Darting between two men’s fluttering guppy tails assured my desirability. While empowering, shifting back and forth to reciprocate their attention was stressful. The anomaly of segregating my faithful wife persona from cheating adulteress caused exposure paranoia.
Hiding the good wife from Edward was easy. He knew I was married, wasn’t interested in my family life and only demanded devotion the brief times when with him. I obediently wore attire, cosmetics, and jewelry he selected as proof of my loyalty. Only my wedding ring vexed him.
Hubby’s betrayal was the arduous concealment. Unlike Edward, he couldn’t know there was another. Perpetually, even when with Edward, I fretted some detail of concealment was overlooked that would lead to exposure. While our time together was truncated by our varied work shifts, time together remained extensive due to family. When with hubby, only family was allowed into my mind and Edward was blocked as if a nonentity. Edward leaped into life only when we were together but was allowed to creep into swing shift musing.
To keep them segregated and avoid overlap mishaps, I internalized separate endearment tags for myself and them. I nixed Edward’s attempted naming me Sunshine, a term hubby occasionally used. He settled on Sweetie Pie. Hubby had his Sunshine but typically kept it short and referred to me as Hon. I used Honey for him and Sweetie for Edward.
On the bed, after sex, Edward asked, “Sweetie Pie, what’s your love box?
“Love box?”
“Yeah, your vagina, she got a name?”
Edward wanted my vagina’s name which was Vixen but that was hubby’s. I needed an alternate name to avoid betraying hubby and to retain my separate life’s modus operandi. Knowing a few words in Tagalog from Mom I said, "She’s Puki.”
“Puki, eh, sounds sexy. Maybe a little too vulgar. Where’d that come from?”
"It’s Tagalog for vagina.”
“Hmmm... okay, Miss Puki, sounds better.”
Now christened, Miss Puki was Edward’s and Vixen hubby’s, a bit of faithfulness for both. I told neither my Cobra nickname.
Squirt was hubby’s penis, tagged when I first stroked him during our engagement and jumped back in awe as he spewed out. Edward's needed its own logo.
So, I replied, “Sweetie, what’d you name your penis?”
“What makes you think he’s got a name?”
“Just a guess.”
“Well, you’re right. Had to name him, cause he’s always telling me what to do. Did you see the Disney movie, Lady and the Tramp?”
“Movie, I thought it was a cartoon?”
“Yeah, it was but also a movie. You like it?”
“Well, when little, where are we going with this?"
“I liked Tramp, thought he was cool and debonair. Tramp didn’t sound quite right, so I made it Scamp, like a little devil. No Mr. just Scamp.”
I didn’t want his penis logo to be one that other women used or heard. I wanted one of my own.
“I don’t like it. Did you see the movie Camelot?”
“Musical, yeah, long time ago.”
"Well, your Scamp is now Sir Lancelot, okay?”
“Hey, I like it, better than Scamp; how about Lance for short?”
So, it was, it was Sir Lancelot or Lance for short. During sex, separated private tags helped avoid overlap slip-ups.
I also kept any place visited separate, to avoid experience overlap and also provided a tad of faithfulness for hubby. Distance when dining out with Edward aided exposure security. Hubby's only distant restaurants were Chinese ones in San Francisco which Edward knew nothing about.
Edward loved upscale restaurants. In Palo Alto, that included Rickey’s Inn and Restaurant, a vast local landmark. This is where hubby and I went for special occasions which nixed it for Edward. It was also too close and too popular with locals for exposure by someone I knew, so too dangerous.
When suggested by Edward, I’d replied I’d eaten there too often and needed to see new places.
Despite my stealth, after my confession, “We screwed! ”Hubby remained insecure, suspicious and played detective. He would suddenly accuse me of seeing another, then seek hysterical bonding, which I agreed to. Due to time stress, he assumed, if there was someone else, it was someone at work. To encourage this dead-end suspicion, I told stories about engineers at work, then emphatically denied there was anyone else. To off-balance him I accused him of being irrationally jealous as if it was a flaw he needed to correct.
During the workweek, our interaction was a kiss as he left for work and a kiss when he returned home and I left for work. Conversations were hurried exchanges about the food I’d prepared, children’s school issues, house repairs and bills to be paid.
The best subterfuge was to keep the good and wanton wife roles simple and separate.
