The Circle: Freelancing with Freud

By X. W. Kavanagh

Freelancing with Freud introduces Will Kavanagh, the unassuming product of Louisiana’s Cajun country, who succeeds in escaping his roots and launches into the world beyond. A talented but vulnerable seeker, Will experiences good fortune early in his life, not the least of which is meeting the intriguing and mysterious Dominique, who happily takes him on as her lover-in-training. Things then become incredibly fulfilling and tragically real, as they are soon banished from one another’s lives.
Unbelievably, the adventure has just begun for Will, as he buttresses his resolve and forges ahead to the allure of Asia and the far away respite from his troubles. Landing feet-first into his own version of the sexual revolution, Will embraces the wonderful world until meaning and paranoia replace the calm veneer and thrust him into the fight of his life. With his luck seemingly running out, he has to roll the dice one frightening time and watches with near terror to see which way the Gods cast his fate. Little does he suspect that this is just the beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: X. W. Kavanagh
• Release date: Apr 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9780578120416

X. W. Kavanagh

X. W. Kavanagh is the pseudonym of the exciting new author of The Circle: Freelancing with Freud, which features the unlikely but dynamic pairing of Will, the Cajun fortunate son who escapes the bayous, and Dominique, the intriguing French-Moroccan enchantress of Bedouin mystique. Will’s alter ego also escaped humble Southern roots, traveled the world, discovered love and tragedy and then lived to write about it. Having lived inside the bureaucratic framework as a government mule, he shares searing insights into survival and cunning from within the maddening mosaic. So what’s Will’s alter ego like for real? Not surprisingly, he sees life exactly the way Will Kavanagh does; totally unapologetic about his roots or his opinions. He’s a straight shooter who calls ‘em like he sees ‘em, and doesn’t abide fools willingly. Does he exist on moral quicksand? It totally depends on your point of view. As Kavanagh is wont to describe a moral dilemma, ‘if you don’t mind, it don’t matter.’ Does this get him across the breakers with people from time to time? You bet, but you’ll never have to guess how he feels about something. Especially women, with his doggedly heterosexual brunt, but you must endeavor to treat all people with dignity. Do we sometimes fail? Again, Kavanagh might say, ‘let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ I’m a real believer that it’s the journey, not the destination that makes life most interesting. Our experiences make us who we are, so the more exciting they are the more robust the description of the moment is enabled. Will this perhaps insult the decencies of some readers? It’s just the difference between people, but I make every attempt to limit the damage to mere affronts, as opposed to indictments. I certainly hope you enjoy reading about Will and Dominique and their Circle of Love as much as I’ve enjoyed writing about them. Will’s journey through the wilderness of work and play will certainly keep you entertained, hopefully into the wee hours of the night—which is when much of it was written! I am now working on the second installment of Will Kavanagh’s adventures, and I sincerely hope that you’ll join me down the next path of the yellow brick road. Stay tuned, and please feel free to contact me about your reactions, impressions or even ideas about where you’d like to see Will Kavanagh go to next. From where I sit, it’s only an airplane ride away!

Book preview

Prologue:

The Unsettling Boundary Between Fate and Opportunity

Willy Kavanagh, you’re wanted in the Guidance Counselor’s Office, said Mrs. Farmer, my thirtyish good looking sophomore high school homeroom teacher as I grabbed my stuff and headed out to the office to see what that was all about.

Willy, there’s a Mr. Jonas coming to Louisiana to interview boys about some scholarship camp up in New York, and I think you should go and meet him, implored the Guidance Counselor.

Me and who else are going from here? I asked.

Only you, but don’t be worried, it’s at the newspaper building in New Orleans and I’m sure you’ll do just fine. I shrugged; another award thing Mrs. McCullough seemed to always be pushing.

I was the third child born to a middle class working family in Gastineau, Louisiana, a small coastal town along the Gulf Coast boasting mainly of its seafood industry of shrimp, blue crabs and small coastal fish such as croaker. Gastineau’s economic anchor was the Blue Zyla steel mill at which my father Warren Xavier Kavanagh Junior was a metal finisher and my grandfather, Warren Xavier Kavanagh Senior, had worked before him. Although my father earned a good wage at the mill, money was never plentiful at our house, and we were grateful when we got anything new. Hand-me-downs from my siblings and cousins was such a part of life we thought nothing of it. My mother, January Colvay Kavanagh, was an ‘immigrant’ to Cajun country, having moved when her father Johnson William Colvay brought his family down from Arkansas when he heard the call of God to preach at the First Lutheran Church in nearby Lafayette, Louisiana.

My sister Alexandra was the oldest of us and had gone off to school at Tulane two years ago on a band scholarship. My brother Colton inherited the calling of God, and at eighteen had been accepted into the Lutheran priesthood in Houston to pursue whatever message the Lord was trumpeting into his ears. I was the baby, and my mother and father treated me like some delicate piece of china, refusing to let me work even part-time jobs because it might affect my grades in school. When I asked them why I wasn’t Warren the Third, they told me that Xavier was the town in France my ancestors had been born in, and William was my grandfather Colvay’s middle name. As best I could tell it was a done deal, so no harm, no foul as they say on the courts. Basketball was my favorite sport, and I played it every day of my life, rain or shine. I was always at the top of my grade on report cards and I’d even kissed Peggy Bellerive on the lips when I was thirteen, to the envy of all my basketball buds. Life seemed pretty good in Gastineau in nineteen sixty-eight.

As I walked into the newspaper editor’s office I noticed a slight, balding man in his late sixties dressed in ruffled clothes sitting at a desk. Are you Willy Kavanagh? asked Freddie Jonas, founder and benefactor of Camp Rising Sun in upstate New York.

Yes sir, Mrs. McCullough said I should come meet you, so here I am, I said with uncertainty. I didn’t have a clue what an interview was, but Mr. Jonas asked me all about my family, school, my friends, what sports I played, and I found myself relaxing and talking with him freely and openly about everything. I was unsure why I felt awkward when he thanked me for coming to see him, but I chalked it up to Mrs. McCullough’s constant prodding, went home and grabbed my basketball.

