Double Time
Chapter 82
“But when a woman decides to sleep with a man, there is no wall she will not scale, no fortress she will not destroy, no moral consideration she will not ignore at its very root: there is no God worth worrying about.”
—Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera
1 JANUARY 2020
Trying to wake up enough to write but Desi and Rachel are sleeping mostly on top of me. What a great way to start the New Year. Oh, and Livy is curled up between my legs and has periodically pulled my shorts down to lick my cock and keep it hard through the night.
Joan’s birthday party Monday night was pretty reserved with all our parents there. Except for her burning her induction letter. But our New Year’s Eve party was something else entirely. The parents decided Joan’s house was entirely too comfortable to leave six girls and me unattended. I don’t get why. They know most of us are sleeping together. But Brittany’s parents volunteered their house for our party and Sophie volunteered to chaperone. Which is almost like not having a chaperone. The parents and younger kids all went to Livy’s house. Most of the parents. Sharon had a different party to go to.
So, there we were last night, tock ticking toward midnight. Brittany stood up, winked at me and then dragged Sophie off to another room. It didn’t take long for the rest of us to get in a compromising position, which included Livy between Desi’s legs, Joan and Beca in a sixty-nine, and Rachel posting on my cock as we counted down to the climax. I mean midnight. By the time we were done kissing and stuff, Sophie emerged with Brittany in nightgowns and told us to get ready for bed. We brushed teeth and rolled out our sleeping bags and just piled together in the living room.
I need to nudge people awake before Brittany’s parents or grandmother come out and start prying us apart.
Oh, God! Livy just licked me again!
My parents laid claim to me for most of the rest of the week. After all, I’d spent from Christmas to New Year’s in the company of my girlfriends. Desi still got me away for a little break, which was spent in the most predictable way possible. After all, I was still technically her sex slave.
And Friday night, Rachel and I went out. We spent the evening going from house to house to make sure our girlfriends all knew we loved them. When we got home, she slipped into my room with me and we made love before going to sleep. Mom and Dad didn’t say a thing about her being at breakfast when they got up in the morning. In fact, Mom just gave her a little kiss on the head and went to pour her coffee.
The whole attitude toward relationships still puzzled V1. I admit that sometimes when I looked at Rachel, I could hear myself saying, “If that were my daughter, I’d lock her up until she was thirty and shoot any boy who came sniffing around.” But when she smiled at me, my heart melted and my cock stiffened and there was no more conscious thought process.
Mom and Dad acknowledged my relationship with each of the girls, including my sister. The strongest words they used were to tell me to ‘act responsibly’ and to remind me that Beca and Brittany were younger than the rest and not to rush them. If anything, Beca was coming out a lot faster than I ever expected she would, but our relationship would always be focused on pleasing our girlfriends, even if we touched each other sometimes. And Brittany… I’d have sworn I tasted Sophie on her lips when I kissed her goodnight on New Year’s Eve. That girl had a streak of mischief in her a mile wide. And I savored the scent and flavor I found on Sophie’s lips when she unexpectedly kissed me goodnight. I wondered if Brittany would start playing around with the other girls when Sophie returned to New York in the middle of January or if she’d set her sights on me.
And my parents just accepted it, even asking for a copy of our pod logo. Mom just said that we couldn’t all have tattoos until we were eighteen, but she thought she’d seen a place that made patches we could apply to our backpacks or something. Cool.
I had things set to do my Sunday concert and was kicking myself for not having talked to anyone about being here to play to. I was kind of digging having a girlfriend with me when I did my playing. Well, first was Pey wanting to listen. But then Beca and last week Desi. It was such an intimate time with them, even though I edited the recording and uploaded it to my YouTube channel. Especially, Desi’s since we’d recorded it in bed. My subscriptions had jumped up by fifty percent. She made sure it was obvious we’d spent the night together.
There was a soft knock on my door as I set the music on my stand. That was odd. If they thought I was recording, Mom, Dad, and Pey had all perfected the art of just opening the door and peeking in. I went to the door and Francie was standing there.
“Jacob, can I join you this morning?”
“Francie! I’m so surprised. I’ve hardly seen you at all this fall.”
“Yeah. Nine months of having a little parasite attached to my tits kind of hampered my social life.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Weaned. Grandma is almost happy that she’ll be fulltime caretaker now.”
I looked into Francie’s eyes and saw tears waiting to fall.
“Francie?”
“I’m going into Service tomorrow!” she burst out sobbing. “I tried not to get too attached to him but now I have to leave and he won’t even know me when I get back.”
