Like Father, not like Son

The voice in the distance said "Are you ready dad? Let's go."

Sam was 19 and in college now, but even though he lived, worked and went to school within a ten-block radius from me, I was lucky to seem him twice a month. It's not that there were any problems in our relationship, but he was an adult on his own and had his own social life, and what little time he did find for family was split between me and his mother.

But today was different, because today was the day of our block party. After the divorce I had purchased a condo in a then newly-built building on the river. Additional building followed, so that there are now three condo buildings and two of apartments; the company that built this whole complex had organized a block party for all residents today, partly to celebrate the opening of the newest building, partly to advertise to potential tenants that this is a place where people would want to live. Since we are located within a mile of a major university, a lot of the people here, especially in the apartments of course, are college students, and Sam was hoping that the block party would be his ticket to meeting some of them. But since he wasn't a resident he couldn't get in without me, so suddenly he had couldn't be nicer to dear old dad.

I locked the door and followed him down the hall to the stairs, which led out onto the courtyard where the festivities would be held. "So, is there anyone in particular that you're hoping to meet?" I asked. I had a feeling he was going to be disappointed; we were pretty expensive by student standards and there were lots of options closer to school, so we tended to attract graduate students or recent alumni working their first jobs, not current students. He may think of himself as an adult, but since he wasn't even old enough to drink I had a feeling that he was still going to be too young for most of the girls in our complex.

"Mostly I'm wanting to see what there is to choose from," he said, "but I do hope that that one redhead will be there. I'd like to know HER name."

Like father, like son: I had a thing for redheads, and apparently he did to. Even if he didn't, though, I knew exactly the girl that he was referring to, and she was SMOKING. She was a strawberry blonde, lean and fit yet quite adequately endowed, if you know what I mean. On occasions where I had seen her walking in public areas of the complex I had always been hard pressed to pull my eyes away.

As I anticipated, once we were within the fenced-in area Sam was off to work what he imagined to be his magic. I shook my head a little as I headed over to coolers to store the beer I had brought. There was plenty of food and drink provided, but in truth I am something of a beer snob, and since the days of drinking for volume are long behind me I just as soon drink the good stuff. I brought a 12-pack of Molson Canadian to the party; I kept one out and cracked it open, putting the other eleven in a cooler and wondering how many would still be there when I eventually came looking for another.

That done, I scanned the crowd. Sam was talking with a brunette ballet teacher I had met a few times. Then further along I saw my next-door neighbor talking with some of the other fortysomethings that lived in the complex, so I headed towards them. I joined in the conversation, but they were mostly talking about college football, which isn't real high on my list, so I was only half paying attention.

I was also starving. They had lots of food, but you could only go through the line once; each resident got two meal tickets, one for him or herself and one for a guest. It suddenly dawned on me that with Sam disappearing so fast, I had never given him his ticket, and I doubted that he had eaten lunch either. I weighed the embarrassment I might cause him by being seen with him against the fact that he was probably starving, and decided I should find him and give him his ticket. I looked around again; this time it took me a while to find him. He was in a back corner of the fenced-in area, talking with the strawberry blonde as he had hoped to meet. Again I thought that maybe I should wait, but her body language did not suggest that she had any interest in Sam; she was merely being polite in conversing with him. In fact, she looked pretty bored. It didn't look like I would be interrupting anything important if I went up to them now.

As I came closer, I could hear that Sam was trying to impress her by talking about his band, but it wasn't working. Perhaps she's actually heard his band, I thought, then stopped myself—that was being nasty. But Sam's band did need a lot work—his best bet was to tout the fact that he was in a band and hope that impressed the girl, because if they heard him play they wouldn't be so impressed.

I came up to them, gently put my hand on Sam's back, and said "Excuse me for interrupting. Hey Sam, here's a meal ticket so when you're hungry you can go through the buffet."

"Oh man, I'm starving now…thanks." Sam said—and with that he just up and left to hit the buffet. He didn't even bother to end his conversation with the redhead—he must have realized it wasn't going well, but that's still no reason to be rude. I was embarrassed on his behalf.

"Oh my…that's it? Not even a talk to you later? I'm sorry, that was very rude. Manners have never been my son's strong suit," I told her.

"Not a problem," she smiled, "he's just a kid. I get hit on by a lot of guys that are still just immature kids—I'm a lot older than I look."

I did a double-take: she sure didn't look old. I'd have pegged her for 21 or 22. She noticed me do it, so she said "Go ahead, guess how old I am."

That was always a loaded question—and one women usually tried to avoid, not to bring upon themselves. That meant she couldn't be that old—and you certainly don't want to guess a number that is too high. "Well, my son is 19," I said, "and you certainly look to be right around his age."

She nodded, sort of looking away, then said "That's what people usually say. Actually I'm 27."

"Really?" I said in genuine disbelief. "Well, you're still pretty young as far as I'm concerned, but you certainly don't look your age. You'll come to appreciate that once you get to be my age." I took a hit from my beer.

"HEY!" she said suddenly, "where did you get that?"

It took me a second to figure out what on earth she was talking about. Then I realized she meant my beer. "This?"

"Yeah…Canadian, that's real beer, not like this crap," she said, gesturing with the generic American light beer in her hand. "I haven't had a real beer in forever."

"I'm not big on domestics, so I brought my own," I replied. "You want one?"

"I'd love one," she said, "I was born in Toronto—I was raised on Molsons and Labatts."

"You have excellent taste," I said, extending my hand. "My name is Rick."

"Alana," she returned, "but everyone calls me Allie."

There was something about the way she said the second part of that sounded unusual. "And…is Allie what you prefer to be called?" I asked, leading the way to the cooler where my stash was chilled.

"People don't usually bother to ask," she said with a hint of sourness. "Actually, I don't like Allie very much—but it's sort of stuck."

"Well, I shall call you Alana," I replied. We were now at the cooler, I fished her out a Canadian, opened it and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said, and took a big drink from the bottle. "Mmmm. That's much better."

"Indeed. So you're from Toronto? It's is one of my favorite cities, I've been there many times," I said, "are you a Leafs fan?"

"Am I ever!" she said. I commented that I still wasn't impressed with who they had in goal—I am a hockey nut. It didn't take long to figure out that she was, too—she knew all about who was good and who was going to have a long year. She was also excited to be able to talk intelligently about hockey with someone; there aren't that many fans around these parts, and trying to explain the game gets real tiresome. I imagined her in high heels and a short skirt, a hockey Annie waiting to meet the players after the game. It wasn't too much of a stretch: she was wearing a tank top with a scooping neckline and a mid-thigh length denim skirt with flip-flops. I forced myself to look straight into her pretty green eyes constantly when I was talking to her, because it was the only way I could resist the urge to stare at the impressive cleavage peering out over the neckline of her shirt.

My stomach growled at me—I'm not sure but it was so loud she may have heard it. "I'm sorry, I haven't had lunch yet—are you interested in going through the buffet line? I'm interested to hear what you think of the Sabres this year."

She shrugged and said, "OK." So we went through the line—I noticed she took very little, and certainly nothing that was fatty or fried. I guess you can't maintain a hot body like that eating McDonalds.

We kept talking hockey through the line and through half of our meal. Eventually we started running out of hockey talk, so I asked her "so if you're from Canada, what brings you here?"

"I'm a graduate student at the university," she replied.

"Oh? In what?" I asked.

"Psychology," she replied.

I almost choked on my food. "No! Don't do it! Don't do it!" I said in mock panic.

"What?" she was completely confused.

"I used to be a psychologist," I explained.

"Used to be?" she asked, now intrigued.

"Yes…I did it for quite a while, but then I had to get out and do something else. I'll tell you the story if you want, but my beer is empty. How about you?" She easily finished the little that was left in her bottle. We got two new ones, sat in chairs more conducive to talking than the picnic tables had been, and I told her about having worked in the field, as well as why I left it. She was very interested; I could tell some of my concerns resonated with her. I wrapped up my story saying "Obviously, I'm kidding about talking you out of it, it's a great field for a lot of people."

She then started in on some of her concerns as she got close to the end of her program. We talked about theory versus practice and areas that left something to be desired. I asked her about what she had left before she finished her program; I remembered some of the roadblocks she listed remaining in front of her, and offhandedly offered my assistance as someone who had been through it.

I suddenly realized that there weren't very many people left in the block party. I looked at my watch and realized I'd been talking with Alana for more than three hours—it felt like maybe 20 minutes had passed. Even my son had left; he had spent a lot of time talking to two blondes that I often saw walking their dog and always managed to have a little extra skin peeking out of their clothing somewhere. From a distance, he caught my eye, did a double take when he was I was still talking to the redhead he had walked away from, and gave me the sign that he was leaving.

Alana noticed too. "Wow, it got late in a hurry," she said.

"Yes, time sure flew. Well, thank you for the company—it has been very interesting talking with you," I said.

"Likewise," she said, extending her hand to shake mine. "It's nice to talk with someone that actually challenges you mentally. That's why looking so young is really a problem—most of the guys that talk to me are just kids and they're only interested in sex. Don't get me wrong, I like sex as much as anyone, but I need someone that stimulates my brain, too."

"Too bad I'm old enough to be your father," I said before I could stop myself. I wished I could take the words back as soon as they left my mouth—I was trying so hard NOT to ogle her or to get the wrong ideas about someone nearly 15 years my junior. But her response, full of ambiguity and open to interpretation, would resonate in the back of my mind for days:

"Age, like maturity, is a state of mind."

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Wednesday nights I play sand volleyball, and have for years. I started at about the same time that I was first separated, and have continued ever since—it's the main thing I do to stay in some semblance of shape. I had thought on and off about Alana since the block party on Sunday, but mostly I had gone about my usual business.

I got to the bar about a half-hour early as I usually do, giving me time to stretch out my old bones, socialize with my teammates, and scout out some of the other teams playing at earlier times that week but that we would have to face in the coming weeks. Our team was very much middle-of-the-pack; we were all over 40, but made up in experience and guile what we lacked in physical tools. Teams with really gifted athletes we usually lost to, but we could give anyone else a fight.

I went over to the spectators' area, said "hi" to a few faces I recognized and watched the match closest to me. It was pretty one sided, as the first-place team was beating up on a team that was just playing for fun. So I looked beyond them, watching the match on the second court. My eyes were immediately drawn to a strawberry blonde ponytail playing the setter position. I saw her make a nice set to the outside that a very tall man put away for an easy kill; after low fiving, she turned to walk back to her starting position. She got down in a low crouch facing her team and with her back towards me, when it dawned on me that I'd seen that face before—it was Alana.