The Times-Picayune article on Page B-1 trumpeted that an overachieving 16 year old high school student from Gastineau had been selected to attend the prestigious Camp Rising Sun for the state, and that Xavier William Kavanagh, the first ever camper from Louisiana to attend the camp, would be departing by airplane to New York’s LaGuardia Airport in early June 1968. The selection and news stirred up considerable chatter back at school, even the girls seemed friendlier than I could ever recall, especially that extremely good looking Danielle with the bulging breasts, and she was a junior! Jesus Christ!

The flight to New York City from New Orleans allowed me the opportunity—when I wasn’t scared to death the plane was going to crash—to think about where my life was going and how I could possibly get there. I had been an exemplary student my entire life, and being selected for this camp was the crowning achievement of that performance thus far. As far as I could tell, this would be two months to have fun with some boys I didn’t know, travel to a place I’d only read about and maybe get to see some things they didn’t have in Gastineau, Louisiana. The entire world seemed to be going crazy outside of Gastineau, what with the civil rights movement making headlines almost every day in the newspaper, the war in Vietnam terrifying every teenage boy in America during the evening news on television and those crazy hippy people forging their counterculture. We had already buried two Gastineau boys killed in Vietnam, and the approaching military draft and the foreboding that included challenged our sense of patriotism and bravery to the very core of our souls. What the next two years would bring for Willy Kavanagh I didn’t have a clue, but I hoped I was smart enough to figure out a way to stay alive for my twenty-first birthday.

New York City was a truly scary place when I arrived at La Guardia Airport, and I didn’t meet the ‘host’ camper who was supposed to greet me until I made my second ever bus ride into Union Station, whatever that was. I was torn between anger and relief when Steven Carlucci and his brother were actually looking for me at Union Station. Steven told me to stash my bags in a locker and let’s get some lunch. I looked at him like he was crazy and said, All my worldly possessions stashed in a locker at Union Station? You gotta be kidding me.

Being in the big city did have its advantages though, as I’d never been to a real restaurant before in my life. Mario’s Pizzeria was my introduction to Italian food in general, and pizza specifically. It was great, first time I’d ever eaten in a restaurant and the food was unbelievable. I was beginning to warm up to New York and throw off my pitiable angst about being stiffed at the airport (and Grand Central) when our waitress caught us at the entrance and announced, You boys must not be from around here, are you?

Carlucci, the local from Staten Island whom I expected to intercept this inquiry and bury it, was checking his shoe laces.

No ma’am, I’m not, I replied.

She looked at me with a frown and informed me Well in New York when you eat in a restaurant you tip the waitresses.

Looking to my urban host to rescue me, Carlucci was a red faced stammering blob. Will a dollar do it? I asked.

Yeah, honey and have a nice day! Having now been introduced to tips and abandonment, it was clear that coming to New York was going to be quite a learning experience for a sheltered Cajun boy!

Growing up in the suffocatingly religious and segregated south known as Cajun country, I felt as though my understanding of race relations was reasonably well tuned; Madeen the maid came to our house every week or so to help my mother with the cleaning, ironing and cooking. She was pleasantly loved and we considered her family and treated her with utmost respect. Armed with this worldly experience I was ready for whatever Camp Rising Sun presented. Upon checking in I was assigned to one of the seven man tents pitched on the hillside that served, on a rotational basis, as our summer home. Opening the tent flap I noticed two very black boys sitting on one of the beds so I greeted them in a state of suppressed anticipation not unlike that felt when walking suddenly upon a cottonmouth snake in the pre-strike coiled position.

Hello, might you be Willy Kavanagh? offered one of the boys.

Yes I am, I said as we shook hands, who are you?

My Christian name is Geoffrey Stanhope, and it is a distinct pleasure to meet you, Geoffrey said in what I later learned was the King’s English. Geoffrey was from Lagos, Nigeria, and the other black boy was Curtis Prelta from the Bronx, and they would be my bunkmates for the first week. The opening salvo in the transformation of Willy Kavanagh had been launched.

There is a biblical reference to being ‘a stranger in a strange land’, and I felt as though I’d just crossed the border. [Holy Bible, King James Version, Exodus 2:22] Several years later I would listen to the musician Leon Russell sing a song by the same name and instantly liked it.

By the time we got to Camp in 1968, the Tet Offensive in Vietnam had ushered in the year, followed within months by the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. The war protests were major political phenomenon, the riots following King’s assassination were still a raw nerve and the flower children and hippies were beginning their run up to Woodstock--the town of Woodstock is about 30 miles from Camp. While the geopolitical events of 1968 were the crux of the external cataclysm, inside Camp was what seemed like one attack on my long-held beliefs after another. One of the first nights at Camp, we were shown a film that explored the life and times of Senator Joseph McCarthy, who with great fervor whipped up communist witch hunts within the government apparatus and fomented fear, hatred and distrust of all things Soviet. The clear intent of our moderator host was to portray the fear of communism as some shallow conspiracy of a deranged Senator. I even asked the Counselor who was leading the discussion if Nikita Khrushchev hadn’t said he would bury us, but was sneered at by the campers from Scandinavia and Europe. I soon learned that the European attendees represented a mindset to which I felt very much an outsider. The French camper was an especially vocal proponent of pacifist ideas bordering on anti-Americanism; early on I tagged him to be a spineless wimp. The Dutch counselor was so forthrightly atheistic that I found myself writing to my grandfather, a Lutheran priest, for help in warding off the attack on everything I held to be holy. I couldn’t even retreat to my beloved sport because Freddie didn’t want campers playing basketball to the detriment of other pursuits; I learned to play tennis on the camp’s clay courts thanks to the patient tutelage of a tennis buff from Queens. I was moving farther from my roots into that strange land.