“Damn them! You’d think they’d have a few common sense rules about mothers and children.”
“I’m just lucky my mother wants to take care of him. I got a letter detailing my options, which included giving him up for adoption or placing him in foster care for the duration of my service,” Francie sobbed. “I just… Jacob, for old times’ sake, can I cuddle with you this morning?”
“You want to be on the video with me?” She nodded.
“Let me touch up my makeup and get the tear streaks off my face. I promise not to mess up the recording.”
We got settled and I turned on the recording. Francie had obviously studied the recordings and knew exactly where to sit. I started with ‘Sarabande’ and its mournful sounds pretty much set the tone for the morning. All good intentions aside, by the time I finished Gallot’s ‘La Lucrece’ at the end of my half-hour set, both Francie and I had tears running down our cheeks. I clicked off the recording and set aside my guitar. By the time I turned to Francie, she already had her shirt off. Mine quickly followed.
It was like nine months had never passed since the last time we made love. I still remembered her erogenous zones and paid loving attention to each of them. I remembered that she liked to kiss and loved having her nipples sucked. That latter proved less effective than I remembered. All the sucking on them she’d had the past few months must have deadened the nerves a bit.
I crawled between her legs and she guided me into her hotness. I guess some women get all stretched out during birth but I noticed no difference in how tight Francie was compared to the first time we made love. We just went together naturally.
My videos were nearly two hours late being uploaded.
We had just sixteen days before Cindy’s recital. That meant Monday, with no school, was a lesson day with her flute teacher and my guitar teacher. Predictably, we spent more than an hour with Jannie working with us on blend and tone. There was one phrase from ‘Quijote’ that I think we went over twenty times before she was satisfied. From now until the twenty-second, we’d be practicing almost every day.
Mrs. Marvel still wasn’t very happy that I was going to be spending so much time with her little girl. I think I felt the same way. She was just too young. Even for my sixteen-year-old V3. I felt completely justified in treating her like the little girl she was. I know that when I woke up a year-and-a-half ago, I was still fourteen but even then, I felt a lot older than Cindy’s fourteen. This was one time I let V1 take control of my body and my attitude. I was here to help this little girl succeed in what I’d come to understand was a very important recital. I practiced hard so I could help make her look good. Or at least not make her look bad.
The recital wasn’t a school event. Cindy was being given an opportunity to play her recital with the South Community Chamber Orchestra. The twenty-four minutes we would be on stage together was the second act. She would play as soloist with the orchestra for the first half. Later in the week we’d have our first rehearsal with them. Not that I needed to worry about playing with the rest of the orchestra. They wouldn’t even be on stage when we opened the second act with our duet. It was just such a lot of pressure to put two teens under. I couldn’t believe how cool Cindy was.
“We’re going to do fine,” she said. “The pieces with you are easiest of all the things I’m playing that night. It’s not every day that a fourteen-year-old gets to play as soloist for the orchestra.”
“No kidding. You must be nervous as hell.”
“Why? I’ve practiced. I know my music. The rehearsals with the orchestra are so they learn their cues and how to follow the conductor so he can keep them with me,” she said. What incredible confidence!
We headed for Vinnie’s studio next and he listened to our entire program, unlike what he did the last time we rehearsed there. He even gave me a couple of pointers regarding places where I should be using harmonics instead of pressing the string to the fret. Cindy applauded when she heard the difference in the tone.
Then he had us do another piece where we really played off each other.
“I don’t know why you have them work on something like that!” Mrs. Marvel said. “It isn’t anything they are going to play.”
“No,” Vinnie answered. “Not now. But look at how they pay attention during that piece. It’s not just the music, it’s connecting them so they are in sync with each other. Now let’s go back to ‘Tango Ladeado’ and pay attention to each other. You know the music. Know each other.”
Wow! I don’t know if it sounded better or not but… V1 had seen a few women orgasm over his 81 years before translation and V3 had seen a few more. I could tell the signs of a woman’s arousal when I looked in her eyes. From the heat and blush on Cindy’s face, I’d almost swear she came. I looked over at Vinnie and Mrs. Marvel when we finished and Mrs. Marvel had a flush on her face as well. What was Vinnie trying to do to me?
We finished our lessons for the day and they dropped me at home. The ride there was really quiet.
On Tuesday, school was in swing like we never had a break. My schedule was the same as first semester except instead of Entrepreneurship in the last period, I had a class called Personal Financial Responsibility. Ms. Grayson was an older woman with a few extra pounds and gray hair. I could just see my classmates wondering what she could possibly teach us about being financially responsible. She didn’t seem to have much presence. She looked like a secretary at an accounting firm. If you saw her on the street, you’d never look twice.
