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Dory

By: cloacas



I have always been the biggest idiot. You know what that means: I'm smart but the world is a little too fast, a bit too cruel for me, so I often end up with the short end of the stick. It's not that I'm too nice. I'm just not cut out for the cut-throat stuff it takes to get ahead.

I also like being alone and being alone can become a habit. Whenever I hear that word, I think of the line from Madeleine, "a crack with the habit of looking like a rabbit." My mind works funny.

I'd rented a car for a driving vacation. Fly out from the City, pick up a car and drive back on side roads, stopping in small towns, reading up on the history, seeing the country. If only the food were better. It amazes me that so few restaurants make even a decent hamburger. 

My right knee was sore from being held in the same driving position for too long. I hung around a little country store letting it loosen. Pretty country, but the store made me realize why 7-11 is so popular.

A girl dressed in a pile of unshapely, grey clothes started to speak to me but ducked her head and turned away. I walked outside, testing my knee. When I turned around the girl was in front of me, looking down. She started to speak again, "Sir . . . would you . . ." and trailed off. She never looked up.

It crossed my mind that she was part of this cult I'd read about which kept themselves isolated from the world. Then again, maybe she was a crank head looking to blow me for her next jolt.

"Do you need help? Because if you do, I might be able to help you." She nodded in a tiny motion and then with more emphasis.

"I want to get away."

Moments like these are called inflection points. I can never see them coming. 

"How old are you?" I asked.

"I am eighteen years and three months." She still hadn't looked up.

"If you're not eighteen, I can only take you to the sheriff or somebody like that." Why was I saying this? "If you're not lying, I'll help you get out of here." 

"I'm not lying."

You can see my problem. Girl walks up to me and I help her run away based solely on her word she's old enough that I won't be charged with kidnapping a minor. She could be lying. She could change her mind, change her story and I could end up on death row. I am a moron.

We were ten miles away, making good time, before we spoke. She sat turned away from me, looking out the window, as far to the other side of the car as possible. Her name was Jehovannah Dorinda for short. Not an attractive name. I told her mine, which is Jack.

It's natural to jump to conclusions. I assumed she was illiterate, exposed only to the Bible and her group's preaching. I keep a map lying open next to me. When Dorinda picked it up and asked where we were, I treated her in my worst patronizing manner. Turned out she knew Milton and Spenser, John Donne, Gerard Manley Hopkins, indeed a wide variety of poetry, together with prose that I gathered was selected for its lack of sexuality. 

"I'm sorry. I just . . . I assumed you couldn't read." She ignored me. "Well, now you can read more. If you want." 

"That's what I want." 

Silence descended. 

"Dory, let's talk about something. Anything. You know you can look at me. I'm not going to touch you or do anything. We need to decide what happens next."

"I like learning. I want to learn more." Her hands twitched. "I'm of age to be wed."

"You don't want that?"

"I don't like him. He was picked for me, but I don't like him. I've never liked him." I was dying to ask why. The idea that she was running toward learning fascinated me. That she was running away from a man bothered me. "He thinks I know too much. He thinks I should be quiet."

"If you were any quieter, you wouldn't speak at all."

She'd been raised in the cult since she was five or six years old, when her mother had joined. Maybe her childhood memories were the force driving her to run. She knew very little about the world. Their children were raised in extreme modesty, always covered, always averting their eyes from any male and any older female. I figured that she would get a look at the world outside and then go back.

I told her about my vacation. It was difficult to coax much out of her, so I suggested we treat this as an adventure. At the end of the ride, she could go back or continue - and I explained I had no idea what that meant, maybe finding some government agency to help her. With no apparent enthusiasm, but with evident determination, she agreed.

The first step was obvious. She needed the basics: clothes from the proper century, a toothbrush. I was then reminded why people love Wal-Mart.

Being in Wal-Mart with Dory was probably comparable to taking a villager from Borneo to Disney World. I set ground rules. She had to walk next to me, not some modest distance behind. She had to lift her head and act like she wasn't afraid she'd be clubbed for peeking. "We're trying to look like everyone else. I don't want to get arrested because people think I'm dragging a runaway girl around." 

She didn't know her size. In anything. And Wal-Mart doesn't overflow with sales help in women's underwear. She was lost. I evaluated the bulk of her clothing and picked out a few choices in pants. These were rejected. I tried again, going larger. Rejected. 

"Come on, Dory. You know how large you are but I don't. You're going to have to pick out clothes."

"I can't pay for anything." She apparently hadn't realized that getting clothes required money. At least she knew about money.

"I can. I am. That's part of my helping you." She was hesitating. "This isn't going to cost me much. Really. It's not a big deal. I'm not taking you to Prada . . . and that's a joke because I can buy you everything here for less than one pair of pants at an expensive store like Prada. But you have to do it; I can't."

She bit her lip, a habit I'd already noticed - and it did remind me of a rabbit. She picked out some jeans and a few shirts to start. 

"How are they supposed to fit?"

"Look around, kid. Dress like other people."

As I spoke an enormous woman walked by, belly hanging over her elastic waist band, a short tight shirt, with one of those angel wing tattoos on her backside. "Just use your head. OK?"

I stopped a sales associate with the name tag "Ellen" and asked if my girlfriend could wear clothes out or if we had to pay for them first. I didn't want to be stopped for shoplifting. Ellen offered to write up a slip that we could take to the cashier with the tags from the clothes. Then, in her infinite kindness, she went into the dressing room to help Dory. 

Ellen emerged twice, each time scooting through the racks and returning with armfuls of shirts, "ladies undergarments", shorts, and so on. Truth be told, if I hadn't seen Dory walk in, I wouldn't have recognized her when she came out. My first thought was embarrassment that I'd chosen big clothes when she obviously weighed maybe 100 pounds. My second thought was that she was probably lying about being eighteen. 

I am a jerk. After tossing the bag full of new clothes into the shopping cart and taking firm hold of the slip I hoped would keep us out of trouble, I immediately brought up the age issue. She looked down. 

"I do not lie." 

Walking around Wal-Mart with Dory. That should be a chapter heading. I walked in with an oddball and walked out with a pretty, petite blonde dressed in slightly over-sized jeans. As we neared the cash registers, Dory became slightly agitated. I assured her cost wasn't a problem. 

"Relax. I'm enjoying the transformation. It's fun watching you."

"It's not that." She indicated a young mother pushing a cart. "I want to make my hair like that." 

"You've never had a ponytail?" No, she shook her head. 