The field trips we took at Camp proved to be interesting, educational and predictably bizarre. My favorite venture out from Camp was a four day, three night canoe trip across the Saranac Lakes near Lake Placid. While I’d been in a canoe before, this trip included paddling down miles long lakes and portages across land trails between the lakes. The trip was set up so that different counselors would canoe with different campers, and the second day out I was paired with Phil Rast, a long haired liberal arts major from Bard College. Seeking common ground Phil asked if I liked any particular music, and I told him that I was particularly fond of the Beatles ‘Rubber Soul’ album which had just recently been released. Phil says Okay, let’s see how well you know it. For the next two hours, while continuously paddling across Middle Saranac Lake, we took turns alternating between the words and rhythm for every cut on ‘Rubber Soul’. Neither of us missed a note or a word. Phil and I were now compadres. The pendulum was definitely starting to swing, and the strange land was becoming less harrowing.

There was also wide disparity between the relative life experiences of the campers. Pat Streakall, a philosophical soul mate of mine from Arizona who similarly abhorred the atheistic, pacifist attitude brandished by the Europeans, had regaled me with stories of his cowboy life back home, and that he was missing being around girls pretty badly. An interesting event late in the summer was the arrival of a large group of girls, arranged--to the eternal appreciation of the rest of us—by the Camper from Delmar, N.Y. The counselors met with the campers no less than three times around ‘the council’ to lay out the strict guidelines against fraternization with the Delmar Girls. No doubt taking these warnings as a challenge, Streakall showed me the condoms he was packing in his wallet for the big day. The Delmar Girls had been at Camp about thirty minutes when I met Lisa Frost, a pretty long haired brunette. Lisa said she wanted me to meet her tent-mate Sarah, and I told her Streakall was here somewhere and I wanted her to meet him as well. In spite of our best efforts to find either of them, and whisked back towards the ‘safe zone’ twice by counselors, Pat and Sarah were missing persons until they walked back into the meeting circle forty minutes later, red-faced, smiling and holding hands! Streakall maintained a stony defiance as he was interrogated by counselors as to where he had been, but our tent survived the summer with a not so subtle inked message ‘Spreading Southern Charm, Thanks Delmar, PS ‘68’. Pat’s exploits grew to become legendary before we left camp, and I was genuinely in awe of his daring. Willy Kavanagh now had a new number one goal in life, and I remained largely focused on it for the next few months until I enlisted a willing co-conspirator.

I arrived back home with an ear infection and two and half months growth of hair. My father was beside himself over the hair, but he was working overtime and wouldn’t be able to take me in for a shearing until the coming weekend. My junior year at High School started back the next day and I found myself somewhat of a returning hero based on the reaction of my classmates at school. Even the principal stopped to congratulate me on the camp experience, and mentioned that my hair was looking a little too long. On the way to the lunchroom, I ran into Danielle Chessereaux, the buxom hot now senior, who smiled and said Hey Willy, I like the hair. Why don’t you call me tonight and tell me about that camp you went to?

Armed with the memory and daring of Pat Streakall I reached out and touched her cheek and said, You bet Danielle. Talk to you after supper. In my naivety I assumed that I would begin a discourse with Danielle that would lead directly to getting laid. It turns out Ricky Beudreau had other thoughts about that, as he had been honking on her for a year without getting to first base.

Two nights later I was leaving Danielle’s house after having met her parents and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek good night when she shifted her head and kissed me open mouthed on the lips. I was on a high when I walked into school the next morning, a high school junior with a senior girl; life couldn’t be better. Sitting down in home room, I noticed that there was a cluster of guys snickering in the back corner but didn’t think a thing about it until I heard, That Danielle Chessereaux is a fucking slut. I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick Larry.

As I looked back at Ricky Beudreau I told him, Why don’t you shut the fuck up if you can’t say anything nice about a person.

I tell you what Willy boy, meet me after school in the parking lot and we’ll see who should shut the fuck up.

Aware that Ricky Beudreau was one of the tough guys around school, I knew that the parking lot meeting wasn’t likely to turn out well for me, so I snuck up on him in the parking lot and took a flying leap straight onto Beudreau, knocking him onto the pavement and straddling him as all hell broke loose and I was grabbed and jerked up by a very strong person. Mr. Johnson, the Principal, was holding me like I was a shirt on a store display rack. He had Beudreau with the other arm as we were marched back to the Office. Ricky and I ended up bent over in the back of the Principal’s Office, where punishment was meted out in the form of five licks a piece from a thick hardwood paddle, and we were advised that any further fisticuffs would result in expulsion from school. Since Beudreau was already on probation from a football game fight last year, it was settled; I had stared down the barrel of that deadly .44 and walked away and lived to tell about it.

It didn’t take long for the friendship between Danielle and me to blossom into romance and before the month was out she was my girlfriend and I was THE MAN. As she was her father’s only daughter (he had a son Johnny from an earlier marriage who was in college out of state), he and I became fast buds. He taught me how to play golf, sail boats, drink whiskey and be happy; what a guy. Her mother, while really pretty good looking for a mom, was much more guarded in her approach to me. Of course, that was fine with me because I was on a hell-bound train destined for sexual intercourse. And I couldn’t have conjured up a more willing accomplice than Danielle; it quickly became apparent that we were both focused on the same objective.

The next day was fraught with uncertainty for me; I was at the precipice of achieving my overarching goal in life and had no idea how I was going to execute it. Such is the plight of a preacher’s grandson in southwest Louisiana that I didn’t have a clue how to do the deed. Danielle, to her credit, was having none of this dread; that night she calmly took me in her hand and led me into the Promised Land, after which I promptly exploded with the force of a small volcano. Finally at a moment of total relaxation I took a closer look at Danielle’s nakedness; she did have the most wonderful full breasts I had ever seen, had nice athletic looking hips although she didn’t play any organized sports and she was absolutely beautiful in what I would come to know as the after sex glow. As would be my modus operandi for the foreseeable future, I gave a much more creditable account of myself the second time around. By the third and fourth time through we were getting the hang of it, and it was becoming much more enjoyable for us both. I was beginning to see what Pat Streakall had been alluding to back at camp and was admiring his enterprising ways even more.

I found that my approach to life and school was changing on a dramatic and daily basis. Having been an overachieving student and athlete my whole life, I now found that sex with Danielle was my foremost thought, to the almost total exclusion of all others. We openly professed our love for each other, although I believe there was some debate as to whether it was love or lust. My life seemed focused on how to get away and alone with Danielle, and any port in a storm, as they say, would suffice.