V1 had joined Big and others at the home in ridiculing Millennials who had to take classes in adulting. They were hopeless. They were always in debt, threw things away instead of repairing them, had to have a professional to cut their hair, paint their nails, and tie their shoes. I heard a common refrain whenever someone in the home lost something. “What happened to the television?” “Millennials killed it.” “Why can’t we have a decent piece of meat at least once a week?” “Millennials killed the steak.” “Where’s my Kindle charger?” “Millennials killed it.”
At the same time, who was it who didn’t teach millennials what they need to know to function in a real world? Their parents. Gen X killed adulting. V3’s parents were responsible adults. They both had jobs, cars, hobbies. We had a house, insurance, and a mortgage. We didn’t get a medal for everything we did. But anything we needed, we got. They’d given me a $12,000 guitar for my birthday. I found out they were paying half Em’s rent in San Diego so she didn’t have to live in a crowded barracks. Pey got a complete new wardrobe for Christmas—not that she didn’t need it. The nine-year-old had grown like a weed this year. She was almost as tall as Mom.
I wondered how much the family had in savings. If one of my parents got sick, how long would we survive before we were on the street?
Ms. Grayson stepped to the white board and wrote 2,175,232. Then she put a dollar sign in front of it.
“I don’t have a college degree. I worked as a secretary in an accounting firm for thirty years,” she began. Nailed it. “I retired at age fifty-one. This,” she pointed at the number, “is my net worth. To you, it’s just a big number. To me, it is a three-month trip each year to a part of the world I’ve never visited before, a condo that is paid off, a dependable car, health insurance, good food, and no debt. I enjoy my grandchildren and visit them often. I volunteer to teach a high school class. I have a good life. How many of you are going to be able to say that at age sixty-seven? Do you have a plan that doesn’t include you becoming a professional athlete, movie star, or video-game tester? Or winning a lottery?”
The whole class shifted and I noted I wasn’t the only one sitting up straighter. She saved two million dollars on a secretary’s salary? This lady must know something! By the time I died in a nursing home, I was penniless. What kind of life did I lead?
“There is no magic number to write up here on the board that defines what you need. There is no list of activities you should do, no country you must visit, no occupation you must have. Your goals are yours. They will be specific, measurable, attainable, realistic, and timely. SMART. And this class is where you start planning for a successful life. For your first task, I want you to take out a sheet of paper and a pencil. I’m not a math teacher. If you want to use a pen, go right ahead. You’ll discover you do a lot of crossing out or erasing as you progress through this class. What you write on this piece of paper is for your eyes only, so be completely honest with yourself. I want you to write down how much money you have. Not your parents, you personally. Next, write down where that money is located. Finally, write down, as simply as possible, how you get that money.”
There was a lot of scratching of heads. A few people just wrote a big zero on their paper and tossed their pens down. Others were digging in their pockets and counting out change. I figured that if this was going to be our starting point, I could refine the number later. I knew I had about thirty dollars in my wallet because I’d gone to an ATM yesterday. I had a debit card that Dad deposited my allowance to but I wasn’t sure how much money was in the account. And I had a little over $3,000 in my PayPal account. I really had no idea how to get that money. I just assumed you could buy anything with the account. Fuck! I don’t have anywhere near enough information about my money.
I need this class.
After school, Cindy and I rehearsed. We went through the program, stopping and starting to mark our music with notes on dynamics.
“Let’s do that ‘Thunderation’ Vinnie had us practice,” she said after we’d taken a break for a drink of water.
“Really? Do you have the music?”
“Vinnie gave it to me. I really like him.”
“Which part do you want?” The piece was written for two guitars and I’d practiced both, often wishing I had another guitarist to play the piece with.
“Vinnie gave me a flute transcription for the number two part. Are you good with that?”
“Yeah.” We changed our positions and sat facing each other. In concert, I’d sit slightly behind where she stood to play. She was the featured artist. Ms. Devine saw us shift our positions and came out of the music storage room where she’d been busy ever since we started practicing. She sat at her desk and looked like she was going over some papers. We counted down the intro and started playing.
I knew this music and loved how fast it was. It only took a moment before I was lost in it. In another moment, I was lost in Cindy’s eyes. My God! She’s memorized it already! Once we connected, our eyes never left each other. I watched a bunch of videos of guitar music, including duets with various instruments. Most of the players were obviously connected to their instruments. Very few were connected with each other. Julian Bream never took his eyes off the frets, even when he was playing with Jean Pierre Rampal!
