Christmas has come and gone, and while one of the reasons I might have given for the move from Cleveland to Portland was to escape Cleveland's severe winters, it turned out that Portland had an extended interval of severe weather which, while far from matching the worst lake effect snows of my Cleveland memories, paralyzed this city which can go years at a stretch with no snow in the lowlands. And the lowlands is where I live. Here in Portland 4" of snow closes schools and highways and means that companies like mine become severely short-staffed. By contrast, 4" of snow would be a mere inconvenience in Cleveland.

I don't live that far from the office, and it's easily reached by Portland's fabulous public transit system, so I didn't miss a minute of work. I even walk to or from work occasionally.

Before the storm, I did manage to select six employees to lay off. Our company is old-fashioned in the sense that it does favor seniority rather than getting rid of older, higher-paid employees first. This time, anyone who had been with the company three years or longer was safe, barring malfeasance of some sort, so most of our core staff of people who had transferred here from Ohio to help us start up the branch were safe. Even so, I found myself laying off people I had come to regard as friends.

I was glad to lay off one woman. She is an old-school feminist who looks in every transaction for a sexist crime against women, which she invariably seems to find. If you know me, you'll know how tiresome I find that shit. The statistics which show women trailing men in income and advancement are skewed by the many women who are not working to forward their careers. Who, in many cases, are only interested in their job as a way to meet potential mates or bedpartners.

They also reflect the fact that women are more likely to leave work to move with their partner when their partner relocates. Additionally, women are more likely to turn down promotions that involve lots of travel or moving to a different work site away from their work buddies. As a group, we cherish the social aspects of work and the bonds we form with coworkers far more than men do, and it costs us. I'm not immune. Much as I like Portland, it was coming here with Kelsey that made it bearable to leave my hometown and family behind. To move to a city with no real friends moving with me or waiting for me there would have been an opportunity I might easily turn down. I know how that sounds but women really are different from men.

Taking the woman I just referred to as an example, she rarely missed a break, even to help a client in a desperate or dire situation or a fellow worker in a tight spot, unless that person was a woman in a fix, of course. And not even always then. If someone (not a boss!) asked her for help, typically she'd point out that she was legally entitled to take a break.

She took time off for activities that seemed very optional, such as meeting with a tax professional, whereas I had no trouble finding one who'd make time for me in the evening or on a weekend. But mostly she just complained about the men in the office over trivial offenses (such as the older men referring to female coworkers as "girls") or over creative interpretations of what they intended by their words or deeds. Quite frankly, most of the other women wanted to smack her most of the time, not just me.

She, like so many traditional feminists, seemed to believe that the road to success was bitching and moaning. Trying harder and making herself more useful and valuable to the company and its customers never seemed to enter her mind.

Another thing I've discovered since I've taken on an administrative role is that women are more likely to view their employer as owing them. Owing them a job. Owing them healthcare. Even owing them childcare. That the first duty of a corporation, its officers, and even its employees is to the profitability of the company is a thought that seldom enters their minds.

It's not that we are stupid. It goes back to what we are taught and what we tell ourselves, and this misunderstanding not only makes us look stupid to our male peers, but holds us back from success at work.

I can tell you as a quasi-manager myself that neither Kelsey nor I ever took into account that this or that person, male or female, had a family to support financially, but if they let their family duties interfere excessively with work, we certainly had to take that into account. (And in case you're wondering, no we didn't apply that standard to people who had to deal with a real tragedy or crisis, such as a death or serious illness in the family. Our company does have a heart. It's just not a charity.)

All of that happened in late November, and while people decry the tendency of companies to do layoffs at such a seemingly inconsiderate time, it does conform with the business year of many companies while also allowing the affected employees to keep from getting too deeply into Christmas debt.

That this happened when it did gave us a few weeks before Christmas to adapt to working with a smaller staff. In fact, the new staffing level turned out to be just about right, for after the initial workload "hump" of the financial crisis, our workload dropped considerably as some of our customers cut back and others went out of business entirely.

I hinted in my prior post that I'd been undergoing some self-examination about my life, my current situation, and where I wanted to go in life. It was depressing. It's a depressing time of year for many people, and it was for me as well. I easily got my Christmas shopping done, for The Pearl District, where I live, is rife with small shops selling crafts and artistic goodies of various sorts. My brother was tough to buy for, as usual, so I ended up at an electronics store to buy him a copy of Left For Dead, the latest must-have video game, recommended by a nice male nerd in IT department.

I had decided not to go home for Christmas for several reasons. The cost of buying airfare at a late date is excessive, of course, which was one reason. A trip that might cost $400 round trip could easily be $1000 or more bought on short notice. Honestly, though, the main reason was that I was depressed and didn't want to go home where I feared I'd regress to the point of wanting to move back to Cleveland to be by my parents. I knew that that would not solve my core problem and so I resolved to avoid that temptation by not exposing myself to it.

