I am the Bay Area's Top Shrink

I am the Bay Area's Top Shrink

Copyright© Catcher78 All rights reserved

Author's notes: This is my story, and it may not be copied, borrowed, sampled, or discussed without my expressed written permission. This is a completely fictional work, and any resemblance to real-life characters is purely coincidental. Thanks to Challenger69 as always for the editorial help!

This is a story of the abandonment of children and its impact on their lives as adults. There is no underage sex in this story.

I've never written about myself, but I'm in therapy now, me of all people, San Francisco's number one rated psychiatrist as per the San Francisco Examiner's poll. She, my therapist, said to start at the beginning.

I was born in Seattle in 1992; my birthday is on September 3rd, and I'll be thirty-four in a bit.

My name is Patricia Fitzgerald, Patti to my mom Zandra and dad Tim Senior, older sister Jeri, and younger brother Timmy. That's right, middle kid, Dad called me the terminatorist, I was going to do what I wanted, no matter what.

I'm now six feet two and I weigh a very full one hundred and eighty pounds. I attended St. Anne's grade school, kindergarten through eighth grade, and I was a tomboy. I hated wearing the skirt, sweater, and blouse with the knee socks. It was really awkward when I was five feet eleven in the fifth grade in the spring, when I was five feet four in the previous fall. My tits started to come in, too.

All the eighth-grade boys started perving on me. I was wearing the same fucking skirt, which meant it was six inches above my knees, so I couldn't drink from the porcelain fountain without showing the world everything.

Which happened when I had my first monthly. I got sent home at noon with a note from the principal addressed to Mrs. Fitzgerald (she went by Zandra Moss-Fitzgerald since her shit didn't stink) that I needed a bigger skirt, tampons, underpants that fit, and a bra.

Dad worked for a humongous software firm based in Redmond, Washington, and we were rich at that point, which mom celebrated with several rounds of plastic surgery, the whole trophy wife thing, and I'd overheard a couple of fights about no prenuptial, or postnuptial, she's getting custody, etc. Then Jeri saw her in a bar with not one but two Seattle Seahawks. Black Seahawks groping her, and she was kissing both of them, all captured on Jeri's smartphone.

I was pretty sure after I walked home that she would not be there. I'm sure she had some tampons or maxi pads. Timmy was home; he was sick with the flu, and he goes to St. Anne's too and was sent home earlier. He was hurling in the downstairs bathroom.

I knocked on the door and asked him if he was okay. He said, "No, I feel like shit, please give me some water. We have a water purifier thingy in the fridge, so I got the pitcher and poured him a big glass. Randomly, I noticed the fridge was empty.

Timmy sipped on the water. I looked at him and he said, "I'm better, but I have stomach cramps."

"Where's mom?"

"Umm, Sunday night, she said she was going on a trip with some of her friends to Cabo San Lucas."

I drew back, my face in an ugly scowl, "Fucking Mexico, Dad's in London. Have you talked to him? Why didn't she tell me?"

He was in the third grade and a foot and a half shorter than me and terrified of me. "She knows you hate her. You and Jeri, both"

"Why do we hate her?"

"She said you guys don't understand what it means to be in an open marriage."

I said, "Timmy, did she explain that to you?"

He nodded yes, "It's okay for her to have boyfriends and for dad to have girlfriends."

"Did she say if her friends on this trip were girlfriends or boyfriends?"

Quietly, he said, "Boyfriends."

"Timmy," I paused and he looked up at me, "Dad caught her cheating on him, Jeri caught her in a bar with two Seahawks players, groping each other."

He said, "I'm not stupid. I told her I hate her."

"When did you last talk with Dad?"

"Last Saturday, he asked me how the little league season was going."

I said, "I have to go upstairs and go to the bathroom, girl stuff, I'll be right back."