When I played on Sunday morning with Pey or Beca or Desi or Francie, it was an intimate connection. I was playing for them. I let my heart out in the music. Playing this duet with Cindy, my heart was wrenched out of my chest. We were perfectly in sync. Intimate didn’t begin to cover it.
The last note died and Ms. Devine clapped. Cindy was flushed and winded after the rapid-paced piece. I was a little winded myself and realized I’d been holding my breath through part of the piece.
“Will you do that piece for the class tomorrow?” Ms. Devine asked.
“Um… Uh… I don’t know if I can do that in public,” Cindy stammered. I didn’t blame her. We put our instruments away and prepared to leave. Just before we walked out of the classroom, Cindy turned and hugged me, then ran down the hall.
After dinner, Mom tossed me the car keys.
“We need to get you a tux for the recital,” she said. “Bring your guitar.”
I felt a little strange walking into Louie’s Tux Shop with my guitar case. They guy who fixed me up with my prom tux was there and met us. He listened to Mom describe what I needed. Apparently, she’d had a long chat with Mrs. Marvel.
“It has to be black, but he doesn’t have to match the orchestra. In fact, it would be better if he didn’t,” Mom said. The guy pulled my chart and cross-checked my measurements while he listened. I didn’t realize the tux shop kept a record of what you’d rented before and all your numbers. It was a little embarrassing. He had me stand on a platform and then brought a chair for me to sit on. Then he brought a jacket to try on and hold the guitar. He took that one away and brought another. I was having trouble with the shoulders binding and restricting my movement when I held the guitar. I guess tuxedos weren’t made for that.
“I see,” he said. “I believe I have the right one. Can you come back tomorrow? I need to get it out of the warehouse.” Mom agreed to bring me back on Wednesday.
“What are you wearing for the recital?” I asked Cindy. I was hyper-conscious of clothing now and had never seen Cindy in anything but casual school clothes. They were nice but made her look even younger than fourteen.
“I’ll be in a traditional black straight-line dress for the first act with the orchestra. I’m being daring with a purple dress for our act. We’ll be the only two on stage for that, which is why you don’t have to have a tux that matches the orchestra.”
“Any chance I could see it?” I asked. She looked at me nervously and then pulled up a picture on her cell phone. Wow! I thought the picture of the dress must be on a model or something but the face was definitely Cindy’s. She was beautiful. “Could you send that to me so I can show the tux guy? He wanted to know what you were wearing. He did a great job of matching me up with my date for the prom last spring.”
“I guess so,” she whispered. She sent me the picture and my phone chimed.
“I’d better get going. Mom’s picking me up from school this afternoon and we’re going straight over.”
“Um… Don’t look better than me, okay?” she said. I glanced down at the picture on my phone.
“I don’t think that would be possible, Cindy.”
“Yes. Yes. This will be perfect,” the tux man said as he looked at the photo on my phone. I wish he had a nametag like clerks in other stores. I felt foolish asking his name after all this time. He handed me a pair of formal slacks with a black stripe down the side. They also had a nice pleated front that gave when I sat to put the guitar on my knee. The shirt he handed me had a wing-tip collar. He left me to dress and carried my phone with him into the store. He returned a few minutes later with a purple vest and tie—not a bowtie but almost more like a cravat. He showed me how to tie it and when I put on the vest with it, the white shirt became nothing more than edging accents around the vest and tie. “Now the pièce de résistance,” he declared, handing me a jacket.
The other tuxedo jackets I’d tried on were stiff and formal—I guess that’s what a tuxedo is, right? This jacket was soft. And the cut was different. It didn’t have lapels, but the fabric was cut straight up the front to a stand-up collar. It had no buttons so a strip of the purple vest and tie was always visible up the front. The Mandarin collar, he called it, was typical shiny black as was a bead down the front. It fit like a proverbial glove and didn’t seem to bind anywhere, no matter how I moved.
“Do you always sit to play?” he demanded.
“Usually. I don’t like to stand because I don’t want a strap around my neck,” I said. He nodded, left, and came back with a stool. The seat was about a foot higher than the chair. He positioned me on it with one foot on a rung of the stool to support my guitar and the other straight down. Then, as he had done with my prom tux and Joan’s blue dress, he started taking pictures from every angle. Mom nodded.
Before we left, he gave me a memory stick with the photos and told me to make sure my partner agreed. I didn’t think there would be any problem.
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