Kelsey, Mandy, and my other local friends all had things to do on Christmas Eve, so I went to Jake's Grill, a top local restaurant well-known for its fine steaks, where I had a tenderloin for dinner, washed down with a California Cabernet. Dessert was a divine crème brulée accompanied by an excellent cup of the strong coffee that is ubiquitous here in this city which is as obsessed with java as Vegas is with money and sex. Good coffee is at its best when strong. Bad coffee is unpleasant no matter how dilute.

Afterward, I walked across the street and took the next trolley home. Soon, I was home watching a rented movie while nursing a glass of Canadian whisky on the rocks.

I was additionally depressed by not being able to reach my family on their land line, nor on any one of their individual cell phones, to wish them a Happy Christmas Eve. We had a long tradition of going out as a family for dinner on Christmas Eve and then coming home to drink champagne while opening up presents. It would be unlike them to go incommunicado on Christmas Eve because of the aforementioned activities and because it was an evening for calling friends and relatives to wish them a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

And then there was a knock on the door and a voice I knew well. It was a neighbor, an elderly lady I'd become friendly with. What did she want? I opened the door and she said, "Do you know these people?" She said it with such a smile that I knew something was up. I stuck my head out into the hall expecting to see Kelsey or possibly Mandy. Gina has a habit of showing up without notice and that she might bring our friend Belinda and her new baby Jenn wouldn't have been surprising at all. But it was far better... Instead, it was my entire family: daddy, mom, and Cliff, my brother stood there grinning ear-to-ear.

I expect that my tears didn't just run down my cheeks but shot out of my eyes in a spray as I hugged mom, Cliff, and finally my father. My neighbor excused herself and, after being thanked, retired to her apartment a smile still on her face.

I hadn't been able to reach them because they had been in transit, flying from Cleveland via Las Vegas. It turned out that they had arrived late that afternoon and had checked into a suite in the Governor Hotel, the very hotel that houses Jake's Grill, the restaurant where I'd had dinner. When I checked the timing, they'd been checking in as I'd been eating dinner.

They had agreed among themselves to maintain cell phone silence, hard as it was for my mom in particular. Not doing so might have allowed one of them to slip up and say something spoiling the surprise.

They had contacted Kelsey, who knew my plans for the evening, so they were fairly confident that they could pull the surprise off.

They had me get dressed for the weather and accompany them back to their suite. They also grabbed their presents to me, which by luck I still hadn't opened.

Dad, who you may or may not know is a jazz musician, had accepted a last-minute offer to work a big private New Years Eve party on the condition that he be flown out a week in advance and be given a sizable fee. The fee in no way covered the airfare or hotel bill but my folks thought it was worth the added expense to bring off the surprise and see my circumstances.

The suite was on the top floor and had a balcony overlooking the downtown area. The hotel had provided a fake Christmas tree about 5 feet and soon under it were a vast array of wrapped packages, from me to them and from them to me.

Knowing what a musician typically makes, I knew my folks had spent a lot of money to make this happen. We opened presents on Christmas Eve, as was our family tradition, drank some champagne, called friends and relatives, and chatted until well after midnight, and we all slept together in the room. It had two twin beds. Mom and dad shared one of the twins, I was given the other, and Cliff slept on the hide-a-bed couch.

I was happy as a clam. Depression? ...Gone!

They would be in town for a week, returning on New Years Day. After my long weekend with them, I would have to return to work. But as long as there were musicians around (and, believe me, there are plenty in Portland), my father would know people to hang with who would help entertain my family, day or night, anytime I couldn't be with them.

Christmas day, we had few choices since little was open other than movie theaters, chain drugstores on short hours, hotel restaurants, and of course movie theaters. Cliff pressed hard to see Quantum Of Solace, which we ended up seeing. Daniel Craig is hot, so I didn't put up much of a fight on that one, but on Sunday we saw The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button which is an absolutely amazing movie.

So, I had to work Monday, Tuesday, and half of Wednesday. It was on Monday that I decided to walk home. While I normally take the trolley to work and back, and as much as I love my family, I'd grown used to my privacy and solitude, so I decided to walk home, a walk of about 40-45 minutes for some alone time.

Well, it was not to be.

First, I need to tell you that because of the normally relatively mild weather in Portland (the recent rough winter notwithstanding), and due to the generous and gentle nature of the city, Portland tends to attract more than its share of homeless and street people. It's not uncommon to have strange people calling out to you, approaching you, or begging for change.

So, it came as no surprise when I passed a bedraggled and dirty man laying in the recess of a delivery door between two stores. What did come as a surprise was that, after I passed, he mumbled a barely audible and trembly "Jilly Jelly Girl."

There are voices which are nondescript and voices which are absolutely unique. Also, there are pet names shared between just two people. Here I was confronted with a voice I knew muttering a pet name only one person ever used.