There were picnic tables beyond the endlines of both courts. Theoretically, any spectator could sit there, but few did because you would be in significant danger of being a spike or deflection beaning you—or at least spilling your drink. Generally they were only used by the teams on the court, a place to put their stuff while playing. I had never seen Alana playing here before, I'm certain I would have remembered her—but the others on her team I did seem familiar. I picked my way over to the picnic table behind where Alana was playing and sat to watch her—and she was well worth watching. She was wearing a tank top again, although this time with a second shirt underneath to keep that impressive cleavage under control while moving around, and a pair of those really short athletic shorts with the waistband folded over. Whenever she reached above her head, like every time she set or served, the tank top rode up and a glimpse of a flat, athletic belly peered out.

She was also a darn good player. When it was her turn at right front, she switched places with the guy that was in the setter position and kept making nice sets to either side. Her team gave up the ball at 18, but got it right back on a side out. She rotated back to serve—and only then noticed me. I didn't really expect that she would even acknowledge me, but she gave me a smile and a little wave as she walked beyond the end line to serve. She served up an ace to get to game point, then her team scored on an outside kill to win the match.

The two teams lined up in the middle to congratulate each other on a good game. I stood up, since our game was on the same court and when they vacated I could start warming up; I expected Alana to go over with her teammates for a drink. Instead, as soon as her sportsmanship obligations were done she waved to her team and made a beeline for me. My heart rate jumped to aerobic level as she came towards me. I though maybe she was just coming for her stuff, but she was looking right at me as she approached.

"Hey Rick," she called once in speaking distance, "I didn't know you played."

"I've been playing here for years," I replied as she came up to me. "but I don't remember seeing you before. As good of a player as you are, I would have thought that I would remembered seeing you before." Especially since you're a hot redhead, I thought.

"This isn't my usual league, I'm just subbing," she answered. "I play in the all-girl league on Sunday night. One of my teammates is usually on this team and asked me to take her place because she's out of town."

As she said that, it dawned on me that we were expecting to be a female short tonight, too, and knowing Justine I'm sure she hadn't thought to get a sub. "We're going to be short a female tonight, too," I said impulsively. "Up for playing again?"

"Sure, I'd love to," she replied without hesitation. She seemed to actually mean it, not just saying that to be polite. I reached for my ball and said. "That would be awesome, you'll probably be the best player on our team. Help me warm up?"

With that we went on the court and began the bump-set-spike two-man drill. Shortly thereafter the rest of my teammates arrived, and I introduced Alana to them. Even without seeing her play, having a young athletic sub sounded good to them. I told them she lived in my complex; they probably assumed she was someone I knew because of my son, and in a way I suppose they were right.

Alana started at setter and I took left hitter. On the first serve, our team returned it clean and Alana made a perfect set to me. I really, really wanted to play well that night—even if Alana was just a girl from my block, I wanted her to think I was at least an OK player, and that was multiplied because she was so hot. Sometimes the added pressure tends to make me choke; at my age, I can just get over the net to hit when playing in sand, I don't have a lot of margin for error. But this night it helped me concentrate, and when I put away the first set down the line, averting the blocker, it was a good sign. The second point we returned, she set the opposite way, and the opposing team set up hit from my side. I went up at least attempt to block against a much younger and taller player. The regular women on our team were my age or older and short, so I was used to blocking alone, but I was suddenly aware of Alana having come over to help double-block. She was just above average height, probably five-eight or nine, but with those powerful legs she could jump pretty high. I felt the ball bounce off of my right arm, but unfortunately I didn't get a clean touch and went between us for a point.

The next server put a lot of spin on the ball, and our back row player didn't get a clean bump—it careened off-course and towards me on the left outside position. I called everyone off and prepared to set. I don't know what made me think to set to the middle instead of going cross-court to the right side hitter, but I did—and Alana was ready. She went up and spiked the ball hard, surprising our opponents. Aha-I knew it: she could hit at least as well as any of us. The problem with most co-ed volleyball is that guys tend to think of the girls as just setters, not as hitters—that's why most they set up rotations so that there's always a girl setting to at least one guy. Well, if Alana was going to hit like that, I was going to feed the machine—I'm not too proud to admit when someone is better than me, regardless of gender. So when I got to the middle, I told the team that I would set rather than switch to a hitting spot. I'm nowhere near as good a setter as Alana, but because she was such a good hitter she had little trouble adjusting to my slightly erratic sets. Within a few points the other team was figuring out how they could get two blockers on her. And I kept hitting, too—I wasn't going to outpower the younger guys on the other team, but I was doing well going line when they blocked cross and vice versa, and when they had both covered I crossed them up by hitting lefthanded. We never played better, and took three games from what had been the second-place team.

After the match, my teammates all came up to thank Alana for playing with us and marvel at her skill. She was modest and told them she was just subbing in this league.

"You can play for us anytime," said Frank, our team captain.

"Well, thanks," she said modestly.

"No, I'm not being polite, I'm serious," Frank continued. "Would you be interested in playing with us regularly? The person who usually plays is not very reliable, and you're a lot better than she is to boot. If you don't mind playing with us old folks, we sure could use you. And it wouldn't cost you anything, we've already paid for the season."

Oh man, I thought to myself, I'd sure love to be playing next to her for the rest of the season. Alana quickly looked around at the others, and didn't see anyone that seemed to have a problem with it. Then she specifically looked at me. I don't know what she was thinking, but she said "Well, as long as school doesn't get in the way, sure, I'll play with you."

"Oh, no problem, just let us know if you can't make it—it happens to all of us," said Frank. "Here, let me get you a schedule." We all walked towards the picnic table and took a well-deserved drink from whatever sports drinks we had brought. Frank then thought to get her contact information. And as a result, I now had Alana's email and phone number.

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The following Tuesday I got a call from Alana confirming the time for the next day's game. That's odd, I thought, I'm sure she can read a schedule as well as I can. Then she suggested that maybe we could drive together…a good idea, since we lived in the same complex and parking could be tight at the bar. "Actually, it's a 6:00 game, and since their food is pretty good when we play at 6 I usually go over there around 4:30-5 and have dinner first."

"That's a great idea, I was wondering when I'd get a chance to eat, because I have class until 4:30," she said. "Tell you what—can you pick me up at Psych Hall? Then I won't have to walk all the way home and rush over."

So that's what I did. It didn't even feel weird until I was actually picking her up. What was I, a forty-something divorcee, doing picking up a smoking hot, twentysomething graduate student from school? Well, the obvious answer was playing volleyball, but something still felt strange about it. When I was first divorced, I had problems misinterpreting some women's friendliness as being attraction, and had a number of disheartening disillusionments when I realized my error. So now, unless a woman came right out and said that she liked me, I just assumed that she didn't. My life had been much less of a roller coaster since I adopted that rule. But Alana was starting to confuse me; all of the signals I was receiving from her could be interpreted as meaning that she liked me. But I absolutely refused to believe that that could be true—she was young, hot, gorgeous, intelligent, I was…well, sort of smart, and not much else. I'm sure she had suitors at every turn, all of them with a lot more to offer her than I.

I sat in a loading zone for about 10 minutes before she came rushing out of the building. She was wearing a mid-thigh length skirt, a white crew-neck shirt with three-quarter sleeves, and businesswoman pumps. She peered around quickly, recognized my car from the description I had given her, and hurried over as fast as her narrow skirt allowed. She got in hurriedly, saying "I'm sorry I'm late, I had to schedule with my advisor and we had trouble finding a time."

"It's OK. The service is good there, we'll still have plenty of time to eat." As I drove, Alana started changing in the car. I had a hard time concentrating on the road, not wanting to miss if something interesting happened. She opened one of her two bags and kicked her shoes into them. Pulling out a pair of shorts, she slipped them on and up under her skirt. Then she lifted her butt to unzip and take the skirt off. The she pulled off her top to reveal that she was already wearing a tank top under it. Finally, she pulled out her flip-flops and stuffed her other clothes into the bag. Just like that, she was dressed to play.

We got there, sat at the high round tables in the bar area and quickly ordered some food. All through dinner, I learned more about her school and she asked about my job. She seemed to be really interested in what I had to say. I didn't know what to make of it. But we were cutting it close on time; I asked for the bill, then gave the waitress my credit card to pay it. Alana reached for her backpack and asked "How much do I owe you?"

I hadn't even considered that there was a question of who would pay, like most dads I guess I'm just used to always paying. "Don't worry about it," I replied. "I remember how broke I was in graduate school; I can afford it easier than you can. Dinner is on me."

She gave me a little frown, half thanks and half wish-you-let-me-pay. "You didn't have to do that," she said.

"And you didn't have to agree to play for our team, but you did and you make us better," I said, "so let's go play." I signed the check and we went outside.

Alana suddenly slapped the side of her bag. "Dammit," she said.

"What?" I asked.

"I forgot to bring something to drink," she said, "and it's really hot today." It was, a record high for that late in the year.

It had occurred to me that she might forget a drink coming right from school, so I had tossed an extra Propel into my bag. I unzipped it as we walked and pulled one out. "Grape OK?" I asked as I handed it to her.

"You have an extra?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I've had to come straight from work before and I usually forget my drink when I do. Since I was getting you from school, I thought I'd bring an extra in case you did the same."

"Oh my god, thank you, that's so thoughtful of you," she said gratefully. I felt a little embarrassed, because such thoughtfulness also betrayed the fact that I had been thinking about her.

We put down our bags and I pulled out my ball to start warming up—the luxury of being the first game is not having to wait for the court to clear. She took off her shoes, but then because of the heat she reached around behind herself and tied a knot in her tank top, exposing about six inches of her midriff. Her belly was extremely flat and sexy, with gentle curves outlining well-conditioned abs, and as she walked out onto the court I saw for the first time that she had a silver ring in her navel—as if she needed her stomach to be any sexier. I was off during warm-ups because I couldn't stop thinking about her tummy and trying to sneak looks at it without being obvious. Once the game started it was better; I wasn't as on as I had been the week before, but neither was our opponent as good. And Alana and I again quickly developed good chemistry with each other on the court. In between sneaking peeks at Alana's amazing body, we managed to take three games again.

When the game was over Alana undid the knot and returned to more modest attire, although we both were damp from sweat. We grabbed our things and I drove us home. I walked her to the entry of her building before heading towards my own.

"Well thanks for playing again this week," I said as we got to her door.

"Oh, no problem, I had fun," she replied. "And thanks again for dinner." Then she turned and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before entering her building with a little wave.