It turned out that Danielle wasn’t a very good student, and had made it out of high school with only average grades. This presented a problem with finding a college for her to attend, as she couldn’t get accepted to the state colleges and ended up signing up for a private church-run school in upstate Louisiana. While we weren’t particularly happy about being separated, we knew it was the way it had to be, and sufficed with her trips home and my trips to Bertline College in the sticks. The separation seemed to be wearing on Danielle, and I couldn’t help but wonder if we were losing the magic. When I’d go by to see her parents I noticed that her mother had somehow changed her attitude about me, although I couldn’t say she was genuinely friendly. She was, however, looking better due to a recent exercise regimen, and the fact that she was becoming more of a hot commodity left me somewhat befuddled. Thank God her dad still treated me like his long lost son; I was still welcome in the land of bourbon and water.

At the start of the winter term in January, Danielle, her mother and I traveled to Bertline to drop Danielle off for her next semester. The school is located in the forested foothills of north central Louisiana, with a heavily treed campus of about 15 buildings that looked like a friendly and comfortable place to live and learn. Danielle was staying in the girl’s dormitory designated for freshmen, and after catching supper in a local diner we dropped her off at the dorm and proceeded to a surprisingly large A-frame lodge that included probably two dozen rooms for families dropping off students or visiting for the weekend. As the lodge was packed with families there to bring their sons and daughters back, I was glad that Mrs. Chessereaux had the foresight to make a reservation. After settling into the room, her mother caught me completely off-guard when she said, I’d really feel more comfortable if you would call me Catherine now Will. When you call me Mrs. Chessereaux it makes me feel ancient.

I felt the blush streaking up my neck as I stammered, Mrs. Chessereaux, I’m really just a teenager and I don’t feel comfortable calling you by your first name.

In the next twist to what was becoming a strange evening, she said, smiling, We’re all sort of adults now, aren’t we? She then came and sat next to me, smiled as she brushed a lock of my hair back and asked, Aren’t you worried that this schoolboy infatuation Danielle has with you is not going to survive the distance and separation of Danielle being away preparing for the rest of her life?

I could feel my face turning beet read when I told her, I don’t see any reason things should be any different.

Catherine gave me another one of those furtive smiles and said, We’ll see.

Feeling more than a little bit uneasy, I bid good night to ‘Catherine,’ climbed into my bed and went to sleep. Sometime during the night I had the most incredible wet dream I had ever had, and awoke to find Catherine naked sitting on the bed beside me masturbating me with a practiced and amazing touch. As I came violently I noticed that she had beautiful breasts that seemed to give rebirth to my nursing instinct, and that for an older women she was extremely attractive; nice ass and hips for a mother. Before I could say anything she said, I don’t appreciate you experimenting with sex with my daughter, and I don’t want you to ever see her again.

Now I was totally confused and at a total loss as to what my next move could be. Why are you doing this Mrs. Chessereaux?

With a furtive smile, she started kneading my penis again, which produced a prompt rigid response, climbed on me while inserting it in her and rode me like a bucking bronco. True to my record of second time’s a charm, I sucked on those luscious tits until she heaved and convulsed on me in spasms, biting my nipple until it bled. Aye, goddamn it. I think I broke a tooth, Catherine said as she lurched up, panting to beat the band and sweating profusely.

I think you bit my nipple off, and it hurts like shit, I said in response as I wiped away a smear of blood.

Good,’ she panted, let that be your little red bad of courage."

Feeling quite a bit used and needing a comeback in the worst possible way, I told Catherine, Actually I don’t think that Danielle and I had been experimenting with sex; I think we’ve about got it down pat.

She all but growled at me as she slapped my face, dismounted and returned to her bed. What a fucking night.

The next morning I awoke to the sounds of the shower running as Catherine got ready for her day, no doubt washing the evidence off. I felt a sharp pain in my nipple where she had bit me, and it didn’t seem to be going away. We rode to Danielle’s dorm to say goodbye, and Catherine was resolute and distant. Danielle noticed this immediately and gave me the eyebrow intimation of ‘What the hell is wrong?’ I shrugged it off as best I could and told her I’d call when I got home.

The ride home was uncomfortable at best; Catherine said little and I figured the less said the better. Unfortunately, Catherine was wearing a skirt that was riding up on her thighs as she drove which seemed incredibly erotic; it hadn’t been that long since I’d seen her ass heaving on me like a mustang. Giving in to temptation I slipped my left hand down her leg inside her skirt, finding her vagina totally wet, and as I started to stroke her crotch she grabbed my hand, turned to me and said, Don’t you fucking touch me you bastard.

This woman was a paradox of mixed signals, so I let it be. No sooner had I settled back in for the ride than Catherine pulled into a rest area, parked the car at the end of the lot in a shaded spot and demanded, Drop your pants goddamn it.

As I did so she climbed from the driver’s side, moved her panties out of the way and straddled me with a whoosh. It was another wild bucking bronco ride and I was sure that the incredible feverish grinding she was subjecting me to would leave the base of my penis with rug burns. It all ended in a frenzied chorus of a shouted concussion, after which Catherine dismounted, looked at me and said Fuck you Willy.

And that was it for small talk until we pulled into my parent’s driveway. Danielle and I had gone to see the movie ‘The Graduate’ the year before, and now I had an idea how Dustin Hoffman’s character Benjamin must have felt. And I for sure knew who my Mrs. Robinson was. I went to see Doc Pritchard the next day about my nipple that seemed to have been caught in a grommet around a basketball goal. Apparently, playing ball can be hazardous to your health.