My family had spent the day exploring and shopping and, as it happened, were on their way to my place on the trolley when I called Cliff. We planned on having dinner at a nearby Chinese restaurant that evening. I caught them just in time. I told them to get off at the next stop and gave my brother the simple directions to find me. I did not tell him why but I'm sure he knew from the tone of my voice that it was serious.

They came up to me and I looked daddy in the face and then looked down at the man in the doorway. Daddy's eyes followed mine. His brow furrowed and he tipped his head. He squatted at first, then got down on his knees and moved the man's hat and hair to expose his face.

It was my mom who gasped, "That's Gene. I thought he was..." "Dead," said daddy, finishing mom's sentence, and adding, "Everyone thought so. He simply disappeared one day. Death by misadventure seemed the logical explanation. He got into fights. We all imagined him with a slit throat and a sack full bricks tied to his ankles at the bottom of some river somewhere."

Mom said, "This is almost as bad."

Daddy stood up and looked at mom and finally me. He then said the obvious: "We're not going to leave him here." I said, "Well, let's take him to my place...for now anyway." Much as I had once loved this man, I also didn't want to share my apartment with a wino. At the same time, he was in peril of freezing to death if we left him there.

Daddy shook him awake and Gene recognized him. He said, "Hey (daddy's name), what are you doing here?" in classic jazzman's hipster brogue. My father was wiping a tear off his cheek as he replied, "Gene, we've been looking for you for years and here Jill finds you on the day she decides to walk home from work." Gene looked at me again with a wan smile, saying "Hey there Jilly Jelly Girl. You sure grew up!"

My family looked at each other. As I thought, they had never heard that nickname. It was between me and Gene.

The memories were coming back in a flood. Memories from a good fourteen or fifteen years earlier. I had such a crush on Gene when I was about eight years old. He was a talented trumpet player who seemed always to be down on his luck. This was partly due to a maintenance-level heroin habit and partly due to issues with authority. Even though daddy was a bandleader at the time, and his boss on occasion, he and Gene usually got on quite well.

If I had to liken Gene to someone, it'd have to be Chet Baker, the gorgeous young trumpet player who soared briefly based more on his naive singing stylings than virtuosic trumpet playing. Gene, while handsome himself, didn't look anything like Baker and, according to daddy, had far better chops. The comparison is more based on Chet Baker's rapid slide into addiction and obscurity. He eventually died, so it's said, by falling out of the window of his 2nd floor hotel room in Amsterdam. Coke and heroin were found both in his room and his blood (he was autopsied, of course).

Accident, suicide, or murder? We'll probably never know. I certainly wished nothing of the sort on Gene.

When I expressed interest in learning to play piano, daddy had pity on Gene, who needed the money and had developed a friendly and playful rapport with me during his many visits to our house. He seemed an ideal teacher. His heroin habit? Yeah, my folks weren't happy about it, but the lessons all took place in our family room with my mother (or more typically my father) nearby. Like I said he was a maintenance-level addict. He functioned just fine as long as he had enough smack in his system.

If you're wondering why I'd be getting piano lessons from a trumpeter, you should know that many wind instrumentalists learn enough piano to figure out harmonies and arrangements for the melodies they've written. A pianist or guitarist doesn't have that problem. They play an orchestral instrument.

As to my nickname, Gene, a playful person, noticed that I usually showed up for my lessons with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on a plate. He coined the nickname which existed just between us two in our private little world together.

I turned out to have no talent as a musician, but I kept going as long as gene was around because, in my eight year old way, I found him very attractive. I was pre-sexual, so it wasn't a case of "the hots." I'm sure most of you understand what I mean and found yourself strangely attracted to a grown-up for reasons you didn't understand (and certainly didn't analyze) at the time.

We were near a coffee shop. (In Portland, you're never far from one.) Mom sent Cliff to get a large cup of coffee with plenty of cream in it to cool it off a tad.

Daddy helped Gene to his feet. Apparently, at first he thought we were a fantasy or illusion of some sort, but he became embarrassed when the truth dawned on him. He tried to explain, saying that he'd been mugged, which wasn't a plausible excuse on this street, during daylight hours, with plenty of auto and foot traffic. Besides, he showed no sign of having been beaten up and every sign of being drunk out of his mind.

We got some coffee into Gene and he shut up, probably realizing that we weren't buying his lame story.

We walked him the 10 blocks or so to my building, which would have taken me 10 minutes to walk, but with him dragging along took 20.

A neighbor of mine, an older man, gave us disdainful looks as the elevator door opened and he saw us standing there with someone who was quite obviously a street person of some sort.

As soon as my door opened, my dad rushed him to my bathroom for a shower. He had me and my mother go out to find some fresh clothes for him, because the ones he'd been wearing would have been rejected by Goodwill for several valid reasons.

So, we ventured out into The Pearl District, which has numerous small high-end shops and finally found a shirt, pants, socks, jogging shoes, and warm jacket for which we paid dearly: a bit over $375. The clothes were nice sports clothes

This took nearly an hour of frantic rushing around. When we returned, Cliff was in my living room watching the local news and dad was still in the bathroom nursing Gene back to healthful sobriety by simply sitting on the toilet seat and talking to him.