I went to the bathroom in my parents' bathroom. Most of the drawers were empty, none of her makeup or anything. There were no tampons or pads, which makes sense if she was on the pill. I looked in this closet with accordion doors, and on the top shelf, there was a pink box of tampons. The box had a use-by date that was five years ago. The one they gave me was full or saturated, so I decided to try one of these. The smell was horrible, fuck.

I went to her closet, and everything was gone. Shoes, jewelry boxes, and some hangers were left. I opened her chest of drawers, and miracle of miracles, there were two bras. I pulled the blouse and sweater off and took a lilac lacey thing with a tag that said B-plus and thirty-six. I tried it on by connecting the clips in front and then pulling the cups around.

I discovered that my titties spilled out of her B-plus cups. Can you believe that, fifth grade?

I ran to my bedroom and got a Mariners T-shirt.

Then I ran back downstairs.

"Hey Timmy, did you, umm, did you, when you were talking to mom, I mean, did she say anything, whether she was leaving us?"

"She wouldn't really say, I asked when she was coming back and she said she was not sure real slow like, not I'm not sure, just really long and slow, like she was lying."

Then he started wailing, and I held him, rocking him, and he fell asleep in about ten minutes. It was awkward, but I was able to lug him out to the living room to the couch and cover him with a comforter. His forehead was not hot.

I went out on the closed-in back porch where our freezer was, there were frozen chicken nuggets and turkey pot pies, 'man-size' ones, bags of frozen peas and broccoli pieces, frozen blackberries and blueberries, one-pound packages of ground beef, carrots, too; we never eat carrots.

There was a cabinet above that had rice and bags of noodles. Cans of cranberries. Three quarts of vodka, which was confusing, Dad drank bourbon, and Mom liked daiquiris.

I took out two of the turkey pot pies and put them in the oven at 400 degrees, put two cups of frozen peas in a pan, and left the heat off.

I called Dad's cell phone, and it went to his voicemail. I said, 'Dad, emergency call from Patti and Timmy, mom has left us, clothes gone, Timmy's sick, I'm having a period, the nuns sent me home with a note saying I need a bra and my skirt is too short, there is no food, Jeri is an intern in Vancouver, Canada. Help. Then I hung up.

I was standing with my phone, thinking about what I was going to do. I had twenty dollars in my dresser drawer, and I could get some milk and tampons, potatoes maybe.

The phone rang, and it was Dad.

"Daddy, thank God you called. Things are a mess. Mom left..."

Then this woman's voice, British sounding, interrupted, "Darling, your father is busy," she paused, and I heard women's laughter, giggling, then he was laughing like a fucking donkey, braying.

I said, "Tell him not to bother, that Timmy and I are getting full on the whole open marriage thingy."

Once again, "Darling, these are adult issues."

In short, clipped tones, I said, "I'm not your fucking darling, now or ever. So is he fucking all of you?"

She hung up.

Two minutes slowly passed, and the phone rang again, "Darling..."

I hung up and blocked his phone number.

Dad had an older sister in Portland, Oregon, who taught at the University of Portland, named Elizabeth, who was a widow with two grown kids. She was an English professor.

I found her phone number in an old Rolodex on his desk, called her and gave her the lowdown.

Long story short, she became our Guardian; neither of our parents wanted to be bothered with us. She initially took a leave of absence from the University of Portland, drove up here, and since our home had been hers and Dad's parents' home, he gifted it to her, and apparently, Timmy and I were included.

She was hired by Seattle University with built-in tenure, which gave Timmy and me scholarships to Holy Names, an all-girls high school, and Timmy went to O'Dea, a Catholic boys' school. Little Timmy ended up being six feet seven and played tight end for Notre Dame, in Indiana, and now is backup tight end for the New England Patriots.

I was actually an all-state basketball player at Holy Names, heavily recruited up and down the coast, and got a full ride to Stanford. I was all conference PAC-12 all four years, I could shoot and run, and was big enough to rebound and defensively play the five (center) position, as well as both forward positions depending on matchups.

