sierra?"  

            I said, with sudden weariness, and dropping my hand, "There's a price, I see." 

            "A substitute, rather," she said. 

            Who wanted mother/daughter complications?  Who wanted backroom deals?  I said, "Even if I agreed to that, it couldn't happen.  Your daughter would never allow it."       

            From the look on her face, it seemed she hadn't thought of this. 

            I stared at her.  For me, there should be no more discussion; it was time for her to say yes or no.  I had gone against myself here, wanting sex after the first meeting.  I wished to make love to this woman.  A woman without the obvious and tantalizing signs of youth.  Or, better yet, a woman I simply wouldn't examine for the dimples; this would be a kind of discipline for me.  Could I get hard without the symbol?  My wife, really, I had no more attraction to her after she had aged, after she had rejected me.  Could I find attraction without youth?  The dimples (or their lack) loomed large in my mind. 

            It was absurd. . . 

            Seeing she had no reply, and seemed confused for the first time, I said, "What you want—to change places with your daughter—will lead to all kinds of problems."

            She just stood there, in her heels, her hands limp at her sides.          

            "If I take you, and break with her, Sierra will be furious.  Furious at both of us.  Her jealousy will be extreme.  If I break with you both, for ambushing me like this, coming over unannounced, she will also be furious.  She will come to me anyway, and hate you for interfering, for trying to appropriate me.  Perhaps she will not want to be in the same house with you.  That would be unwise."  

            I reached out with my hand again.  I said, "Just this one time.  I won't see you after this.  You and I will go to my room; this will be a chance for both of us to find something we perhaps hadn't expected." 

            "Once?"

            All her decisiveness had faded.  She was not nearly as striking as she was minutes ago, but I still found I wanted her.  I was even hoping there would be no dimples in her back.  This was a test for me.  

            She said, "I don't know." 

            Here I was, arguing with a middle-aged woman, discussing ramifications, strategies before we had sex.  Typical. 

            I said, shaking my head, "I'm not going to tell Sierra it's over.  She can arrive at that decision, but not me.  Nor am I going to be involved with both of you."

            She mulled this over, grimacing in distaste, and said, "It's absurd, my hearing this rule from you, after all your swollen teenagers. . ."

            I said, tired of arguing with mom and daughter about what I did or wished to do with women, "You and me, I want to do it this one time—to see."

            "To see what?"

            "To see what I find."  I added, not knowing what I was saying, having no real plan, "Maybe it's your turn to get pregnant. . .maybe not.  That's what Sierra wants.  Do you?" 

            To see what would happen to me with this older woman, if I was attracted to her, if I could become aroused by her—I wanted to fall into her, as into a pool.  And then climb back out.  By promising only one time, I wouldn’t have to begin a relationship with her, full of negotiations and complications and the future.  And she was like me, closer to my age. 

            I took her to a different bedroom from the one I took Sierra. 

            "Strip," I said gently, "but I don't want to see them, the dimples."

            Indicating me with her hands, she said, with a smile, regaining herself, "Like a knight and his lady, sleeping with a sword between them." 

            "I don't know if that's the analogy." 

            "We'll both see if we have what it takes," she said, "to hold back.  We'll both keep our eyes closed.  There's so much we shouldn't be seeing, or doing." 

            I liked that. 

            I said, "Please strip.  Or better yet, keep your clothes on." 

            I came up to her, embracing her, being emphatic, too abrupt, really.  I felt the breath leave her lungs as I embraced her and pushed my face into her hair.  Unexpectedly, I was all over this woman.  Holding her, smelling her, I felt myself stiffening against her.  I began to kiss her, seeking her tongue, wishing to seize it, suck on it, as if I could gobble her up.  This was absurd, my hurry, my zeal, but perhaps I hoped to find a bit of Sierra here in this mouth, this breath.  Or perhaps I hoped to be aroused, even without youth, without its proof in my absurd little schematics.

            "So," she lisped, returning my kisses, while inserting her hand between us, to feel me, "am I too old for you?"

            With her smart comments, I wondered if this was all a lark for her.  "Maybe," I hissed.   "Yes, maybe you're too old."