Workweek "nooner" trysts with Edward were easy to hide. Hubby was at work and their duration was short. A shopping explanation, to make myself look good for him, would cover if he called home. My hounding him to shop with me, which he didn’t like to do, made the shopping excuse a relief for him. He didn't have to go if he did ask where I was.
The best “nooner” cover, however, was a lack of suspicion due to the incongruity of "nooner" sex. With the morning sendoff of hubby and the kids to school, greeting the kids' return from school, cooking dinner before leaving for work and my needed sleep negated affair suspicion. Ever circumspect, I first drove through the Stanford Mall parking lot then onto a quiet residential street to see if I was followed. Assured unfollowed, I scurried to Edward’s and returned in time for the kid’s school return, to cook dinner, and handle family life with a meal and a kiss to hubby as I scampered off to swing shift.
While it’s amazing what can happen in a couple of hours. Anything interesting which occurred was old news by the weekend and easy to remember, or not to remember. The only “nooner” difficulty was sleep deprivation.
Evening dates with Edward were fraught with danger, required stealth planning, and strong backup cover. When Edward’s one night a week off changed to Friday, I called in sick an hour before hubby got home. In front of him, I dressed for work, explained what was for dinner in the oven, kissed him goodbye, drove through the work security gate, waited fifteen minutes then left. I drove to the Bayshore Freeway, took a last-minute exit, meandered a bit aimlessly to affirm there was no one following and went to Edward’s.
To return home, I undressed, showered, air-dried my hair, dabbed on perfume to cover any Edward lingering scent, put back on work clothes and got home between 3 to 6 AM to an asleep husband. If he awoke and wanted me, I encouraged him. While doing so, I co-mingled his image with the security of our home and family and blocked out any thought of Edward.
The hard part was never mentioning anything associated with either guppy to the other. If something occurred with one, no matter how exciting, it could never be mentioned. With my husband, I concentrated on talking about the house, kids, neighbors, work and mutual friends. With Edward, it was where we went, current events, movies and whatever book I was reading. If something too exciting occurred, to suppress, I twisted it into a girl at work story.
My biggest fear was pregnancy which would unravel my life. Having given birth twice, I could never have an abortion. While hubby had his vasectomy, Edward could get me pregnant. Once our affair developed, I told Edward I was going to take the pill. To my surprise, he said no, it would upset my hormone balance. He assured me he didn’t mind condoms.
I thought he might be wary of what I might contract from another. Over time, I twisted his condom use into marriage faithfulness in my mind. In this way, Edward was not “really” in me, only hubby. Later as AIDS vanquished the sexual revolution, it became a stroke of luck.
I suspected hubby’s hysterical bonding was his vicarious excitement of me as a hot-wife, part of his waylaid swinging agenda. He may have initially suggested swinging, not to have sex with other women but to have a hot-wife. He took a keen interest in the things Edward branded me with, all of which fed his suspicions there was someone else. My answer to his questions of where my attire, perfume, jewelry, and cosmetic changes originated, was they reflected our affluent second income. They were undertaken to enhance his pleasure of having me as his wife.
He no longer took me for granted, was obsessed with the fear of losing me, paid attention exclusively to me and lost interest in pornography. To help him, I praised him, tried to please him, stroked his ego when I could and let him win arguments. I acted the perfect wife; one he could be proud of. His friends told him how lucky he was to be married to me.
Edward ignored any mention of my husband and family. When with him, it was as if they didn’t exist. It was him, only him, no other man. He was prone to jealousy and controlled by marking me as his which I consented to. One time I forgot to avoid co-mingling my guppies.
For Valentine's Day hubby bought me a big sheer red panty brief with embroidered heart, his counter branding of me. Foolishly I made a mistake of betraying both guppies
I called Edward the next morning,
"You awake?"
"Yes, Sweetie Pie. What's up?"
"Are you still in bed?"
"No, I'm munching toast. It would be better munching you."
"Get back in bed. I'm coming over. Tell Sir Lancelot, I got a surprise."
"What kind of surprise?
"If I say, it won’t be a surprise. Just stay in bed and don't get crumbs on the sheets. I just cleaned them"
Racing over with the panty on, skipping my usual Mall parking lot drive-through security, I let myself in with the key I now had, scampered up to his bedroom and put my finger to my lips as I entered.
"Shhh, stay in bed! I got your surprise, look-see."