I was dumbfounded, unable to move for several seconds. Did she just kiss me on the cheek? What the hell is this girl thinking? She was Canadian, may she was just being Continental—except for the little problem that Canada isn't part of Europe. And what the hell was I thinking about her? On the one hand, I lusted for her with the lust one feels for someone deeply desired and completely unattainable. On the other, I found her to be very smart and nice, a person who I could just as easily talk hockey as philosophy. And I couldn't reconcile either with the idea that she could have any interest in someone so much older, especially me.

I slept fitfully that night, replaying the kiss and re-imagining her belly and its navel ring over and over and over.

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The next day was Thursday. I got very little done at work because I couldn't stop thinking about Alana. What did she want from me? Part of me wanted to sit down and talk to her and get out in the open what the limits of our relationship were going to be. Part of me feared that even asking whether she had any interest in me, even after the kiss; I was afraid she would find the idea completely laughable and I would embarrass myself by even having brought it up. Plus, she'd probably not want to play on our team anymore if she knew I liked her in a way she didn't like me back, and I didn't want that. She made us better, but even more than that she was just fun to play with, and she liked to play with me too. Just the thought that someone that hot liking to play next to me in volleyball was pretty exciting stuff for a man of my age and (lack of) social standing.

After eating my dinner alone that night I sat in front of the TV, not watching it but going back and forth in my mind about Alana. Then at 8:30 my phone (I only have a cell phone) rang, and the display said "Alana." When she had called me on Tuesday I hadn't recognized the number, so after she hung up I had programmed it in. Why would she be calling me now?

"Hello?" I asked rather than stated, half doubting that this could really be her.

"Hi Rick," she said in a stuffy voice, then sniffled. She sounded as if she had been crying. "Can I come over and talk with you for a while?"

"Of course, come on over," I said. I had no idea what was going on, but she sounded like she needed to talk to someone. I told her my unit number so she could find me.

A few minutes later I heard the knock and answered the door. She was standing slumped in the doorway, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes red from crying. She managed a false smile, saying "Can I come in?"

I said, "Yes, please do." As she shuffled past me into the room, her distress was palpable. I didn't know if it was appropriate or not, but she looked like she needed a hug. Impulsively, I held out my arms and said "come here." She came up to me and I put my arms around her. She hid her face in her hands, pressed against my shoulder, and the floodgates opened again. I held her, gently stroking her hair, and let her cry as much as she needed.

It was at least five minutes before she could compose herself enough to straighten up, wipe her eyes with her hand, and say "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," I said matter-of-factly. "We all need a shoulder now and then. Now, come, sit down and tell me what happened." I sat on one side of the sofa, she on the other, but we each sat on one leg so that we faced each other as she told her story. It turned out she had just learned that she had failed one of the sections of her qualifying exam—the clinical part, the part she had expected to do best in. I knew she was quite intelligent from our previous conversations, so I wondered how she could have failed the exam. Suspicious that something was amiss, I asked her a few questions about the exam, generally at first and then in increasing detail about the questions and her answers to them. It became clear to me that she had tried too hard to answer the question rather than doing what she should have done, namely show off what she all knew. Since she hadn't shown off what she all knew, they had assumed she didn't know it.

"I think I know what happened," I said. She was all ears—she was telling me this because she knew I knew her field, but certainly hadn't expected that I could diagnose the reason for her failure. "You got yourself too hung up on succinctly answering the question. This isn't like writing a progress note—it's your qualifying exam. You need to show off that you know as much as possible. The questions—they're not written very precisely, they're just meant as a launching pad for you to start from." I went through her answers again, pointing out places where she could have easily explained in more detail what she meant had she realized she was expected to—she knew the stuff.

"If that's what they wanted, why didn't the say so?" she complained.

"There's a lot of word of mouth that gets handed down from one class to the next, so they have been able to get away with being sloppy for years." I said. "Unfortunately, you didn't get the memo."

"And now I'm totally screwed," she complained, floodgates about to open again.

I put my hand on her knee, just to try to divert her attention and avert the onset of tears. "I don't think you are." I said. "Here's what I recommend: talk to your advisor tomorrow and explain that you have talked to some of the other students and you believe that you failed because you didn't go into enough detail in your answers because you did not realize you were expected to. Ask if you can take that section again as an oral exam. Tell them that you can and will defend your answers before a team of faculty examiners."

"An oral qualifier?" she said like I was nuts, "everyone says to avoid that like the plague."

"Not everyone is in your situation," I replied. "Look: you've proven to me that you know what you need to know, and more. It's too late to go back and add it to your written exam, but just do what you did now with me and you'll easily pass."

She was skeptical of my suggestion, and yet the fact that I was telling her that she already knew what she needed to know, it was just a matter of proving it, gave her hope. Catastrophizing as we humans do, she was imagining herself failing out of her program, having nothing to fall back on and having wasted all those years of school. From where I sat, I could see that all was not lost.

I spent the next half-hour or so in something like pep talk mode, helping her regain her badly shaken confidence that she could do this. Eventually, I had her believing in herself again. At that point, as she was gathering herself up to leave, she was all apologetic again about barging in on me with all her problems, but I wouldn't hear it—"I told you at the block party that I would help in any way I can. That's still true. You'll get through—I can tell you've got what it takes."

She hugged me again, this time putting her arms around my neck. I had no place to put my arms except around her slender waist. My heart rate shot through the ceiling; man, she felt good to hold in my arms

She looked at me with big green eyes serious. "Thank you," she said sincerely, "I don't know what I would have done without you." And with that she reached up and kissed me on the lips.

I was so stunned, I didn't even kiss her back. Then just like, that, she turned and headed for the door. "I'll call you and let you know how my talk with my advisor goes."

"Please do," I said, trying to regain my composure. "You can do it," I added making a fist for emphasis. And with that she was gone.

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She called me briefly on Friday night to tell me that her advisor had accepted her proposal and was working on a defense—but in order to prove that she already knew what she needed to know and wasn't cramming after the fact, she would have to do her oral comps the following week. She was excited about getting a second chance while at the same time freaking out about the short study time window. Without really thinking about it, I said "Let me know if you need help studying" before hanging up.

I wasn't really expecting it, but I certainly didn't complain when Alana took me up on my offer. Saturday afternoon she was in my apartment, studying. She made me grill her on all sorts of questions, then critique her answers. I barbequed some burgers for dinner which we ate while studying. She had her hair in a ponytail and was dressed comfortably in a loose floppy sweatshirt, jeans, and cute wire-framed glasses. However, when she curled up to study, her jeans pulled down and her sweatshirt wasn't long enough to cover the gap, so I could see her underwear—and she was wearing a thong. I kept my eyes buried in her books so I wouldn't keep staring at, and imagining the rest of, that thong. She gave me a kiss when she left, catching me off-guard.

Sunday afternoon she asked me to come to her place. It was cute and impeccably well-kept, but the apartments were a lot smaller than my condo, especially the one-bedrooms like this one. She had no roommate. I grilled her on her stuff again; we had Chinese delivered for dinner. It was warmer again, and she was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, and again her hair was in a ponytail. But the t-shirt was so tight-fitting that her impressive physique was unmistakable as she curled up to study. When she would sit up, her t-shirt tended to ride up, exposing her belly button ring. She would pull it down when she noticed it riding too high, but then would curl up and later sit up, so the process would repeat itself. I kept my eyes buried in her books to keep from staring at her belly button ring. She gave me a kiss when she left, again catching me completely off-guard; even though she had kissed me the day before too, I couldn't imagine why she would want to, so I kept predicting it wouldn't happen again.

Tuesday night she came by for two hours of studying after dinner. She told me she wasn't going to be able to play volleyball that week, which I was expecting. She was dressed from school, in a blouse and skirt; I kept my eyes buried in her books so I would stop looking at the cleavage peeking out from between the open buttons of her shirt. When she was leaving, she gave me a big hug—I could feel her soft breasts pressing against my chest.

"Thank you, Rick—I don't know if I could have done this without your help," she said.

"I just want you to succeed," I replied. "I want you to knock'em dead on Friday." She ended the hug with yet another kiss, then left. Why did she keep kissing me?

Thursday she called me just to say she was ready as she was going to get and was just looking for a last-minute pep talk. I thought about her and kept my fingers crossed all day Friday.

At 3:00 my cell phone rang, and the display said "Alana."

"Hello," I said, "so how did it go?"

"It went great," she said, "I won't know their decision for a week, but it felt like it went well and they congratulated me on having done such a good job when it was over. I think it's in the bag."

"Oh that's wonderful—I'm so happy for you," I said.

"And I would never have thought of it, let alone done it, if it hadn't been for you," she said. "So if you're not too busy, I want to take you out to celebrate, on me this time. There's a preseason hockey game tonight—let's go to dinner and get tickets for the game."

"Hey, that sounds great," I said before really thinking about it.

"I'll pick you about around 5:30?" she asked.

"OK," I said.

"Great. I've got some stuff to do here before I leave, but I'll see you then, all right?"

I had no sooner hung up than it suddenly started to feel weird. What did she mean, she wanted to take me out tonight? I understood that she wanted to show her appreciation for helping her study, but…those were words that you used to ask someone on a date, weren't they? And in that vein, why had she had kissed me every day that I had helped her study? What did she want from me? It felt like she, well, like she liked me—and I steadfastly refused to believe that it could be true. But if it wasn't, then what DID she want?

Dinner started out fine, but the strange feeling soon returned. She started talking a lot about her personal life, things about her family and old boyfriends. Those weren't the kinds of things you would usually tell your neighbor, so why was she telling them to me? I stopped holding up my end of the conversation, because I didn't know what I should or shouldn't say.

After dinner we went to the game, and I felt even more awkward. First off, I felt like everyone was staring at me. What did people think when they saw us together? That I was a dirty old man cradle robber? That I was bringing my daughter to the game? It didn't help that I didn't have clear answers to those questions myself. I was nervous and stiff, and certainly not much fun as company. Alana knew something was wrong.

I went to the bathroom at first intermission (beer!). When I came out, Alana was waiting for me. She nodded that I should follow her, and she led us over to a quiet seating area one of the bar areas of the stadium that is packed before the game and empty during it.

"Is this better?" she asked.

"Better? We're missing the game." I said.

"I know, but you seem to be ashamed of being seen in public with me. Is this private enough that you can relax and be yourself again?" she asked.

She had me dead to rights: I didn't know how to act, because I didn't know where I stood with her. Well, I guess the only way to fix that was to find out. Regardless of outcome, it would be a relief to finally clarify how I should respond to her. "I most definitely am not ashamed to be seen with you. But I also don't know how I'm supposed to act with you, because I don't really understand what you want from me."