            "But at least you're stiff.  Something's happening."  

            She squirmed away from me to undress, with me seeking her, still embracing her, tangled with her, not wanting to lose my connection with her.  She sat down on the bed to pull down her jeans; I was leaning over her, lifting her hair into my face. 

            Her black T-top was still on, her jeans around her knees.  She opened my pants then leaned forward, wishing to take me in her mouth, but I pushed her back. 

            "Don't want that," I said.  "Just want me between your legs, no preliminaries, no enticements." 

            "I thought you were a fabulous lover," she said, "always taking your time, no hurry.  That's what I heard."

            "Not today." 

            I was surprised I was hard.  This woman, at age 41, a bit of a mocker, as well as a negotiator and schemer.  Mother of the daughter too.  Many reasons why I shouldn't be hard.  And what would I be presented with?  The sagging body?  Yet I wanted to find Sierra here, in this body.  And to find someone else also. 

            Kicking her jeans off, she lay back on the bed—on the perfect, over-made bed in the guest bedroom, with the assortment of fluffy pillows and the bright sunflower pattern my wife had chosen.  And I found myself still standing, elevating her mid-section, holding it to my hips as I positioned her for me.  My erection bristled in the air.  Her top still on, her arms slopped back behind her on the bed.

            A small, supple woman, whose butt was cupped in my hands. . .it bothered me, really, for someone this age to be this light-weight and small.  A taut belly winking at me; no pubic hair on her either.  She looked as young as Sierra. 

            My hands gripped her buttocks, my fingertips only inches below the dimples, the stupid dimples which I hadn't seen, and didn't want to see or touch.  Which probably didn't exist. . .  

            I couldn't see her breasts, which was good.  Couldn't see anything of her other than her naked hips and belly.  Wasn't even looking at her when I entered her. 

            As I held us motionless, she exclaimed, mock joyous, "Oh, this one's for the money," and she made motions over her belly, as if her belly was swollen with pregnancy. 

            "But you're thirty-eight. . ." I said, teasing her back.  "Could be a problem for you."   

            "Oh, I'm ripe for it," she said vehemently. 

            "Only your guess."  

            Her back and shoulders pressed to the mattress, her chin set in her chest as she looked up at me, she hissed, "Only the future knows. . ." and she slapped her hands to her bare hips, smack.  "So do it to me.  Fill me up." 

            "Eighteen years since you've had a kid, " I grunted.  

            "Three and a half years since I've even done it!" 

Afterwards we lay belly to belly on the covers of the still-made bed, my softened cock crimped between us, a steak of semen on her hip. 

            We hadn't been talking, only lying motionless; both of us were probably trying to hide our desperate breathing. . .by not exerting ourselves in talk.  I still had my clothes on, she still wore her top. 

            "I think I took," she said, beaming.  "Felt like a lot from you. . .despite your age." 

            I smiled at this, making no comment.  No talk was needed. 

            "Since I only get one session from you, and I want to be sure I get pregnant, let's do it again."  Then, pulling gently on my cock, she said, "One more time, old man."

            I loved hearing her talk of getting pregnant.  Still, I said to her, "So demanding."

            "You'll get hard again, even though you're with an old bag of a woman.  You won't care." 

            Did she really want to get pregnant?  I said, "I haven't checked for the dimples, after all.  I'm sure they're not there." 

            "Exactly." 

            I pulled myself out of her hand, not wanting to be rushed, though I was shocked to find myself stiffening. 

            "Turn over," I said. 

            I rose on my knees to take her from behind.  Startled how quickly I was stiff, I decided I would see what she had to offer in her lower back.  Would it matter if she had the dimples or not?  Me fearful, yet brave.  Able to accept anything. 

            Immediately I was in her, my eyes closed, with her pushing back onto me, her butt coming to rest against my belly.  A faint gasp from her, and I heard her pulling off her top.  Really, it was surprising I was hard for her.  I was quick to rise here, as with my girls, though I always told them beforehand, when we first began, I was no longer young.  "Give me time," I said, with them usually exclaiming about how time was what they usually don't get from guys their age.