I lifted my skirt and flashed the panty, slowly turned around and back and flouted it with a few old belly dance moves.
Fluttering close, as he watched transfixed, he reached over, grabbed me and pulled me to bed. Still dressed, including shoes, he pushed the crotch aside and we romped hard. Finished we lay next to one another,
"I like my Valentine’s present but you’re a day late."
"Turn you on? Lance seems to like it."
"Look's great. Where’d you get it?'
"Don't question a present."
"Tell me, where?"
"A gift."
"Gift? Who? Who buys you panties? Are you seeing another?"
"Don't be silly."
"Well, who?"
"Oh, don't worry my suspicious Sir Lancelot. It was hubby”
"Take it off! Take it off! Give it to me! I don't want you to wear it."
After stupidly telling the truth, struggling to get it off past my shoes, he grabbed it, roughly finished pulling it off, got up and tossed it in the bathroom wastebasket. Back in bed, he pushed my legs apart and mounted me. He sucked on my neck and gave me a hickey as I squirmed.
It was like my husband did after my, "We screwed," admission. Edward re-staked his claim of me.
Once he finished, I felt my neck, got up with the excuse of needing to pee and looked in the bathroom mirror. He left a big red blotch, marking me as his. Branded with his hickey I retrieved the panty and hid it in my bra. When I came out of the bathroom he had already gone downstairs. I slipped on the panty, descended the stairs and informed him.
"I need to rush home."
"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry Sweetie Pie."
'No, it was a mistake, my mistake. I'm sorry I upset you."
Some girls at work unabashedly showed off a hickey. I wore a turtleneck for a week. Hubby stared but said nothing after my desperate explanation a broom handle was the cause. Edward was apologetic when he called and didn’t mention the rescued panty. He asked what my husband's reaction was, not mentioning but inferring the hickey. I told him he never noticed which made him feel better. I re-learned guppies need to be kept separate to avoid imbroglios. The next of which could upend all my machinations of serving two men.
In response to the red panty fiasco, Edward took me to a lingerie shop at Town and Country Village in Palo Alto, an upscale little shopping center, and bought risqué hipsters embroidered with cheeky, "Ring My Chimes", "Please, Please Me", "Make Me Purr", "Stroke My Fire", "Pull Down To Open", “Try It You’ll Like It” and "Shake And Bake. One even had a zippered crotch. They were to proclaim Miss Puki was his.
Hubby, fascinated with my logo underwear, asked where I got them. I said K-Mart. He went there and couldn’t find any like them. I said it was a closeout. Even though he suspected something, he was aroused if I wore them.
To avoid slipping on gift lies, I bought Edward and hubby identical presents when gift-giving. In response to the Valentine snafu, I bought them identical boxer shorts with little printed bugles. After they had each worn theirs, I switched them. I smiled seeing them prance about with each other’s on.
While kept segregated there was a cross-influence creep. The flow of intermix was more towards my husband. I upgraded his attire and aftershave, changed his hairstyle and introduced things like sushi, cheeses with toast and red wine.
I obeyed Edward’s command and only wore panties he selected but only when with him. With hubby, I disobeyed and wore any which pleased him. Unfortunately, he also liked the ones Edward purchased. Wearing separate panties and comingling their briefs, I two-timed both yet assured both I was theirs.
My transition, the night I changed from girl to woman, continued under Edward’s tutelage. While our time together was limited, he insisted on "dressing" me all the time. In his mind, my attire, perfume, jewelry, and cosmetics were his domain. He was fascinated with my hair and ears and bought several hair clasps and earrings to adorn them to his satisfaction. He would take me to buy cosmetics, watch the sales girl test them on me, purchase what he liked and then apply them on me afterward at his apartment. An artist with me as the canvas.
About once a month, he insisted on re-dressing me in a new outfit, usually matched, semi-formal, dressy attire from shoes to accessories. His propensity was for pencil dresses.
He also was fond of mini-dresses and skirts, usually flared but also of pencil design because he could enjoy looking at my thighs when I got in, out or sat in his Porsche. Sitting in the bucket seat, he loved to look down as he shifted and glance at my thighs to catch a peek glimpse of a panty he bought.
He loved me in bright colors and lace and claimed my complexion made me one of few who could dress in the color violet. Material was very important to him and often the final selection was based on material texture.