"It's not that hard. I wanted you to come along and enjoy the game with me," she said evasively.

"You know that's not what I mean. I mean, what am I to you? Am I a surrogate father? A secondary academic advisor? Just a friendly neighbor? Am I…" and I stopped myself from even saying the word: boyfriend. "What am I?"

"What would you like to be?" she asked.

She was playing her cards very close the vest, and I couldn't blame her for that. And her question seemed fair, so I answered it. "First off, you're very smart and intellectually stimulating. I enjoy talking to you and I respect your opinions. Second, I really like playing volleyball with you. And third, you're the most beautiful woman that has ever had any interest in spending time with me, in any capacity. I'm fine with that—I like doing all of those things. But some of the things that have happened recently have me, well, confused. I don't want to jeopardize a friendship I value because I acted inappropriately due to some misunderstanding."

"Am I too young for you?" she asked. "Is it impossible to imagine having a relationship with someone under thirty at this point in your life? If so, I can respect that, and I'll know to leave you alone." Her green eyes were like lasers drilling into mine.

"I can imagine all sorts of relationships with all sorts of people. I don't know what kind of relationship you mean." I replied. It sounded like she meant a romantic relationship, and I still couldn't believe that that was what she was driving at.

"You know that's not what I mean," she said, penetrating me with her stare, trying as hard to figure me out as I was her. We were both protecting ourselves, and consequently we weren't getting to the real question here. One of us was going to have to take the plunge.

"Alana," I began, choosing my words carefully, "you asked me to join you for this game, just you and me. Maybe I'm just oldschool, but…are we…on a date here?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" she asked.

"YES, it's so hard to believe," I snapped. "Alana, you're much too attractive to be wasting your time on the likes of me. Look at me—I'm practically old enough to be your father, I'm a divorced, relationship retread, I'm not rich—you…you're so BEAUTIFUL, Alana. You should be hanging with a studly young heir in a Ferrari, not with me."

It looked like tears were forming in her eyes. She grabbed her hair by the fist, and said with exasperation "I can't help what other think when they look at me; does being beautiful mean I can't choose who I want to date? Should I cut off all my hair? Will that make me plain enough for you? I don't wear a lot of makeup, but I could stop using it altogether. What would it take for me to actually get to choose for myself who I want to go out with?" "

"Alana, stop," I said. I leaned forward in my chair and held her hands in mine—since I guess this was supposed to be a date, that wasn't inappropriate. "To cut your hair would be a crime against nature! Beauty like yours is too rare a gift to waste."

"So you do notice me," she said.

"You have no IDEA how much I notice you," I admitted, and before I could stop myself muttered "and in how many inappropriate ways."

"Why…how is noticing me inappropriate? Do you like me or not?" she asked.

"Yes, I like you…" I started.

"No," she interrupted, "I mean… do you like me."

"I…I haven't dared to even consider whether or not I like you," I said, trembling inside. "When I see you in a skirt, or a low-cut tank top, or especially when sexy little belly button ring is showing…it's more than an old man like me can take."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean…old men like me aren't supposed to exist in the eyes of a beautiful young woman like you," I said. "Look…when I was first divorced, I misinterpreted a lot of women's that were being friendly as having interest in me, and made a complete fool of myself as a result. Things have gone much more smoothly since I started assuming that no woman has any romantic interest in me whatsoever unless they come right out and say otherwise."

"Rick," she said softly, "I'm interested in you."

I gulped, but had no words to say. My heart was racing. She was telling me she wanted…to be with me. But this could never work, she was just too good for me. "Alana, I'm flattered," I began, looking away. "Maybe you don't have anyone else on your radar right now, but you WILL…you should be looking for that person who's really right for you, not wasting time on me."

"I'm not a 20-year old kid," she replied with frustration, "will you please give me credit for knowing what I want?" I looked back at her with new eyes; I hadn't thought of it that way. "Trust me, I am fully aware that if I wanted to I could have any guy that I wanted. I used to like that power when I was younger, and I've had my share of boy toys. But I'm not interested in playing with boys anymore—I'm looking for a man, and my standards are high. I want a man that's thoughtful—thoughtful enough to bring along an extra water bottle for me in case I forget. I want a man that's a good listener, who hears what I think and respects my opinions. I want a man that's reliable, that honors his commitments, like continuing to be there for his kids even after they're independent. I want a man that's open-minded and gives me room to be me—a man that will actually set to me in volleyball, rather than expect me to set for him because I'm a girl and he's a guy. I want a man that's generous—generous enough to not think twice about giving up all of his free time for a week to help a neighbor that's freaking out about school. And when, once in a while, I need a shoulder to cry on, I want a man that will give me his complete attention and hold me in his arms until I feel better."

I didn't know what to say. I had been doing all those things for her, gladly. "Alana, I'm really happy that you did well on your comps, and I understand that you may feel like you want to make it up to me somehow. But I assure you, your success and your happiness are all the reward I desire. You don't owe me anything."

Alana smiled and cocked her head to the side slightly. "Rick, I do appreciate all the help you gave me this week, but this isn't about guilt or gratitude—it's about you. Listen to what you just said: I KNOW you don't want anything in return for all those things you've done for me—don't you see, that's the point! It's not all the things you've done for me—it's that as you have done them, you've shown me what kind of man you are. And what you are is the kind of man that I've been looking for. THAT'S why I like you."

Alana got up and sat in my lap, putting her arms around my neck. She felt real, real good there. "And you should also know…I'm divorced too."

My jaw dropped; I think she sat in my lap because she knew it would.

"Surprised, eh? I told you I'm not as young as I look. I got married right out of university," she explained. "He was kind of what you suggested: good looking, a body builder, and he came from a family with money. But it turned out that he loved himself more than he loved me. Once we got past the unbridled lust stage, we suddenly found we had nothing in common. He was uninformed and content to stay that way, and only cared about himself. The final straw was on our first anniversary; we were supposed to go out, but he called to tell me he was hanging with his friends instead. I spent the only anniversary I ever had packing my things and moving out."

"Alana, I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't be," she replied. "If things hadn't happened like they did, I'd probably be an unhappy soccer mom with a cheating husband right now. As it is, I did some soul searching and decided to do something with my life, so I applied to graduate school. My divorce finalized in July, and I moved here in August. It was a painful experience, but I learned from it—I learned what really matters in a relationship, and it's not money or muscles. So when I say that I think you have the qualities that I'm looking for in a man," she concluded, stroking my chest gently, "I really do know what I'm talking about."

It's funny how my impression changed when I learned Alana was divorced. She looked barely old enough to drink, and as a result I had thought of her as an idealistic, never-married single girl. But she wasn't—she had gone through the disillusionment, the hurt, the soul searching of a failed marriage just as I had. Her statement that she knew what she was looking for was suddenly a lot more credible. For the first time, I realized that she might be serious about this. But that didn't change the fact that I was so much older than she.

"But I'm so old," I protested.

"I know you're older than I am," she said quietly, "and I know there are drawbacks in that. But I sincerely believe that it's because of the experiences you have accumulated in your lifetime that you are the sweet, thoughtful man that I see today."

I looked into her eyes. Her strawberry blond hair cascaded around her face, her green eyes looked into mine. She even smelled pretty. "Alana, I…I'm overwhelmed," I said. "I can't believe this is happening." She looked into my eyes but said nothing. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you're willing to try being boyfriend and see how things turn out," she said.

"I'm willing to be your boyfriend and see how things turn out," I replied. She smiled at me, and I could see her relax—at last, the ambiguity was taken care of. Suddenly I wanted to kiss her. "If we're here on a date, does that mean I get to kiss you?"

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't," she replied, bending slightly so that I could reach. She had kissed me before, but this was the first time I felt at ease to really kiss her back. There was no mistaking the difference.

I took a deep breath—the most beautiful woman I had ever known firsthand was sitting her smoking hot body on my lap, and had just become my girlfriend. Then I made the mistake of looking down, and I saw her slender thighs poking out beneath her miniskirt, right there in my lap, and the sergeant-major sprung up like a jack-in-the-box. Sitting on my lap, she knew immediately that I was toting wood. She wiggled her butt back and forth a little on my crotch and kidded "I guess you really do like me."

I gently caressed her bare thigh right above the knee and said "You have no idea how much I want to walk my little fingers up your thighs and under your skirt."

"Can you at least wait until we get back home before you start exploring?" she replied mischeviously. "Come on, let's go watch the rest of the game."

The rest of the game was much more fun. I put my arm around Alana as we watched the action, and she cuddled up next to me—crossing her legs, of course. Suddenly I didn't give a fuck about what everyone else thought anymore. All that mattered was that the most beautiful woman in the whole freaking stadium, at least to my eyes, was choosing to enjoy it with me.

We had some drinks after the game, sharing more stories of our past. She invited me in to her apartment afterwards and I stayed and kissed her for a long time, but I didn't feel ready to do any of that exploring I had hinted at just yet. I slept alone, but she was in my dreams all night long.

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I had some errands to run on Saturday, and I called her when I finished around 2:00 to see what she was up to. She was catching up on the other school work she had let go while cramming for her comps.

"If you can spare some time, I'd like to see you," I said hesitantly.

"I'd like that," she replied, "but I can't stay out late, I've got a lot of catching up to do."

"Would you be OK with just a quiet night in?" I asked. "I get the NHL Center Ice package, we can just relax and watch some hockey. I can even get the Hockey Night in Canada feed; I think the Leafs play in the early game."

"That would be perfect," she said.

"Just come over whenever you're ready, I should be home the rest of the day."

It wasn't quite true—I ran to the store for some Labatt's and munchies. I'd already seen that she ate pretty healthy—had to with a body like that—so I opted for some veggies and dip and some baba ganoush. I also picked up ingredients to make a pizza, just in case she hadn't taken the time to eat a proper meal in-between all the schoolwork.

She knew the game would start at 6:00, and knocked on my door at 5:58. She came in and first thing kissed me; this time I was ready for it. She was wearing shorts and had tossed on a shirt that looked like a Leafs jersey, only shorter. As I suspected, she had studied right up to the time she came over and hadn't eaten. I went to the kitchen and started putting the pizza together. She came and helped me, then we hugged and kissed in the kitchen the whole time it baked.