            And now, as she slowly drew herself back from me, I opened my eyes and looked down—and there they were, two enticing dimples incised in her back.  She was right; Sierra was right. 

            As if timing herself perfectly, knowing I saw what I saw, she thrust herself onto me hard, and I yelped once with the sudden giving-way in me. . .the sense I have of tumbling off a precipice whenever I am propelled into a new woman. 

            "Nice and strong in me," she murmured.  She drew herself from me again, then thrust herself back, but slowly.  "I'm shocked, Mr. AARP." 

            All this talk from her, especially with her making me—not her—into the old person: I liked it.  I also needed one more time, with the dimples staring at me like two eyes. . .as I stared back. 

            Indeed she was right: I was strong in her.  Even before I saw the dimples, I was strong.  I liked her sass, her bullshit.  Her seeking pregnancy.

            But then as I peered down at her, marveling at these dimples, at the symbols of youth in this 40 year old woman, as I ground my thumbs into them, as I didn't quite believe what I saw, as I nevertheless initiated my motion with her, I discovered myself beginning to fade in her.  Too unnerving, confusing, really, to see the dimples, here in this woman, this mother, this divorcee.  This woman who came to me. . .for what, exactly?  Did she want to steal Sierra from me, or did she just want to get pregnant?  What was I doing here anyway?  I was supposed to see my wife soon, back in the city. . . 

            As I began to weaken in her, I thrust harder in her, and she was calling out, as she did the first time, "Give it to me.  Come on.  Fill me up!" 

            The usual stuff from women.  My girls didn't usually talk, demand or compliment, they just blubbered and whined and snorted like horses as they beat at me.  I never missed the talk.

            "You're a monster," she said. 

            "Stop it," I gasped, yet unable to prevent myself from laughing, "stop your bull-shit," and she laughed too. 

            But I was losing her, sure enough.  Losing my depth and tightness in her.  And look at the dimples, so keen in her. . .I was very confused.   

            "Gonna pay me the money if I take?" she chimed, stopping her movement, though I wanted to keep at it.  She added, "I need it more than Sierra, you know.  But this," and she thrust herself back on me, "is not just about the money."  She was giggling.  

            "No, it's never about the money," I whispered, wondering if she felt me wilting. 

            She said, "With Sierra, I think the money and the baby would just mess her up. . ."

            Chattering now.  Again, maybe it was a joke.  But here it was, a woman during sex, talking away.  Already strategizing about the after-effects of sex, about what she or her daughter was going to get from sex, as some man grunted and beat at her.

            "She needs to go to college, find a young man her own age," she said.  "So give me the money, when I have the baby. . ." 

            "Oh, you've got it!" I shouted, hoping my shouting, hoping my giving her the money, my having the money, would stiffen me again.  "You'll both get the money, you and Sierra. . ." 

            "All three of us.   Baby too.  I'm rich earth for you."

            Then, completely unexpected, she speared the top of her head into the mattress.  Support-ing her upper body with her head, while I knelt behind her and held her hips, she reached up, seized her wobbling breasts with both hands and began cooing as she  pretended to cup her breasts in a baby's face.  "Suck," she cried.  "Suck, my dear little one. . ." 

            I could never tell if she was serious or not.  Shaking her head vehemently left and right, seeming to burrow into the mattress with her revolving head, she cried, "Oh, yes, I can hear its gurgles already." 

            "Of course you can!" I cried, laughing, unable to prevent myself from exclaiming this, not sure which way I was going now, getting stronger inside her, or getting weaker.  

            Maybe it was just her words, my words, that were going to keep me hard?  "Sure you can!" I repeated.  "You can hear your baby crying for you.  But you've gotta take in order to get the money.  Gotta swell." 

            She shouted, "A new baby, yes!  Sierra will be proud." 

            "Gotta take," I cried again, "for you to get anything from me."   

            This had to be a joke, all of it, all our talk.  And did she feel me fading?  Maybe she didn't care.  And perhaps I was getting stronger in her now, with this talk. 

            "Better have my baby," I threatened.  "You better. . ." 

            "I will," she cried.  "Oh, I will.  I'm ripe earth for you."