The abruptness of Catherine’s dismissal was like a wakeup call for the other limitations in my life. One of the first harsh realities that I had to face was that I would never be; a) be tall enough, b) have hands big enough, or c) move quickly enough to ever carry basketball beyond my high school varsity team. I was an excellent student, and after my experience at Camp Rising Sun, I also knew that I would never be happy to live my life the way people in Gastineau did: graduate from high school, marry their sweetheart, have three kids, never leave Gastineau as they pass through life’s foibles and get the inevitable divorce at 38 years old when it would suddenly become harshly apparent that they’d only slept with one person in their entire life. I knew in my heart that I had to leave Gastineau and experience life in other places. As I advanced through my teenage years, it became blatantly apparent that there were two overriding issues I had to somehow contend with: my father couldn’t afford to put me through college, and I wouldn’t even ask him to anyway considering the family financial situation; and, I had to figure out some way to avoid going over to Vietnam and dying in the God forsaken jungle.

The best of all worlds was to solve both objectives with one solution. I had been at the very top of my class since grade school, played sports and was active in many school clubs and committees, and of course I was a devoted church going boy, sort of. I sought out my school guidance counselor, Mrs. McCullough, to discuss my options. She suggested that, given my overall profile, I might compete well for an appointment to one of the military service academies. While I had never given any thought to joining the military, I was a patriotic American, my father had served honorably in World War II and I would serve my country one way or the other; running was not an option. A couple of local Gastineau boys had already come home from Vietnam in caskets, and I felt a certain debt for their sacrifice. With an eye toward proximity to my sweet Danielle, I asked Mrs. McCullough where the academies were located.

She grabbed a reference book, thumbed through to a page, and said, Okay, let’s see. The Army academy is called West Point, and it’s in upstate New York. The Navy’s academy’s in Annapolis, Maryland along the Chesapeake Bay. The Air Force’s academy is in Colorado Springs, Colorado. I asked Mrs. McCullough about how much tuition and books cost, how was I to get there, where to live while in school, all of the logistical issues attendant with out-of-state college attendance. In response she said, Oh Willy, didn’t you know that if you get appointed to a service academy all school-related expenses are paid, they pay for all travel, and they even pay you a salary like an enlisted man while you’re in school.

Thinking that I’d just heard all of my life’s problems rolled into a neat little solution, I asked What’s the catch? Sounds too good to be true.

Mrs. McCullough continued If you apply and are appointed, you will owe them five years’ service. If you quit the academy before graduating, they’ll pull you in as an enlisted man for three years. I quickly did the math; if accepted I’d start school in 1970 and graduate hopefully in 1974. God I hope this freaking Vietnam War is over by then.

It was with great fanfare that Mrs. McCullough announced to me and my parents that the Honorable Russell B. Long, Senior Senator for the State of Louisiana had appointed me to the United States Naval Academy, induction class to begin July 1970. My parents were elated beyond belief; their overachieving son had parlayed a life of dedicated studious efforts into the ultimate college scholarship. I was almost in tears, and my flushed face betrayed my anguish over having to take off for Annapolis on the Chesapeake, enter the academy and never see my main squeeze Danielle again. My father, sensing that all was not right, asked What’s wrong Willy? Isn’t this what you wanted?

Trying to present a brave outer persona, I made a weak effort at a smile and said I need to talk to Mrs. McCullough for a minute, okay? I’ll be out in ten minutes. My bewildered parents, not knowing what it would take to make their insolent son happy, trudged out of the Guidance Office to their car.

Once my parents had left, Mrs. McCullough asked me, Is something wrong Willy? You seem very upset.

I am terribly sorry to tell you this Mrs. McCullough, but I am head over heels in love with Danielle, and I can’t imagine leaving and going off to Annapolis, I gasped quickly before I could hold any of it back.

Mrs. McCullough looked miffed when she said, My, my, Willy, I had no idea it had gotten that serious.

It’s serious, I said, and there’s no way I can go. I feel like I’ve let you down terribly and I’m sorry.

Well, you still have the best academic profile I’ve seen come out of this school in years, so all is not lost, she offered as consolation. After quietly contemplating for a moment, she said You know, I remember seeing a flyer announcing the Air Force is offering four year scholarships through their ROTC program. They’ve lost a lot of pilots in Vietnam, you know.

I quickly analyzed the situation and deduced that I’d rather take my chances doing Mach 2 over Vietnam and taking a chance on getting shot down than facing certain death in the jungles below. Okay, I said, what do I have to do, and where do they have Air Force ROTC?

Finally, I said to Danielle who had just picked up the phone in the hallway of her dorm at Bertline.

Sorry Willy, I was in the bathroom. How are things?

What, no I love you? I’ve got the best news in the world, baby. I got a four-year scholarship to WestTech in Shreveport. It’s only 45 minutes from Bertline! What do you think? I said with unrestrained delirium.

That sounds great. What’s it for? Danielle asked with less excitement than I was feeling.

The Air Force is paying my way if I go fly fighter planes for them after I graduate. Is that sweet or what? the words almost blew out of my mouth.

Willy, I’m really happy for you because I know about the money thing with your family, but we’ve got to talk. My Mom says you made a move on her when you were staying up here at the lodge when you dropped me off. Is that true? How could you even think about doing such a thing? I thought you loved me! Danielle groused with heightened angst I’d not heard before.

She told you that? I can’t believe it. What the fuck is she trying to pull here? I never touched her; you know how I am about any woman older than you, I pleaded.

Well she’s pissed. She made me promise not to tell Dad about it, but she says we can’t see each other anymore because it would be too awkward, Danielle said through teary breaths.

Well what if we just tell her to fuck off? What’s she going to say about that? I asked with uncertain bravado.

She says she’ll take my car away and she’d go tell your parents about making the move on her if we don’t break it off, she said, but I was already migrating back into being the stranger in a strange land.

Jesus Christ Danielle, how the hell are we going to just break it off? I thought you were in for the long haul here, I blurted in desperation.

Willy, we’re just going to have to give it a rest for a while. Maybe she’ll calm down after some time has passed. I just don’t see any other way around it. Sorry babe. And those were the last words I heard from Danielle for three months. My world was shattered, but it wouldn’t be the last time things didn’t work out perfectly between the two of us.