"Do you want lipstick and make-up too?" That hit a nerve. She'd been looking at the women in the store, some made-up, some without. 

"Lipstick." 

I was really enjoying this. Like playing dress-up with a real live doll. I never played with dolls so this was definitely a kick. 

Our next big decision came near dinner. I was getting hungry and I needed a place for us to stay. I offered a separate room but she said she'd feel safer with me. 

"You don't have to worry about me doing anything to you. You understand that, don't you?" She nodded. 

Nodding and not talking can be annoying. Here we were, two strangers from different universes, me helping her run away from a boy and toward learning, possibly facing life in prison, and she nods or shakes her head.

I brought up my problem over dinner when I realized that she'd never been to a restaurant and had no idea what to eat. She'd never had soda or candy, which explained her teeth. She'd never been to a doctor. She'd never had caffeine. I did a lot of head shaking myself. She made an effort to talk, and she raised her head more though she never looked directly into my eyes.

We traveled. I decided to keep to my normal vacation thing, driving side roads, visiting old house museums, trying to find decent food. We slept in separate beds. She dressed and undressed in the bathroom. Modesty was preserved.

The last days were approaching. No police in the rear view. No "Have you seen this girl" headlines on CNN. Dory told me her group was so removed from the world they could never go to the police. I started to believe her. I also started to worry about what was going to happen to her. 

Dory was, as they say, a mere slip of thing. A few inches over 5 feet, blonde hair, pointy nose, narrow face, very pretty, no curves I could see and no way of fending for herself except maybe as a reader of epic poetry. Perhaps I could get her a job reciting poetry to retired english teachers.

What would become of her? Prostitute? Porn star? Junkie? Where would she go? 

We were staying at a Marriott, the last night before my longish drive into the City. I was sitting at the little round table.

She was in the bathroom. When she came out, I said, "We have to talk about what comes next." She drew up her shoulders. "Maybe you should sit with me." 

I started to speak, but she raised her hand as a stop sign. That surprised me. She'd never interrupted me before but now she'd actually raised her hand.

"Don't you want me?"

Have you ever been flummoxed? If you have, then you know what that word means and what it feels like. 

"You don't belong to me." I thought that's what she meant. Ownership goes with possession.

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh." Now I was beginning to see a light. Why can't I say what I think to this girl? Why can't I ask her what she means? "Oh," I said again.

"Do you know what I mean?"

Bless you. "No . . . ah . . . maybe . . . ah. God, Dory just tell me."

"You always call me Dory. You always have, from the first time you said my name. In the car when you asked me to talk, you called me Dory."

When you don't have a thought in your head, your eyes look around as if the movement will shake something loose. I never thought about her name. I called her what I thought she should be called. That was Dory.

"You didn't look like a Jehovannah or a Dorinda." I paused. "I'm not exactly sure what a Dorinda looks like, but you looked like a Dory."

"That's what I want. I want to be Dory."

Now I smiled. This was easier. "How can I help you be Dory?"

I never see these things coming. I don't get how life works. Dory got up, took my hand and pulled me gently to my feet. She backed toward the bed and, as the back of her leg bumped into it, she started to fall back and reached for me. I found myself in her arms and she in mine. She looked me in the eyes. For the first time. Then her eyes closed, her mouth opened and our lips met. 

Dory had never been kissed but she'd seen enough on television over the past days that she knew the general idea. A minor tooth bump, followed by her habit of biting her lip. A genuine unsureness about what to do with the tongue. And then total surrender. Kissing like it was God's method for drawing out your soul. 

Time disappeared. Our tongues transmitted our thoughts. I felt the roof of her mouth, the insides of her teeth. Suction increased, passion swelled and ebbed in gentle waves. 

My hands explored her, at first through her shirt then she twisted so I could pull it up. Along her back, feeling her shoulder blades, the ends of her ribs. I found the curve of her waist that had been hidden by her loose fitting clothes. We paused, not really seeing each other, and my shirt was off. Her bra disappeared and my hand cupped her soft breast, tracing circles around her hard nipple. Our breaths came heavier. I ran my tongue past her collar bones and she arched her back and pushed her left nipple into my mouth, then pulled away and brushed her right nipple across my cheek. 

I was besotted. Words cannot describe how completely absorbed I was in her.

Drawing together my last vestige of decency, as her protector, as her rescuer, I asked, "Do you really want to do this?" She nodded. I had learned to hate nodding. That brought me back to reality.

One of Dory's hands was around my shoulder, while the other was lightly touching my neck. "Do you understand what comes next?" She started to nod, but saw my flash of annoyance. 

"I want to fuck."

That was blunt. 

"I won't get pregnant. My period is regular and I'm due in a few days."

I should know better than to talk when I should be fucking. As I started to speak, Dory interrupted me, "Stop talking. I want you." The hand on my shoulder moved to my waist and began to rub my crotch. 

I kissed her more deeply than before. My pants came off. Her hand felt for and took hold of my cock. Our mouths separated and she gasped "oh" in my ear. I started to undo her pants. She helped and they were off, together with her panties. I rubbed my hand over the curve of her hip, my favorite part of a woman. I reached for her, my fingers kneading and stroking her clit, feeling around the opening of her pussy, brushing against the soft skin of her inner thighs.

We couldn't hold back. Her legs spread. I got between them and held my cock to her opening. "Tell me if this hurts too much." I pushed in. She grabbed me, "oh" she said. I pushed a little more. Oh she feels so wet, so juicy, so tight, so good. I pushed more and Dory's legs went further apart. 

I was now most of the way in. I lifted my head from hers. "Yes?" I asked. 

"Uh-huh."

"Tell me if . . . " I started to say, but Dory pulled me toward her, pushing her hips up. We were off. I started to fuck her, stroking in and out, getting a rhythm going and then breaking it up with a harder stroke or a pause. She worked with me. She shuddered as I pounded her harder. She moaned when I'd rock her hips from side to side, pressing my pubic bone against her clit. Her hands lightly held my shoulders as I pumped into her.

"Dory. Dory," I whispered.

"Yes," she panted.

"I'm coming inside you." I pumped harder, faster, faster, longer strokes, the urge built inside me, inside my cock now, grinding into her, holding out for one last hard pump and then another and I came, spurting inside her, again and again.

She breathed. She held me. We were covered in sweat. I rolled off her. She lay next to me, lifted a hand to her face and then rolled her legs across my middle. She curled against my shoulder. 

We cooled down. I listened to the hum of the air conditioning. The sun was going down, the room turning gray. 