I handed dad the clothing (minus the winter jacket) through the crack in the door. When they emerged about 20 minutes later, Gene had much sobered up and while seeming ashamed that we had found him that way also seemed sincerely glad to be among friends.

All of us except Cliff gave him lengthy hugs and told him in the most profuse terms how much we'd missed him. Cliff didn't really know him, for he was a toddler at the time Gene was giving me piano lessons.

Cliff elbowed me and pointed at his watch. I looked at mine. We should have been walking into the door of Sungari Pearl, the Chinese restaurant where we had dinner reservations just about then. I pointed this out to daddy who suggested we get going and invited Gene along. Gene, well-known as a lover of Chinese food, easily agreed, but noted that he had no funds. Mom told him not to worry.

In about 10 minutes we were at our table in the restaurant, which is only a 3 or 4 minute walk from my apartment building. Daddy, who is a responsible drinker, and who would normally be ordering some beer or a mixed drink in a Chinese restaurant, only ordered tea, and the rest of us took the hint, ordering tea as well, almost certainly to the disappointment of our waiter.

Without any prodding whatsoever, Gene's story came out in a voice that seemed somehow impaired. It was obviously hard for him to form some words.

He had indeed disappeared and it had been due to a bar fight he'd gotten into with the wrong person. A person who turned out to be connected to a bigtime drug trafficker. How big? One of the top Russian mafia bosses was this guy's father. When Gene heard that there was a contract out on his life, he headed for Europe where he made a living for a few years in Italian, French, and Spanish jazz clubs under an assumed name.

Sadly, every time it seemed he might be verging on local fame, he got paranoid and moved on. But try as he might, everywhere he went his reputation would catch up with him. And so, one night in Barcelona, he looked out in the audience and there was the guy he'd whipped in that fight. Along with him were two huge thugs. When the time came for a break between sets, he tried to pack up and quietly leave through the back door.

Unfortunately, two more thugs were waiting outside. They escorted him to a black Mercedes where, inside, was the very Russian mafia boss whose retribution he had feared. They were soon joined by the son and the other two thugs, and so, with a brute on either side of him, they were driven to a warehouse on the other side of town.

They walked him to a large space with a concrete floor where the father, who spoke passable English, as do many Russians, explained that he understood Gene had suckered his son and then had beaten him up. Gene admitted to us that this was probably true, though he was drunk at the time and his memories weren't clear. The man said that his son wanted a rematch.

Before he could reply, he felt a fist hit his stomach and he doubled over to the cold floor and rolled into a ball. For the next half hour, he was forced to stand up over and over again while the son bashed him about, holding nothing back. Gene didn't fight back feeling that his best shot at survival was not to make a good show of himself. He was right. They realized that it had become pathetic after a while.

When it reached that point the father said, to one of the thugs, "Finish him off," obviously meaning "Kill him" and turned to go. The last thing Gene remembered was the son stopping his father and whispering something in his ear. The father nodded and then...blackness.

When Gene woke up, he woke up with a shattered jaw and a mouth with several teeth floating around in it. Oh yes, and more pain than he'd ever known in his life.

He wandered out onto a street with some traffic on it, and collapsed. The next thing he knew he was in a hospital bed with some investigators from Cuerpo Nacional de Policia (Spain's FBI, basically) there asking questions, for his attack bore all the marks of a gangland attack. He studiously avoided answering their questions and they surely understood why: cooperating with them would only take the violence to the next, and fatal, level.

The reconstruction of his jaw took a total of four operations inside his mouth, each one more painful to recover from than the one before. While his face had been restored to its former beautiful external appearance, enough damage had been done to destroy him as a trumpet artist. He couldn't even talk properly much less control an instrument as unruly as a trumpet.

I looked at my mother at the end of this story and her eyes were filled with tears. Cliff was holding her hand.

Dad put his arm around Gene's shoulder and said, "Once a musician, always a musician."

We ate and were done just in time for daddy to suggest we move on to Jimmy Mak's, just a few blocks away, and so we went to one of the best jazz clubs in the country, where we spent the rest of the evening, except for Cliff, still under 21 and so unable to stay beyond 9:30, when the club changes from a restaurant to a jazz-oriented nightclub. He went back to my place to play Left For Dead on his XBox.

Gene told us to go ahead and order drinks. He admitted to being an alcoholic. He'd totally kicked heroin. "If that's so," said my mother, "you have the will power to stay away from alcohol." "Yes," he agreed. "I only drank to ease the pain of feeling useless.

At this, I burst into tears and said, "Gene, you're not useless. You were a fabulous piano teacher." He smiled and said, "I'm nowhere near having a piano and...are you a pianist? I seem to remember that you quit." "If I'm not a pianist, it's because you helped me see that. I'm a writer, not a musician. You were a fine piano teacher. A talented one. But not everyone is cut out to be a pianist." I'm afraid I blushed, for my family isn't really aware of this blog. Luckily, I did write a couple articles that got published by a travel magazine, so this claim didn't really seem outrageous or fabricated.