I was drafted in the second round by the Seattle Storm and hung for a year, basically as a backup who could shoot a bit. It's a steep pyramid, and I was a step too slow with nowhere near the hops, nor physicality to guard six-foot-five-inch women that could dunk. Mostly, I would spot up outside the three-point line and catch and shoot.

I went back to our old home in Seattle and studied for six months for the MCAT (Medical College Admissions Test) and sent out applications to the University of Washington, the University of Chicago, and Stanford, pending the results of the test.

I didn't date much in high school, being at Holy Names, there were queer girls there, and I thought I might be, but nobody hit on six-foot-two-inch girls, let alone ask them out. Two minutes after my first practice at Stanford, my freshman year was over, our starting shooting guard was banging me in the locker room, and the senior girls all watched.

Apparently, she liked my tiddies too, leaving hickies everywhere, biting my nipples. I ended up in her apartment; her lover had not returned to campus yet. She sat on my face after she had eaten me out, telling me to pay attention. At three in the morning, we were cuddling, and I said, "From the moment I saw you in the gym, you were so hot, I thought my mouth was hanging open watching you move."

I went on, "You saw me looking at you, and our eyes locked, and you walked to me, my cunny was so wet, instantly, I was scared everyone could smell me or see me react to you. Anna was a light-skinned black girl from Compton, California, a totally rough district.

As a freshman, I had to live in a dorm, but when we travelled to games, we slept together, and I told her I loved her just before Christmas. She kissed me in response. I went on, "I know you like guys too, but it's not just the sex which is incredible, but you make me laugh and you're smart, you see things in people, whether they're good or bad, and you're always right. I know this is not forever, so I ask you one thing: if you find the guy you want, tell me so I can have a good cry.

I did get into Stanford Medical School, and after four years in medical school, I did my residency in New York City at Columbia University. I shared an apartment with two straight women that was owned by Columbia on Claremont Avenue. Anna had married this gigantor offensive lineman for the Los Angeles Rams, and by the time I was nearing the end of the residency, she had three kids, and on her Instagram page, she was wearing this huge cross in all of her pics.

She had blocked me on Facebook and my phone, for no apparent reason, other than her hubby was a religious nut, and having an old girlfriend who is queer might be a mess. Mostly, though, I focused on the residency process, which was exhausting and a work full of despair and broken lives. Lots of adults that had been abandoned as children, due to the deaths of parents, drug abuse, physical abuse, and sexual abuse as children and adults. Autistic adults are at various places on the spectrum.

Every day there was a parade of people, irreparable mostly, very few with hope, beginning to find hold in therapy, which for me was a lesson. You have to inure yourself from personal feelings in the face of the onslaught. Someone would make huge movements, only to have enormous setbacks that would break some of us in residency. Remove your hearts from the equation and treat them.

Timmy and I still talk, as does Elizabeth, and every so often, Jeri. Timmy has a girlfriend, Jeri is married and lives on Vancouver Island, in Canada, in the town of Campbell River, and they have four kids aged thirteen to nineteen.

I was not a nun, I did hook up with nurses, married nurses were the safest, and my first relationship with a man was at a party just off campus, at a bar that was closed for the evening for celebrating people who were graduating from medical school.

About nine thirty that night, a hush came over the crowd, and I was hitting on a married nurse that I had hooked up with several times before. I saw her eyes shift over my shoulder.

I turned to look and there was this six foot eight-inch huge black man, who it seems was her hubby, I turned around fully and he was with another man, maybe six foot six or so, somewhat thinner and Bethany was introducing me to Dickson her hubby, he was older and very, very black wearing a skin tight, long sleeve tee shirt and white jeans.

I was wearing my four-inch-open toed red pumps, with my titties pushed up in a cupless bra. I have very large tits, double GG cup, and since I'm a ginger, I have freckles on my face, my titties, and my thighs. I was wearing a sleeveless blouse that I could unbutton all the way. The lack of a sleeve allowed for lots of side boob, and four unbuttoned buttons showed off my décolletage to good effect.