When it was done, I grabbed us each a beer and we settled down to watch the rest of the game. I cleared the plates at the first intermission; I brought out the snacks during the second. Alana decided to get comfortable—she stretched out on the couch, flat on her back, with her head in my lap. She could easily turn and watch the game. I gently played with her amazing, strawberry blond locks. She bent her knees upwards to better fit on the couch. It was just as relaxing for her, but it was quite a bit more distracting for her. With her legs bent, her shorts gathered at the hip, and all of her legs were there for me to see—they seemed to go on for miles and miles and miles. Drawn to them like a butterfly to a light, I couldn't help but touch the silky thighs and run my finger up and down her smooth skin—although I took care to stay a "safe" distance from her genitalia. I was curious, but not yet mentally prepared for a full-scale expedition into that uncharted (to me) territory.

She turned to look up at me with a bemused look. "You never did get back to your exploring yesterday," she teased.

"I know," I said, and bent over as far as I could reach so as to kiss her. She put one arm on my neck while she kissed me; I made the mistake of continuing to touch her thighs. Next thing I knew, I had an erection again—and this time it was practically poking her in the back of the head.

Kissing me all the while, she maneuvered her free hand towards the bulge, and began to gently stroke the outside of my pants there. "I have a news flash for you," she kidded, then kissed me again. "There's a monster in your pants."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Why should you be sorry?" she asked, "All it means is that you like me." Then quick as a flash she had rotated and was now lying flat on her stomach, with her knees bent so her feet were in the air. "I think we should let it out," she said. She undid my belt, my button, and my zipper. "Lift up and give me some room," she said. I lifted my butt, and she pulled my pants down just enough so that she could get under my boxer briefs. When she did, poink! I stood up like a flagpole.

With just a trace of a smile, she held my penis and kissed it. I looked like a Saturn V on a launch pad, but I still wasn't sure we—as in us and our fledgling relationship—were ready for this next step yet. "Honey, you don't have to…" I began. And then the whole world disappeared and was replaced by one of infinite beauty, color, sweetness, and love. Not really, but that's the closest I can come up with to describe how it felt when she took me into her mouth. All I could do was tilt my head back and go "Oooooohhhhhh." She giggled a little—it's not polite to talk with your mouth full—and began to suck me. I could not believe how good it felt, and not just because it had been a long time since I'd been blown. No mistaking it, this was the best oral sex I had ever received; my memory may not be what it once was, but I would have certainly remembered if I'd ever had a blowjob anything like this before.

She kept working on me, and eventually maneuvering her fingers into my pants so she could caress my balls, too. It didn't take very much of that and I was about to go over the top. "Oh god, I'm gonna cum," I warned her. From past experience, I expected that she would react to this warning by pulling away and finishing me off with a handjob. Nuh-uh—she responded by sucking me even harder. As I climaxed, she held me insider her mouth, gently cradling me with her soft, warm tongue.

When I was done she swallowed my donations, then sat in my lap to hug and kiss me. I tasted my own aftertaste in her kisses, but I didn't care—if it didn't phase, her, it had damn well better not phase me! Eventually the kissing stopped, but I was still speechless.

"Did you like that," she said finally with a gleam in her eye.

I finally managed to say "I…I'm quite literally speechless."

"Does it feel more like I'm your girlfriend now?" she asked perceptively. I hadn't thought about it, but she was right: the idea that she was my girlfriend still seemed surreal, like I would awaken any minute and it would be gone. This made it feel a lot more real.

"Yes, it does," I replied. "Anyone can see why I'd want to be with you…but I still don't get why you want to be with me."

"I've already explained that all, silly," she chastised, then kissed me some more.

"I just hope I don't let you down," I admitted.

"Let me down…how?" she asked, kissing my cheek and neck.

"You…you're so beautiful…you intimidate me, in a way," I admitted. "I feel like you're so much out of my league, I feel like I have to perform that much better to satisfy you. Even if it hadn't been more months than I can count since the last time I had sex, I don't know if I'm up to that anymore."

She held my face in her hands and smiled at me. "I'm just a girl like any other girl. I like the same things other girls like. If you put extra pressure on yourself, you're bound to be disappointed. Just let it come naturally." She paused and kissed me, then continued "I'm not in any hurry—when the time is right, it will happen, and it will be fine." Then with a flash of her eyes, she added "I think you just proved that."

"Alana, you're…" I started.

"If you say one more time that I'm too good for you, I'm going to smack you!" she warned playfully. That was kind of what I was going to say.

"All right," I said, "then can I say…you're the best thing that's happened to me in a long, long time?"

"Now that I can live with," she smiled, and we locked lips again.

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Sunday I called her up. I said that I was free if she wanted to do something, but I told her I was concerned because I had a lot of free time and (a) wanted to make sure she had time to do the things she needed to get done, and (b) didn't want her to get sick of me—that's a real potential problem when your boyfriend or girlfriend lives right across the courtyard. We discussed it, and agreed that on school nights we would talk, and she would tell me if she could spare the time to see me. Wednesdays, obviously, we would see each other at volleyball, and we would have dates on Friday and Saturday. So I left her to her work, and ended up going to my son's house to watch football with his roommates. He asked what I'd been up to, and I said that I had had a couple of dates with a new girlfriend. He said "Good for you dad, anyone I know?"

"You've seen her before, yes," I said evasively. Just then something happened in the game and the questioning was forgotten. My son takes after me in a lot of ways: the way he thinks, his appearance, to some degree even his temperament. But it's a good thing he was interested in Engineering and not Psychology, because he was way too self-absorbed to be any good working with people. It's not that he wasn't a nice guy, or that he couldn't empathize; it's just that he almost never took the time to consider how other people might be thinking or feeling. I used to think he would grow out of it as he matured, but it was beginning to look like that was just the way he was going to be.

I went home after the second game ended. Alana knocked on my door about the time the Sunday night game was starting. She said she needed a break, so she thought she'd stop in and watch with me for an hour before burning the midnight oil working on a presentation. I put my arm around her and she curled up against my chest. I only vaguely remember anything that happened in the game—I was just enjoying feeling how alive I felt with her pressed up against me like that.

I didn't see her again until Wednesday. She came over dressed for volleyball, and she gave me a huge hug and kiss at the door. "I've missed you," she said. I'd missed her too, but I was determined to give her whatever space she needed. We drove together, of course. We warmed up for a bit, then I stopped to get a drink of my water. By chance, one of my teammates, feeling comfortable enough with her now to ask, put the question to Alana if she had a boyfriend.

"Well, funny, you should ask, I just recently started seeing someone," she answered.

"Oh? What's he like."

"Well…he's very nice…he's a psychologist, so he helps me with school…he's a little older than me, but he keep himself in good shape." Then, unnoticed by the others, she locked her eyes on me and started to describe me. "I dunno, he's about six foot tall, blue eyes, sandy brown hair…" by this time I was walking back, unaware of the conversation, but I noticed she was tracking me and I heard what sounded like a description of me. I guessed what was going on. "What do you think, Rick, that sound about right?" she added at the end.

"Yeah, I guess that's about right," I replied opaquely. A couple of my teammates put two and two together, but it was still ambiguous, they weren't sure if she was insinuating that I was the new boyfriend or if I maybe just knew him. Those doubts were erased when after the post-game handshake we walked over the picnic tables and I held her in my arms and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around my neck, and I felt the soft, slightly sweaty skin of her bare middle in my hands. More than a few of my teammates raised their eyebrows.

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Thursday night she worked, but I told her I wanted to take her to a club that had an 80's retro night on Friday. She said that sounded like fun. She had a retro-80's style short, wide black skirt and a tight, fitted pink-and-white striped shirt. But she had only the middle buttons buttoned; during dinner, I had a hard time keeping my eyes off of her cleavage. I don't know that she was trying show her assets, but she wasn't doing anything to hide them either. Then when we got to the club and started dancing, I noticed that her bottom buttons weren't buttoned either, because the flaps of the shirt would open as she moved. As a result her belly button ring played peek-a-boo with me all night, and it was driving me wild.

After we had been dancing for an hour or so, we stopped and I went to get us drinks. It was crowded, so service was slow. I peeked over Alana's way as I waited in line, and I saw that some guy was already up there talking to her. But her body language, much like when I had first seen her talking with my son, indicated that she was not interested. Just then it was finally my turn, and by the time I headed back towards her with the drinks, she had already gotten rid of him. She was standing against the wall, waiting for me, and as I walked up to her I was reminded of a much more contemporary song:

With a high heel against the wall,
Kind of dancing, though not at all
She had...stockings running up to her thigh
Snaps her fingers to keep the time

She wasn't wearing thigh-highs, but the way she was standing there, just waiting for me to come back—suddenly it really hit home that she really was with ME. I danced, and had a good time remembering songs I had danced to in my younger days—but I couldn't take my eyes off of her. I wanted her, bad. Concerns about not being able to satisfy her remained, but were being overcome by pure, unadulterated lust.

We left about an hour before closing time, when the crowd started to thin. I brought Alana back to my place and sat with her on the couch, kissing. "Alana, you look so beautiful tonight," I said.

"Thank you," she said modestly.

I stroked her neck, kissed her, stroked her neck again. Then I slipped my hands down towards her cleavage. I felt for the first of her buttoned buttons and freed it. She had said that when the moment was right this would happen; she recognized that this was the moment. She watched me in anxious anticipation as I unbuttoned all of her buttons. Then I slipped one hand under her shirt, into her bra and touched her breast for the first time. It was unbelievably perfect; soft and pliable to the touch, yet firm enough to stand up without sagging. She reached behind herself to unhook the bra, did that quick take-off-the-bra-without-taking-off-the-clothes trick that leaves us men bewildered, the laid down on the couch, holding her arms open to me. I lay on top of her, kissing her, and fondled those amazing breasts.

Her breath indicated that she was becoming aroused. I decided that one way to make sure that I didn't disappoint her the first time we made love would be to bring her to orgasm before I even attempted intercourse. I began by opening the flaps of her shirt and sucking gently on her nipple. Then I began kissing my way down the firm, toned belly—I had dreamed of kissing licking around her belly button ring, and this was my chance; I fingered her nipples while licking her flat stomach.

"Keep going; there's more to see," she whispered. I headed further south, arriving at the top of her skirt. I paused and flipped the loose skirting up, leaving me face to face with her underwear. I could smell her special odor before I even started to kiss it. I stroked the underwear, then pulled it aside and pleasured her with my tongue. She stopped me for a minute so she could pull off her skirt and underwear. I then buried my face in her crotch, engaging in a full-scale, wall-to-wall exploration of her private areas until I felt her body spasming in orgasm.