In spite of myself, I managed to not call Danielle for three days. When I did call, her roommate answered and said she couldn’t speak to me because she didn’t want to. After several more tries, I gave up, completely heartbroken. Going to school my senior year turned out to be incredibly boring; no Danielle to take, show off, and hide in the dark as we screwed each other’s brains out. I sadly turned back to athletics, although I didn’t have my heart in it. For someone who didn’t drink, smoke or sneak around like the other guys, sports were sort of the way station. From my perch in the Honor Society, I came to know Tamara Morant, a cute brunette sophomore cross country runner who was, besides being super intelligent, sexy in a tight muscle tone sort of way, especially in those tight ass running shorts. Having broken down the trust barrier in the Honor Society, and since Tamara knew all about Danielle and me, it seemed innocent and simple enough to start hanging around with her on a buddy basis. She asked me about my problems with Danielle and I sort of poured my heart out to her, and it made me feel better and relaxed. One night she asked me if Danielle and I had ever had sex, and I told her hundreds of times, which sort of excited her. She suggested we take a ride for a Slurpee, and instead we ended up at the river bank, necking to beat the band. As fate would have it, I soon found myself hand deep in her vagina as she was moaning and thrusting so hard I could barely keep my cool. She looked at me through drunken eyes and in a husky sounding voice told me, What are you waiting for Willy, I want to have it just the way Danielle had it and this will be my first time.

In life there are forks in the road at which you’ve got to make a choice; if I’d known then what I know now, it would have made a huge difference. In what may be the only truly morally courageous moment of my life (and one that I’ve regretted ever since), I told sweet receptive hot bleating Tamara, Baby, I’d love to do it and show you the way, but I’m still in love with Danielle, and I really can’t do this.

To her credit, she shrugged, kissed me passionately and straightened her clothing back up, Okay, how about that Slurpee? I’m still thirsty. And as a consolation prize, Tamara and I were the best of friends forever. Shortly thereafter, I sighed in disgust as one of my undeserving class mates helped her to ‘have it’, and they jointly pursued an aggressive campaign to ‘perfect it’.

I was having sort of a shitty summer, working at a local soda crate manufacturing plant, when my parents decided to take the first vacation without me in my entire life. Left alone in the house for the first time ever, my best bud Chambie called and said he and Hal Rayfield were going to pick me up out of the Danielle blues and get me drunk. The only lasting impression I gained from that evening is a life-long loathing for rum.

After I showered and got the boys out and on their way home the next morning, I decided it was time to have it out with Mrs. Chessereaux once and for all. She answered the phone and I said, Hello Catherine, I think it’s time for you and me to have a chat. All alone?

She half-laughed and replied, Oh, it’s back to Catherine is it?

I just want to make sure Mr. Chessereaux isn’t home because what I have to say to you needs some privacy, I told her as I played the first salvo.

Oh, don’t worry about him; he’s gone sailing for the weekend. I hope you aren’t planning any mischief with me Willy, she said with a lisp of anticipation.

Oh, no ma’am, I just want to clear the air once and for all with you about Danielle, I said with conviction.

I thought we had finished that conversation some months ago Willy. Why do you want to revisit this subject? God knows Danielle has moved on. She and Patrick are getting serious; we may have an announcement soon, she said with relish and considerable venom.

Stifling a coarse grunt, I rejoined, Well, no harm no foul, right? I just want to clear the air on a couple of things. You gonna be there for the next few minutes, I’ll head on over.

Okay Willy, come and speak your mind and be done with it, she said before the phone went dead.

When I got to the Chessereaux’, Catherine invited me in wearing a tight fitting beach wrap that barely covered her breasts, and she had obviously been hitting the bourbon early. As I stood by the fireplace, she tried to insist that I sit and have a drink, but I demurred. With curiosity overwhelming her, she asked, Okay Willy, what’s so damn important that you have to see me about?

I looked her in the eyes and calmly conveyed, I want you to call Danielle and tell her you made a terrible mistake about me and that you’ve changed your mind about us seeing each other.

And why exactly would I do such a thing, she asked with barely restrained hostility.

Well, I began, the last time Danielle and I made love I didn’t have a mutilated nipple, and strangely enough, she notices little things like that.

And why in the world do you think I’d be remotely concerned about your nipple? You could have had it bitten by any of those trailer park trash girls since you were last with Danielle, the vixen swarmed, the implication that I was unworthy quite evident.

I retrieved a piece of white material from my jeans pocket, held it up to her face, This is the piece of your tooth you left in my nipple Catherine, and Doc Pritchard pulled it out and asked me what in the hell I’d been doing. When I told him aggressive sex, he looked at me and laughed. Now I don’t think Mr. Chessereaux would take too kindly to the idea of you playing hide the salami with your daughter’s boyfriend; he may even think that’d be divorce material.

I let that sink in before pressing on, He may not, but here’s the kicker; you’ve put me in a no-win situation with Danielle. So I’ll tell her what a slut her mother is even though I’ll take the gaff for fucking you, but at least I’ll have my revenge on your sorry scheming ass. Danielle at least deserves to know what a bitch her mother is.

Looking askance Catherine blurted, What proof do you have Willy? Nobody saw us at the lodge or the rest area, so it’s ‘he said, she said,’ right?

Do you really want me to give this piece of chipped tooth to Mr. Chessereaux to compare with that chip on your front tooth? Where would he think I got it from? I could always give him Doc Prichard’s number to confirm where he removed that chip from, I proposed with aplomb.

For the first time, probably in her life, Catherine Chessereaux knew she had been had. She went through a complete personality reversal and became the most charming person I’d met lately. Willy, I see your point. There’s absolutely no reason we can’t let bygones be bygones. I’ll call Danielle and tell her I made that up to discourage her from getting too serious about you. Now with that resolved, can I have that tooth chip back?

Are you kidding, I said, this puppy stays with me for the rest of my life--as my insurance policy against the vicious bitch! Now make the call Catherine, and fucking leave me alone. Oh, and give my best to Mr. Chessereaux.

It was the middle of August when my parents dropped me off at West Louisiana Technical College (WestTech for short), and my mother had tears in her eyes as they pulled away. I had just gotten in to the dormitory and met my new roommate when a kid I didn’t know came to the door and said I had a call on the hall phone. Completely clueless I picked up the phone and said, Hello, who’s this?