I was wiping the tears off my face when father said, "You're coming home with us. We have a piano. I'll whip you into shape and get you some lounge gigs when you're good enough for journeyman work. And soon, I'm sure, you'll have the chops to play in a jazz band. Are you still afraid of the Russians?"

Gene said he was past being afraid of the Russians and was fairly sure they didn't really think of him anymore. He thanked daddy and then shut up and enjoyed some good jazz. Afterward, he was taken back to the hotel with my parents. Cliff slept on my couch that night.

Several more days passed with Gene spending a lot of time with my parents, visiting musicians, going to shows. Gene stayed dry all that time, at least when he was with them. Cliff was exploring some of the local Internet cafés, comic stores, and other shops that appealed to a college sophomore with nerdish tendencies.

New Years Day came along, my father's work was done, and my folks were to pick Gene up at the cheap hotel where he'd been flopping. He should have been waiting out front. He was not. Daddy went inside and managed to get the manager to let him into the room to do a "welfare check." It's the kind of hotel where drunks stay and people are often coming by to make sure a friend or relative is well or at least alive. There was Gene, laying on his bed unconscious from alcohol. Daddy left a note for Gene telling him that there would be plane fare to Cleveland anytime he felt like coming. All he had to do was ask.

Then, he and mom and Cliff flew back to Ohio.

A few days later I got a call from daddy who told me that Gene had finally called and apologized for not being ready to go to the airport. He promised to get into alcohol treatment. I asked, "Do you think he will?" Daddy said, "I hope so, but it's up to him, not me or you." I said I hoped he'd take up piano again. "Well," said daddy, echoing my own words, "not everyone is cut out to be a pianist."

That put me into quite a funk until Kelsey invited me to dinner a day or two later. After dinner, we went back to my place and fucked each other silly all evening long. I sucked on her nipples until they turned into small pink marbles, and then she stuck her tongue so far up my asshole while fingering my cunt that I almost peed on my bed.

And you'd better believe I did her just as well. Got my fist all the way in for the first time ever and did her like a jackhammer.

Cinema Erotique is just fantastic. If you know me at all, you know that I love seeing hot chicks, and especially when they look like pretty everyday girls and not those off-a-cookie cutter California porn girls, Las Vegas showgirls, or Maxim models. I was given a free pass to look around and I was stunned at what I saw.

Here is that pretty girl behind the counter at the coffee shop or serving tables at the local restaurant or running the check-out stand at your local Walgreen's. And what is she doing? She's masturbating alone or fooling around with another girl or, much less frequently, having sex with an attractive guy.

What I like about Cinema Erotique is that while the quality is high and obviously made with love, it's not that "made in someone's basement" stuff or that over-produced slick California schlock. It's made with love and is not formulaic in the least.

You'll find photo sets, quick videos a few minutes long, and feature videos which tend to be more like 15-20-30 minutes in length. Of course I haven't had time to view them all, but the several I have seen have been quite satisfying. (Come on, you know what I mean!)

In short, if you like me, my attitude toward life and sex, and the kind of "porn" I promote here, you'll love Cinema Erotique. Click on the link and take a look!

As I said at the close of my last story, "...I opened my eyes to behold a beautiful little angel with what appeared to be a fearsome monster from Hell. And the funny thing was...I knew both of them. I knew both of them well."

They were the little Jenn along with Cathy, her companion and guard dog. I had first met them on my trip to Guyana. But what were they doing here in Italy, so far away from their lush jungle forest paradise? I replayed the trip in my mind and, no, Belinda had not been along on that trip.

How very strange!

Well, I didn't have too much time to think about it since as soon as Jenn realized I was awake, she had all the permission a six year old needs to jump all over me. I was delighted, of course. I hugged her spindly little body tight. It reminded me of Gina when she was that age.

Cathy, her dog, sat patiently by the bedside, for this Presa Canario bitch was anything but poorly trained. She had impeccable manners and recognized that beds were off-limits to dogs weighing in the neighborhood of, I'd guess, 120 lb. Here's what Cathy looks like. A mix of mastiff and the bull-baiting dogs of ancient times, a presa is actually bigger, tougher, and stronger than a pitbull. And Cathy had, in fact, killed a pitbull that was charging little Jenn on one occasion. And she didn't just fight it; she killed it summarily as a Jack Russell terrier might kill a rat or squirrel.

A Presa Canario

The wrestling over, I finally asked the obvious, "What are you doing here? I'm so happy to see you, but...what a surprise." She started using the bed as a trampoline, shouting, "We're here to see the little baby!"

Of course. This had to be one of Gina's little surprises. She loves facilitating meetings and reunions more than anyone else I know. And little girls are so fascinated with babies it borders on an obsession.