After she came, we kissed, but while we did Alana was reaching for and freeing my penis. I was hard as a rock—performance wasn't going to a problem after all. I wonder: if every guy my age got to have sex with a partner as hot as Alana, it might put the Viagra folks completely out of business. I got up for a second to take off my pants, then got back on the couch, kneeling between her thighs, which were open and waiting for me. I held my breath as I entered her; the way she closed her eyes told me it felt good to her, too. I made love to her, slowly at first but with increasing urgency, until I collapsed, spent but satisfied, into her waiting, open arms.

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That was the first night Alana slept in my bed. That next morning, when I first woke up to the joy of discovering her lithe, naked body snoozing next to me, gorgeous even in slumber, it finally sunk in that Alana was now really my girlfriend. I loved kissing her to wake her up, then watching the various parts of her move as she stretched to wake up. Dammit, I wished I didn't have to go to work right away!

While in theory we continued with our original agreement with regards to seeing each other, it seemed that she found more and more time to come over and be with me. At first it was that she would sleep with me on Wednesday nights after volleyball. By Halloween, she kept a toothbrush and some other things at my place because that's where she spent half of her mornings. It was also a junction point in our relationship; now that she had finished her comps, she was eligible to go on internship. I didn't know what her plans were; if she went to another city on internship, I was certain it would be the end of our relationship, but I also wanted her to do what was best for her career. One night at dinner I asked her about her plans.

"Well, there are four possible sites within commuting distance of here, so I'm applying to those," she said.

"And?" I asked.

"And I think those are the only four I'll apply to," she said.

"Why?" I asked. "If you apply more places, you'll improve your chances of getting placed."

"I know," she said, eyes looking at me like knowingly "but I have reasons for not wanting to leave town right now."

"Honey, believe me, I don't want you to leave, but I don't want to be holding you back in your career," I replied.

She reached across the table and held my hand. "I know, but I think I can get in. Besides, I don't have to go on internship this year—if I don't get in, I'll work on my dissertation and try again next year."

I let it go at that time, but there were serious, unanswered questions about what future we might have together.

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Alana and I had a quiet Thanksgiving together; since Canada does theirs earlier than we do, Alana wasn't going back to Toronto to see her family. My son came over late on Thanksgiving just to say hi, though, and that's how he found out I was dating Alana.

I had cooked a mini-turkey just for the two of us, and after dinner she did some school work while I watched football; it was just nice being in the same room with her. Then the door knocked; I saw it was Sam, let him in and gave him a big hug. "Happy Thanksgiving, Sam, good to see you." Then I let him go, and as he walked in through the foyer I said "I should warn you my new girlfriend is over."

"New girlfriend?" he said, surprised. If he had ever taken an interest in anything dad was doing, he might have found out sooner, but he was too wrapped up in his own life. Then he looked into the living room and saw her, curled up on the floor, reading a textbook. "Allie?!?!?!?!" he said, nearly fainting.

"She prefers to be called Alana," I corrected him, reclaiming my spot on the sofa next to where she sat on the floor.

Alana gave him one of those little waves where you curl in one finger at a time, saying "Hi Sam" before returning to her book.

Sam sat on the other side of me, looking like he had seen a ghost. He usually didn't stay for long, but that day he found an excuse to get out of there very quickly. I knew that my ex would know by the end of the day that I was dating a beautiful, younger woman. I could just see her throwing things around the house when she found out. Oh well—that was no longer my problem.

I hadn't expected to get an angry call from my daughter, Shelly, who lived with my ex-wife not far from me. I had joint custody rights, but when Shelly entered high school she became a handful and we agreed that it was in her best interest to just live with her mother—she needed consistent discipline, and splitting time between our two houses wasn't getting it done; she was successfully playing one of us against the other. I know that once she stopped seeing me so often and was constantly subjected to her mother's side of the story, she assigned to me blame for the divorce, as well as half of the other things in her life she didn't like. I realized it was in her best interests to let her be mad at me, unfair though it was, and hopefully when she got older and more mature she could start to see things more objectively. That didn't make it any easier for me in the meantime.

"Dad, what are you doing dating someone that's barely older than I am!" she accused.

"Well, she's actually ten years older than you, she just looks younger than she is," I explained patiently.

"Ten years, big deal," she interrupted, "she should be your daughter, not your girlfriend." She hadn't done the math; I would have had to have fathered her when I was a freshman in high school, but I suppose it does happen.

"All I can say is she asked me out," I said, keeping a calm, steady voice, "and was quite insistent about it. Believe me, I told her all the same things you're saying now, but she kept wanting to go out with me anyway, so eventually I said yes."

"I hope she leaves you for a younger man, and you end up feeling old and lonely," she hissed and hung up the phone. I sure hope she starts maturing soon, I thought sadly.

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While Thanksgiving had been fine, I was very lonely at Christmas. I hadn't realized how used I had gotten to seeing Alana four or five days a week until she was gone, spending the holidays with her family in Toronto. Sure, the kids did visit me for a while on Christmas Day, but by 8:00 they were gone and I was alone again. Alana called me every day, and I spent most of the day just waiting to hear from my lovely sweetheart. I was that she was getting to see her family, which she didn't see very often, so I tried very hard not to let on how much I missed her when she called. But after Boxing Day was over and much of her family had headed back to work, Alana found herself wanting to be back, too.

Alana had planned on flying back January 3rd. But on December 30th, I got a cell call from her at work—she usually didn't call me during the day. I was worried that something had happened, but it turned out she was at Pearson; she had managed to get a seat flying standby, and asked if I could pick her up at the airport in three hours. Just like that I went from dour to giddy; she was coming home early! I was gonna get to see her today!

I left work early to go get her. I was standing in the crowd that forms just outside the secure area waiting to meet arrivals—I saw Alana coming from halfway down the terminal. Her strawberry blond hair stood in sharp contrast to her fitted, white winter jacket. She wore jeans that weren't necessarily tight but fit her shapely legs like a glove, tucked into winter boots. I could tell that more than few men in the terminal noticed her too, but she was oblivious to it. Well, not oblivious—she was generally aware when men looked at her, but since she's always experienced that kind of attention, she doesn't realize that the way men respond to her is different from the way we respond to most other women. I must have been smiling like an idiot when she finally came through the gate, came right up to me and without hesitation threw herself into my arms and kissed me.

I hugged her and whispered "I missed you…I'm so glad you're back."

I picked up her carry-on and escorted her to baggage claim. "I missed you too. I decided to try to come back early so we could spend New Year's together. Luckily, there was a seat available"

I brought her back to my condo; we ordered some take out, made love, watched some hockey, then made love again before going to bed. Next morning neither of us had to be anywhere, so we had the luxury of just lounging around, playing with one another—there was no shortage of parts of her that I longed to play with.

She had been in town almost 24 hours before she finally went to her apartment, and even then it was only because she needed dress to wear for New Year's Eve. One of our volleyball teammates always threw a big party for New Years, and I was planning on going there anyway. But I was ecstatic that I, unexpectedly, would have a date.

Alana was stunning at the party. She had her hair up, and wore a green halter-topped long dress. The neckline plunged deep between her breasts, and her entire back was out in the open—man was she fun to dance with. A lot of men I didn't recognize found ways to bump into her and try to figure out who she was, but she always found her way back to my side quickly. We toasted the stroke of midnight from the dance floor.

We got back to my place around 1:30. I took and hung up her coat, then came back and started dancing with her again although no music was playing.

"I had a great time tonight," she said, putting her arms around my neck.

"I'm so glad you came home early," I replied, "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," she said, kissing me, "I came home because I wanted to."

I looked at Alana. Her green eyes peered back at me placidly. At that moment, she was the most beautiful woman that had ever lived. And I loved her. I couldn't deny it any more, not after how I had felt when she was gone. A few months before, she had had to convince me that she liked me, that she really wanted me to be her boyfriend. Now I was, but I still felt like any moment she would find someone better and more her age and boom, she would be gone. Thus, I had never come out and told her that I loved her—it was too risky. What if she just liked me, and didn't love me? What if she did love me, but then someday found someone she loved more? It would hurt so much more, I thought, to lose someone you love than to miss someone you like. So I kept telling myself that I wasn't sure the strong feelings I had for her were really love. I was only fooling myself—her absence had proven beyond a shadow of doubt that it was love. I now knew that calling it love wouldn't make any difference at all—it would hurt just as much if she were to move on and leave me behind.

Admitting my love was also scary because it meant having to ask hard questions about the future. But at that time, dancing to nothing in the living room, it didn't matter—I loved Alana, and it was high time that I told her so.

"Alana," I said haltingly. She gazed at me attentively. "Alana, I…I love you."

Alana stopped dancing and searched my face for clues of some sort. Then she said "Do you mean that?"

"Yes, I mean it," I replied. "When you were gone, I saw how much you really mean to me. I don't know what the future holds for us, if we can work out in the long run or not. But I know that right now, I love you."

"Oh honey," she said, and hugged me tight, burying her head on my shoulder. My heart starting beating faster; I had professed love to her, and she had not returned the sentiment. It felt very awkward and I was fearful.

She stood up straight again, arms still around me. She appeared to have a tear in her eye, yet she didn't look sad. It wasn't until she said "I love you, too," that my heart rate started returning to normal. "I've loved you for a long time—but back in the beginning, you were so hard to convince that I was serious about liking you. If I had told you that I loved you and you had just replied 'I love you too,' I would always worry that it was yet another thing that I had talked you into. So I decided to adopt your rule—unless you came out and said that you loved me, I would just assume that you didn't."

"Alana," I said, looking deep into her eyes, "I love you."

"And I love you," she said, and kissed me with the softest, most loving kiss of my life.

"I'm sorry I haven't told you before," I replied, suddenly ashamed of myself. "I guess I've tried to deny it to myself, because I keep expecting that you will find someone younger and better and leave me behind. But when you were gone, I missed you so much…I just couldn't keep deluding myself any longer. If I get hurt, I get hurt… fact is, I really, really do love you."

A single tear of joy streamed down her face. "I was so afraid that you would never love me."

We kissed, started dancing again, and kissed some more. She paused to let her hair down, strawberry blond waves cascading down her shoulders. The dance continued. We gazed at each other silently, communicating love without needing words. But my fingers kept reminding me of how silky smooth her bare back was. The beast began to awaken.

Still dancing, I kissed her again. I kept one arm on her back, but the other I brought to the front and caressed her shoulders. The halter strap was there; I slipped my hand under it, touching her shoulder. Then slowly, mindfully feeling every inch of the way, I slipped my hand downwards, towards her breast. She wore no bra—where would she put it?—and her nipples were already hard when I got there. Maybe she was cold, since she was underdressed for January 1, but I like to think they were waiting for me.