He introduced himself as Chris, he had a wide wedding band on, but the sound of his deep, deep voice made my cunny flutter, that and the outline of his gigantor dick that looked like he had a log in his pants.

My voice squeaked when I said, "I'm Patti, nice to meet you."

"Do you want to dance?"

I said yes, and he took my hand, which ended up hooked around his arm, and as we walked to the dance area, I bumped hips with him not once, not twice, but three times. It was two seconds onto the dance floor that the cover band started playing an old Sam Cooke song, 'Bring It On Home To Me'. I melted into his muscled body, and he started singing to me in this beautiful voice:

'If you ever change your mind

About leaving, leaving me behind

Baby, bring it to me

Bring your sweet loving

Bring it on home to me

Yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah)

I know I laughed when you left

But now I know I only hurt myself

Baby, bring it to me

Bring your sweet loving

Bring it on home to me

Yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah)

I'll give you jewelry and money, too

That ain't all, that ain't all I'll do for you

Oh, if you bring it to me

Bring your sweet loving

Bring it on home to me

Yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah)

You know I'll always be your slave

'Til I'm buried, buried in my grave

Oh honey, bring it to me

Bring your sweet loving

Bring it on home to me

Yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah)

One more thing

I tried to treat you right

But you stayed out, stayed out at night

But I forgive you, bring it to me

Bring your sweet loving

Bring it on home to me

Yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah)

Yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah)

Yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah)

Yeah (yeah) yeah

I swear to God I was falling for him, hard, and I could feel him against my thigh and tummy, I started grinding against him, and his hand was on my ass, and my girls' nipples were poking his rock-hard chest. We danced one more dance just like that, even though it was a fast song. I looked up at him, and we kissed his tongue tender but insistent, he squeezed my ass, and I moaned into his mouth. I felt him push away, and I went with him, hooking my arm around his waist.

I was biting my lip when I said, "I'm not a home wrecker, and I see your wedding ring, but Chris, I really need you to fuck me. I don't need your money, I'm almost a doctor, let's go into the kitchen and you can fuck me against the wall."

He was softly smiling at me and said, "Okay, you sure you're going to be a doctor, you look like that Sports Illustrated model, Kate Upton, who looks like a scarecrow next to you."

I dropped my hand on his ass and said, "You could break Justin Verlander in half, I most definitely want you, and by the way, mister, for your knowledge, I had a chance to sleep with both of them, she's into girls."

You read these hackneyed stories about a lesbian being fucked straight, which, largely, I think is bullshit, just as straight women being turned into lesbians after their first lesbian experience. There are lots and lots of bisexual people who discover that during their journey, and now, are more openly public about that.

Monogamy is hard. Chris and I were discreet, and the sex between us was enhanced by our growing feelings for each other. He thought he had another year left before he was going to retire. I said, "I am so in love with you and wish we could have a family, we would make beautiful babies.

He said, "I'm not leaving my wife, I have other woman that I take care of here in New York."

I said, "Please tell me you love me."

"I do, it's just bad timing, honey, bad timing."

I was finishing my residency and had an offer to interview with two different hospital groups, so I left New York:

1. The Priscilla Chan and Mark Zuckerberg San Francisco General Hospital and Trauma Center is a public hospital, and;

2. The University of California Center Weil Institute for Neurosciences' Young Adult And Family Center.

I felt very lucky to be on either place's radar as I went into the process of being team interviewed at first, the Zuckerberg place for four days, which included team discussions of my residency, plus visiting the hospital and the associated practice.

The last day was with Susan Erlich, the CEO of the hospital, who was publicly queer and married with two kids:

Her first question to me was this: "So you're bisexual, mostly, historically lesbian, and you had a lengthy affair with a married straight man; do you have any concerns that such behavior would embarrass the hospital in the future?"