Dory swung her legs off me and sat up on the edge of the bed. She shook herself, stood and went to the bathroom. I heard the toilet flush and the water run in the sink. She came back and turned on the desk lamp. She stood next to the bed, looking down at me. I looked up at her. She sat down, and with her right hand pushed the hair back from my forehead. She looked into my eyes and bit her lip. It reminded me of a rabbit.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Dory." 

Dory Ch. 02



Her thin, naked body pressed against me under the covers. Her breast touched my chest and I traced circles around the nipple. Large nipples on small, shapely tits. 

"You're awake," she said.

"Duh."

She wrapped her hand around my cock. She squeezed it.

"Tell me again," she said.

"Pull up on it, not down. That's better. You're definitely getting the hang."

She knelt on top of me, her hair dangling in my face, one hip raised. She put my cock in her pussy and squirmed down until I was all the way in her. She put her hands on my shoulders and lifted her hips, pulling her pussy off my cock, then thrust down. I lay back, letting her tits fill my hands, as she fucked me. 

"Uh, uh. Uh. Uh. Uh." She was uninhibited about making noise. "Uhhh." She came, holding herself still on my cock. She leaned on to my chest and put her lips to mine. I'd never had a woman come from straight fucking without any pussy licking or manipulation. I didn't think a woman could come so fast.

I put my hands under her ass and lifted her higher on my chest. I gripped her, bent my hips up and started to pump in and out. 

"Good. Fuck me," she breathed.

Her pussy was different from any other I'd experienced, not that I'd had all that much experience. Wet and smooth, but rubbery and alive, like it was not only a hole but a second mouth grabbing and sucking on my cock.

I hit the right angle and the sound of fucking filled the darkened room. Thwap, thwap, thwap. She likes it hard. Her ass is so firm, her legs so strong. I yank her ass cheeks apart and together, pulling them, pushing them.

"Oh, oh, oh, oh," she sounds like a train puffing at high speed.

What a fuck this girl is! She's breathing so hard, I'm afraid she's going to pass out. I slow down. Thwap . . . thwap . . . thwap. I feel her stiffen. Oh man, she's actually coming again. 

Her open mouth drags on my cheek, my nose, anything it can feed on. I'm afraid that if I fuck her too hard, she'll bite off my nose. I pick up speed carefully, thwap, thwap, thwap, and come in her pussy.

"Great fuck," she says. She kisses me on the lips and rolls off.

I'm half asleep as the morning light filters in. I hear a noise and half raise myself to look. She's sitting at the table eating dry bran flakes. I flop back and spread my arms. God . . . I guess she's always up early. What a pain. I fall back to sleep.

I'm awakened by her lips on mine. She blows into my face - freshly brushed, minty. 

"Last night was my wedding night."

Hmmm. This is news. My tongue is heavy. "I had no idea it was so close." 

"What?" she asked.

I shake my head to clear it. She really wore me out. "You said they were forcing you to marry. I didn't know it was so close." She's impassive. "So soon." No reaction. "In time. You know."

She tilted her face down and went "puh. Then she giggled.

"I meant that last night was my wedding night," she said.

I'm not dumb. I was tired. I lay there, passive.

She pushed the hair back from my forehead. I guess she liked doing that. I knew I liked her doing that. She bit her lip. Looked like a rabbit.

"We don't have wedding ceremonies. An elder tells you it's your time. Then you go to bed." She gave me a meaningful look. "See?"

"So we're married?"

She nodded happily. "I'm yours and you're mine."

Not according to any law in the real world. Dory scampered across the room - I'd never seen a grown person scamper before - and turned on the TV. More learning about the real world or a nascent addiction? What time is it? The clock read 7:10. I flipped on to my stomach and tried to sleep. 

I let the shower run over me. You'd think that with all that sex, I'd be in a better mood. My eyes were heavy, my mind slow. Maybe if my new cult bride wasn't up at the crack of dawn . . . I made the water hotter and aimed it at the back of my neck.

"I love her," I said to myself. I knew that much was true. She'd infiltrated my brain. "But married?" I wondered. I was her protector, her rescuer . . . but husband? Does she love me? She's been watching TV. She knows the real world is nothing like where she's from. Is she using me? For safety? For sex? I said aloud, "All I know is she's 18 years and three months old. Give or take."

Dory had told me her mother had joined the cult when she was five or six. That meant she was born in the real world and that meant she probably had a birth certificate and a social security number. I shook myself. I didn't even know her last name. Or what state she was from. And Jehovannah Dorinda - what were the odds that was her real name?

I turned off the water and stood in the warm mist. I dried myself, then wrapped a towel around my waist and walked back in the room. Dory looked away from the TV and laughed. 

"Take that off," she said. "You look stupid."

I looked down at myself. I thought I was being a gentleman. Dory hopped out of her chair, stark naked, and came to me. She undid my towel, bent at the waist and put my dick in her mouth. A few seconds later, she pulled away. Then she led me by my cock to the end of the bed, put my cock back in her mouth, pushed me into a sitting position and then turned so she could suck my cock while watching CNN Headline News. 

"Ell me eff um ooin iss wong," Dory said with her mouth full of me.

She'd drawn the blinds so the morning sun filled the room. I took the opportunity to examine her body. I ran my hand over the parts of her I could reach - what smooth skin, what great legs. Even her ankles were pretty. Her legs were almost hairless. I lifted an arm - just a tiny patch of light blonde. I leaned back and took a good look at the pussy I'd eaten and fucked - another small blonde patch. 

Dory stretched out next to me, still sucking. She flipped the channels, stopping at ESPN.

"Wha iss at?" she asked.

"Baseball. Do you know it?"

"Uh,"she grunted and flipped the channel. She stopped on HGTV. She may have grown up isolated from the society, but she's still a woman. 

I like getting my dick sucked, but not especially while watching House & Garden TV. So I grabbed one of her legs and pulled it over my head. I stuck a finger in her pussy and played with her labia. I sucked on her clit, which got me a harder suck at the other end.

Dory lifted her head from my cock. "Fuck now," she said. It wasn't a demand but it wasn't a request either. She stood up and looked down at me, tilting her head from side to side quizzically. 

"What?" I asked.

"If I face this way . . ." She wanted to watch TV while fucking. 

"Turn around," I said. 

I let her figure it out. She got me into her, but couldn't find a place for her legs. She tried spreading and sitting but that meant no stroking. She tried bending and pushing, which I liked, but she couldn't see the TV. She finally bent her legs under her and rode me. I tried to rub her clit, but she pushed my hand away.