She pulled back a little so I could caress her more easily, giving me a slight smile and with a dreamy, loving look in her eyes. She kissed me once in almost slow-motion, then whispered "Make love to me."

I had been going to the gym a lot more since I started dating her—she was in SUCH good shape, I couldn't be sporting a beer belly and be seen with her. Consequently, I felt emboldened to respond by picking her up off the floor. She looked kept looking at me dreamily as I carried her to the bedroom. With great satisfaction, I helped her out of her dress, and she helped me out of my clothes. Then our bodies mingled in joyous union. Her orgasms that night registered on seismographs miles away, while I felt like I could have blasted through armor plating.

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From New Year's on, Alana slept with me every night. Every day I pinched myself to see if I was dreaming, but she was still there lying next to me the next morning. It soon became clear that she was now paying rent for an apartment she no longer needed, and that it was becoming very inconvenient to have her closet two buildings over from where she slept. So we moved her into my place, dead of winter and all, and managed to save at least a couple of months rent subletting the remainder of her lease.

The year got off to a good start, as Alana was accepted by her first choice internship. She didn't start until June, and in the meantime I helped her work on her dissertation. I told Alana I loved her every chance I got. But we still hadn't gotten around to discussing some difficult topics, although I had done quite a bit of thinking on my own. Then one day the topic could be avoided no longer.

It was the Wednesday of Alana's spring break. She had taken some time off to clear her head that week, and had been in good spirits on Monday and Tuesday. Thus it caught me by surprise to come home and find Alana curled up on the sofa, crying.

"Oh my god, honey, what's wrong?" I asked, dropping everything and rushing to her side.

"Nothing," she said.

"Come on," I countered, "you don't sit on the couch crying for nothing. What happened?"

"Oh, it's silly," she said. "I got a call from my younger sister, the one in Oshawa, and she told me she's pregnant."

"And?" I asked, although I suspected I knew where this was going.

"And I'm very happy for her," she replied, "but I always thought I'd want kids, too. When I got married I thought that kids would be right around the corner, but it didn't work out that way. Now she's pregnant and here I am…" she said. She didn't want to say it, but what she was thinking is that she loved an older man that already had a family.

"Do you still want kids?" I asked.

"It's OK," she said, "I'll get over it. I'm just…grieving the idea that I'll ever have kids of my own."

I could tell she was trying not to even ask if I was willing to have children with her, perhaps in fear that it would push me away. But I'd asked myself the same question, and although it would be hard to have little children running around the house at my age, I would be more than happy to do it for Alana. No, that's not true: not FOR Alana, WITH Alana. I wanted my genes to be mingled with hers; the results couldn't help but be spectacular.

"Why—is there some reason why you can't have kids?" I asked.

"No, but you've already had your family," she said, laying her hand tenderly on my cheek, "and I love you and want to stay with you."

"Alana," I said, "You've never asked me if I would be opposed to having children again. I'm not."

She sniffled, wiped her eyes, but no fresh tears came. She was very attentive. "But you've already got grown children."

"Exactly," I said. "I don't play a big role in their daily lives anymore, so my time is free to devote to young ones again. It would be harder at my age, but then again I know what to expect this time." I put my hand on her face now. "I know you will be an excellent mother, and you will have beautiful children. If you wanted me to father them, it would be an honor."

She held me close as the last few sobs worked themselves out. She had thought that being with me meant giving up on a family. The thing that astounded me was that would have chosen me anyway. I wondered, too, if she was hearing her biological clock ticking—she would be 28 in a few weeks, maybe it felt like the window of opportunity was closing.

Suddenly, I knew exactly what to get her for her birthday.

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I took Alana to an expensive restaurant for her birthday; she wore a little black dress and heels. She was hotter than a thousand suns; I kid you not, I was hard all night long.

I gave her the official birthday present before our main course arrived: a pair of emerald earrings. She loved the, and protested I shouldn't have spent so much money on her. And that was the inexpensive one.

The real surprise came with dessert, as I had prearranged it. They brought out a little cake, but instead of being out in the open it was covered by one of those food warmers with a hole in the middle, with one lit candle sticking out through the hole—a mystery cake. She looked at it suspiciously, and of course slightly embarrassed as most of us are when birthday cakes are delivered. Being a fancy restaurant, though, she was spared the singing waiter routine.

"Go ahead, make a wish and blow out the candle," I said.

Eyes still downcast to avoid attracting attention, she blew out the candle.

"So, what kind of cake is it?" I asked.

"I don't know—seems odd to have it covered up by a warming dish," she said. She pulled out the candle, licking the frosting off its base (watching her lick it made me harder still). Then she put her finger in the hole gingerly, trying to avoid getting frosting all over her finger and lifted the lid.

She gasped. Under the plate there was not a whole cake, but three-fourths of one. And in the quadrant where the cake was missing was a small jewelry box.

She was stunned to immobility for a moment, during which I, as unobtrusively as possible, got out of my chair and down on one knee next to hers.

She looked at me, eyes still wide in surprise. I took the nearer of her hands in mine, and said "Alana, I have never been happier than I have been since I met you." She couldn't believe this was really happening, but was getting very excited. I took the box off of her plate and opened it up to show her the engagement ring I had bought for her. "I know that we both have been down the aisle before and it didn't end up so well. But if you're willing to give it another try, I would like to ask for the honor of your hand in marriage."

"Yes. I do. Whatever the answer is—I would love to marry you," she blurted, kissing me. I was holding her left hand; taking the ring from its box, I slipped it on her hand while she extended her dainty, red-tipped fingers. She flexed it a little, and proclaimed "it fits perfectly!"

"It should, I borrowed one of your others to size it," I said.

"I never noticed one was missing. Oh honey, come here," she said, wrapping her arms around my neck and bending over to kiss me. "Oh! This is so exciting! I can't believe this is happening!" she said, as excited as I had ever seen her.

Another kiss, then I winked as I returned to my seat, joking "And besides…if you want children, you're going to need my health insurance, now aren't you."

She got very serious. "Rick…are you sure this is what you want? That you're not just doing this because of me?"

I held her hands across the table. "Alana, I don't think I've ever been as happy as I've been since we've been together. I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

"But having another family is a big commitment," she protested.

"Yes, I know, I've done it," I replied. "I know what's involved, and I'm quite willing to do it again. I want to do it because I want you to be happy, but that's not the only reason. I want to have children with you because I think they will be amazing children, and I want to share with you all of the wonderful moments that come with parenthood."

She leaned over the table to speak to me softly. "You see," she smiled, "I TOLD you that I knew what I was looking for in a man, and that I thought that you had all those things. For almost a year, all that you've done is prove it, over and over and over again." She had to half-climb on the table to kiss me—and in the process almost knocked over the cake. She squeaked and caught it just in time.

Sitting back down, she held and squeezed my hand, saying "Oh! I'm so happy right now! I can't believe this is happening." She was staring at her ring like it was a mirage that might disappear any second.

"I'm sorry, I'm sure the diamond isn't as big as the one you had the first time, but it was all I could afford," I told her.

"There's only one size that matters, and that's the size of a man's heart." Then more seriously, she added "Rick, I really love you, and I want to be with you forever. It makes me feel really good that you want to with me, too."

"I love you, Alana," I said, "and I'm looking forward to many happy years together. But for now, let's eat that cake before one of us ends up wearing it."

She laughed, then cut and ate the cake. Alana was still in shock: as she ate she kept looking at her ring and flexing her fingers, testing to make sure it was real and not a dream. She asked me if she could make a phone call on the drive home, to which I said of course. She called her sister to tell her she had just gotten engaged. I could hear the sister scream in excitement from across the car. The last thing she did was tell her sister not to tell mom, because she would call and tell her parents herself tomorrow. We parked the car; Alana led the way to the condo. Then for the rest of the night she fucked the living shit out of me.

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When my ex-wife got wind that I was getting remarried to a younger woman, a beautiful one at that, she was pissed and jealous—but that was pretty much the reaction I got whenever I had to talk to her for any reason. Life is strange: when we were dirt-poor, living hand-to-mouth, raising young children and taking turns putting each other through school, our relationship was great. When finally we were both working and making enough money to buy luxury items, it fell apart. I think that what happened is that once we could afford luxuries, she resented not having had them sooner because of me and all those years of grad school, and resentment was what finally landed us in divorce court. My remarrying, coupled with her own lack of success, from what I hear, at finding a "better man" than I certainly did nothing to reduce that resentment.

My kids were naturally shocked that I was getting remarried—even at their age, you just don't think about your mother or father getting married. My daughter had finally started getting used to the idea that her dad had a girlfriend; now that I was getting married, she got angry anew. My son, well, that story is just plain funny.

Sam has a friend Brian that has been his best friend since third grade and is like a second son to me. I had taken Sam to lunch to tell him in person; he wasn't expecting big news and was hanging with Brian. The boys were yapping like they usually do; they didn't notice when I took a call from Alana. I told her where I was and to come meet me, since by the time she would walk the few blocks from school we would be done and I could take her home. When Brian went to the bathroom, I finally had the chance to tell Sam.

When Brian came back from the bathroom, he could see right away that Sam's jaw was open and his eyes wide. "What the hell happened to you?" he demanded.

"Dad's getting remarried," Sam said almost accusingly.

"Oh really? Congratulations Mr. Hendrick," Brian said. He always was more polite than Sam.

"No, you don't understand," Sam said. "You'll NEVER guess WHO he's marrying." I decided just to smile politely and watch the fun unfold.

"It's someone I know?" Brian asked, trying to imagine who he might know that was female, single and about my age.

While he was talking, I saw from the corner of my eye that Alana had come in, was doing a quick search for us and was now headed our way. Completely unaware but perfectly timed, she came up and said "Hi guys."

Brian whipped around. "Allie?!?!?!?!?" he said, now sporting the same stupid look my son was.

"She prefers to be called Alana," I corrected.

"But, but…you were my TA in Intro!" Brian sputtered.

"Oh that's right, I remember you…Brian right?" she replied. All he could do was nod.

"Small world, huh?" I observed, sliding out of the booth. Alana gave me little kiss on the cheek and put her arm around me. I tossed some money on the table, more than enough to pay the bill, and said "Well, we need to get going. Have a good time guys." We both chuckled as we left the two astonished boys behind and headed out the door.

Sam later told me that Brian had had the hots for her and fantasized about her all semester long. Brian always did have good taste.