Jenn told me that she'd been sent to see if I could be ready for lunch soon (for it was that late) and I said to tell Belinda to give me a half hour to shower and get ready.

I hopped out of bed and saw that Cathy was awaiting some attention as well, so I rubbed her head and scratched her underjaw. She sniffed and licked me and wagged her tail, barked once, and then she and Jenn were off.

When I got to the dining room, Belinda, Gina, and Rickie (Jenn's mother, and a close friend of both Gina and my boss, Kelsey) were laughing hysterically. Jenn seemed a little puzzled. Apparently it was something grown-ups find amusing. Not for kids.

I gave Rickie a big hug and asked if her husband, Harry, was along as well, and she said with a sigh that bespoke as much relief as disappointment, "Nope," then clutching her darling daughter she said, "it's just us girls. This is a girl thing, I guess, and he is a busy man."

As I sat down, I asked, "So...what were you all laughing about? Can I be in on the joke?" This resulted in gales of laughter from all except Jenn, who just smiled.

Gina said, "In a way, you are the joke." More laughter.

Okay, by then I felt they were toying with me, so Belinda had pity on me, explaining through her own barely controllable laughter, "Pietro handed in his resignation this morning." "But why?" I asked. "Apparently he dishonored me last night after I went to bed."

I'm sure I turned a few shades of red. Not at any discovery, for Belinda and Gina knew or sensed that I wanted to fuck Pietro, but that he took it that seriously was just plain ridiculous.

Belinda continued, "He beat around the bush quite a bit so finally I said, 'You had sex with Jill after I went to bed, didn't you?' and he shook his head in shame. I said 'As long as whoever you are fooling around with is consenting and it's not interfering with your job, your life is yours.'"

Gina said, "But wait, Jill, you haven't heard the best part."

Belinda explained, "So I told him, 'If you helped Jill have a more memorable visit, I'm happy for her and for you.' And then I gave him a 10% raise."

I then realized that Gina and Belinda were looking at me and expecting me to tell them something. I was stupid for a moment or two until I realized what they wanted to know, so I said, "Oh yeah, it's every bit as big as we thought...and then some." More laughter.

I looked at little Jenn who was still a bit puzzled as to the grown-up things we were talking about. She did ask her mother, "What is sex?" though, and Rickie did her best to mesh it in with the theme of their visit. "It's how people make babies, dearie."

Of course, Jenn drew the obvious conclusion, "When is Jill going to have her baby? In nine months?" Her degree of excitement would be hard to describe adequately. She continued, "And will it be a boy or a girl?"

Gina looked at Rickie sympathetically. "You had to expect that coming out to see the baby would stimulate a lot of curiosity." Rickie laughed and said, "I think I just discovered the real reason why Harry opted out of the trip. Turning to her little daughter she explained, "You don't make a baby every time you have sex. Jill and Pietro had sex for fun."

I think Jenn couldn't imagine anything even more fun than a baby, so she looked perplexed. Gina thought she'd help by saying, "Sex feels good. Nature made it that way to help people want to make babies, but it still feels good when you are not."

Jenn was obviously still puzzled.

Being the wordsmith of the bunch, I jumped in with an analogy. "It's like eating. Sometimes you eat because you have to, because you're hungry. Sometimes, like when you go to a party, you eat because it's fun. Because instead of regular everyday food there's cake and candy." Now Jenn got it.

She went on the next logical question, "So, mommy, how do you get sex?" One of the weirdnesses of English is that we talk about something we do as though it's something we obtain and possess. Why do we say we "had sex" when in fact we could more accurately say we "did sex"?

I explained that sex is something you do and that the way we talk about it is a little confusing and strange.

This satisfied her enough for her to ask, "How do you do sex, then?"

Not that I would have said anything, for at this point it was her mother's prerogative to explain it the way she preferred. I do know that the key with kids is to just satisfy their basic curiosity and not get ahead of the game with technical explanations for which the child has no context. About the time Jenn found herself inexplicably drawn to boys, that would be a better time to provide the additional detail. So, when Rickie saw Maria coming in with a big tureen of soup, she took that as a cue to say, "Another discussion for another time, sweets. Lunch is here."

I think we were all happy to be spared the penis and vagina discussion, with all of the details that would go along with that and all the uncomfortable questions. Jenn was still years away from being in the "need to know" situation. For now, all she needed to know was that babies are the result of sex, but that sex can be just for fun, too, AND, of course, to let mommy or daddy know if anyone tries to touch her "bathing suit area." However, I think the mere presence of her imposing doggy nursemaid made that situation extremely unlikely. No mere human being would stand a ghost of a chance against Cathy.

(If you have read the Guyana series of stories, you also know that Cathy's other purpose is to sense when Jenn is in a low sugar crisis, for Jenn was born a type 1 diabetic, and this is why it is only rarely that she is far from Jenn's side, and when she's apart from Cathy Jenn is always with at least one of her parents, both of whom are prepared to deal with critical hypoglycemia, as are all of their servants.)

