On First Looking into Chapman's Quim

She chatted with a few bloggers to try to find out how much she'd have to do to earn enough money and what equipment she needed. She still had money left from her settlement with the venture capitalists, so she bought a refurbished desktop, a wireless keyboard and mouse, a digital camera good for streaming, a high-speed modem-router, and all the cables, power strips, and adapters needed to set it up. It took her two days to get it all up and running properly, another two days to register with a website and get verified.

"The first time I went live, I was scared to death. A few guys—I always assumed they were guys—came in right away, I suppose because my thumbnail picture was labeled NEW. I was wearing what I decided would be my signature outfit, as you know: a plain camisole and bikini panties. I hadn't really planned what I was going to say or do, just what I wasn't going to. I stumbled through a couple of pretty embarrassing hours, had to quit because I was getting queasy and was afraid I'd throw up. I made something like $12.50 that first day."

I had to interrupt. "Marcie, I know what you did, you don't have to tell me about it. I watched you for two months. The reason I kept coming back was precisely because you didn't do or say the stuff most of the other cam girls did. I could tell from the beginning there was something special about you, and boy was I right. So shut up already! It's my turn to tell you what you're really worth!" I wasn't going to let her shush me again, but almost panicked when I wondered if my outburst would drive her away.

I intended to start off by reciting a few of her outstanding qualities and how they made her special, but when she turned to me with a shy smile and simply said 'Okay, Ben," I forgot what they were. Except for her eyes, which melted my heart, and her mouth, which drew my breath, and her breasts, which roused my beast within, and her...

"Ben?" She got up from the kitchen chair, sat beside me on the couch, and put her hand on my arm.

"You were going to tell me something?" Her shy smile had changed to sort of a smirk, her eyes crinkled and twinkled, my brain turned to mush. Without thinking, I reached out to her.

"Uhh, yeah, well...I love you, Marcie, have for as long as—."Without saying anything, she leaned in and put her arms around me and buried her face in my neck.

"Oh thank God," she murmured, then looked up, her lips inches from mine. "I love you, too, Ben Day. I think I better turn off the oven and put dinner in the fridge for a while." She gave me a short, but intense kiss, then stood up and sashayed into the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder, "I'll meet you in the bedroom." I tried not to run. She joined me less than a minute later. "Give me a moment to redecorate." She stripped the bedspread and tossed it over the computer and camera, yanked their plugs out of the wall, and tore the posters off the wall. "There. Now lets perforate Unperforated." Her shy smile returned. "It's okay, Ben. I love you, too. Please let me show you how much; I don't want to lose you again."

She was giving me permission—no, she was asking me to make love to her. I don't remember exactly how we started, but I do remember worshiping her breasts with my lips and tongue, then sliding past her navel and past the downy slope to her mons. When I reached the fringe of her protective bush, I chuckled in wonder at reaching my goal and tilted my head back to gaze upon her breathtaking womanhood. She reached down, somewhat gently grasped my ears, and looked into my eyes with a stern stare. "I'm pretty sure I'll love what you're about to do, but just one crack about Chapman's Homer, mister, and you'll spend the next week trying to remember when you took a vow of celibacy."

I didn't keep my mouth shut, but no words passed my tongue or lips; they were too busy exploring my beloved and sipping her ambrosia. As I slipped into Paradise, she put her lips to my ear. "Thank you, but I probably couldn't have held out a day, let alone a week."

Epilogue

AFTER MARCIE HAD TOLD her what happened, Cass whispered into the shell-pink ear of another of her talented friends, who passed along the information about Hernán Cortés to the FBI. She was delighted to tell Marcie less than two months after she fled that Cortés and all his men were arrested on a dozen or so federal charges related to drugs, human trafficking, and tax evasion. They all wound up in Club Fed for at least 20 years.

It turned out that "Father" Frank Fagella had, indeed, been a Catholic priest once upon a time, but was "allowed to leave the priesthood" after it was found he embezzled a few hundred thousand dollars from the Archdiocese of New York and had sexual affairs with several married women in his Brooklyn parish. He escaped prosecution, of course. All this happened more than a decade before the ceremony in Darien, so he had no faculties for marriage, and he shredded the "marriage license" they signed instead of filing it with Fairfield County. Consequently, Marcie had never been married to Cortés. She wasn't broken-hearted about that, and neither was I.

We moved Marcie to my apartment in Hollister the week after our tryst in Milpitas. Two weeks later we drove up to Grass Valley for the Parental Visitation, which went much better than we had hoped. Marcie had already told them on the phone that she really was never married to "that guy," but the explanation would have to wait until we got there. At first they had a hard time believing her tale, but finally recognized that she was telling the truth as a means of apologizing "for the way I treated you." They assured her that she had nothing to apologize for, that all she had to do was love them. Then we all sniffed a little and hugged a lot.

That was almost 10 years ago. We married a few months after the visit with her folks, and now have three of the world's most perfect children: Elizabeth (for Marcie's mother), 10; Benito ( for Benjamin, over my futile objections), 7; and Ana (for Anastasia, just because), 5. I'm still teaching high school math and computer coding at San Benito STEM Academy (Go Condors!) and loving it, but then I've loved all of my life since I found Marcella Minerva Chapman and first looked into Chapman's quim.

My principal achievement after 19 submissions (17 stories and a couple of essays) has been to irritate folks, some mightily. If this story yet again irritates you, would you please take the time to tell me why in a comment? It might help me to stop (or at least cut down) doing so, could even be considered a public service. Babbling into the void is neither fun nor rewarding.