I smiled at her and said, "Let's unpack that, so I can best answer your questions directly and implied. First, his wife was aware of me and talked with me on numerous occasions. We were not friends, but she knew I had no designs on her marriage or any marriage. Secondly, I did not sign anything in the way of a release suggesting you could interview people about me or investigate me. I DO have a benign social media presence in that I keep up with some family, friends, and former family. I can see the whole Zuckerberg fascist sense pervades even their charitable," I air quoted, "this institution."

I scooched my chair back and stood up, gathering my bag.

She smirked and said, "Don't be silly, an institution that is publicly facing has to vet such a candidate that we are going to make an offer to join us. Sit down."

I smiled at her and said, "I don't parade my personal life in front of the world as if I'm some fucking icon to queerness on the back of others that have fought that battle for us. The last thing any psychiatrist would ever do, who treats people and families, is let their public orientation impact the therapy before it starts. You're a self-centered cunt. Your poor wife. I thank God for having options. I would never be associated with any place where your face was plastered all over it."

Her mouth was open as I turned to leave, but I stopped and said, "Jiminy Christmas, I wonder who is watching this interview now, you poor thing."

I left, less than five minutes after the interview started. I caught a ride-share back to my hotel and went up to my room. I showered because I felt dirty. I wondered if there were little cameras here in this room. I was booked here in this hotel through the rest of the weekend, and I reached out to my former coach at Stanford, who was associated with the Los Angeles Sparks in the WNBA. She picked up on the first ring and said, "Patti?"

"Hey Coach, yep, it's me."

"Are you still playing? Europe or Russia?" she asked.

"Nope, when it became clear that I was too slow and not strong enough, I went to medical school here, I mean at Stanford, then I did four years of residency in New York in Columbia Psychiatric Hospital, and I'm interviewing here with a couple of places that are interested in me. First one felt wrong, so I bailed, the other one starts this coming Monday, Anna went all fundamentalist Christian and blocked me, " I chuckled, " umm, do you know of any places near campus that are cool to have a long weekend?"

She said, "I have a friend, she and her husband have several places they own that they put out as Airbnbs that I could call, will you be at this number?"

"Surely, thanks, coach."

It did work out; the interview with the University of California went well and was comforting.

I started a podcast with a local FM broadcaster, and she fed me questions from texts, and that caught on, which led to a call-in show on Sunday afternoons, then a column in the Chronicle.

My practice was heavily skewed toward kids, despite all my experience in residency, which caused me either to exult as there was progress, or cry my guts out when something went horribly wrong.

For the most part, my sexual life was about ninety-eight percent queer and mostly married women who would ostensibly try to get therapy from me, but had wanted to fuck me after hearing me on my broadcast.

One thing became very clear: I was submissive, or as is said, I topped from the bottom, letting my lover dominate me, but tenderly making her cum and cum with my cunt (tribbing), tongue and fingers, and yes, fisting. The first time a top is fisted by a bottom is often revelatory, when they come the first time, while my tongue gently and oh so softly lashes her clit, altogether afterwards knowing I had not threatened her authority, but deepened our love.

Ultimately, because of their guilt for cheating on their hubby or wife, we'd break up, which was starting to destroy me, plus I was aging and I wanted in my heart of hearts to have children. Timmy had married twice and had kids; he was filthy rich now.

Since they abandoned us, I had never talked to either parent, let alone reconciled with them. My own therapist suggested to me that my unfinished business with them had something to do with me getting into relationships that were doomed from the beginning, as I seemed to recreate the situation where my new lover would abandon me over and over again.

I reached out to Timmy and talked to his wife (Ashley), and he finally got on the extension. I said, "Hey Timmy (nobody but me still called him that), I'm going through some stuff, can we talk?"

"Sure thing, Pats, whatever you need."

