As if a woman who would jump naked down a waterfall after having sex in a cave could ever be considered boring.
“Not likely, darling, they are more likely to be seen in the Cook Islands. We can head there next,” I offered, not nearly done with her yet.
In fact, there was this niggling little voice in the back of my mind that got louder in quiet moments before bed, like after Wasp had passed out like a starfish only to curl up on my chest, saying crazy things.
Like maybe I would never be done with her.
That I wanted her to stay.
“We aren’t going anywhere,” she told me, rolling her eyes. “You promised we could find a Megabat. I need to get a picture of one to terrify my nephew with.”
“What a sweet aunt you are,” I declared, dropping an arm across her shoulders.
“It is the job of the cool aunt to mess with the littles. And also to buy them wildly inappropriate gifts that will drive their parents crazy.”
“If you ever need pointers on ridiculous gifts, I am the man to consult with.”
“What is the craziest thing you’ve given someone?”
“I accidentally gave a friend a barnyard pig instead of the mini pig she had wanted for years.”
“That’s a pretty big oops.”
“She still adores it. I am on swine-sitting duty for life should she ever want to go on vacation.”
“Sounds reasonable,” she told me, pulling me down onto the beach behind the resort we were staying in. “These are absurd,” she declared as we came up to one of the many round beds with a shade top. “And absolutely amazing,” she added, climbing up onto it, giving me a great view of her nearly-bare ass as she did so. I needed to get a picture of it, I decided, reaching for my phone before it was too late.
“Seriously?” she asked, dropping down after she heard the shutter, rolling her eyes at me. “What could you possibly need a picture of my ass for?”
“I am going to have it printed on a pillow and sleep on it at night,” I declared, only half joking as I moved to lay down beside her.
“Okay, Fenway Arlington,” she said, voice serious. “Tell me something serious,” she demanded.
It was her new favorite game, wanting a peek below the curtain. It was my own fault. I’d let her see other parts of myself on more than one occasion.
Somehow, though, I didn’t mind her having access to something only two or three other people in my life ever had. I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t want to find out.
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about your childhood,” she decided, having already asked me about random things. Losing my virginity, political opinions, my personal feelings on climate change given my ‘blatant disregard for carbon emissions while traveling.’ It was only a matter of time before she got to the dirty stuff. The stuff I didn’t talk about to anyone, save for that one time when I was assed-out drunk, and made some choice comments to Alvy about it after having gotten a phone call from back home.
“It wasn’t happy,” I told her, being honest, not entirely sure why I didn’t brush her off, why I didn’t make light of it like I usually would, quip about how my silver spoon was thrown away and replaced after every meal, and move on with the conversation.
“Why not?”
“I came from three generations of men who took themselves, their lives, their wives, and their children very seriously.”
“There is nothing serious about a child.”
“Therein lies a lot of the unhappiness. Children in my circle, they aren’t told to go out and play in the backyard while the grown-ups talked. We were expected to be at every dinner party, every charity function, every tennis match and golf course and hunt. We had to dress and act the part, be adults without any of the maturity or self-control that comes with age.”
“That sounds very un-fun,” Wasp decided, giving my thigh a pat.
“It wasn’t just me in that. It was all of us. So there was some comfort in that. But my father’s expectations were harsher. He was Type A and anal about every small detail of his life. My clothes had to be arranged a certain way, my bed made with military corners, my floors swept, my surfaces dusted. And the servants were forbidden to help. They were an earned privilege. The older I got, the more I chafed at the restraints.”
“What did he do?”
“Tried to beat it out of me at first,” I admitted. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is at fourteen-years-old to be beaten so badly that you piss yourself?” I asked, looking over at her, seeing the pain slice across her bright eyes.
“No, I don’t,” she told me, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry he was such a dickwipe.”