"Too much." She stopped moving. "If you get all the way on the bed, I can do more." She hopped off. I scooted toward the pillows. "Not so far," she said. I moved down until my knees were draped over the edge. 

Dory mounted me, facing the TV, and started to ride my cock. I didn't expect her to be so sexy about it. She rolled her hips and swayed. She tipped forward and pushed down with only her pussy. 

"Where did you learn that?" I gasped.

"Huh?" She was lost in fucking and watching three people redecorate a living room. 

"How did you learn how to make love like this?"

Dory turned to look at me, breathing hard. She said, "I'm fucking my husband," and turned back to the TV. 

As Dory fucked me like a porn star in heat, I reflected on the shy, modest girl she'd been until the day before. She wouldn't show her navel then and now she wouldn't get dressed - wouldn't let me get dressed. She wouldn't look me in the eye and now she's humping me like a wet dream.

"Dory," I called out. "It's a commercial." 

"Those are the best part." She fucked me harder.

For God's sake, woman, my dick can only take so much. "Do you have a last name?" 

Her body shook with an orgasm. She shuddered. "Mattson," she said. She turned to me. "I can't go anymore." Then she hopped off and put my cock back in her mouth.

"Do you know where you're from?" I asked.

"Hmmm?" she mumbled, clicker in hand. She stopped on the Weather Channel.

"I'm going to come in your mouth." I couldn't hold back anymore. 

"Hmmm?" Still not paying attention. An animated warm front swept across the nation's midsection, showers sprouting over the Southeast. I'm going to be sprouting soon.

"Dory." Nothing. "Dory." Oops. I shot my load in her mouth. Her hand flew up involuntarily. She made a sound in her throat. She swallowed and looked at me, making a face.

"I tried to warn you."

"What was that?" she asked.

"I came in your mouth."

She ran her tongue across her lips. "Salty." She was tasting it in her mouth. "Good." She smiled, then she rested her head on my thigh to watch more TV.

Geez, I thought. She's amazing.

"Dory . . . hey!"

She turned.

"Do you know where you're from? I mean where you were born? Or lived when you were a kid?"

"Santa Barbara."

"You're from Santa Barbara, California?" She nodded vigorously. 

"And you know your birthday?"

"April 2nd."

"And your last name is Mattson. Is that one or two t's?" She shrugged.

I got up and dug in my suitcase for my laptop. Dory watched the Food Network. "I wonder if she can cook?" I thought. I connected to the hotel network and looked up how to search for birth records and identities. Most of the results were for adopted kids looking for their birth mothers. Not yet 9 in the morning in California. I refined my search and saved it. 

We arrived at my apartment in early evening. Dory had never seen a city - or at least had no memories of one. She took it in with the same eerie calm she'd shown when we'd driven away from her former home.

I dropped my bags, opened my apartment door and reached to pick up Dory. "Tradition," I explained. I carried her into the living room, then went to get the bags. 

"I need to pee," she said.

"Bathroom's that door." I pointed.

"You're not going to carry me?"

All right, I thought. I'll carry you. I picked her up. I carried her the other way, into the kitchen. Then I carried her past the bathroom again and into the bedroom. 

"I really have to pee." 

I carried her into the bedroom closet, then backed out. I walked right past the bathroom again and carried her into the utility closet. She had the idea now and was laughing. She kissed my cheek and forehead.

"I'll pee on you." 

I carried her into the bathroom. 

"Are you going to put me down?"

"It's traditional that you pee in your pants."

"Okay, I will."

I put her down fast. 

Dory explored the apartment while I contacted some California leads that might be able to get us her birth records. We went out to eat. Thai food. She loved the Pad Thai. She tasted my Chili Duck and tried to put out the fire by drinking water.

"Water doesn't help. It's an oil. Try eating noodles or rice."

We made love. At least I made love. When we were done Dory whispered, "Great fuck" in my ear. As I drifted into sleep, I realized she'd never once used the word love.

The next few days, no skip that, the next few weeks were a combination of the normal uncertainties involved with getting to know a new intimate companion and the unexpected discoveries related to living with a Martian. She loved books - thank heaven, because otherwise she'd have become a TV junkie. She would not, absolutely would not leave the apartment without me. She was scrupulously clean. She wore the exact same three outfits in strict rotation. She didn't know how to open an umbrella, though she'd read about them. She'd never heard a foreign language and became so fascinated by two Chinese girls talking that she stepped into the street to hear them better and was almost run down by a bike messenger.

She was totally without shame about her body as long as we were in our apartment. And she was compulsively modest outside. I made room for her stuff but when I opened her drawer by mistake it was empty. I found her things neatly folded and tucked in a plastic bag next to the water heater. 

"Why aren't you using your drawer?" I asked.

"You were using the space before, so you need it." 

She wouldn't budge until I took a drawerful of my things, put them in a bag and tossed them into the utility room. 

We got along. We got along like a house on fire. Sex was consistently powerful and passionate. If it's a man's fantasy to make a woman come over and over, she fulfilled that and more. But there was more than sex. Her intelligence and natural curiosity enthralled me. She was shy at first about asking questions, preferring to connect ideas on her own and then present an opinion, but as the days passed she became almost chatty. She was the first woman who truly enjoyed my love of trivia - though it wasn't until later that she realized not all people care about manhole covers, street light timing systems, terra cotta building decorations, how elevators work - the details most people take for granted as they go about their day. 

Dory's personality was alternately child-like - not childish - and oddly remote. She'd never used a phone before I'd met her, but now she'd grab it before I could and start speaking. My phone associated caller ID numbers with names from its address book. My brother was listed, appropriately, as Shithead. He called. Dory said, "Hello Shithead" and handed me the phone. 

"What the fuck was that about?" he asked.

"I'm living with a psychic," I replied. "She read your personality through the phone."

When my friends asked who that strange girl was answering my phone, I told them I paid extra for service like that. 

We took long walks in the evenings. I quickly learned not to be surprised that Dory knew the local history or street directions in areas she'd never visited. She read during the day - including guidebooks and maps - and her memory was fantastic. 

I played little jokes on her, harmless things like making up silly facts about a building. Once she caught on, we turned it into a game. She'd tell me things she'd read but might be making up, and I'd tell her stories about the stores we'd see, about city politics - which I might be making up. 

Dory trusted my motives. She felt or understood that I would never hurt her, that everything I said or did was meant in the best way. It was only with time that I realized our relationship was truly based in her trust. 