"Umm, have you ever talked to Mom and Dad, you know, since..." my voice trailed off.

There was silence, then Ashley blurted, "Well, they were at our wedding, of course."

I had not been invited. Timmy told me they eloped.

"So much for the elopement bullshit, Timmy, really, you of all people, you fucking backstabber and I hung up."

There was no callback. I collapsed on my side in a fetal position and cried my guts out and actually threw up and threw up. I struggled to my shower and sat on the floor of the shower long after it turned cold.

I made it to my bedroom and crashed onto my bed in a fetal position. I woke up, and it was three o'clock in the afternoon on a Saturday afternoon. I walked out into the stench that was my front room and ruined rug and couch. My phone had somehow escaped the pool of vomit. My cleaning service DID have an emergency number, which I dialed and asked them if they could come out, as somebody had gotten horribly sick.

They would be there inside an hour. I walked back to my room, pulled on some leggings and a tank top, and some cheap flip-flops. My hair was a tangled mess. I ran the water in my bathroom sink and put my hairbrush in the water and brushed my hair back, repeatedly, then put it into a ponytail that I secured with a scrunchy.

The doorbell rang from the security out front. I buzzed them in. It was a family of parents and an adult daughter. Black and beautiful is the cliché, but sweet Jesus, I could not look at any of them without reacting overtly, instantly I was sopping wet and my nipples were hard as pool cues. I said, without intending to, this almost mumbled, "Fuckkkk," drawn out, and my eyes widened when the daughter locked eyes with me. I walked into my room and grabbed my debit card, tripping without doing anything, flashback sort of, it's been fifteen years since Anna and I had regularly done Acid. I grabbed my debit card and walked out to pay. I walked towards the mom who looked at me from now to when I was a kid, still tripping, but I blurted, "Here," extending the card to her.

She looked at me like I'd grown horns, and she said, "It'll be on your regular bill."

I went back quietly to my room and lay down on my bed, waiting for them to go. Hearing the door close, my stomach let me know how empty it was. I had a banana and a bottle of apple juice; I hadn't shopped in a while, but it was enough. I lay down in bed and put my buds in and listened to Chappell Roan's 'Casual' over and over again. I want to be touched, held, used; it didn't matter, and I started crying again.

I'd slept again; I was sleeping a lot. I got up and took a shower. It was Monday. Shit, shit, shit. Where was my phone? What time was it?

I raced into the front room, no phone, fuck, into the kitchen, and the phone was on the counter and the charge was almost gone. Back to my bedroom and I plugged the charger in, it was seven fifteen in the morning, I opened Teams to see my schedule, and I had no patients, thanks to summer time. I texted my assistant and told her I was very sick, with food poisoning, and had been sick the whole weekend, to move my schedule around to the back of the week to see if I felt any better.

She responded, 'On it, ma'am, can I bring you anything?'

I texted back, 'Somebody to love.'

She came back, 'Oh, honey,' she was like my unofficial grandmother, around the office we called her Mama Jones, she always knew somebody to fill somebody's life.

She would say, "We just got to find you the right man." She meant it, but either she was ignoring my queerness or didn't notice.

I so wanted a baby, kids, being in a family so bad it hurt to my core, and I could not stop realizing how it was going to pass me by. I looked at my phone and I'd missed a call on Saturday, it was from a 604 area code. I googled it, and it was Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. I knew nobody in Vancouver, Canada. It was supposedly the most beautiful city in the world, multi-ethnic, great music scene, they make a ton of movies too, and a food scene. I called the number, "Is that you, Patsy?"

"Who is this?"

"It's Jeri."

I said, "Jeri who? I don't know a Jeri, and I don't know you."

"Wait, it's your sister, Jeri."

"I'm sorry I haven't talked to you in over fifteen years, didn't recognize the number or your voice. I was sick this weekend. Food poisoning."

"Umm," she started, "Timmy called me upset."