Over lunch I discovered that Rickie, Jenn, and Cathy had pretty much just arrived, so I asked the obvious question: "Have Pietro and Bruno met Cathy yet?" Belinda explained that Bruno had gone into town and was expected back soon, and that no, they hadn't met yet. The servants had been briefed, however, so that Pietro could keep Bruno restrained until the dogs were properly introduced, for Bruno would immediately sense a dangerous intruder and Cathy's instinct to protect little Jenn would surely be triggered.

The last thing we needed was a dogfight between two huge dogs.

Amazingly, when Pietro and Bruno entered the room, both dogs remained calm. Pietro raised one of his dark eyebrows and said, "My...that is some dog. A presa, is he not?" Little Jenn corrected him on gender, saying "She's a girl. Cathy is a girl." "Cathy, is it," Pietro said with a laugh, for he knew that Cathy is an unlikely name for a dog, unless a little girl is given the honor of naming her.

Looking at Rickie, who was so obviously Jenn's mom and ultimately Cathy's master, Pietro asked if he could bring Bruno over to meet Cathy and he received permission. Along the way, he explained that this was Bruno's territory and that it was Bruno who needed to know that this intruder was now one of the pack. Cathy also needed to know her place in the heirarchy of the pack.

Cathy was tense and guarded at first, but allowed Bruno to sniff her butt. I think we were all waiting for a snarl or snap or some hint of an incident, but it didn't happen and, in fact, both dogs were allowed outdoors to play, and so we had a lot of fun watching them chase each other all around the nearby courtyard for all the world like a pair of puppies.

We decided to go into town and do some window shopping, which, no doubt, would quickly devolve into actual shopping. So, after a half hour or so of getting ready, we met at the carport and clambered into the big Mercedes stretch. Pietro was at the wheel, Bruno at his side. Little Franca, who had been swaddled up in blankets to the point where she resembled nothing other than a coccoon, was soon strapped into a special infant seat.

Now, Como is tiny by comparison with Italian shopping meccas like Milano or Roma, but due to the rather well-heeled nature of its inhabitants, what's there is generally not "low end." It's no backwater or hick town. So, soon we were in shops where handbags and shoes cost hundreds of dollars, dresses and coats thousands. Way out of my league. I live in Portland's Pearl District, with trendy little shops aplenty, but even there prices averaged only 20% of what I saw in Como.

Gina is well-heeled and generous, and insisted on buying a replacement for my own watch which was five or six years old and starting to need regular adjustment. She bought me a Swiss-made replacement for $1200, and it was far from the most expensive watch in the shop.

This was about the time of the international financial crisis, and Belinda was starting to have to stop to take calls on her cell phone. Her bank (the one she owned) was experiencing some difficulties and needing some infusions of cash to handle the problem of people pulling their funds out of it. Luckily, unlike many banks, most of its clients were businesses who understood that as uneasy as it felt, their money was still safer in the hands of bankers than under someone's pillow.

Even so, the managers she had hired to help her run the conglomerate were needing to consult with her more and more. She needed to sell off some of her less important holdings to prop up the bank.

As we walked from shop to shop, we generally had the narrow sidewalks to ourselves. People ahead of us would duck into shops or cross the street. Partly because we took up the entire sidewalk and partly due to the two rather savage-looking dogs who walked with us. Bruno was up front, and Cathy was by Jenn's side, as she normally was. People are used to german shepherds, but presas are another story. Looking something like a pitbull on growth hormone and steroids, a presa canario is a dog whose presence you can't ignore.

Eventually, we wanted some coffee, so we ended up at a bakery cafe. I have to tell you, I'm not unfamiliar with Italian pastries. Cleveland, where I grew up, has a thriving Little Italy with several bakeries, and my parents used to love to take me and my brother out so that they could have strong espresso and cakes. But those pastries were on an entirely different plane.

Pietro was waiting outside with the two dogs, who were not allowed inside. He tapped on the window to get our attention, and when he had Belinda's attention, he pointed downward to draw her attention to something. "It's Luigi," said Gina. (Luigi was the boy we met on a path in the woods near Belinda's villa.) Belinda waved for him to come in. Luigi yelled to someone else. It was, apparently, his mother. Belinda signaled for her to come in as well.

Like many less prosperous Italians, Luigi's mother was very conscious of class distinctions. It was almost humorous the way Belinda had to calm the woman down and get her to stop apologizing for Luigi, who had done nothing at all wrong. Belinda treated the two of them. Luigi had hot chocolate with orange zest and his mother had cappuccino. They shared a square of chocolate cake that was so rich that between the two of them they couldn't finish it.

Luigi's mother, whose name was Isabella, explained that her family had lived here on the lake for centuries and that, at one time, they had been wealthy vintners until a plague had hit the wine industry in the area, a disaster from which her family never recovered. At this time, she was making ends meet by helping a catering company at banquets and by doing sewing and mending. She had a hobby of jewelry-making and showed us some of the rings and wristlets she was wearing, which were actually very nice. Her problem, she said, was not having the best materials to work with and not being able to promote herself.