Hey baby, welcome to the big time. I can’t hardly wait to see you again; you know it’s been a long, long time between fixes, Danielle said as I recoiled in total disbelief.

How’d you get this number? I asked, How’d you know I was even here? Oh, by the way, how have you been?

I called your house and your brother told me you were coming in today. And as far as how I’m doing, I’ll be fine about thirty minutes after I lay my hands on you again, Danielle purred as I felt the familiar stirring in my loins.

Okay, slow down, slow down Danielle. What about you and your boyfriend Patrick’s plans for a big announcement? Aren’t you shifting gears here a little quickly? I asked, unable to process the total turnaround in her attitude towards me.

Well, he didn’t seem too interested in sticking around when this new blonde cheerleader showed up at school last week. What a two faced son of a bitch! I don’t know what I ever saw in him, she offered in a lame attempt at reconciling her deceitful behavior.

I was so relieved to hear Danielle’s compliant voice again that I allowed the stirring in my loins to overcome good common sense as I pleaded, When can we get together?

Willy, get your ass over here and I’ll make love to you until you can’t breathe anymore, she asserted in convincing fashion.

With a brand new short term goal in my life I told her, Baby, what number do I call you at? It might take me a day or two, but I’ll get over to Bertline.

And deceit, and deception, and unfaithfulness and all manner of sins were forgiven and the world was right again. For now.

I was enrolled in the Honors Program of the WestTech Mathematics Department and was doing quite well during my first semester in college. Weekends, as they say, were another matter. I happened upon a fellow student, who was hung up in a similar situation as Danielle and I, and conveniently, his girl was also at Bertline and, more importantly, he had a car. After two months of glee bordering on honeymoon happiness I got a call from Danielle and she seemed to be in a strange mood, Willy, I’m pregnant. What are we going to do?

My Sweet Jesus Danielle, you’ve got to be kidding me! Are you sure? I offered as my heart raced and the sweat started popping from every pore on my body.

Oh Willy, yes I’m sure. I just missed my second period and you know we’ve never taken any precautions, she said in a slightly irritating accusatory tone.

Jesus Christ, Danielle, that’s been a year and a half and I just figured I was a lucky guy, I said as my mind sprinted off in other directions, mostly paranoiac and ending with me stuck in Gastineau for the rest of my life.

Well what are we going to do, Willy? My parents are going to be furious with us, she pleaded desperately.

Being an honorable son of the south and the grandson of a Lutheran minister I resolutely pronounced, We’ll get married and do the right thing. I’ll borrow Trey’s car, come pick you up and we’ll go get married. Then we’ll head home and tell the folks.

As I would later learn as a painful life lesson, getting married is one of the easiest things in the world to do, right up there with copulation: it’s divorcing that’s the bitch. As Danielle and I headed back to Gastineau to make the big announcement to our parents, it was an uneventful trip until I almost wrecked Trey’s Datsun while joyously orgasming through the tail end of what would be the greatest and final blow job Danielle would ever grace me with. The four parents met us at my home and were balancing between joy and disappointment until I told them with false pride, You’re going to be grandparents!

And what are you going to do about money, Mrs. Chessereaux asked scathingly.

Well, I’ll get a part-time job to go with my Air Force stipend but we will need some help from you for sure, I said while looking pointedly around at all four adults.

Just as I thought, Mrs. Chessereaux said with barely concealed hatred in her voice, you behave irresponsibly with my daughter and now you come running for help when things blow up in your face. Don’t you know that you’re supposed to wait until you get married to have sex? The hypocrisy of her statement stunned me, as I supposed she meant you were supposed to wait until you were married to someone before having sex with someone else.

To his credit my father jumped in with, Now Catherine, it’s probably a little late to be worrying about what should have been. While I might agree that that’s the way we’d like it to happen, life doesn’t always play out that way. Besides, I’ve now got another wonderful daughter and you’ve got a son!

To my relief Mr. Chessereaux chimed in, That’s right. Willy, have you ever been fishing out in the ocean?

No I haven’t Mr. Chessereaux, but I’m looking forward to it. Mr. Gregory Chessereaux was a tall, handsome, muscular man who looked like he had played linebacker in school, but he’d hurt his knee his senior year in high school and couldn’t play anymore. He and Mrs. Chessereaux were from the Materie section of New Orleans, but he was five years older than Catherine. His first wife had died in a horrific car accident, and they had a son Johnny who was four years older than Danielle, his half-sister. Johnny went away to school at Stanford in California and only visited home maybe once a year. I got the impression from Danielle that he didn’t like his step-mother at all, and he refused to be around her. Maybe he was clairvoyant. Mr. Chessereaux was a vice president in the Allstate Insurance Company, and he traveled a lot to towns and cities in southern Louisiana. Catherine Chessereaux was a legal secretary for a law firm in Gastineau that handled what she called domestic law. With his son Johnny never home, I became Gregory Chessereaux’ favorite stand-in son, and he taught me to play golf, sail on his sailboat and how to drink whiskey responsibly. When he handed me my first drink of Canadian whiskey and water when I was seventeen, he was very serious when he told me to respect and enjoy alcohol, not to abuse it. I tried unsuccessfully not to deviate from this sacred instruction. ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first ………’

Two weeks before Thanksgiving I was studying for semester final exams when Trey told me Danielle was on the phone. Willy, we lost the baby, she said through tears.

Stunned, I asked, What do you mean? What happened?

I started bleeding two nights ago and Mom rushed me to the emergency room, but we lost it. I had a miscarriage, said my wife of less than two months. I stood there in stunned silence, not sure if I trusted my voice to betray me. Aren’t you going to say anything Willy? We lost our child, say something, she implored.

I’m so sorry, baby. We can have another one, I said with far more sincerity than I felt, hoping it didn’t show.

Well, you don’t sound too broken up about it, she said indignantly.

Well I’m heartbroken baby, I lied, I’ll head home after morning classes tomorrow, see you then, I said.

Willy, I love you, she said in parting.