I let it hang there without responding.

After a bit, she said, "He was upset at what you said to him."

She asked for it, "Oh, poor little baby, lied to me about eloping to marry his wife, instead had a big wedding with Mom and Dad after they abandoned him and me.

He forgot that I raised him, while your lazy entitled ass never, ever came home, I'm thirty six now and I was ten the last time I saw you or our parents, twenty fucking six years and you have the fucking balls to call and whine to me about the big, backstabbing three hundred pound millionaire who is feeling guilty about stabbing me in the back. Well fuck all of you and don't even try to insinuate you're part of my life. Do you fucking piece of shits have any fucking idea how phony you are?"

Not waiting for an answer, I hung up and blocked her too.

I had no more tears.

I pounded this all out and sent it to my therapist.

There was a noodle place nearby and I ordered too much food:

1. Cucumber salad with garlic,

2. Jellyfish salad with green onion,

3. Pork Xiao Long Bao (soup dumplings)

4. Hot and Spicy Xiao Long Bao

5. Pan-fried Pork Buns

6. Green Onion Pancakes

7. Brussels Sprouts with Truffle and Salt

8. String beans with Garlic sauce

9. Sesame balls (Gin Dooey with plum paste)

This would last me for three days, oh, and a bunch of steamed rice. It was nice out, I had some old Stanford sweatpants that I'd cut off, and I wore them with a lilac wife beater, with nipples, side boob, cleavage, and my sapphire belly ring, oh, I had ten rings on both my ears, baby hoops. I was proudly queer this Monday, just nobody to fuck.

I wore these super cute sunglasses with rainbow sunglasses down on the end of my nose with rainbow colors. My hair was a total mess, still in its ponytail.

The restaurant was down the street, and around the corner, there was a light breeze, maybe seventy-five degrees, absolutely brilliant day, Palo Alto at its best. I actually felt the best I'd felt in a long time.

I went in the door, it had one of those bells that went off hanging from the door frame when the door opened, and I walked up to the counter. The Chinese young woman came to the counter, and I said, "Order for Fitzgerald."

She said, "Almost ready, wait one moment."

I stood to the side, patiently enjoying the smells coming from the kitchen. The doorbell rang again. They would bring me my food when it was ready; they had my credit card already since I got food here all the time, for years now.

"Look, mama, she has Stanford basketball sweatpants just like yours," an excited young voice said.

I turned to see this gorgeous teenage girl, two twin boys who had to be six feet seven, a six-year-old, and Anna. She was staring at me, piercing my soul. No, cross Anna.

"Hey."

"What are you doing here?" She asked.

"Have a condo, up the street."

The six-year-old jumps in, "Our house is over there," she said pointing.

I leaned down, smiled, and said, "Really?"

She nodded yes and said proudly, "I have my own bedroom now, but sometimes I sleep with Mama if it gets windy. I don't like that."

"Me neither, sometimes I still wish I had a mama too."

She looked sad for me, then said, "Where did she go?"

I emphatically shrugged my shoulders and said, "I don't know for sure, she got lost and never came back."

She said, "My Daddy got lost too, with that witch on TV, the church witch."

"I'm sorry. Are you doing okay?" I said.

She smiled and said, "My sister and brothers take care of me when Mama's working, and Grammy does too."

I said to Anna, "You have a lovely family, what a blessing, "meaning it with every fiber of my being, " what kind of work do you do?"

She said, "I'm a fundraiser for charitable donations to the different endowment funds.

Mostly, I meet with millionaires and have dinner with them, show them budgets, past and present uses of funds. There are a few galas around the holidays and one in the summer. I've been doing it for twelve years now."

"What happened?"

"Mr. Christian accidentally fell into the pastor's wife over and over again, accidentally giving her and her ex-husband, the pastor, five children."

"One of the big round things somehow got crushed and somehow her pretty little straight nose got flattened out, like her mama's when she fell down the stairs."