Knowing Gina's generosity, I was surprised when it was actually Rickie who offered some help, asking how much it would cost to make a couple wristlets like the ones Isabella was wearing out of gold instead of silver. Isabella offered to make them for $800 each, but Rickie told her not to undersell herself and offered her about $1500 each (I'm converting from euros to dollars here, so some rounding is going on.)

Isabella took on the assignment and accepted a down payment from Rickie. However, she had a banquet to go to and had to take Luigi home first. Belinda said that we would make sure Luigi got home, and so she was able to stay with us another half hour, during which she told us several stories about life in the area during the previous centuries, including losing her own father during World War II.

Finally she had to leave, and her leave-taking from Luigi was almost heartrending. Obviously, he was her reason for existence.

The topic turned back to food and Belinda said that she thought that running a place like this would be fun. (Understand, she knows almost nothing about cooking or baking or operating a business, even though she owns a conglomerate.) I don't know if she was noting that the owner at the cash register was obviously old and on her last legs or what, but Belinda seemed quite sincere and more than just a little interested.

Even so, when Franca woke up demanding to be fed, the old woman shuffled over to take a look, and with a kindly smile asked all the standard questions: boy or girl? what's her name? how old is she? and so on. Belinda asked some questions about the place: how long have you been in business? do you do all your own baking? etc.

I'm fairly sure Belinda will be back to establish more rapport with the owner and may, eventually, buy the little place to run as a kind of hobby business.

After 10 or 15 minutes, Franca was done feeding and simply looked around aimlessly, for at that age babies are still learning to differentiate things in their world. A long road of learning lay ahead for little Franca, but at least she would have one of the nicest and smartest mommies a baby could wish for.

Little Luigi was fascinated with Franca. Belinda even let the boy hold her for a few minutes, and the tenderness he showed the infant is hard to describe. An only child, he obviously pined for a sibling or two. My own brother is a treasure.

By this time, the coffee cups and plates were empty, so we bid the shop owner farewell and climbed back into the limo and, with Luigi up front with Pietro and Bruno, we drove Luigi home and then were delivered back to Belinda's villa.

Once again, Belinda and Gina retired before me and I wandered over to the servant's quarters. Some of the villa's staff actually live there, and it wasn't too hard to determine which door was Pietro's. He was the only one who wore military style boots, and there they were outside his door. Also, there was the distinctive sound of a dog's nails on wood approaching the door. Bruno was too well trained to bark. I heard some creaking of wood, which apparently was Pietro coming toward the door. When the door opened, Pietro smiled and invited me in.

It was definitely a guy's place. Austere and with photos of airplanes and racing cars. Not that inviting from a female's point of view, but at least it was neat.

He offered me some wine, which I accepted. It was inexpensive wine, but good. A good, sturdy everyday wine. He made a little platter of cheese and crackers and we watched TV for an hour or so before he made a move.

And so we kissed for a while as his hands found their way under my shirt and then under my skirt. When his fingers entered my pussy, I shivered and kissed him even harder, finding and massaging his massive cock through his trousers.

Eventually, I undid his belt and opened up his trousers and out sprang the object of my longing. I kissed his lips one last time and then went down on him, tasting and licking his tool until it seemed as hard as granite. And then, straddling him, I sat down on it, taking as far in as it would go.

I fucked him furiously for a few minutes until I feared he might come. This time, I wanted dessert, so I whispered in his ear that he could fuck my ass.

To my surprise, everything stopped. Was he looking at me as if I was a whore?

"What's wrong?" I asked. He was silent. "You've never fucked a chick in the behind?" "It never occurred to me," he said. "Well, give it a try; most guys enjoy it," I explained. "Normally, finding a girl who'll let you do it is regarded as a stroke of luck!"

Letting him slide out of my pussy, I guided his wet dick to my butt and helped it in. It hurt a bit at first because, as you know, he has a big one. But once I was all stretched out, he started thrusting, which I could actually feel through my vaginal wall and in chills that radiated throughout my body.

I was still straddling him, which prevented him from going in very deep, so I suggested we move to the floor. I went down onto my knees doggy style and he put his cock back in me. Now he could do me good.

And he did, pulling out in time to spurt all up my back and nearly into my hair. When he came, he let out a string of Italian epithets which I didn't understand, except for the mention of the Virgin Mary here and there.

Of course, I'd been masturbating at the same time and feeling his hot cum hit me was enough to push me over the edge, and so my own orgasm quickly followed.

When he had his wits about him again, he saw me still in the doggy position and realized why I hadn't changed position. He excused himself, running to his bathroom to retrieve a box of tissues, which he used to wipe off my back.

I spent the night in his bed, getting up in the early morning with him but leaving before he left. I kissed him quic