On a Friday night date, I arrived in casual work clothes without makeup to provide Edward a clean slate but also to deflect hubby’s suspicions. Edward then fussed on re-dressing me in front of a wall mirror with an expanding wardrobe he kept in his apartment. After I stripped, he selected lingerie, a dress, blouse or skirt, and shoes but never pants or shorts for me to wear. We then applied makeup from lipstick to eye shadow and combed my hair. He then chose earrings and hair clasp to make my final presentation. "Dressed" we went out or sat about until he could no longer stand it and would take me, often still half-dressed. I loved the attention.
Edward wanted me to wear his outfits when not with him. Time was tight, at home and at work, so I wore what was comfortable. For dressy occasions, I did wear Edward’s branding outfits. Hubby loved to see me in them. He, too, got excited when I wore them and took me as I dressed or undressed. My wearing them for hubby was another level of infidelity.
Edward also tutored me on life perspective, mannerisms, goals, even the way I spoke. I was transposed not just sexually from girl to a woman but also to be self-assuredly feminine. With his guidance, I dressed for influence, not only for others but for me. I read the novels and listened to the music he suggested. After six months, he gave me a sapphire ring with diamonds. It was beautiful and too expensive.
He requested I wear it instead of my wedding ring but I refused and wore it on my right hand only when with him. I told my husband the gems were synthetic and I bought it from a girl at work cheaply. I never wore it around him.
Edward taught me to avoid vulgar words and use the proper term when talking about sex even when talking dirty to one another. I readily agreed as I never did swear. He explained how vulgar words demeaned the user, the listener and the object or person discussed. His favorite singer was Tom Jones and he got me the record, Say You Will Stay Until Tomorrow.
He wanted to visit my home. I knew he was not a friend to my family. He was trying to discover what my family life was like, which I kept from him. I didn’t want him to come. I was worried my husband, the children, neighbors or friends would see his Porsche in the driveway.
He became obsessed about visiting the house, often drove past it and asked detailed questions about its furniture and decor. Pertinacious in seeking to see the interior, I eventually gave in. Supposedly to see my decorating, I let him come for a quick walkthrough. Instead, as expected, he attempted sex.
I threw up my hand to cover my mouth to stop his kiss and walked outside. He was trying to violate my husband's home. Like taking off my wedding ring, it was a line I couldn’t cross. Relief swept me as his car drove off, with him in a bit of a jealous huff. Standing in the driveway as it popped into second gear with a squeal of tires, I felt stupid. I was stupid. I should never have let him in.
I’d violated our family home. My husband would never be able to live there if he knew Edward entered his house, even with the attempted kiss nixed. There are some infidelities that can’t be forgiven.
After his house tour, Edward bought a wine storage rack and a mirror for the house saying to think of him whenever I drank wine. He was in the mirror and every time I peered into it, he was admiring me. I did think of him if I drank wine from the wine rack but kept some wine separate to drink at dinner with my husband.
In a twist of depravity, the mirror ended up as part of my marriage water bed. After I told him about the girls at work's water bed stories, hubby made one and unknowingly used the mirror as part of the headboard. While lovemaking we could watch ourselves. Edward could too if what he said was true, but it wasn't.
Edward was never in my thoughts when with family, but he crept in during work hours. I closed my eyes and saw his face. A brush against my cheek felt like his caress. On occasion, he slipped out of my tongue despite attempts to keep his world secret.
No one, not even my close high school friend Julie, except my confidante, the older woman at work, knew I was having an affair. I helped the older woman meet her alignment quotas in exchange for being able to tell her about Edward and for her good advice on life. Telling the older woman was a way to verbalize what was happening yet keep my secret life.
Even a spy needs a handler. She provided the insight I needed and was nonjudgmental. She warned me about losing a long-time good husband for a short time good lover, advice she failed to heed when younger. I redoubled camouflage efforts.
My marriage underwent fundamental changes. No longer the submissive wife, we argued when we never did before. Hubby was constantly sexually aroused but in a state of anxiety over my affection. My attempts to assuage his anxiety, such as fobbing off Edward’s gifts and branded clothes as things I purchased, failed to quell his suspicions.
Despite my contrived lies and carefully covered tracks, he remained convinced something was amiss. His suspicions there was another were justified. There was another, not just Edward but another me. The woman he married was no longer the woman he was married to. The marriage of our original vows was over. We were in a new marriage that both of us were struggling to adjust to.