"You?" She asked.

"Fell hard for a defensive end, for the New York Giants, when I was doing my residency at Columbia University Hospital, I might have killed myself without him. It's such a horrible place to raise kids. He chased me. I was fucking his best friend's wife during the season. She was a nurse, and he was on the Giants, but he was married. I was one of his lovers. I almost died moving here without him. My therapist says that, because of my parents abandoning me, I repeat the crime and hook up with people who can never marry me. I've been mostly celibate, except for the occasional hookups."

I told her, "I want a child so bad it hurts, I want to feel the baby grow in me and deliver him, make some more, so there's siblings. "

She said, "Find a donor. Raise them by yourself."

I said, "In vitro costs half a million dollars."

She responded, "Not like that. Get a lawyer to draw up the documents, disclaiming any financial obligation for your children for your breeder, nor with any parental rights or claims against you. I know couples who have done it, the hubby, if he wasn't, is totally cucked after watching his wife get fucked by this big dicked guy for two months. As you learned, once you go black, you don't go back."

"Food for Fitzgerald." I waved my hand.

Anna said, "Here's my card, call me."

I said, "Unblock me, my number is the same."

She said, "I know somebody who would be perfect."

I did not exactly trust her, but if she wanted to fuck my brains out, we could work something out. However, I got home and dished out some rice and too many dumplings, the green beans, and put the rest in the fridge. I sat down at the table and texted Chris, 'Sup lover, can you talk?'

Ten seconds later, "Patty, is that you?"

"It sure is handsome. I was wondering if I could run an idea by you. Do you have a second?"

He said, "I do, go ahead."

I repeated the whole pitch to him fucking me for sixty days. I wanted a family, was dying to be a mom, no money, no obligations to you except to fuck my brains out, I'd pay for your plane trip and food, everything."

His response was, "Okay."

I was stunned. I jabbered back at him, "I'm stopping the pill today, and it should be out of my system in two months."

He said, "Well, that would give us some time to practice. I'll catch a plane out in the morning."

I said, "Text with the arrival times and I'll pick you up, okay?"

He said, "Perfect."

He was the one who got away. My heart was pounding.

I did not sleep at all. He liked me in sun dresses, I had two, pink, which was a little too queer, the other was pale yellow with periwinkle flowers around the hem, which was backless. I decided not to wear a bra, let my tiddies dance for my man, he loved an old perfume I wore for him, a citrus scent. He did not like me to shave my pussy, to quote him, "I'm eating a woman's pussy, not a girl's."

I had a ten-year-old Toyota Land Cruiser, and after kissing in the front seat outside baggage claim, I drove him home.

Amazingly, I did not kill us. I kept sneaking glances at him, and he's so fucking handsome and chiseled, with these enormous hands. We went up the stairs from the garage, and I gave him the tour.

I said, "Chris, I don't want to mess this up; tell me if I upset you so that I don't do it again."

He pulled me to him, and I melted into him, and he said, "Patty, I still love you. What could go wrong? We were perfect together, you still love me, too, right?"

"I've never, ever loved anyone like I love you."

He picked me up and carried me into the bedroom, took my dress off, and went down on me, and that took about two seconds for me to start thrashing around the bed and my whole body stiffen as this massive orgasm ripped through me. Then he took me over and over again, filling my cooze up with his seed, and did it again and again. Sometime about three in the morning, he fucked me to sleep. Midmorning, I impaled myself on the Oak sapling that he called a dick and rode him like he was a Clydesdale run amok through the fields.

I took an extended sabbatical, because it seemed his wife had cheated on him and left him, and we had to buy a home for the two twins I was growing. Oh, I sent notice to what was my family about our wedding at Christmas in Aspen.

My last child was born when I was forty-eight; he was fifty-four. Trusts and everything were all set up for them. They were all so beautiful and handsome.

I never returned Anna's call.

End