We'd lie in bed and talk. She didn't share her experiences as a narrative, like in a story where we did this and then we did that and this is how I felt. If an event or story from her childhood came up in context, she'd include it as a natural part of the conversation. I remember being incredibly curious. When I was at work, I'd think about her life almost obsessively. When we were actually together, the moment was all that mattered. 

But Dory never said the word love. It was always fuck. Fuck me. I want to fuck. Great fuck. Never let's make love. Never I love you. 

Her body enthralled me. I'd had girlfriends before, even an almost fiancée. With the other girls, sex would change - this time passionate and this time not, periods of heat mixed with fallow times. There was eventually a loss of interest.

Sex with Dory was and has largely remained constant, both in frequency and in substance. She was astonishingly creative at the simple act of moving my cock in and out of her pussy or mouth. She always put out with intensity, even if she was watching television, and always came, often more than once. I found the simple act of holding her as she sucked my cock, just rubbing her shapely ass and kissing it, could give her an orgasm. 

On the 12th day, I couldn't stand it anymore and asked her, "Do you love me?" She looked at me.

"Do you know what I mean?" She looked at me. "Do you know what love is?" I was getting worked up. "You say we're married but the only word you use is fuck. You fuck me. Do you love me, Dory? Do you love me?"

She began to cry. She fell in a heap on the floor. I dropped down next to her. I guess she didn't love me. I guess she couldn't pretend any longer. 

I put my hand on her heaving back. I knew at that moment that I loved her. The realization filled me with sadness - that I loved this wonderful, strange creature who couldn't bear to let me down but who couldn't tell me the truth. 

"I understand," I said gently. She cried harder. This wasn't easy. I could see no way out. 

"Listen. I know what you're feeling. It's all right. You don't have to love me. I'll take care of you. I will." I paused. I knew I had to say the words though hearing them would rip out my heart. "I love you," I said. "It'll be okay."

Dory exploded. She whirled and in one motion threw her arms and legs around me. Her hug squeezed the air out of me. "I love my husband," she cried. "I love my husband."

I could barely breathe. She squeezed me harder. My God she's strong. Who did she love? 

"Is that me?" I gasped.

Her grip relaxed. My ribs thanked her. "Is that me?" I asked again. 

Dory's mouth pressed against my ear. "I love you, my husband," she murmured. 

I took that in. All the way in. All the way into my soul. It was liberation. Dory kissed my nose and chin, then rooted in my neck.

I finally managed to whisper, "Why did you cry? Why the big reaction?" 

"You had to tell me first." 

"Is this one of those cult things?"

She opened her eyes. "You mean it's not the usual way?" 

You've got to laugh. I did.

That evening, I heard from an identity search firm. I did more than hear. They emailed me a pdf of a birth certificate for Regina Erin Mattson, born on April 2nd eighteen years and now almost four months ago in Santa Barbara, California. Her mother was Laurel Cantiss Mattson and her father Robert James Mattson. She was born at 7:16 in the morning. It was a Tuesday.

They also sent me her social security number and a listing of Mattsons in the Santa Barbara area. 

Dory was watching TV. It was almost 6 Pacific Time. On a whim, I called the only Robert Mattson listed. He answered on the third ring. 

"Mr. Mattson?" He said yes.

"Do you have a daughter named Regina?"

"Who are you?" he said.

I tried to explain. "I met a girl who says her last name is Mattson. She's eighteen and she's from Santa Barbara. Her mother joined a religious cult when she was little."

He interrupted me. "You've seen Reggie?" 

Reggie? That figures. "Yes. Is that your daughter, sir?" I was trying to figure out what to say next when I realized he was crying. "Hello?" I said. It was the best I could come up with.

"Is she . . . Is she all right? I mean, how is she?" He was trying to regain control. 

"She's fine. Really. She's fine." She's a couch potato, but she's fine. "Mr. Mattson, can you tell me what happened with her mother?"

"Who are you?" he asked.

I didn't know how much to tell him. "If you'll tell me about . . ." I almost said Dory, "about her, then I'll tell you."

He started right up. I heard him sniffle. "We got divorced. Her mother got involved with a weird church." He paused. "She took off with Reggie. I never heard from her. I tried to find them but . . . That was . . . that was when Reggie was six. No, almost six."

"She was living in an isolationist cult in the mountains," I said.

He didn't catch the "was". 

"Where in the mountains? How do I get there?"

I wavered. "Can you describe your daughter?"

"She was so little."

"Try."

"She looked like her mother. She had blonde hair, blue eyes." He hesitated. "I don't know what she'd look like now. Her mother had a pointy chin. Small. She'd probably be small. I'm not very tall and her mother wasn't 5 feet. Is that enough?" He took a deep breath.




Dory Ch. 02



"Your daughter watches too much television," I said. I was actually talking to my sort of father. Dory's father. 

"Too much television?" he repeated.

"Yup."

"That's all you know?"

Is that all I know? Is that all I know? "She's about 5 feet 2, doesn't weigh 100 pounds. She's very clean. Knows more about epic poetry than your average professor."

"You know my daughter."

Sort of. "Um," I said. "I'm kind of married to her." Kind of as in not legally. 

Silence on his end.

"Let me explain. She ran away from the cult. I helped her and we fell in love." I carried the phone into the kitchen, took a Fresca from the refrigerator and swigged it. "She knew her last name, her birthday and that she was from Santa Barbara. I paid a company to search for her birth records."

"You mean she's with you? Now?" 

I looked at Dory. She was physically in the room but her head was lost in TVLand. "Not right this minute," I told him. "I didn't want to upset her." He started to protest. "She doesn't even know her name is - or was - Regina." 

"What's her name?" he asked.

" Jehovannah Dorinda."

"Oh my God," he said.

"My feeling exactly." I drained the Fresca. "I call her Dory." 

I gave him my phone number and an email address. I told him I'd talk to Dory about him. I hung up.

"Hey, Reggie," I called.

No response. But I could set off a bomb next to her and she might not move. She loves The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

I sat next to her on the couch and pinched her nipple. "Hey, Reggie," I said.

Without looking up, she said, "Is that a name for my breast?"

"Could be. Actually, it's the nickname for Regina Erin Mattson." She looked at me. "Which is you," I continued. "Your father is Robert James Mattson. He misses you."

Dory turned off the TV. "My father?" 

"I just talked to him."

"My name's Regina." Uh-huh, I nodded.