There was, however, a part of our original marriage intact. Only Squirt spewed semen in Vixen, even if sans sperm. Edward’s Sir Lancelot in its condom didn’t. This satisfied my perverted rationalization of faithfulness.
After Edward morphed me from girl to woman, sex eventually became routine, as if we were in quickie domestic bliss. It was kisses, pawing, oral introduction, then he was on top with Missionary to finish.
Start to finish was under fifteen minutes, if dress up time was excluded.
For the finale, he lifted his head, stared at my face, dropped down for a kiss and did a spasmodic pelvic thumping.
My ending routine was unlocking my ankles, raising feet above his torso, accepting his summation kiss and responding to his pelvic thumping as he popped, at times missing my pop.
With hubby, it was hugs, he atop or rear entry, a rollover for my top finish and a rollover for his missionary finish.
It was another under fifteen minutes from start to withdrawal.
Adding both together, about an hour a week was consumed, roughly equally divided. It was insanity. An hour, of the 168 weeks hours, controlled so much of my life.
Foreplay for Edward was mostly my dressing in new attire he purchased, applying makeup or styling my hair. Like hubby with nighties and belly dancing costume, innate things appeared more enticing than me, my role to animate the inanimate desired.
One night, a bottle of wine finished, Edward broke our domestic routine. He introduced a mutual self-gratification game. Removing the bottle from the table he announced.
"Elizabeth, I want to teach you something."
"You're not gonna make me a doctor. I don't like the sight of blood."
"No, no, I 'm gonna teach you a game.”
“What kind of game? Are you bored with me?”
“No, no, it’s a pleasure game, sex, it’s a sex game.”
"After the candles, there's more?”
"Here, stand up, let me undress you."
I knew by heart his 'undress me, dress me and undress me game' with new attire. I stood to let him play his game of my animating his desired inanimate things. He methodically undressed me. As he did, it confirmed his “new game” was the “old game”.
Once naked, however, he undressed himself then draped clean sheets on two opposing, upholstered chairs. My curiosity was up. He sat me in one chair, slid an ottoman under my feet and left to the bathroom. When he returned, Sir Lancelot was erect and he held two small bottles of baby oil. He gave me one, sat in the facing chair, lifted his feet on the ottoman and entwined our ankles.
"Okay Sweetie Pie, this is the mirror game. We’re going to mirror each other. Watch me closely. I’m rubbing oil on my chest and Lance. Look at me stroking Lance. Look in my eyes.”
I darted my eyes to his oiled member.
“Good, now rub oil on your breasts. Good. Now oil Miss Puki and stroke her while watching me stroke Lance. We’re gonna play together but you can't finish until Lance and Miss Puki do it together, you understand?”
“This is crazy.”
“No, this is gonna be good. Just bear with me. You can rub whatever you like and I’ll follow you but you must stay sitting with your ankles locked together, you understand?"
Oiled, I started as if in a soapy shower, slow and looked at him as instructed. It was difficult to get aroused while exposed to his stare. He stroked Sir Lancelot and kept coaxing.
"Rub your breasts. Good. Rub harder. Rub Miss Puki. No, no, look at me too. Keep rubbing. Twirl your magic button with your finger. Come on, keep rubbing, now. Smile, I’m smiling, I want you to smile too. Think of how Lance’s gonna shoot. He’s loaded, he’s hunting for Miss Puki."
It was unnerving but I kept rubbing and smiled, amused at his playing with himself. I slowly became aroused but when I closed my eyes he’d scold.
“No, no, open your eyes. Yes, look at me, yes that’s better. Keep rubbing. Keep watching. Good”.
I slowly got into the mood by concentrating on Sir Lancelot and only pretending to look him in his eyes. Soon I reported, “It’s starting to feel good. It’s starting to feel real, good. How much longer?”
“Careful, we’re doing this together. Wait until we shoot together. Don’t pop yet. Good, good, keep rubbing. Good, good, smile. Back off. Wait until I say go.”
Suppressing a climax aroused me more than watching Sir Lancelot. Eventually, I was on the edge and interrupted his coaching.
“I’m ready, I’m ready, hurry, say go, hurry. I’m really, ready. Oh, please, hurry, hurry.”
I was nodding my head faster and faster, lips curled, legs crossed, twirling my clitoris with a finger and cupping breasts back and forth with the free hand, baby oil everywhere.