When I got back to the room, Trey was lying in wait, knowing that something big was going on, So what’s up? Danielle and I had become a soap opera fairy tale for Trey, who didn’t have a girlfriend and was waiting anxiously for his first piece of ass.

So I explained, Trey, Danielle had a miscarriage, so we lost the baby.

Jesus I’m sorry Willy. What are you going to do now? he asked imploringly.

I looked at him and said, It’s time to pray. And I did. I had the most earnest conversation I’d ever had with my Maker that night (and that stood until I thought I was going down on an flight over the Pacific some years later). I thanked him for giving me another chance to live my life to the fullest, and I promised I would never fuck up like that again. And you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, especially to the Lord.

By the start of my second year at WestTech, Danielle and I had worked it out so that we could rent a small apartment close to campus, and my dad bought us a used Renault for transportation, primarily to get us between Shreveport and Gastineau so we wouldn’t become strangers to the family. With help from a snarky Catherine, we were able to rummage enough furniture for a dining room, den and bedroom. Danielle’s transition to domesticity was somewhat rocky, as she had been spoiled rotten throughout her childhood.

WestTech offered a surprising opportunity for cultural growth and learning, to my considerable fascination. Chance and Tony lived in the apartment next door to us, and just happened to be from Lennoxton, a small town not far from Gastineau, although I hadn’t known them before Chance asked me if I wanted to come by for a beer after school one day. Being the social animal that I am, I jumped at the offer and when I walked in their den there was a cloud of smoke and they were passing a cigarette between them. I said, What’s going on guys?

Looking at me with a sick smile and pink eyes Chance asked, Willy, have you ever smoked any pot?

I said, No, what’s that like?

In what would become a regular refrain from Chance, the prince of pharmacology, he said, Willy, I want you to take this reefer and take a good hit. Being game to the prospect, I smoked a few hits of the reefer, passing it back and forth to the guys and getting into the swing of things. Some indeterminate time later I found myself inside a large bell, with sound reflecting back to me from the sides. It became blatantly apparent to me that my first time getting stoned had worked out far better than my first time getting drunk, so I was impressed.

I heard Danielle open our front door, and said, Thanks much guys. That was something. Gotta go, that was my wife coming home.

Yeah Willy, good to meet you, come back any time. Be seeing you around bud, Chance offered as I slithered out the door.

As soon as I saw Danielle, I discovered that being stoned seemed to unleash horniness in me, and I quickly set upon her with obvious intentions. What’s wrong with you, Willy? Have you been drinking or something? she asked with suspicion.

Yeah maybe, I really missed you baby, I said with more feeling than I’d felt in weeks.

Seeing that I was not obviously drunk, she relented and kissed me passionately. What’s that funny taste in your mouth, have you been smoking? she asked.

I grabbed her ass and said, as I was pushing her back to the bedroom, Oh come on, baby, you know I don’t smoke.

After we’d made love like two hyenas in heat, she lay in wonderment and asked, What got into you Willy?

I just missed you babe, was all I offered.

Wow, was all she said.

As we had never once used any form of birth control our entire time together, it finally became a subject of curiosity and investigation. Insistent that there was nothing wrong with her reproductive system (which would prove incriminatingly true), we used the student health clinic at WestTech to schedule a sperm test for me at St. Mary’s Memorial Hospital. On the day it was scheduled, I took a petri dish from a gorgeous sandy blonde nurse who pointed to a bathroom and asked me to go collect the sample and bring it back to her. With red-faced embarrassment I asked her, Do you think you could come help me with this? I think you could make it a lot easier.

She smiled wickedly and told me, Oh, I think you can do this by yourself Mr. Kavanagh. You’re a big boy.

It was truly belittling to me how easily I achieved a full erection as I imagined little miss wicked blonde nurse giving me a blow job to beat the band. When I handed the petri dish back to her with the sample, I had a slight sheen of sweat on my forehead and Miss Wicked Smile asked, See, I knew you had it in you.

Showing my award winning grin, I told her, You were right, and thanks for the help! When I walked away she was shaking her head back and forth disgustedly.

Two days later Danielle and I were sitting in the urologist’s office when Dr. Stoutz told me, Mr. Kavanagh, your sperm count volume was fine, so I don’t think that’s an issue. We did notice a problem with your sperm motility factor, however.

Motility factor? I posed as I tried to keep up.

It has to do with how aggressively your sperm propulse. To put it in layman’s terms, your sperm aren’t aggressive swimming to the finish line, Dr. Stoutz continued.

I thought I was following and added, So, what does this mean from the point of view of getting pregnant?

Oh don’t worry, Mr. Kavanagh, you’re not going to impregnate anyone without special incubation procedures. Considering your age, I must ask this. Do you smoke marijuana?

I do sparingly, but what does that have to do with sperm motility? I asked, now concerned.

You should know that there is a significant implication for sperm motility among very heavy marijuana users. But since that doesn’t apply to you, and you don’t appear to be an abuser that means that this is congenital and that it’s been with you all your life.

The harsh reality hit me like a brick in the back of my head as I looked directly at Danielle and asked the doctor, You mean like two years ago before I even knew what marijuana was Doc?

I mean ever since you were born Mr. Kavanagh. But you could look on the positive side: you’ve got a get out of jail free card for the rest of your life if you want to use it. I thanked Dr. Stoutz for the insight, bid him good day and headed home. I didn’t speak to Danielle on the drive home, and to her credit, she didn’t try to bullshit me with excuses or ‘what ifs’.

I spent the evening contemplating life, knowing that the innocence was gone and vanished between Danielle and me forever. What level of savage wound could I suffer to my soul and still believe, I asked myself? I tried to not feel sorry for myself, but I kept coming back to the fact that Danielle had gotten pregnant by someone else, probably her boyfriend Patrick, had easily convinced me it was mine without the first question and married me with the full expectation of having someone else’s child while we raised him or her. What would our families think if they knew the truth? What about my friends, my classmates, my former adversaries and anyone waiting for me to trip up and stumble? The answer was crystal clear to me in its simplicity and its vile