"I like Dory," she said.

"I like Dory, too."

"You talked to my father?" 

"Yes." I stroked her hand. "I wanted to talk to you before you talked to . . . I didn't want to upset you."

"Why would that upset me?"

I tell you it's definitely like dealing with a Martian. Most anyone, you tell them you found not only their real name but their long lost parent and they'd cry or freak out or something. Not Dory. 

"He called me Reggie?" she asked. Dead calm, no breeze at all. I nod. "That's nice," she said.

"Did you know your parents divorced and your mother basically kidnapped you?"

She shook her head. No visible emotion. 

"Does any of this bother you?"

"Why should it?"

"Do you want to talk to your father?" She raised her hands, managing to indicate in that one little motion of course, who wouldn't, why are you acting so strange?

I called her father. "Hi. It's Jack. Dory, pick up the phone."

"Honey, is that you?" her father sobbed.

"Is it me?" Dory said. That was addressed to me. 

"Yes, it is," I answered.

"It's me," Dory said.

Her father flew out the next day. We met him at the airport. Dory had never been to an airport before. She didn't like it much. I told her no one likes airports, except maybe the people who work there and probably not even them. 

I'd like to say they had a tearful reunion, but I'd warned Robert not to expect much emotion. He brought pictures with him. Dory did look like her mother, with the same pointy chin. She had her father's blonde hair and blue eyes. Her mother was beautiful. 

Dory honestly had only the vaguest memories of her father, but more importantly she'd been raised to treat her elders with distant respect. I explained to Robert what I could. His reactions ranged from excitement at seeing her to depression to bewilderment to acceptance that she would never be the little girl he hadn't seen in over a dozen years.

That first visit Robert stayed for five days. He slept on the fold out couch in the second bedroom I used as an office. He saw enough of Dory and me to know we were happy. He saw enough of Dory to know she was odd. 

We went out during the day and Robert was excited by her liveliness. 

"She's really smart," he whispered to me at lunch. "Her mother was brilliant, too." 

"You don't have to whisper. She doesn't care - maybe doesn't notice - if you talk about her."

That night, Dory was as usual curled into me on the couch, TV remote firmly in her control, when Robert asked me to come into the kitchen. I started to stand but Dory resisted - she's very strong for her size. I may have been reading too much into her action, but I thought she wanted to hear what we said. I looked at Robert. 

"Can't we just talk here?" I said.

He motioned, "It's about . . . ", meaning her. I shrugged, so he continued. "Why won't she look me in the eyes?" he asked.

"They're big on modesty," I explained. "You should have seen what she was wearing when we met." I described her outfit and our trip to WalMart. I told him about the 3 outfits that she rotated - and tapped Dory on the head hard while saying that I wanted to buy her more clothes. She rubbed her head but otherwise showed no sign that she'd heard. 

I turned Dory's head toward me and kissed her. "Would you please try to look your father in the eye."

"I'm freaking him?" She asked. She'd been working random phrases from television into conversation.

"Yah, dude." 

She kissed me. "I'm not a dude." Completely serious.

"Dude-ette?"

"Not that either." More deadpan. 

"If you're not a dude, don't say freaking," I said.

I looked at Robert and started to shrug when I realized that shrugging had become . . . well, it had become my thing. It still is. People probably call me The Shrugger behind me back. Or maybe Shrug. 

Dory managed to look at her father when speaking with him, but only in the apartment. At least she wore clothes while he was there. 

While Robert and I watched Dory eat her usual breakfast of dry, unsweetened cereal, I told him about the "marriage" thing. 

"You can't leave her," he said. I agreed. I had no intention of leaving her. So the three of us went to City Hall and Dory and I took out a marriage license. She wanted to know why she had to do this. I tried to explain that legal marriage gave us both rights, but it was heavy going because the more I told her, the more questions she had. I finally asked her if she'd do it as a favor. 

"Of course," she said. I later realized Dory would only agree to most things if I asked her to do me a favor. Arguing with her was like trying to convince a rock to move - if it does, it's only a coincidence, not because of what you said. 

The next day, after the 24 hour waiting period had expired, Robert came with us to City Hall to witness our legal union. I was moved by the experience. When the magistrate said, "You may kiss the bride," Dory put her head down. I explained that kissing in front of these people was part of the tradition. She then kissed me so hard it made magistrate uncomfortable. If I'd told her we had to fuck right there, she'd have been naked on my cock in a flash.

When we got back to the apartment, I carried Dory over the threshold again. When I put her down in the living room, she complained, "Only one door this time?" So I carried her through every door. I made sure to bump her head as often as possible. She knew I was doing it on purpose and laughed louder than I'd ever heard her. 

------------------------------

"How did you two meet?" 

That was always the hardest question to answer. "I abducted her," was my standard reply.

Dory would always say, "He rescued me." 

If pressed, I'd say we met on vacation. 

My mom used to take in stray cats. Some became lap cats overnight while others remained skittish for years, until a steady diet of affection taught them the pleasures of being stroked and rubbed. It wasn't something the cat could control and it had nothing to do with intelligence. Some of the cats were genetically more feral. Dory reminded me of a feral cat that had been brought inside. 

I never worried about her with other men. She never looked at them. I mean that literally. She somehow managed to look around men without actually seeing them. I sometimes wondered if one of the reasons she loved TV was for the opportunity to check out guys. 

If a man other than me spoke to her, she'd look down. That got me in trouble more than once because she gave the impression that she was intimidated by me, that I controlled her. More than one woman speculated I abused her. 

The exact opposite was true. I don't mean she abused me. I mean that I never won an argument - well, we didn't exactly argue, but whatever it was that we did, I never won. Her will was iron. Not iron, something stronger like diamond. 

We spent our first Thanksgiving together at my oldest sister Claire's house. My mom flew in, as did my brother. Dory and I drove. The thought of her first plane ride being in the Thanksgiving rush was too much. 

That sister - I have two - is a lesbian and used to be fairly militant. Though having a stable, loving relationship and raising two sons has mellowed her, she still has an acid tongue when it comes to me and my short comings. One look at Dory, her head tilted down, my hand on her shoulder, and Claire was convinced I was taking advantage of a vulnerable girl. She told my mother I was probably beating the poor thing.

Every single thing I did rubbed my sister wrong. Dory never worried about the impression she gave people, but I'd asked her, as a favor, to follow my lead so she'd seem more normal. Yes, I did say "normal" to her. I'd learned that words which might hurt other people didn't affect her at all. 