“Okay, okay, yea, oh, you can go, go, go, oh go. I’m coming. Watch Lance shoot, oh God, oh God, oh it feels good!”
As I watched he went into a flurry of stroking, rose half up in his chair, our entwined feet separated, his eyes closed in a stroking frenzy, cheating on his own rules as Sir Lancelot spewed forth.
As I watched his ejaculation streak out, pulse, pulse again, bubble then dribble while he held Sir Lancelot tight. I, at last, shouted, “Oh no, oh no, Vixen you devil, oh Vixen, no, you little devil, oh, I love you, ahhh! Ahhh! Oh Vixen, Vixen.”
I squeezed my self-induced pleasure to the last shudder. As the flash of my orgasm peaked and drifted downward into the afterglow cloud, my mind raced for a Vixen exclamation excuse.
“Wow, Miss Puki popped right on time. Who’s Vixen?”
“A nun.”
“A nun? doesn’t sound like the name for a nun? Who’s Vixen? Honestly, tell me, really.”
“It’s a little complicated. It’s a nun, a nun who always talked about the devil. She used to scare us, talking about hell. We called her Vixen, for devil nun.”
“Sounds complicated all right, sounds suspicious. Who’s Vixen?”
“Why did you close your eyes and break our feet apart? Who’s this God, you’re thinking about? Who’s this woman-God? You think of her instead of me when Sir Lancelot shoots?”
I reverted to experience from answering my husband’s suspicious questions. Diverted he dropped the Vixen inquiry. Again, I had slipped up and comingled what I vowed to keep separate.
Watching his ejaculation was mesmerizing. His naked image, his clutching Sir Lancelot, Lance spewing, became imprinted in my mind. The images thereafter popped up unexpectedly while aligning at work and other places causing me to smile for no apparent reason. It was an intense bonding game.
Another of his self-play games was my sitting, legs spread, his looking up from between my knees whispering encouragement as I rubbed my clitoris but at the cusp of climax telling me to stop. This took time to start, as seeing him down there was unnerving at first. He let me close my eyes and just open them when ready to climax. Then he would command I calm down and back off. Once backed off he would re-start encouragements until eventually allowing me to finish in a spasm of stoking to his cheering.
His last game was stimulating me with a little buzzing vibrator while I had to lay motionless, spread on his water bed. I could moan, plead, even scream but not move. He would start with breast nipples, creep up my thighs, flirt with my vagina lips, dart to and retreat from my clitoris than back off. Eventually, as I pleaded, I could no longer control myself and he allowed me to lift my legs, rub Miss Puki with both hands and climax in frenzied stroking while he looked on and clapped.
I replayed a game on him by making him lay naked on the bed with his legs draped over the edge and his hands spread out. With him open, I gave him a slow handjob with kisses and verbal encouragement. He was not allowed to arch his pelvis to my ministrations but of course, he cheated and I would scold him and pinch Sir Lancelot hard.
Once I was satisfied with my power of control, I’d let him ejaculate in a frenzy to my hand stroking while his pelvis jumped about with his hands still, as ordered, spread on the bed. I loved watching Sit Lancelot spew and learned to drape a damp towel around his base beforehand so clean up was easy.
What I learned, I taught hubby. I started by teaching him how to kiss and advanced from there. On his next birthday, I had him lay motionless on the bed and with my hands and kissing stimulation of Squirt. I brought him to the cusp then backed off but eventually let him ejaculate. He pestered me thereafter for this treatment but I reserved it for his birthdays and special occasions. I tried to play the facing chairs mirror game but he got too excited, jumped up and took me soon after the game started. It was like belly dancing. He couldn’t wait after the first movement.
He was suspicious of the games.
“How come you know so much? Who is teaching you these things?
“The girls at work talk about sex all the time. Like I keep telling you, they’re wild. They’re always coming up with new stuff. You like it?”
At work, I told the girls about Edward’s games. They listened in disbelief at what they called my "inscrutable" techniques and tried what they heard with their husband or boyfriend and for some both. Their only explanation for my knowing "Oriental" methods was my being Asian and their reasoning the shy, quiet ones are the really wild ones. In appreciation, they made a cake for me shaped like an erect penis with frosting spewing out the end.
I was, no longer, "FDG” or “FT” but was catapulted to, Fucking Over Sexed Asian, or the “FOSA” girl and fully accepted at the lunch table.