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Alana's first wedding had been a big, storybook affair—and the marriage had lasted all of one year. For her second, she did everything the opposite, almost to the point of superstition. We had both had big summer church wedding the first time; we married each other in a civil ceremony in Toronto that fall. My kids came (because I paid their way) and a couple of my oldest friends, but mostly it was Alana's family. I was terrified of meeting her parents—they were meeting me for the first time two days before I was marrying their oldest daughter, and I had nightmares of them freaking about my being closer in age to them than I was to her. But nothing of the kind occurred—Alana later told me that they had seen how badly the first marriage went, and they had all liked him. She also had told them about all the things I had done for and with her, so they didn't let their judgments be made on first impressions. I actually found myself liking them a lot.

She wore a simple eggshell dress rather than a wedding dress proper. But the way the white flowers stood out in her strawberry hair, she was stunningly beautiful nonetheless. I locked eyes with her as she walked up the makeshift "aisle" towards me, walking alone rather than escorted because she had already been "given away." My heart fluttered; she really was the most beautiful woman I had ever known, and here she was coming towards me to exchange vows of eternal love and devotion. My son later told me he had never seen me with a smile that big.

"Best of luck dad," Sam said, congratulating me after the vows were exchanged, "I hope you're happy together…even though I still can't believe she wouldn't even talk to me, but married you!"

"What can I say—she liked the father more than the son. Ever since you've been two, I've tried to teach you the importance of being polite. Now, maybe you can see why." I said, watching my beautiful bride greeting guests a short distance away. Part of me couldn't wait for everyone to leave, so we could celebrate in private. He chuckled and walked away, shaking his head. I love my son and I'm proud of him, but I do sometimes wish for his sake he was a little more sensitive. Besides, he had quite a nice consolation prize; if the rumors Alana had heard were true, he had managed to score a three-way with the two dog-walking blondes.

We could only take a short, three-day honeymoon because Alana had to go back to her internship. She worked at her internship all day, then she worked on her dissertation at night. She was a woman possessed, trying to get two years worth of work done in one so she could graduate and move on with her life. I, for my part, did everything to keep the house going—I had been doing it all already anyway, when I was alone—so she could concentrate on her work. And she never got burned out from all the hours she put in because every night, when the work was done, I was there to love her, hold her, support her, and be with her. She defended her dissertation in April, walked through graduation in May, and completed her degree when her internship ended in mid-August.

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Alana really wanted me to take my vacation the last week of August. Eventually she let on why: she WAS feeling her biological clock ticking, and once she was done with school she wanted to start on our family. As a graduation present, her family had all contributed to pay her half of a week's well-deserved vacation at an all-inclusive adult resort. She went off of birth control, and had it worked out so that she was ovulating the week we were in Mexico.

I'll always remember that week very, very fondly. For one, we had sex at least three times a day that week. But it wasn't just that—not wanting it to get predictable, she tried hard to make things different. She would blow me by the pool until I was ready to explode, then sit on my lap to finish me. She would sunbathe topless in the private courtyard, and when I'd get aroused from looking at her lying there she would pull her bikini bottoms aside and let me do her right there on the lounge chair. And on top of that, every night she surprised me a new, sexy outfit that I'd never seen before. One night she played nurse, one night she played submissive, and one night—holy shit do I remember this night—she dressed like a Dallas cheerleader. I can still envision her right now, strawberry hair flying, doing high leg kicks in the white boots and Daisy Dukes. She bent over me while I sat in a chair, and I got to act out every man's fantasy of untying that knot in the front—I'd bet even money that that was the night that our daughter was conceived. I kid Alana sometimes that I don't know how many children she wants to have, but there are 24 more teams in the league that have cheerleading squads…

Alana decided that it wasn't right taking on the responsibilities of a new job and then going on maternity leave in nine months, although she did teach an Internet class for a little extra money. But she did studied for and pass her licensing exam during the pregnancy. That fall, before she was really showing, I had a high school reunion. I had never had any interest in going to a reunion before, but I wanted to go to this one, recognizing that it was for all the wrong reasons. I told Alana as much, but she was game to going along anyway. I hadn't made much of a mark in high school, but with my young, stunning and freshly knocked-up wife at my side, I certainly made a splash at the reunion.

Up until the eighth month, Alana went to exercise classes for pregnant women three times a week—she was concerned that she didn't want to lose her figure after childbirth. "Don't worry about it," I said, "I appreciate that you have even give a thought to how you will look after the baby. Lord knows my first wife didn't."

"I've been thin and athletic my whole life, I don't want to stop now," she said. "But I also want to do it for you. If you hadn't thought I was beautiful, you would never have given us a chance. You would have said you were too old for me and that would have been it." I looked at her with kind of a guilty look; she might well be right about that. "In fact, I wonder if you'd have even given me so much of your time in the first place if you liked the way I looked."

I had asked myself that same question, actually, and I think I answered truthfully when I said "I probably would have—it's not like I had to rearrange a busy social calendar to make time for you."

"Knowing you, that's probably true," she admitted, "but would you have rearranged your schedule to accommodate me if that had been necessary?

"For you? In a heartbeat," I replied.

"Well, there you go…for me," she concluded. "I don't know think you or anyone else would give so much of their time without a reason. Yours was that you liked to look at me."

"I suddenly feel very shallow," I said sadly.

"Don't," she said, "I didn't mean it like that. I know you wouldn't walk out on me if I gain ten pounds. But you make me happy, and I want you to be happy too. I know you like the way I look, so it just gives me one more reason to want to hang on to that. If you hadn't been there for me, I'd probably still be studying to retake my comps and freaking out about failing out of the program. I'm much happier readying a nursery instead!" Then she kissed me, and the look in her eyes told me that she meant it; she wasn't feeling pressure to stay beautiful, it was just that knowing I'd like it gave her one more reason to stay fit. How could I not love this woman?

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Having a baby is sure different now from what it was—with my first kids we didn't have to take classes, for one thing. I was very conscious of being by far the oldest father in our class—but for a change Alana had a taste of how I felt, because all but three of the other first-time moms were 25 or under. I wasn't allowed in the room when my first kids were born, but I was there holding Alana's hand and giving her encouragement when Alyssa was born. Whereas Alana's strawberry hair was on the light end of the red spectrum, Alyssa was born with tiny, fiercely flame-red curls. Right there in the delivery room, I thought to myself: she's going to be beautiful like her mother.

I had thought about asking my ex if we still had any of our kids' baby things, but I realized she would strongly object to my "contaminating" them with someone else's children. I don't make huge money, but I could afford for us to buy new baby furniture. Sam now really stays away, as he can't handle the sound of a crying baby. Well, if nothing else it should help him remember to use protection.

Shelley has been an interesting story. Now she's 19 and living on her own, and I think she's starting to see things differently now that she's not living under her mom's roof. (That was another thing that just sort of worked out—I stopped having the pay child support just in time to help pay for the baby expenses). Nevertheless, she was NOT happy about having a half-sister—until she came to visit, and the first time she held the baby, Alyssa gave her a big googly smile. She was won over by cuteness, and now Shelley is our best babysitter—although I figure that will end when she's old enough to go to the bars. Alana still looks like she could be one of Shelley's friends, not her dad's second wife, but Alana was wise enough to not even attempt to be stepmom to my other kids—she is just Alana to them. And now that Shelley sees how good she is with baby Alyssa, who she now adores, a lot of her opinions about Alana have changed.

Alana is breastfeeding—another new thing for me—so she's up feeding every three hours. I warned her beforehand that she had no idea what tired means; now she understands. I make her pump in-between feedings so that I take the midnight feeding for her; that was she gets at least one five-hour stretch of sleep. Whenever I'm home and the baby is awake I do diapers and entertainment duty to give her a break—until you actually have kids, you just can't imagine the unrelentingness of their neediness. They're adorable, but they are needy. I also insist she get out of the house at least three times a week just to get away—she goes the gym and sometimes shopping for baby stuff while I stay with Alyssa. I've got her worried when I tell her that you don't really have kids until you have two and they start fighting.

When we do have another, I know I'll have to entertain Alyssa during feedings and so I won't be able to do what is now one of my favorite things: watch Alana feed Alyssa. It's very emotional for me, seeing Alana quietly holding our beautiful baby, rocking in the chair, holding her to her breast. Alana sometimes gets self-conscious, because of course she doesn't always even get a shower anymore and feels "skuzzy"—but she sure doesn't look it. Alana's soft red hair complements Alyssa's angry red; I like to just get down on one knee by the rocking chair, stroking Alana's hair or face with one hand and Alyssa's back with the other. Two creatures that I have so much love for, sharing a nurturing moment; I just want be a part of it.

Having a baby often changes a relationship; in ours, it has made our love deeper. I love Alana more because she brought Alyssa into the world, and I can appreciate kids so much more now than when I was young. Alana loves me more because she had kind of thought that she would take on most of the baby responsibilities, not knowing what that actually entailed, and is grateful for all that I take on without being asked. She told me once that she fell in love with me for being so giving, but she had no idea how deep that givingness went until Alyssa was born—I just kept proving over and over that she had absolutely made the right choice, she said.

These days Alana is often too tired to make love at night, which I knew would happen but which she feels a little bad about. Alana believes that it's important for husbands and wives to continue to have regular sex because it helps maintain and monitor the marital relationship, which sometimes gets pushed aside in the face of parental pressures. I don't argue, not just because it means I get more sex but also because that is pretty much what happened with my first marriage. As a result, we make a point to make love two, three, sometimes four times a week—I told her that was far more than I could have hoped for post-partum, and I was very happy with it. I still don't think she believes me when I tell her that with Sam, I didn't get any from the time my wife started really showing until he was sleeping through the night, but it's the truth. With Shelley, it may have been even longer.

So at an age when many of my peers are relaxing and emptying the nest, I'm tired all the time because I have a newborn in the house, with others sure to follow. While they are starting to think about the possibility of early retirement, I am again trying to support a family on a single income—Alana will go back to work eventually, but with college for the kids and all I'm still planning on working until I'm 70. On the other hand, while they (or their partners) enter menopause and start thinking like grandparents, I get to sleep with a younger, smoking hot redhead. Alyssa is just eight weeks old, and already you could never tell that Alana just had a baby. I think it's funny: now, when we're shopping, I'll often see men turn their heads to check my wife out, only to then turn away when they see her toting the baby. I suppose I may even end up with grandchildren older than some of my children, although I hope it doesn't happen that way. But I'll tell you, when I come home from work and my two beautiful redheaded women are there, happy to see me, each loving me in their own, different ways—I wouldn't trade places ANYONE.