I suggested to Dory that she eat this, not that, that she sit here, that she help with this. When I told Dory not to eat the pie - she avoided sugar - Claire actually pulled on my hair and dragged me out of the room.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. Actually, she didn't quite get the last word all the way out when Dory hit her in the back. Hard.

"What the fuck?" my sister spluttered.

My hair hurt. "Dory," I said. "Claire, who is much older than me," the last I emphasized, "has always . . . " I stopped, realizing that I had no idea how to explain this. "You don't have to hit her." 

"He's mine," Dory said, with a tone of resolve usually associated with drill instructors or military dictators.

Claire looked at me, then threw up her hands and stormed out. She avoided me the rest of the evening, all of Friday and until Saturday night. I could see her watching me. I knew she was listening to everything I said to Dory. 

The kids were in bed. The adults were all in the living room, sharing the "remember this" stories that both unite and divide families. Dory stood up and pulled me off the couch. She led me into the family room, picked up the remote, pushed me into a recliner, hopped into my lap and started to run through the channels. My sister has something like 150 channels so Dory was in heaven. 

My mom called from the other room for me to join them. 

"Can't," I yelled. 

They all came into the Family Room and sat. They looked at Dory. She was watching a Tony Roberts infomercial. I shrugged. 

"She likes this crap? Why doesn't she watch something good?" my mom asked. 

I put my hand in front of Dory's face to get her attention. "Why do you watch this crap?" 

She moved my hand and answered, "I'm interested in cults."

"Tony Robbins is not a cult," Claire said. "He's new age empowerment."

"I grew up in a cult," Dory said. I'd never told anyone how we met. Dory actually looked around the room, though she avoided my brother's eyes. "It was an extreme cult. We were completely isolated from the rest of the world." She paused and changed the channel, stopping at a cooking show. "Cults are expressions of a natural urge that people have to give themselves to a higher power." She tapped me. "Your football games. New Age empowerment. Cults in varying degrees."

My family sat quietly, taking in what they'd heard. My mom ventured, "You grew up in a cult?"

Dory was locked into her cooking show. My mom looked at me. The show was ending. 

"Her mother joined a cult when Dory was five," I offered as explanation.

"When did she leave it?" mom asked. I hesitated a tad too long. "Oh my God," mom said.

My brother catches on quickly. "You mean you were telling the truth when you said you abducted her?"

"He rescued me," Dory said. "I was running away. He helped me."

My family looked at us. "I gave her a ride," I said as off-handedly as possible, trying to make the story more reasonable. 

"You gave her a ride," Claire said.

"He took me shopping at Wal-Mart and then we got married," Dory said.

Some families react with silence. Mine makes noises. Not words, just noises of disbelief, like a herd of skeptic beasts. 

"It wasn't exactly like that," I said. "She needed clothes. And she needed help." I paused. "We fell in love. Then we got married. Her dad was a witness." I left out Dory's definition of marriage. "It happened fast, yes. But look at us. We're doing great together. We're happy. I'm happy. Dory, are you happy?"

"Not this minute," she answered. She was waiting for the next half hour of shows to start.

"I mean with me."

"Of course, I am."

"Do you love me?"

"You're my husband."

"So you love me?"

"You wouldn't be my husband if I didn't love you." Can't argue with logic like that. She kissed me, the kind of kiss you usually don't get in front of your mom, the kind that makes anyone watching either horny or uncomfortable. Dory didn't notice the reactions. 

I turned to my family. "She watches TV to learn about the world she never saw," I said. "She also knows tons of poetry, a lot by heart. Dory, how much John Donne do you remember?"

"All of the poems. Most of the sermons." 

"She knows Wordsworth, Milton, Cowper, Spenser, you name it. She could teach," I added. Yeah, she could teach as long as no men were in her class. 

Later that evening, my mom took me aside.

"She's very good looking," she said in her indirect but probing style. 

"It's not about sex," I answered. "I honestly love her." Mom tilted her head. She didn't even have to speak. Geez, mom, ease up. "The sex is fantastic." Okay, okay. "She's not a slut. She was a virgin."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" she asked.

I fought the temptation to lie and admitted, "I have no idea what I'm doing. But I like what's happening. I'm just doing the best I can."

You'll certainly have an interesting life," mom said. She didn't necessarily mean that would be a good thing.

On Sunday, Claire walked Dory and me to the car. She kissed Dory and gave me a hug that spoke volumes.

"She runs your life," she said. 

"I know. Believe me, I know."

Claire stared at us. "I'd never have believed it."

"Me neither. But you know . . . I like it." I shrugged. "I really do."

My sister, my nemesis for most of my childhood, put her arms around me again and whispered in my ear, "I'm so proud of you." 

On the ride home, I told Dory what Claire said. "She's never been nice to me. Mom says she resents having had to take care of me when mom was at work."

"I'll hit her again if it helps," Dory offered with a smile. 

She did, too. And still does, every once in a while. And Claire has become Dory's fiercest advocate in the family. Nancy - Claire's partner - has confided that resolving the tensions with me has helped Claire relax. 

"Dory's a gift," she told me. 

"You know, a dory's actually a kind of rowboat." I can't stop being a smart ass. "It's also a kind of fish." 

"That girl is most definitely not a fish."

"Nope. She doesn't taste like fish." I suppose she could taste like a rowboat, but what do I know. 

See what Dory's done? I can talk about pussy with my lesbian sister and her lover. 

Despite what my sister said, I don't fit the classic definition of "pussy-whipped." Dory doesn't trade sex, withhold sex or in any way use her body as a bargaining chip to get what she wants. She doesn't order me around. She just states what she wants in a way that I can't argue or often even discuss it with her.

Dory is never mean to me. It's not like she ignores me - if anything, she gives me too much attention. It's just that she makes certain decisions . . . and with such finality that . . . you get the picture. Spend enough time with us and you'd see that she kind of owns me. 

She couldn't understand why I cared that she liked to fuck while watching television. "Fine," I said. "You want to sit on my cock and watch cooking shows, then I want the same thing during football." She had taken an instant dislike to the major sports. Maybe it was the men. She hated basketball most, probably because the men wore shorts.

You might expect me to say we compromised. We didn't. She likes to fuck, so she fucks me during her shows and fucks me during football games, the only difference being that during football she faces away from the TV. She takes perverse pleasure in jamming her tit in my mouth when I want to watch the play. And I'm convinced she takes it as a challenge to make me come when the game is on the line. 

Dory had trouble leaving the apartment by herself until we developed a list of places where she felt comfortable. The Korean market because two women ran it. The dry cleaner because the owner's wife and sister ran the counter. See the trend. If I'd lived in a doorman building, she'd never have been able to get out - and once out, she'd never have been able to get back in. We needed a doorwoman building.

Other safe spots were delineated by animals and children, ideally both. She felt comfortable visiting almost any store near the local grade school in the early afternoon because kids would be all over. She regularly visited Doris and Elmo, the cats that lived in the old bookstore. Though she never bribed them with treats - not that I saw - the cats recognized one of their own in her. The owner's daughter gave us a picture she took of Dory sitting at their little table reading with the cats arranged like bookends in front of her. It's hanging in the hallway. You can see she's reading Pope, probably The Dunciad if I know my girl. 

She taught me, in her typically Dory way, to get up early every morning. She'd wake up, brush her teeth, eat a handful or two of dry cereal and then suck my cock. Until my internal clock adjusted, I often fantasized about blackout shades that would keep our room so dark we'd sleep until noon.

I sometimes get involved in one of those guy conversations about wives losing interest in sex, how she changed after the wedding or after the first kid, how she used to give blowjobs but now it's straight sex, rollover go to sleep and half the time she doesn't even take off her nightgown. I can't relate. My wife walks around the house naked, sucks my cock for fun and loves the taste of cum - particularly the way it tastes different after eating something strong, like garlic. 

The only sexual act she doesn't particularly like is anal. We tried it. She had an orgasm. She said she preferred my cock in pussy or her mouth. I ask her every now and then if I can fuck her ass - it's so round and firm. She never turns me down and she always comes. She does ask for anal when she's very pregnant. Her pussy and clit get too sensitive, but she wants the feeling of penetration. 

Yes, Dory got pregnant. She simply announced one afternoon that we were expecting. If I hadn't been so completely stunned, I would have been angry - or as close to angry as I can get with her. When I asked why she hadn't told me, Dory rested her fingertips lightly on my chest and said, "I carry the baby. I give birth to the baby. I take the pill - or not. You fuck me the same with or without the pill." In other words, I didn't tell you because I didn't tell you. 




Dory Ch. 02



As you can see, if you don't understand her context, Dory can seem like a jerk. She can be direct when most people are oblique, so her social behavior sometimes veers toward the tactless - when she's not being shy. Our friends have accepted her. To put that more accurately, we're not friends with people who can't see beneath the surface to accept Dory as she is. 

We named the boy Tory. When Tory was almost two, Dory announced she was pregnant again. We named her Cory. Tory is now five and Cory is three. Cory is a handful. She can manipulate any male and knows it - almost the polar opposite of her mom. All my guy friends and all our male relatives are her slaves. Tory is a gentle soul, with all of his mom's heart - but he's normal, thank God, he's normal.

I picked the names. I know they're silly. I could have called the kids Pebbles and Bam Bam and she wouldn't have objected - and yes, she's seen The Flintstones. I guess being called Jehovanna Dorinda changes your perception about the importance of names.
  Her dad and I get along great, but Dory has never grown close to him or to the rest of his family. Robert remarried years ago but didn't have another child, so our kids, his grandkids, are his stars in heaven. My only complaint is that he keeps asking for more pictures. 

Of all the family, Dory is closest to my sister Judy. They get each other, probably because they're both nuts. Jude calls Dory "Marvin," as in Marvin the Martian - says "Yo! Marvin" to get her attention. Everyone else is a little more reserved - even my brother, though Dory stills calls him Shithead when he calls. He was worried my kids would call him Uncle Shithead, but their mother won't let them. I don't know why she has one rule for her and another for them. When Jude got married, Dory was a bridesmaid - she looked like an angel, her hair wrapped around her head in a braid, her blues eyes shining. I was paired with her, of course, since Dory would never walk down the aisle holding another man's arm. Jude is a commercial artist and sends us little cartoons of Dory as Marvin plotting to take over the world. 

I look at our kids and can see in their pointy chins the young girl who looked down as she asked me for help. Dory is a square peg, as odd as she is delightful. She'll never fit completely into this world. Having children has pushed her to adapt, but she can't unlearn what had become second nature. She's still a feral cat, bonded almost exclusively to me and her children. 

We've never heard from Dory's mom, not that she would know how to find us. Dory has told me they were never close. Robert did hook us up with Dory's mother's parents - they live in Fort Myers, Florida - and they introduced us to all her cousins on that side. Nice people, on the whole. I've learned about Dory's mom from them. They say Laurel was always vulnerable and trusting, that she was always looking for spiritual answers. They don't think she was mentally ill, which is somewhat of a relief for me, especially given the kids. Everyone, including Robert and Dory, thinks Laurel fell into the cult in her search for answers and disappeared down its well. Even though I've never met her, I owe her my happiness. I hope she's okay.

We've never gone anywhere near the convenience store where we first met. No special anniversary pretend abduction trips. Dory isn't very sentimental and she certainly doesn't need fantasies to get turned on. 

With the kids getting older, our lives have changed a little. Dory now wears clothes around the house and we can't fuck while watching TV unless the kids are asleep. She still sucks my cock every morning - how else would I know when to get up? 

We actually live in the same building, only in a bigger apartment. When Dory told me she was pregnant, I looked for a new place, but soon realized that she'd have to learn a whole new routine of places she could visit. Luck was with us. We were able to buy the apartment next door and combine the two. 

You may wonder why I'm telling you this. I don't have any moral to offer and God knows Dory is so different I can't imagine giving anyone marital advice. I play in my head our long conversations, nose to nose in bed, her fingers. She loves to rest her fingertips on me. I hear her soft voice reciting Keats. I see her playing Odysseus in our living room, tied to the mast so he can hear the sirens, falling in love with and leaving Dido.

I'm thinking of Tory's first word - Dory was fixing him a bottle when he stretched out his arms and burst out, "Bot! Bot!" I'm thinking of Cory wearing only a diaper, standing in my shoe and holding on to the corner of our bed, her blonde ringlets glowing in the afternoon sun. I'm thinking of Dory lying asleep on the couch, a child tucked under one arm and another across her chest. I'm thinking about my fear when Tory spiked a high fever - and about Dory's calm as she sat with him in the tub and ran cool water over his shoulders. 

I have to go now. Dory is about to have either Rory or Lorie. Even though she doesn't need the reassurance or help, I'm going to hold her hand anyway. She'll do that as a favor to me.